My cat is missing. It’s been two days. Well, almost two days. It seems much longer. Sometimes it seems like most of a lifetime.

Randy’s an indoor cat. He never goes out. I was sure Rick left the door open. Rick said he didn’t. I checked all the usual spots. It’s an old house, but there aren’t that many spots. I rattled the food dish. Rick must have left the door open. Maybe I left the door open, but I feel sure Randy wouldn’t run away from me. I walked around the neighborhood. I called. “Randy,” I called. Then “Here Randy, here Randy.” I was thinking about all those notices on the food store bulletin board. “Missing cat. Answers to the name of. Reward.” I can’t imagine any of those cats turning up. But as I walk around the block staring into the trees, the hedges, the gutters, I consider putting up such a notice. Maybe Rick will help with the drawing. He studied art in school. He was good at it. He won several prizes. He never drew hair on his people. Said it ruined the elemental shape of the skull, an essential attribute of character. I was afraid to let him draw me. Sometimes when he stares at me, sometimes when we’re making love and he’s poised above me, pressed tight inside but not moving, just staring, I wonder if he’s seeing me without any hair. I wonder if he will draw Randy without any hair.

Rick gave up art. He gave up life studies, anyway. He designs ad layouts for consumable products—cereal, jewelry, deodorant. Deodorant is the closest he gets to hair. I decide I won’t ask him to do the drawing.

I stayed home from work this morning. I was just going to leave the door open, so Randy could come in. Rick didn’t think this was a good idea. “She’ll just turn up,” Rick said. “Don’t worry.” “But he’s never been out before,” I protested. “And he doesn’t have any claws. He can’t survive outside.” “She’ll be ok,” Rick said. I didn’t believe him. I think Rick just didn’t want me to leave the door open. The mailman or someone might walk in and steal his cameras. “Don’t worry,” I told Rick this morning. “I’ll stay home. I’ll stay home with the door open in case Randy.” I didn’t know how to finish. Maybe I lost track of what I was going to say. It was obvious, right? Maybe I was crying. “Suit yourself,” Rick said. “Maybe I can make it back for lunch.” he called as he walked out.

When I’ve circled the block and can almost see my door, I’m sure I’ll see Randy waiting for me on the porch, right next to the bright red door. I painted the door red not long after we got Randy. I think when I painted it I had Randy in mind. Randy is all white. I imagined Randy’s soft white body against that bright sports car red. I could feel my blood. But the feeling that Randy would be there was replaced by a certainty that he wouldn’t.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t come back. I mean if he’s going to die sometime, wouldn’t it be better for me if he just disappeared? But the wild thoughts race through me. I don’t want him to be dead. He’s not that old anyway. I don’t want him to be disappeared, either.

The phone rings. I rush to pick it up. Maybe it is someone calling about the cat. Maybe he’s been found. Or maybe it’s just Rick calling to tell me not to leave the door open. “It’s too cold outside,” he’ll say. “The snow’s barely melted and our heating bills are bad enough.” I answer the phone, and it’s dead.

It’s not as if I’m in love with this cat. We get along. Rick usually does the feeding, the cleaning. And Randy seems to prefer him. When Rick lies on the couch reading, Randy sprawls on his lap, purrs, and Rick says “Sweet Pussy. Sweet sweet Pussy,” as he strokes the soft white fur, and the purrs come louder and louder. I’m neglected. Maybe the cat can’t stand my scent. Randy refuses my lap. I asked Rick about this once. “Some of us have it and some of us don’t,” he said. I threw some socks at him.

I check the food bowl. Untouched. A car squeals around the corner and I tremble. How can parents stand to listen to traffic when their children are outside? Some shudders pass along my arms, but it’s nothing serious. I don’t think I’ll cry. I go outside and check. Nothing. The street is empty.

It’s ten o’clock. A beautiful day. No clouds. Blue sky. The mailman steps along the sidewalk whistling. Mentally I prepare a question. “Have you seen a white cat?” The mailman’s smile interrupts his whistle. He hands me the mail. “Nice day,” he says. Before I can ask him anything he is on his way. I run after him. He is already two houses down the street. “Excuse me,” I say. He turns to stare. He is staring at the envelopes and flyers in my hands. He must be thinking he has delivered the wrong mail. The street is so quiet. “I was wondering if you’d seen my cat,” I ask. “Nope,” the mailman says. “Oh,” I say. He stares at me, as if he expects more, as if he expects me to give him back his mail. “Well, thanks,” I say. I start walking slowly back to the house. But I wonder how he could say he hadn’t seen it, since he doesn’t even know what Randy looks like. Maybe he’s seen a bit of white fur on our living room windowsill. On sunny mornings Randy loves to soak in the warm light. Maybe that’s how he knows. But the mailman didn’t seem very interested in the fact that Randy is missing. I have always disliked this mailman, and now I hate him. He suddenly reminds me of Rick.

I am standing in the neighbor’s front lawn, trying to decide whether to ask them if they have seen the cat, when I see Randy—on the roof of our house, near the chimney, curled in a shady spot. Not moving at all.

“Randy,” I call. Then I shout. I rush closer to the house, but from too near the angle is wrong, Randy can’t be seen. Maybe it was just a scrap of paper, a trick of light. Or a bit of unmelted snow. I step back. I’m sure it’s Randy. “Move, you,” I shout. I crumple the envelopes in my hand and fling them towards the roof, but the paper doesn’t go very far; it doesn’t even make it to the house. I go inside. Should I call the fire department? I phone Rick. As the phone rings I imagine our conversation.

Me: Randy’s on the roof.

Rick: How do you know?

Me: I just saw him.

Rick: Great.

Me: But he’s not moving. I’m worried.

Rick: Don’t worry, she’ll come down when she’s ready.

Me: I was thinking I should call the fire department.

Rick: Don’t do that. I’m sure she’s ok.

Me: But how could he get up there?

Rick: Probably just climbed out the window. Don’t worry.

Me: I’m worried. Please come home now, ok?

Rick doesn’t answer his phone. It rings and rings. Maybe he’s on his way home. I hang up and go back out onto the lawn. Randy still hasn’t moved. I pick up the crumpled envelopes and stuff them in the back pocket of my jeans. I go back inside. I rush upstairs to our bedroom. Sure enough the window is closed. But sometimes we open it at night. I try to remember if we had it open two nights ago. I don’t remember. I don’t remember opening it or closing it. Maybe Rick opened it. Maybe Rick closed it. But there’s a screen, so even if the window was open how could Randy get through? I open the window. I look out. The sky is still bright blue, and the street is quiet, and there is no hole in the screen. “Randy,” I call. I realize it’s more of a whisper than a call. If he couldn’t get out the window maybe he slipped out the door, and then couldn’t get back in and climbed a tree onto the roof. But the nearest tree is too far from our roof. And without claws how could he climb? “Randy” I call again. I notice another crumpled envelope on the front lawn. Either it fell out of my pocket or I forgot one. I can’t see any part of the roof from this position except for a tiny bit just under the window.

I get Randy’s food bowl, bring it upstairs, open the screen. The roof under the window is too steep. If I set the bowl down it will just slide off onto the lawn. How could he climb along the roof? I rattle the dish. “Randy. Foodtime,” I call. “Yum yum yum.” This is ridiculous. If I just leave the screen open he’ll come in when he’s ready. That’s what Rick would say. But what if he’s hurt? What if he’s dead? I guess if he’s dead it wouldn’t matter, but what if he’s hurt, injured somehow, and can’t move? Maybe I should just wait for Rick; he might be on his way home right now.