I laugh, relieved, exhausted. ‘You were trying to do something nice. I know that. And I trust you. So you can spring anything you like on me. Just don’t lie to me.’ I look at him. ‘My dad’s lies have destroyed our family.’ I swallow. ‘Promise me, no lies between us. Not ever.’
‘No lies,’ he repeats, his voice subdued.
‘Right – seeing as this is truth time, there’s something else I need to tell you.’ I take a deep breath. ‘When you asked if there was something I wanted to do, that maybe I’m good at … there is. I love writing. I keep a diary, and I write short stories. I write about the people I cremate, the people behind the names on benches. I like imagining who they were. How their lives might have been.’ It’s the first time I’ve told anyone about my writing, but when I sneak a glance at him, he looks interested. ‘I’m not aiming to be famous,’ I tell him quickly. ‘I just want to sit in a room making up stories.’
‘A writer!’ he exclaims, sitting up. ‘The way you’re always observing stuff – describing things you see as if you’re trying to get to the truth of whatever it is. And you’re such a good listener. It makes sense.’ He grins. ‘See, I knew there was something you were hiding under a bushel.’
‘A bushel?’ I roll my eyes.
I sit up too, and then we’re kneeling on the bed, knees touching, and he takes my hands in his. ‘Will you show me some of your stories? I’d really like to read them.’ He squeezes my fingers. ‘We should make a pact. If I leave my job and become a full-time singer-songwriter, then you have to promise to keep writing, get published. Oh Cat, this is so great, because we can be there for each other now.’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’d like that more than anything.’ I sit back on my heels. ‘You haven’t played me any of your own songs, though,’ I remind him. ‘You promised. Remember?’
‘I don’t have my guitar here,’ he says. ‘But I’m willing to go a cappella, if you don’t object?’
‘Go for it.’
He climbs out of bed and stands naked, lights from the boardwalk spangling him. He swallows, clears his throat, glances down for a moment. Then he looks right at me.
FOURTEEN
Sam, April 1983
He doesn’t choose one of the love songs. None of those feels ready yet. Instead he sings something he wrote after he saw the bear. He stands, feet apart, more nervous than he can remember.
When he finishes, she doesn’t move. He can’t see her expression in the shadows. Nervously he climbs back into bed, trying to gauge her reaction. But as she puts her arms around him, squeezing him tightly, he discovers her cheeks are wet.
‘You’re crying!’ he says. ‘Was it that bad?’
‘It was beautiful.’ Her voice is choked with tears. ‘You have to keep writing, keep singing.’ She swallows hard. ‘I believe in you, Sam.’
They lean back against the pillows, her head on his shoulder. He strokes her hair. Since they met, she’s shared so much: telling him about her childhood, her father being a gambler, her desire to write. The truth is a key, he thinks guiltily. Without it, there’s a door that will always stay shut.
‘Damn.’ She laughs. ‘I’ve never cried so much in my life,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘And I’ve never been this happy.’
He kisses her shoulder, and turns his head to look through the hotel window at the moon, a huge yellow circle swimming in clouds. No stars tonight. Soon he’ll be looking at the same moon in London. They only have two days left. The date of his flight encroaches like a shadow falling at dusk, inevitable and cold. He hasn’t lied, he tells himself. He just hasn’t told the exact truth. The fact is, his parents are dead. To him, they may as well be cold and buried in the ground.
He holds her tightly, her head heavy on his arm. But what about Lucinda, a voice in his head pipes up. You haven’t told her about your girlfriend at home. Day by day, hour by hour, the glaring omission becomes more urgent and uncomfortable, the words to explain it stumbling around in his mind. But it’s too late now. Too late to tell her the truth about Lucinda, his parents, any of it. No lies between us, she said. Promise me. He can’t risk losing her. It’s his mess, he tells himself, not hers; when he gets home, he’ll face up to it.
He puts his nose into Cat’s hair, inhaling her scent. He gets it now when people say their heart is bursting. He moves his hand to his chest as if to soothe the ache there.
‘We’ll go on camping trips together,’ he murmurs. ‘Climb mountains, explore forests.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And there’ll be bears.’ ‘Lions.’
‘Elephants,’ she adds, yawning.
When morning breaks, he wakes to find her up and getting dressed. He hurries into his clothes so that he can go with her. They slip out through the red reception onto the boardwalk. The deserted beach breathes its briny smells at them, washing away traces from the night before; the sea is pink and silver in the dawn. She wants to find a dolphin for him, and they stand by her favourite bench, gazing at the horizon. But there are no curving fins. ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘We’ll see dolphins another day, maybe in a different ocean. And when you come to London, I’ll show you the bench on Hampstead Heath. The one I told you about. We can sit on it and watch the kids flying kites on Parliament Hill. There’s so much I want to show you, Cat. So many things we can do together.’
He walks her to the little clapboard house, watching her disappear through the screen door. Then he goes back to the hostel, crawling into his bunk, his skin sensitised under rumpled clothes, lips bruised from kissing. The smell of her on his fingers.
The last day arrives. The song isn’t quite ready, he decides. He wants it to be perfect. He’ll surprise her when she visits him. He has her address written down in three different places: on the end page of his notebook, on his guitar case in felt tip, and on a piece of paper folded into his wallet. But she’s meeting him at the airport after work to say goodbye, and he’s made up his mind: he’s going to explain about his parents, about Lucinda. This is his last chance to tell her the truth before he leaves, before she comes to London. He needs to do it now, so the next part of their lives can start properly – clean and full of promise.
FIFTEEN
Cat, April 1983
Once, Sam and I knocked into the vase of lilies on the front desk, nearly sending the whole lot spinning to the floor. I let out a yell fit to wake every soul in the reefer, and grabbed it just in time. But we got away with it. This evening, he flies to London. Even now, he’ll be packing his stuff, getting ready to leave. But instead of feeling desperate and unhappy, I’m excited, because after work, I’m going to the airport to kiss him goodbye, to sniff his hair and skin, to have one more hug. One more time in his arms. Until we meet in London. London! He said there was something important he needs to tell me. That he’d explain everything at the airport. And I wonder what it could be and if it has to do with being in London together. A plan, perhaps, for his music, or my writing?
I’m working the conveyor belt, overseeing a corpse moving smoothly into the roaring retort. When Ray taps me on the shoulder, I jump. I can’t hear anything for the rumbling of air and fire. We watch as the cardboard box slides into place, and the doors close; then we walk away from the machine and he bends forward and opens his mouth. ‘Eunice wants to see you in her office,’ is what comes out.
‘What? Why?’
He gives me an exasperated look. ‘She didn’t see fit to tell me. Said it’s urgent is all I know.’ He puts his hands on his hips. ‘So why you still standing here?’
I peel off my gloves, and he takes them from me wordlessly. My feet drag as I leave the heat of the crematorium, walking past the shadowy chapel, across the entrance lobby to the office. It was worth it, I tell myself. Whatever happens next, I can’t regret it. I rap on the closed door, and turn the handle.
‘Catrin,’ Eunice says, looking up. ‘Come on in.’
Eunice is a large woman, and her bosom and belly jiggle as she raises herself from her chair, straini
ng to get upright. She nods towards her desk. ‘Sit down. Your mom’s on the phone.’
I stare at the ebony receiver lying on its side on the desk, and glance back at her.
‘Your mom,’ she repeats. ‘She’s on the line.’
I sink into the chair that clients usually use, the box of perfumed tissues placed just so by my elbow. Eunice walks around her desk, dropping a heavy hand onto my shoulder as she passes, and gives my bones a squeeze. ‘Take as long as you like,’ she murmurs.
I hear the door click as she leaves.
Maybe this time Mom’s really ill. I pick up the receiver with the tips of my fingers. ‘Mom? Are you okay?’
All I can hear is a muffled choking sound. Then her voice, tearful, breaking. ‘Catrin? Oh, I don’t know what to do,’ she wails. ‘You have to come home. I don’t know what to do …’
Fear chases up and down my spine. ‘Mom, try and take a breath. Start from the beginning. Where are you?’
‘I’m … I’m at a neighbour’s house. She let me use her phone.’
A part of me relaxes. She’s not in the hospital. I edge forward in my seat. ‘What’s the matter? What happened?’
‘It’s your father … He’s …’ I can hear gulping, rustling, and gasps of breath.
‘Dad? What’s happened to him? Just tell me,’ I almost shout, holding the phone hard to my ear.
‘He’s been arrested,’ she whispers.
Shock hits me in the chest. ‘Arrested?’
‘For embezzlement. Joe came from the office to tell me. Oh Catrin!’ She’s crying again. ‘I’m so afraid. Come home. Please. Come home now.’
I get off the jitney and jog through the streets, bag bumping my hip. My feet, heavy in my work shoes, hardly seem to move under me. I crash through the front door, calling for Mom. From the kitchen comes a low, wordless keening, as if a wounded animal has taken shelter.
She looks terrible. Undone. Her hair has escaped its chignon, her cheeks have collapsed. For a second I remember the dying bluefish, hooked by those fishermen at Absecon Bay. I root through the cupboard and find a bottle of rum, collect a couple of glasses and pour. ‘Sit down and drink this,’ I tell her, settling at the table. ‘Tell me slowly. Tell me everything.’
‘All I know is what I told you.’ She licks parched lips. ‘Joe came over, said Arthur had been arrested. Three officers put him in cuffs and took him down to the precinct.’ She slaps her hand against her forehead. ‘Why would he steal from his work?’
‘Mom,’ I say quietly. ‘He’ll do anything to get money for gambling.’
‘It’s over, Catrin,’ she says. ‘I can’t do this any more. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.’ She breaks into sobs, clutching her skirts, swaying so violently I think she’s going to fall. I get up and put my arms around her stooped shoulders.
‘You’re in shock. Let’s get you into bed. I’ll go to the payphone at the five-and-ten, call the county jail, see if I can find anything out.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ she says, holding my cheeks between her palms. ‘You’re a good girl. But God help us now.’ Her voice cracks. ‘We’re ruined.’
I get her into her nightclothes, give her a couple of sleeping pills. Her fingers tremble so much, she can’t hold the water glass. I don’t want to leave her alone in this state, so I sit on the bed, telling her that it will be all right, stroking her forehead, patting her fragile hand.
‘You see, I was right to warn you …’ she murmurs.
I lean forward. ‘What do you mean, Mom?’
‘About that boy you were seeing. I don’t want you to go through this … I don’t want you to know this … this humiliation …’
‘Mom,’ I say gently, firmly. ‘I told you before, Sam’s not Dad. He’s on his way back to England tonight. But we’re going to see each other again. He’s gonna write me. I don’t want you to worry about it, okay? I promise I know what I’m doing.’
She holds my gaze, and then sighs and nods. I pat her hand as it grips the edge of the sheet. When her eyes eventually close, I go down the stairs and onto the porch, closing the door behind me. Everything looks the same. Everything is different. I glance at my watch. Sam will be waiting in the departures lounge at the airport, looking through the crowd of changing faces, searching for me.
The payphone at the dime store has been vandalised, so I walk a block to find one that works. It rings for a long time; finally I manage to get through to someone on the desk. The voice is female, brisk and irritated. I fumble to press more money through the slot. She asks for Dad’s first and last names, and date of birth. She verifies that he’s been booked and is awaiting his arraignment. No visitors, she tells me when I ask. He’s been assigned a public defender, and she gives me a fax number.
I click the greasy receiver back into its cradle, and the last of my quarters clatters inside the box. I think of Dad in some windowless room, his big body slumped over. Will they let him have a cigarette? Will anyone say a kind word? I look at my watch. Sam. I’m too late. I’ve missed him. My heart whimpers, dies in my chest like roadkill. Overhead, a glittering speck leaves a vapour trail in the evening sky. I gaze up, straining my neck, wondering if he’s there, staring down through the clouds. And the song I was trying to remember comes into my head – John Denver, ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’. I want so bad to tell him, to say, ‘Guess what, I remembered,’ to hear him laugh, singing it back to me: Hold me like you’ll never let me go.
Maybe he didn’t get on the flight. I have a crazy hope that I’ll find him at home, waiting for me on the porch steps, guitar on his back. But then I remember. His visa’s run out. The magic of the last weeks has gone, and now real life is falling hard and heavy on my shoulders. I feel sick at the thought of Dad in cuffs, being prosecuted, going to jail. The knowledge of my aloneness is clear and sharp.
I don’t have a clue what to do. The unknown nightmare of what’s to come snatches my breath away. How can I go to England now? I double up on the sidewalk, sickness in my throat. I start to walk I don’t know where. Breaking into a run, I sprint as fast as I can, my head thrown back, arms pumping at my sides.
On the boardwalk, I stagger like a drunk towards our bench and collapse onto it; before me, the ocean moves in the dark, the same ocean I waded into that night, while Sam watched me from the shore. I tilt my head to look up at the sky, towards the airplanes criss-crossing the evening air with winking lights, so far away that I can’t hear them roar.
SIXTEEN
Sam, April 1983
He waits till the very last call for boarding. After it comes, he keeps waiting, body rigid with nerves, until they’re paging his name, and he has to run for it, dodging between people, leaping suitcases and trolleys. The cabin crew hurry him on as he goes through the boarding lounge onto the plane.
He keeps his head down, trying to ignore the annoyed glances of other passengers as the crew shut the door behind him. The plane is full, so it’s easy to spot the one empty space, right in the middle of a row. After he’s jammed his bag into an overhead locker and buckled himself in, he has an impulse to leap up and shout for them to stop the plane. He wants to get off, run back, find her. He begins to undo his belt, but like a coward he just sits there, staring straight ahead as the plane lifts from the ground.
He keeps seeing her slumped against a broken window, a bus skewed across the freeway, blood trickling from her forehead, obliterating that tiny birthmark she has above her eyebrow. He imagines ambulances. Blue lights. Sirens. Her pulse getting slower.
He refuses the tray of foil-wrapped food that an air hostess holds out, puts his headphones over his ears, and presses play on his Walkman. Music enters him, blocking off the noise of the plane. Al Green’s voice is like listening to an old friend bringing reason. He feels the fibres of his muscles release, the tension in his shoulders seeping away.
He thinks back to his old bedroom at home, his school suitcase lying empty, contents strewn across the floor. His window is open; outside, the long law
n is striped with summer brilliance. His mother kneels with a gardening fork in her hand, sunhat over her eyes, dogs sprawled nearby in the shade.
Carefully, he places the new album he bought from Woolies on the turntable, and twists the volume knob up loud. He’s singing along with the Reverend Al Green, singing about love and happiness, imagining what it would be like to sound like that, what it would be like to stand on a stage and make people feel what he is feeling now.
He doesn’t hear the knocking. And then his father is there, carrying fury in narrowed eyes and set jaw. He’s bending over the record player and grabbing the arm, snatching the needle up. The shriek of it sliding across the grooves is terrible. The disc will be ruined.
‘No good,’ he’s saying. ‘Your school report. A disappointment.’ His nostrils flare, and Sam notices black hair speckling the insides. ‘Not good enough,’ his father keeps repeating. ‘Throwing away your opportunities. Dreaming your life away.’
The room is full of words; Sam puts his hands up as if he could bat them away. He waits, head bowed. His father is talking about the Great Plan: Oxbridge exams, going up to Oriel, following tradition, becoming a lawyer.
Sam looks at the red threads criss-crossing his father’s cheeks, thin hair combed across the pink of his scalp. I don’t want your life, he thinks. I don’t want to be you.
His father comes very close. ‘You’re killing your mother,’ he says quietly. ‘She’s sick with worry. She wants to see you make a man of yourself.’
He leaves the room, shutting the door with a click. Outside, one of the peacocks screams. Sam bows his head. Maybe he is a selfish little shit, he thinks. Maybe there is something wrong with him.
There’s nothing wrong with him. There never was, except having a father who made him feel that being himself was a crime. Cat has helped him understand that. All his plans to give up law and be a musician seem simple when he’s with her. He begins to compose a letter to her in his head. There must be a logical explanation for her not turning up. Something happened at work to delay her. Or her bus got stuck in a jam. She would have been so frustrated. He takes deep breaths. It will be all right. I believe in you, she said. He has a sharp need to confess the truth about his parents and Lucinda. If he can’t tell her in person, then he’ll explain in a letter.
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