Tender (35 page)
Authors: Belinda McKeon
W
hat conversations they had now seemed only rubble.
Sitting, barely remembering how to talk to each other, over a half-touched picnic on the Green.
The look in his eye: as though she was the one who had gone from him.
As though there was so much he had to tell her; had, now, to share with her—
But no.
* * *
How are things?
How was your week?
How are your fake fucking horoscopes that are just as useless and empty as you?
How are our friends who are so relieved that I escaped you?
(The last two would have been honest, at least.)
* * *
Small talk as insult.
* * *
How are you?
That was the question he seemed to know it was better not to ask.
And the question she would not ask him:
How is your boyfriend?
* * *
Because there was little doubt but that a boyfriend was what Liam was, by now.
“I really
like
him, Lorraine,” she overheard James say in the kitchen, one of the nights he came round to visit them. “I mean,
really
. I mean, a lot.”
“Bring him round to meet us, for Christ’s sake,” said Lorraine, her voice so soft. “Bring him for dinner on Friday night. You can stay. You can have my room, the two of you; Cillian and I can sleep in the sitting room. Why not? Make a night of it. Bring him round.”
* * *
The panic breaking over her. The idea of it. The two of them, just on the other side of the chipboard wall. The noise of them—
* * *
She took the train home for the weekend. Her mother eyeing her, suspicious. Ellen pretending, in the room at night, not to hear her cry.
(This was a deal she and Ellen had long had.)
Sunlight on the mid-July hay fields. All the local farmers out driving tractors as though they were racing cars. Anna turning cartwheels on the lawn.
* * *
“How’s James these days?” her mother said, on the drive back to the train station. “Is he back from Germany?”
Catherine stared at her. “James?”
“Yes, James,” her mother said with exaggerated patience. “I presume he’s back for the summer again, is he?”
“I…”
“Listen, Catherine, I should have said this to you long before now, but it was a pity, what happened last summer. You know?”
She could not speak.
“It was just a pity you had to say anything at all. If you’d said nothing at all, it would have been fine, sure. Sure you know that. Sure I know you have to have your pals.”
“Yeah,” Catherine managed.
“So, whoever it is has you in the state you’re in, forget about him, for God’s sake, and enjoy yourself with your friends. They’re the ones who are worth your while in the long run. James and the rest of your friends.”
* * *
Was she imagining, now,
everything
that people seemed to be saying to her?
A man at the train station, asking her for the time; she fell back from him, frightened, thinking he was asking for a kiss.
Two girls, walking alongside her on Talbot Street, and Catherine could not shake the skin-prickling suspicion that they were bitching about her.
The bus driver on the number 10, saying good night, but had he actually accused her, rather, of not paying the right fare?
I’ll see you, now
was what he had seemed to say, but was he actually saying
I see you,
meaning
I saw you,
meaning he thought that she had done something that she had not done?
She stared at him as the bus drove off again, and sure enough, he looked at her—
Sure enough, he had his eyes on her—
And then there was someone walking too close behind her on the walk back to the flat, and she broke into a run, and when she got there, she was so worked up that she had not even prepared herself for the possibility of James and Liam.
* * *
“Oh, they never came round,” Lorraine said, shrugging as though she had been asked about a football match she had not even known was on. “I think we’re doing it next weekend instead.”
* * *
Do not go blindly into a new business relationship.
Pluto, the ruler of your fifth house, turns direct this month, and things will become clearer.
A child will bring wisdom and surprise.
* * *
“You’re as
thin,
Reilly,” he said, hugging her hello at Front Gate one evening. “What’s your secret?”
That skin on his face. She could strangle him.
His lips as he smiled. She hated him.
But she loved him more than life.
* * *
Love. Was this really love? Love set you going. Love set you going.
(But what else could it be?)
(And yes, there were times.)
(But even if you went into the farthest waters, from the farthest tip, someone would find you eventually. And then someone would have to see.)
* * *
Matters of the wallet are important today. Do not let go willingly of something you really need to keep.
The new moon of the 23rd will brighten your house or home; positive changes are afoot.
Where a friend is concerned, do not let them out of your mind for a moment.
* * *
An email from Emmet.
Cheerful. Cheeky. Teasing her about all the usual things.
Unanswered.
* * *
Lorraine: “They’re so
cute
together, Catherine. You should see them.”
* * *
Thinking,
Might not.
Thinking,
Need not.
Might not last, that was.
Need not mean as much as it increasingly seemed to mean.
* * *
July has been a busy month for you. It is time to sit back and take stock of what you have. A close relationship may seem to be suffering, but do not despair; close care and attention will bring you the results you desire. If a rival is in the picture, assess your options, but do not act rashly; remember that everything happens for a good reason. The new moon suggests that a new path is about to open up, and that you will be able to find solutions to old problems that have bothered you for a long time. Green is the color to wear in the weeks ahead, as it will shroud you in the aura of new beginnings and a new, stronger sense of how things are meant to be—
It was such shite, such nonsense, and it was so easy to produce. She rigged the autocorrect function so that she could get through them even more quickly; she programmed it to substitute whole, long phrases for certain words or abbreviations. The sentences rolled out in front of her eyes. The lies kept coming. The money kept coming in.
You will enjoy unprecedented prosperity this month.
Your abundance will bring you happiness.
* * *
The thing in her spit, in her gums. The dull taste of hating the day.
* * *
Every morning, the first thought was what the day, for them, would bring.
What the day, for them, would be.
What the light on his shoulder looked like in the minutes after waking.
Whether another person would even notice that.
What it felt like to walk Thomas Street in the ten o’clock sunshine with him, hands not touching, but hands wanting, so badly, to be touching.
What it felt like to say, on a street corner,
See you later,
and to know that those were not only throwaway words.
That those were not just words you said to someone to send them on their way.
Late afternoon, thinking of them thinking of each other. Thinking what their thoughts would look like; thinking what the shape of them would be.
And then the evenings.
The empty evenings.
* * *
Times when it was so hard not to pick up the phone.
Saying,
Liam? Is this Liam?
And telling him—telling him—
* * *
Telling him what?!
She had nothing. She did not even have that.
* * *
She would do such things—
* * *
You will meet a very important person this week.
You will have a very meaningful dream this week.
This week will be very lucky for you. This week will be like no other.
* * *
Ellen was coming up to Dublin for the day. Looking for a flat for college.
“Can you meet me? Say six o’clock outside Trinity? Can I stay with you?”
But that was one of the James evenings. Ellen would have to take the last train home.
* * *
“James and Liam are coming round for dinner on Friday,” Lorraine said to her the next evening. “Is that OK with you?”
“What?” Catherine said, staring at her. “Here?”
“Yeah,” Lorraine said slowly. “I told you they were coming some Friday evening. They’ll probably stay. It’ll be nice to have them around for the weekend. You don’t have any plans, do you?”
* * *
Dear Callous Cit,
Why no love from you? Have you been so swept up into a transatlantic cyber affair that you have forgotten your sunburned, Italo-groped friend entirely? I am very sad not to have heard from you. You have caused me to look at the postman with such pathetic hope that he, along with every other man in this kip of a village, thinks he is in with a flying chance of a shag. Thanks v. much.
James, however, has been a little more forthcoming. Is this not v.v. exciting, this rapidly developing non-cyber, real-life-actual-boy love affair? James seems to be properly smitten. I am SO smug. Isn’t the story about the photo and the line from the poem the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard? Very cute of James. Very—
* * *
She knew nothing of a photo. She knew nothing of a line from a poem.
* * *
She put this information with the other scraps of information. The things she knew it was better that she had never heard at all. The things she knew it was better for her to ignore.
* * *
But it refused, like all the rest of them, to leave her mind alone.
Thinking,
What poem?
James did not read poems.
James did not harvest lines and gather them.
So what line had James taken from a poem?
* * *
It ran through her mind in the nighttime and in the daytime, and it would not leave her be.
B
ut she knew.
A
voice calling out to her as she cut through campus.
PhotoSoc Lisa. Smiling, waving, happy-looking; why did everyone look so bloody happy?
Wanting to talk to Catherine about the photo she had been keeping for her; the photo of James that Catherine had taken with the Rolleiflex. Apologizing; walking towards Catherine, Lisa was already apologizing, already explaining; she had kept it, she was saying, for weeks, had been carrying it around in her bag, even, in the hope of bumping into Catherine just like this. Imagine! And now she had, and she didn’t have it with her—
And it was all right, Catherine said, shrugging, wanting to be free of her; she could give it to her another time.
But Lisa, shaking her head, holding up her hands as though surrendering, and saying no, saying Catherine didn’t understand: the photo was already gone. She had the negatives, of course—she could do another copy—but the photo was gone. It was just that she had bumped into Liam, one day—right here, in fact, just a week or so ago—and she and Liam had been chatting, and naturally, James had come up in conversation—wasn’t it just
so lovely
about Liam and James?—and she had taken out Catherine’s photo of James, which she had still had on her, to show to Liam, and, well, it was just that Liam had loved it so much, had been so very taken with it—
And she had the negatives, she said again, and she could make another copy.
And as for that
amazing
portrait that James had made this month of Liam—
Had Catherine seen it?
It was beautiful, really beautiful; he was going to give it to Lisa for the John Street show, of course—it would be the centerpiece of the whole show, even, possibly—
Catherine
was
coming to the opening, wasn’t she? James had passed on her invitation?
* * *
The
name
of the photo? Oh, yes, it had some name—some name from a poem—wait, now, until she thought of it; wait until she got it—
The heart is a thing that happens,
would that be it?
The heart is where it happens?
The heart, anyway. She knew that much. She was certain of that much. It was
the heart
something,
the heart—
something to do with the heart.
The heart—
The heart—
* * *
Fuck the heart,
Catherine said, and Lisa stared.
