Catching the Light

by Susan Sinnott

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Does that mean you won’t come, or you’ll come but you won’t dance?”

  If he’d known this was coming he would have thought up a watertight excuse. “Can’t you ask Paul?” Shouldn’t have said that.

  “Three girls have asked him already and he said no, of course. Thrice. Said he might drop in for half an hour.”

  “Thrice.” Hutch gave a half laugh, half snort. “What were you reading that had a thrice in it?”

  “Do I have to ask you thrice?”

  “No. No. And no.”

  “Does that mean you definitely won’t come or are you just saying no I don’t have to ask three times?”

  “Shit, Cathy. This is like multiple choice.”

  “A simple yes or no. Will you come to the art dance with me or not?”

  Hutch had been tossing a mental coin and it had come down on the edge. It wobbled around and finally fell on its face.

  “No. Sorry. Used to like dancing but I can’t stand dancing going on all round me when I can’t join in.”

  “Okay.” Cathy finished drinking her coffee and started gathering up her stuff. She didn’t look mad or upset or anything, just looked like he’d said no to a second cup of coffee. Shit. He stood up, clanging his chair into the one behind.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll go.”

  She looked at him with no expression on her face at all. Just pointed her eyes at him and looked.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “Said I’ll go. So I’ll go.” He wound his way over to the cashier and started digging out coins and Cathy came over with a handful and they counted it all out.

  He stumped out of the door and up the street calling back to her, “Have to go to the ATM.”

  He phoned the Wednesday before the dance.

  “How dressed up is this thing on Saturday?”

  “No blue jeans.”

  “Dress pants and a good shirt then. What time?”

  ***

  It was the kind of rain that bounced, that night, and Cathy had on rain gear when he knocked on her door. Part of her hair was up on the top of her head, the rest hanging down, and she was wearing big loopy earrings. Didn’t see her in jewellery much, or hair up, or makeup. Made her eyes look huge. Luscious lips. Holy shit. He remembered how Paul had pulled a knowing face at him when he’d heard about the dance, almost a smirk.

  “You two seem to be hitting it off.”

  “God, no—nothing like that.” She was much more interesting than he’d ever thought she could be, but she was still just Cathy Russell.

  Cathy had the tickets and swished in ahead of him up the steps. He was more used to her scuffing than swishing. And she was wearing a dress. With legs. Everyone was shaking umbrellas and stamping feet and exclaiming about the rain and Hutch heard his name. He turned to see a friend of Paul’s behind them, calling to him over a group of people chattering in Japanese, and they stood shooting the breeze. By the time Hutch turned around again Cathy was standing by the coat check with an older couple, faculty maybe, being introduced to the woman, shaking hands.

  He reached the coat check and handed in his jacket and the big black umbrella he had bought in a thrift store; it had two bent spokes that gave it a sort of list to one side, which was why he’d bought it. He’d only used it once. He was pulling down his shirtsleeves when he saw Cathy next. She was standing away from the crowd, looking around.

  Hutch just stood still and stared.

  This was a different girl. This was someone you would notice in a room full of people, someone you would want to meet. When did this happen? She was looking at him now, motionless amongst the bustle. His feet felt glued to the ground and he had to peel them off and force himself forwards, one robot step after another. He wanted to say how wonderful she looked, how amazing it was, how stupid he was for not seeing all this before.

  “Hi, Lighthouse. Looking good.”

  ***

  Cathy went over to a group of people and one of the girls, Jessica, leaped to her feet and gave her a hug saying she looked fabulous and there was the usual manoeuvring and scraping to expand the circle by two more chairs. Paul joined them for a bit and even he looked twice at Cathy. And one guy said he recognized Hutch from Cathy’s sketches, which pulled him up short.

  “What sketches?”

  “Well, you know you won’t escape her pencil,” said buddy with the shaved head and the eyebrow ring, Tristan. “She has everybody committed to paper five minutes after she’s met them.”

  And they talked about her as if her art was fantastic and seemed surprised that Hutch was surprised. Well, he thought her art was fantastic too but what did he know?

  So when he had a chance Hutch said, “You’ve done sketches of me?” His eyes flicked over to Tristan and back to Cathy. “I’d like to see them. Please.”

  “Just preliminary sketches. I want to do a painting of you, a portrait.”

  This was a Very Bad Idea. This was much too up close and personal, although Cathy maybe didn’t see it that way. It was probably just another project to her, like a bowl of fruit.

  “Would I have three eyes all looking different directions? If you did one, that is.”

  “Looking at three different girls? Maybe.” She was smiling, looking as if she just might do that. But she didn’t mention the portrait again all night.

  Hutch had said he didn’t dance so it was ages before he could legitimately say he needed to move around a bit and how about it. “Just be careful not to push me backwards or to the left.”

  He and Cathy danced every slow dance after that. And something changed out there under the strobe lights, with his arm round her and her hand curled up in his. This was a girl to hang onto, somebody special. He pulled her a bit closer and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were warm, the expression in them was warm. Beautiful eyes. Usually she looked ready for a fight but tonight, for the first time ever, she looked as if she might like him more than just a bit.

  But as they left the dance, his feelings buried themselves again. The rain had stopped and they’d be back too soon in a cab so he suggested walking, even though his stump was starting to grumble. He needed time to think. This was too far too fast. He had no clue what to do.

  Any other girl…

  …but this was Cathy. Cathy Russell.

  Holy….

  He didn’t want to be tangled up with someone who…what? He felt like an animal that senses a danger it can’t see or hear or smell, just absolutely knows it’s there. Cathy was—not a predator—more like a trap.

  It was awkward living in the same building. It would be so much easier to part here and go in opposite directions, give himself some space. It would have been easier if Paul had stayed around and they’d all gone back together. He realized Cathy was talking.

  “Sorry. Miles away.”

  “I was asking if the dancing bothered your leg.”

  “Oh, no. We weren’t jumping around or anything.”

  He went back to thinking yes-no-yes-no right up to reaching her door. He had a feeling she’d said more but didn’t ask. He stood looking at her, outside her door, still not knowing what to do, seeing those big eyes on him. Part of him wanted to hold her so close they would sink into each other and the other part wanted to run.

  She moved forwards and gave him a little sisterly kiss and started to step back saying thank you, and his arms went around her of their own accord and he kissed her in a not-brotherly way from plain instinct. Then put his arms down in plain fright. Cathy smiled and turned to unlock the door, went inside, and shut it quietly behind her.

  And Hutch stood watching the dust motes floating in a beam of light, roused from their dormant state and hovering, waiting to land.

  Heads or Hearts

  The effect her dress had o
n Hutch was everything Cathy had hoped for and more. He stood absolutely still with his mouth open, blocked all the people behind him who were trying to squeeze round and didn’t even notice. Cathy could feel his eyes on her all evening.

  He even danced with her, which she hadn’t expected, and he held her close but in a casual way. She was surprised how broad he was, how deep chested. Then halfway through he pulled her closer and she was aware of every inch of herself. And him. She wanted the music to play forever—“My Everything” and “Crazy” and all kinds of songs she hadn’t thought she liked. Their faces were level when she was wearing the heels, so now and then their eyes met and he was smiling—not that saucy smile, just good-humoured. And in the last dance he leaned his cheek on her hair and she thought that if nothing else happened, at least she had that.

  He was not smiling on the way home, at least she didn’t think he was, and he was not listening. And when he was outside her door he looked serious and just stood there without moving and there was a silence she could touch, and it made her nervous so she gave him a little kiss to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do anything. But instead he wrapped himself around her and kissed her and kissed her and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t hear anything but the booming of her heart, fabric squeaking, and the scraping of his chin. She felt the silkiness of his hair and how the curls wound round her fingers but were so soft, not as wiry as she’d thought they’d be. She smelled shampoo and aftershave and skin, tasted the inside of a mouth not her own and the sound his tongue made roared around like waves in a cave. And when he let go suddenly she had to take a quick step to catch herself.

  He looked—like he thought he’d just made a mistake. Cathy turned away so she couldn’t see that look, would rather remember the part that came before. She opened the door and just glanced once as she closed it and smiled at him. He never moved. Only his eyes turned to watch her.

  She leaned against the inside of her door in darkness, trying to fix it all in her memory to look at again and again. She went over each sensation, like studying a poem for an exam. And after a while through the door she heard his feet moving away.

  The next day she caught the ferry home for the summer.

  ***

  Cathy was still feeling dreamy when she reached Mariners Cove. She walked all her favourite trails, sat in the sun by the back door and listened to her favourite bit of ocean, ate everything her mom laid before her with enthusiasm, and listened to her mom’s chatter with a smile on her face. In a fit of nostalgia she pulled out her box of journals from under her bed just to see how bad her writing had been and how far she had come. But it brought back more than a feeling of pride. It brought the memory of desperation and need, of her determination to learn. She could see it in how hard she had pressed on the pencil, in how her writing started to wander after one or two lines but kept right on going. She could almost feel herself gritting her teeth.

  She remembered some of the events, too. Recalled her mother tripping on the lamp’s cord and breaking the shade and of herself thinking how much easier it would be to draw the scene for Sarah, rather than write about it:

  …lamp on the ground and Mom with her hands in the air in that stupid way, like someone was pointing a gun at her, and the cat taking off in a straight furry line like a flying eyebrow.

  Except every other word was mangled and misspelled and she’d written flying Ibrow, which made her giggle.

  ***

  Sarah called, in Cathy’s first week back home. She’d been checking out galleries in St. John’s and there were a few that took work from unknown artists if the owner and manager liked them. Would Cathy like to come for a visit and bring in two or three of her best pictures, all framed and ready for display, and they could make an appointment for a showing?

  It was kind of Sarah to take the trouble but Cathy had mixed feelings about spending hours and hours alone in Sarah’s company. She’d love to have a real good talk with her about the state of the world, because it was Sarah who had first talked to her about outside things. She wouldn’t mind Cathy asking dumb questions or making a load of false starts before she managed to voice an opinion. Dad wouldn’t either, but he was off in Labrador and Mom was more into local stuff. But there were a lot of thoughts Cathy didn’t want to share with Sarah. Still, she was glad the gap between them had closed a bit. She’d already started the necklace, spreading it all out on the kitchen table to show her mom the design. Maybe she could finish it in time.

  “D’you think I could crash with Dot’s daughter for a night?” Cathy asked her mother. “One night with Sarah, one with Marianne?”

  Mom arranged everything with Dot, gave Cathy bus money without even a sigh, arranged a lift to Gander.

  Cathy brought three of her best pictures on the bus, and loved every minute of her trip round the St. John’s galleries with Sarah, spent the whole day with her. After her appointment, the manager agreed to show one piece at a time over the next few months, but told her to please not be disappointed if they took longer than expected to sell. Cathy promised she wouldn’t. He said about sometimes having to wait a long time before the right customer walked in, the customer who saw things the same way as the artist. The shop took an awful big percentage if one was sold, but how else was Cathy going to get her name out there?

  She had dinner with Sarah and Tim that night, and over coffee Sarah said, “I can see changes in your painting since you started at NSCAD—more professional. Of course. But you’ve kept your own style. Don’t lose that.”

  Cathy wasn’t sure what her style was, although Sarah wasn’t the first person to say that. Then in her positive, Sarah way, she nodded and said, “You’ve fulfilled all my expectations and more.”

  And Cathy felt a rush of affection she hadn’t felt since the trouble started and tried to put it into her thank you.

  Distance

  It was Hutch’s first ever flight. He’d given himself plenty of time but every stage took longer than expected and his leg set off the alarms so by the time he was through all the gobbledygook they’d started boarding and his stomach was in a knot. He felt like a rookie, wondering which row the numbers above the seats belonged to, almost sitting in the wrong place, fumbling with his seat belt, reading all the safety instructions in the pocket in front. He only began to enjoy himself when the engines came to life and the plane started to move.

  He was in an aisle seat and the old guy by the window was reading the Globe and Mail and kept turning the pages. Every time he turned one he spread the whole thing out in front of himself and the window and half of Hutch, like he was going to hang it on a frigging clothesline. Then he’d fold and shake, fold and shake, until it was all squared off to the right size. Two minutes later he’d do it all again. Half the time Hutch had to make do with looking out the windows on the other side of the aisle.

  The plane coasted across a lot of tarmac then made a slow turn until it was pointing down a runway. It paused, then the engines roared up and the plane shot off as fast as it could go, like a pole vaulter heading for the bar, pushing Hutch back into his seat with the force of it, the power. The horizon tilted and now they were in the air and the wheel sounds stopped. There was a rumbling thump that scared him for a moment but it was just the undercarriage being hauled up. And Hutch realized he was smiling—a stupid big grin on his face like a little kid. Excitement. Adventure. Like taking off in his kayak.

  And here he was in Kanata, Ottawa’s tech haven. Big names he’d been hearing about forever: Corel, IBM, Adobe, and that huge fancy Buckingham Palace of a campus, Nortel’s Carling Campus. He’d applied for his summer work term to a start-up company, on the go for four years, and early next morning he was walking in their front door clean-shaven, wearing his interview shirt, hair brushed until his scalp hurt, and a spring in his step.

  He worked his ass off those first three weeks. They were using a scripting language designed for
web development that he didn’t know, and every night he had to go back to his room and dig in, working until all hours so he could catch up. It was like one of those long hikes with cadets—every time you got to the top of a hill there was another one up ahead. He’d seen a big bull moose one time, all knobby knees and headgear, bouncing along in that casual way—making it look so easy. There were a lot of fit moose around Kanata.

  When Hutch was well into his second month, Mike, his mentor, hooked him up with three other guys for a group project. Life was easier after that. It was still a long day and he was on the go every minute, but things wound down after supper and he was able to look around the city a bit.

  He went for a hot dog sometimes with the guys but they just talked computers, spent their leisure time playing computer games. Hutch wanted to forget about technology when he wasn’t working. What he really wanted was something physical, to get behind a puck or a ball with his two feet on the ground, to reach and drive and pull and strain, feel the wind chill from his own speed. He even missed the stairs in Paul’s place, which he’d cursed daily for two years, so he started walking up two flights and taking the elevator the rest of the way.

  They were okay guys, the others. They were all from Ontario, although Sanjay was born in Mumbai and Hutch sometimes had to ask him to repeat things. The other guys teased him about that, saying Hutch’s accent was way thicker than Sanjay’s and they were the ones that needed a translator. Hutch liked the fact that every region back home had its own flavour: Bonavista Bay, St. John’s, the Southern Shore, Burin, the Northern Peninsula—not just the accent but words and expressions. Here everybody was the boring same, except for the second-language guys. No personality at all.

  He started to notice a girl’s voice through the wall of his room sometimes, singing. It wasn’t loud but it had such a clear ring to it that it carried. It was Jenny’s kind of pitch, a soprano, but cleaner somehow, more exact. Sometimes she sang the same phrase over and over, with tiny changes, then went through the whole piece again. He enjoyed the concert as he was getting ready for bed. Then on Sunday morning she started to sing “Farewell to Nova Scotia,” so he joined in.