Reckless Point (BBW New Adult)

by Brent, Cora

  “Styx, Billy Joel, Queen. Damn, you run the gamut over here.”

  “Yeah, most of these are mine. I can’t believe she kept them all.”

  “I guess she knew someday you’d come back.”

  He looked at me quickly. “I guess she did.”

  “Moms are like that. I mean, you saw my room. A day in the life of 1982.”

  Marco laughed. He picked up Queen’s The Game by the corners and carefully removed the record, staring at the thin black disk for a moment before gently placing it on the stereo. He moved the needle deliberately and a moment later ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ came blaring out of the speakers.

  He stood abruptly. “I’m gonna go rinse off, if you didn’t use up all the hot water.”

  “I did.”

  Marco paused and stared at me for a few seconds before heading off to the shower. His dark eyes were guarded and I found myself again with no idea what was going on behind them.

  I spotted a few dusty photo albums on the lower shelf of the coffee table and plucked them out. “You mind if I look at these?”

  “Be my guest,” he said, already halfway down the hall.

  I sat on the ugly couch with the largest photo album in my hand. It was beige and the front was embroidered with vibrant flowers. Evidently it hadn’t been touched for quite some time because in addition to the plume of smoke which rose from the cover, the thin metal hinges squeaked when I cracked it open.

  The album was an odd hodgepodge of disjointed events. Here, Marco’s toothless baby picture. There, Damien scowling in cap and gown on the day of his high school graduation. My mother kept reams of photo albums all carefully catalogued and in perfectly sequential timeline. I’d paged through them all so many times I knew everything which happened inside the pictures even though for many I wasn’t alive or didn’t quite remember all the occasions. Looking through the Bendetti family photo album was like peering into a new world.

  Mary Bendetti, young and already with a weary wrinkle between her brows, stood in front of the garage, heavily pregnant.

  Marco and Damien, finely dressed for Easter Sunday, held hands and smiled dutifully before the front yard hedges.

  I was surprised to find my own face in the midst of a pile of children wearing pastel party hats. I didn’t recall being present at any of Marco’s birthday parties, but there was the evidence. Beside me, glowering in a pair of brown corduroy pants with his crushed party hat in his fist, was Tony.

  Freddie Mercury began belting out ‘Crazy Thing Called Love’ and I kept turning pages. Finally, towards the end, in the center of the page all by itself, was a picture of teenage Marco standing next to a gleaming motorcycle. I well recalled the spring afternoon he’d first roared into the neighborhood on those two wheels.

  I’d been helping my father paint the garage with a fresh coat of stark white. Tony wasn’t around. In a few short weeks he would be gone for good.

  My mother came out the side door. She was wearing one of the old fashioned dresses that I loved, an apron wrapped around her slim waist.

  She squinted. “Is that Marco?”

  My father glowered. “What the hell is Mary thinking, getting the boy something like that?”

  “Oh Alan, he’s been working kitchen and cleanup at the bar forever. Mary told me he’s been saving up for years. She made a deal with him that as long as he stayed out of real trouble she would help him with the cost.”

  “Doesn’t explain why she’s letting him bring that garbage into the neighborhood. And as for trouble, it’s sure to find him now.”

  I stood, straightening the cramped muscles in my back. Flecks of white paint dotted my arms and were probably in my hair. Neighbors were beginning to drift over to admire Marco’s new purchase.

  I heard Shannon Cortez squeal and plead for a ride. Rod Gilliam, who was thirty and still living with his mother, sauntered over with a beer in his hand and shook Marco’s hand.

  My father made a disgusted noise and returned to painting the garage while my mother watched the activity for another moment and then retreated inside the house.

  I silently observed Marco. In the years since the Maple Street bars opened one by one the town had become something of a magnet for passing bikers. They appeared to me as hulking, dangerous brutes as they rolled through Cross Point’s quiet streets with an air of unquestioned entitlement. I kept my eyes averted if they drove past or if they wandered into the store as customers. To see Marco climbing onto that bike with a girl at his back stirred a strange unease inside of me. One I didn’t know what to do with.

  Then with a blink I was returned the present and Marco was walking into his living room wearing only a pair of boxers.

  “You tired?” he asked mildly.

  Every time I saw his body I was a little more fascinated by it. No, I wasn’t tired. After flipping the front door lock, Marco approached me, extending a hand.

  I closed the album and let him lead me into his bedroom. There, I sat down on the edge of the neatly made bed. It was a full sized mattress, but rather narrow for two adults. I hadn’t noticed when I’d stayed here the other night. Probably because sleep wasn’t high on the list of activities just then.

  “You need a bigger bed.”

  Marco yawned. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  He flicked off the light switch and climbed into bed beside me.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to something on the small square writing desk beside the bed.

  “An arrowhead. I used to carry it around with me everywhere. Found it hiking in the desert once. Plucked from underneath the fangs of a diamondback rattlesnake.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He propped himself up on an elbow. “I don’t lie, Angela.” His hand traveled idly underneath my shirt. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

  I reached out and snapped his waistband. “You are,” I answered in an accusatory tone.

  He smiled, remembering our morning greeting.

  I let my fingertips wander over his muscled arm. “You were in Arizona?”

  “Yes.” He pulled up my shirt, drawing it over my head and then letting it fall to the floor.

  “What was it like?” I asked, easing down his boxers.

  “It was hot.” He settled his body on top of mine, his hard contours digging into my soft flesh.

  “How hot?” I whispered, opening my legs.

  “Blistering,” he answered, sliding into me.

  It was slow and gentle, a lovers’ sweet conclusion to the day.

  “Good night, Angie,” he whispered, kissing me and then falling into a deep sleep within a few short moments.

  I touched his back, tracing the letters I knew were there even though I couldn’t see them in the dark. For the first seventeen years of our lives Marco and I had been in exactly the same place. Our experiences had been different but the frame of reference was identical. When I looked out my window I saw his house. When he looked out his window he saw mine.

  When I’d run into him at the block party it seemed like no time had passed. We had grown into our adult bodies but that was all. Everything else was still the same. Except it wasn’t. Our lives had forked in utterly separate directions. We weren’t at all like the people we once were. I wasn’t a chubby uncertain girl always trying to see down the road. And Marco wasn’t the cocksure boy smirking in the family photo album. In reality, an awful lot of time had passed.

  I listened to Marco’s even breathing for a time, then closed my eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Marco was not beside me when I awoke. I looked around for a clock and found none. However, the soft play of the sunlight told me it was fairly early.

  He was sitting on the couch, looking through the photo album I’d left on top of the coffee table.

  “Haven’t seen these in years,” he said, closing it and peering at me expectantly.

  I glanced at the closed door in the hallway. “Was that your mom’s room?”

  “Y
es.” He tossed the photo album onto the table. “The room she slept in. The room she died in.”

  “Oh.” I crossed my arms, watching him as he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands for a moment before shaking off the gloom and managing a smile.

  “Hungry?”

  “Depends. You got anything besides leftover meatloaf?”

  His doubtful look answered the question.

  “Never mind. I ought to head home anyway.”

  I dressed quickly in my own clothes and found Marco in the kitchen, drinking coffee out of a mug which was a companion to the swimming fish set of dishware. He had already poured one for me. I sipped it gratefully.

  Marco jerked his head toward the window, motioning to where my house peacefully waited across the street. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, all right then. I’ve got some shit to do down at the bar. I want to make damn sure we’re ready to open in two days. Damien will flip if we lose another weekend of revenue.”

  “Can I come by later?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “You better,” he said softly.

  I hugged him, inhaling the warmth of his skin. For a second he squeezed me around the waist so hard my ribs shrieked. Then he abruptly let go.

  The hot coffee felt good going down my throat. “Hey, Marco.”

  “Hey, Angela.”

  “What happened to your old bike?”

  His face darkened and his eyes lowered. “It’s gone,” he said a little too lightly. “Like so many other things.”

  “What other things?” I touched his face, feeling once again like there was more than what he was willing to say.

  Marco took a slow sip from his chipped mug. He shrugged. “People. Years. Take your pick.” He sighed and pulled out a worn wooden chair, sitting down.

  I leaned over, kissing his cheek as he glanced up in surprise. He hadn’t shaved the day before and the skin was rough against my lips. He stared at me for a few seconds and then pulled me into his lap so suddenly I dropped the fish mug. It shattered on the linoleum, spilling coffee everywhere. Marco’s kiss took my breath away. Our mouths stayed glued together for several minutes until he broke the embrace and set me to my feet.

  “I’ll clean that up,” he said, squeezing my left hip lightly. “See you later, Angie.”

  I didn’t say anything, opening the side door and casting one last glance backwards. Marco still sat at the table, facing away. Shirtless, his head bent, I almost didn’t recognize him, except for the long word permanently inked into his back. Seventeen. A perilous age. When anything seemed dangerously possible.

  The shutters of 16 Polaris Lane were open and I had a clear view into the kitchen. They sat across from one another at the old table. My father stared sternly at the open newspaper as if he disliked everything he saw. My mother carefully buttered a piece of toast. They weren’t speaking or actively engaging in any way but anyone happening on the scene would see that this was just one private moment in a day between two people who were a natural pair. They knew everything about one another. They always had. There were no surprises. And no uncertainty.

  As I slowly crossed the yard they looked up at the same time.

  My mother had the door open in welcome before I reached it. She beamed at me brightly as if there was nothing whatever amiss. “I made some extra eggs, Angela. Come and eat.”

  My father stared at me wordlessly as I sat down at the table and began hesitantly forking mouthfuls of scrambled eggs from the plate my mother set before me.

  I waited for something. An insult. A recrimination. An apology. But he only folded the paper and set it on the table.

  “I’ll be out back,” he said, more to my mother than to me.

  My mother glanced at his retreating back as she paused from pouring another cup of tea.

  Silence reigned as the door whispered to a close. Grace Durant sighed and sat down next to me.

  “Planning on seeing the fireworks later?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She watched me as I rubbed my eyes. My contacts had remained in overnight and my eyes were now uncomfortably dry.

  “How do you feel, Angela?” she asked with delicacy.

  I paused over the question. Was she inquiring about my health? My mental state? Was she trying to gauge whether I had actually discarded my virginity within the past few days?

  “Fine,” I finally answered.

  “How do you feel about him?”

  “Marco?”

  “Of course, Marco.”

  “I don’t know how he feels about me.”

  She smiled. “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “But that’s what matters.”

  “I’m crazy about you.”

  I thought about those words, about how they now hung in the air unacknowledged.

  It was time to change to subject. “Daddy still angry with me?”

  “No,” she shook her head.

  “He has no right to be.”

  “You should talk to him, Angela.”

  “I will, Mom. Just give me a few minutes to get my bearings and I’ll go hunt him down in the rose garden.”

  She nodded. “Yes, him too.”

  And I realized she hadn’t been talking about my father. She meant Marco.

  “I will,” I said quietly and slowly ate the rest of my eggs.

  Once I had changed my clothes and removed my contacts I felt comfortable enough to approach my father.

  He was kneeling in the middle of the square garden. The old brick edging was cracked in a few places. He didn’t look up as he pinched a small weed between his gloved fingers and tossed it onto a pile of similar offenders.

  Though the day had dawned bright, gray clouds were beginning to crowd the sun, passing a cool shadow over the backyard. With a sigh I knelt beside my father and pushed my fingers into the spongy black dirt.

  “Roses are difficult to grow,” he’d always said. “If you can coax life out of them, then you’ll see your reward.”

  I looked at his work. He was right. The flowers were brilliant hues of deep pink, rich red, and sunny yellow.

  “You know,” I said as he continued to labor silently. “I bet it would be pretty simple to get the old soda fountain working again. Add the deli counter back into the mix, maybe a soft serve ice cream machine, and you’ll have some solid additions to your bottom line. Maybe-“

  “Stop it,” he said, twisting his gloves off and throwing them into the dirt. He looked at me coldly. “This place is on its way out, Angela. I expect within two years they’ll even close the high school and bus what’s left of the kids to Barrington. You knew years ago that there wasn’t a future here. Only people clinging to what was and people with nowhere else to go.”

  His words wounded me. I’d said them myself, thought them a thousand times. But it hurt to hear them.

  “Dad,” I said softly. “You love Cross Point.”

  “I love my daughter more.” He stared gloomily at the beautiful wisteria which snaked across the chain link fence. “I had no right to say what I said to you yesterday.” His gaze fixed on me intently. “And I’m sorry. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

  I stood shakily, brushing the dirt from my legs. “Well,” I said in a wavering voice. “At least now I know what you think of me.” I started to walk away.

  He called after me. “You can’t go back, Angela. Life doesn’t let you.”

  Then I saw my mother standing at the threshold of the backyard. Her arms were folded. She was angry. But not at me.

  “Alan,” she hissed. “You know better.”

  I paused, considering the puzzling fury between my parents. My mother’s eyes narrowed as she glared at her husband and I knew whatever she was referring to had nothing to do with me.

  My father rose and stared her down, saying nothing. I swallowed and retreated, leaving them alone with their private battle.

  Once I’d cleaned up there seemed to
be nothing to do. I sat on the edge of my bed, feeling as if I couldn’t breathe. Whatever had transpired between my parents left them regarding one another in awful, cold silence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I’d grown up in a home where the biggest truism was that my parents were a resolute partnership. Rare arguments were petty and inconsequential. The only real conflict in the Durant household came from the untamed son who was born determined to snub all the rules.

  It seemed like such a small thing. A few puzzling words and a long look of reproach. But I was already rattled and as I sat there in my bedroom I felt like the walls of the house were closing in. As if all the oxygen were being slowly removed.

  I grabbed my purse and paused at the mirror. With my glasses on and my face nearly clear of makeup I looked like the Angela who had lived here once.

  “You going out?” my mother asked with surprise. She sat in the living room with her feet tucked under her, reading the same Good Housekeeping magazine which had been in her lap the night she waited up for me. So I knew she wasn’t actually reading at all. She was waiting.

  “Think I’ll take a drive,” I said, my keys already in my hand.

  She nodded. “The Kilbournes and the Johnsons are stopping by this afternoon. Your father is going to throw some burgers on the grill.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the garage, I think.”

  “Mom? What was that out there?”

  She didn’t have to ask what I meant. “That would be a long story, Angela.” She stuck her nose back in her magazine. “Have a nice time. I’ll save a hamburger for you.”

  As I left the house I heard my father making a commotion in the garage. I didn’t look back as I headed for my car. He didn’t call to me.

  Driving slowly through the familiar streets made my heart heavy, especially in light of my father’s tough words.

  “This place is on its way out, Angela.”

  Within a few moments I was in downtown Cross Point Village. I parked the car in front of the deserted town hall and got out. They sky was becoming more gray, though not dark with the immediate threat of rain. The clouds spread like a worn, tired blanket as if maybe they would consider dropping a few sprinkles at some point. Distantly I heard the pops and whoops of early fireworks being set off. A few lethargic flags had been inserted into the scraggly lawn in front of the town hall, which was really just a tired brick building relegated to hosting weekly town meetings and a few lackluster monthly events like the Ladies’ Cooking Club. My father had been a selectman since long before I was born and once he had been one of the more animated figures of local government. But after the Bicentennial debacle he grew gradually humbled and dejected.