CHAPTER THREE
Seeing Meg that day was the last thing he wanted. It was the wrong time and the wrong place. Over and over again, Mark tried to justify what he had done in the cafeteria that afternoon. He was alone in his room, listening to the stereo. His mother was at work, as usual. He'd arrived to an empty house, used the spare key hidden in the porch light to open the door, and spent the afternoon finishing up the first of the schoolyear's homework assignments downstairs on the cardboard table in the den. Dan was at football practice; Joey was out with his girlfriend; and Beth was doing her cheerleading thing again. Mark had some time to himself, and so he decided to heed his mother's warnings of the previous morning... after all, he didn't have the greatest reputation at the school... and what the hey... it couldn't hurt to do a little work to start the semester off right. It had only taken him an hour to do his homework; then he went upstairs and closed himself off in his room.
It had been a long time since Mark had seen Meg. The last time he saw her, she was a couple of feet shorter and her hair was in pigtails. She was a bright, cheerful, smiling child, and much like her brother, always full of energy. She had a touch of shyness in her, but she never hesitated to play with the boys when she was allowed to. Yeah, he remembered her. But it was a long time ago, and many things had taken place since they were children. But in fact, now that he thought about it, he couldn't ever remember seeing her face since grade school. Not since the accident. Mark sighed and cupped his face in his hands. It was a subject he cared not and dared not to think about in recent days; he found that whenever he thought about it, questions would arise, still, after all this time, one after the other, that could never be answered: What would have happened if the gun had not been loaded? If I had not pulled the trigger, would Cory still be alive today? And more often, Why didn't Cory fire the gun at me?
Mark moved from his bean-bag chair on the floor to a reclining position on the bed. He picked up a magazine from his nightstand and began to flip through the pages. He didn't, under any circumstances, want to think about this right now, but try as he might, the thoughts kept coming, and he knew that there was no way to stop them.
Cory. Ah, yes. His childhood friend. Eight years ago, Mark had had to come to terms with the fact that his best friend was gone. A young boy's life was suddenly ripped away, and a quiet family was devastated by the loss of one of its beloved members. That was clear as were a number of other things. He was only a young boy, but Mark knew full well at the age of nine that life at the Mitchells' would never again be the same. As hard as he tried not to, over and over again he always came to the same conclusion: it was he who was carrying the gun at the moment of Cory's death, and it was he alone who was responsible for it.
He thought about the way he'd treated Meg at lunch today, and he admitted he felt bad. Seeing her was simply a shock to the system, that was all. (Or, at least, that was what he told himself.) For years now, all he wanted to do was forget the incident that took place with Cory that September day. And Meg's face was a living, breathing testament to what he'd tried so hard to leave behind.
He knew where she'd gone all this time: private school. He'd heard it from some of the neighborhood kids a few months after it happened. Not that Mark was around when she left. He was out of school himself, but not to another facility. More like an institution. Three and a half months, to be exact. Shortly after Cory's death, he was admitted into the psychiatric unit of a children's hospital downstate, where he was medicated and given extensive therapy. He was gone from school for such a long time that he had to stay back a year.
While Meg was being transferred to an all-girls' academy, Mark was being poked and prodded by doctors. He remembered the events leading up to his admittance into the hospital: he shook, and cried, and did not utter a word for days at a time. His parents tried to feed him, but Mark refused to eat meals... at one time he was nearly twenty pounds underweight. Mark stayed home from school for two weeks until at last, his parents took him to the emergency room. When he first got to the hospital, they force-fed him through a tube.
It was a plain brown and green building with a flat roof and a wooded lot surrounding it. Inside, the floors were tiled with brown and green tiles, and the walls were painted shock white. It smelled of rubbing alcohol. The psychiatric unit was tucked into the back left corner of the hospital and was attached to an enclosed (fenced-in) courtyard which you could not see out of, only up towards the sky. The fence was built of brown-painted cedar and stood as tall as eight feet. Mark spent many an afternoon sitting in the sun, looking up at the sky as the clouds moved with the wind currents high up above.
It was a small unit; it consisted of ten rooms that contained two beds each. The gathering and eating areas were to the center of the unit, and at the back was the quiet room, an isolated room that contained a bed with restraints and padded walls. Mark was locked inside the quiet room three times during his stay; each time, he spent most of the hours wailing and moaning and sometimes screaming. To the front was the nurse's station, and every morning, he would have to go up to a nurse to be tested for temperature and blood pressure. On special days, they would draw his blood. Mark hated that; it was one of his least favorite things about being in the hospital.
The other least favorite thing was the therapy. Daily, a man named "Gary" would come in and speak to him about how he was feeling, and in the beginning, Mark didn't say a word. He didn't much like speaking to strangers, especially ones who wore white coats and asked stupid questions like, "Do you ever hear or see things that are not really there?"
Of course he did. At night when he slept during dreams and sometimes even during the day when he daydreamed, he saw lots of things that were not there. When asked to color a picture of what he dreamed about, Mark drew a picture of a dead body with blood gushing out of it. They'd ask him questions, one after the other, about his coloring. How does it make you feel to see this in your head? How often do you think about it? And Mark would shrug his shoulders and say, "I dunno. All the time, I guess." They kept him there week after week until finally, the doctors said he was well enough to go home.
When he returned to school, everything was different. None of the kids would play with him anymore. His fourth grade teacher was gentle and sympathetic, but the children were distant and fearful. They all knew where he'd been, and they'd spent the good part of four months grieving for Cory. Despite this, they stayed away from Mark. But the alienation was reciprocal; Mark's former shyness was now a pervading silence. For the concluding months of the school calendar, he barely breathed a word to any of the other students, with whom it was already decided he would not be sharing a classroom the next year. Every day he went to school, ate lunch by himself, and then came home alone.
And his parents, too, were different. They fought every night when his father arrived home. The subject was always something different, something like unpaid bills or a hurtful comment one had made.
Mark spent nights sitting in the stairwell at home, listening to the shouts, wondering if it was ever going to end. He'd hug his teddy bear, Gus (something he hadn't done in years) and cry until he was too tired to listen anymore. Then he'd slip into bed to fall asleep, and wait for the next, much like the previous, day.
One night he cried so hard that he caught the tears in a cup, filling it almost full. Then, when his parents weren't looking, he snuck into the master bedroom and poured the tears onto his mother's pillow, so that they would see it when they got into bed. The result was a grounding and a therapy session. The grounding he did not mind, but the therapy he dreaded. When it came time to see the psychologist, Mark said as little as possible to the near-sighted, near retirement-aged man.
The fighting continued throughout the summer, but in the Fall-- when Mark returned to the fourth grade-- the shouts became silence.
"Mark?"
"Yes."
"You and I have to have a talk."
"What about?" His mother sighed and crouched. Mark was sitting at the table, drinking a glass of milk. He was looking out of the window at the landscape, as usual. From the kitchen's bay window one could see a peak of the White Mountains, and Mark liked to stare at it in the afternoons, when the sun dipped behind the peak.
"Your father and I, well..." she trailed off.
Mark could sense that big news was coming, yet he was calm anyway.
"This is very difficult for me to say," she explained.
"It's okay, Mom. I understand," he said. "What's the matter?"
"Well, it's just that-- let me see, how do I put this?"
"Just tell me and we can talk about it."
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "Mark, do you know what a divorce is?"
Mark stared straight at his mother, unblinking, and bit his teeth together. "It's the death of a relationship," he said, in a monotone.
She smiled. "Precisely. But of course you would know that, you're a smart ten-year-old. How silly of me... but what I guess I mean to say is that... well... your father and I... have been discussing things..."
"Yes." She brushed Mark's hair back and lightly touched his face.
"And as you probably already know, lately we have not been getting along so well..."
"Yes." Mark wore a stoic expression on his face.
She continued. "And recently we have decided to... well... we've decided to part ways."
"You mean a divorce?"
"Yes, Mark. That's exactly what I mean."
He hesitated. "Is it because I was in the hospital?"
"No, no, sweetie, no."
"Is it because of the money? Because you're always arguing about money and the hospital was a lot of money."
"No, Mark, it has nothing to do with you."
Mark's voice was quiet and pleading. "Then why?"
She placed a hand over Mark's hand, which was lying on the table. "Sometimes in relationships," she explained, "these things just happen. Two people can grow together, and two people can grow apart. And in your father's and my case, we grew apart. It has nothing to do with you."
Mark wanted to cry, but could not. For the first time in a long time, his emotions were not getting the better of him. "Before I went into the hospital, everything was fine. But after I came out, you were fighting," he said, with pain in his voice.
She stopped touching him. "It just happens, Mark. It just happens."
And so it went. Two months later Mark's father moved out of the guest room on the main floor of their three-story split-level. It was that night, on a cold December day, that Mark cut himself for the first time. He took an old razor from his father's medicine cabinet, removed the blade, and in his room, he ran the sharp edge along the skin on his forearms until he started to bleed. The pain was a new sensation, one that he liked. He enjoyed looking at the deep red beads of blood pop up on his arms, and he enjoyed feeling his skin tingle, all over his body, with every scrape. The scars showed up on his arms, but he promptly covered them up with long sleeves, even in the warm months.
A couple of years passed, and then Mark graduated to the middle school. He began making a few friends here and there, and sometimes he went out and did things with them during his time off. He got his first girlfriend, Vicky, at the age of thirteen. She was the same age and had reddish-brown hair. They used to cut class during second period and make out behind the school when Mark was in the seventh grade. But she moved the next year, to some town in Michigan. Mark never saw her again.
It was there, at Glenwood Middle School, that Mark first met Dan, Drew and Joey. Dan and Drew were a year ahead of him, but the same age. Joey was in the same grade as him; he was a transfer from another state. Together, they all started smoking pot the same year. To this day it was a habit he maintained.
Mark couldn't concentrate on the magazine he was reading. Remorse engulfed him about that day at lunch. Why did she approach me? he thought. Why now? Why not five years ago? But he knew it didn't matter. He had been brusque with Meg, and he knew it. On his way out of the cafeteria, he'd caught a glimpse of her, and she was crying. A real cry. Her hands were covering her face, and she was shaking. A couple of girls were patting her back, whispering in her ear. Darkness. The room was mostly in darkness, except for a few sunbeams that came in through the half-open blinds on his window. It was too late to offer her a ride home... school had ended hours ago. Yet he wanted... no needed... to do something to make it up to her.
He was going up to Raven's Point that night with Beth. They had agreed upon a date that morning, before school started. He was going to pick her up at eight from her house. That gave him an hour and a half.
So he got in the car and started driving. He knew exactly where he was going. He winded his car along the long-ago, often-trodded path. He drove past the tennis court, past the swimming pool, and past the basketball court in Cory's old neighborhood. He rounded the hill, then stopped a couple of houses down from the Mitchells' place. The lights were on. He stopped the engine and rolled down the window, then lit a cigarette.
It was exactly the same as he remembered it... it even still looked brand new. All the drapes were drawn, and he could not see inside. It was sunset and the sky was streaked with pink clouds.
A man emerged from the front door. Mark recognized him. It was Davis Mitchell. Dressed in suit pants and a dress shirt, he walked over to the driveway and picked up the evening paper. He did not see Mark, who took a long drag from his cigarette inside his darkened car.
Just then, Meg came out, dressed in the shorts and sleeveless top she was wearing today, but no shoes. "Dad!" she called.
"Yes, Meg?"
"Mom told me to remind you that Uncle Earl is coming in town this weekend and she wants you to fix the creaky doors before he gets in. She says he hates loud noises."
"Okay. Sure thing, slugger."
"She says you have to run by the hardware store to pick up an oil can."
"Okay."
"And she wants you to take out the garbage, too." They smiled at each other, adoring looks in their eyes.
"I'm on my way."
"It's good to see you, Dad," Meg said, now standing in front of her father. They embraced.
"It's good to see you, too," he said. Mark put out his cigarette in the ashtray, still staring at Meg. "I realize I don't get to see much of you these days, what with work. I'm sorry about that, sweetie."
"It's okay, Dad. It just makes it more special when I do get to see you." They released their embrace.
"Why so sad?" He examined her face. "Did you have a bad day at school?"
Meg smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing worth talking about."
Mr. Mitchell put his arm around Meg. "That's alright. I won't give you the third degree tonight. Hey," he said.
"What's that?"
"Congratulations on making the squad."
"Thanks, Dad." They walked together back inside the house, arms around each other.
Mark waited until they closed the door behind them, then put the car into gear and left.
Beth was in high spirits that night. She had just stepped out of the shower and had wet hair when Mark arrived at her doorstep, hands in pockets. "I'll just be a sec!" she called, as she towel-dried her hair. She was still wrapped just in a towel, so he knew it would be a while.
Mark waited dutifully on the front stoop, but Beth's mother invited him in. "No, thanks," was his answer. Her parents liked him a lot, but it was partly due to the fact that they were under the assumption that their relationship was a lot more innocent than it was. Even though he liked them too, he generally avoided any and all interactions with parents, and he would rather they not chit-chat with him tonight.
"You sure, Mark?" Mrs. Hammon asked. "I can pour you a glass of iced tea while you wait."
"I prefer to wait outside, Mrs. Hammon."
Ally walked by, and upon seeing Mark, she belted out, "Beth! Your loser boyfriend is here!" She was what her sister called, a "brat," but Mark saw the charm in her. She was loud-mouthed at times, but she could also be really sweet.
Mrs. Hammon laughed and cupped a hand over Ally's mouth. "She's kind of hyper tonight," she explained, as they went into the next room.
Ten minutes later Beth was ready to go, hair slicked back, and wearing an a-line silk mini-dress. Mark watched her approach the front door, noticing how curvacious the dress made her look.
"Hiya," she said.
"Hey," he answered.
He helped her put on her sweater, then Beth yelled over her shoulder, "Mom! I'm leaving now!" and they descended the steps and made way for the car.
"I had the greatest day today!" she exclaimed, as they got into the car.
"You're happy," he said.
She smiled a toothy smile. "Yup," she said. "Cathy Agroni got cut from the squad... Thank God I don't have to deal with that bitch anymore. She got caught fighting with one of the other cheerleaders and the coach pulled them both."
"Was that the girl you hated so much last year?"
"Yes."
"What about the other one?"
"Oh, she was a bitch, too. I don't mind at all that she's gone. Just wish our coach could've figured it out at tryouts... it'll be a headache getting replacements."
Even when Beth was happy, she was complaining. It was a trait he'd noticed early in their relationship.
"Mark? Why are you so goddamn quiet?" Beth asked, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt down. He hadn't noticed that he had been.
"I'm sorry... I'm probably just thinking about school," he replied.
"Yeah, right," she said, then gave him a shove.
"I'm driving!"
She eyed him. "What's on your mind?"
"What do you want to know?"
She bit her thumbnail. "I want to know what you did today while I was at practice."
"I did my homework."
She laughed. "That's a first."
"It's not funny."
"You're right, you're right. I shouldn't laugh."
He turned a sharp corner. They fell into silence. The drive to Raven's Point was a long one-- forty minutes. But Beth often insisted they go there... the scenery, she said, was unbeatable, and at night, hardly a person drove by. She loved nature, and she loved being outdoors. She liked to drink and listen to the music under the stars when the sky was clear at night. She loved the dew under her bare feet, and the sound of crickets chirping in the woods.
Mark had brought a six-pack and a bottle of brandy with them tonight. They were in the trunk, hidden under some newspapers and blankets and a tarp. When they arrived at the park, Mark went around to the back, unlocked the trunk and brought out the alcohol. He removed a can from the six-pack and gave it to Beth. Then he gave one to himself. He turned up the stereo, and they found a spot in the grass to spread the tarp and blankets. Within a half-hour, they were beginning to get drunk.
Beth started kissing him all over. "Wait," he said.
"What's the matter?"
He hesitated. "I don't know, Beth."
She shrugged her shoulders. "But we always do this." She leaned over and kissed him again, more deeply, on his neck. He pulled away.
"We always do?"
"Yeah."
He paused. "I just don't know if I can do this, tonight."
She kissed his hand. "Thoughts of school and homework overloading your brain muscles, Mark?"
"That's not it," he said, surprised by his own words.
"Then what?" It was Meg. He couldn't stop thinking about Meg. But Mark couldn't think of a way to tell Beth that. He didn't know how to tell her that he thought that she was being shallow. He didn't and couldn't give an answer to her question. "Come on, Mark," she said. "Please?" She moved closer to him, so that he could feel her breath on his face. She straddled him. There was no way for him to protest, and he knew it... so he began to kiss her back. "Don't you love it when I touch you?" she breathed, in between kisses. He had to agree.
They made love, for a good while, underneath the stars. As Mark was brushing Beth's hair away from her shoulders, after they were finished, he picked up the bottle of brandy and took a gigantic swig. He lit a cigarette and smoked the entire thing, one drag right after the other. Just another day in the life of Mark, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.