The Watermark

by Travis Thrasher

  “I said everything I could in my letter years ago. I never heard a word from either you or your wife. What else can I say?”

  “I can’t speak for Amanda. We divorced.”

  I wanted to say I was sorry, but I think my silent, stunned expression said enough.

  “But you just—can’t you have the common decency to grant a simple request?” Larsen asked.

  “I’m sorry. But I don’t know what good calling you back would have done.”

  “It’s called being courteous. Is that too much to ask?”

  Larsen’s face was turning red, and I was beginning to get really nervous. “Listen, Mr. Larsen, now is really not a good time.”

  “And when is? I’ve been trying to talk to you for months now!”

  “Mr. Larsen, I could say I’m sorry a thousand times and—”

  “Just wait and listen.”

  “I’m sorry. Please, I don’t think this is—”

  “Hold on. Wait.”

  As I stood to leave, the frustrated man looked at me as he moved his arm and then jerked his wrist quickly. I didn’t see it coming because everything happened so quickly. At first I thought he was swinging a knife, that a blade was driving toward my exposed throat, that this was how all of it would end. I threw up my hands to protect myself.

  Suddenly the remaining two-thirds of my shake splattered on my head and face and chest.

  Mike looked at the cup in his hand with horror and then at my shocked, vanilla-splattered expression. “Listen, I’m—you just…” He took a deep, frustrated breath. “You just don’t understand…” His sentence drifted off with him as he quickly exited the restaurant.

  I wiped the sticky, cold goo from my face with a napkin. The few people around me looked on in curious delight and probably wondered if there was going to be any more action, if I was going to be a man and follow him outside to save face.

  I could never save face, no matter what I said or did to Mike Larsen.

  I felt the syrupy shake creeping down my neck as I headed to the bathroom with the angry echoes of Larsen’s last words to me filling my head: You just don’t understand.

  When I got back to the apartment, I found Erik on the couch listening to U2’s latest CD. Next to him in the middle of a big blanket slept little Ralph. Erik looked at me and said hello. “You’re wet,” he added.

  “Slightly,” I said, and left it at that.

  I found Barney in my bedroom, lying on his side like a car-wreck victim. I tapped the floor several times and he jerked up, looking like a blind man who just woke up on the street after someone put change in his can. I always feared the day when I would tap and there would be no response. Thankful this wasn’t the moment, I tapped a few more times, and he came to me. He could smell the shake and instantly began to lick my face and ears and neck where vanilla had dried.

  I petted him for a few minutes, admiring the fact that regardless of who and what I was, this dog would always love me unconditionally. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t care how many shots I had to give him or how old he was. He never stopped loving me.

  I never stopped loving you either, Sheridan.

  I dismissed the thought and took a quick shower. In fresh clothes, I went to see what Erik had on his agenda.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “My stomach’s been kinda hurting lately.”

  “Maybe that’s because your diet consists of beer and more beer.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, that can’t be too healthy, huh?”

  “So what are you doing for the holidays?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. Maybe go back home for a few days and be with the family—if I can stand it. Hanging out around here mostly, I guess. Maybe going out.”

  “There’s a service being held at Genevie’s church on Christmas Eve.”

  “And you’re going?”

  “Sure. With Genevie.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have a date for church. You find me one and I’ll go.”

  “It’s not so bad, you know.”

  “Probably not. My parents and family go to their church on Christmas Eve, too.”

  “Do you go with them?” I asked.

  “No. And they end up lecturing me. That’s why I wanted to go home with you for Thanksgiving. So they’d stop riding my tail about things.”

  “Then come with Gen and me to church. It would be good. Something different.”

  Erik looked at me suspiciously from the couch. “Who are you—and what have you done with Sheridan Blake?”

  I shrugged. “Hey, look, it’s just something different. I’ve been going with Genevie every once in a while. Actually, it’s been all right.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Lots of reasons. I always leave feeling pretty good.”

  Erik stretched and grinned. “I feel good after I’ve had a six-pack.”

  I didn’t know where to go with this. I had my faults, but I certainly wasn’t hypocritical enough to push the man into going to church. “Just think about it. Gen likes you.”

  “She doesn’t even know me,” Erik replied.

  “Sure she does. She likes being around you and me. We make her laugh.”

  “How so?”

  “Maybe it’s just you that makes her laugh. Maybe it’s the patch of fuzz on your chin.”

  “Hey, I just started growing it. It’s quite popular with the ladies.”

  “It looks like the plague broke out under your chin.” I continued to jest with Erik. “Yeah, girls really like that blotchy thing.”

  “Just because you don’t have face hair doesn’t mean you have to go knocking mine.”

  “It looks like you taped some of Ralphie’s fur to your face.”

  “At least I didn’t have Barney puke on my date.”

  “Yeah, that’s because you last went on a date in—oh, when was that? Eighth grade?”

  “Funny,” Erik replied. “Very funny.”

  “Truth hurts.”

  We continued bantering with one another the way we had grown accustomed to doing. For some strange reason, the closer guys seem to become, the easier it is to verbally joust in a good-natured way. This was my way of communicating with Erik. Eventually, the climate would be comfortable enough for each of us to say anything we wanted to the other.

  As Erik played with Ralph, I began sorting through Erik’s variety of discs.

  “Oh, by the way,” my roommate told me, “that Mike Larsen dude called again and left a weird message.”

  “When?”

  “After you came home. When you were in the shower.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Listen to it.”

  My gut clenched as I crossed over to the answering machine and played the message. The voice sounded tired.

  “Seven years,” it said. “Seven long years. I just wanted to talk to you, Blake. Why couldn’t you understand that? Why’d you have to make things so difficult? Oh, well…” Then the message trailed off.

  I erased it quickly.

  “What was that all about?”

  “It’s about past mistakes I can’t seem to get away from.”

  He gave me a curious look. “What sort?”

  “Mistakes anybody could make. The kind you wonder if you’ll ever be able to forget.”

  “From your college days years ago?”

  I nodded.

  “So why all the secrecy about it? What’s the big deal?”

  “You know when you go to a party and do or say something really stupid—like get in a fight with someone or say something horrible about your best friend? And then you wake up the next day and wish it had never happened? That’s sorta what it’s like. A memory of something bad that you’d rather forget than relive.”

  Erik shrugged. “So you apologize and move on.”

  “Apologizing’s the easy part.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It’s just not that easy,” I interrupted.

  “Okay, then, I won’t
ask anymore.” Erik turned his back to me as he walked over to the television to switch on his PlayStation game system. His words were nonchalant, but I could tell he was peeved.

  “That’s why church helps, you know,” I said, hating the preachiness in my own words even as I said them. “Church and Gen. I pretty much need them at this point in my life.”

  Erik’s back was still to me and his voice was flat. “Yeah, man. Well, if you ever need me, you know where to find me.”

  December 14

  Dear Amy,

  Everything in me wants to tell people like Gen and Erik the truth. But I’m afraid of their reactions, especially Gen’s. And I’m also ashamed.

  The other day I finally saw him for the first time—you know who I mean. After all this time, he decided he needed to talk with me. But we didn’t get much talking done. He ended up throwing a milk shake in my face.

  I know I probably should have done more than simply write that letter years ago. I should have actually faced them, said I was sorry. But I was afraid of what they would say, just as I fear what Genevie will say and do if I tell her the truth.

  Even after all this time, I have so far left to go.

  Sheridan

  eleven

  I searched radio stations with my finger, my other hand on the steering wheel of my Honda. Eventually, I slipped in a disc by a relatively new electronic musician.

  “What’s this?” Genevie asked me in the darkness of the car.

  “It’s a new CD I just got called ‘I Can’t Take Any More All-Boy Bands.’ ”

  “You know—the Beatles were once considered a boy band, too.”

  “Please,” I said.

  “I’m just kidding. Come on—lighten up. You’re supposed to be in a good mood.”

  “I’m in a fine mood,” I replied.

  “You’ve been quiet ever since we left the church.”

  I drove down the expressway, almost unrecognizable with its open lanes on this Sunday night. Genevie slipped her hand in mine as we talked.

  “Not any more than I usually am.”

  “I thought Nita did a wonderful job.”

  “I did, too.”

  “So what’s wrong, Sheridan?”

  “Nothing. Really.”

  “Oh, come on. Your star pupil played three pieces in front of her entire church. She really is incredible.”

  “I know.”

  “Was this the first time she played in a program?” Genevie asked.

  “No. She did it last year, though I didn’t come.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t have anyone to go with.” I squeezed her hand, hoping the lighter comment would disguise my somber mood.

  We didn’t say anything for a while. After ten minutes Genevie turned down the melancholy music. “Sometimes I really don’t get your moods, Sheridan.”

  “What moods?”

  “Like the one you’re in right now.”

  “I’m just tired. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to apologize. I want you to be happy. It’s almost Christmas. There’s so much to be thankful for.”

  “I know.”

  “You should be so proud of how well you’ve taught Nita.”

  “I am. It’s just… sometimes watching her is like looking into a mirror to the past. I’m pretty envious of her.”

  “Why?” Genevie asked.

  “She’s got her whole life ahead of her.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “She’s so young. And she’ll be able to do so much.”

  “And you can’t? Come on, Sheridan.”

  “I’m just being honest.”

  “And so am I.”

  “There was a time in my life when I had a lot of plans related to my playing the piano.”

  “So what happened to them?”

  I let out a sigh. “Good question.”

  “Tell you what,” Genevie said, unfazed by my pessimism. “I want you to come somewhere with me next week. Can you take an afternoon off?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “You’ll see. Just promise me you’ll be open-minded. And in a good mood.”

  “I’m in a fine mood.”

  “Sheridan?”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  Five days before Christmas, I honored my promise to Genevie by accompanying her along the crowded stores on Michigan Avenue. My classes were finished and the exams were completed. When she told me where we were going, I pictured an entire day of Christmas shopping with Genevie. While the thought of wandering around stores didn’t particularly delight me, I didn’t mind as long as I was with Gen. Hopefully I would get some ideas on what exactly to get her for Christmas.

  The street was awash with streams of well-dressed men and women carrying loaded shopping bags. Everyone seemed busy and preoccupied and unaware of each other. The shops were crowded with long lines at the checkout counters and packed with browsers searching for the right gift. After a while, the whole scene overwhelmed me, even though I was at Genevie’s side.

  “Big shopper, huh?” Gen asked at one point that day, as I stared dully at a heaping display of clothes on a sales table.

  “Can’t get enough,” I replied as she laughed.

  It was close to four in the afternoon, and we were almost finished (I hoped) when we passed by a bakery. So far, I had bought one small gift for my mother while Genevie had a couple of bags full. She had bought a blanket at one store and a few small baby toys at another, only saying they were presents for people she knew.

  “Let’s go in here for a second,” Gen said, motioning toward the bakery door.

  “What? Aren’t we eating in a couple hours?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  I followed her inside and watched Gen order an assortment of cookies and pastries. The bill came to around fifty dollars.

  “What are you doing?” I asked her in bewilderment.

  She smiled and handed me a couple of the bags to carry. “You’ll see.”

  We walked down Michigan Avenue, our arms loaded down with shopping bags and parcels of sweet goodies.

  “What’s going on, Gen?”

  “Follow me.”

  A couple of blocks off Michigan Avenue was a nondescript apartment building. Genevie walked up to the door and pressed one of the buttons to call someone.

  A short, plump, redheaded woman answered the door. “Well, hey, Genevie.”

  “Hi, Lizzie. Merry Christmas.” Genevie gave the woman her two bags from the bakery.

  “What’s this?”

  “Something for the ladies. We’ve got a couple more.”

  I handed the bags to Lizzie, who gave me a big, gap-toothed smile.

  “This is Sheridan,” Gen said to Lizzie. I nodded in greeting.

  “Hey, you-all didn’t have to do this,” the woman said.

  “Course I didn’t—I wanted to. Here—I got you a little something in this bag. And a few toys for the kids.”

  “Genevie, you shouldn’t have—,” the woman began, but Gen interrupted her protests.

  “You’re loaded down—you want us to help with those?”

  “Oh, no, it’s okay.” She fidgeted with the bags until I politely took a couple back. “Well, all right, then.”

  Gen and I followed her through a door off the first-floor hallway. Her small apartment smelled like garlic and old socks. Stepping in the family room, I was surprised at the sparse furniture inside the apartment. The building looked a hundred years old.

  “You’re such a sweetie, you know that,” Lizzie said to Genevie. “I’ll let the women know that you brought some gifts by.”

  “And Sheridan,” Genevie replied.

  “Yes, certainly.” Lizzie smiled big round cheeks and winked at me.

  “Have a good Christmas,” Gen said.

  “You too. Are we still seeing you next week?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bye then. You take care and keep warm.”

  Gen and I found
our way out of the building and began walking back toward Michigan Avenue. She looked at me several times and smiled.

  “So?” I asked her.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to tell me about that, or should I just guess?”

  “Lizzie is the director at a shelter for women I visit sometimes. It’s part of an outreach program at my church. Anyway, I’ve kind of kept in touch with Lizzie and her ladies.”

  “Homeless women?” I asked.

  “No. Well, yes and no. Mainly it’s young girls with children who have nowhere to go. Girls in tough situations. A lot of the time they’ve been abused.”

  “How many are there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a dozen or more. The number varies.”

  “And you come down here a lot?” I asked her.

  “Fairly often, I guess. What? Why so surprised?”

  “I’m not. I just didn’t know that. I thought I knew everything about Genevie Liu.”

  Gen laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Will I get to?”

  She turned her head and caught my eye. “Don’t you think that’s a funny thing for you to ask?”

  There wasn’t much for me to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. We passed by frantic shoppers who looked weighed down by presents and debt.

  “That was a great thing you just did,” I finally said. “But why’d you want me to come?”

  “To be a part of it. To share in the fun.”

  “I just carried the bags.”

  “Sure, but didn’t you see Liz’s expression? The appreciation? The kindness in her eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s someone who could be pretty angry at the world, especially after the cards she’s been dealt. Instead, she’s gracious and humble and serves women in need.”

  “I’m assuming this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this?”

  “It’s not like I’m keeping count. I don’t know. I like helping people when I can. Not that giving away desserts and toys is that big a deal.”

  “I think it is. I haven’t exactly been looking for people in need that I could help, you know.”