Catching the Light

by Susan Sinnott

  It wasn’t as good as a real gig but it was something.

  Staying Around

  Cathy had finished her third year—two semesters to Hutch’s three—and was working a few shifts a week so they could be together. She would paint in her spare time. Hutch had finished his work term and was back in Halifax for the summer semester. So he moved in.

  Cathy had worried about how to break the news to Mom and Dad about not coming home until August. Cathy had mentioned taking Hutch to the art dance last year, which was a mistake because Mom asked about him every single phone call after that, even when he was in Ottawa.

  “No idea, Mom. He’s in Ontario.”

  And when he was back Cathy was vague: “Oh, he’s around. Yes, I saw him the other day. Yes, I bump into him now and then.” No way was she telling them he’d moved in. Then her mother asked what day she was coming home.

  “Got a job in a hamburger place for a few months, Mom. Kind of like McDonald’s. Paul says I can use his studio until it’s rented so I’ll be staying here a bit longer.” Cathy listened patiently while her mom rambled through a ton of reasons why she should come home earlier.

  “I’m going to paint things to take into that gallery in St. John’s, Mom. Make some more money, maybe.” She’d made five hundred dollars on one painting the gallery had sold last year and three hundred and fifty dollars on the other, even after the gallery guys had taken their cut. Cathy still felt a flood of pride about that although the money hadn’t gone very far.

  Her mom’s voice got a bit croaky and there were more and more little breaks between words. “But Cathy, you could come home and paint here. Dad’s gone to Labrador already. Dot says I should stay with her, but her daughter’s coming for a month. In July. With her husband and children.” She was almost whispering now. “I’d be in the way if I stayed. So I’ll be home. By myself.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll be back in August. It’s only a bit longer.” Cathy was hunching up now, feeling guilty about Mom, guilty about Hutch. “Sorry.”

  And it didn’t take long for Mom to put it all together. “Is this anything to do with Hutch Parsons?” Her voice had picked up again, sharper, full of Mother’s Instinct. “I know he’s up there until August because May Parsons was telling me. Are you seeing Hutch?”

  “Well, now and then.”

  “Cathy.” Shock. Horror. “Cathy. Don’t get caught up with him. He’s a nice boy and he’s had a rough time, but he’s a scamp.”

  “He’s just a friend, Mom. Don’t get excited.”

  There were a few ums and y’knows and then Mom said he was known for being a scamp around girls. “Don’t let him try any of his tricks.”

  “I know, Mom. Don’t worry,” was all Cathy could think of to say.

  ***

  Hutch used a cellphone and made a point of never answering a call on the apartment’s landline because it was always Cathy’s mom or Sarah. Cathy hadn’t told Sarah about Hutch either because she didn’t want Sarah to know if Mom didn’t. Anyway, keeping it secret added a bit of—something.

  Mom stayed with Dot until her daughter arrived in July and for the first few days back in her own house she seemed more content, said she thought the world of Dot but she was awful messy and she wasn’t a very good cook, and Mom couldn’t take over the cooking the way she wanted to because it was Dot’s house after all. And she’d missed the cat. Dot didn’t want it at her place—allergies—so Mom had to keep popping over to check on her. So even though Cathy felt awkward on the phone these days with Hutch creeping around pretending he wasn’t there, that call was easier than some.

  Once Hutch stuck his face up close while she was on the phone with her mother and crossed his eyes and did that stupid trick where he closed one eye and pretended to take out the other eyeball, rolling it up in his head so just the white showed, then pretending to put the eyeball in his mouth and swill it around and put it back in the socket again. And all the time Mom was yakking in Cathy’s ear and Cathy was going purple trying not to laugh and finally let out a cough-snort-choke noise and turned it into a fit of coughing.

  “Sorry. Crumb gone the wrong way. Call you back.”

  And when she hung up she pounced on Hutch, which was what he was waiting for, and it turned into a scrambling, love-you-love-you scurry out of their clothes, out of enough clothes, and into a wonderful, the most wonderful, she-didn’t-want-it-to-stop-ever wonderful….

  ***

  They still went to Faraday’s on Mondays and Cathy wondered if anyone noticed the difference now they were together.

  Together: adverb: with each other, in a close relationship.

  There was a light shining inside her now, for sure. Maybe she glowed like Mary Pratt’s fruit. There was no room for all this happiness and some of it must have to stay outside, like haze round the moon. Did it show to other people?

  She’d never bothered about how other people saw her—or even if they saw her—but now she did. Now she was aware of everyone in the room, of her clothes touching, of the heavy stick-to-your-ribs smell of pea soup being carried to a table behind. The raspy “thank you” and the waitress saying, “careful—it’s hot” in a flat voice that told you she’d said it fifty times already. She was aware of a big tall guy squeezing between tables, ducking to avoid dangling lights, neck looped over to talk to someone like those flamingos in Alice in Wonderland. She was aware of a low-pitched argument across the way:

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “But it’s what you meant.” Both voices with sharp edges. Cutting.

  Strange, how the only mean comment that had really bothered Cathy years ago was from Hutch. They forgot to switch on the light with that one. That had hurt. That had been etched into her brain: first the needle, scoring the words, then the acid, pressed in with each remembering, making the wound deeper. Maybe it wasn’t her brain—maybe it was her heart, even then. Hutch.

  ***

  They went home together, shared a taxi from Gander, played it down when people raised their eyebrows.

  “We’re studying in the same city,” Hutch said. “Staying in the same building even. Makes sense to share a drive home. You don’t have to be married to share a frigging taxi.”

  Some nerve he had.

  They met at The Café a few times and in White’s Convenience, strolled along Main Road together once. Cathy took a small painting of Hutch to give to his grandfather and the three of them sat together for an hour or so. But twice they met on the quiet, up the track to the lighthouse. They pushed their way into the woods for an hour by themselves. Cathy so needed that. And Hutch’s last work term was in the fall semester this time so they wouldn’t be together until January. How was she going to manage?

  Art First

  Cathy poured all her time and effort into art after Hutch went to Ottawa that September. She had not realized you could miss someone so much. They phoned at weekends and emailed often, but that was just an hour or two out of a whole long week. Paul was gone and a couple was renting the top floor including what used to be the studio. So she rearranged her apartment to make the most of the space, taped down all the extension cords. When Hutch returned she would rent locked storage space down the hall for her pictures. In the meantime she had to step around the piles leaning against the wall.

  She’d been thinking of improvements she could make to Hutch’s portrait and that he might be a good subject for her entry in the fourth-year art competition. It would need to be bigger—maybe oils on Masonite this time—and different light, different shadows.

  ***

  And suddenly it was the winter semester, a study term for both of them. Hutch was sitting there in cargo shorts with the leg off, like every Saturday morning around the apartment, even though it was snowing itself into a frenzy out there. “Freedom,” he said, and she was only painting him waist up, after all.

  She stood,
thinking, and Hutch relaxed back into his chair, snoozing still, with that little smile. She wanted to snuggle into him. He looked so perfect there, broad shouldered and muscular, strong in a way that didn’t need a hairy chest to prove it. Didn’t need a scruffy chin, although he had one today. Didn’t even need two legs. Which made her wonder. She did a pile of sketches and wondered….

  ***

  The start of May and Cathy sat in front of the finished portrait and dreamed. She would get a top grade for this, she was sure of it. And she had a good chance of it being the one chosen to go in the national competition. Just think. If she won it—a two-week internship with that painter whose name she could never pronounce but whose work she drooled over. It could happen. She hadn’t let herself think about it before but it could happen.

  When Hutch came home she led him, smiling, round to the painter’s side and flicked off the cover with a magician’s flourish.

  “Ta daa!”

  Silence.

  “Jesus. You’ve painted…you’ve…Jesus, you’ve put my leg in it.”

  Cathy’s heart started booming in her head. Her beautiful picture.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  She unfroze enough to notice him rub his face with both hands. She’d never seen him do that. Then he pounded a fist into his other palm, started walking up and down, ker-plonk, ker-plonk, hand on the wall at the turn-arounds, speeding up, the plonks getting heavier and his body tipping sideways more with each one.

  “Did it never cross your mind to ask me? To find out if it was okay?”

  No, she’d just been thinking about the best way to paint him.

  “You had to know I’d hate it.”

  He pulled up facing her, head down like a bull charging, eyebrows clenched down over his nose. She’d never seen his mouth so tight and his voice came out with a hiss.

  “I’d never have let you do that if I’d seen it. But you wouldn’t let me see it, would you? Would you? You knew I—”

  “No. No, I didn’t think—”

  “—no. You never fucking think. That’s the trouble with you. It’s art, art, art. No room for anything else!” He was shouting now, spit flying. “I thought maybe—but I was wrong. You’ll never change. Same frigging lighthouse with the light switched off when it comes to people.”

  “Stop.” Cathy put her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes tight shut. “Stop.”

  Hutch stood still, shook his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that. It’s just….” He looked bewildered, hurt. “Why?”

  Reasons skidded round her head, tripping each other, but when she didn’t answer straight away he started looking mad again and Cathy said she was just trying to think of how to say it. So he waited, standing there looking ready to blow if she didn’t say something soon while she tried to line up the thoughts she’d been putting together as she painted him.

  “When you sat there for the first sketches I thought…it struck me…how strong you looked, how strong you are. And that leg is part of you and kind of makes you look even stronger—like dressing a big tough hockey player in pink frills or something. The contrast…and you sat there all comfortable like it was just—I don’t know, like it was just another part of you. Which it is. But you looked like—take it or leave it. And I tried to paint you like that.”

  “Sure you don’t want a pink bow on it?” That was in his normal voice and the weight on Cathy’s heart lifted a little. “But you’d need the hockey player’s permission for that wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”

  He turned away awkwardly and wobbled and let out a whole string of curses at his legs and not being able to do stuff and something about that guy in the supermarket with burn scars all over his face and the fried arm and how she’d probably paint him just as he stood and never care if it wasn’t what he wanted to see hanging on his wall and….

  “Yes!” Cathy shouted over him. “Yes I would. You won’t really look at yourself, will you? See yourself. You just think you’re a useless cripple. Still. After all this time.”

  “I do not. You don’t know how hard I work to look as normal as I can, to be as normal as I can with this frigging—this thing. And I don’t think I’m useless. I just can’t do things I love—get out on the water. Can’t even…be with you the way I want to and, and, god….”

  His voice cracked and he rubbed his face with both hands again.

  “Hutch, I love you and I don’t care about your stupid stump. I was thinking how—how whole you are, even with a piece missing, and all you can think of is how to hide it. You’re still trying to be what you were before and you don’t see that you’re better than what you were.”

  “Better!” he scoffed. “What a load. Get real.”

  But the fire had gone out of him and Cathy wanted to hug him for comfort but was afraid he’d push her off and she couldn’t bear that. She turned away, sighing.

  “I’m just trying to level the playing field,” Hutch said after a minute. “You don’t know how many times I’ve felt less than the other guy because of this damn leg.” He began walking up and down again but in an absent-minded way. “I’m doing okay at school, got good work terms. But I feel like I have to prove I can be as good as them, better maybe, all the time. Never used to care about marks but I do now.

  “Even found myself working at being funny at parties. Can you believe it?” He looked sideways at Cathy. “And girls.” He stopped in front of her for a moment, touched her arm for a second. Then the anger was back in his voice and he said, “But you should know better than anybody. It’s how you felt when Sarah published that paper.” And his voice rose a bit further. “Jesus, you’ve done exactly the same to me.”

  God. Maybe she had. No. But she couldn’t let herself worry about that now, couldn’t weaken now. Hutch swung away again, paced a bit more, speeding up again.

  Finally he said he was getting lightheaded. He was starving because he’d worked through lunch and he had to get a sandwich or die. Cathy said how about that spaghetti she’d made, and they ate in silence but when they were clearing away the dishes he said could she cut the bottom off the picture? It would only be a couple of inches, ten per cent max. The rest of it seemed okay, although he’d really only looked at the leg.

  Cathy tried to pin herself to her books but kept thinking what on earth she would do if Hutch insisted on having the bottom cut off.

  My god, he wanted to amputate her art.

  ***

  Wednesday after school Hutch looked crumpled and exhausted but after supper he said okay let’s have a look at the rest of it. They walked round to the front of the portrait with Hutch’s arm laid across her shoulders and he studied the picture for ages in silence. But after a bit his arm slid down. The smile melted and his face flattened.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s great. Fantastic, even. But…” Hutch was frowning at it, head dropping forward.

  “But?”

  “I don’t like the thought of you showing this to anyone.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want just any old person seeing this. I’m not talking about the stump, or not just the stump—I mean the rest of it too. It’s…I don’t want people gawping at it.”

  “Why?”

  Cathy’s heart jumped around in a panic and Hutch stood and stood and finally said he didn’t know.

  “But this is my project for the semester,” she said. “I get marked on this for my final exams. I’ve got nothing else.” Her shoulders hunched up and she was pressing her hands together, squeezing them so they sounded all wet-rubbery. “It’s the very best thing I’ve ever done.” That came out in a whisper.

  “I know, Cathy. Well, I don’t know but I can see it’s really great. But…I just don’t want people looking at me. Like this.”

  “But what bits don’t you like?”

  Hutch was gnawing
his lip and said it was that look on his face. She tried to see what he meant but she couldn’t. He turned to her with something like pain in his face and said couldn’t she use something else—that first portrait of him, or Devils Cove in the fog, or that tree? And she said they were ordinary and this was her best work ever.

  “I know you want to show it, and maybe you’d win prizes and stuff, but you can’t. Jesus, Cathy, can’t you see?”

  “How can you do this to me at the last minute?”

  And he got that stubborn jut to his jaw, that exasperating, stubborn…. The silence was radioactive and neither of them had any warning, any protection. Everything screamed danger and Cathy’s feelings careened around in red spirals looking for a way out. And Hutch looked worried and sad but so frigging stubborn. It felt like she was dangling from a ledge and no way Hutch was going to throw her a rope until she let go of the picture. And she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

  For two days she chewed at the problem, weighed and measured, looked from close up and far away. She woke Thursday night and Hutch was out looking at the picture with a flashlight, leaning on a crutch. Cathy pretended sleep.

  She’d worked towards this moment all her life. She had to be true to herself. She had the right to use her very own work. But Hutch had the right to not want his face, his amputated leg, out in public. Well, he should have thought of that before he agreed to sit. He was giving permission to show the painting when he agreed to sit. But that was bending the truth, being—what was that word. Anyway it was taking advantage. And it wasn’t the same as Sarah because Sarah knew Cathy would be upset, hid the case study from her on purpose. Cathy hadn’t really thought about how Hutch would feel, just about the best way to paint him.

  She didn’t understand why he felt so uncomfortable with the picture—the stump maybe, but not the rest. He looked fantastic. It showed him at his best. She understood that people hated her portraits when they were too truthful—unflattering as they saw it. She’d learned a bit about how much she could get away with from people at home and from Sarah and from art classes. But he said no, it wasn’t that he looked awful but he didn’t want people seeing that look on his face. Said it was private. For her. And yes he did have that little smile for her but other people saw it too, so what was the difference? It was something nobody but him would think about.