Original Fiction: sing high tower of violets
© unknown
sing high tower of violets
catherine, this is the 80s
for idealfacade.
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Her name is Catherine. (or was, depending on the book you read: page 92 says it all, promise)
Her page is folded, a second chance- she was always the favorite of Thomas Moore.
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This time she isn’t his brother’s wife.
And it’s 1985, mid-year and strong, Huey Lewis & the News sings: i want a new drug, one that does what it should.
Catherine’s a quiet girl and gets her AIDS test done.
She’s Catholic, you know. But that means nothing.
-
He sits behind her in Art.
A whisper: help?
Her lips curl. No.
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You’re not every other girl, Maggie denies that she’s in love with Henry’s Brandon, her arms in front of her chest and focusing on her matter.
Catherine, sighs, swings- it’s the park, they should be in theology but it’s just a class and she can suffer for a day. Maybe two.
I have the right to say no.
Maggie grins.
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Henry, oh Henry.
Catherine laughs as she swings past him. Her friends whisper in caresses: milkshakes, Cathy, milkshakes that’s all as if they’re begging her to that chance for the moment.
There’s a note in her locker, by noon, and by the end of the day she sweeps past him with one smile.
The note slips from her fingertips and into the trashcan by his hip.
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There’s one gift.
It’s a cross, silver and nestled between two ends of a blue box. She doesn’t touch it, her eyes wide for a moment.
And then she closes it.
I can’t, she says. I won’t, she thinks.
He sighs.
-
Her cousin Charlie disappears in the end of February.
It wasn’t his turn, her mother begs God.
(an emperor lives once)
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Why not?
He sees her once or twice.
And she laughs because, already, he thinks her a sad girl: You’re going to break my heart again, she shrugs.
Again?- he blinks, but somehow, they both know that he knows. Past transgressions stain his fingertips and she’s the first, always, the circle strives to break.
Catherine shakes her head, her lips brushing against his forehead.
It will not happen again, she breathes.
-
Lebanon is the news.
Henry loses a brother, a reporter, and of course, they all know. Catherine steps forward this once, her fingers brushing his arm.
I’m sorry, she murmurs.
His eyes close.
-
The drug of choice: cocaine.
He powders his noses as she passes- she shakes her head, knowing the fallen before they even start.
This is motivation, she tells herself.
-
Of course, he loses interest.
Or he’d like her to believe- he tells her best friend: maybe, and Maggie laughs delightedly at him because everyone knows that Catherine is stubborn.
She’s practical in her cravings, her hands to herself- fear in God, fear in Mother, and really, it’s about the doctrine she’s promised herself to.
Will you humor me?- Henry’s hand is on her hip again, his fingers spread as she hums Genesis because she knows he hates them. She feels the freedom, for whatever reason, tasting promises endlessness.
She shakes her head, her eyes holding his- he’s high, nervous, and his fingers are shaking against her skirt. No.
She watches the change in his face, wondering why it feels memorized already. Could she have loved him? Already, by mistake, the answer swings back and forth in front of her. She slights forward, her hand curling-
No, she says, I shouldn’t.
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Her name is Anne. And everyone else whispers.
I know, Catherine tells Maggie.
Maggie looks down the hall, past the circle, as they settle against the lockers. Her fingers sway around Catherine’s wrist.
Bowie’s in a week, she offers.
Catherine watches Henry’s hand disappear under Anne’s skirt.
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Of course, she wonders.
Anne passes her an invitation, between periods, a wicked smile slitting her mouth as she disappears down the hall.
She keeps the first one.
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On Sundays, Father preaches indulgence.
Catherine memorizes the shifts in her mother’s hands, round and round and round the rosary, dizzying at times- she has to look away.
Holy Mother.
Her lashes kiss her eyes close, her nails scrapping against her Sunday skirt. This is a staple, she tells herself, even with the temptation to stray.
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He looks at you still, Anne sings. And I wanted to see.
Her teeth are white against Catherine’s breasts, humming try it, try it as her lips close of her nipple.
Catherine moans, giggling: father forgive me.
(i only tried it once)
-
In History, time still stinks of war and Reagan’s doctrines.
Catherine’s a skeptic at heart, the unfortunate tendency to second guess coats a greater sense of distrust for other people. The economy is up and down and Mother and Papa are wondering if they should move back to Europe.
Maggie passes her a note and she watches it as it drops into the fold of her textbook, between the Russians and Vietnam. Her fingers sing against the words, over her name, and she pulls it open.
Catherine: reveals another note.
Her best friend’s lips part, a nod tipping up to the front of the classroom. Henry reeks between the two of them and she sighs.
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Coffee?
She blinks. Why?
Henry’s grin is wide, Anne nowhere near between the two of them, and she leans against his locker like she might belong there.
King and Queen, you and I- his pen blurred after I but she kept the note anyway, letting it burn a hole at the bottom of her bag.
(as long as it’s innocent, the priest sighs, indulge)
Her lips purse. And again: why?
He shrugs, boyish and sheepish and with thick adjectives of ill-regrettable charm that he’s so good at. Ask any girl and they’ll tell you that he swallows French for romance. His interest is flattering, but destined to die.
I don’t believe you, he says, that you can’t love me.
And she laughs, shaking her head.
Silly boy, she’s older.
-
A long time ago, la reina sits alone, in prayer.
Her hands are pale and soft, her finger curled as her eyes close. She’s cloistered, of course, the silence of the candles mocking her turn, her devotion, and her simple wish for happiness.
One day, again, she breathes, I will take my chance back.
e.
when she was a girl
bill callahan| diamond dancer
muse| thoughts of a dying atheist
bonnie prince billy| i see a darkness
margaret & the nuclear so and so’s| quiet as a mouse
metric| calculation theme