Tender (12 page)

“You don’t know anything about James,” Catherine said, and her mother gasped. This was not done, this way of talking; not in this house. This was not how conversations happened here. Her mother said her name again, not in warning this time but in shock, and her father stared.

“We know plenty,” he said slowly. “We know that Pat Burke saw the pair of you on top of each other above in Dublin.”

“Charlie!” her mother said. “Leave that.”

“No, no,” her father said, planting an elbow on the table. His jaw was working. “So you needn’t think we don’t know what’s going on between you and this fellow.”

“There’s nothing like that going on between us,” Catherine said. She kept her voice even; she kept it calm. She was determined not to do any of the things she always did when she fought with her mother; this was not a fight with her mother. This was not something she had ever done before, standing up like this to her father, and if she was going to do it, she was going to do it right. Their eyes were the same blue. Their minds went to the same places; she could see, now, where his had gone. “James doesn’t think about me that way,” she said, “so there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I felt that way about him, which I don’t—”

“Ah, for God’s sake would you stop talking nonsense, Catherine,” her father said, sitting back in his chair. He looked to her mother. “Patricia. Can you put a stop to this? She won’t even get going there in the morning if she’s not careful.”

“Catherine,” her mother said, coming around the counter towards her, her eyes full of imploring, full of the silent language that was spoken between them:
Just do what he wants, and we can work something else out later. Just do what he wants now. Just say no more.

“I need to be at the station by eight,” Catherine said, shaking her head, but her mother’s attention was somewhere else, now, as she neared her; Catherine glanced down to where she was staring, and saw a thin trail of blood snaking down her bare calf.

Her mother said her name quietly, too quietly for her father to hear. She nodded towards the blood. “You need to—”

“It’s nothing,” Catherine said, irritably. “I just cut my legs shaving them.”

“Now,” her father said, nodding. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Tell me
what?
” Catherine said.

“Catherine,” her mother said, grabbing her by the elbow. “Get down to the room and clean yourself up. We’re not talking about this any longer.”

“You can’t go down to stay with that fellow and that’s the end of it,” her father said. “Sure we couldn’t allow that. Sure don’t we know well what that would lead to? What kind of idea do you think you’re going to give him, going down there like that for the night?”

“I’m not going to go like this,” Catherine said, witheringly. “I was planning to get dressed.”

Her mother looked at her as though she might slap her. “Catherine,” she said, her mouth tight.

“Are you just going to keep saying my name?”

Her mother sighed. “Don’t be smart, Catherine.”

“I’m not smart,” Catherine said, rubbing the blood into her leg. “I’m eighteen years old, and I don’t even live at home most of the year, so this doesn’t even make sense, what you’re saying to me.”

“You’d live here the whole year round if I had anything to do with it,” her father said.

“Well, I don’t. I live in Dublin, and I’m only visiting here.”

The way he looked when she said this, the way he looked down to the floor, gave her a stab of guilt—a stab, weirdly, of something like loneliness—but she stood her ground.

“So it makes no sense, trying to control me now,” she said. “I’m old enough.”

“That’s
enough,
” her mother said. “You can go to Leitrim tomorrow, and come back tomorrow evening. That’s plenty of time to visit your friend. What more can you do for him anyway?”

“I told you,” Catherine said. “His mother is sick.”

“And what are you going to do about it? You’re not going to make her better.”

“What’s wrong with his mother?” her father said.

“She’s…” Catherine swallowed, casting about for a condition; why had she not thought of something before now? “She’s depressed.”

Her father looked at her mother as though this confirmed something. Her mother clicked her tongue. “Jesus Christ.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“What’s this fellow dragging you into that for?”

“You know bloody well why he’s dragging her into it,” her father said.

“It’s not
like
that!” Catherine said. She was shocked at how fluent she had found herself to be in this language, this register, of standing in front of her father and telling him how it was. “It’s not
like
that,” she said again.

“That’s enough, Catherine,” her mother said, trying to steer her towards the door.

But her father was in the mood for an argument now, too; he was standing up. “Look, Catherine,” he said, and for a moment Catherine worried that he was going to come towards her, but he stayed where he was. “Look, Catherine, I was young once too. I know what it’s like to be your age, and I know what it’s like to be that young lad’s age, too. I can understand the way he must feel about you.”

“Oh my God. I’ve told you this a thousand times before! I’ve told both of you. James doesn’t—”

“And if you go down to Leitrim to stay the night,” her father said, “you may forget about it. That’s it. What kind of account of yourself are you going to give, going down to Leitrim like that? What kind of message are you going to give to that young lad?”

“It’s not
like
that,” Catherine said, rolling her eyes. “We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Pat Burke—”

“I don’t
care
about Pat Burke!” she shouted. “Why do you care so much about Pat Burke? What has Pat Burke ever done for you? He’s not even really your friend!”

“Well, he was enough of a friend to tell me what he saw.”

Catherine snorted. “He saw nothing.”

Her father shook his head at her. “He saw enough.”

Her leg was bleeding again; she rubbed at it with the sole of her foot. Beside her, her mother clicked her tongue. “How did you do that to yourself ? Couldn’t you be more careful?”

“She hasn’t the sense to be careful, Patricia. That’s the point.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Catherine,”
her mother said. “I’m getting you a plaster, and you’re getting dressed, and that’s the end of this. It should never have gone this far. You know better than—”

“She doesn’t know anything, Patricia,” her father cut in. “You don’t know how the world works yet,” he said to Catherine. “Sure how would you? It’s only natural. But your mother and I know, and it’s our job to protect you. A young fellow has natural instincts, and if you go and put yourself in the way of them—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, that’s
it,
” Catherine said. It was not a tone she had ever used before with her father, but it was possible, she now realized, and it was somehow addictive. “For Christ’s sake,” she said again, and she looked at them both as they stared back at her. “James is not interested in me. There’s a very simple reason for that.”

“You might think—” her father began, but Catherine held up a hand.

“James is not interested in me because James is gay.”

There was silence in the room for a moment; for a moment, there seemed not even to be, in the room, any breath. But that could not be, because beside her, her mother was taking a very long breath now, Catherine could see, and letting it out again, like it was something she had to hold on to to keep herself steady on her feet, and at the table, her father had to be breathing too, because her father was shaking his head.

“Oh, Catherine,” her mother said quietly. “Why did you—”

“Now,” her father said, and his tone sounded triumphant. He was speaking to her mother, Catherine saw. “Now. Now do you see how little she can be trusted to keep an eye on herself? Now? Didn’t I tell you there was more to this than she was letting on? Didn’t I tell you?”

“Jesus Christ,” her mother said, shaking her head.

“What?” Catherine said, turning to her. “What’s the big deal? Lots of people are gay.”

“Well, I hope you don’t know any more of them,” her father said.

“Charlie,” her mother said sharply. “Stop that.”

“Is this the way you’re going on in Dublin, going around with people like that? Is this what we sent you to Trinity for, so you can meet up with this kind of crowd?”

“James doesn’t go to Trinity,” Catherine said.

“Then how the hell did you meet him? What the hell are you doing going around with him?”

“Catherine,” her mother said. “This boy is troubled.”

“He’s trouble,” her father said.

“He’s troubled. It’s no good getting close to him.”

“It can’t be cured,” her father said.

“Charlie,” her mother said. “Please.”

“Well, it’s stopping here,” her father said, and he sat down to his paper again, and he opened it and closed it. “It’s stopping here, I can tell you that. You’re not to go next nor near that place. Or you needn’t be coming back here.”

“Don’t say that to her,” her mother said, and her voice, Catherine heard in dismay, was on the verge of breaking. “Don’t ever say that to any of them.”

Her father hesitated.

“Charlie,” her mother said. “Please.”

“This is your home and it always will be, Catherine,” he said, his eyes on the newspaper. “But I don’t want you associating with the likes of that fellow. I want that to be clear.”

“I’m only going for a couple of nights,” Catherine said, and she left the room.

In the bedroom, Ellen was waiting for her, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“What the fuck was that?”

“I’m sorry,” said Catherine, as she pulled clothes out of the chest of drawers. “It had to be done.”

“You did that and now you’re just leaving me here to deal with it?”

“You don’t have to deal with it.”

“Fuck you,” Ellen said, pushing past her, and Catherine was horrified to see that she was in tears.

That night in Carrigfinn was not a pleasant one. The next day was not a pleasant day. They were a night and a day passed in the tension of inhabiting rooms, listening for who might walk into them. On the surface, it was the same house she had visited a month ago, or it might have been: Peggy, so welcoming to Catherine, embracing her, telling her how delighted she was to see her again. Calling her
pet
. Calling her
wee darling
. But she was not the same person to Peggy now, Catherine knew that, just as Peggy was not the same person to her. This Peggy was the woman who had reacted to James in the manner that she had, in just the manner that James had predicted she would, in just the manner of which Catherine had said,
Oh no, no, no, that won’t happen. Everything will be all right. Everything will be more than all right.

All right; that was not what this was. There were moments, that night, that next day, when Catherine looked up to see that Peggy was staring at her, on her face an expression that was not very far from blame. They were in trouble, she and James. They were in so much trouble. Being in trouble in this way made Catherine wary of moving; wary, even, of meeting anyone’s eye. James’s father was confused by the quiet and the caution, she knew; James’s father did not know what James’s mother now knew. He kept trying to joke with them, to draw them both out, and he kept giving up, flashing curious looks in Peggy’s direction, going outside to the farm, where things could be managed, where reactions could be trusted to be what he expected them to be. He thought that they were miserable, all of them, over James’s imminent departure, Catherine thought—and he was right about that, actually, because if there was one thing that she dreaded more than heading back to the house out of which she had walked the evening before, it was not having James to phone up and James to visit; it was the thought of James being a thousand miles away, in a city and a country to which she had never been, not that it would have made a damn bit of difference if she had been there. He would be gone, and she would be here, and that was what she was facing into, and the thought of it made her breath feel as though it was going to refuse to come. But that was not the thing to think about now, she knew; that was not the important thing. The important thing was James. The important thing was to be with James, now. On his bedroom walls, it struck her, there were no posters—they were, in that respect, so different from her bedroom walls at home, still covered with the school years collage of pictures from
Just Seventeen
and
NME
. His walls were covered with wallpaper, a pattern of ivy, or something else rising and green. Catherine sat propped against one side of the wall, and James sat propped against the other, and they sat there waiting for the hours to pass, James seeming absorbed in
Mrs. Dalloway,
Catherine having tried and given up on
Orlando
. Outside, it was sunny, but outside was not a matter for them. Catherine lay down now, feeling the urge to sink into sleep, and James shifted in his seating, so that his legs were still draped across her, the weight of them pinning her just above her knees. Soon, it would be dinnertime, and they would have to go up to the kitchen, to the table, where James’s mother would smile and sigh across the table, at once pretending that nothing was the matter and making very clear that something was, and James’s father would try to get everyone laughing, and James would be monosyllabic and sarcastic, and Catherine would end up overcompensating, and chattering, and thus betraying him, the way she had done at breakfast, the way she had done at lunch. What was she meant to do, stay quiet and hurt and angry also? They could not both be that way.

But sleep; all she wanted was sleep. She felt so tired. She felt, for a moment, a longing to go home, to run home, but she could not do that either, and even the thought of it struck panic inside her like a match. Ellen’s face; her mother’s face; her father’s face—she pushed them away. Tomorrow was the day for leaving. Tomorrow was the day for home.