Catkins in July

By Alicia S Tacoronte

Manage. Not conquer, not cure, just live with.

In Catkins in July, Sarah, a shy homebody dedicated to her profession, and Cal, an energetic partier with a knac

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: May 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637301630

Book preview

Catkins in July

Catkins in July

A Novel

alicia tacoronte

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2021 Alicia Tacoronte

All rights reserved.

Catkins in July

A Novel

ISBN

978-1-63676-706-2 Paperback

978-1-63730-061-9 Kindle Ebook

978-1-63730-163-0 Ebook

To the little girl who wrote stories, alone, in her room on wide-ruled paper…

You actually did it. I’m so proud of you.

An ending and a beginning now knotted up forever. He expected the hues of the world to change to reflect that, but the earth and heavens remained the same muted shades, and there was no tremble of anger from the trees. No weeping whisper of wind. No siren wailed in the distance. The woods were just the woods, and the dirt was just the dirt.

—Sarah Pinborough, Behind Her Eyes

Part 1

Peach Season in Boston

A peach does not sour from the outside in

like most soft skin fruits.

* * *

Instead, 

it hides its discoloration,

* * *

Browning from around the pit, 

in patches, 

until the gooey center shifts 

under the weight of fingers. 

The rot, only then,

is real.

* * *

Before this discovery,

it is just as valuable as any other peach.

* * *

I wonder if it knows it is dying and 

when the realization first occurs.

* * *

Is it when it is plucked from the tree,

or after 

it has been sitting in the acidic fragrance

of molding flesh?

* * *

Does it cry when it leaves the orchard?

Does it know death before it comes?

1.

Tuesday, May twenty-first. The boxes were heavier than they were this morning. The cardboard was now soaked with anxiety and sweat, pulling their edges closer to the ground. It’s hard to believe excitement woke me up; I quickly jumped to my feet and spun around my packed bedroom, taking it in. The walls were bare except for where I took down pictures, leaving small tape marks and nails. I placed my hands on the boxes, expecting a sadness to come, but it didn’t. In those last moments, before I got ready for the last time in my bathroom and began packing the car, I was relieved.

I practically skipped back and forth from the car and my bedroom as Cal and I loaded the few boxes that hadn’t fit into the small moving truck. We had fun examining the trunk space and experimenting with what should go where. Within two hours, my car, Sheila, was crammed, the straggling items left on the floor of my room were gone, and I was saying goodbye to my roommates and the house. I got in the car screaming with Cal, We’re going to Boston! I was in ecstasy. 

Until I wasn’t. 

The back of the moving truck was something I had never noticed before in detail. This particular truck had come from Florida, a very long way from Washington, DC. The back ledge was worn from previous moves. A piece of the cloth used to cover the furniture was trapped in the door, and the corner fluttered in the wind, waving to DC. At first I thought it was cute, but then the misplaced fabric became haunting. The wind catching its edges, it echoed my friends’ voices, Goodbye Sarah! and I couldn’t say anything in response.

As we cross into Baltimore, I stop talking with Cal and start concentrating more on everything else. She doesn’t seem to notice as she continues her lively discussion, pinpointing the whereabouts of her steamer, alone. I mis-packed one of the boxes so its corner presses into the middle of my seat, pushing through the cushion to connect with my spine. With every crack in the road, the car jolts and the box corner deepens in my back. I decide to contort, arching forward with my forearms fully covering the wheel. Cal continues to talk while my mind continues to wander downward. I want to be somewhere else, where the walls aren’t so close together. Where all of my belongings don’t fit into a tiny moving truck and my car. Where my friends aren’t slowly getting further and further away.

Thankfully, four hours in we pull into a gas station. I rearrange the boxes, pushing everything else out of my head. Cal pumps the gas and walks into the attached convenience store to buy snacks and beverages. When we get back on the road, I focus on Google Maps as it counts down the miles, hours, minutes, seconds to Boston. As I take my last, noisy drag of coffee, I curse the fact I’d only gotten one. I have at least an hour left of my caffeine buzz. I’m now officially on my own.

The seven-hour drive, with the car quivering under the weight of our belongings, puts everything into perspective. Today I said tender goodbyes to a city, a house, friends, a life.

Cal remains hopeful the entire ride. Her curls bounce as she passionately sings to her ten-hour MOVING! playlist, turning up the music every time a bop comes on. Usually, her energy eliminates anyone’s worries or problems when they are with her. But we’ve been housemates long enough that I can see past her smile. I know that she is also on autopilot, using the music as I am using Google Maps—a countdown. 

After driving for another two hours, Cal begins to list off what she is looking forward to doing in Boston. I nod my head as I pray for the butterflies of this morning to replace the wasps building nests in my gut, overthinking the goodbye. I can’t help but visualize earlier in the day. I picture Cal and me in front of our old house in DC. This time, instead of giggling into the car, I pause to stare at it. Truly taking in the slight slope of the home. The cracking paint. My remaining friends waving. As I load the last of the small boxes into the car, I hear my voice saying, Not today guys, maybe next week. Now, it’s too late, as Google Maps states that we have arrived. I parallel park in a spot surprisingly close to the apartment building. I pop the trunk, unbuckle my seat belt, and move to silently begin picking up the items of my old world to start a new one.

My job brought me here. It was new and ideal. When applying I thought there was no way I would get the HR Executive Assistant position, but I hit submit anyway because it would be amazing to get paid to plan events, run training sessions, and network with key stakeholders. I rationalized the distance, saying I was only a train ride away from everyone I’d ever known. It wasn’t that big of a deal. Cal had no qualms with the distance, and even though her job was just as exciting, her focus was on Boston itself: the crowds, the clubs, the streets. She didn’t seem nervous at all. It made me a little less worried seeing the Congratulations, Sarah in the email header. So, I accepted the job.

Our friends seemed to understand the gravity of distance. When Lily said goodbye, her grasp was too tight. It felt final, and maybe it was. Lily was off to Denmark, where she had studied abroad. Alejandra went to California. Eric stayed in DC. But it seemed like we dispersed without a real reason to stay together.

Sadly, or maybe it was the best-case scenario, our separation was natural. College was an awesome time, but we’d all majored in different things that called for different locations, people, experiences. Plus, a move to Boston is exciting. The city is shinier, as Cal put it, than Washington, DC. Although the pavement favored cobblestones and worn cement, the character each street held was full of substance. Even DC’s, newer, grandiose monuments and museums paled in comparison. You can picture decades flying by, the fashion, political movements, changers of history walking along the same corridors. Hopefully, I’ll amount to something someone will remember; add to the city’s history as opposed to just being one more silhouette on the sidewalk.

My first day at work isn’t scheduled for another few weeks, but I have a system that’ll allow me to unpack within a couple of days. However, the movers have their own idea. I envy their access to the one elevator reserved for moving days, to pack in the large boxes and furniture. Each trip up, I watch as they empty the elevator cab, randomly, into the labeled rooms. At first, I attempt to explain where the boxes go, holding my printed floor plan, but after the fourth time being dismissed by a sweaty back or a nodding head with dead eyes, I put all my energy into moving the remaining boxes out of the car.

Unfortunately, Cal and I are subject to the stairs. The first couple of trips aren’t too bad. But our shoulders begin to cave on the third trip of what seems to be many more. My parents wind up getting in from North Carolina just before the last large piece of furniture is placed. Thankfully, my mother has already read and printed my late-night email of the desired floor plan and has no problems telling the movers to rearrange the furniture and boxes the second she enters the house.

At first, I objected to them flying up—I thought it was a waste of money for a move I could handle on my own. But now I’m grateful they made the trip. It is comforting to see the familiar faces. And after my mom finishes reorganizing the movers, I give her a huge hug, sinking my face into her smell, biting down the guilt of not wanting them to come in the first place. My dad walks me to the car and helps with the last trip, asking about the drive, telling me how nice the place looks and how proud he is. 

As I set the last heavy box from my car onto my apartment floor, my eyes close and I release the breath I took in Baltimore. One task done. I stand for a few seconds to acknowledge the victory. Then my eyes betray me, opening and fully focusing on the apartment.

The living room is now piled with years of collected memories and decor. Brown cardboard covers the floor, my new couch, even the coffee table vanishes under the color. The room is slowly crawling, pulling the walls into its center.

Wow! This place is lovely. Cal’s voice stops the walls from closing. She moves around the room, spinning slowly, attempting to catch all of the details at once, blissfully unaware of the day’s stress. Home sweet home. She finally stops and sits on the one corner of the couch uncovered by stuff. Leaning over, she casually shifts through the boxes on the coffee table, unburdened.

I can’t believe it. Finally, living in Boston. My voice is far away, not quite realizing that I’d moved.

It’s going to be so much fun here. Cal’s voice is laced with excitement.

And so much work… I can’t help the words from tumbling out.

Cal looks at me, cocking her head to the side. One eyebrow raised as if to say, really? 

I don’t get it, she says as she stands. At first, I think she is commenting on my fascination with this new job, but it’s not that. I watch as her eyes take in the boxes that make me feel sick. She’s enjoying it. The only time I get clarity is in mess.

I walk away to explore our new space further. My room has been minimally filled with boxes as most of my stuff remains on hangers and is now draped across my bed. Color is splashed in between the mountains of dark blue and black clothes. My closet is bare. No hangers are hung, no drawers or storage compartments placed.  

A cardboard box with my slanted handwriting, SHOES, catches my eye. I lean down and begin unpacking the box closest to my feet. Easy. I had packed the shoe rack in with the actual shoes, so it only takes me ten minutes to put together the rack and organize my shoes by occasion and color at the bottom of my walk-in closet.

By the time I finish, the movers have replaced the last piece of furniture and my parents are hovering in the kitchen, unwilling to leave for the day. I am finally able to coax them out the door, promising to explore my neighborhood with them tomorrow. 

As I shut the door behind them, the silence of the house intensifies. I exhale and a smile washes over my face—TIME TO CHRISTEN THIS PLACE!

Finally! Cal scampers into the kitchen and finds a loose pair of scissors, cutting into the glassware box and finding the couple of free floating, newspaper-wrapped shot glasses. I open the freezer and pull out the vodka we purchased earlier in the day at a questionable gas station. 

We each take two shots and begin to unpack the bedrooms, then the kitchen, then the living room. Lying on our faces, drunk in our apartment, we cheers to new city, new me, before sleep takes over and before I have time to think about anything else we have to do.

2.

Thursday, May thirtieth. I wake up to the residual smell of stale cardboard and new leather. The smell lingers even after I have made breakfast and wiped down the kitchen, stubbornly brushing against my nose, as it has for the past week.

With my parents finally gone, I find myself preparing for the day with a new, relaxed excitement, and before I realize it I am dressed and scrolling through nearby flower shops on my phone, finally fed up with the musk. There is one fifteen minutes away. I check to see if there will be rain before I lock the apartment after myself.

The sun is hot, but the breeze is soft—perfect weather for walking. I am almost disappointed that Google Maps adds an additional