by Laura Furman
And even though he never blatantly pushed her into doing anything, he had a way of making her do stuff anyway, by getting the two of them arranged in such and such a way and leaving the opportunity open for her to do it if she wanted to, but not to do it if she didn’t want to. Which was how she ended up giving her first ever blowjob for example. In her life. Which was something that even a year ago she thought she would never do. But now she’d done it. And she had liked it. And it had been completely different from what she had expected, and it had not been gross or embarrassing or weird tasting or any of the things she had thought it was going to be, and she was doing it even before she’d decided to do it, she was just suddenly doing it, because of the devious way Stuart had arranged their bodies on his bed, with both of them still mostly dressed and the CD by Micachu playing that he’d got for her and that she really liked. Stuart had to stop her almost as soon as she started. He gasped and wriggled and pushed her head away from him and came all over his T-shirt like he’d been shot, and she couldn’t help laughing, and then worried almost immediately that he would think she was some sort of expert. But all he could say was wow, and he laughed too, and they both giggled for a while and he kissed her, and then he took off his T-shirt and mopped up and they hugged and kissed under the covers and laughed at each other and chatted for ages.
He said that no one had ever done that before.
He said that Byron had offered, but that was all.
He said that he and Byron had kissed once, and he had liked it, but he had stopped because he didn’t want to do anything else and Byron did, and Byron had sulked for a while, but they were okay again now.
He said Byron was his best friend. Him and Byron talked about everything.
He said she was a better kisser than Byron.
He said he loved her skin and he loved her breasts and her neck. He said he wanted to hold her every time he saw her in school. He said he’d wanted to kiss her from the first time he met her. He said that he had never done anything because she’d seemed uninterested in him, in that way.
He said he really wanted to have full sex with her, but there was no hurry.
He said he wasn’t a virgin. But he’d only had sex once before and it had been a real mess, a disaster, and he wouldn’t tell her who it was, and she didn’t know her anyway, and they had both been drunk and it was all a sort of horrible blur of a bad memory.
She told him that she was a virgin. He asked about other boys and she told him about some of them. He stroked her hair and smiled at her and they wrapped their legs around each other under the duvet.
She liked him so much that she couldn’t do any work.
Her Dad came to the house on a Tuesday. “To speak to your Mum,” he said, which made her immediately suspicious. Something was up. Something had happened. They talked in the kitchen, and she couldn’t hear a thing. It was good, she supposed, that they weren’t shouting at each other. But it was creepy too. There wasn’t a sound. She tried to work out what it was. He had seen her with Stuart and didn’t approve. He was worried that she wasn’t doing as well as she had been, at school. Maybe it wasn’t about her. He had lost his job. He couldn’t afford to pay maintenance anymore. He was leaving London. He had prostate cancer. She sat on the stairs and thought about Stuart having cancer.
He wouldn’t tell her what it was about. He seemed impatient. He wanted to be gone.
—See you Saturday?
—Yeah.
—It’s not about us. Ask your mother what it’s about. She can tell you if she wants. Up to her.
So she had to nag. Her mother was sitting in the kitchen looking at the wall. She had put out mugs but she hadn’t filled them. She didn’t want to talk about it. Cath whined at her. What? What’s going on?
—Someone died.
All Cath’s breathless wondering stopped. And then restarted, and she tripped on relief and shock and a new fear.
—Who? What happened?
—Misha. You don’t know her. She used to … I was at uni with her.
—What happened?
—I don’t want to, Cath.
And her mother started crying.
She didn’t know what to do. She gave her a sort of hug. She got her a box of tissues. She made a pot of tea. She sat at the table and listened to the story. She caught herself wondering if it was made up. Invented by her mother and father together to warn her of how badly wrong everything could go. Because it was that story. About the pretty, clever girl who everyone knows is going to turn out to be a genius but she starts to drink, and then she meets the wrong boy, and then she drinks too much, and then she starts taking other stuff, and before anyone knows what’s happened she’s living in a junkie squat somewhere in King’s Cross and she’s got a string of arrests and all her old friends and her traumatized parents are really just waiting for the police to show up at the door to say she’s dead. Then she goes away and disappears. She goes to Spain. Years pass. She comes home and she’s okay. She’s sober and she’s done some courses, and everyone thinks that she’s better, she’s through it. She’s not the same, but at least she’s not a mess anymore, and even if she is a bit fragile, a bit pathetic, she can hold down a sort of office admin job and she can pay a rent and it’s okay. But she’s never what she was. And she’s never what she might have been. And they notice that she’s probably still drinking. Secretly. And eventually, after everyone stops thinking about her and she has become just a sad friend who doesn’t have much of a life and who they never see unless they have to, then she hangs herself in her kitchen.
Her mother choked and spluttered on all her guilt and her grief, and she banged the table and cried so loud that Cath was terrified and called her father, but she couldn’t reach him, and left an angry message accusing him of being a heartless bastard. And her mother might have overheard, because she hugged Cath then and told her sorry sorry sorry, she was just so sad. So sad. And she went to bed, and Cath could hear her still, wailing, as if she’d lost everything and had nothing left, not even Cath. And then Cath was crying.
She called Stuart. He wanted to come over but she wouldn’t let him. She tried to be cold about her mother. She tried to tell him that she was being stupid, but he didn’t fall for it, and soon she was crying, and he told her he was coming over, and she told him not to, thank you, but she’d prefer if he didn’t, because it was her mother, her mother’s privacy, and he said okay.
Her Dad called. He didn’t give out to her about being called a heartless bastard, but he didn’t apologize either. She’s bound to be upset, he said. She’ll be okay. She accused him of not caring. That it was easy for him, it wasn’t his friend who had died. And then he was quiet for a minute and told her that actually it was his friend. That he’d known Misha as long as he’d known her mother. That they’d dated a couple of times. And that he’d seen more of her in the last couple of years than anyone else had. Cath apologized, and for no reason that she could understand other than having a dig, her father told her that he loved her.
Then there was someone at the door. It was her mother’s friend Heather, and then everything was okay. Heather gave her a hug, and went up to her mother. Then their other friends Sean and Lillian arrived. And then everyone was in her mother’s bedroom, and coming and going with cups of tea and she even heard laughter.
She called Stuart again. To say sorry. To tell him that everything was okay now. They talked for an hour, each of them lying on their beds. She wrapped his voice around her and made him promise that he wouldn’t let her become a junkie. He laughed. Okay, he said. I promise. He thought it was a joke. But she knew they would remember it always, that it was a promise to look after her, and that it was made now and could not be retracted, and that even if they did not stay together there were things between them that would never be between her and anyone else. And that wasn’t being stupid or romantic or saying that it was special or anything. It was just the truth.
She slept late, was late for school. Her mother staye
d in bed. Beth nagged at her. Stuart kept an eye on her. Byron asked her if she was okay, and gave her a hug. She was fine. She was tired. She couldn’t remember most of the things she’d talked to Stuart about. She wondered what he’d said to the others. Whether she came across as needy, weepy, clingy. Those things. She ignored him.
She was still annoyed at her Dad.
He closed down when he needed to be open. That was what she thought. When there was something wrong he became efficient, busy. He dealt with it. Like a policeman. Like you’d want from a policeman. He would arrive and sort it out. Then he’d leave. And it was sorted. It was fixed. It was a closed case and he was closed and everything was shut off and quiet and finished and he forgot about it.
But when there was nothing wrong he was funny and kind and patient and open.
She thought it through again. She wasn’t sure what she was complaining about.
It was too hot. They took the Tube down through London, holding hands and allowing themselves to be pressed against each other. She had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Stuart was wearing a T-shirt and kept on lifting and flapping the front over his stomach.
They hadn’t been anywhere together for a while. She’d been spending time with her mother, who was still wobbly. She’d sob in front of the television. She’d sit at the kitchen table just staring into space. Cath didn’t know why. Well, she knew why, but she didn’t understand why the grief was so intense. There was something she didn’t know about, she was sure of it. Something more to the story. This Misha. How it was that she had never been heard of before, and now she was all over Cath’s life, even though she was dead. Nothing, then dead, then everything.
Her father came around a few times. More than he ever had before. They would sit in the kitchen chatting quietly. She sometimes sat with them for a while. But it was too weird. They just talked to her, about her, while she was there. So she would go and watch television, or go to her bedroom, and she would hear them murmur together, for a long time. Once, after she had gone to bed and fallen asleep, the front door woke her. It was her father leaving. She heard his car start up. She looked at her clock. It was 4:30 in the morning.
She didn’t know what it was.
She tried to ask her father. He would not help. All he said was that they’d been good friends once, her mother and this Misha. That was it. She wondered whether they’d been lovers or something. She couldn’t imagine it. She wondered whether the three of them had been mixed up in some sort of love triangle thing.
Her father didn’t want to talk about it.
It was cruel. It was unfair. She was the one who had to live with her mother. And for a week now she’d been weird and silent and weepy. The day of the funeral Cath had come home to find her mother in bed still wearing her black dress. She’d had to call Heather again. What was wrong with these people? It was like they forgot she existed. As soon as their own stuff hit them, they forgot about her. She had to fend for herself, knowing nothing.
She’d told her father that she couldn’t see him that day. That she was seeing Stuart.
They arrived at Waterloo and walked along the river, strolling, holding hands. He looked so good. Byron had said to her a few days before that Stuart was always good-looking, but now that he was going out with her he was beautiful. He’d said it really nicely, quietly, with a big smile. Then he’d made her promise not to tell Stuart he’d said it, or he’d kill her.
The Tate was quiet. There were still tourists and some big groups of kids, but it was nice, it was okay, it was easier to stand and look at things than it usually was. They went searching for the Rothko Room. She had told Stuart about Rothko, a little. About how he did not move her. And he had wanted to see. He said he knew a song about Rothko, by an American singer that he liked. She rolled her eyes. The only things he knew about were things he’d heard in songs. He laughed at her.
They looked at the paintings. The room was almost empty. Large flat blocks of color frayed at the edges, set against the dark. It was gloomy in there. Why was it so gloomy? It was cool, at least. Cath sat on a bench and tried again with Rothko. Stuart stood at first. Then he sat beside her for a while. They didn’t say anything. She wanted to let him decide for himself. He stood up again and walked around the room. Then he stopped in front of one of them and his head dropped onto his chest. Then she saw him wipe his eyes and look up again. She thought he was bored. He didn’t get it either. She stood and went to him and took his hand, meaning to lead him out of the room so they could look at some other stuff or get a coffee. He turned to her. He was crying. Not sobbing. But there were a couple of tears running down the side of his nose, and his eyes were red. She stared at him.
He wanted to stay in the room. He moved around. She watched him. He breathed deeply. He stood still. Really still. He sat on the seats a couple of times and just looked. She wondered if he was taking the piss. She went and sat beside him.
—What do you think?
—They’re beautiful. I don’t understand how they work. But they’re just beautiful.
He wanted to stay there for ages. He looked at the Rothkos, and she looked at him.
In the café afterward she complained about her parents. She told him that there was something they weren’t telling her about this dead woman Misha. She told him it wasn’t fair. That they just weren’t thinking about her. He nodded.
—Maybe they can’t, he said.
—They could try.
—Maybe you had to be there. Some things you can’t share, you know?
He got a second coffee. He wanted to talk about the Rothko Room. He seemed a bit embarrassed now, that he’d been so moved by it. He smiled and shook his head.
—They’re so great though. I could look at those things all day.
She told him about her Dad and the eggs.
—I made my Dad scrambled eggs one morning, yeah? When I was staying at his place for a weekend. He sleeps late, you know. And I made him breakfast when he got up, you know—good little girl. And it was like, scrambled eggs on toast, and some bacon and a tomato. Stuff like that. And a pot of tea. Glass of orange juice. All posh. And he really liked it, and then he was trying to show off that he knew about art—he’s always doing this—and he said, Rothko eggs. Points at the scrambled eggs. Rothko eggs. I didn’t know what he was on about. They look like a Rothko painting, he said, all pleased with himself. And then I realized that he’d gotten Rothko mixed up with Pollock!
She laughed.
Stuart smiled.
—So now he still calls scrambled eggs Rothko eggs. I never corrected him. He hasn’t realized yet. So he’s always asking for Rothko eggs. I bet he does it at work and everything. Trying to show off how cultured he is. Down the police station, you know? Pretending he knows his art. Had some great Rothko eggs this morning. And no one has a clue what he’s on about. It’s so funny.
And she laughed, to show how funny it was.
Stuart smiled at her. He looked at her and smiled and said nothing, and he rubbed his eyes.
Later that day she asked him about the scar.
—What happened?
—What?
—There. How did you get it?
—Shark bite.
—Really though.
He said nothing for a minute. Then he lay on his back and looked at the ceiling.
—A few years ago. I was swimming in a river. Sort of a river thing, near where we were staying on holiday in France. Me and a friend went swimming. He was a local guy. And we got snagged on some stuff under the water. There was some old farm machinery or something dumped in there. And we were kind of diving down and exploring it. It wasn’t very deep but we were trying to … I don’t know … pretending it was a shipwreck or something. He pushed a bit of it, I think. Or pulled it. Or maybe he didn’t. But it shifted. We got …
He stopped.
—What?
—Some part of it caught my leg when I was freeing myself. Some sharp edge. And cut it.
—Sh
it. Did it hurt?
—Yeah. Well. Yeah, after a bit. I didn’t notice at first.
—Cos you have arteries and stuff in there. You could bleed to death.
—Yeah.
He said nothing. She looked at him.
He was quiet. He had drifted off somewhere. She traced shapes and words and pictures on his chest with her fingers. The sun lit the curtains and the music made her drowsy. She was lulled by his heartbeat into feeling nothing more than a vague wonder that nothing in her life had really started yet.
She went home. She thought about their day. Something had gone wrong but she didn’t know what.
Anthony Doerr
The Deep
TOM IS BORN in 1914 in Detroit, a quarter mile from International Salt. His father is offstage, unaccounted for. His mother operates a six-room, underinsulated boardinghouse populated with locked doors, behind which drowse the grim possessions of itinerant salt workers: coats the color of mice, tattered mucking boots, aquatints of undressed women, their breasts faded orange. Every six months a miner is fired or drafted or dies and is replaced by another, so that very early in his life Tom comes to see how the world continually drains itself of young men, leaving behind only objects—empty tobacco pouches, bladeless jackknives, salt-caked trousers—mute, incapable of memory.
Tom is four when he starts fainting. He’ll be rounding a corner, breathing hard, and the lights will go out. Mother will carry him indoors, set him on the armchair, and send someone for the doctor.
Atrial septal defect. Hole in the heart. The doctor says blood sloshes from the left side to the right side. His heart will have to do three times the work. Life span of sixteen. Eighteen if he’s lucky. Best if he doesn’t get excited.
Mother trains her voice into a whisper. Here you go, there you are, sweet little Tomcat. She smothers the windows with curtains. She moves Tom’s cot into an upstairs closet—no bright lights, no loud noises. Mornings she serves him a glass of buttermilk, then points him to the brooms or steel wool. Go slow, she’ll say. He scrubs the coal stove, sweeps the marble stoop. Every so often he peers up from his work and watches the face of the oldest boarder, Mr. Weems, as he troops downstairs, a fifty-year-old man hooded against the cold, off to descend in an elevator a thousand feet underground. Tom imagines his descent, sporadic and dim lights passing and receding, cables rattling, a half dozen other miners squeezed into the cage beside him, each thinking his own thoughts, sinking down into that city beneath the city, where mules stand waiting and oil lamps burn in the walls and glittering rooms of salt recede into vast arcades beyond the farthest reaches of the light.