Kaleidoscope ~ The Circle When she woke, it was almost noon. She started to jump out of bed and realized there was no need. The office didn't beckon, nor the courthouse; there were no briefs to be written, no notes to be organized. Worse, there was no hope of indulging the secret side of her life. She had a momentary flash of resentment for a fate which seemed to enjoy tormenting mortals with bad timing. This could have been a day spent below, but it didn't occur to her to blame Vincent, who had imposed this exile. It hurt him, she knew, as much as it hurt her - more, because he would assault himself with reasons, real or imagined, that had made it necessary, reasons that she knew would place the guilt squarely on his own broad shoulders.
Cynthia Hatch
Part VIII
She tried briefly to blame herself if she hadn't succumbed to the moment, hadn't given free rein to her feelings, but no - it was ridiculous. What had come over her, over both of them, was as elemental and invincible as the tides. It required no agreement from either participant: it just was.
If it weren't so tragic, his conviction that he'd been listening only to his own needs would have been laughable. No sooner had some part of her longed for his touch, than he was offering it; his kisses rained on the places that thirsted for them as surely as if he'd been following a map of her desire. That his power and urgency could be channeled into such tenderness brought tears to her eyes. If they had continued. . . If he had any comprehension of where he'd taken her in those few precious minutes. . . Despite the frigid air in the apartment, she swung out of bed and hurried to the refuge of a cold shower.
She cleaned the apartment and did a week's laundry, carefully washing the clothes Jamie had lent her, hanging them out on the terrace to dry. She wondered if they would; this afternoon the sky was gray with fat, listless clouds, too uninteresting to produce rain, but the air was still sultry. She busied herself, rearranging drawers, polishing shoes, anything to control the impulse to go below.
She longed to talk to him, but experience had taught her that it would be useless until he came to terms with his own vision of the situation. If only he didn't draw his conclusion from the part of him he kept hidden, a part she could never confront, because he protected her from it. There was so much she didn't know. How long would it be till she saw him again? The question made her illogically check the front door just in case a note had been slipped under it, summoning her below; there was nothing. Well, she told herself with grim irony, I could always hang out in bad neighborhood and wait for somebody to attack me. Whatever the distance between them, she knew he wouldn't fail to come for her, if she was in trouble.
She sighed and dialed Jenny's number. “Jen, it's Cathy.”
“You got back early!”
“Actually, I never went. We got a break in the case.”
"That's terrific, so what are you doing?”
“As a matter of fact, I was just thinking of getting myself mugged."
“God, you must really be bored. You want to get together?”
“Sounds like a good idea. Actually, I thought I might try something really decadent, like whipping up a soufflé. Want to come eat it?”
“Grand Marnier?"
“Definitely - with chocolate sauce."
"You are depressed. Tell you what - why don't I stop at the deli and pick up some pate and brie and all that good stuff? We'll get fat and bitch about men, okay?”
“Sounds great. I'll see you when you get here. Bye.”
When Jenny arrived an hour later, Catherine met her at the door with a wire whisk in her hand.
“You whip your egg whites by hand?" Jenny greeted her.
“Yeah, I beat the daylights out of them. It's good therapy. Here, let me help you with that.” She peered into one of the grocery bags. “Champagne? And I thought I was being decadent. What's the occasion?”
“No occasion. There aren't any occasions anymore -just routines."
“Oh-oh, sounds like a case of the summer blahs to me. What's happening?” They put the bags on the counter and began to unwrap an assortment of frivolous food.
“Nothing's happening. Do you ever feel like life is going on for other people, and you're just stuck on the sidelines, waiting and getting older, and you can't do a thing about it?”
“Constantly. But you're doing great with your job.”
“Yeah, I know. I even enjoy it most of the time, but a lot of it is just so much B.S., you know? Everybody manipulating and scheming and taking their little ego trips. I'm sure you've got the same hassles where you are. At least in the publishing business people, don't generally try to kill you.”
“See,” Catherine told her, you've got it easy, and I'll bet you don't have a boss whose idea of gourmet food is a chocolate-covered cheese nugget.”
“Let me guess - with marinara saucer?"
"Please, don't suggest it to him. Here.” She brought out plates and goblets, and they took the cold supper to the dining table. Even when they were both feeling down, they could always make each other laugh. It felt good, and they lingered over the meal, joking and gossiping."Do you realize we’ve killed an entire bottle of champagne?” Catherine said finally. “I better put the soufflé in the oven before I'm too tipsy to do it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jenny advised. "You don’t have to drive anywhere, and bring the other bottle while you’re in there.” She picked up a TV magazine and flipped to the Sunday schedule. “Guess what’s about to start,” she called. ‘“Casablanca’. Can you stand it one more time?”
“Sure, I could use a good cry.”
They sat on the floor and watched the movie, making comments at the actors between bites of dessert. ‘Look at this stuff,” Jenny said during a commercial break. "There’s gobs of it left. It’s a crime to waste i t. Here - finish it up.”
“Are you kidding? I’m rolling from side to side now - like a giant ball.”
"That’s just cause you’re half soused. You always were a cheap drunk, Cath.”
“Thanks. Why don’t you finish it? Then at least I'll have somebody to shop with in the pretty and plump department."
“I wonder if it’s good for anything besides major calories. Maybe you could use it for mousse - lots of body.”
“Take it home and try it. You can let me know."
The movie resumed, and the final scene left them just as teary-eyed as it had in college days.
“He’s not your standard hunk, but he sure is sexy.” Jenny sighed.
“Who?” Catherine said into her champagne glass.
“Bogie, of course. Who did you think I meant, Peter Lorre?"’
‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
Jenny wiped her eyes. “Somehow every time I see it, I hope it's going to end differently - just once. You know, Bogie gives in, sweeps her off her feet and they go off into the fog to live happily ever after. Did you ever wish that, or am I the last hopeless romantic in the city of New York?”
"I never wished that,” Catherine answered. staring hard at the glass in her hand, which insisted on duplicating itself in a troublesome way.
“Oh. God. that's what I was afraid of,” Jenny said mournfully. "I'm the last of a dying breed.”
“I always thought,” Catherine continued, trying not to slur the words, "that just after the plane lands, Paul Henreid does something spectacularly brave, and he gets killed. He dies a national hero, and lngrid cries a few tears and files back to Bogie. Then they live happily ever after.”
"You're worse than me, Chandler. A terminal romantic.”
“No, I'm not. I was told I was far too cynical.”
“Who told you that?”
“Some guy - who hangs around with dead people.”
“I can't stand it!” Jenny slapped the rug for emphasis. “Why does your life always sound so much more interesting than mine?”
“I don't know.” Catherine laughed. She really did need to watch what she was saying, “What about Brad? He sounds interesting. Are you still seeing him?”
“Sort of. I don't know, Cath. It doesn't feel right somehow. I'm not sure why. He's very nice --"
"Oh-oh, the kiss of death,” Catherine moaned.
“No, really, he is nice, and he's very bright, if you don't count the time he spends trying to beat the lottery. We like the same people, and he's a great kisser, and -"
Catherine was hit by a fit of the giggles.
“You are drunk,” Jenny informed her. "What's so funny?”
“I was just thinking about how we used to do that in school. Remember? We'd rate boys by how good they were at kissing and pass the scores around the dorm. God, we were obnoxious.”
"Yeah, and you and I kept fudging the numbers, so Randel Finster came out looking like God's gift to women - and we had the pick of the rest of the field.” They were both laughing now like teenagers.
“Well, it made Randel Finster's freshman year.”
“You're right, we were horrible, but I'm serious, Brad's a good lover. He's patient, you know? I mean it takes me forever, but old Brad - he hangs in there.” Jenny paused. “So to speak.”
Both of them snorted at once, rolling on the floor with raucous laughter. When they had recovered, Jenny went on. “You know what I mean. Maybe its nature's way of evening things out: we get cramps; men have to work like the devil to get us to climax.”
Catherine had closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the couch - "Did you ever have one without all that - just from somebody kissing you?"
‘Yeah, dream on. Actually, I don't think I'd like the idea."
“Why?” she smiled.
"Well, any guy who could pull that off would have to be some type of Don Juan, you know? The kind who practices his technique on anything that moves. You'd never be able to trust him. That type thinks 'faithful' is some sort of 'F' word.”
“I don't think that's' it.” Catherine corrected her dreamily. "I think a lot of it's in your mind, and when you love someone so much that everything he says or does affects you, you're already halfway there." Through the soft fog of the champagne, she became dimly aware that her companion had sat up eagerly beside her.
“Chandler, you're talking about something that really happened! Come on, out with it. Who is this guy?”
Her friend's gleeful insistence sobered her, and she opened her eyes. “No one,” she said. “Just a fantasy.”
"Oh,” Jenny sat back, deflated. “Your fantasies are better than my reality. I don't know what I keep hoping for - somebody on a white charger to take me away from all this, shooting stars, roses - all that corny stuff. I guess you can take the feminist out of the girl, etc.”
"There's nothing wrong with hoping, Jen. Sometimes its all we've got. Hey, how about a cup of coffee?”
"Sounds good. Ill pick up this mess.”
When they'd had their coffee and washed up, Catherine walked her to the door. “I'm really glad you came over, Jen. I haven't laughed so much in a long time.”
"I know. It helps to get a little crazy sometimes. Call me next week?” Jenny hugged her and was gone.
She locked the door and flipped off the lights, her eyes going automatically to the balcony doors. The nighttime brilliance of the city lent a soft glow to the curtains, but no shadow fell across them. There was no tapping on the glass.