HOUND

xxiii

Catherina munches on an apple, the juices dribbling down her chin. She doesn't bother to wipe them away.

Jack rubs his temple, a headache already blooming deep inside. He has a stack of papers he hasn't graded. His wife nags him at home constantly, and Catherina distracts him at work. There's never any time to do his job these days. So, he had been trying to catch up on things after school got out, but Catherina always insisted on staying along for a "study session." For the most part, he asked her to not go too far so he could focus, but from time to time she'd crawl over to him and rub against him or take him into her mouth.

"Jacky," Catherina purrs. "There's this party I'm going to later, wanna go? You should."

Jack looks up and takes off his glasses. He starts to clean them on the edge of his tie and frowns. "A party? You never told me about that before."

Catherina rolls her eyes. "I don't tell you most things." She twirls her hair around her finger, studying the tip and ends of her hair.

"I don't know if it's such a good idea if I go to a party with your friends." Jack's voice is hesitant.

Catherina grins. "Don't worry, it's not anyone from this stupid school." Shrugging, she slids off the end table that she was perched on, her skirt riding up and falling back. A quick flash of her panties, that's all. "I met some college people. They're really chill."

He agrees and finishes the last stack of papers. Catherina complains about being bored for a good forty-five minutes, and finally they can leave. Luckily there's no one but a janitor, but janitors are always the type to keep their mouths shut. Just in case, Catherina and Jack carry on a very appropriate conversation about her studies, and then Jack courteously offers her a ride home. Of course, Catherina already planned to ride home with him. This was all a game for listening ears. Life had been such for them: a game. It was fun, and part of the excitement and foreplay, to have the sordid and scandalous relationship all play out before everyone but also be kept secret from everyone.

They make it, without the lust hiding behind their skin being too obvious, and climb into Jack's beat up Chevy. Catherina unbuttons the bottom of her shirt, and ties it in a knot around her stomach--Daisy Duke-style. She rolls down her window and sticks her head out, wagging her tongue like a dog. Jack shakes his head, smiling, and reaches over to pull her back in the car.

"Kitten," he says. "We need to keep a low-profile."

Sighing, she melts into the seat, the seat belt barely keeping her in. She rolls her eyes, again, and Jack has half a mind to tell her that they're going to get stuck up in her head. But that gives him a sick feeling in his stomach, because that was something a father would say. He wasn't near old enough to be her father, but anything that reminded him of the age gap just unsettled him.

He asks her to take out a map from the glove compartment, and she starts giving directions. The party was at a house on the outskirts of town, in a neighborhood that Jack hadn't even heard of. He wondered if his wife wondered where he was. It was strange to think of her. He rarely did these days. She only nagged him, anyway, or else she was silent. He preferred her silent, but he also missed the days when she chattered to him, telling him about her day. They were strangers by now. It didn't matter much, since he had Catherina and she had...whoever. She never said anything when he stayed late at work or didn't come home at night. Perhaps she no longer cared.

His thoughts are interrupted by Catherina suddenly flips on the radio. Some over-produced pop tune jams out of the speaker. Catherina sings along, loudly and unafraid. Jack is surprised at how awful a singer she is. She nearly trumped his wife at everything, except singing was something his wife did better. Jack turns up the volume knob to drown Catherina out.

Finally, he and Catherina reach the house. They're let in by a gangly male with matted hair and weird tattoos. He hugs Catherina and nods at Jack, giving him a glance over. Catherina grabs Jack and leads him through the house, through a cloud of hazy smoke and a crowd of dazed college kids. The music is loud and something techno, like a massive mating call. People are drinking and smoking and snorting and having sex everywhere. Jack remembered his college days--not too long ago--and they were never like this. Perhaps he just never ran with this sort of crowd. He hung out with English majors and engineering majors--an odd couple, of course--and debated philosophy while drinking whiskey and taking LSD. It was always so less...messy. Neither party was dignified, but his felt classier.

Catherina leads him up the stairs, where it's quieter. She looks around, peeking in rooms, until she finds one filled with a bunch of people passing around a bong. Catherina sits down and motions for Jack to follow her.

"Have you ever done weed, Mr. Hound?" Catherina says in a faux-British accent. She laughs, and he's flustered. "Of course!" He shouts back, but the music seems to drown him out.

The bong reaches Catherina, and she takes a moment to steady her breathing. She then inhales, sucking at the air. As the smoke fills the chamber, she releases her lips from the bong and holds her breath. She releases, a misty cloud escaping from her throat. Replacing the carb, she passes the bong to Jack. He repeats her steps, but holds the air in longer, until it's burning his lungs. They continue passing the bong around four or five more times, and by then Jack is high.

Catherina's eyes are bloodshot and she's giggling, but Jack just lies back on the carpet, staring at the speckled ceiling. Waves of depression rolls over him, but he doesn't really feel them. It's strange, that getting high is what alerts him at how depressed he is. He doesn't know how long he sits there, but finally he gets up and looks around for Catherina. He sees her in a corner, kissing another girl. It doesn't really register, but Jack feels something else that he hasn't felt in a long time: inspiration. Somethings tells him to write. Maybe he should get high more often.

He feels like he might pass out any minute, but he has just enough time to scribble down an idea on a liquor store receipt and shove it into his blazer pocket.

The next morning, with an awful headache and awful-smelling breath, Jack finds the crumpled and stained (with unknown substance) scrap of paper in his pocket. He reads it, barely understanding his own handwriting. But as soon as his mind is refreshed on his plan, the familiar love for a story idea blooms in his chest.

Jack stays up each night for the next two weeks. He doesn't edit, he doesn't reread. He wants it all to be as raw and human as possible. He isn't even sure what he wrote, but deep inside he feels it's a masterpiece. Probably the best thing he's ever penned. He can't wait to show his wife, but then he remembers that he can't wait to show Catherina.