"Catie's Debris" - A (Long) Short Story

She wears her hair up now – every day in the same housewife bun, as though letting her blonde waves loose would change who she is, would make her who she used to be. Most mornings, when she’s getting ready for the day ahead, I catch a glimpse of her through the crack in the bathroom door. Her hair sits around her shoulders and she stares intently at her reflection, her hands gripping the bathroom sink like she might fall over without something to hold her up. This morning, she catches me staring in the mirror, and I can see the panic in her eyes. Her face freezes over in a neutral mask and she pushes the door closed.

But I lie back against our expensive goose down pillows, and I can still see her. I’ve got her secret routine committed to memory. Behind the door, my wife grips the porcelain with one hand, while the other slowly sweeps her hair onto one shoulder. That hand trembles as it touches the hollow behind her ear and runs a familiar trail down her neck to her collar bone. This is the last trail his hands ever followed on her skin. She closes her eyes now, because the heat prickling behind them is a threat of tears. She returns both of her hands to the cold sink edge, and with a wavering breath, she strengthens her grip, then uses the sink to propel herself away from the mirror. She has learned how to construct her neat up-do without so much as a glance at the glass. When she’s done, she turns back to the mirror and stares at this new reflection with a cold indifference. This routine is the only indicator that my wife is unhappy. Seconds later, she emerges from the bathroom in her silk bathrobe, a Stepford smile plastered across her face. She uses some term of endearment – this morning I’m “honey” – and asks what I’d like for breakfast. A better man would comfort her, but I smile and ask her to put some toast on for me, tell her that I’ll be right out.

Sometimes, when I get dressed for work, I don’t put my shoes on straight away. I try to catch Catherine with her guard down again, maybe find her staring out the window, waiting for him to land on our neatly manicured lawn. But there she is – my beautiful wife, serving me waffles with a smile, when I only wanted toast. Overcompensating. The heel on my black brogues always click smartly against the wooden floors in the hallway, and I used to love that sound, but now I see it as a giveaway in this grown-up game of emotional hide and seek. My shoes sit at the foot of the bed, and I begin my own secret routine by staring at them for several minutes. As usual, I contemplate the simple, seemingly insignificant journey I’m about to make to the kitchen. Do I really want to be part of a marriage based on hiding everything from each other at all cost? Am I really the kind of husband who will wear socks to muffle my footsteps, so I can sneak up on my wife as she cries over the stove? I stare at my shoes as if the answer is about to pop out of one of them. I stare. I turn, and I walk to the kitchen, slowly, in my socks. I round the corner and - no. There she is, as always, one hand on a chair, the other at her side, a plate of waffles on the table and the usual tight smile on her face.

“What took you so long, honey?”

She asks, but doesn’t expect an answer, doesn’t wait for it. She sits down in the seat beside mine and nurses a cup of black coffee in her hands. I lower myself into my chair, keeping my eyes on her. She is suddenly entranced by the steaming liquid in the cup, staring into it as one might gaze into a crystal ball. I drop my own gaze to her hands, the only flaw in her 50’s housewife appearance. They are still scarred with thin silvery lines and hardened by rough skin from her warring days. The thing you have to understand is that this woman is not Catie. This is Catherine. Catie wore jeans and black boots, she cursed like a sailor, she was a smartarse. She would never serve her husband waffles with a smile plastered across her face. Catie would never even have gotten married. My Catie was his Catie, his human sidekick- nothing spectacular about her but the fact that she was so spectacular. A teeny blonde with waist-length hair and big blue eyes, she looked the way Lewis Carroll’s Alice would have if she were created by Scorcese. My eyes find Catherine’s, but hers are still averted, pale eyelashes almost brushing her dusty rose cheekbones as she holds her gaze down. The name tumbles over my lips before I can stop myself:

“Catie?”

She starts. I jump. For just a moment, she looks up at me and it’s as though the shock has jolted some of that colour, that deep, deep blue back into her eyes.

“What?” She asks flatly. I can hear a hint of my old Catie in her aggressive tone.

“I – ” I begin, but then foolishly allow myself to blink, and just like that the deep blue in her eyes has clouded over again. I register the disappointment, feel it invade my concentration.

“I forgot what I was going to say.” I reply truthfully.

Catie nods, and turns away. I eat my waffles in silence.

I don’t even like waffles. Too sweet for such an early hour, really. I eat them anyway, a true testament to the passive-aggressive state of our marriage. I’m getting fat. My stomach is as rounded as an expectant mother’s, and I don’t care, because it doesn’t make a difference to her either. On the rare occasion that our bare skin touches, in the dark, beneath our Egyptian cotton, it’s not me that she sees anyway. Admitting this to myself raises a dry lump in my throat, and swallowing my bite of waffle is needlessly painful.

“I’m off.” I announce hoarsely.

“You haven’t finished your breakfast.” She doesn’t even look up.

“Sorry.”

She tilts her head, offering me her cheek, because this is what married couples do. They kiss each other goodbye in the mornings, and wish each other a good day.

“Have a good day, honey.”

I return the sentiment half-heartedly, and pad back into the bedroom to retrieve my treacherous shoes. On my way to the front door, I have to pass by the kitchen again, and there’s an awkward moment where neither of us knows whether to say goodbye again. It is made more awkward by the fact that neither of us do. I slam the door behind me, and all the tension of walking on egg shells ebbs away. But I know that I will still think about her all day. Not my wife, no, not Catherine. No. I will spend my day tormented by thoughts of my ass-kicking heroine. My Catie.

I’m sitting at my desk on the phone to Rob from accounts, telling him for the fourth time that no, I didn’t list a personal dinner as a business expense, that it was a business dinner, that he could ask anyone in the office who had heard of my recent success in landing a huge client during said dinner. Eventually, I hang up on him mid-rant. We’ve known each other since we were both twelve years old, when Rob and his buddies would treat me to a morning ‘swirlie’ every day. Nothing like the evacuation of a toilet bowl around your head to wake you up before class. Back in those days, Rob had it out for me for the same reasons that any ‘jock’ archetype might bully any other kid – I was different. I was a ‘nerd’. I poured over comic books and had the skinny limbs of a nine year old girl. These days, he hassles me for the same reason any other middle-aged man might hassle another – jealousy. I married the girl of my dreams. Well, Catie was the girl of everyone’s dreams. I’m pretty sure that most of the male graduates of the class of ’98 have been in love with her since kindergarten. At seventeen, I couldn’t believe my luck that she – and he – even wanted me around. They were both so vibrant and colourful that they could have walked out of the pages of one of my comics. In fact, when I found out what he was, I wrote my own comic book. I almost had it published, too, only he told me it was too risky, that it could expose his true identity. I was the Jimmy Olsen to his Superman, and sometimes I wonder if I didn’t love him just as much as I love her. Maybe I did. Maybe I still do. But I hate him too. He always saw my feelings for her as endearing, but meaningless, always acted as though it was insane to think she could ever belong to anyone but him. And then he left her. Gave her up. Catie! I heard him do it too. He spun the usual superhero bullshit – “We can’t be together, blah blah blah, it’s for the greater good, blah blah blah, I couldn’t live with myself if anything ever happened to you, and so on and so forth.”  My poor Catie’s heart broke for the supposed nobility of a man who really just wanted to enjoy his newfound glory. If she hadn’t burned my comic book collection the week after he left, I would have shown her. I would have found that same tired speech delivered by every superhero imagined into existence, and I would have shown her. Wouldn’t I? I loved him, too.

When the clock strikes 7pm, the janitor outside my office drops any pretence of politeness. He sticks his head around the door and informs me that he’s locking up in ten minutes, with or without me in the building. I sigh, knowing I can’t put off the journey home any longer. Catherine will be standing at the kitchen table, ready to present me with tonight’s dinner and the counterfeit smile on her face. As I climb into my Jeep and start the engine, I try not to dwell on my wife’s facial expression. In my mind’s eye, my gaze instead travels down her arm to the chair, and lower, to the meal laid out on the table. It might be roast chicken with mash and veg. No – it’s summer. Too warm. She’ll have made some sort of salad, maybe. I pull in at the local off-license and pick up a bottle of chardonnay. If we have a glass or two each, we might be able to hold a conversation for longer than five minutes. I roll slowly up the driveway, the little pebbles crunching beneath the tires to announce my arrival to Catherine. Sometimes she’ll bring her smile to the front door when she hears me coming. Not tonight, though. I put on the brakes, take a moment to gather myself. I try to step out of the car, misjudge my footing and fall with my limbs flailing. Dust explodes around me, settling snugly into the fibers of my expensive grey suit. Perfect. Still sprawled on the ground, I look around for the offending rock amongst the pebbles, but what I see near enough stops my heart.

Inches away from my feet sits a mini-crater, nestled into the garden pebbles – a small, empty indent where something heavy must have landed.

I’ve seen marks like this before.

He’s back. A nasty voice at the back of my head hisses over and over. Another, sweeter voice whispers a little softer. He’s back.

The longer I sit here in the dirt, the more likely it is that they’ll come outside to look for me.

I get up and brush myself off. I grab the wine from the car and slam the door, press the ‘lock’ button on my keys. I stop mid-step. I set my briefcase down on the car bonnet and use my keys to jam the cork into the wine bottle, then set the bottle to my lips and glug the whole thing right back. I can’t even taste it. I’m not a big drinker, but something tells me I’ll need to be numb, indifferent, to cope with whatever it is that waits for me inside. Licking the last of the wine from my lips, I look around for somewhere to stash the bottle until I can dispose of it later. I smile at my genius and kneel down to slide it behind the front left wheel of the Jeep.

“Long time, buddy.”

At the sound of his voice, my body reacts of its own accord, straightening bolt upright, then crumpling under the weight of the alcohol, so that I stumble unevenly towards him.

“Whoa, take it easy there!” He laughs heartily. It sounds like he has a megaphone to his throat. He strides towards me, holding out a hand for me to grab on to. I do so, without even thinking, then curse myself harshly as he supports my weight all the way back to the door.

There Catherine stands, with her “my-hero” look lighting up her face as she gazes at him. Only...that’s not Catherine. This is Catie. My knees weaken briefly, and I stumble again. He catches me, raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. One of two men in our little threesome, and I was always the damsel in distress. Catie laughs now, as he leads me to the living room and sets me down on the couch. As my wife, she would occasionally treat me to a tinkling laugh, or a girlish giggle, so unlike the uninhibited guffaw I fell in love with. This laugh is somewhere in between, like she’s self-conscious, I think. Not quite my wife, but still not entirely back to being the Hero’s Girlfriend. This makes my mind race. I know I’m over-thinking it - this insignificant detail, the sound of her laugh - but I can’t help it. It could mean so much. It could mean she’s not sure she wants to leave me. It might mean the small part of Catie that still existed throughout our marriage loved us both, or that now Catherine, who did love me, still exists in a small part of Catie. I want to believe what I’m telling myself, but the truth inevitably bubbles to the surface of my wine soaked mind. She knows, now, what I always knew – that he left her because he was bored. Sure, he loved her, and she was beautiful, smart, feisty, but she wasn’t enough for a Super Hero like him, adored by millions. With a girl like her already on his arm, how could he ever take full advantage at the sheer multitude of groupies throwing themselves at him daily?

They’re sitting on the plush couch across from me, the one that my first Christmas bonus from the firm paid for, and they’re opening a bottle of wine – No, champagne. He must have brought it. He pours the sparkling liquid into three flutes, and then makes a show of handing me one, remembering himself, and taking it back with a megaphone laugh. Catie laughs again, too, and I catch her eye. She knows that even I, the drunken fool, have caught the insecurity in that sound and I see a sort of defiant flash in her eyes. She throws her head back, and guffaws – a real Catie laugh. But the joke is over, and the sound is jarring, out of place. He looks at her, frowning confusedly, and they both sip their champagne awkwardly. I snort.

Catie glares at me.

“I think Howard might have made a quick pit stop at the pub.” She stage whispers to him. He chuckles, and leans forward to speak to me.

“Alright there, buddy?”

“Mmm’fine.” I slur, and with as much grace as I can manage, I swipe the flute from his hand and defiantly glug down the champagne.

They both stare at me for a moment, then he laughs, and tops us all up with a shrug. Catie gently settles him back into the couch, and folds her feet under her as she turns to speak to him, closing them both off in this exclusive, intimate bubble. And that’s it. They ignore me.

I know they’re waiting for any excuse to send the drunkard off to bed, but this is my house. I’m not going anywhere. I nurse my champagne slowly, glaring at Catie each time her eyes flick over me.

As long as I stay awake, I can keep an eye on them.

I tune in and out of their conversation, not bothering to contribute – my name is mentioned a few times, but neither of them is actually speaking to me. They’re taking a trip down memory lane, and I listen to their words, letting the wine flavoured mist settle over me and take me with them.

“Remember when we wrecked Dunnely’s automatons?” She asks with a light laugh, tapping his arm.

I remember.

The laboratory was vast and aluminium, like an exceptionally clinical kitchen. When we first crept in, the countertops were bare, and that struck me as suspicious, but neither of them would listen. After Dunnely emerged and revealed his plans to infiltrate society with his deadly mannequins, our hero opened fire. Catie and I hid behind a steel counter while he chased the villain down, bullets from both their guns raining with a deafening din on the steely tables. Catie was loading her own gun when some sort of laser shot a line of intense light directly between us, burning a fiery hole through the metal counter. We both stared at the melted metal for a moment – then she threw her head back and laughed, her white-blonde hair cascading in waves down her leather-clad back. I stared at her in bewilderment.

“Dunnely’s got a laser!” I told her, thinking maybe she didn’t understand. She patted my cheek roughly, and cocked her gun. Winking at me, she got to her feet and dove over the countertop.

“No!” I roared over the clanking bullets, reaching in vain for the tail of her jacket. “It’s too dangerous!”

But she was gone, and even then, I was too much of a coward to fight for her. That was why she would always choose him over me. When I eventually mustered the courage to peek over the roof of my hiding place, I saw them together, standing back to back in a glorious whirlwind of action. Dunnely was nowhere to be seen, and most of the counters had inexplicably crumpled, as though huge chunks had been bitten out of them. A throng of armed, aluminium monsters advanced on them, staggering when the couple’s bullets shot through their metal sheaths. They both looked fearless and beautiful. Catie’s hair was singed at the tips on one side, and the shoulder of his jacket was burned all the way through, revealing red, raw skin. They ducked and weaved through the bolts of burning light fired at them from all directions, and my heart leapt into my throat, my stomach contracting painfully.

I crumpled back to the ground, sheltered by the counter, my mind racing. I had to help them. I had to just bite the bullet, and run out there – for Catie.

Bite the bullet...

I suddenly remembered the heavy weight in my pocket, and fumbled for it, pulling out a black and silver revolver. He had given it to me, just in case.

I handled it clumsily, thumbing off the safety the way he had shown me, and wrapped my hand around the grip, placing my finger over the trigger guard. I took a deep breath, willing myself to get my knees. All of a sudden, there was a screech like ripping metal, piercing even above the scattering bullets. I clapped my hands over my ears, and squeezed my eyes shut, and next thing I knew, I was being yanked back against the counter, my back slamming into it hard. Something cold and solid snaked tightly around my chest, and I opened my eyes wide to see a silvery metal arm emerging from the counter.

I tried to scream for help, but another arm suddenly swung around and crushed my windpipe. The grip grew tighter and tighter, a hug from an anaconda, and I felt something in my chest crack, a sharp pain shooting through it. I could feel my eyes bugging, and my mind fogging. The gun slipped from my grip, and my vision went grey and blurry. Somewhere above my head, a bang rang out, and I suddenly crumpled sideways to the ground. Air filled my lungs too quickly, an agonising sting, and I gasped, colour flooding back into my sight. Catie sat before me, her long legs crossed and a grin plastered across her face as she dangled my revolver between her thumb and forefinger. I craned my neck and saw the mangled automaton spooning my body, a sizeable hole blown through its blank head.

But this isn’t what they’re talking about. The part of the memory they’re discussing doesn’t include my measly near-death experience. I close my eyes again, remembering the sight of them weaving through the deadly coloured lasers together, standing back to back, and fighting as a team. I mentally zoom in to Catie’s face; light eyebrows furrowed in concentration, blue eyes slitted, teeth embedded in her raspberry lower lip, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

When I open them again, I’m floating. The couch is no longer underneath me, and I’m drifting through the hallways. I’m suddenly aware of warm, thick arms underneath me, and I flop around slightly, half-heartedly trying to break free.

“Shhhh, buddy. Time for bed.”

Anger burns in my throat and mingles with the wine to make me feel nauseous. I let it happen, because I’m almost sure that I’m paralysed with poisonous alcohol. After a moment, I bounce onto cool, soft sheets, and immediately curl up, my eyes drooping. He flicks the light off as he leaves, and just before I drift off, I can see her slim figure silhouetted in the doorway. She’s watching me hesitantly. She’s let her hair down, and it’s falling around her pale shoulders, hanging even longer than I remember.

Catie.

“Goodnight, Howard.”

The door closes.

It must be hours later when I fall painfully to the floor, my stomach following me after a brief delay. I unsteadily raise myself on my elbows, bewildered. My skin chaffs against the carpet. There’s no carpet in our bedroom.

I grab the side of the bed and heave myself up, my organs lurching and my head swaying. I steady myself and look around.

This isn’t my bedroom. This is the guestroom.

The bed is smaller than our king sized monstrosity, and I’m used to having all the space I want to flail around in my sleep. Or so Catherine has told me.

Why am I in here?

That nasty little voice in my head tries to answer for me, but I fight it off. There’s a pint glass of water on the bedside locker, and I gulp it down, letting it clear my head a little.

I stare at the door for moment; it’s just visible in the creeping dawn light filtering in through the shutters. I assume they’re asleep by now. Maybe he’s on the couch.

I force myself to move, opening the door and creeping down the dark hallway. My bare feet stick uncomfortably on the smooth, expensive floorboards, the sweaty skin on my soles peeling away from the varnish with each step. I step slowly into the square archway of our living room. Nobody’s there.

Maybe he left.

I reach tentatively for the light switch, and the room brightens slowly until it’s almost blinding. Their glasses are still there, and mine. No coasters – Catherine is very strict about coasters. My heart thumps as my eyes travel to the plump white sofa, finding a dark grey sweater slung across its back.

Maybe he left it here?

There’s shoes kicked off beside the coffee table, but I don’t dwell on them too long, I tell myself they’re mine, ignoring the part of my brain that remember seeing my brogues by the guestroom door.

I retreat back down the hallway, passing the guestroom. I tell myself that he just put me in the wrong room, and now he’s gone, and I’m just going to get into bed with my wife, and go back to sleep.

I near the end of the corridor and my heart slows so suddenly that it’s like someone’s pumped my chest full of treacle. The door is wide open, and I can hear movement inside. Against my better judgement, I edge closer. I could walk away right now, and believe whatever I want to believe; but I don’t. I grab the doorframe with one slick hand, and drag myself closer.

As my head edges around the doorframe, something cracks painfully inside me.

Our stupidly expensive cotton sheets are strewn in a twisted mess across the floor, having been violently torn off. Various items of clothing lie nested in its bundles, discarded carelessly by the two figures on the bed.

Some masochistic part of me can’t help but look.

I can’t see much of him, but it’s still much more than I ever needed to see. His back is sinewy with muscles that nobody really needs, his arms tense as he holds her body up and against him, his face nestled into her soft white shoulder. Her head is arched back, her long, pale legs wrapped around his waist as they move together. Her nails claw slowly along his shoulders in the throes of ecstasy, and her head rolls forward in time with her moaning, her sapphire eyes wide open.

She spots me. I’m horrified because I wasn’t expecting this; her eyes are always closed when she’s with me.

She purses her lips, but doesn’t acknowledge me any further. She merely rolls their entwined figures over so that the soft curve of her back and her long blonde hair are all I can see.

She doesn’t care that I’ve seen them. I caught my wife in bed with another man, and she didn’t even stop. Something hot roils in my stomach, and I sprint for the guest bathroom, making it to the toilet bowl just in time. After what feels like hours of painful retching, I return to the guestroom, not even bothering to wash the bitter taste from my mouth.

I don’t even try to sleep, just stare blankly at the white ceiling. Our walls seem thinner now that I know what’s happening on the other side.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep, because I wake to bright light and the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen. This is going to be cripplingly awkward, but I know I’m going to have to face it.

It’s Catherine in there, I think to myself. He’s gone, and she’s making me sickly sweet waffles, and she’s going to ask me to forgive her.

Am I going to?

It’s one slip up in twelve years of marriage that, on paper at least, was blissfully perfect. I’ve seen her pained expression in our bathroom mirror every morning, and I know how hard she’s tried to be Catherine, to forget him.

I can allow her this one night, can’t I? If it would make her happy?

Not really knowing how I’m going to react to her tearful apologies, I make my way through the hallway, passing our framed wedding photographs on the walls for the third time that morning.

The smell of something hot and salty wafts past me. Not waffles, then.

I round the corner into the kitchen, and I can almost feel my jaw unravel and smack against the floor.

He’s still here. Catie is perched beside the cooker in his grey sweater, the baggy material sliding down to expose one porcelain-white shoulder. Her lips are parted in a genuine laugh, as she feeds a strip of bacon into his open mouth, like a bird feeding her chicks. He has one hand on the frying pan handle, and the other wrapped around the small of her back. He’s standing between her smooth, parted legs, and they lock around him as she pulls him closer for a kiss.

My mind involuntarily flashes back to my unintentional voyeurism, and I stagger slightly against the doorway. They look up. There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment where they both look slightly pained, but it passes immediately and they smile brightly at me with their movie star grins, still twined around one another.

“Hey buddy!” He calls. “You’re just in time; hangover cure coming right up!”

I sit down dazedly, not really sure what’s happening. Are they really going to pretend they’re not doing anything wrong?

Why haven’t I said anything yet? Why aren’t I smashing plates, punching his impossibly square face, insisting that she go and pack her bags?

I know why. I love them both too much to lose either of them ever again, and I hate myself for it.

A plate materialises in front of me, every inch of it covered in steaming, deliciously greasy food. Eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, butter-soaked toast, hash browns. My bulging stomach lurches, but I pick up my knife and fork, glad for something to do.

They slide into place opposite me, and all of a sudden, I realise that we’re playing house. And I’m the houseguest. This is a glimpse into an alternate universe where he never left, and I just continued to follow them around throughout my adult life. It’s like nothing ever changed.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks casually. Catie drowns her plate in ketchup.

I mumble something incoherent around my mouthful of rapidly cooling meat. It tastes sour on my dry tongue.

“You?” I return after I’ve swallowed.

He and Catie exchange a sly glance, and she blushes.

“I barely slept.” He shrugs, but I feel like he’s reached under the table and punched me in the gut. My mouthful of breakfast threatens to come hurtling back up.

When I get back from work that evening, he’s still there. One of them has packed suitcases full of my stuff, and they’re stacked neatly in the guestroom. It’s unclear whether they’ve just moved me out of the master bedroom, or if they actually expect me to leave. Either way, I’m not going.

The mortgage is paid off; I own this house. But I know I’ll never really ask them to leave.

They want to pretend he never left, and we never married, and they know I’m too cowardly to challenge them.

But this isn’t okay, and I can still protest in my own, meek little ways.

I’ll drink too much and be a nuisance. I’ll keep wearing my wedding ring. I won’t move out of my house.

That night, I drunkenly stumble back to my room when they start to snuggle on the couch. I planned to be disruptive, yes, but there was only so much I could take.

After a moment of staring at my expensive suitcases thoughtfully, I start to tear them open, ripping through their contents, not even entirely sure what I’m looking for. But I know when I find it – my hand closes around its cold metal grip.

I handle it clumsily, clicking off the safety the way he had shown me, and wrapping my hand around the grip, placing my finger over the trigger guard.

He had given it to me, just in case.