“What if you need to get up and go to the bathroom?”
She laughs, which is good, because I don’t know how much longer I can take this whole death-and-heaven conversation. It’s not that I don’t believe in it. I just don’t have anything to add. Heaven sounds like a nice concept but also sounds very, very boring.
Unless Marvel is there and I could show up by her doorstep.
Good thing for me is that maybe I won’t have to knock.
“Another verse I love is Psalm 32:7. ‘For you are my hiding place; you protect me from trouble. You surround me with songs of victory.’ I love the idea of being surrounded by songs.”
“We’re surrounded by songs every day,” I say. “Unfortunately, many of them are eighties tunes.”
Marvel laughs. “You can be funny, you know that?”
“It’s usually when I don’t have anything else to say.”
“I know.”
“You can be confident,” I say. “You know that?”
“It’s only because I pray daily and hourly for strength. I mean—I’m not trying to sound so spiritual or anything. But it’s true.”
I nod. She smiles, staring at me, then glances around as if to see if anybody is close to our table. We’re on our own.
“When something like that happens—what happened with my family—there are only two directions you can go. You can head downward. Or you can cling to these morsels of truth. The words that have come long, long before you. You can choose to believe them. And that’s what I do.”
For a brief moment I think of doing something crazy, something I’ve never done before and vowed I never would. I almost tell Marvel the truth about my father. But I literally bite my lip to make it stay shut.
“It’s hard sometimes,” she says. “Many times. Like this morning.”
“Sorry.”
“But then I remind myself of God’s unfailing love. Each morning that’s what I do. I pray and ask him to bring me peace. And once again, he brings me the same thing.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You.”
Later that night, after I’ve hung around with the guys but not said a word about Marvel’s admission, I go online to find details of what happened. It takes me a while, but eventually I find an article that mentions Marvel in the comment box after it.
CHICAGO – A 38-year-old man burned down his home in Humboldt Park on Tuesday night. He was armed with an AK-47 rifle, apparently upset about family issues. Police say he prevented his wife and two daughters from fleeing the flames while keeping firefighters away. Miraculously, the older daughter managed to escape while the rest of the family, including the father, died.
Shots were reported, but police and firefighters did not arrive until the house was ablaze. Nobody else was injured in the fire.
Alonso Garcia had a history of domestic abuse issues and had been reported as acting erratic in the final days of his life.
The surviving daughter is now in the custody of her aunt and uncle.
The report is so simple, so impersonal, so lifeless. I still can’t believe it has to do with Marvel. That she was the miracle described.
I hear the beep of a notification on my Facebook page. When I check, I see a friend request from Marvel Garcia.
So you do have a Facebook page.
After I accept her, I see a message box show up.
Thanks for today, she writes.
Thanks for adding me as a friend, I write back.
No problem.
How are you doing now? I type.
I hope you’re not going to ask me that every time you see me now. There’s a reason I don’t tell people about what happened to me. I don’t want them feeling sorry for me.
Just checking.
I’m doing well enough to befriend you on Facebook.
Well, that’s something.
I was listening to a bunch of contemp. Christian songs. Feeling sorta melancholy tonight.
For a second I hesitate. What I’m thinking is, Maybe you’re feeling that way because your family was burned to a crisp by your father. I’d feel that way too.
Instead, I ask who she’s listening to. She lists some people I haven’t heard of. I’ve heard of more of the stuff Harry plays in the record store than of the groups and artists she’s talking about.
You know something I’ve always dreamt about? To hear my story told in songs. Songs about victory. Like that psalm I mentioned to you. I like to think that this all ends in a victorious way.
I wonder what she’s talking about. That what ends?
Marvel doesn’t respond.
I could see Justin Timberlake singing songs about me, I write back.
Definitely. Would you dance to those too?
Of course. I love to dance.
Me too, Marvel writes. Maybe one day we can dance together.
I don’t know—lots of girls lining up to do that.
Then I’ll just have to wait. I can do that.
Maybe I’ll let you cut in line, I write to her.
What a gentleman. I kinda like you.
For a moment, I wonder what to say. It’s a harmless thing, yet it still says so much.
Don’t be afraid, she types. It’s just—you know something nobody else around here knows. So like it or not, you’re stuck with me.
I smile. Sounds good to me.
This is beyond understatement.
“Do you like this album?”
This is one of those weird days when Marvel isn’t here. One of those days Harry will actually pay me for.
The album he’s playing is weird. Dark and odd and quirky, the kind I’m not sure what to think of.
“It’s the Cure,” Harry continues.
“Okay.” I’m thinking he’s telling me just so I know.
“Come on—I’ve told you about them. They’re the ones I got the name of the store from,” Harry says.
Fascination Street. I remember him playing me the song not long after I started working here.
“So, you like these guys?”
“Sure.” I say that as more of a Sure?
Harry laughs. “Hey, listen. I know you’ve been working hard even though you’re stricken with Marvel.”
“Stricken?”
“Yes. Stricken.”
“That sounds like I’m sick or something,” I say.
“You’re working for free.”
“Well, yeah. Except for days like today, right?”
Harry nods. “Look, I have something to give you. If you want it.”
“What’s that?”
“I got two tickets for Sunday at Lollapalooza.”
I know Lolla well. It’s a music festival for about a hundred groups and a hundred thousand people, all heading to Grant Park in Chicago. I’ve never been, but I’ve sure heard about it.
“You don’t want to go?” I ask.
Harry laughs. “I’ve been the last few years. But I’m getting old, and I’ve been to a lot of shows already this summer. My wife sure doesn’t want to go. I figured you might want to check it out. The Cure is the headliner.”
The wailing voice and weird music I’m hearing don’t really inspire me to rush over to Harry and grab the tickets.
“Trust me, they’re good,” Harry says.
“Okay.”
“You want the tickets?”
“You think Marvel would go with me?” I ask Harry.
“You tell me. But yeah, I was thinking something like that.”
“I don’t know.”
Harry looks up at me and rubs his beard. “Which? You don’t know if you want to go, or you don’t know if Marvel would go with you?”
“Both?”
“She knows you’re slightly infatuated with her. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes?”
Harry laughs at my quasi-question response.
“I saw the Cure with my wife back in the early nineties. When I was your age.”
“I’m not sure I’m go
ing to marry Marvel,” I say, kind of joking.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know I was going to marry Sarah. You never know, do you? Listen, I’d love to go, but there’s a youth group retreat I gotta go to. So I figured I’d help you out.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Surprise Marvel. I think she’d go with you. Not because it necessarily makes sense, the two of you being together, but because there are always exceptions.”
He hands me the two tickets, and I slip them into my pocket.
“Thank you.”
But I’m not sure if I should really thank him. I’m not sure what to say.
“This will help,” he says.
“How do you know I need help?”
He laughs. Like really super loud. “Guys like us always need help, Brandon. Remember that. Girls like Marvel, they’re walking miracles. Guys like us, we’re just road signs, hoping to catch their attention.”
I’m not sure I like being considered a road sign.
“Look, I know. I get it. It’s just—you gotta realize who you are. You gotta realize that sooner or later you might have to fight to win her over.”
Harry disappears, and I wonder how he knows what’s going on with Marvel. But I hold the ticket and plan on asking her. Whenever I see her next.
Maybe I’ll tell her Harry wants her to go.
Maybe I’ll say her job depends on it.
Mom and I are in the old minivan we had hoped to get rid of a few years ago. It’s a white Chrysler Town & Country, but it looks more like a rusted minivan that’s been left out in the country a little too long. It makes strange squeaking sounds while you’re driving, not to mention the brakes that start to wail at the worst moments.
Mom picked me up from work, and we’re getting fast food before heading home.
“Are you glued to that like the rest of the world?” Mom asks after I’ve been on my iPhone for five minutes.
Mom is no-nonsense about a lot of things. Because she never has extra time, she tends to be impatient and short with words. She doesn’t mean to be gruff; it’s more because she doesn’t have time to talk about nothing like so many other grown-ups I know.
“I stay off this at work.”
“You like the record store?”
I nod.
“What about the pretty girl who works there?”
Mom saw Marvel when she came in to let me know she was parked outside.
“She’s cool.”
Mom looks straight ahead and gives me a yeah right laugh. “She seems interested in you.”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I say in complete mockery.
“Trust me. Women know.”
“You say that to us all the time,” I reply.
“It’s because we know.”
I don’t answer, but I think about Dad. Mom may know a lot, but she doesn’t know everything.
“What’s her name?”
“Marvel. Short for Marvella.”
“You should invite her over for dinner sometime.”
“I think I’d rather get run over by a tractor.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Trust me,” I say. “It’d be bad. She’s not ready for that. I’m not ready for it either.”
“She seems really nice.”
“She is.”
Our car whines its way through the drive-through line at Arby’s. Mom laughs at the sound it’s making. “One of these days this is simply gonna give up the ghost,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“So we have a haunted minivan? Awesome.”
Mom taps my head as if I’m still ten. “You can be so witty at times.”
“I try.”
“I don’t think I’ll always be this busy,” she says as we wait for our food. She ordered enough for a football team. “I think this summer is just extra stressful.”
“It’s fine. We’re all fine.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Well, most of you anyway.”
Now’s your chance, tell her, tell her now before the guy asks if you want horsey sauce, do it.
But I can’t. I don’t say another word. That moment, the moment that never comes around, was suddenly right there in front of me. But I can’t. I can’t do this to Mom.
I’m fine.
So I tell myself. So I tell her and the rest of the world.
Later that night, I’m walking out of the theater with Frankie when I see a group gathering around a car. I see that it’s a Camaro.
“Don’t go over there,” Frankie says.
I hear laughter and then someone yelling. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know.”
But somehow I think I already know. I think this has happened once before.
“Brandon, come on,” Frankie says, trying to pull me toward his car.
But it’s not happening. I move toward the group of six guys standing there laughing and calling out. When I get to the circle, I see Greg, fists clenched, towering over someone. The guy on the ground is on his hands and knees, struggling to stand. It looks like they’ve started a fight club right outside the Appleton Cinema 16.
I’m not surprised to see it’s Seth Belcher on the ground. His face is bloody. He coughs.
“Get back up,” Greg yells at him.
I move into the circle and grab Seth. He’s so bony, so light. I pull him up.
Greg curses. “Brandon, what are you doing?”
Now someone is by my side. Frankie.
“Davis, man, what are you doing?” Greg asks his quarterback.
“Saving his life.”
“Whose?”
“Both,” Frankie says. “What are you doing?”
“We’re having a little fun.”
I notice Greg is wearing Seth’s kamikaze bandanna around one of his fists. It’s splattered with blood. Seth is unsteady on his feet, so I help him stand still. Some of the guys yell at us to let the fight continue.
“The only reason I’m not breaking your face is because my number one man is with you,” Greg tells me.
“Don’t you think this guy has had enough?”
“No. I haven’t even started yet.”
“Come on,” I tell Seth.
“You’re not leaving,” Greg says as he starts toward us. Frankie moves to stop him, putting an arm around him and guiding him away.
I head toward Frankie’s car, helping Seth walk.
“Did you come with anybody tonight?”
He shakes his head.
“How’d you get here?”
“I got dropped off.”
I remember what his bike looked like last time I saw it. His face sorta resembles that now. I try to open Frankie’s car door, but it’s locked. He’s still over there in the group we just left, talking to Greg.
“How’d this happen?”
“They saw me,” Seth says.
I look at him. Droopy eyes and a bloody nose and a mouth that keeps getting smeared the more he wipes it. I think of his reply.
Yeah, they just saw you. It wasn’t like you told them off or spit in their face. They simply saw you.
Frankie comes over and unlocks his Toyota.
“Do you have a napkin or anything?” I ask him as we climb inside.
“This is setting up to be no good, man,” Frankie tells me. He grabs some napkins out of the glove compartment and gives them to Seth.
“How come?”
“How come? Brandon, man, I’m telling you. Greg is going to find you, and he’s not gonna stop next time.”
“So I’ll keep you with me all the time,” I say.
“He almost didn’t listen to me tonight.”
I look over and see the group of guys still in the parking lot. I wonder where the cops are. They always seem to be around when you don’t want them, but they vanish when they’re truly needed.
“What’d you say to them anyway?” Frankie asks Seth.
“He didn’t say anything,” I say, strangely defending a guy I don’t eve
n know.
“I told them they’re going to rot in hell. Every single one of them.”
Frankie and I look back at Seth. Then I glance at the guy driving the car. I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
It wasn’t what Seth said; it was the way he said it. It didn’t sound like a bratty young kid’s comment. It sounded like a statement of fact, as if Seth was saying the sky seems overcast tonight. The clouds are thick and, oh yeah, you and your friends are going to rot in hell.
“You might want to avoid saying anything to those guys from now on,” Frankie says.
“How’d this start in the first place?” I ask Seth. I’ve barely said ten words to the guy and I’m somehow involved in this mess, so I might as well know why.
“He’s been on me ever since last year,” Seth says. “Don’t know why.”
“Greg likes to terrorize people. On the field and off,” Frankie says.
“That’s gonna get him put in prison,” I say.
“Tell me where you live again?” Frankie asks once we’re heading toward downtown Appleton. “I forget what street to turn on.”
“Just drop me off by the coffee shop. I can walk from there.”
“It’s seriously no big deal,” Frankie says.
“I’ll walk.”
For a guy who’s been helped out a couple of times, Seth sure doesn’t sound very thankful. I wonder if he doesn’t want us seeing his house again.
There’s a silence in the car, and after a few moments I can’t take it. I ask him the first question I can think of. “You work anywhere?”
“No.”
This isn’t just a casual “no.” It’s the sort of “no” that ends conversations abruptly.
“You should come by Fascination Records sometime,” I say. “Where I work.”
“I don’t buy records.”
Frankie shoots me a look.
Yeah, I know. The guy’s a little snotty.
We ride in silence until we stop in front of the dark window of the closed coffee shop.
“You don’t have to keep helping me out,” Seth tells me before he opens the door.
“So you want me to let you get splattered all over the parking lot somewhere?”
“The enemy has only images and illusions behind which he hides his true motives. Destroy the image and you will break the enemy.”
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