Close call.
It wouldn't happen again.
He waited eighteen days. By that time everything was planned, everything really good.
Eighteen days because that's how long it took for her to forget to lock her door.
It was in the afternoon, he'd come home from school, eaten a snack, and gone up to his room. The maids were downstairs, blabbing and telling their foreign jokes and faking as if they were working.
He was faking, too, sitting at his desk, pretending to be doing his homework. The door wide open, so he could hear the signal sounds: throwing up, the toilet flushing-a sign that she was getting rid of her afternoon pastries.
She was doing that more and more, the barfing. It didn't help-she was still getting fat and puffy. Afterward, she always drank more gin and fell deep asleep. Nothing could wake her.
He waited, really patient. Enjoying the wait, actually, because it stretched things out, gave him more time to think about what was going to happen. He had it all planned, knew he'd be in charge.
When he was certain she was asleep, he tiptoed to the door, looked up and down the hallway, then down over the balcony. The maids were still accounted for-he could hear the vacuum cleaner, them blabbing to each other.
Safe.
He opened the door.
She was lying on the fourposter, all lamed-out, her mouth wide open. A weird whistling sound was coming from it. The cat was curled next to her pillow-both of them fucking lame-os. It opened its eyes when he came in, gave him a dirty look as if it owned the place and he was some robber.
He cleared his throat, as a test. If she woke up he'd ask how she was feeling, if she needed anything. The same test he used before sneaking into the library and locking himself in so that he could play with the knives, read Schwann's big green book and the others, look through the stuff in the closet. Nothing. She was out. Another throat-clear. Out cold.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Tuna Treet, and showed it to the cat.
The blues eyes narrowed, then widened. Interested, you little fucker?
The cat moved forward, then sank back on the satin bed. Lazy and fat, like her. It got everything it needed, wouldn't surprise him if she jacked it off-no, she couldn't, no balls. It probably couldn't get a hard-on. He waved the Tuna Treet.
The cat stared at it, then him, then back at the fish-shaped cracker, water-eyes all greedy. It licked its lips and got all tight, like it was ready to spring. C'mere, sweetie. TOOONA! It didn't. It knew something was up. He touched the Treet to his lips, smiled at the cat. Lick lick, look what I've got that you don't. The cat moved forward again, froze. He put the Tuna Treet back in his pocket. The cat's ears perked.
Come-a-here, come-a-here. Pu-ss? The cat was still frozen, smelling the cracker but not knowing what to do, dumb dickhead.
He took a step backward, as if he didn't give a flying fuck. The cat watched him.
Out came the Treet again. Another lick, a big smile. Like it was the best thing he'd ever eaten in his life.
The cat took a couple of cautious steps, rocking the bed.
Lick.
Yum yum.
He waved the Tuna Treet, put it between his teeth, and started to leave the room.
The cat jumped off the bed and landed silently on the white carpet, stepping on her to do it, using her grossed-out belly as a diving board. She was so out of it she didn't even feel it.
He kept walking toward the door, real casual.
C'mere, sweetie.
A piece of the Treet broke off in his mouth-actually it didn't taste that bad.
Maybe I'll eat it myself, you furry little piece of shit.
The cat was following him from a distance as he backed out of the room, smiling and licking the Tuna Treet.
They were out on the landing now. He closed the door to the ice palace.
The cat meowed, making like it was his friend.
Beg, dickhead.
He kept walking backward, nibbling on the Tuna Treet. Not bad, actually. Kind of like fried fish.
The cat followed him.
Here, kitty, stupid, fucking kitty.
Walk, follow, walk, follow.
A look-down to see what the maids were doing.
Still blabbing and vacuming. The coast was clear.
