‘Sick?’ she suggests. ‘Weird? Disgusting?’
‘No.’ He grabs her wrist. ‘It’s necessary, isn’t it? And it’s … well … it’s brave. I don’t know if I could do it.’
She swallows. Closes her eyes. ‘Kiss me again,’ she says.
They spend a lot of time kissing after that, leaning up against parked cars, sitting in doorways. She’s a good listener, and he hasn’t spoken to anyone in a long time, so in between the kissing he finds himself telling her how he wrote song lyrics when other boys were playing rugby, how he played the guitar alone in his bedroom, teaching himself riffs.
‘But why didn’t you do music after college then, if it was what you’d always wanted?’
‘My father made me feel like I’d be letting everyone down if I didn’t follow him into the law. Generations of our family have been lawyers. Barristers. Magistrates. It’s tradition.’
‘But just because something’s a tradition doesn’t make it right,’ she says. ‘There are lots of traditions that are just plain wrong.’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubs his forehead hard. ‘Is it really that simple? I’ll be letting people down … my family … the law firm I work for …’
‘Sorry to be blunt, but …’ her voice softens, ‘your parents are dead.’ She shrugs. ‘And a law firm will find another lawyer to replace you. If you want it, you should go for it.’
He smiles, pulls her in to kiss her hair. ‘What makes you so wise?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not wise. But I know what it’s like to be held back. I’m stuck at home with my parents because my wages pay the rent.’ She looks down, twisting her hands. ‘I wanted to go to college, to study English and American literature, but I couldn’t.’
‘There isn’t an age limit on going to college,’ he says, trying to give her the same encouragement she’s given him. ‘Maybe you don’t need to go to college anyway. Sometimes I wonder what good it did me.’
She sighs. ‘I guess. So … are you going to play me some of your own material some time?’
‘I will,’ he says. ‘Promise.’
They’re walking the long, straight line of Atlantic Avenue, arms entwined, stumbling against each other. He’s exhausted, but at the same time buzzing as if he’s taken drugs.
‘Can we go back to your place?’ He’s too tired to think of a more subtle way to put it.
‘No way.’ She sounds appalled. She shakes her head. ‘My parents. Remember?’
‘Damn.’ He bites the inside of his lip. ‘We can’t go to the hostel.’
Cat is silent. They walk on slowly. They pass a deserted bus shelter, a yellow fire hydrant, Popeye’s Louisiana Kitchen, with a homeless man sitting on the step. Looking up, Sam reads the names of hotels and casinos emblazoned at the tops of the buildings, blinking in neon, endlessly beckoning. They stop outside a convenience store, and kiss again. ‘I have an idea,’ Cat says when they break off. ‘I have keys for work. We could go there. Tomorrow night.’
‘Work? You mean …’
‘The funeral parlour. At least we can be alone. Safe.’
‘Won’t you get in trouble?’
‘Only if we’re caught.’ She squeezes his arm. ‘Don’t worry. The dead are all safely locked away. You won’t see anything gruesome.’
He starts to laugh.
‘What?’
‘I just remembered yesterday – worrying you’d be squeamish about those shrunken heads.’
She smiles. ‘I’ve never fainted at the sight of blood. But it is upsetting to see bodies when they’ve died young or violently.’ She glances away. ‘Being around death makes me hungry to make life count. Only,’ she shrugs and looks at him, ‘my days are … I don’t know … slipping through my fingers.’
‘Because you have to look after your parents? Are they ill?’
‘My dad … well, he’s kind of sick, I guess. He’s a gambler.’ She says it in a matter-of-fact voice, but he sees the pain in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry. That … that must be really rough.’
‘It’s not that he doesn’t love us,’ she says quickly. ‘He tells me and Mom all the time. He’s the generous type, you know, full of grand gestures and bear hugs. He likes to ruffle my hair and call me pet names. Once, when I was little, he made me a go-cart out of wood and an old tyre. But gambling comes first. And he lets me and Mom down every time.’ She looks at her hands as she continues. ‘Talk is cheap, right? Saying you love someone and showing you love them are two different things.’ She shrugs. ‘We move a lot. We don’t always have money to eat. Then suddenly he wins big-time and buys us extravagant gifts.’ She looks at Sam. ‘Then we’re broke again. Mom’s stuck in the past. She’s never earned a cent in her life. So it’s down to me.’
Her words have come out in such a rush, he can hardly understand what she’s telling him. He can’t imagine how she lives with such uncertainty. Although to be betrayed by the person who’s supposed to protect you – he has some understanding of that one. But in the face of what she’s just told him, he feels inadequate. He frowns. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help.’
‘You are helping,’ she whispers. ‘Just talking to you helps.’ She blinks at him. ‘I’ve never told anyone before.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘Not too much information?’ She sounds hesitant.
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ He wishes he could find something better to say, something that would explain how honoured he is that she’s chosen to confide in him. This is why writing songs is so much easier, he thinks. The melody is a way of sounding out the unspoken, the part of the story lyrics can’t reach.
The street lights flicker off.
‘I didn’t realise it had gotten so late.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘I need to get home, take a shower.’ She twists her hair into a long tail and pushes it over her shoulder. ‘I have to go to work.’
‘I’ll walk you back.’
‘It’s nearly daylight. Quicker if I go by myself.’
‘I want to make sure you get home safely.’ He raises his eyebrows at her. ‘Think you can trust me now?’
She lets her hands rise and fall, and yawns.
‘Can’t you call in sick or something?’
She shakes her head. ‘It wouldn’t feel right.’
He feels a sudden stab of something that feels like homesickness. ‘Cat?’
She twists around, her face expectant.
‘I’m … I’m glad I met you.’
She gives her gap-toothed smile, ducks her chin and walks on, hands in her pockets.
As they head away from the coast, each new street is more down-at-heel than the last. Shabby houses, bins on their sides with rubbish spread over the pavement. Empty lots fenced off with wire. A heavy dog with a blunt head barks at them from the end of a chain. Graffiti sprawls across walls.
‘It seems worse than it is,’ she says. ‘But be careful on your way back.’ She grins. ‘Luckily, you don’t look like a tourist. You forgot your velour tracksuit.’
She stops outside a small clapboard house. Bright geraniums spill from pots lining the steps. He doesn’t want her to go. He pushes a strand of honey hair back from her face. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he says.
She blushes, glances away.
A screen door opens and a pale, frowning woman stands in the doorway in a long lacy dressing gown. She wraps it closer as she peers at them suspiciously.
‘Damn,’ Cat hisses under her breath. ‘My mom.’
Sam smiles at the woman and puts up his hand in greeting. ‘Good morning,’ he calls.
‘Hey, Mom.’ Cat leaves him, climbing the steps towards her mother. ‘Sorry if you were worried. My friend just walked me home.’ She pauses, as if considering whether to introduce him. ‘This is Sam,’ she says quickly. ‘He’s from England.’
‘Young man.’ The pale woman stares at him. ‘No gentleman brings a lady home at this hour.’
‘Mom,’ Cat hisses.
/>
He opens his mouth to explain, apologise, but Cat gives him a warning look, mouthing See you later, as she hurries her mother into the house. The door swings shut behind them. Sam stands for a moment, feeling the small shock of her mother’s words, the sudden loss of Cat. He stands taller. He’s confident that he can overcome her mother’s prejudice. He’s always been good with mothers.
He’s whistling ‘Morning Has Broken’ as he retraces his steps, longing to collapse into his bunk, to close his eyes and go over the details of the evening, remembering every moment, recalling every curve and plane of her face, every nuance of her expression. Waiting at a stop light, the whistle falters on his lips. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. Why on earth did he lie about his parents? It was a sudden impulse, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. And she needs to know about Lucinda. But it’s okay, he reasons; it’s not too late to put it right.
NINE
Cat, March 1983
Mom’s hair falls around her shoulders. Her gown gapes, showing bird-thin collarbones. She blocks my way to the stairs like a gatekeeper to the underworld. I knew that if she saw Sam, she’d add up his tattoo and earring and scruffy clothes and come up with the wrong answer.
‘Can we not do this now?’ I ask wearily, knowing she’s going to insist that we do. ‘I have to get ready for work.’
She doesn’t move. ‘Who is he?’ Her face is tense. ‘What are you doing with a man like that?’ She peers at me. ‘Have you been with him all night?’
‘We were just walking and talking. I lost track of time. He’s a singer from England.’ I rub my knuckles over my brow. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. And the way he looks … it’s just … fashionable.’
‘Fashionable?’ She spits the word out. ‘Looked like he’d crawled out of a dumpster. A man like that – he’ll be on drugs.’ Her mouth twists. ‘Catrin, I know that sort … he’ll drag you down.’
‘You don’t know anything about him. He’s going back to England soon. I’ll probably never see him again. But right now, he’s the first good thing to happen to me.’ I pause. ‘Anywhere.’
‘Well, my goodness, if he’s just passing through …’ Her voice has softened. ‘What’s the point in seeing him again?’
I am so tired my eyeballs feel as if they’ve been rolled in salt. Nausea thickens my throat. ‘Mom, please don’t try and persuade me out of this. I’m going to meet him again. You can’t stop me. I’m not a child.’
She lets out a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp. Her hand presses against her heart. ‘I have a pain – right here.’
Gently, I take her hand from her chest and rub it between my own. ‘We’ve been to the doctor. He said your heart was as strong as a twenty-year-old’s. You’re just tired. I promise, there’s nothing to worry about. Go back to bed.’ I brush past, catching a mouthful of her sour breath as I climb the stairs.
‘I didn’t figure you for a fool,’ she shouts after me.
I don’t have the strength to pronounce words any more. ‘Mom,’ I whisper. ‘Please. It’s my life.’
‘Just remember, I warned you.’ Mom jabs at her loose hair with twiggy fingers, sniffs, and gathers the trailing hem of her gown to mount the stairs after me. ‘Don’t come crying to me when he lets you down.’
‘Sam isn’t Dad.’
Shock darkens her eyes. She flinches as if I’ve struck her.
Dad comes barrelling out of their bedroom. ‘Jesus Christ! Can’t a man sleep in his own home?’
Defeat lurks in the lines on his forehead, in his thinning rumpled hair and bloodshot eyes. He’s spent all night losing at whatever game he thought he’d get lucky playing.
‘Catrin’s been out with a man,’ Mom says. ‘I know white trash when I see it. Tell her to be sensible, Arthur, tell her—’
‘Goddammit.’ My father scowls. ‘Kit-Cat’s old enough to know her own mind.’
I tiptoe away. Behind the closed door of my room, I want nothing but the luxury of thinking about Sam. You’re beautiful. I want to hold the memories close, write them in my diary, find the exact words to describe everything that’s happened. I open my diary and turn to a clean page, pick up my pen.
I got him so wrong. It’s shocked me to my core that he’s not what I thought: full of himself, a womaniser. There’s something inside him that makes him doubt himself. He’s funny and kind. And it’s weird how at home I feel with him – this English guy who’s lived a completely different life from me.
Exhaustion overwhelms me and I slump onto my bed, sprawled sideways over rumpled covers. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, I think, as the diary slips from my fingers.
I slept, of course, waking hours later, still in my clothes from the night before, drool slick on one cheek. I grab the clock and stare at it as if I could will the hands to spin backwards. No time for a shower. But the dead don’t care how bad you smell. I pull on my work clothes, grab a handful of crackers and sprint out of the door.
Ray shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘What’s up with you, girl? You been acting weird for a couple of days now.’
I would like to take his hand in mine, turn it over and stare into the leathery palm, and explain about Sam. But I can’t give Ray any reason to be suspicious. He rules this place like a castle. Knows it like his own skin. If I disturb the dust in a corner, he’ll guess it was me, and he’ll wonder why I was sneaking around here after hours.
We don’t have the luxury of time, the privilege of counting out days and nights, ticking them off until he’s allowed to get to first base like we’re in high school, waiting the correct amount of time before we have sex. We only have three weeks. I don’t want to waste a second agonising about whether I’m doing the right thing, or what anyone else will think, or whether he’ll respect me in the morning. I am going to have sex with Sam. Period. I just don’t want it to be a disaster because of my lack of experience. Since coming to Atlantic City, I’ve only had one boyfriend. When we finally got around to it, we were both so nervous we drank a bottle of tequila between us, and the squishy fumbling that followed didn’t seem to add up to anything in particular.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never had good sex. It didn’t start off well, daring myself to lose my virginity to a football jock at high school. Mission accomplished at a party on a bed lumpy with other people’s coats. He couldn’t remember my name afterwards. Then there was that guy in Reno I liked. He made me laugh. But he drank too much, and that scared me, because his lack of control reminded me of Dad. Sam’s different. I want to be as close to him as it’s physically possible to get. The whole point of sex (apart from procreation) has become clear as a lit-up bulb.
The day passes slowly and then quickly, like a ride on a crazy house at a funfair, the floor lifting and falling beneath me. At the end of the afternoon, Ray tells me, ‘You did good, Catrin. You’re learning how to handle death with dignity. I’m proud of you.’
Guilt sweeps through me, guilt at what I’m about to do. The sacrilege of it. Frank comes to my rescue. Lighten up, kid. You’re not doing anyone any harm. The stiffs won’t mind. And you need somewhere to be with this guy. He’s one of the good ones.
On the way home, I hold those funeral parlour keys in my hand like a talisman, clutching them as if they’re the holy grail itself.
I meet Sam at the club. After the set, he pushes his way through the crowd to get to me, looking sweaty and happy and pleased with himself. As soon as he reaches me, he folds me into such a passionate embrace, he rocks me off my feet, which makes me laugh and clutch his shoulders. I catch other women giving me dirty looks. I’m spinning away into an alternative universe. I want to enjoy every single moment, so I can relive them when he’s gone.
‘So,’ he says, outside the club. ‘Are we really going to the funeral parlour?’
I take his hand and squeeze. ‘You bet.’ I hope he doesn’t feel the tremor in my fingers.
When we get to Greenacres, I see with relief that the windows are dark.
The tree on the corner bends a little in the breeze, a silent sentry. I take the keys out of my bag.
‘Wait,’ Sam says. ‘This is it?’
I nod.
He gazes up at the gables. ‘I was expecting something different.’
‘There’s outbuildings at the back built for purpose,’ I say. ‘But this is what the public see. I was surprised too, when I first saw the veranda and shutters. Just seems like a regular home, doesn’t it, not gloomy at all.’
We go up the steps and I slip the key into the lock, repeating the code for the alarm in my head, punching in the numbers. Nerves tingling, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of him right behind me. The ticklish weight of my hair on the back of my neck makes me breathless to feel his touch there.
Sam steps ahead of me as I deal with the alarm. He’s walking through the lobby, past the heavy desk with its vase of white lilies and helpful leaflets. ‘I had no idea there were so many choices,’ he says in a subdued voice.
I remember what he said about his parents. I wonder what kind of funeral they had and if they died together in an accident.
‘Are you close to your sisters?’
‘Eleanor lives in Australia, so I don’t see much of her. Mattie’s in London and married with a kid. We’re pretty close. Why?’
‘Just wondering … with your parents being dead and all …’
The atmosphere has changed. There’s an awkwardness again, a sense that he’s retreating from me. I look at the ground.
But then he’s in front of me. He takes my chin and tilts it upwards, looks into my eyes. ‘Cat, are you okay?’ His voice is gentle. ‘We don’t have to do this, you know. Only if you want to.’
My arms go around his neck, and we’re kissing. The yeasty taste of lager on his tongue. He pulls me in so we’re rib to rib. I break off just enough to say, ‘I do. I want to.’
His fingers are fumbling for the zipper on my corset dress, getting tangled in my long necklaces. ‘Jesus,’ he gasps. ‘What are you wearing? Is this a chastity belt?’
I’m tugging at his sweatshirt, finding the taut skin of his stomach underneath, how warm it is, how smooth, the trail of hair leading from his belly button downwards. Then we’re naked on dark blue carpet tiles, under shelves carrying examples of cremation urns.
The Bench Page 5
