Fragile (17 page)

“I told you he was a pussy,” said Travis.

Marshall tried to laugh, but it sounded strangled. He was so tired. He didn’t remember ever being this tired before. He pushed himself off the bottom stair and went to stand by the side of the window by the door. He watched Mr. Ivy hesitate by his car a moment and look back at the house. Then Mr. Ivy climbed inside and closed the door. It was another minute before the engine started, as if he was watching the house, waiting. He was giving Marshall a sign.
It’s not too late; if you come out now, I can take you away
. Marshall rested his hand on the knob just as Mr. Ivy pulled the silver Honda into the street and drove away. Marshall felt a part of himself go with him. He wanted to run into the street and wave his arms.
Mr. Ivy, help me!

“What are you looking at? Is he still out there?”

Marshall watched the street, hoping that he’d see the car come back … maybe this time with the police. Maybe they knew who he was and what he’d done. Maybe they’d come back and take him away. In the fantasy of this, where they broke down the door and led him away in handcuffs, he only felt relief, a blessed, knee-weakening relief. Something like the feeling he’d had when he’d seen his father led away from the courtroom in handcuffs, knowing Travis would be in jail for six months, and that Marshall would be staying with Leila and Mark. He’d been scared; he’d been sad, too. But he’d also felt something inside him relax and expand. He wouldn’t always be steeling himself, preparing to ward off blows. He could put down his guard.

“No. He’s gone.”

He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you get some
rest? You’ve had a hard night.” His father sounded almost
nice
, almost like he imagined other fathers sounded when they talked to their sons.

He turned to look at Travis. “But—,” he started.

His father lifted a hand. “We’ll deal with it later. Go on upstairs.”

He couldn’t bring himself to argue, didn’t want to ruin it by starting a fight. And he
was
so tired; he could barely keep his eyes open. He headed up the stairs. When he turned around, he saw that his father was shouldering on his plaid wool jacket, something it seemed like he’d been wearing forever. Marshall was about to ask where he was going, but the words wouldn’t come. Travis couldn’t be going far because he wasn’t allowed to drive. As he reached the landing and turned for his room, he barely registered the door opening and closing.

In his room, everything in the space around him, everything that had occurred in the last twelve hours, seemed fuzzy and indistinct. He found himself grasping at memories that slipped away like water through a cupped hand. He lay on his bed and stared at his computer.

The screen saver was a racing galaxy of stars; a doorway to that other universe. He had so much control there. In the real world, life was so messy, so many variables—things spun out of his grasp. Even inside himself, he seemed to have so little control over his emotions. And once his emotions took over, he split in two. There was the watcher within him, the creature without. The watcher could only look on, its desperate commands, pleas, and warnings ignored while the creature acted.

We don’t choose where we come from, Marshall. And we often have little to say about what happens to us. But the adult understands that he and he alone is responsible for his life. You have choices now, choices that will affect your future. Let me help you make the right ones
.

It was one of the first things Mr. Ivy had said to him. And the words had seemed strange at first, because no one had ever said anything like that to Marshall. He actually, for a moment, wondered if Mr. Ivy was making fun of him. When Marshall was called to anyone’s office, it was for a reprimand or for the delivery of some bad news—like he was being held back a grade or was being switched to a lower-level class, one of those small rooms with one or two other students and a teacher who
spoke very soft and slow, repeating the same stupid shit over and over. But Mr. Ivy never treated him like a moron or a mental case. He’d treated Marshall with respect, offered him a hand up from the swamp he was wading through.

Through a kind of mental fog, he heard a car door slam outside. He went to the window, wondering if Mr. Ivy had come back. But instead, Marshall watched his father climb into a taxi, saw the car pull up the street.
Where was he going?
He couldn’t imagine his father calling for a cab, paying for a ride. A low-level anxiety started to buzz inside him. There were some flashes of memory—his mother crying, Charlene on all fours puking by the side of the highway. His head ached. It ached so bad he was nauseous from it.

He stumbled to his computer and, as he moved the mouse, the screen came to life. Charlene’s page was open in front him; he read the list of comments from her last posting: “Charlene is large and in charge, living in New York City! The Hollows SUCKS!”

Even if she hadn’t told him her password, it wouldn’t have taken him long to figure it out.
Rockstar
. They were all living inside their heads, weren’t they? They were living on dreams because life didn’t quite measure up, and even in their teens they already had the vague sense that it never, ever would.

He started to laugh then. It came from a deep, dark place inside him. He thought of Mr. Ivy, Dr. Cooper, his aunt and uncle—all the people who believed in him, who put themselves out because when they looked at him, they saw something that wasn’t there. His father always thought that he knew better, that he was smarter than everyone else.
If they were any good, Son? Trust me. They wouldn’t want anything to do with you
. As it turned out, his dad was right.

It felt like laughter, ripping through him in great uncontrollable peals. But when the screen went dark, he saw himself. The boy in the reflection was weeping.

Charlie floated through the day on the memory of Wanda’s perfume; he imagined that the unique scent of her body and the floral melody she
wore still clung to his skin. The sense memories of their night together kept coming back to him in flashes as he drove from job to job, as he crawled around in attics, carried traps to his truck. He barely noticed the hours pass. He kept hoping to hear her voice on the Nextel. But Old Joe was on dispatch today; it was Wanda’s day off.

“I’ll cook dinner for you tonight, Charlie, if you don’t have any plans.” She’d said it shyly, as though she worried about seeming too forward, too eager.

He didn’t care about seeming too eager. Hell, he
was
eager.

“I don’t have any plans, Wanda. And if I did, I’d cancel them.” He could still hear that mellifluous giggle.

He’d intended to knock off a bit early, pick up some flowers and a nice bottle of wine before going back to Wanda’s. But as he was finishing his last call, he remembered Mrs. Monroe and the traps he’d left in her attic. He’d promised he’d go back to her today. Remembering her standing there watching him leave, he couldn’t bring himself to let her down. He called Wanda from his cell, her home number on a folded sticky note in his pocket. He wondered if she’d be angry, or annoyed. Most women would be.

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Charlie,” she said. “You’re a kind person. A man of your word. Trust me, it’s a rare, rare thing. You take your time.”

“Wanda,” he said, a rush of feeling pulsing through him. “I’m dying to put my arms around you.”

There was a moment of silence, when he heard her breathing. He wasn’t worried that he’d said the wrong thing. They were past that awkwardness already.

“I’m waiting for you, Charlie,” she said. Her voice sounded breathy and sweet.

He let out a little moan. “Okay, I better go before I come racing over there right now.”

“Go take care of Mrs. Monroe. And then get over here and take care of me,” she said and hung up with a playful laugh. He thought of her perfect breasts and parted lips and was glad he had a ten-minute drive to Mrs. Monroe’s to get his pants under control.

•    •    •

As he pulled up to the old house, he saw Mrs. Monroe standing in the big bay window over the porch. She stepped back quickly when she saw him turn in the drive, maybe embarrassed to be caught waiting. She greeted him at the door.

“I thought you forgot about me. I called your dispatch,” she said. “The guy who answered the phone was a moron, not that nice girl on the phone yesterday.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Monroe. I wouldn’t forget.”

She waved a hand. “People today forget everything. They even forget to take care of their children.” She wasn’t crotchety, not complaining. She just seemed sad, wistful.

He wanted to disagree with her, to say something positive to change her mind. But too large a part of him agreed with her. He wondered if he was the only one who felt frightened and agitated watching television—the terrible programming, the manipulative advertising.
What is this doing to our culture?
he’d wonder. But on some nights, he was too tired to turn it off. And suddenly everyone was driving like they were mildly drunk—people pulling out into traffic without really looking, weaving in their lanes. Inevitably, he’d glance over to see someone entrenched in conversation on a cell phone, oblivious to everything else. People did forget everything. They even forgot themselves.

“Well, I’m not one of those people.”

“A throwback,” she said with a smile, giving him a pat on the arm.

“I guess so.”

He made his way toward the staircase. “Any noise last night or today?”

“Not a peep.” She stayed at the bottom landing. “Forgive me if I don’t follow you up. My arthritis.”

“No problem. I remember where the attic access is.”

But the traps in the attic were empty, the bait untouched. He moved some of the junk around but still saw none of the usual signs—no feces,
no evidence of gnawing. The scent he’d caught yesterday was gone. Maybe it had been his imagination. Or hers. He entertained the notion that the old lady might be losing it, hearing things that weren’t there. But no, she didn’t seem the type. Still, what he’d smelled yesterday was an odor that only intensified with time. If there was something dead up there, it should only smell worse today than yesterday. Maybe the cool weather had slowed the decay. He’d leave the traps one more day, come back again tomorrow.

He found Mrs. Monroe on the couch watching the news. On the screen, a picture of a missing girl—a pretty girl, thin with fair skin and jet hair, dark brown eyes.
An assumed runaway. Police encourage anyone who has seen her to contact them immediately
, a male voice-over declared grimly.

“Mrs. Monroe,” he said. The old woman gave a little jump of surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh,” she said, pointing at the screen. “That girl, she’s a friend of my grandson’s. They’re all very worried. No one’s spoken to her since last night.”

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard the news today.”

The old woman pushed herself from the couch with effort, waving away his attempt to help her.

“Find anything up there?” she asked. When she finally rose, she steadied herself with her cane.

“Afraid not. I’ll come back tomorrow and check again.” Her shoulders seemed to sag a bit with disappointment; she drew in a weary breath.

“All right.” She handed him a rolled-up bill. “I appreciate it.”

“Oh, no—,” he started to decline. But she pushed the money into his hand.

At the door he said, “I hope she’s all right. Your grandson’s friend.”

“I do, too,” she said with a shake of her head. “She’s a troubled girl. Problems at home, I think.”

“I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

He wasn’t sure of this at all, of course. In high school, a friend of
his—a girl friend he’d secretly loved—had run away. Lily. The memory of it caused a surprising catch of sadness in his throat. It was something he seldom thought about anymore, had willed away from conscious thought. No one ever saw her again. Ever. He didn’t share this with Mrs. Monroe.

It wasn’t until he was back in his truck and driving toward Wanda’s that Charlie remembered the girl he’d seen last night, the one with the punky hair who’d climbed into the old muscle car. Could it be the same girl? Should he call the police and say something?

Thinking about her standing there on the street, looking uneasily around her, caused him to remember Lily and that ugly, frightening time in his life. The memories were so vivid, so powerful—the smell of her skin, the sound of her voice, the fear, the dread, that indescribable unknowing. The sadness came on him so forcefully that he had to pull over on the shoulder of the highway and rest his head against the wheel. It was so many years ago, and there was still so much pain.

His phone rang then, startling him, and he answered it quickly.

“Hello.”

“Charlie?”

“Wanda.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said, forcing brightness into his tone. “I’m just on my way. Sorry about that.”

“I’ll put the chicken in.”

There was something sweet, comforting about that sentence. Something that smacked of a domesticity he had craved without even realizing it. He let the feeling wash over him, rinse away the memories that had come back to call. He’d do what he’d planned, pick up some wine and some flowers and spend the evening with a beautiful woman who seemed to really like him. He’d tell her what he saw, ask her what she thought. Maybe he’d even tell her about Lily, a girl he’d loved a lifetime ago who haunted him still.

14

W
hen his mother died, Jones had used all the emotions that rocketed through him to put on a powerful display of grief. What he felt, in fact, was a shuddering relief, as if at the easing of unbearable pain. He felt rage. He felt strangely unmoored, as though he’d been tied to his life only by the obligation he felt to care for his mother. But he did not feel grief. He would not miss her. Still, he might have been found weeping at her bedside in the hospital or at her graveside during the funeral. It wasn’t an act.

Poor Jones. He was so good to her. He spent his whole life caring for her
.