Catching the Light

by Susan Sinnott

  ***

  Saturday morning was one of the times Paul said Cathy could use the studio, so she went up at six o’clock that first weekend. She began working on views from windows upstairs and down, as well as doing projects for school. By Christmas she had ten sidewalk-feet pictures and called the series To and Fro. She showed them—only five because of limited space—in a little display given by her class. Her apartment was getting crowded so Paul let her store some pictures up in his studio.

  Classes were all about technique, technique, technique. Cathy practiced everything so much she was over her budget for art supplies in no time, which she told her mother late in October in her phone call home.

  “Mom, don’t buy me anything fancy for Christmas, please. Just need money for art stuff.”

  Mom sighed.

  ***

  Parsons came by the studio on two of her Saturdays looking for Paul but Cathy didn’t say a word. He tried cracking his dumb jokes but she kept her face straight. Needn’t try his tricks on her. In January, when he asked her to Faraday’s for the cheap night, she almost dropped her paintbrush. Of course he just wanted someone to fill a chair. It was like Jeff with his girlfriend-in-Shediac. Jeff just wanted company. Parsons was using her more like batik—she’d be the wax on the canvas so the paint wouldn’t stick.

  At first she was going to say no and leave him to the bistro customers. But even though he was no friend of Cathy’s he was a bit of home. She was sick of mainland voices and words she didn’t know and people not understanding her accent even after all the work she’d done. She missed all the different ocean noises and being able to watch the weather change and it was somehow comforting to know he would miss them too. Cities didn’t smell right. Stale. Her room didn’t smell right. She missed Mom making her a cup of tea at night, even missed her chatter. Mom made you feel comfortable. Dad must miss that when he’s in a tent in the wilderness.

  Not that that had anything to do with Parsons. But he always understood what Cathy meant, spoke like home, dressed like home—those green/grey tees and sweats, a baseball cap glued to his head—although he was wearing townie jackets now, like Paul, and less ball cap. He even had a face like home. She hadn’t realized, until she left, that there were faces you could pick out as being from Newfoundland and his was one: rocky and square with peat-pool eyes.

  Anyway, she would go to Faraday’s with Parsons. She was getting tired of beans on toast. And Parsons might notice her sitting opposite, ignoring him, more than the long-distance ignoring she was doing right now.

  Faraday’s

  Most Mondays Hutch met Cathy at the bistro. If they happened to meet on the way they walked together in silence after the usual “Hi, how’s it going?” They stood in line then poured themselves into chairs you could never pull out far enough because of the seats at other tables. Lack of shuffle room sometimes bothered Hutch but these chair backs were vertical and rock solid and suited him perfectly.

  Cathy didn’t seem to expect anything of him, or notice that he was scruffy and yawned a lot, so Hutch could sit and daydream about the weekend just gone. The girl from PEI had found somebody else but the girl who sat behind him in his math class was even nicer.

  A scattered time Hutch felt like talking on a Monday night but he always had to start the conversation.

  “Soup’s like Mom’s,” he said one day. “Brian and I made pea soup a few times. Never turned out like hers.”

  “You cooked your own?” Cathy sounded shocked.

  “Mom said just because she was the only woman in the house didn’t mean she was going to do all the cooking and cleaning. Said she was a mom and a teacher first. Drudge wasn’t on the list.”

  At first Cathy was all stiff and called him Parsons like she was mad at him, but after a bit she eased up, called him Hutch. It was relaxing—more than he’d expected—and he could just sit back and soak in the smell of coffee, voices, the clatter of spoons. There was just enough drag-and-clang noise of iron chairs to keep him awake. “Convivial,” Cathy called it: cheerful, sociable. That was from the dictionary in that bag of hers, that Santa’s sack in geometric shapes of red, purple, and green. Her mom had made it. She used to carry a sketch pad in it too back home—probably kept that paper company in business—but she never had it at Faraday’s. In fact he hadn’t seen it in Halifax at all.

  One Monday he came out of a snooze and Cathy was chatting to a guy at the next table with the biggest mop of hair Hutch had ever seen. The only bits of face not covered were his eyeballs and nose. When he left, Hutch asked her why she’d told that guy he had a hair suit. She said she didn’t; said he was h-i-r-s-u-t-e. Hirsute.

  “What the frig does that mean?”

  “Hairy.”

  “So why not say hairy?”

  “Just learned that word.”

  “People’d know what you meant if you said hairy.”

  “Use it or lose it.”

  “Jesus, Cathy, it’s a chat not dictionary practice.”

  And Cathy went on and on about how unusual words were more interesting, like messing with colours. So many shades in the dictionary going to waste. Then she started in on him.

  “No need to get mad,” she said.

  “I’m not mad. Yet.”

  “You’re blowing down your nose.”

  And Hutch said something about her jumping around, off topic, and that arguing with her was like trying to spar with a punching bag on wheels.

  “I’m not your punching bag.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” Hutch said, exasperated.

  “Yes you did.”

  “Now you’re getting mad.”

  “No I’m not.”

  Her head was coming forward more and more, so Hutch stuck his own head forward and they were almost nose-to-nose and her eyes had tiny gold flecks in them. He used his soothing voice just to annoy her.

  “You’re turning a conversation into an argument.”

  She sat back, chin up. “It’s a discussion. An argument’s a heated exchange of conflicting views.”

  “That’s my point.”

  “You might be arguing,” said Cathy. “I’m discussing.”

  “You have flecks in your eyes, like gold dust.”

  Not sure why he said that. It just popped out. She’d been all ready for the next round but she stopped, looking taken aback. He watched expressions flash across her face: shock, embarrassment, suspicion, then blank—drapes closed.

  “I have boring brown eyes like most of Mariners Cove,” she said. “But thanks.”

  “Nothing boring about you, Cathy.” And that was true; she was too full of surprises.

  Cathy gathered her stuff and stood. Meeting adjourned and drapes still closed. She didn’t say another word all the way back to their building.

  ***

  Hutch asked Cathy about Paul’s art once. How was his style different from hers? Chalk and cheese, she said.

  “But you should ask him. He’s real good at analyzing and critiquing.”

  “Aren’t you good at that too?”

  “No. I just like doing it. He likes thinking about it.”

  And to every other question the answer was the same: ask Paul. She did say once that he knew a lot about artists, and was always reading biographies. She said that was something she wanted to do when she ran out of projects, but she never ran out. She was always behind with art history, although using a desktop with spell-check at the college made the writing a bit easier. He’d forgotten Cathy had trouble with reading. There must be a lot of that in art history.

  “How did you ever survive in school?”

  The moment the words were out he wished them back in. Cathy glared at him, eyes like lasers. He held up his hands, saying, “Okay, okay. Just thought it must have been a real pain having reading troubles. No offence.”

  Cathy swi
tched off the lasers but kept looking him in the eye. “It was.”

  “Library sessions must have been torture.”

  “They were.”

  “I saw a drawing you were doing in there once. It was real good. You were drawing books instead of reading them.” He smiled at her. “Sitting on the floor in the corner, ducked down so Miss Tucker couldn’t see. You almost made it to the bell before she caught you, too. I’ve gotta hand it to you.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Cathy said. “Still have that sketch. Didn’t keep many from those days but I liked that one.”

  She was looking past him, seeing it all again….

  ***

  She’d been feeling so down that day. It was true: library times were the worst. Grade seven—the first grade seven—and kids all at the tables leaning down on their elbows over books, some of the guys sniggering over one, and Cathy Tizzard so deep in hers she didn’t notice Parsons hiding her bag on a trolley full of books. And Tizzy could read so fast. You could see her eyes zooming across the lines, moving up to the top of the next page, and she kept smiling to herself. Smiling at something in a book.

  Cathy had sat cross-legged in a corner, hidden, staring at the nearest shelf. The books were all closed up with their backs to her. You could see by the tops of the pages that some of them had never been opened, the pages fit together so tightly. Others had pages that had been read a lot—not creased exactly, just less ironed-looking so they weren’t as snug.

  She could see a corner of a page tucked down. Miss Tucker would have a fit. People had meant to come back to that corner or they wouldn’t have bothered to fold it, so they must have liked the story. One book had corners folded in a few places and there was a gap between the back cover and the stitching. It had been read a lot. Cathy remembered thinking how like Parsons that was: jacket half hanging off like he didn’t care about wind chill and stuff. Showing off. But maybe he really didn’t care.

  She sneaked a look at him now across the table but he was sipping his coffee, staring around.

  The books had all been different heights and widths and colours. Cathy remembered rearranging some into a pile between standing books and leaning one at an angle and putting that dark red one next to the rusty one. She sketched them all in pencil but crayoned in the dark red one with the jacket hanging off and the green one with the gold tree on the spine and a thin new-looking one, the colour of her bedroom curtains. She’d just finished when the teacher caught her.

  ***

  Hutch had learned not to ask Paul about art. It made him blue. He had thought it was only missing Jenny that made Paul blue and had tried the art topic to cheer him up, but talking about art, his own art, brought him down even more. He seemed disappointed with it. Everyone said Cathy was so talented but you never heard any comments about Paul. Paul had a stack of Cathy’s pictures in his place that he had to pass by every day and one day there was a sheet spread over them. Paul said it was to protect them.

  But there was more than painting in the curriculum. Maybe he was good at something different. But whenever Hutch asked about his classes at the college, Paul would say something about them being easier or harder. You never heard Cathy use those words—she’d say more interesting or less interesting. She still loved painting more than other art forms—especially “people pictures,” as she called them—even though a lot of students turned up their noses at portraits these days. Cathy didn’t care, said they were her thing.

  Ask her anything with the word art in it, and she was good to go for an hour. She’d be leaning forwards, eyes as big as they could stretch: “They say you can’t…but I wonder if…I’m dying to try….” Everything was so exciting to Cathy. Just let me at it. And she always had questions—questions you couldn’t answer, like how do you paint silence. Or air.

  “There’s more to being at university than just doing the syllabus,” Hutch said to her one time. “Why don’t you go to some of the after-school things or the socials?”

  Cathy said she didn’t have time. There was too much art stuff to do, to practice. She learned by doing and there was just so much to do. Hutch only ever saw Cathy out being social once, at some off-campus party with Paul’s art crowd, early in the semester. Hutch was there because there was nothing going on at Sean’s. She was wearing a sexy wine-coloured shirt with weird-looking flowers round her neck. Forget the flowers. What a shape. And then he remembered her standing in the shallows back home in a clinging wet tee, lifting her hair back with both hands. He’d been too mad at her to enjoy the view at the time.

  He’d been about to go over for a chat but a girl he’d met a couple of times pulled him into her group saying she wanted him to meet this bunch of people, and by the time they’d scattered again, Cathy was gone. He’d walked all through the rooms to check, but she was definitely gone.

  ***

  There came a day when Cathy asked him why he was called Hutch. That wasn’t how he was christened, was it? So he spent a long time making a good story out of the first part so that maybe she’d forget about the second.

  “Oh, I had colic as a baby, according to my mother, and screamed from when I was six weeks old until I was four and a half months. To the day.” Hutch pointed a thumb at his chest. “Family says that’s why I’ve got great lungs.” They’d tell him to Hush, and Oh, Hush, and Hush Down, and probably much worse things they never told him about.

  “So my first word, after I pulled myself up on my feet in the crib and dribbled all down my front, was ‘Hu-ch.’ Mom said I couldn’t manage the sh sound. Said that was typical too because I never did hush.”

  “So Hutch stuck,” Cathy said. She looked at him for a moment then said, “So what’s your real name?”

  Hutch sighed and put on his blankest face. “Arthur. Arthur George, after Mom’s oldest brother. Died at sea before I was born.”

  A slow smile spread across Cathy’s face and her mouth opened wider than he’d ever seen it. He could see a couple of fillings in back molars on the top.

  “Your name is Art.”

  She started to laugh—out loud, which she didn’t do very often. He’d never heard this laugh before. It came from her boots, and rang round the room like the whole brass section of a frigging big band. Half the room was looking now, grinning and wondering, and all Hutch could do was shrug and shake his head and wait for the fuss to die down.

  He was probably looking a bit pissed off by the time she stopped because she wobbled out a sorry. And now and then on the way home she went off into a fit of stupid giggles and she’d probably keep the whole frigging building awake all night.

  ***

  It was March when Cathy came straight from some one-off class with all her books and art supplies. She couldn’t find her wallet when it came time to pay, and started rummaging around in her backpack in a panic, laying things on the table: dictionary, notebook, plastic box with pencils, and a cloth bag with tubes of paint, pastels, and paintbrushes inside. Holy shit, what a pile. And a sketchbook. He reached over to lift the sketchbook but she grabbed it right out of his hand. Almost made him jump.

  “Just going to have a look. My hands are clean.”

  “You’re not having a look.” And the way she said it would take paint off walls.

  “Suit yourself.”

  It was because of those pictures of Paul, years ago. How was he to know the book was full of Paul sketches? He’d just expected boats and gulls and maybe a few Mariners Cove faces. And anyway Jenny had nearly taken his head off at the time.

  “Still mad at me for taking your book that day? It was just a bit of fun.” He wasn’t going to apologize. “Anyway, you had your revenge: you put a scrape in Dolph’s side where she hit the dock. Still shows. Pisses me off every time I see it. So you’re even. More than even.”

  But what did a stupid scrape on his boat matter now? He scowled into his coffee and left it half drunk and got to
his feet. Cathy could keep her frigging book.

  ***

  No way was he going to Faraday’s again with Cathy Russell. What a crabby female. Always scowling and carrying on. You’d think he was a criminal the way she went on. Maybe he’d try the bistro by himself again, straight from his class at five. Not sure if he would even bother to tell her, although he wouldn’t mind leaving a message on her voicemail: “I won’t be at Faraday’s.” Let her wonder if he meant this week or ever.

  Then Paul invited him to the studio that Sunday to meet his cousin Amy and her friend before they went back to Montreal. The cousin was a female version of Paul, tall and athletic, the same Scandinavian good looks—elegant.

  “I’ve been hearing about you for years so I bullied Paul into inviting you over for a coffee,” she said with a smile. And Paul said something about it taking a lot of bullying.

  “Pleased…”

  “…my friend, Laura.”

  “Bridesmaids at a family wedding.”

  “Awkward time…”

  “…more important things on their minds than student schedules.”

  “…heading into exams too?”

  “Studying soon as we’re on the plane.”

  “…crying babies like the flight up.”

  “English majors. Both of us.”

  There was a knock on the door and it was Cathy, all in her painty black clothes, a yellow streak down one cheek. Hutch looked at the floor.

  “Ah,” said Paul. “Glad you could come at such short notice, Cathy. Let me introduce you.”

  Then Laura said how she had really wanted to meet the person who painted those lovely pictures and was saying, “Tell me about this one….”

  And Laura led Cathy over to the stack leaning against the wall, her back to Hutch, blocking his view. Laura had a fantastic voice, low-pitched and clear as ice water. Bet she could sing. She sounded all enthusiastic and bubbly, kind of like Jenny. Hutch took a quick look at Paul but he was pouring coffee, being the perfect host. Hutch hadn’t really noticed Laura until she spoke—she was mousy-looking compared to Paul’s cousin, pretty enough but ordinary.