Then they were nearing home, and she put her hand to his, to wake him, and as he had done that morning on the couch, he gasped his way back to consciousness, regarding her, for a startled moment, as someone he did not know and had not seen before.
“Our stop,” she said, her eyes pleading with him, and he nodded.
“Down we go,” he said, and they lurched towards the stairs.
Then they were home and he was himself again. Or his public self, or his social self; Catherine was beginning to have trouble remembering all of his selves. Amy and Lorraine were there, and Cillian had brought hash, so the air was giddy, the night seemed young, and in their excitement James was in the middle of them, chatting and teasing and making everyone snort and shriek and double over with laughter; he was witty and wizard-tongued and quick as a trap. And he was all sweet, mischievous physicality: all hugs, all nuzzles, his arms thrown so happily around the girls.
It was beautiful. It was whirlwind. He was full of laughter, and Catherine saw it softening his face: the sheer joy of being with these people, the way it lifted something, clear and clean, off of his heart. And she hated herself in that moment, because she felt jealous of them; she wanted him back to herself. Not the dark, quiet version, not the version she had been with all day, the James who had worried her and exhausted her, the James with whom things had, impossibly, become tense and strained; she wanted this James. She wanted the brilliant, funny, vibrant James, lit up with enjoyment, teeming with it, and she wanted him to be only her friend. She did not want him to love the others this much, to take such unbridled pleasure in their presence. It was not that she did not want him to be happy; it was that she could not deal with the idea that it was others who could make him happy, as he seemed to be now. She wanted him to be only her friend. She wanted the best of his attention; she wanted the highest pitch of his energy; she wanted to be the reason he was fascinated, delighted, amused. And here were all the others, stealing this ground from her, and she resented them for it, and she resented James, for being taken in.
And yet they were his oldest friends.
And yet she was his closest friend; she knew that.
And yet.
And yet?
The following Thursday, she came home late from the TN office to find James alone in the house, sprawled on the couch. He was watching No Disco; something hazy and bleached-out flickered on the screen as a man strummed a guitar, singing something about a shoreline. James lifted a hand in greeting.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” Catherine said, dropping her bag.
He shrugged. “I didn’t. I’m watching this. Listen to this fella.”
“What?”
“His voice. Listen to it. I’ve never heard of him before.”
“I don’t know any of the music they play on that program.”
Finally now he looked at her. “How’s our Robert Emmet? Any more rebellions in the pipeline?”
Catherine shook her head. “I didn’t see much of him. It was crazy in there — they’re three days late going to print.”
“Did you not go for a drink afterwards?”
“Afterwards?” Catherine said with a snort. “They’re still at it. They’ll be there all night.”
“Oh. Some other time, then.”
His attention was fixed again on the television, his head lolling back. The guy was singing now, about shining, repeating the word over and over. Had James meant that sarcastically, that thing about going for a drink with Emmet? Was he actually talking about it as casually as this? She watched him, but he seemed absorbed in the music video, locked onto the man’s voice, its throaty, gentle whine. She wondered if he was drunk, if he had been drinking wine with the girls, maybe, or if he was stoned on some of Cillian’s hash, but there were no glasses in evidence, just a mug of tea on the floor in front of him, and no smell on the air. The music video ended and the program presenter came on with his eager patter; James sighed and clapped a hand down on the couch.
“Fuck, I’m worn out.”
“What did you get up to?”
“I went over to Thomas Street, actually, to see a place.”
“A place?” she said dumbly.
“A place to rent. Someone Aidan knows told him about it, and he told me. It’s in a woman’s house, but I’d have the whole upstairs.”
The words seemed to come apart in front of her as though on a wet page. “Sorry, what? What do you mean? Like, a place to live?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking at her as though he was waiting for her to deliver a punchline. “Sure, you knew I—”
“I thought you meant next month,” she said, hearing herself babble. “I thought you’d stay until the end of this month anyway.” She cast about for the rationale she knew to be in her head, somewhere, and then she found it, and she almost shouted in triumph. “The rent on any place is going to be from the first of the month. You can’t move in somewhere before the month is up.”
“Ah, no,” he said mildly, shaking his head. “The woman’s fine about that. She says I can move in tomorrow if I want to. She’s just keen to get someone in. The last fella bolted on her, I think.”
“But you’re not going tomorrow, are you? I have my Doonan interview tomorrow!”
He looked at her, frowning. “What difference does that make?”
She stammered. What difference did it make? “I won’t be able to help you with your stuff,” she blurted. “And then I have to go home for the weekend afterwards, because it’s Mother’s Day.”
“Oh, yes, Mother’s Day,” he said drily. “I must remember to give my old darling a call.”
“James, you don’t have to move tomorrow,” she said desperately. “Please don’t go that soon.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just moving into my own place. Sure I have to do that. I have to get out from under your feet.”
“You’re not—”
“Yes, I am,” he cut across her. “Catherine. I’m under everybody’s feet.”
“Nobody minds!”
“I mind. And I mind sleeping on a couch, too. I wake up sounding like my old fella, moaning and groaning in the morning.” He stretched his arms up high. “So. You got the paper sent to bed.”
“Well. My part of it, at least.”
“And yet you didn’t take the opportunity to stick around and maybe go to bed with anyone yourself?” He clicked his tongue. “What are we going to do with you?”
“I wanted to come home. Jesus. Am I not even allowed to do that now?”
“You’re allowed to do whatever you like, Catherine,” he said, stretching his arms out wide now, yawning. “That’s the whole point.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Yeah, well,” he mimicked her. He flashed her a smile. Catherine stared at it. Moonfoam and silver, the guy on the television sang.
6
Michael Doonan was already in the bar of the Central Hotel when Catherine got there, ten minutes before the appointed time. He was sitting on one of the long couches by the fireplace, wearing a brown polo neck and faded jeans, and he was pouring tea from a pot on the low table in front of him. His gray hair was shoulder-length, and though he was bald on top, the tresses were surprisingly thick and full; they also looked freshly groomed. Catherine, who had come racing into the room, intending to set herself up at one of the more private tables in the corner, came to a stop and backtracked a couple of steps, and it was at that moment that he noticed her, and clearly realized who she was; he gave her a cool, appraising nod, and patted the couch cushion. Catherine waved, too eagerly, and lurched forward.