Catherine

by April Lindner

  The questions I longed to ask him crowded my brain: What’s wrong with you? What are you doing in there? Where do you go when you’re out of the house? When are you going to reopen the club? What happens next?

  Meanwhile, The Underground stayed closed. I had more than enough money for food and subway fare, and it seemed Q was paying the bills for the phone, heat, and electricity because so far at least we still had all three. One thing was certain: Q had stopped paying Hence’s salary. In fact, he hadn’t so much as mentioned Hence, hadn’t said a word about whether he expected him to stay on in case we reopened the club.

  Before we lost Dad, Hence’s presence in the house was a constant annoyance to Q. Afterward, it was like he had completely forgotten Hence was living in our basement. And, in fact, he wasn’t. With Q away for days at a time, Hence started spending every night up in my room. I would fall asleep in his arms and wake up beside him, and he was the only good thing in my sorry life.

  Around that time, Hence’s portion of Riptide’s record advance came in, and he threw himself into his music with a vengeance. In late January, the band went into the studio and rarely came out. We had even less time together than before, and I couldn’t help feeling lonely those long winter evenings when night fell early and I ate dinner by myself in front of the TV, waiting for him to come home.

  But it was all for the best, of course; Hence had important work to do. Two of his songs were slated for inclusion on the album, and, in my opinion, they were the best material Riptide had. Meanwhile, the band had been booking stray gigs here and there, and I’d been going with Hence to the shows. Because I was with the band it hardly ever mattered that I was underage, and I didn’t drink, anyway. I was there to pay attention, to hang on to the side of the stage as Hence sang his heart out or played a blistering solo on his new Telecaster.

  And I wasn’t the only one gaping adoringly up at him. There were always groupies—sometimes new ones, but always a familiar few that showed up wherever Riptide played. One in particular drove me crazy because she was so fixated on Hence, screaming his name whenever he did anything, flipping her straggly fuchsia hair if he looked in her direction, and bouncing around to the beat. And I do mean bouncing. No matter that it was the dead of winter; she showed up every night in a teensy tube top and a short skirt over ripped tights. She’d seen Hence and me together after the shows, so she must have known he had a girlfriend, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. I guess she hoped one day he would take a good long look at her and realize how sexy and available she was, and go home with her instead.

  Not that I was worried. One night after a show, I asked Hence if he’d noticed her. She’d retreated to the bar but was still watching him from across the room, her eyes burning like cigarettes through the smoky air.

  “Who? Oh, that one with the pink hair? She’s a trip, isn’t she?” He slid his guitar into its case and snapped it shut. “She slipped me her phone number. More than once. She’s persistent.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Hence shrugged. “What does it matter? She’s nothing to me. Less than nothing.” He grabbed my hands, pulled me close, and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I don’t even see anyone who isn’t you.”

  I laughed. “Oh, please. Like anyone could not notice her jiggling and shrieking.”

  “I notice. I just don’t care.”

  “Well, maybe you should care.” It was a strange argument to be making, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself. “After all, she’s your biggest fan.”

  “We’ll have plenty of fans soon enough. We can stand to lose one here and there.”

  “Maybe you should tell her to quit stalking you. Tell her you’ve got a girlfriend, and that you’re not interested.”

  “I could do that,” he said. “But I’d rather do this.” He tipped my face up toward his and kissed me deeply, lingeringly, his hands tangled in my hair, for so long that I almost forgot about the pink-haired girl and the rest of the groupies. But when we finally pulled apart, I did remember to check and see if she was still watching. I was happy to find her gone.

  With every passing day, Hence’s dreams came a little more true. When school let out, we would meet on the corner, and he would tell me how that day’s recording had gone. He was always excited and happy, full of news—the band was about to meet with its new publicist, or they’d decided what “look” they wanted for an upcoming photo shoot, or that day’s recording session had gone better than usual. On weekends, I would tag along with him to the studio and sit in a corner, watching and listening. Sitting in was exciting at first, but the sessions got repetitive after a while. Sometimes, when I’d been listening to an hour’s worth of solemn debate about how far forward the voices should be in the mix, I was tempted to plug my ears and scream.

  But screaming was out: I had to be every inch the supportive girlfriend. Eventually I began bringing along a book to distract myself. Sometimes I would be deep in my reading and get the feeling that I was being watched. I’d look up to find Hence’s eyes on me as he played a solo or sang, and when our eyes met, no matter what he was doing, he would smile, giving off the happy vibe of someone on the brink of having everything he’d ever wished for. I’d remember how rare his smiles were when we first met, how he’d almost seemed incapable of smiling, and my heart would twist in my chest. It was as if he’d been running up a hill, struggling like mad, and was about to reach the crest, and everything from there would be a wild downhill plunge. And of course I was happy for him. More than happy. Thrilled. Just like anyone would expect me to be.

  And yet.

  I had news, too, and I’d been keeping it secret from him. When I’d thought I couldn’t wait a second longer, the envelopes had started trickling in. The first to arrive was a rejection from Columbia, but the very next day, NYU sent me a fat acceptance letter. The day after that, I heard from Fordham—another yes. I knew I would have to tell Hence sometime soon, of course. And I planned to. But the memory of our big blowout made me cautious. I figured I might as well wait till I’d chosen my school. And though I spent most of every study hall agonizing over the college catalogs, I still couldn’t seem to make up my mind.

  In the meantime, there was one college I still hadn’t heard from—the one I shouldn’t even have applied to, given that I couldn’t go there. When the rejection from Columbia arrived, I wasn’t all that disappointed. My only thought was that if Columbia didn’t take me, Harvard wouldn’t, either, which actually was a good thing… wasn’t it? As soon as the letter came, I told myself, I’d put all my Harvard fantasies behind me and take a giant step into the future. I would pick one of those other schools—Not-Harvard A or Not-Harvard B—and start imagining a future that wouldn’t involve quaint redbrick buildings, leafy pathways, and the bustle of Harvard Square.

  Whatever school I chose, it would work out all right. I was so lucky, really, to be going to college at all. That’s what I kept telling myself whenever I started to feel sad about the whole Harvard thing. I would be fine wherever I went. What felt like the end of the world to me would be the kind of future most girls only dream of.

  At least it would all be settled soon.

  It was waiting for me in the mailbox on a Friday afternoon: the envelope with the Harvard seal. I had been expecting it to be thin—a rejection. When I saw that it was plump, full of information and documents to be filled out and sent in, my hands started shaking so badly I could hardly open it. Dear Catherine Eversole, the letter said, We are pleased to inform you…

  I couldn’t read any further. I felt on the verge of exploding. It felt like joy, but how could it be? It didn’t matter that Harvard wanted me. I was going to turn them down, wasn’t I? Tremors shook my legs so hard I had to sit down on the bottom step, the half-read letter in my lap. My applying, and the long, anxious wait—those things had been pointless. Hadn’t they?

  I sat on the step a long time, listening to the ticking of the hallway grandfather clock, willing myself
to think clearly. Willing all that pointless joy and hope to fade away. After a while, I stopped trembling. I was able to pick the letter up and read the whole thing from start to finish.

  When I got to the end, I burst into tears.

  Catherine

  Days passed, and I still hadn’t thought of a way to bring up the dreaded subject of college. What’s more, Hence hadn’t so much as asked me if I’d heard from any schools. Annoyed that he was too preoccupied with his own future to have even a shred of curiosity about mine, I told myself, I’ll wait till he asks. Till then, he doesn’t need to know.

  One night in late March, a hard rain swept in and rattled the windowpanes. Before I fell asleep that night, I spared a thought for Q. He hadn’t been home for more than a week, and I still had no idea where he went when he wasn’t at The Underground, whether he’d found a new girlfriend or was sleeping on the couch of one of his party-animal friends. For all I knew, he could be passed out on a park bench, soaked to the skin. Almost four months had passed since my dad died, I was nobody’s kid anymore, and with Q gone, I felt like I was nobody’s sister. I had all but forgotten there was anyone in the world who might care where I slept, and with whom. As I drifted off to sleep in Hence’s arms, I thought of Q wandering alone through the dark and rainy streets, and felt only pity.

  When the lights switched on, slicing into my dreams, I blinked awake. Over the bed loomed my brother, as though my thoughts had summoned him. “Q?” I mumbled, reaching in his direction. “Is that you?” Beside me, Hence stirred, then tensed.

  “I knew you were up to something….” The edge to my brother’s voice and his cast-iron expression put me on alert.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I guess I don’t have to ask you what you’re doing in here.” His voice radiated scorn. “With our busboy.”

  “This is my room.”

  “So you’ll bring whoever you want up here?” Quentin laughed unpleasantly. “I don’t think so. I own this building. Dad left me in charge.”

  “He left you in charge of The Underground—not of me. If you care what I do, why are you never here?”

  “I can see I should have been here, keeping you in line. I didn’t know what a slut you were, spreading your legs for the first guy who came sniffing around.”

  Hence drew himself up in bed, clutching the sheet tight to his chest. “Are you insane, talking to her like that? She’s your sister….”

  That’s when Quentin called Hence a word I’d never use myself, a word Dad would have been shocked to hear him say. He spat it into our faces, commanding Hence to shut up. A change came over his face. He fumbled in the pocket of his army surplus jacket, pulling out a handgun—small, silver, and deadly looking. He held it up in both hands and aimed it right into Hence’s face. With that weapon in his hands, his voice came out different: cold and quiet. “You watch how you talk to me,” he said. “Be respectful.”

  Before I could think, I was clambering out from under the covers, throwing myself between Quentin’s gun and Hence. I needed to stop my brother’s craziness before someone got hurt. In my panic, I forgot I didn’t have much of anything on—just my underwear and a gauzy tank top. At the sight of me, a violent blush spread across Quentin’s face and he looked away, the gun pointing askew—thank God—toward the corner of the room, and not into Hence’s face. I exhaled.

  “For God’s sake, Cathy!” Q shouted, sounding more like his old self. “Put some clothes on.”

  “Not until you put that thing away,” I said, seeing my chance. “I’m not moving while you’re waving a gun around.”

  Quentin glared down at the carpet. “He has five minutes to get dressed and out of here. If he isn’t gone by then, I’ll shoot.”

  “I’m leaving, too,” I told him.

  “The hell you are. If you leave with him, I’ll hunt the two of you down and blow his head off.”

  “You’ll have to shoot me first.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.” And he was gone, slamming the apartment door behind him. Hence and I barely had time to throw on our clothes. I packed a duffel bag with my journal, my bankbook, some clothes, and the jewelry Mom had left me, but most of Hence’s stuff was still in the basement, and neither of us wanted to pass Quentin in order to get it.

  That’s how we wound up homeless, me with everything I owned in a bag and Hence with nothing but the clothes he’d worn the night before and his guitar, which, luckily enough, he’d brought upstairs to serenade me with before we fell asleep. As we fled The Underground, Hence didn’t say much. I know he must have been at least as angry as I was. Angrier. I thought of the look I’d seen on his face, how he’d been on his knees, naked except for a sheet, while Quentin pointed a gun at him and called him names, ordering him to be respectful. I thought how humiliated Hence must feel, and for a long time I couldn’t think of anything to say. We rode the subway side by side, not speaking. I wasn’t sure where we were going. Hence seemed to have some destination in mind, so I followed.

  “That shithead.” Hence spoke the words so quietly that at first I thought I’d imagined them. “Racist son of a bitch.”

  “He never used to be.” That was true, wasn’t it? He’d certainly liked Jackie well enough, teasing and flirting with her, sticking up for her, calling her pet names like Jackie-O and Jack O’Lantern. “Maybe that’s part of it, but it’s not the whole thing. Q hated you because Dad liked you so much. He hates you even more now that Dad’s gone.” I put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off.

  “What do I care what his reasons are?” Hence spoke through clenched teeth. “Spoiled piece of shit. He had parents who loved him, and all the money in the world, and he couldn’t stand to share his daddy’s attention?” I felt a chill, because of course I was spoiled, too, compared to Hence. I knew he didn’t mean to criticize me; it was Quentin he was angry with. Even so, feeling accused, I folded my hands in my lap, and we rode the rest of the way in silence.

  While I waited in a coffee shop on Gansevoort Street, Hence ran over to the apartment his bandmates shared to see if they would be willing to make room for two more. We had money, of course; we could have gotten a hotel room if we’d wanted to. We could even have rented a place together, the way we’d dreamed of doing. But Hence’s first thought was of his new friends in the band, and my first thought was of Hence, especially after what my brother had just put him through.

  I was on my third cup of coffee by the time Hence returned, a relieved smile on his face, to lead me to the walk-up on West Thirteenth. It was nice of the guys to take us in, considering their place wasn’t big enough for the three of them to begin with. Andy and Stan shared the bigger bedroom; Ruben could barely fit all of his stuff in the smaller one. That left the pull-out couch in the living room for me and Hence. It was a good thing we hadn’t packed any more of our stuff; there would have been no place to put it. As shaken up as I’d been that morning, I would have liked a nice quiet evening alone with Hence instead of a long TV-watching session with the guys, but the living room was the TV room, so I had no choice.

  The next morning, I made banana–chocolate chip pancakes, and they were a big hit. The boys consumed two enormous batches, and Ruben couldn’t stop thanking me. It was kind of sweet, really; I felt like Peter Pan’s Wendy, looking after her troop of Lost Boys. After that, the band went downstairs to the rehearsal space to practice for that night’s show. Hence invited me to come along, but after a whole twenty-four hours spent breathing the same air as the Riptide guys, I needed space. Plus, it was the first day of my spring break, and I wanted to do something different, something to cheer myself up.

  The trouble was, I didn’t know what that would be. It had been a long time since I’d done something just because I felt like it, without worrying about what would make Hence happy. At first I thought I would hang around the apartment for the day, but I was sick of watching TV and, naturally, I didn’t have any books with me. I thought with regret of the pile of library books
beside my bed back home. There was no way Quentin would think to return them. As I washed the last of the breakfast dishes, I fantasized about sneaking into The Underground—maybe watching from down the street to catch Quentin on his way out, and then letting myself in to get more stuff, or even climbing in through the window, the way Hence used to. The thought was satisfying, but the memory of the gun in Quentin’s twitching hand still made me queasy.

  By the time I’d figured out where to stack the clean plates and coffee mugs, it was official: I was bored out of my skull. Plus, the whole apartment was seriously smelly and gross. I wasn’t sure how I could stay there without picking up the dirty socks and putting things into piles, but it wasn’t my job; after all, Hence and I would be chipping in on the rent while we looked for another place. I needed to find something else to do with myself before I started scrubbing the shower stall out of sheer boredom.

  I would have gone over to Jackie’s, but her mom had whisked her off to Washington, D.C., on a three-day trip to tour the Smithsonian museums and the White House, and to check out George Mason, one of the schools that had accepted Jackie. As dorky as that sounded, it was also kind of sweet. The last time I’d been to the Grays’ house, Jackie’s mom had been fretting about how it might be the last vacation they would take together as a family, her eyes bright and teary. Jackie told her she was being crazy, that of course they would still go places together once Jackie started college. “It’s not like I have a terminal illness, Mom,” she’d said, and the two of them hugged like they had forgotten I was in the room.

  Even if Jackie had been in town, I wasn’t at all sure I’d have felt like spending time with her. Jackie had been accepted by Columbia as well as George Mason, and when she’d broken the news, I could tell she was working hard to hide her excitement so I wouldn’t get sad about having to turn down Harvard. I kept trying to get her to talk about which school she was leaning toward, because I honestly wanted her to relax and be her usual self. We were both trying so hard it was painful. It was even worse with the other girls from school, who were oblivious, always asking me where I’d be next year so they could boast about the fabulous schools that had accepted them.