Disequilibrium

Part 5: Denouement - Scene 2

Williams and I talk. We talk about things I remember from my childhood, the first time I drove, the first time I drank, the first time I smoked. She keeps my mouth busy by asking things that aren't even related to the case, and I'm pretty sure she thinks she's being sly about it. But I know what she's doing. I know exactly what she's doing, but my mouth flies anyway.

She asks about the people I've been close with, but never asks about Casper. So I tell her about Nichole and how she nearly married my dad, about Winston and the others, and about Anila. She leans forward in her seat when the conversation flips to her, as if waiting for some sort of reaction that might indicate I was the one who ended her life. But my expression changes smoothly; one that shows, yes, I'm hurt, but what can you do?

She moves on.

When we finally talk about Casper, we keep it on the light stuff like the first time we spoke and what we did when I went over to his house, or when he came to mine. I don't know what it is about this whole free association thing that gets me working. Maybe it's the way she's looking at me so earnest and intrigued, eyes watching my every move and ears hanging on every syllable that escapes my mouth. There's this devoted attention dripping off her—seeping off her—and my mouth races the more it grows. And I should know better—I really should. But I keep at it.

Just like she wants.

"So you mean to tell me that all those meetings and late night visits at each other's houses, and nothing went on?"

My smile grows wider. "Sure. Things didn't have to."

"So you're saying you never got bored with it? Reading poetry, watching movies, talking—you never got bored?"

"Well, sure I did. Of course I did. But he loves that sort of stuff, so I had to like it too, you know? That's what you do when you love someone."

Williams looks at me for a moment before scribbling stuff down in her notebook. I try to sneak a peek, at least a little sliver of what she's saying about me, but she drops her hand over the page as soon as she's done.

"You never touched him?" she asks.

The question is like a slap to the face, so quick that I almost lose my breath. It takes a moment for me to grasp what she's trying to say, and when I do, the only thing that comes out my mouth is, "What?"

"You're a big boy now, Holden. Don't give me that look. Did you touch him?"

"I-I don't—"

"Of course you do. The question is simple. Did you or didn't you?"

"What relevance does this have to—"

"Fine, let me rephrase it: were you afraid to, or did he not want you to?"

Oh.

I'm staring at her, slightly pissed yet amazed all at the same time. I know what she's trying to do. And I can tell that she knows that I know, yet she doesn't let go of my gaze. I smile and straighten in my seat, my breathing coming easier now.

I consider telling the truth for a moment, just to play with her head, but instead I say, "I bet you'd like to know."

She laughs at that. Shakes her head the same way Dad did, even. "Trust me, it's the last thing I want to know. But I find it interesting you're avoiding it all together."

"I don't feel comfortable discussing my sex life with you. That's all."

Williams hangs on to the smile that's mimicking mine, laughing a little more before writing something else down in that damn notebook of hers. She's good, I will admit. Not fucking bad at all.

"Alright, let's move on," she says. "Did your Dad ever know about the two of you? Or about you in general?"

"No." Yes. "He never found out." Except for that night.

"Are you sure about that?"

No. "Of course."

"Would you have ever told him?"

"Why would I do something stupid like that?"

"Did you not trust your dad?"

"There was nothing to—"

"Were you afraid of your dad?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Her pen is going mad on the page now, writing all sorts of things I can't see. The rapid movement makes my muscles tense up, and no matter how much I try to regain composure, it's not working. I'm slipping again.

"While I was researching about you, someone let me in on something. Said your dad wasn't so favourable to your sexuality, even if he never knew. Is that why you never told him? Why you never touched Casper?"

Laughter bubbles in my throat and bursts out, echoing throughout the room. Williams doesn't look surprised—doesn't even flinch. Her pen just stops, patient, and she looks at me again.

"Look, I don't know what they taught you at that crap university, but none of it applies here. Not to me. Dad wasn't worth telling anything to, that's all. He was just some uneducated man who started life too early and couldn't even tell his ass from his elbow. That's it."

Williams snorts and starts writing again. "So you don't feel bad about his death."

"I never said I—"

"Something happened that night, Holden, and I need you to tell me what. If you want to get out of here, you've got to tell me what went down."

I know it'd be easier to tell the truth. To just spit it out and stop wasting time. But I've said too much already—spoken too much truth. So the next thing that comes out when I open my mouth is, "I've done nothing wrong."

"That's not answering my question."

"None of this is my fault. You should know that. Everything I did was for his sake."

She drops her pen then and leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. "See, you're jumping to defences when there's nothing to defend. Why are you getting so worked up?"

My shoulders drop right when she says that. Yes, why am I getting worked up? It isn't my fault, anyway. None of it is. My muscles relax, and an easygoing smile fixes itself right on my face even though that's not the right reaction. I know it not because Williams raises an eyebrow, stares at me a little more, then scribbles something else down.

"You think you could hit me up with some cigarettes?" I ask. "The past few hours have been hell."

Williams glances up from her notebook, one eyebrow still poised, then slams her notebook shut. "I think we're done here. I'll get the officer to take you back," she says, still staring at me.

And I keep my smile.