and each of the cats were intently watching Wells as he walked by. He sucked in a breath and did his best not to whimper, then looked back to the floor and picked up his pace.
Wells said farewell to MacDonald and the doctor and then staggered away, too in shock to call a cab, first trying to understand, and then rationalize, what he saw.
Whatever it was, he couldn’t face Jane now. He resolved to leave for his home in France that night, to join his love Odette at Lou Pidou.
To get away from cats forever.
France, 1927
Jane had joined him for his lecture at the Sorbonne, and then shortly afterwards they went back to England for the wedding between their son Gip and H.G.’s best secretary, Marjorie. The day after the wedding he again returned to France.
He spent most of his time writing, but on the tenth of May a letter from his son Frank arrived in the post.
Jane had cancer. Had been ill when he had seen her, and had not told him.
He set down the letter and immediately wrote a quick note to Jane, to tell her he loved her, and that he was coming home to help her. He wanted to write that he would see her through her recovery, but before the letter could get that far there was a scratching at the door of his study. He slowly looked up, hands shaking and mouth dry.
A cat stood there, one he had never seen around the house before. Cats were not allowed in Lou Pidou, his unwavering decree. It stared at him for a moment, then arched its back, flattened its ears, and hissed at him, before turning and walking out. It was the same orange cat from two years before.
Wells was still for a moment, then he exploded out of his chair and raced to the door. The cat was nowhere to be seen.
He shuffled back to his study, feeling an odd combination of defeat and relief, feeling that what Wain and the cats had shown him was just about over. He went to his desk, but instead of sitting he lay down on the floor underneath, curled up much like Wain had been two years before.
“I have had Frank’s letter today and for the first time I learned how seriously ill you have been & that you may still be very ill. My dear, I love you much more than I have loved anyone else in the world & I am coming back to you to take care of you & to do all I can to make you happy . . . My dear, my dear, my dearest heart is yours.
Your loving Bins.”
—Excerpt from a letter from H.G. Wells to Jane Wells.
“ . . . my little wife has to die of cancer & I want to spend what time remains of her life with her . . .”
—Excerpt from a letter from H.G. Wells to Margaret Sanger, written before leaving France.
“ . . . and H.G.—H.G. positively howled. You are no doubt aware that he was not a conventionally perfect husband . . . O it was hideous—terrible and frightful . . . The way of transgressors is hard . . .”
—Excerpt from a letter from Charlotte Shaw to T.E. Lawrence on the funeral of Jane Wells.
More Painful Than
The Dreams of Other Boys
Mike Gordini leaned against the hood of his patrol car and watched the world go by, marvelling at the sight of families all together, children being towed along by parents, patient and otherwise. Kids here were so helpless, so unable to control themselves and their lives, and on the second day of his new duty it was still taking him by surprise.
His new partner, Simone Perez, came out of the Korean grocery and tossed him his Coke, then walked around and climbed in behind the driver’s seat. Mike opened his door and sat beside her, found himself staring at her and wondering at how she looked; pretty, he thought with surprise, even though a few wrinkles showed and some gray hairs were creeping in around the temples and up top. The ring on her finger told him someone else likely thought she was good-looking as well, but he hadn’t had the guts to ask about that yet. Weird enough that he was here with her, in this strange section of the city.
She turned her head back from shoulder-checking, caught him staring at her. She smiled. “What?”
Mike could feel the heat in