Catcher, Caught

by Sarah Collins Honenberger

  The silence settles between us as the sirens die. The flashing light slices across the empty field, the stubble of last year’s cornstalks glistening and then gone and there again. Minutes pass and finally the black bulky form of the trooper climbing out of the cruiser twenty yards back appears in the side mirror.

  My head pounds. My fingers are clammy. “You lied to me. You said you were only smoking pot. You said you quit.”

  “I meant pot.”

  “You said coke.”

  “I meant pot.”

  “Goddamn it, Mack. I’m not going to be here and you—”

  “Shut up, shut up, here’s the cop.”

  Exactly like in every damn movie I’ve ever seen, the trooper raps on the window. Mack lets it scroll open.

  “Just the two of you boys?” the trooper says. At his waist metal gleams in the holster. He scans the truck cab with his flashlight.

  Mack nods. I nod.

  “So where are you headed at four in the morning?” His words are clipped, official, but he’s smiling. As if he thinks it’ll loosen us up.

  What was I thinking to leave in the middle of the night? If I’d strung out a story about Mack and me going to the mall in Fredericksburg, no one would have thought twice. All that planning for nothing. We’re underage. There’s probably a curfew in Fredericksburg. The trooper will call our parents. We’ll have to go back. My mother will never leave me alone again. I’ll never get to New York. And I can’t tell anyone the real reason. Not even Mack knows how badly I need to get out of Virginia and find a doctor who’ll listen to me.

  “One of our friends from Mary Wash called about a party.” Good for Mack. Typical teenager putting his foot in his mouth.

  “A party at the college? You two old enough for that?”

  “Oh, it’s not that, officer. We’re not going to go to the party.” He’s buying time, thinking fast.

  I’m glad he’s the one behind the wheel. My mind is totally blank. Holden, Holden, I’m falling apart here. This is my deal, not Mack’s. He’s having to rescue us when I should have worked the possibilities out in advance and been ready for this.

  Mack turns off the engine, like he’s so concerned about the gas. Smart. “Carrie’s upset. Our friend. Some guy tried to…you know…take advantage of her. She’s pretty, uh, wrecked.”

  “She should call the campus police.”

  “I know. We told her that, but she’s embarrassed. Thank you though for the advice, officer. We’ll try that when we get there. When she’s calmer.”

  The trooper shines the flashlight around the cab again, down to the floor, up along the dashboard. “The city has a curfew. Did you know that?”

  “Curfew? No, jeez, no. Did you know that, Dan?”

  I shake my head, a boulder in my throat.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t speeding. I’d better check your license while I’ve got you here.”

  Mack scrambles to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. The seat belt hangs him up and he’s stabbing at the button to release it, while I’m thinking, Be cool, buddy, be cool.

  The trooper straightens, his hand at his back like it hurts. He has to be older than he looks. People my parents’ age have back problems. He must bend down to windows a lot in his job. He raises his voice.

  “And if I were you, I’d wait until after seven before you head back to”—he takes the license Mack thrusts out the window and holds it under the flashlight—“Tappahannock. Seven is the end of curfew.”

  “Thank you, officer. We’ll do that. Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat. What idiots.

  In Fredericksburg all the parking spaces below the train tracks are marked HANDICAPPED. Mack swings through the parking lot twice. When he starts in the third time, I put my hand on his arm.

  “Just drop me off.”

  “I’m not going to drop you off and let you stand here by yourself like some homeless person without any goddamn friends.”

  “You are pissy. Park, then. We can huddle on the sidewalk and do that Boy Scout triple handshake and you can pat my back and talk about old times.”

  “Can’t you read the signs? All the spaces are fucking handicapped.”

  “I am fucking handicapped.”

  He laughs at that.

  Once we’re up the ramp and I’m huffing on the platform, he takes out his wallet.

  “Dan, don’t get all twisted over this. I had money left over after I paid the insurance.” He sticks a wad of bills in my pocket. “Take it. You don’t know what those Broadway hookers cost these days.” With his head down, he’s in the shadows.

  “You read it. You read The Catcher in the Rye, you dog, you. Why didn’t you say something?”

  He’s embarrassing me, even though I know he’s not trying to. My eyes are blurring up. Damn. After the will, I said I was done crying. Don’t. I’m talking to myself. Not here, not with Mack. He read Catcher because I told him to, because his best friend is dying and there’s nothing more he can do for me except that.

  He shrugs. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Did you really give up the weed too?”

  I can’t bring myself to say coke. Even now I want to believe it was only a few times. But when he doesn’t answer, we both look away.

  “You’re a first-class idiot,” I say.

  “You’re a know-it-all.”

  “I’m entitled.”

  “Just because you’re sick? You get to tell everyone else how to live their lives?”

  “Because I’m dying. You know I’m right. It’s a bad habit. Dangerous. Drugs make you less, not more. If you get caught, everything else you want to do goes down the drain. Look what happened tonight. Why screw it up?”

  “You’re the one who’s always promoting free will.”

  “Yeah, but good choices, not lousy ones.”

  “And disappearing in New York and leaving your family in limbo, that’s a good choice?”

  “I don’t have many options.”

  “You’re chickening out. You’re scared and you don’t want anyone to see it, so you’re running away.”

  “Go screw yourself.” I stalk down the platform. Minutes later, when I hear the train, I turn to retrieve the suitcase and it’s sitting by itself on the empty platform. He’s gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Coming off the train in the underground station in New York City, my legs are shaky and my head weighs ten tons. I forgot to pack Tylenol. It’ll cost more here, my first mistake. And I need to eat. The train food was ridiculously expensive. I ate every one of Meredith’s organic cookies. I’d counted on one a day, but they’re gone already. Most of the way I slept, despite wanting to see the places I’d read about in books. Union Station in D.C., Philadelphia, New Jersey. I know, I know, no one really includes New Jersey on his list of must-see places, but it is north of the Mason-Dixon Line. They talk with that wild twang that makes me feel not a little sympathetic after the big deal they make about Southern accents. The long nap has left me groggy and not quite steady on my feet. When I hesitate on the top step, the conductor reaches for my suitcase. I had no idea I looked that out of it.

  Penn Station teems with people. People in saris, in turbans, in cowboy hats, in motorcycle jackets, ballet shoes, lots of black business suits. Chinese, Indian, African-American, Spanish. Short and round, tall and thin. Good cover, one kid in a city this size, no wonder Holden came here. It takes two sightings of the purple I LOVE NEW YORK balloons before I realize I’ve gone around the station in a circle. And I’m no closer to getting out. Tentacled hallways spin out in all directions. How the hell am I supposed to know whether I want Madison Square Garden or Thirty-second Street?

  The escalator rises above me and I make an instant decision. Stale humid air turns into a tunnel of wind. Smelly, cold, buffets of real world. I’m in New York, the big city, Holden’s stomping grounds. I’m actually really here. Mack’s voice echoes, “Did you ever think…”

  A splinter of blue sky a
ppears through the glass wall at the top and streaming yellow. Taxis. Nick would love the action. He’d be sprinting down sidewalks, jaywalking like a long-time resident. I’m with Holden, though. I like the idea of sitting back and letting someone carry me through the madness.

  It’s not exactly what I expected. More people on the streets, more cars. Of course Holden skips telling about that part because he’s used to it. Plus he’s so busy thinking up people he knows that he can call. It isn’t anywhere near as exciting, though, as it would be with Meredith or Joe or Mack. Now that I think of it, Joe’s been here with his college buddies. Some TV network visit for his poli sci major? Museum research? I don’t remember much except his ranting about the cost of food and the number of gorgeous models in mink coats on Fifth Avenue. Food and girls are a huge part of Joe’s existence. To be honest, his stories don’t have the same power to impress as Holden’s. Not that I would ever tell Joe that.

  I wish I could talk about the trip with Meredith. I didn’t—couldn’t—mention New York to her ahead of time. We were talking about other things, more important things. And at the end—when I knew I was leaving—we weren’t doing much talking. Still, she’d be a good traveler, curious but patient. She pays attention to little things. She’d notice a gazillion things I’d miss: murals in lobbies, men on I beams twenty stories high, Siamese cats in a Dumpster. I try to take it all in so I can write to her. I’ll have time once I find the right doctors and they start the chemo treatments. There’ll be plenty of time then. People are always talking about chemo in terms of the number of sessions. It’s bound to be a long haul.

  With all these strangers around, it’s weird to feel so alone. If I only had some idea where the places are that HC talks about in Catcher. He should have done a sketch, like the one on the inside cover of Winnie the Pooh, with the Edmont Hotel, Central Park South, Ernie’s. Not that he’s the kind of guy to give directions exactly.

  Even with the long nap on the train, I have no energy for walking. After watching people emerge from the station and immediately swing right into the taxi line, their suitcases like ducklings behind them, I edge into the line myself. Some people sit on their luggage, but Dad’s rolling bag is too small. I should have brought the folding camp stool. Then they’d really be able to spot me as a hick.

  When it’s my turn, the taxi driver doesn’t get out to help with the bag. I wait a second, until I realize he’s not moving. Harem music is on his radio. This should be interesting. While I’m struggling to lift my suitcase high enough to stick it in the backseat, the woman behind me steps forward, grabs it, and throws it in.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Next time pack lighter,” she says. “You’re holding up the line.”

  Welcome to New York.

  The Edmont Hotel doesn’t exist anymore. At least the taxi driver has never heard of it.

  “How about Horn and Hardart?”

  He throws up one hand. “Is that some kind of dance joint?”

  “It’s a cafeteria-type place.”

  “You want eat. Tourists go Benihana.” He swings across three lines of traffic and swerves into a narrow side road in a new direction entirely.

  “No, no, I’m not hungry. How about the Algonquin Hotel?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He makes an even wilder U-turn, yelling and gesturing to the honking horns all around us. The cab surges into the traffic, only to brake hard and lurch to the right to avoid a black limousine that screeches to a halt within inches of my door. The lady inside opens her mouth in a silent scream. When I laugh, my driver turns around and stares. Not worth explaining that a fatal car accident is not the worst thing imaginable to someone in my position.

  At the Algonquin they want more money for one night’s stay than I’ve ever had to my name. Holden forgot to mention his father was filthy rich. I could kick myself for not figuring that out. Private schools and tweed sport coats that other guys want to borrow and a high-rise townhouse with an elevator. While I’m inquiring at the front desk for less expensive hotels, the cabbie gets tired of waiting. Just as well—I don’t want to think about how much he would have charged for the half hour it takes me to get the tiny foreign man at the desk to understand what I need.

  By the time I finally choose a Yellow Pages listing that advertises rooms by the week, my stomach is growling. I use three of Nick’s crumpled dollars to buy one of those famous pretzels from a sidewalk cart and walked east toward Fifth Avenue like I know what I’m doing. In the shadows at one corner a girl catches at my elbow. She prances in place in the highest heels I’ve ever seen and the shortest skirt. While she talks, she glances up and down the block as if she’s on the lookout. Not sure what that’s all about.

  “Wanna see New York?” Her voice is cracked and high. Hard to tell if she’s nervous or scared. “I can show you a good time and the sights for a bill. Two hours for a bill, buddy. Isn’t that what you had in mind?”

  What I know is that when Holden said yes to the same kind of girl, he got stuck, and I’m not going there. He might have known the dancing hot spots and the bars that didn’t card, but I don’t have hours to waste sitting in a bar over small talk. If Mack had come, or if I wasn’t running out of time…

  “Maybe another day,” I say, still walking.

  Her face clouds and she reaches out for my arm. I step backward and miss the curb. The rush of a passing car, a blast of gritty exhaust. I stumble, lean forward, feel myself falling. Clawing at my sleeve, she closes her grip and pulls me back onto the sidewalk.

  “Buddy, you gotta pay more attention. What country you from?”

  And before I can answer or explain, she’s melted into the flow of passing arms and legs as if she were only in my imagination. The light changes and the sidewalk around me empties for the briefest second. When it fills in again, she’s nowhere.

  A manic sweep of pedestrians carries me along until I finally spot the sign for Fifth Avenue. Here the sidewalks are wider and pedestrians are a mix of business suits and shoppers. More women in heels, flashes of jewelry, swinging leather briefcases. Without thinking, I let the crowd carry me past cheerful guards with polished buttons and through a spinning glass doorway. The words TRUMP TOWER are embossed on the wall. I’ve heard of it, but not from Holden.

  Before I know it I’m riding the escalator. It’s all gold, reflections of storefronts on each level with glittery necklaces displayed on the engineered chests of headless mannequins in cocktail dresses. No one can pass me and my ratty backpack and Dad’s little rolling suitcase as I ride up past this incredible wall of water and vines and flowers. It’s like the pictures of Hawaii in the Sunday travel section of the newspaper.

  Dad may come here when he’s meeting his New York publishers to deliver edited manuscripts. Meredith would love the way it makes you completely forget you’re in the city. If I could figure out a way to sound convincing, I’d apply for a job as a janitor here. Somewhere close by I could rent a basement apartment and Meredith and Mack could come and visit.

  Just as my legs are about to give out, I get to the third floor. Pulling myself out of the escalator line, I sit down at an empty table at the edge of a cafe that overlooks the wall of water and the lobby. I’m perspiring, about to run to find the men’s room because I’m afraid I’m going to lose the little I’ve eaten since I’ve left Virginia, when the nosebleed happens. Trump’s penguin waiters are not pleased to see me, a regular fountain of blood pumping all over the starched white tablecloth. They crowd around me, jabbering in at least four different languages. With ice in a plastic bag pressed to my face, they escort me to a service elevator and I’m shoved out into the back alley, surrounded by Dumpsters and three men in rags suckling paper bags in the corners. Holden, where are you?

  While I hug the fire escape railing and try to lean my head back to stop the bleeding, two of the bums tug themselves to standing and edge toward me. Mud stains or worse dribble down their clothes. Threads hang from their shirt cuffs in clumps of brown.

&
nbsp; “You lost, boy?” The bigger man slurs the words as he steps in for a closer look.

  The third man groans from where he sits on the ground. “Don’t touch him, he’s prob’bly contagious.”

  “You can share your wallet, or we can share it for you,” the first man screams. The words, mingled spittle and germs, shoot into my eardrum. I’m relieved Mom’s not here. She’d be cringing.

  He stops his head inches from mine, but close enough that I can see the veins etched against his eyes like the laces on a baseball. Blood drools down the side of the bag of ice. My blood. It drips onto the old guy’s sneaker. When he doesn’t notice, I think it’s a good thing he’s drunk. How badly can he hurt me if he’s drunk?

  When I come to, I’m in a narrow white stall, curtains flapping on both sides, open to a waiting room full of chairs. It’s crammed with people who look like they’re related to the raggedy men in the alley. I’m lying on a gurney next to a white-uniformed nurse with bright orange hair and a line of studs in one ear that glint in the fluorescent glare. After she checks my pulse, blood pressure, all that standard stuff, and makes quick notations on a clipboard, she pricks my finger without warning.

  “Ouch.”

  “You should have thought of that before you fainted, kid.”

  Without speaking she and I watch the slender tube fill with blood.

  “Ever been anemic?” she asks as she pulls up my sleeve and stares at the inside of my elbow where it bends.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Clean,” she says to no one in particular.

  She’s looking right through me and I’m waiting for her to see the spots on my lungs with her bare eyes.

  “Are you eighteen?” she asks.

  “I’m not stupid. I know you couldn’t treat me if I was underage.”

  “If you’re already thinking you need treatment, you’d better tell me what this is all about. Your sign-in sheet lists Edmont Hotel as your address. Far as I know, they tore that down a few years back.” Head tilted to share the joke, she drags a metal stool from the adjoining cubicle, tugs the curtain closed around us, and sits down like she’s talking trash with her girlfriends. “So…what’s going on, kid? No ID. Blood all over the place. Gonorrhea? Crack? You look half dead.”