Page 35 of Catcher's Lock
At age eleven, Jeremy has finally been deemed old enough by the Garrity clan to handle being alone at the trailer. To no one’s surprise, Josha has used his newfound freedom to spend all of his extra time on the Big Top lot, learning everything he can and prepping for the show. It took multiple phone calls from both my parents to convince Diana and Paul to let him join the tour, and if Josha hadn’t started laying the groundwork last winter, they probably still would have said no. I’m sure they only agreed in the end because Big Top is paying him. Josha sends home half of his four-hundred-dollar-a-week apprentice salary and considers it a small price to pay for his independence.
He thrives in the tent like he was fucking born to it, and everybody loves him.
I, on the other hand, feel more like the black sheep than ever.
I don’t fit. I’m not sure if it’s because I never really fit and I was used to it, or because in the last few years, I’ve beaten myself into an unfittable shape.
Most performers have a little narcissism in them, and I’m not stupid enough to think I’m an exception. In the tent, I’m one of many people crying “look at me” in a world made for spectacle, so I should belong. But in my case, when anyoneactuallylooks, they can tell I’m somehow trapped in the wrong role, wearing the wrong costume, walking the wrong stage.
I’m not the prodigal son I’m supposed to be, and it makes everyone uncomfortable when they can’t figure out why.
For some reason, I still give a shit. I’m as needy as ever, but now I’m also too broken, too dangerous to get close to. Trusting me has become too expensive. I’m like a noisy slot machine that takes and takes and never delivers on its promise of reward.
I know a lot of it comes from the fact that Big Top is, as always, my mom’s one true baby, and my relationship with her is more strained than ever. It doesn’t matter that she was only gone for two years and that she never stopped trying to talk to me or get me to come visit them in Phoenix. I know so many kids have it way worse, and I should be glad that she’s back, not bitter and resentful. Even Josha doesn’t understand how I can be mad at her for leaving and then even more pissed at her for coming back. Especially when everyone else is fucking ecstatic. At least my best friend tries to hide it, which softens that particular betrayal.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m the only one who can’t forgive her. It wasn’t me she hurt the worst. But it’s like whatever she broke when she left was already fragile, and now I’m supposed to fit the pieces back together with shitty Scotch tape when I need super glue.
I would have avoided the lot entirely last year if it weren’t for Josha. As it was, I spent more time getting fucked up with my other friends from school than helping with the show my mom yanked away from us. I showed up to more than one rehearsal too high to get on my pole, then laughed through the fog of disapproval thrown my way.
But Josha freaked and begged me to get my shit together, which was worse than anything my parents could have thrown at me, so I tried. I also discovered the miracle drug that is cocaine, and that I could use it to sharpen the blur of alcohol and bring my body back online without suffering through the misery of sobriety, and things got a little easier to tolerate.
As long as no one finds out.
The trip to town starts out uneventful. We hit Sweetwater Spa first. The local bathhouse has two huge redwood hot tubs enclosed in a decked garden bordered by vine-covered trellising,as well as one rentable room with a private tub and an electric sauna. There’s a regular sauna, too, and four showers—two in the dressing room area and two out on the deck. A friend of Rachael’s is working the front desk, and she lets us use the outdoor showers for free since we brought our own towels and shampoo.
Once showered and dressed in clean clothes, we head to Mendoza’s for groceries we can cook on the camp stove in the shop, then raid the hardware store for the rest of the supplies on Josha’s list, tossing everything in the back of the old pickup truck that’s too unreliable to use on tour.
On the way back is when things get messy.
“What the fuck?” I slam my hand against the dash as Josha swerves onto the shoulder, spraying dust as we screech to a stop. He jumps out of the truck without replying and disappears around the back. I follow to find him crouched by the bumper, trying to coax a small, scraggly creature from the weeds.
“Is that supposed to be a cat?” I ask when he scoops it into his arms. The thing is filthy, black fur matted with dirt and burs, and it appears to be missing both an eye and half of its tail. “It looks like something out ofPet Semetary.”
“It’s a kitten. A tuxedo, I think.” Josha inspects the tiny front paws, which do seem to be tipped with white socks, although both are decidedly gray at the moment. The tiny cat hisses and nips at his fingers.
“What exactly are you going to do with it?” The missing eye socket is oozing greenish-yellow goo, and I can literally see the fleas crawling over the lighter patch on its chest. Josha is snuggling it against his shoulder and murmuring soothing nonsense under his breath, oblivious to its obvious flaws. “We don’t have time to play nurse to a half-dead kitten. We can take it to the shelter. They can decide if it’s worth the vet bills.”
“He’s not half dead. He needs a bath and some antibiotics or something. We can’t just leave him here on the side of the road. He’ll get squished.”
“A quick death might be more merciful,” I mutter, but Josha ignores me and climbs back into the truck, clutching the kitten in one hand. As soon as I slide in the passenger side, he dumps it in my lap.
“I can’t hold him and drive,” he explains when I squawk in protest. “Stop being a squeamish dick.”
Reluctantly, I curl my hands over the cat, bracing for an onslaught of outraged claws. Instead, the little monster curls into a ball, pressing his disgusting face against my hip, and starts making a ratchety chirping noise. Josha glances over in surprise.
“I think he likes you,” he chuckles. “That’s the jankiest purr I’ve ever heard, though.”
“Whatever.” I scowl down at the vibrating bundle of fur. “Don’t get attached, you little zombie. I’m allergic to cats.”
I am not actually allergic to cats. Which is good, because Josha drives straight to the feed store in Fort Bragg, where he spends a ridiculous amount of time talking to the lady at the counter about flea shampoo and dewormer and if they have something to clean up the infection in the kitten’s nonexistent eye.
“She’s not a vet, Rocket. Let’s grab some food and some cat litter and get out of here.”
He dumps the mangy mongrel back into my arms and starts pulling things off the shelves.
We end up with a cart full of everything from two kinds of kitten food to a covered litter box to some antibiotic cream. The kitten, who I am still calling “Zombie” in my head, sleeps through the whole ordeal, tucked in the crook of my elbow. The only thing I pick out is one of those sparkly feather toys on aminiature plastic fishing pole.
“Your new daddy’s a bit of an overachiever,” I warn the little cat.
