“Oh, that’s all right.”
“Is that part of what you are hiding? If it is, I don’t want to see it until you are ready to show me.”
Tim looked up at him then.
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t mind about the cats. Not if you like cats really.”
“I really do. But, Tim, this I would like to know: You’re not afraid of the needle. Could you tell me why you were afraid… why you said you were afraid … of my shot? The one I promised not to give you after all?”
Their eyes met.
“You won’t tell?” asked Tim.
“I won’t tell.”
“Because it was pentothal. Wasn’t it?”
Welles gave himself a slight pinch. Yes, he was awake. Yes, this was a little boy asking him about pentothal. A boy who—yes, certainly, a boy who knew about it.
“Yes, it was,” said Welles. “A very small dose. You know what it is?”
“Yes, sir. I… I read about it somewhere. In the papers.”
“Never mind that. You have a secret—something you want to hide. That’s what you are afraid about, isn’t it?”
The boy nodded dumbly.
“If it’s anything wrong, or that might be wrong, perhaps I could help you. You’ll want to know me better, first. You’ll want to be sure you can trust me. But I’ll be glad to help, any time you say the word, Tim. Or I might stumble on to things the way I did just now. One thing though—I never tell secrets.”
“Never?”
“Never. Doctors and priests don’t betray secrets. Doctors seldom, priests never. I guess I am more like a priest, because of the kind of doctoring I do.”
He looked down at the boy’s bowed head.
“Helping fellows who are scared sick,” said the psychiatrist very gently. “Helping fellows in trouble, getting things straight again, fixing things up, unsnarling tangles. When I can, that’s what I do. And I don’t tell anything to anybody. It’s just between that one fellow and me.”
But, he added to himself, I’ll have to find out. I’ll have to find out what ails this child. Miss Page is right—he needs me.
They went to see the cats.
There were the Siamese in their cages, and the Persians in their cages, and there, in several small cages, the short-haired black cats and their hybrid offspring. “We take them into the house, or let them into this big cage, for exercise,” explained Tim. “I take mine into my shop sometimes. These are all mine. Grandmother keeps hers on the sun porch.”
“You’d never know these were not all pure-bred,” observed Welles. “Which did you say were the full Persians? Any of their kittens here?”
“No; I sold them.”
“I’d like to buy one. But these look just the same—it wouldn’t make any difference to me. I want a pet, and wouldn’t use it for breeding stock. Would you sell me one of these?”
Timothy shook his head.
“I’m sorry. I never sell any but the pure-breds.”
It was then that Welles began to see what problem he faced. Very dimly he saw it, with joy, relief, hope and wild enthusiasm.
“Why not?” urged Welles. “I can wait for a pure-bred, if you’d rather, but why not one of these? They look just the same. Perhaps they’d be more interesting.”
Tim looked at Welles for a long, long minute.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “Promise to wait here? No, I’ll let you come into the workroom. Wait a minute, please.”
The boy drew a key from under his blouse, where it had hung suspended from a chain, and unlocked the door of his shop. He went inside, closed the door, and Welles could hear him moving about for a few moments. Then he came to the door and beckoned.
“Don’t tell grandmother,” said Tim. “I haven’t told her yet. If it lives, I’ll tell her next week.”
In the corner of the shop under a table there was a box, and in the box there was a Siamese cat. When she saw a stranger she tried to hide her kittens; but Tim lifted her gently, and then Welles saw. Two of the kittens looked like little white rats with stringy tails and smudgy paws, ears and nose. But the third—yes, it was going to be a different sight. It was going to be a beautiful cat if it lived. It had long, silky white hair like the finest Persian, and the Siamese markings were showing up plainly.
Welles caught his breath.
“Congratulations, old man! Haven’t you told anyone yet?”
“She’s not ready to show. She’s not a week old.”
“But you’re going to show her?”
“Oh, yes, grandmother will be thrilled. She’ll love her. Maybe there’ll be more.”
“You knew this would happen. You made it happen. You planned it all from the start,” accused Welles.
“Yes,” admitted the boy.
“How did you know?”
The boy turned away.
“I read it somewhere,” said Tim.
The cat jumped back into the box and began to nurse her babies. Welles felt as if he could endure no more. Without a glance at anything else in the room—and everything else was hidden under tarpaulins and newspapers—he went to the door.
“Thanks for showing me, Tim,” he said. “And when you have any to sell, remember me. I’ll wait. I want one like that.”
The boy followed him out and locked the door carefully.
“But Tim,” said the psychiatrist, “that’s not what you were afraid I’d find out. I wouldn’t need a drug to get you to tell me this, would I?”
Tim replied carefully, “I didn’t want to tell this until I was ready. Grandmother really ought to know first. But you made me tell you.”