The Leaving

An Excerpt from a Novel

Stevie and Ron's involvement, relationship, there were so many words, had to me become a thrilling romance. Pitted against the two intrepid lovers was the dark, threatening figure of my father. And I was stuck on the sidelines, watching the drama with some discomfort and jealousy, but with serious interest. In fact, I became obsessive about it in those months, as it got clearer that my brother himself was taking it more seriously, was thinking of it as a thing that would endure long into the future. I found it easier to focus on Stevie and Ron as protagonists in an erotic, potentially tragic performance than on my own aimless, rather farcical existence, which seemed to be winding down, emptying itself of meaning, as I approached the Inter, turned fifteen, and for the first time had to deal with the feeling of being different and alone.
      I had been lucky. Up to a few months before, Stevie's presence in the house and the routine of walking home with him from school had nourished the illusion that my life was--well--happy enough, and that someone cared for me. The fact that I cared more had not really got through to me; I didn't think of it in those terms. But now it seemed that I was supposed to follow Stevie's lead, as I had always done, and focus on someone else. The irony was that no person I chose would have the same meaning for me as a simple interaction with my brother himself. And there seemed to be only two choices for me: this embittered state of aloneness, or else the decision to go out with some boy just for the sake of being seen to go out with someone and gaining peer approval. But it was not a thing I wanted to do. There was something dishonest about it. What I might have aimed for--the intensity of Stevie's thing with Ron--seemed impossibly far away. Instead of ecstatic romance I would have to deal with joyless multiple encounters.
      Not that I would sleep with these boys. Nobody Susie or I knew "slept around," as we termed it. But the thought of kissing a boy was alarming enough. Or being kissed. One would always be in a passive, wary position, fending off unwanted advances from someone you undoubtedly wouldn't like. But you'd be flattered, because they liked you, enough to bring themselves to touch you in the dark of a cinema or unlit corner of a disco, that is. This was also called "getting off."
      I was surprised that other girls didn't seem to think about it this way. What seemed to me unnatural behavior was completely natural to them, obviously. I couldn't help judging them harshly. So little communication or real respect went on between the sexes. I wanted someone I could really talk to, trust, rely on.
      If I fantasized at all, it was not about me and another person, but about characters in books I had been reading. I would extend their romances (usually terminated with a discreet dotted line or white space in the novels) and have them repeatedly fight, and make up, and kiss passionately, and make love--that part was very vague.
      It was inevitable that thoughts of Stevie and Ron would creep into my list of fantasies. I added them to my list of couples. I fictionalized their relationship, but as Stevie became less real to me the interactions that I conjured up between the two boys took on an authentic quality. I would have been surprised had I been told that they said different things to each other when alone, were less tender.
      It seemed to me, watching Stevie, that what he had achieved I could never achieve. But the thought of love held my imagination. I ruled it out for myself in the short term but I did think that at a certain stage someone would appear. And that, of course, would magically be it. Meanwhile, all I had to do was be patient and wait for this person of curiously uncertain gender. It would take a long time, I knew that. In the meantime I could self-righteously ignore the goings-on of Susie and her friends. I could hold out until I felt something, really felt something, for a person. It worried me that I hadn't yet.
     

Joe was not that person, needless to say. He was perfectly nice, though. That was the annoying thing. If I could have hated him it would have been better. As it was I felt guilty for not liking him more.
      I had gone over to Susie's that Saturday afternoon and she had lent me makeup and given me a scarf to wear as a brave attempt to smarten me up. "Keep it, I have dozens," she said. She herself had spent what seemed like hours changing in and out of outfits, talking on the phone with friends, doing her hair.
      I was so nervous that I could hardly speak. We were all going into town for something to eat and then we'd go to a popular American comedy film that was playing, and after that, Susie had said, "We'll sit in a pub and get pissed. That's the way these things usually end."
      She had offered to let me stay the night at her house, but I had a terrible feeling that this meant that I would have even more time to spend with Joe alone while she said goodnight to Jeff nearby, and refused. It relieved me that there would be little time for us to be alone together: I would have to talk to him, but I wouldn't really have to do anything else . . .
      The evening began quite predictably. We sat at a table in Pizzaland. Jeff and Susie smoked, laughed, told jokes. Joe and I listened, unable to compete with our friends, but glad to have someone to listen to so we wouldn't have to begin to talk to each other.
      He had blond hair which he was letting grow, and freckles, and he blinked a lot and flicked his hair nervously. I examined my nails, flexing and clenching my long fingers. There was a lot of throat clearing, and I kept trying desperately to think of something to ask him, but no inspiration came to me. Finally, after staring at his denim jacket for a few minutes it occurred to me to ask: "Do you have a bike?"
      He shook his head. "No, but me Da says, after the Inter, if I do OK, I can get one."
      He had a low voice, with a fairly strong Dublin accent.
      "You go to Gonzaga, don't you?" I asked.
      "Yeah."
      Gonzaga was a Christian Brothers' school where the academic record was quite good and discipline--compared to Fintan's, anyway--was notorious for its strictness.
      "How do you know Jeff, then?"
      "We're neighbors," he said. "I wanted to go to Fintan's too, but my father said--ÝFU1Þ"
      "He told Joe he'd become a layabout like me," Jeff cut in, grinning. "I'm forbidden to set foot in Joe's house now. The poor lad has to study."
      Joe looked embarrassed. I saw that unlike Jeff, he worked hard. And he actually seemed quite intelligent. Why did he hang around with Jeff, then? My vague interest in this was banished by Jeff's next comment.
      "Yeah, Fintan's has gone to shit since the nuns left. That's what my mother said. But I think it's having a woman as head. She can't keep the teachers in line. That's why we have flakes like Casey running around. She's the one who hired him."
      I stared at him, furious suddenly. I liked Mrs. McHenry, the Principal, a tired-looking woman of about forty-five who was doing her best, I thought, to change the school from a run-of-the-mill convent to a type of comprehensive, Irish style. That way a few interesting students had trickled in, like Ron, for example, whose parents wouldn't have sent their son to a Catholic school. And young teachers like Mr. Casey who wouldn't have been hired at a Catholic school. What was Jeff's problem?
      "Sorry, I forgot you liked him," said Jeff, gesturing at me. "Don't look at me like that, Cathy, I just think he's daft, that's all."
      "She thinks he's brilliant." Susie gave me a condescending smile which I did not return, looking down sullenly at my empty plate. It had not taken us long to devour our pizza and we were now filling in time before the show.
      "I hate his classes. They're so fucking boring. I'm not doing Honors English next year. All this stuff about symbol and metaphor. I don't know what he's on about half the time."
      Jeff seemed to be directing this comment to me. I was clearly supposed to sympathize, mutter, "Yeah, he does go on a bit," but instead I found myself saying: "It's quite simple," in what must have sounded like a maddeningly arrogant tone of voice.
      Even Susie couldn't cover this one up. She gave me a warning look. I couldn't think of anything else to say. There was a long silence.
      "How's your brother?" said Jeff suddenly.
      "Oh . . . fine."
      "I don't see him around much."
      "No?"
      "Her brother doesn't like me," said Jeff with an exaggerated sigh. He scratched his head. "'Course, I'd be worried if he did!"
      "Coffee?" said the waitress, appearing at our side. We all ordered coffee.
      Susie cleared her throat. "I can't believe you said that," she remarked in an amused voice. She then smoothly changed the subject.
      I wanted to say something to Jeff, but I couldn't find the words. I didn't dare to say what I felt: that he wasn't fit to lick my brother's boots. And Jeff, seeing as he was supposed to be on his best behavior, didn't press it any further. He slurped his coffee, told more jokes. This time I didn't laugh, or even bother to listen. I sat feeling far above them, wondering what Stevie was doing and what he thought I was doing, or whether he'd be thinking about it at all.
      For a few minutes Joe and I discussed the Inter Cert English syllabus. That was about all we had to talk about and we drew it out as long as possible. Meanwhile Susie and Jeff grew more animated, their talk more outrageous. Susie seemed to burst into shrieks of laughter every few minutes. Jeff's rough, drawling voice grated in my head. I was grateful to Joe for talking to me, but the fact that he was Jeff's friend made me think less of him. Where had Susie's standards gone, I wondered?
     

I felt as sorry for Joe as I felt for myself. There we were in the cinema, aware of Susie and Jeff sitting beside us holding hands, giggling and crunching crisps. The cinema was filled with couples. I could sense that and it didn't make me feel any more comfortable. Joe, I knew, was just as uncomfortable.
      I understood the problem. He went to a boys' school and so had no opportunity to meet girls. Jeff had set him up with me because it was the easiest thing to do; I was Susie's friend and therefore it seemed appropriate to Jeff and Susie that we should be pushed together.
      I remember very little of the film. The whole evening had been quite depressing, yet I distinctly recall feeling a fondness for Joe; at least he was trying and so was I. But we were both longing, I imagined, for it to be over. And time passed so slowly.
      Finally the film ended. Jeff made approving comments about it. Susie said she'd loved it; I could tell she was lying. Joe and I were silent. We all sat squeezed together on a bench in O'Connell Street and passed a can of lager back and forth. It made me feel vaguely nauseated at first. I leaned back and looked at the stars. Around us groups of chattering people drifted home, lingering in little clumps. It was a warm, damp April night. Drunks stumbled up and down the street muttering under their breath, occasionally bursting into hoarse song. I could smell the rank Liffey air.
      Jeff, his arm around Susie, suddenly began to sing. After a moment Susie joined in.
      I kissed my love by the factory wall
Dreamed the dream by the old canal
I kissed my girl . . .

      He trailed off. "Where did I kiss my girl?" he inquired. "I forget."
      Susie went into a fit of laughter. "Come on, the chorus is good. Let's all sing the chorus. Come on, you two!"
      So we all sang the dirge-like lines:
      Dirty old town, dirty old town

      Down the street we could hear someone getting prolongedly sick.
      "Well," I remember Jeff saying, "It's been another lively night in the cosmopolitan capital of Ireland."
      "Yeah, that thriving center of industry, fashion, music. Where all the trends start. It's great to be on the cutting edge, isn't it?" Susie said. "Oh, 'tis great," Jeff answered, lighting a cigarette.
      Joe and I smoked too. A philosophical silence had fallen on the group, and relaxed by the drink I no longer felt the need to make nervous conversation. Joe, slumped beside me, evidently felt the same. What does it matter? I thought suddenly, looking up at the stars. What does it all really matter if I speak or don't speak?
      "When do you have to get home, Cathy?" Susie asked me.
      "Eleven."
      "Fuck. It's passed that now."
      I glanced at my watch in surprise. "Oh, yeah." Now that the evening was drawing to a close I almost felt I'd enjoyed it.
      We stood at the bus stop together, Joe and I, while Susie and Jeff kissed nearby. I could sense the tension coming from Joe. Finally he said awkwardly: "Can I see you again?"
      I was dumbfounded.
      "You mean . . . with Susie or Jeff?" I asked.
      "No, not really. I mean, I'd rather see you alone."
      I thought about this for a moment. The brief flattered feeling had worn off; I felt unenthusiastic about repeating the experience.
      "I'm really busy now. I'm studying a lot."
      I sounded brusque, I knew.
      "In the summer, then, maybe."
      "Yeah," I said doubtfully. "We'll see."
      A gloomy silence followed. In the hope of clarifying the situation I murmured:
      "I don't really go out a lot."
      "I don't either."
      "Well, what I mean is, I'd rather be with a group of people, not alone with one person."
      "Oh," he said.
      I shrugged, sighed. Had I been desperately rude? Probably. It seemed absurd that he wanted to see me again. I had been such a silent, dispirited companion.
      On the bus we both sat poker-faced while Susie and Jeff nibbled each other's ears and demonstrated for the thousandth time their deep affection for each other and their playful high-spirited natures. I eyed them sourly. At least Susie had hardly noticed the way Joe and I got on, I thought.
      At last we were outside my house. It was 11.45. Watched by the other two, Joe and I politely shook hands. Susie tittered and Jeff said, "Ah Jesus, is that all you're going to do?" so Joe leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I thought that was rather sweet of him.
      Then Susie hugged me and said brightly: "I'll ring you. Hope you don't get into trouble," and they ambled off.
      I walked up to the house and opened the door with my own key. I took a deep breath, let it out, and shut the door behind me.
     

There was silence in the house, but a light in the kitchen. I peeped in, hoping that my father would not be sitting at the table with a grim expression on his face. Instead Stevie was there, reading Hamlet, a sheaf of notes beside him, sipping a cup of tea.
      He looked up, smiled.
      "Weird day. I slept for most of it. Now I'm still wide awake. I'm memorizing a speech for my English exam, want to hear it for me?"
      "Alright," I said, dropping my bag. I sat down; he handed me the book.
      "It's Hamlet's speech to Horatio before the duel with Laertes."
      I nodded. He had a good voice. I often wondered why he wasn't interested in acting. He had the short speech word perfect.
      "And I will wear him in my heart's core, nay in my heart of hearts, as I do thee," he finished.
      "You got it," I said.
      He smiled. "Good old Shakespeare. We're doing some of the sonnets too. Can I say one to you?"
      "Sure."
      "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought . . .'" he began.
      The words moved me. Stevie spoke in almost a conversational tone. He was never self-conscious when he recited; he enjoyed it far more than he let on. The lines resonated in the quiet kitchen.
      But if a while I think on thee, dear friend
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

      He smiled at me. "Very optimistic man, Shakespeare. I agree with him, though, about losses."
      "What losses do you mean?" I enquired.
      "Oh, losses . . . I just mean, you think you've lost something, but you may find that things don't just disappear."
      "But people do," I said bitterly.
      He looked at me, his face serious. "Cathy, I'm around. And I'm going to stay around for at least another year, OK?"
      I shook my head. "I'm sorry. That doesn't make me feel any better."
      It made me feel, in fact, a lot worse. I swallowed and got up.
      "How was your evening?"
      "Oh . . . the usual."
      "But it's the first time you've been out."
      "Yeah, but it was exactly what I expected."
      "So--you didn't like him much?"
      "Oh, he was OK," I said wearily. I went over to the sink and splashed cold water on my face, which was burning. "He said he wanted to see me again."
      "That's good," said Stevie encouragingly.
      "He bores me."
      "Well, give him a chance."
      I smiled, facing him.
      "What's the point?"
      He sighed. "Cathy, take my advice and give people a chance. Give yourself a chance."
      "Why?"
      "Don't be difficult. You've got to put yourself out there, that's why. Find out what you want, who you are. You know.""I know who I am," I said coldly. "I don't see why I have to lower myself to other people's standards."
      "Don't condemn yourself to being alone. You don't have to be."
      "Being with someone like that is worse than being alone, in my opinion."
      "You're so hard."
      I frowned. "You just don't understand what it's like to force yourself to go out with someone you despise."
      "That's true," he said. "But I went through a lot of struggling to get to where I am now."
      "Yeah, but you didn't go out with girls you weren't interested in."
      "You're comparing our situations." Stevie's voice rose; I could hear the anger in it. "That's a stupid thing to do. Just because this particular boy doesn't interest you doesn't mean you have to dismiss the whole human race!"
      I shrugged. "Do we have to get so upset?"
      "It's important. No one else is going to say this to you, are they?"
      "Look, I think about it a lot and I'm just different, that's all."
      "But try to find some way of being different and also meet other people. Don't just be different by yourself up in your room. That's my advice."
      We stared at each other. I resented his words. They rang true, but it was humiliating to hear them. "I want her out of my hair," he had written. That was the thing. He wanted me to go out with boys so he could feel satisfied that my life was working out and hadn't been affected by his sexual problems. But I wouldn't do it just to please him.
      "I just want you to be happy," he said.
      I nodded. "Maybe I can be, but I need to do it my own way."
      "I don't like what I see you doing."
      "And I don't like feeling ashamed because you won't sympathize with me! Won't understand that I'm just not interested . . ."
      "You're shy," he observed, as if that was the cause of everything.
      "Oh, that's highly original! No, I'm just . . ."
      Just what? his eyes seemed to say. Just what? And they were not unsympathetic, but they were clear and they wanted me to be clear too.
      "Just freaky, I suppose."
      He smiled sadly. "I hate to hear you call yourself names like that."
      "I don't dislike myself as much as you think I do."
      "Yes, but you don't have any confidence in yourself. That's what you need, Cathy, to get by."
      I nodded in spite of myself, feeling lost suddenly, as if Stevie were guiding me from some incredibly distant place, and I was stumbling around in the dark, straining my eyes.
      "What is this?"
      We both jumped. My father stood at the kitchen door scowling, his eyes narrow slits.
      "Do you two numbskulls have any idea what time it is? D' you realize your voices can be heard upstairs? D' you think you can just waltz in an hour late--" (he was glaring at me) "and sit in the kitchen for the rest of the night? What the hell do you think you're up to?"
      "I was just giving Cathy some advice," said Stevie, looking embarrassed. "That's all we were up to."
      "And who do you think you are, to be giving your sister advice?"
      They stared at each other. The scorn and venom in Dad's words was so unmistakable, so shocking, that neither Stevie nor I were able to meet his gaze. Flushing, Stevie looked down. He looked angry.
      My father spat out the words "Get to bed," and turned away. We listened to him stomp upstairs.
      "What an ogre that man is!" I said, hoping that Stevie would feel better by my voicing of this undeniable fact.
      "Being treated like a dog is becoming tedious," was all he said, as he gathered up his books.
      "We must have been louder than we thought. I mean, I didn't think we were shouting at each other, or anything."
      Stevie touched me lightly on the shoulder. "Well, Dad seems to agree with you, Cathy. He thinks you don't need my advice."
      "Yeah," I said shakily. "That's good to know."
      "I'm glad we said these things," he told me. "Believe me, I know it isn't simple. It's so easy to get discouraged. Everyone does."
      Everyone, everyone, I thought as I climbed into bed. I'm not everyone. Why is there no one else like me? Why do I have to be like everyone else?
      Stevie was right, but I didn't want to admit it. I had become rigid. There was no flexibility in my attitude, no desire to compromise. There was a move away from other people, from putting my trust in them. It seemed natural to me, to rely only on myself.
      After a long silence, Stevie was suddenly lecturing me. He didn't approve of me. He pitied the bareness of my life, and he wanted to help. But he didn't realize that all he had to do was to be my friend again. That's all, I told myself. Then things would be the way they used to be. Still, I had got the picture. What he'd been saying tonight was that we couldn't go back. And I had to change.
      I closed my eyes, dismissing that thought. A pair of lovers came to me and I made them go through the motions. Then, more quickly than usual, I fell asleep.