I was really happy with the reviews on my last HoldenxStradlater fanfiction so here's another something for you to enjoy, hopefully without as many little errors. I hate reading through something I've uploaded and noticing mistakes. It ruins the mood. Anyway, here you are. I hope you like this as much as the first one. It's kind of Holden's hat, over time. Aw.
This is told from the POV of Mr Spencer's wife. So you know ;) And if you have any ideas, I'll be glad to take prompts!
IMPORTANT NOTE: This deals with homosexuality how it would have been seen in the late 40's, when the events in the novel occurred. At the time, it was condemmned and seen as a serious mental disorder. The amount of sheer hatred in the world - then, and now - is horrifying.
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to J.D. Salinger and the current owners of The Catcher in the Rye. Or something like that.
The Catcher in the Rye:
Holden's Hat
"It's not just a physical attraction, I love him for every single thing he is. Every word he says, every step he takes. This is something that will never die. I have tried to stay reasonable with this, but I just can't anymore. I just can't."
- Anonymous
I'm sure there are a few things Ward can tell you about Holden. If you ask, that is.
Ah, young Holden. And Ward, too. I can't say I ever thought they'd get along; Holden's too stubborn and sometimes, Ward is over-conceited. And I know how Holden dislikes vanity, although sometimes I get the feeling that he rather fancies himself.
I can still remember the first night I saw them together, after they'd moved in to the same dormitorium. Ward slamming the door, Holden storming out as I made a rare trip to the school and readjusting his funny red hat. My husband often complained about lessons where the caught them bickering over something, like petulant girls, or an old married couple. He'd even said that there'd been talk among the staff of moving them. Nobody really had much faith that the relationship would be a fruitious one.
A few nights later Holden had visited my husband for a private, after-school conversation about his grades at our small house on the edge of the school's grounds. Their talk, littered with coughs and scented with Vick's, had slowly turned from Holden's grades to his opinions of Ward. Holden's face smoked over and he turned away childishly, like the impetuous boy he often is. A few weeks later I pressed the same question and he simply shrugged indifferently. Admittedly, a funny kind of progress.
Another month past, and I rarely saw Holden, though after about 15 days I noted that he seemed much bubblier than usual. He's always been a rather melancholy boy, though he certainly had his colourful moments, but lately the colour had been returning to his cheeks. At first I simply put it down to the first stirrings of summer. Perhaps he had a fever; he refused to abandon that hat of his.
That weekend I was out in the front garden picking some marigolds when I heard laughing from some short distance away. I saw two figures walking towards me, towards the school, joking and being merry. To say I was surprised, on discovering that it was dear Holden and Ward, is rather an understatement. Holden and Ward approached me, looking bright and cheerful, and I think I saw Holden drop his hand from Ward's. I ignored this - my eyes aren't up to much nowadays, what with age and all - and commented on how glad I was to see them getting along. I think Holden blushed, and Ward looked at him affectionately. I was over the moon, as you might imagine, looking at Holden almost as a favourite though unruly grandson of sorts.
"Well, there's no point in being miserable when you've got so much to live for," Holden chirped, in a manner unlike his usual demeanour, and Ward ruffled his hat, revealing strands of the hair Holden made a point in growing out.
"You're welcome to join me for tea," I told them, and they looked at each other and nodded. My husband was out at one of the games and the house was empty, so I fixed us some tea, elated. It really is a joy to see people getting along so well, particularly people who were nothing but bitter towards each other earlier. I went into the living room to find Holden and Ward sat next to each other on a small couch, Ward's hand casually resting on Holden's thigh. I didn't mention anything; I just wondered why Holden didn't say anything. The hand was quickly moved, Holden looking down at the floor as he accepted his tea. I could tell they were both smiling.
A week passed, and I didn't see them again, though from what my husband told me, they were never apart. I asked of Holden once, and he said "They're like twins. They follow each other around everywhere. Teenage boys, they're a miracle."
The night after, he came in late, with an armful of work to mark. He looked upset about something, but I waited until he'd finished his supper before I asked. He shook his head, neglecting the newspaper before him.
"A few of the teachers were talking in the lounge," he sighed. "They seem to think Caulfield and Stradlater are...well. Behaving a little undesirably."
"How do you mean?" I asked, curious. He looked a little awkward, even as he said it.
"Well...perhaps they're a little closer than is probably correct," he said. I quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing other than how they were just becoming very good friends.
There was a gala up at the school two nights later, and I offered to go and help. People congregated in the hall, stalls erected everywhere, people buying raffle tickets and cakes all in aid of some charity or another.
I was in the middle of cashing in what me and Mrs Tucker had collected so far when someone tapped me. I looked up, Holden stood there with a bloodied white handkerchief over his nose.
"Dear!" I exclaimed, a few people around him staring unkindly or with shock. "What on earth -"
"Have you seen Ward?" he asked. I didn't know how to respond other than shaking my head. I asked him what had happened, and he simply said that someone had punched him in the face.
I didn't see him for a while after that, until some time in the autumn Holden and Ward came to see me when my husband was out. I let them in readily; they sat down on the couch as I made tea, holding each other's hands. I think they were crying - in fact, I know they were crying. Their eyes were damp, and they looked like the most depressed pair of kids I'd ever seen in my life. My heart broke for them.
When I came back in I set their cups down, althoug I didn't think they'd drink them. Holden couldn't look up, just held Ward's hand, pale, like their world was crumbling to pieces. Ward looked at me, with dark, wet eyes.
"Mrs Spencer...we think that we might be seriously mentally ill," he choked out, looking as sickly as he claimed to be. I sat bolt upright, alarmed and concerned. Usually people at their age have problems like this...but two people, at once, who looked so terrified...
"Whatever is it, darling?" I asked him, gently. He squeezed Holden's hand, dropping his eyes. I could see the tears falling.
"We're in love with each other, Mrs Spencer," Holden managed to whisper.
I didn't know how to respond to that.
I just stared at Ward's feet, or the top of Holden's hat.
Over the next few months, Holden visited less and less. My husband kept complaining that they were still closer than they should be, and I tried to come up with excuses for them. Really, I shouldn't have done. I'll always blame myself...for what happened. Because I didn't say anything. I knew that it was a serious medical condition, and they needed psychiatric help and medication to get better, but I couldn't turn them in like that. They'd seemed so happy, and now they were so broken. I felt sorry for them, even though I knew it was wrong. Poor, darling Holden. And his...and Ward.
The last time they visited was to bring me some cakes they'd had to bake for another gala. They were nice enough, with custard, but Holden didn't look at me the same. He'd fix tea that time; almost like he knew what was going to happen. I sat alone, with Ward, in silence. Then the spoke, quietly, through the nothigness.
"It's not just a physical attraction, Mrs Spencer," he said, shamelessly. "I love him for every single thing he is. Every word he says, every step he takes. This is something that will never die. I have tried to stay reasonable with this, but I just can't anymore. I just can't."
I nodded, trying to smile. Holden was in the door, staring at Ward. They held their gaze for a long time, a small ghost of a smile on their lips.
My husband came in late from school one night; terribly late. I asked what was wrong, and he looked at me despairingly. Disgust, horror, sadness, disappointment, pity, and shock were all etched on his face. That's when I knew something had happened.
Apparently an English teacher had caught them kissing and dragged them into the Councillor's office. Holden and Ward refused to be separated, clinging onto each other, and a team of specialists were called up. Ward was dragged from the room, Holden left alone and interviewed. He said that he was in love with Ward Stradlater and made no bones about saying it.
They took them away. I only saw Holden one time after that. I visited him, in his cell, dressed in white clothes and a hollow, suicidal countenance. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't speak, and that was the last time I ever saw Holden Caulfield. When I left him he was curled up against the wall, still as a corpse.
That night they came to the house and informed my husband that Holden had killed himself; hung himself. They found him. He was already dead.
The funeral took place the next week. Only Phoebe showed up, with her delicate curls and big eyes, and said that she would always love her big brother. I smiled. My husband said that she didn't understand, but I think she understood perfectly.
Ward was allowed to the funeral. He stood by me, and I took his hand. He wept silently, grasping onto Holden's hat like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He kissed it, his tears dampening the top. I cried myself, and I know my husband tried not to tear up. Ward kissed the hat multiple times, whispering into it. He finally placed it atop the grave, in front of the tombstone. It said 'Holden - My Catcher.' I never got to understand what that meant.
He collapsed, taken back to the madhouse, but not before he asked one final request of me. Well, more screamed it. Poor soul.
Phoebe was taken home by her aunt, who hadn't attended the funeral. I went home also, drinking a cup of tea that I never really tasted.
I go up to the grave, every day if I'm not too busy. I always stand, in front of Ward's cold Catcher, trying to imagine them walking up towards me in the summer and smiling. Snow was around me, making everything white and dead, and I wished that Holden was alive. I'd rather he be in love with Ward and alive than buried in some box.
I smiled, my wrinkled face wet. I'm old, you see.
Holden - and I'm sure Ward - will never be old.
So I talk to him, and say that he is forgiven, and I press a white flower to the top of his hat. I never let the snow take that away. His red hat looks like blood, but sometimes I can still see him wearing it, pressing a delicate kiss to Ward's cheek, with no teacher there to see it.
And then I walked away, from the flower, Holden's hat, and the grains of rye Ward had made me promise to set down as well.
I never got to understand why.