“Is that how you explain Catherine?”

“I’ve stopped trying to explain Catherine.”

“Why don’t you get the fuck out?”

But he doesn’t come back with the answer I expect.

“Why don’t you?”

What can I do but give the bullshit? Not all tickets are made out of paper.

19

Did I tell you about the time we went to this medium? This woman held Catherine’s hand and said, “You have a strong love line. Ah, you have a wonderful love line!”

Catherine sniggered because she knew what she was capable of and the woman didn’t.

The woman just sat there holding Catherine’s hand like she thought the love line would rub off on her.

But then her look changed, and she pushed Catherine’s hand out of hers. She pressed her palm to the top of her head and ran.

“And you thought she was a faker,” Catherine said. “Nobody can be a faker and fly like that.”

20

“Why won’t you spend the night with me? It’s been so long since we’ve made love in the dark. Stay with me. I want to hold you in the dark again.”

She does not mean for me to hear, but I have come around the corner and into the narrow hallway where they are standing against opposite walls. I back out.

“Come on, you were going to the bathroom, weren’t you?” snaps Ernest.

I walk in the tender space between them.

21

It’s Catherine’s birthday, and there’s a birthday cake on the table.

“Go on and cut the cake,” Ernest says. “Do you want me to cut it?”

“No.” She plunges the plastic knife in and gives Ernest the biggest piece.

“The biggest piece to the greatest love.”

There are strawberries and pineapples on top.

“I’d give up everything in a minute if Ernest wanted me to,” she says.

“Give what up?” he asks.

“You know what. My work, my sculpture, or anything else.”

“I’ve never asked you to give anything up for me. That’s silly,” he says, eating his cake. “Why would I ask you to give anything up?”

“Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Oh, that was wrong!” Catherine storms out.

Ernest, bewildered, cake falling from his mouth, turns to me. “What’s this foolishness now? Now what?”

“I’ll go see,” I say.

Catherine is standing in the hall in front of the bathroom door with blood on her hands.

Perhaps I’ve been wrong. Perhaps she can be self-destructive too.

“Catherine!”

“It’s only my period started. I don’t even know what these fucking people call sanitary napkins. What’s their word for a sanitary napkin?”

I take off my half-slip, tear it for her, make a pad for her to use.

“We’ll walk down the hill and find out what the hell they do call them,” I say.

Catherine holds her hands under the faucet and lets cold water run on them.

“Betcha thought I’d pulled a Gwendola, didn’t ya?”

I say nothing. I study the water.

“Suppose I did? Do you think he’d forget I’m here?”