Catherine (6 page)

Jackie, hurrying after me, called from behind, “I know how you are, Cathy Eversole.”

Her words stopped me in my tracks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jackie’s voice got smaller and sweeter now, as if her tone could make up for what
she was about to say. “When you set your mind on something, you don’t listen to common
sense. You know how you get. Like that time you got a cold because you had to climb
into the fountain at Washington Square Park. In January.”

“There was a thaw that day….”

“Or the time your dad took us horseback riding in the country. Remember?”

Of course I remembered. I’d pleaded for a chance to ride Thunder, the biggest and
glossiest horse at the stable, despite the trainer’s warnings that he wasn’t for a
beginner like me. My dad had made sure I got my way, and Thunder had bolted down the
trail with me just barely hanging on.

“You could have been thrown,” Jackie said. “You could have been killed!”

“But I wasn’t,” I said.

“Hence reminds me of that horse. I swear, he has that same look in his eye.”

As mad at her as I still was, that last bit made me laugh. “I promise not to let him
give me a piggyback ride. Now can we please, please,
please
change the subject?”

To my relief, Jackie nodded, like she’d been storing up that
speech for a while and was glad to have it over with. Though we had fun the rest of
that afternoon, the way we always did—poking into boutiques on MacDougal Street, trying
on B-52s dresses and stiletto heels at Vintage Threads, cooling off in the spray of
the fountain at Washington Square Park while watching the passing parade of street
performers, drug dealers, and NYU students through our matching wraparound sunglasses—I
couldn’t help but notice the knot gathering in my stomach, as if something big was
about to change between Jackie and me. Or maybe it already had.

As if Jackie’s paranoia hadn’t been enough to deal with for one day, Quentin had to
go and flip out that same night. Q had always been touchy. He’d be perfectly normal
one minute, then the littlest thing would set him off. His face would cloud over and
his eyes would harden and you wouldn’t even know he was the same person. I’d always
thought of the scowling, bitter-tongued version as “Bad Quentin.”

Not that long ago, Q had been his normal self most of the time, annoying but nice,
still calling me Catheter (which I hated, but not as much as I hated the fact that
he’d stopped) and still up for a late-night run to the video store or a game of backgammon.
But since he started taking college classes, it seemed like we’d been seeing a lot
more of Bad Quentin around the house.

By the time Jackie and I parted ways it was too late to start dinner, so I grabbed
some take-out pad thai for Dad and me,
figuring Q could fend for himself when he got home. Dad and I were eating with our
feet up in front of the TV; he liked to catch the evening news, even if he mostly
talked his way through it. He’d spent the day at a club in the Meatpacking District,
listening to the Splendid Weather rehearse, and he was full of stories about what
a prima donna the lead singer was turning out to be. When we heard the key in the
apartment door, I tensed up, wondering which Q we’d be dealing with that night. The
door burst open with more than the usual force and I knew right away that it wasn’t
going to be pretty. He swept into the room, night air clinging to his jacket, and
positioned himself between us and the TV.

“Look who’s home,” Dad observed wryly. “Classes going well?”

I braced myself. Q wasn’t what you’d call a natural born student, but Dad never concerned
himself with what might set him off. I figured we were in for another fight about
how Dad was paying Q’s tuition and he damn well better start taking school seriously.
If so, maybe I could wait till they got into it and slip out of the room without being
missed.

Q shrugged Dad’s question off. “School’s school. I’ll be glad when I’m done.” Though
of course Q’s first semester of college had only just started.

“Want some dinner?” Oblivious, Dad peered into his take-out carton. “I’ve eaten most
of mine, but your sister will share. Right, Cath?”

“I don’t want dinner. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.” Q took a step closer
to Dad’s chair, hovering over him. “That new guy you’ve got working downstairs. I
saw him poking around in your office.”

Dad laughed. “I asked him to straighten up my mess,” he said. “He’s a bright boy,
and it’s not rocket science.”

Q bristled. “How well do you even know him? Your safe is in there.”

“What did you say to Hence?” I asked, but Q and Dad didn’t even seem to hear me, as
focused as they were on staring each other down.

“The safe is locked,” Dad said. “I’m the only one with the combination.”

“What about your records? I saw him nosing around in your file cabinets. How do you
know he isn’t working for one of your competitors?”

Dad chuckled again, but I wasn’t amused. “Are you seriously accusing Hence of being
a corporate spy?” I asked.

Both of them heard me that time, and Q started like I was a piece of furniture that
had just come to life.

“Because that would be paranoid,” I added.

“Why should you care?” Q’s blue eyes narrowed to splinters.

“He’s her friend,” Dad supplied, thinking he was being helpful, I guess.

“Not exactly—” I began, but Q cut me off.

“Since when?” Because Q hadn’t been around much, he must not have heard the story
of how Hence was hired. He hardly ever paid attention to the club unless he was forced
to, so this sudden concern was more than bizarre. “How do you know him?”

I certainly didn’t feel like going into the whole story. “Not that it’s any of your
business, but I had a conversation with him, just like you could, if you wanted to
treat him like a human being.”

“Since when do you hang out with Dad’s employees?”

“Since when do I answer to you?”

Dad got to his feet. “The Underground is
my
business. Someday the club will be yours, and you can run it the way you see fit.”
Dad stood almost half a foot taller than Q, and he could be pretty imposing when he
wanted to. “You didn’t reprimand my employee, did you?”

Q didn’t answer.

“Because if you’ve been causing trouble, I’m going to have to waste my night off undoing
it.”

“No.” Q glowered. “I didn’t say anything.”

Without another word, Dad snatched up his empty take-out carton and strode Clint Eastwood–style
from the room.

“As if I’d ever want to run this place,” Q hissed, for my benefit, before stomping
off to his bedroom.

Relieved the whole dustup was over, I joined Dad in the kitchen, where I helped him
unload the dishwasher. “What was that about?” he asked me in an amused whisper.

I shrugged.

“With Quentin you never know what you’re going to get,” Dad added. “But in his own
way, he was looking out for us. You know that, right?”

I didn’t feel like admitting it at that moment, but I knew Dad was right. After all,
when Q wasn’t being Bad Quentin, he could be the nicest, most generous brother in
the world. On my last birthday, he had given me a big, clumsily wrapped box, and inside,
floating around, were two slips of paper—tickets to see R.E.M. at Madison Square Garden.

“Oh my God!” I flew at him and threw my arms around his neck.

“You don’t have to crush me.” He freed himself from my hug.

“You’re coming, too, right?” I asked. “We’re going together?”

“Well, yeah.” Like I’d asked the world’s stupidest question. But it wasn’t such a
dumb thing to ask, really. It’s not like he was all that into music, and when he did
listen, it was always to heavy metal, which I hated. R.E.M. wasn’t his style at all.

But he did go with me, and we had a really nice time, even though our seats weren’t
the greatest and Q got bent out of shape at this one guy who had the misfortune to
be sitting beside me, and who had chatted with me in a perfectly harmless way before
the show.

“What are you looking so cranky about?” I asked Q when the guy climbed over our laps
to get to the concession stand.

“If that jerk tries anything with you I’m going to have to deck him.”

“He asked if he could buy me a soda. He didn’t ask me to make out with him.”

Q winced. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers. Don’t you know anything?”

“Nothing.” I batted my eyelashes. “I’m a complete idiot.” I knew from long experience
that I should tread carefully whenever Bad Quentin threatened to overtake Q, but sometimes
I can’t seem to help myself. I guess I take after Dad that way.

Q mumbled something under his breath, and when my new friend came back with a couple
of sodas, Q glowered so hard the poor guy didn’t dare say another word to me the whole
night. But
when the house lights came up, Good Q was back, bouncing around and pumping his fist,
seeming almost as thrilled as I was to be there.

As great as that show was, the best part of the night was how close I had felt to
Q again. Since Mom died, when I was six, it had always been Dad, Q, and me, looking
out for one another. But lately Q had been spending all his time with his buddies,
and acting distant and scornful on those rare occasions when he actually was home.
This new wrinkle—accusing Hence of being some kind of criminal—made me wonder whether
Q had completely lost his mind.

But I wasn’t about to waste my night stewing over my stupid brother. Upstairs, with
my bedroom door locked, I wrote in my journal, describing that day’s observations
of Hence. Maybe I’d eventually write a poem about him, or maybe I’d make him a character
in a short story, but for the moment I was just enjoying gathering the details that
might help me figure him out.
A small grave smile
, I wrote, describing the look Hence had given me that afternoon when we’d waved good-bye
to each other.
As if he was touched that somebody had thought to be nice to him. As if he wasn’t
used to having a reason to smile.

I filled another page before I turned off the light and slipped into bed. I’d stopped
writing in my last journal after I’d left it in my sock drawer and Q had picked the
lock to my room and read the entries out loud to his friends for laughs. Now that
I’d started writing again, I needed a secure hiding space. By the time I fell asleep,
I had figured out the perfect spot for my new journal—someplace Quentin would never
think to look.

Quentin’s grumblings about Hence being a thief or a spy turned out to be based on
nothing but jealousy. This became clear one afternoon when I came home from school
to find Dad and Hence taking a break from work, jamming on their guitars in the main
concert space. “Look who’s here,” Dad said distractedly around the guitar pick between
his teeth as he stopped to tune his trusty lime-green hollow-body Gretsch. My heart
twisted in my chest. Dad didn’t take his guitar out often anymore, but having Hence
around must have reminded him of how much he used to love playing. Hence looked up
from his guitar—a beat-up modified Stratocaster—and gave a nod in my direction.

“What’s this?” I dumped my backpack from my shoulders. “A jam session? Mind if I watch?”

“Suit yourself, Cupcake.” Dad gave his guitar a strum and the two of them dove into
“You Really Got Me” by the Kinks. I perched on the edge of the stage for a closer
view. Dad was beaming, and Hence seemed utterly absorbed. I took note of how he bit
his lower lip in concentration and how nimble his fingers were on the strings.

Dad and Hence knew a lot of the same songs—Creedence, The Beatles, The Small Faces.
As he and Hence worked out the live intro to Lou Reed’s “Sweet Jane,” Quentin came
in the door, a basketball tucked under his arm, looking surprised to find us all together
and having fun. Caught off guard, I patted the stage beside me, thinking he might
want to watch, maybe even join in the way we used to, but from the look he shot me
you’d think I’d
done him some kind of rank insult. He stormed past us to the elevator and didn’t make
an appearance for the rest of the night.

That’s when light dawned. Q has always complained about Dad being way too wrapped
up in The Underground, and it was true: Dad never made it to very many of Q’s lacrosse
games; he was never all that interested in watching football or baseball on TV with
his son, like a lot of fathers do. In turn, Q flat out refused the music lessons Dad
wanted him to take, which didn’t exactly do wonders for their relationship. So now
Q was bugged by seeing Dad treating Hence like the guitar-playing son he’d never had.

I stayed put for the rest of the jam session, until Dad got a phone call and Hence
remembered some crates that needed unpacking, but it wasn’t as much fun after Q snubbed
us. Afterward, I went upstairs and knocked on his door, hoping to explain that I knew
how he must feel, and that I missed the way we used to hang out together, but he responded
with grunts and monosyllables until I gave up and went to my room to study for the
next day’s history quiz.

When I got bored with that, I pulled out my journal and added to my scribblings about
Hence. I tried to capture the expression on his face as he played a guitar solo with
my dad looking on, an openness so different from the guarded look he usually wore.
How could I break past that guardedness, I wondered, and what would I find when I
got there?