Shadow of the Past

by Thacher Cleveland

  “I’m fine,” Mark said, fumbling with the combination to his locker.

  “Look, Mark,” Steve said, finally soft enough for only Mark to hear. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s only gonna get worse. You have to--”

  Mark slammed his locker door open, cutting Steve off. “I’m fine,” he said, still not looking Steve in the eye and feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on his back.

  “Watson that was a great game!” Jack called from his locker.

  “Look,” Steve said, “why don’t you leave him the hell alone, huh? What the hell did he ever do to you?”

  Jack shook his head and looked down at his feet. “What did he ever do to me? Y’know, I didn’t realize I needed a reason. I just figured losers like him deserved it.”

  Steve walked up to Jack stepping between him and his locker. “Let me tell you something you spoiled little bastard--” he began, but Jack didn’t give him a chance to finish. Steve didn’t even know what was happening until he was doubled over and gasping for breath, his hands at his stomach where Jack punched him.

  Mark rested his head on his locker for a second and then walked over to Jack, who was staring down at Steve’s crumpled form with murderous intent in his eyes. “Hey,” Mark called, his voice squeaking out of his rapidly tightening throat. Jack looked up and actually smiled.

  Jack stepped over Steve and leaned against the locker next to Mark. “I can’t believe you’ve got to get some theater geek to fight your battles for you,” Jack said. “Fucking sad, man.” Mark looked away from Jack’s gaze, his fists clenching and unclenching. Jack leaned in close enough so only Mark could hear. “But if you did, I’d fucking destroy you.” Moving before Mark could register it Jack shoved him hard to the ground and then pinned him there with a foot on his chest.

  The spectators that appeared around them let out gasps and murmurs and Jack’s face contorted into an evil grin. He pressed his foot down harder, and Mark’s breath hissed past his teeth. Jack leaned down. “Don’t bother to fight me, Watson. I’ll bury you.”

  With that, Jack lifted his foot up and walked back to his locker to continue changing, not even looking in their direction. Mark just lay there, listening to everyone change and head upstairs to wait for the bell. His breath came back but not his will to stand.

  “Hey,” Steve said. Mark looked up and saw him sitting on the bench next to him. He was dressed and just stared down at Mark.

  “What?”

  “What?” Steve repeated. “We got our asses kicked, that’s what. That and we’re late for class.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said, sitting up and wincing. Mark avoided Steve’s gaze and got changed as quickly as his aching muscles would allow. If you’d stood up for yourself, his little voice sneered, this never would have happened and your friend wouldn’t have put himself in danger. But what do you care? You’re a coward. A worthless coward. He slammed his locker drowning it out.

  All in all, Christine thought, it hadn’t been a bad day. Sure she’d started a couple of weeks behind but it looked like catching up wasn’t going to be that big of a problem. The only confusing thing was how spread out the campus was, making it almost impossible to figure where you’re going unless you literally run into someone who is more than happy to show you around. She smiled thinking of Mark’s wide-eyed and eager to please face that showed up once he lightened up a little. He certainly wasn’t the type of guy she was usually interested in. In fact, she wasn’t even really sure if she was interested in him or just found him interesting. Either way there was just something about him that made her want to know more.

  She stopped just outside the school’s main entrance, trying to remember which way her house was, when she saw Mark over by the bike rack unchaining what looked to be a small scooter. Spotted with rust and dirt, it suited his sloppy charm. She headed over, hoping to catch him before he took off.

  “Hey stranger,” she said, and he whirled around so fast it made her jump. When he recognized her, his eyes opened wide and he nearly dropped the helmet he was holding. “Oh! Hi!” he squeaked.

  “Remind me never to sneak up on you,” she laughed.

  “Sorry, it’s been a rough day.”

  “That’s alright. This is a really cool. Is it a moped?”

  He smiled a little. “No, it’s a scooter. A Vespa 180 Super Sport, actually, from 1965. Total classic. I finally got it fixed up this summer. Steve and I call it the V.”

  “That’s totally kick-ass,” she smiled. “Your parents don’t worry about you on a bike like this? Mine would freak.”

  Mark shifted, gaze drifting away. “Ah, well, they don’t really worry about much. I take care of it myself and I wear my helmet. I’ve only crashed once, but I was screwing around and doing something stupid.”

  “You? Stupid? I find that hard to believe,” she grinned, making him blush and getting his attention again.

  “Well, it was Steve’s fault really,” he said. “He’s always trying to get me to ramp stuff or race cars or something moronic like that. That time I think he was chasing me around my backyard. I swerved to avoid running him over and crashed into the garage. So yeah, no playing tag with the V, that’s what we learned.”

  “Good to know,” she smiled. “Well, I’ve got to go, I’ve got quite a walk.” she said.

  Mark paused and then said, “Y’know, I could give you a lift. I don’t have my spare helmet with me, but I’ll go slow.”

  “Thanks, that’d be great. And don’t worry about me, I don’t mind going fast.”

  Mark pulled up in front of Christine’s house and was more convinced than ever that he was way out of his depth. As Christine yelled and pointed directions from the back of the V he realized that they were moving further up the Hill, towards Cedar Ridge’s big homes with huge yards and fantastic views of Manhattan. Sure enough, she directed him into one of the secluded little cul-de-sacs near the top. She motioned him to one of the houses at the end. It had a wide front lawn and a driveway that curved around the back.

  “Thanks a lot for the ride,” she said, standing up and pulling her hair back.

  “Yeah, no problem,” he said, still transfixed. “That’s a pretty nice house.”

  “Oh,” she said, glancing at it over her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s alright. My dad wanted another one on the other side of town that was bigger but the deal fell through so we got this one instead. He says this’ll do for now.”

  “Gee, I hope so,” Mark said before he could stop himself. He felt his face get red, but Christine just smiled. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I told him I was sick of moving and this place was more than enough, but he says he only wants ‘The Best.’ He’s a little crazy like that.”

  Mark smiled, mostly from relief. “Hey, I was, ah, wondering,” he started, and then clamped his jaw shut. What are you doing? Are you insane?

  “What?” Christine said, smiling, and suddenly all hesitation was lost.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to come to a little party at a friend of mine’s this weekend,” he said, getting it out before it was too late.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Oh, wow, okay,” Mark said. “I’ve just gotta check and make sure it’s okay. I mean, it was gonna just be me and Steve but I don’t think it’ll be problem. It should be great, though. Really, really great.”

  “Sounds like fun then,” Christine said. “What kind of party is it?”

  “Well, it’s actually my birthday next Tuesday, so it’s like a pre-birthday thing. Nothing fancy. Like I said just me, Steve and Clara, hanging out, watching movies that kind of stuff.”

  “Oh,” Christine said. “Who’s Clara?”

  “She’s just a friend of mine. An older lady who owns a store downtown. She’s pretty cool.”

  “Great,” she said, smiling. “Let me give you my number so you can call me later with the details.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, each one reaching into their bags for pen and paper. As Mark took
hers, their fingers touched, he could swear that she let her fingers linger for a second before drawing away.

  “Well,” Mark said, now even more flustered than before, “I’ll call Clara and make sure we’ve got room for another person and then I’ll give you a call. Is later tonight okay?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  “Okay, yeah. Great.” Mark fumbled to get his helmet on. He rode off, watching Christine in his little rear view mirror until he turned the corner and she vanished from view. Oh wow, he thought. I think she really likes me. Hot damn.

  Chapter Four

  Not even coming home could dampen his spirits.

  Ever since he was seven home was the same dirty beige duplex located in scenic Wrong Side of the Tracks Cedar Ridge. He’d moved in with his mom’s older sister Martha and her husband Joe when his parents died in a car accident. The childless couple, faced with familial obligation, did their best to turn the house into a home. Martha did the tucking in, the comforting and the “there, there, it’ll be alright,” while Joe specialized in “Don’t touch that” and “Keep it down, I’m trying to watch the game.” Mark had begun to adjust when the world got re-scripted again shortly after he turned eleven.

  That day Aunt Martha wasn’t there to meet him when he came home after school. At first he just chalked it up to some errand that she had to run and he went on with business as normal. Hours passed and Mark realized that not only was Martha late but Joe should’ve been back from work. Food, TV and even homework couldn’t keep things from blowing past “weird” and heading deep into “scary.”

  The car pulled in well after dark. Mark waited in the hallway, watching the backdoor but not wanting to get his hopes up. After what could have been a dozen trips from the garage to the back porch the door opened and Joe walked in. He shuffled straight ahead, right up to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. He took out a bottle and took a long drink from it. He closed the door, bottle still in hand, and slumped forward, leaning his head against the door.

  “Uncle Joe,” Mark said, as soft as he possibly could as he stepped into the kitchen. Startled by the noise, Joe’s head jerked up and the bottle of Vodka slipped from his fingers and shattered on the tile. Mark jumped but Joe didn’t even flinch. He turned towards Mark and his eyes were red and blurry, and the face that had once been merely gruff had collapsed into one etched with age and wear.

  “Damn you.”

  “What did I do?” Mark whispered.

  “You wore her out.” His voice was a harsh, ragged croak. “She did everything for you, and you just took all she had and didn’t give a damn thing back. You just took and took.”

  “Uncle Joe--”

  “Don’t you dare!” Joe yelled, dropping down on one knee, barely missing bits of glass. He grabbed Mark by the shoulders and shook him. “Don’t you cry, dammit! She was my wife, you don’t get to cry!” Mark sniffed in deeply only to get a nose full of Vodka fumes. “Stop it!” Joe snarled, shaking him even harder, and then pushing him back into the hallway with a disgusted shove. Mark flopped back, not even trying to break his fall. Against orders, Mark began to sob as he watched the still kneeling Joe lean against the doorjamb, head down and body shaking.

  When the shaking stopped Joe mumbled something Mark could barely hear.

  “Wh . . . what?” Mark said, catching his breath from his own sobs.

  “Get out!” Joe snapped, glaring up at him wet, hate filled eyes.

  Mark just sat there, stunned. Was he throwing him out on the street? Joe slammed his palm down on the floor with a thunderous crack. “I said get out of my sight, goddamnit!”

  Mark scrambled backwards, arms and legs working frantically until he got himself rolled over and heading up the steps, taking them three at a time. His foot caught on the top step and he stumbled forward, crashing into the door to the attic. Breathless and terrified, Mark made it into his room, pausing only to lock the door behind him. Mark pushed his bed across the room and wedged it against the door. He snatched the blankets off and threw them into the closet, arranging them into a makeshift nest. If he wants me out he’ll have to come and drag me out.

  Mark slept in the closet for two weeks after Martha’s fatal stroke, wedging the door closed with his bed every night. When he was thirteen Joe let him move into the attic space that had been Martha’s sewing room. It was small and cramped, the ceiling slanting down so much that he could only fully stand up in half of it. It was sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter, but it had a lock on the door and Joe never went near it. For Mark, it was a safe haven in the dark, narrow, not-quite-a-house.

  They didn’t ever talk about what had happened the night Martha died. They lived almost as they had when she was alive; the two barely acknowledging each other. When they did it was usually some fight about money, chores, or schoolwork. Their last ten rounds had been about the last of the money that was left from his parents. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to buy and fix up the V. “Fine,” Joe snarled in defeat. “But that’s the last of it. If you want anything else, you’re going to have to actually earn it.”

  Like most days, the house was empty when Mark walked in. Joe worked at the post office and after work he usually headed to a bar to hang out with his friends. Mark suspected Joe didn’t like spending time in the house any more than he did. The house had become a rusty bear-trap of grief and loss, barely cleaned and unchanged since that night.

  Once upstairs, Mark dropped his stuff as fast as he could, flipped on the TV and grabbed the phone to call Clara. Martha had been acquainted with Clara through their church and Mark had been to Clara’s store a couple of times before Martha died. Mark found himself in her store a couple of months and Clara asked him how he was holding up. Without warning everything poured out of Mark in a spasm of tears. She closed up and they went up to her apartment upstairs where she eventually got everything out of him. After that she made a concerted effort to be a part of his life and be as good a friend to him as middle-aged black woman could to a teen-aged white kid.

  “Mystic Books,” Clara answered.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hey kiddo,” she said. “You sound pretty excited. What’s up?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I brought another person to the party this weekend.”

  “Sweetie, it’s your party! Bring whoever you want!”

  “Well,” he said. “I just wanted to check and see, in case, y’know, there were problems or something.”

  “No, Mark, no problems. I’ll just bring out another chair. So, is it anyone I know?”

  “Well, no,” he said. “She’s new in town, and I just met her today.”

  “A her?” Mark knew this was coming and knew he could only ride it out. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a girlfriend now? And on the first day that you met her? That’s impressive!”

  “Clarrrrrrrre,” Mark groaned, “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a girl that I met and well . . . I asked her and she said yes.”

  “Well she’d have been a fool to say otherwise,” Clara said. “I’ve got customers, so I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

  “Sure,” Mark said, hanging up and flopping back on the bed. He dialed through the few TV stations he could pick up with the rabbit ears and after a half hour of boring reruns he got stuff out of his bag so he could begin to think about doing some homework. The piece of paper with Christine’s number sat on the table near his phone. It stared at him, daring him to be the guy that actually called when they got a number and not just “the guy who finally got a phone number.” She probably wrote the number of some pizza place on it. That’s no trophy, that’s a seven digit path to mortification.

  He dove and snatched it up. “Christine Baker” it said and underneath the number she’d written: “Call me!” a looping, cheerful challenge to what passed for his manhood.

  He looked over at the phone, lying on the bed next to him. He reached it over, picked it
up and then dropped it right back down.

  He reached out again. Phone up, phone down.

  “This is stupid,” he muttered grabbing the phone up again, his other hand quickly stabbing at numbers before he could chicken out a third time. The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity, and he almost dropped the phone back down when she picked up.

  “Is that you Mark?” Christine answered.

  “Yeah,” he said. Oh God, she was there! “There’s no surprising you, is there?”

  “Well, you’re the only person I’ve given my new number to so far and I don’t think the telemarketers could get me that fast. Sorry that took so long, I was stuck behind a pile of boxes. So what’s going on this weekend?”

  “Everything is good to go, so I can give you the address of Clara’s store or I can swing by and pick you up. Whichever is cool with you.”

  “I’d definitely take another ride if you’re offering. I think you were holding back on me today.”

  “Hey, I told you, I’m a terribly responsible driver. You get no fast rides out of me.” He paused. “Wait, I think that came out wrong.” The phone was good, he realized. She couldn’t hear wincing and foot twitching.

  “Really?” she laughed. “I hope so.”

  “Yeah, definitely came out wrong.”

  “So,” she said, “aside from the fact that you’re disaffected with your home town, a bitter atheist, good with directions and drive a snazzy little scooter, what else do I need to know about you?”

  “Oh, not much,” he said, “But then again, me just telling you would just spoil the mystery, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, I’ll just have to see how much of this mystery I can uncover before I get called back to unpacking.”

  He smiled. “Ask away. My life’s an open book, pretty much.”