Shadow of the Past

by Thacher Cleveland

  “I see You. And I will make him see you too, and remember your glory.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mark sprang out of bed like it was Super Christmas New Years Vacation Field Hockey Skirts for Forever Day. Better than that, it was Date Day. Not “Gee Whiz Do You Like Me if So Check This Box” Date Day, but “We Totally Made Out Last Night and It Was Awesome Let’s Never Stop Doing That” Date Day.

  He showered and dressed, actually looking at clothes before putting them on. It seemed like some of them went better with other ones. He brushed and combed his hair, debating the placement of each strand as if he were some sort of hairologist.

  There was a moment, looking in the mirror, when he felt something turn in his stomach. It shook him more than the nerves he’d felt last night and he had to grab the edge of the sink to steady himself. The joy the promise of this day brought was faltering under the intensity of what he’d remembered and seen yesterday and now he could feel something else in there, half remembered and gnawing away at him.

  “Not today,” he said, forcing it back down in his mind. “Any other day, fine. But not today.”

  He ate his cereal over the sink like it was some sort of bomb ready to explode all over his well thought out clothing choices. When he finished and headed back upstairs he realized that it was only 10:00. Was it too early? Did she even expect him to call right away? Was this too desperate?

  Of course it’s too desperate. You kissed a girl that wants to kiss you again and it’s turned you into a fucking madman who eats cereal over the sink like a crazy person. You left desperate five miles back.

  Mark flopped back down on the bed, watching the world’s slowest second hand spin. The only other time a girl had showed interest in him was a drama club party Steve dragged him to their freshman year. Sarah Bingham had found him hiding out in a corner watching everyone else have a good time and started talking to him. After some awkward conversation, the two ended up kissing in the hall closet. Badly, he now realized, although he decided to attribute that to the fact that he’d been balanced on one leg so he wasn’t stepping in a mop bucket. He tried talking to her at school later that week, but she ducked him like she owed him money. He had tried calling her a couple (dozen) times, and it wasn’t until he watched her duck behind a friend as she snuck through the cafeteria that he realized she probably didn’t want anything to do with him.

  It took talent to make a young woman attempt a marine crawl through a chaotic and crowded high school cafeteria, and until now he thought that might be his only gift to women.

  Settle. She said you were nice, and sweet, and that she wanted to see you again. As long as you don’t hump her leg or drool, you should be come off as normal. For you.

  He reached over for the phone. Normal was a stretch, but he thought he might be able to pull it off.

  It rang forever, each chime daring him to hang up and chicken out, but then a breathless young female voice answered.

  “Hey you,” she said.

  “I hope I didn’t call to early. I just . . . wanted to see what was going on.”

  “Nothing important. My mom’s been dragging me out of bed way too early to help unpack and all this crap. What’re you up to?”

  “Same thing. Well, I don’t have any crap. How much stuff do you guys have, anyway?”

  “Too much! I can’t wait until we’re done and they can leave me alone. It’s such a pain!”

  “Yeah, I bet,” Boxes upon boxes full of fancy brand new stuff. Total pain, what a hassle.

  “So how about you swing over and arrange a jailbreak?”

  “Yeah, that sounds . . . arrangeable.”

  “Great! Get here fast before they wall me in with more boxes.”

  Does this get any easier? Mark fantasized that standing at her door waiting for someone to answer would become second nature, but for now it still filled him with the same dread it did yesterday. It was just well-lit so there was nowhere to hide.

  Before fleeing became an option, the door opened and a tall, almost painfully thin man beckoned him in.

  “You must be Mark,” he said. “Come in, come in.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said, hands clenching to fists in his jacket.

  “Can I take your coat?” Mr. Baker said, placing a hand on Mark’s shoulder.

  “No, I’m good,” Mark said. Mr. Baker smiled and nodded, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. The man’s short, crinkly hair was gray at the temples, and he wore tiny silver spectacles that seemed designed to add menace to his glare.

  “So Mark,” Mr. Baker said, “Chrissy tells me that you have some sort of scooter you ride around on, is that correct?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir,” Mark said. Here it comes.

  “Well,” Mr. Baker said, beginning to circle around Mark with slow, deliberate strides. “I’m sure it’s fine for you to get around and all, but I think you can understand that her mother and I may be a little cautious about her safety.”

  “Yeah, I guess I can understand that,” Mark said, trying not to obviously look like he was trying to keep Mr. Baker from getting behind him. I am not at all afraid of him latching onto my neck with some sort of crazy parent death grip. “But I do have a spare helmet and I’ve never been in an accident.

  “Well, that’s all well and good, but--”

  “Daddy!” Christine said, bounding down the stairs, and coming to a stop between the two. “What did I say about cross-examining my dates?”

  “Now Chrissy,” Mr. Baker started, but Mark quickly interjected.

  “It’s okay,” he said. Over time he’d learned to do the opposite of what Joe would do, and Clara had told him these were called ‘manners.’ “My friend Steve’s mom feels the same way about the scooter, but I’ve always brought him back safe. I can promise to do the same with your daughter.”

  “Well . . . ,” Mr. Baker said, rubbing his chin as if confused by these ‘manners’ and what they meant for the viability of scooters.

  “Daddy, please! It’s not really a big deal, okay?” she said, taking a hold of his arm with both hands and looking up at him with fluttering eyes.

  With the heavy sigh of one performing an act of unspeakable kindness, Mr. Baker nodded. “I suppose you’re right, Chrissy. But don’t be too late. We still have some work to do.”

  “Best Daddy ever! Thank you!” she darted up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the check. She slipped away and pushed Mark towards the door.

  As they headed down the walk, Christine tossed her hair back and gave Mark a pained look, “God, they’re such a pain in the ass. But you,” she grinned. “That was amazing. And they say Jersey’s filled with bad boys.”

  “Hey, fuhgedaboutit,” said Mark, shrugging his shoulders and tossing his hands in the air.

  She tossed him his helmet and winked at him. “Cute, tough guy. Let’s get out here so I can greet you properly.”

  She wanted to know where all the “cool stuff” was so they drove around for a bit. Mark pointed out his favorite places to eat, the good movie theater up on the Hill and Ridgemont Park near his old middle school, hoping it could pass for cool.

  “I think this is it,” he finally said over the metal wasp-buzz of the engine.

  “This is fine,” she said, squeezing him just enough to make him almost run them off the road. “Let’s stop here.”

  They pulled over near a secluded end of Ridgemont, at one end of the big pond near the group of large trees. They picked a seat under one that had a nice cushion of leaves and a pair of big roots that forced them to squeeze close together.

  “So this place is nice,” she said, nuzzling up next to him.

  “The park? Yeah, I used to hang out here all the time, pretending I was fighting ninjas or army guys or whatever.” She chuckled. “Or something cooler. Smoking the drugs, or something like that.”

  “I meant the town. It’s kind of charming.”

  “Oh yeah, real charming. Designed for smug yuppie assholes to feel better about themselves and
built on a geographical sliding scale so you can be sure where you fit in on the economic food chain. And if you do live down with the rest of the Morlocks, you better be a tough guy or you’re going to eat shit for the rest of your life.”

  “Well, speaking as one of those yuppie assholes, not every guy from Morlock village has to be a tough guy.”

  He could feel his face flushing. It was tough remembering the only difference between her and the people he hated was the fact that she was here with him and apparently didn’t hate him.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I never wanted live here, but my folks . . .” he stopped, realizing that he was in forbidden territory. There was no way he was going to go into all of that now, if ever.

  “Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Folks never give you much choice in anything. You just get dragged around like a rag doll. My brother is older and it was way harder on him. If he hadn’t gone to college when he did I think he and Dad would've come to blows by now.”

  “Really?” Mark said. “In those pictures everyone looks so happy and, well, normal.”

  “Oh Jesus! My folks are not normal. My folks wouldn’t know normal if it jumped up and bit them on the ass. My dad’s a total workaholic freak and my mom is just obsessed with making sure everything looks okay and in its right place. They’re the anti-normal.”

  “Well, I guess it beats the alternative.”

  “I dunno. Ever since Ryan moved out my folks have just been all over me, but with the move and everything done it’ll be nice to just slow down and just let everything settle.”

  “That’s cool,” he said. “Slow is good.”

  “Well,” she grinned, shifting up to kiss him. “Not that good.”

  After exhausting themselves with an hour of kissing and over-the-clothes groping they just leaned back against the tree, arms and legs intertwined and enjoying the crisp fall air.

  “I should be getting back soon,” she said. “The last thing I want is my dad getting on your case again.”

  Mark grinned. “For this, he can get on my case all he wants.”

  She reached up and took a leaf out of his hair. “You’re sweet.”

  “Really?”

  Her fingers left his hair and softly traced a line from his cheek to his chin. “Yes, Mark. You’re very sweet. I can’t remember if I’ve met a guy who’s been sweeter. You’re kind, you’re caring, you’re considerate. . .”

  He chuckled. “What am I, a Cub Scout? Next you’ll say I’m loyal and honest.”

  “Oh, you’re those too, I’m sure, but I don’t think you realize how rare that is.”

  “Are we going to get disgusting boyfriend/girlfriend names now?” he asked, kissing her fingertip.

  “Well, we’ll have to play it by ear. Have to give it some time to find the really disgusting ones.”

  Mark dropped her off after she made sure neither of them had too many dirt or grass stains on their backs. “Trust me,” she’d said, “they’re a dead giveaway.” At the head of the driveway she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a whispered promise to call later.

  He spent the ride home trying not to think of the small mound of homework that had piled up over the weekend as he’d lost himself to the sheer awesomeness that was teenage make-outs. He was so into reliving his PG sex-life that he didn’t notice the car parked in front of the house as he pulled into the driveway. He locked the V up in the garage and happily dashed to the back door, taking all three steps in one big jump.

  He was two strides into the kitchen before he saw Joe sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a coffee mug in both hands and glaring at a man in a suit sitting across the table from him. The smart remark Mark was going to make about them never having company was cut off when he noticed the badge hanging from the man’s lapel pocket.

  “Mark,” Joe said, very evenly, putting down his cup of coffee, “This is David Prescott. With the cops. I think you should have a seat.”

  Mark sat and listened, but it became more difficult the more that Detective Prescott talked. Mark’s gaze dropped to his suddenly lifeless hands on the table as the Detective used words like “fire” and “death.” The Detective asked Mark about the party that night and if that was the last time he’d spoken to Clara.

  “Party?” Mark mumbled. Everything was quicksand, words and thoughts sinking into the nothingness in his chest. Why would there be a party?

  “The delivery guy from the Chinese place next door said he dropped some food off at the shop after hours and that there were a couple of other people in there. Alvin, the delivery guy, said he recognized you, that you were at Clara’s a lot.”

  “Yeah, he hung out there,” Joe said, wringing his hands on the coffee mug.

  Mark nodded in agreement. Everything was graying back out again. Yes, he hung out there. He was supposed to keep hanging out there. It was his place. Mark’s vision was blurring and his pulse was roaring in his ears. He knew the Detective was saying something else but he was concentrating on blinking away his tears.

  “Excuse me?” he said softly, hoping his voice did have too much strain in it.

  “This wasn’t an accident, Mark. This is being treated as a homicide.”

  “What?”

  “Mark,” David said, “Can you think of anyone that may have had a reason to hurt Clara, or if there was anything unusual about that night? Did she say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

  Well, there was this phantom guy that tried to throw you down the stairs, but he probably wasn’t real or even human, so that doesn’t mean much aside from the fact that you’re batshit crazy.

  They stared at each other for a second, Mark’s eyes still misting and he realized he was taking too long to answer. The longer he didn’t say anything the more obvious it was that he could be saying something and wasn’t.

  But there was no man, and if you say anything you’ll look so crazy they’ll probably take you downtown to talk about it more. And I bet they don’t need the phone books or rubber hoses to crack your shell, sissy.

  “No,” Mark said softly. “Nothing at all. She was the greatest person in the world. She . . .” Mark tried to think of a way to convey to these men that would never know her how important she’d been to him, but realized that it was futile. Nothing he could say would show how much she meant and how impossible someone wanting to murder her was.

  “She had a daughter,” Mark said, trying to stay away from total blinding despair and focusing on being helpful.

  “Yeah,” the Detective said. “We found her information in an address book and we’ve already notified her. We’re going to have to talk with the other people that were with you that night. Just a formality, but we have to be thorough.”

  Mark’s heart sank. Steve’s mom would freak, and Christine’s dad would now have something better than the V to worry about. He recited their names and address for the Detective to jot down in his little notebook, so he could go forth and make an even bigger wreck of his life.

  Before he left, the Detective turned back to Mark, handing him a business card. “If you can think of anything, and I do mean anything, feel free to call me.”

  Mark nodded and watched him go. Joe walked him to the front door and Mark made it as far as the hallway before he stopped and leaned on the wall. When the door closed behind the cops, Joe turned and said “I know this must be hard but . . . I just want you to know--”

  That was all he needed to get him off the wall. “Save it,” he shook his head and pushed himself back onto his feet, storming past Joe and heading for the stairs. “You hated her. You couldn’t stand that someone gave a shit about me and I don’t need your pity. Not now.” He took the stairs two at a time, pausing only to throw open the attic door before bounding up the rest of the stairs. Before he made it to the top of the steps, everything was blurry and wet and shaking. His foot didn’t clear the top step and he sprawled forward onto his knees and hands, crashing into the side of his bed.

  He shoved it as hard a
s he could, and then swung at it over and over again, not seeing anything but indistinct shapes. Whatever it was in front of him, he wanted it gone. Destroyed. Burned.

  He screamed until all he had left were silent, chest heaving sobs and sore hands that lashed out in weak futility.

  Chapter Nine

  Mark wasn’t sure when he’d pulled himself into bed, but it hadn’t made him any more comfortable. He woke up with a wet pillow and limbs tangled in sheets. Something had startled him awake and he wasn’t sure what it was until there was another yell of his name from downstairs and getting closer.

  “Mark! Telephone!” Joe yelled through his door.

  “I got it!” Mark screamed back, picking up. “Hello?”

  “Mark, it’s me,” Christine said. Mark dropped himself back on the bed.

  “Hey.”

  “Mark, I’m so, so sorry. How’re you doing?”

  He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I . . . I don’t even know. It doesn’t seem real.”

  “Yeah, I know. The detective guy just left, and . . . god, my parents are so freaked.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mark said.

  “Don’t be, they’re just being dicks. I just hope yours are handling this better.”

  Now this too. “Christine,” he said, “I don’t have any folks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said with a deep sigh, “I don’t have parents anymore. I live with my Uncle Joe, that’s the guy who picked up when you called. I’ve lived with him since I was little, and Clara . . . Clara was like a mom to me, and now . . .” he stopped, trying to keep the crack in his voice from exploding into tears.

  “Oh, Mark,” Christine said, and he could feel the pity in her voice. He wasn’t sure what made him feel worse: her thinking he was a weirdo or her pitying him. “I’m sorry. This has got to be so hard for you.”