* * *
Still, she was excited. There was this feeling — and she was far from proud of it — of having been given something. Or rather, of discovering that she’d had something all along, without realizing it; like those priests in Dublin who’d had no idea that the painting in their dining room was a Caravaggio. She had never before known anyone who was gay. Nobody real. Nobody Irish, really, other than David Norris, the senator who had fought for the law to be changed, and it was not as if Catherine actually knew him. It had almost been a fantasy — a fantasy upon a fantasy — men who were not just loving, but so loving that they were able to love other men. Ridiculous, of course, but that was how she had thought of it; that was how she could not help thinking of it now. Feeling so warm towards James as he walked beside her; feeling such tenderness for him, such — it felt almost like gratitude. Because now — now what? Now she had one of her own? There it was, her own shallowness, and it was so depressing, and it was something that James could not know. That she was not good. Not — what was it? Not neutral. Not this solid ground for him, not for him this safe, trustworthy shore.
But this was something he would not know.
And anyway, maybe she could snap out of it. Maybe, when the novelty faded, maybe then she would become a better friend. Not this silly tourist, trotting beside him up the lane, trying not to stare.
He was talking about David Norris now, she realized; or rather, about that summer, four years previously, when the decriminalization had gone through. He had been fifteen then, and going into his Junior Cert year, and it had been hell, he told her; it had been horrible. Everyone around him talking about it, jeering about it, in school, on the school bus, in the shops in town, at the church gates, and on the radio programs, especially on the radio programs — listening to everyone else talking on the subject, it seemed endlessly, it seemed everywhere you turned, and being petrified that they would work out, somehow, that they were talking about you. That you were one of them.
“Exhibit A,” he said, as they reached the gates, and for a moment she thought he was talking about the house, or about his father’s freshly painted garage door, the vivid greenness of it, which was the thing which had caught her eye, making her think back to the babbling innocence of the night before; but he was talking about himself, she realized.
“But nobody found out,” she said, to try to comfort him, seeing immediately then what a stupid thing this had been to say. “I mean, then,” she said hurriedly. “I mean, nobody found out before you wanted them to.”
“No, they did not, Catherine,” he said, crossing to where they had left the blanket on the lawn; he gathered it up and tucked it under his arm, handing her a glass to carry into the house. “No, they did not. I made damn well sure of that.”
“Well, then,” she said, uncertainly, as they passed under his mother’s painted arch.
Then they had a night that Catherine would remember, she thought, until the day she died. Nothing much happened, except that everything was perfect. The night was perfect: it was warm enough to sit outside, and the sky was on fire as the sun went down, and then it was the coming of a delicate blanket of stars. James’s mother had left stuff for dinner in the fridge for them, and they made it together; Catherine fried steaks on the pan and James went out to the vegetable garden for salad things and came in with lettuce and scallions and radishes, caked with dry muck, and, from his mother’s greenhouse, tiny tomatoes which were a deep, shining red, and sweeter than any tomatoes Catherine had tasted before. In the dining-room cabinet, James found a bottle of wine.
They ate outside. As he filled their glasses, a tractor passed on the main road below. It was traveling fast; someone in a hurry to get home. Out of habit, Catherine craned her neck to see.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” James said, following her line of vision.
“Tractor!” Catherine said, in the tone she and her sister had always used at moments like this: it was the tone in which other people might shout “Fire!” It was an old joke between them. Now James stared at her.
“OK, darling,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Now we’re going to have to give the doctor a call, and have a little chat with him about your tablets.”
She laughed. “It’s a thing Ellen and I used to do. When we were younger, and at home during the summer; we had a thing for men in tractors. Young guys, obviously. Boys. Not old fellas. We weren’t that desperate.”
“Ah,” James said, nodding. “I see.”
“When one of us would hear a tractor coming up the lane, we’d roar out to the other, and the two of us would race to our viewing spot.”
“Your viewing spot?”
“Yeah. This bit of high ground behind the hedges at the front of our house. In the rhubarb patch. The two of us would crouch down there and look out through the hedge. It was the perfect height for spotting someone in a tractor cab.”
“My God. The planning that went into that.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I mean, meticulous. I mean, military precision, Catherine.”
“A fine art.”
“I love it,” James said, biting into one of the tiny tomatoes. “Of course it’s true, too. You can’t beat a young fella in a tractor cab.”
“You cannot,” Catherine said, and she felt again the thrill of this new state of being between them. She marveled at it; how much they had now — and how much more, stretching out ahead.
“Oh God, there are so many fellas I want to show you,” she said, sitting up in her chair with the force of the excitement. “Honestly, James. I can’t wait. All the spotting we’ll do.”
“Yes, indeed,” James said, reaching for his glass. “Rhubarb patch, here we come.”
“But in Dublin, I mean, in college, and…” Catherine shook her head. “It’s just so brilliant, James. It’s just…”
The wine was at her already, she knew; it was the reason she was gushing at him like this. But she was glad of it. It was allowing her to move. It was giving her the words — or at least, some of them — which had refused to come to her before. “And there must be guys you want to show me,” she said, reaching across for him; she squeezed his hand — which was not, either, something she would have felt able to do before. “I can’t wait to see them. I mean, who are you into? At the moment?”
“Oh, into, Catherine,” he said drily, and it felt almost like he was mocking her; she blinked at him for a moment, uncertain. “Who am I into?” he said again, staring at the salt cellar.