Holden climbs slowly out of bed, gently folding the Carolina blue sheets behind him and doing his best not to wake us. We were already awake, and now we look up to catch his gaze, questioning him with our eyes.
"I must be traveling on now," Holden says, breaking the eye contact; he looks away, ashamed, his eyes searching for something to fix on that won't make him so uncomfortable. They settle on the poster of the periodic table of elements that stretches across the wall behind the bed. "There's too many places I got to see," he says. A weak attempt at justification; he continues to stare plaintively at the atomic numbers on the walls. We search his eyes for tears.
He can tell we haven't accepted his reasoning -- our eyes don't let him leave. He gathers new strength and tries to look at us, pain showing in the attempt. "But if I stayed here with you, girl," he begins, faltering and looking away again, then again finding energy enough to continue. "Things just couldn't be the same."
We nod. It's been a struggle. We understand what he says and why he says it, but we know there's more. We sit up in bed, still glaring at him expectantly.
"Please don't take it so badly," Holden spills out nervously, anxious to escape and free himself from our demanding vision. "Cause the Lord knows I'm to blame," he says, admitting fault and slipping back into the southern drawl he tried so hard to hide in his interviews at Washington. He realizes what he just did -- he remembers his home, North Carolina, and he panics.
"I'm as free as a bird now," Holden says defensively, raising his voice a little, but leaving us unimpressed.
"And this bird," he says, gesturing aggressively, trying in vain to make it just another impersonal speech, detaching himself like a speaker before an auditorium full of incoming freshmen. "This bird -- you cannot change," he insists, thinking it'll be true if he says it with enough confidence.
"Lord knows I can't change," he whispers under his breath. He's lost -- he's been defeated. He knows he's wrong, and there's nothing left to be said. "Bye bye baby," he says lamely, looking up at us for one last time. "It's been a sweet love." We shut our eyes and wait for him to leave. He steps slowly toward the door, and we very carefully open our eyes a tiny bit, just enough to watch him as he sets down his Tar Heel baseball cap on the way out -- we knew he wouldn't keep it.
We roll over, secretly hoping he's left his electric bass so we can wreck it. Sad for one moment, then angry, then the emotion passes. We'll be all right, but we''ll be damned if he gets off scot-free. He better pay child support for this scandal baby he's stuck in our collective collegiate womb.
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