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Martin, Revisited
Chapter Three
CONGRATULATIONS
Copyright 2016 - 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER TBD - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER TBD - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER TBD - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER TBD - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER TBD - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER TBD - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER TBD - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER TBD - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER TBD - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
CHAPTER TBD - The Birth of Imagination - Making sense of an odd situation.
CHAPTER TBD - The DNA Dream - Nightmares and airplanes.
CHAPTER TBD - The Caleb With The Kids - The best of all worlds.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft One:
This draft needs work, but it's mostly what it is supposed to be.
If you think adults who are focused on recovering from abuse -- of any kind --
are "playing the victim" then stop reading and go find something else to do.
You will not be impressed or entertained by this.
When I worked as a movie and TV extra,
some parts of the experience were highly classified.
Martin and Carter will have similar experiences.
At age eight, I found myself in a situation similar
to Martin alone in the house in this chapter.
Somehow, someone accidentally locked me
into a neighbor’s camper/pick-up truck.
I wasn’t sure why, or how, and most definitely did not want to know.
I banged on the door until the neighbors and their kids
realized what had happened, and they let me out.
At the time, the incident appeared to be a mistake,
but the years go by, it feels more and more disturbing.
DISCLAIMER
Except for the first section of the prologue and the interludes, this is a work of fiction.
The rest is either a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, things, or events is coincidental and unintentional.
The dark room was silent.
Outside, the huge city lived on: honking, sirens, voices, buzzing, hooting (an owl proclaimed its opinion of the lower West Side every night about this time), random spurts of loud music accompanied by cheers, and assorted other sounds.
From across the room, sitting in his recliner, Martin watched the city lights outside the window. He also considered the DVD.
He said out loud, “All that time and space between us. It could be filled with loyalty. And joy. And fun. And shared interests. And fairness and respect, when anyone feels the need to say something negative -- which should be rare in a healthy loving relationship. But no. All that’s there is this.” He wiggled the DVD back and forth. “A history of sadness. Rude text messages. No replies in response to polite attempts to get in touch. Lies, lies and more lies. Focusing and obsessing on things that are not important. What kind of shirts I wear? What does that have to do with anything?”
Martin shifted, challenging himself to find the Statue of Liberty. His recliner was fifteen feet from the window, and the Statue of Liberty was roughly a few degrees southwest from his position. As he frowned, searching for it, he said “Doesn’t make any sense. We could be having coffee now and then. Or I could listen to all that sports talk. Or about their business. I really could. Eventually I’d understand. Or any of a number of things. Instead ... such contention. Over what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So sad.”
He accessed pictures of his twin on his phone: photos of photos.
“I want my twin,” he said.
He enlarged a photo of a long, lean, naked, blood-stained baby boy with long dark brown hair. The baby was being placed on a blanket in a bin. The baby’s dark blue eyes were open and his arms were stiffly curved, and the left hand was curled into a tiny fist. His legs and feet were limp and streaked with blood. On the baby’s left ankle was what appeared to be an oval-shaped blood stain that Martin always studied carefully because it did not look exactly like a blood stain. This was Howard, newborn.
The next photo showed Heather sitting in a chair beside a bed. She was holding a long, lean baby with long dark brown hair. The baby appeared to be sleeping. His arms were slightly curved with both hands curled into fists. His left ankle was tucked under one of Heather's arms. The baby was completely clean, and wearing only a tiny diaper. The baby, overall, appeared to be more square than the other baby. Through the years, Martin’s mother and father had explained that the head after birth was a bit elastic, that the baby in the first photo was arched a bit which made it difficult to see how square his head and body were, and that if anything had been off about that evening, concerning the delivery of the twins, the doctors and nurses would have noticed. This was allegedly Howard, newborn and deceased at approximately two hours old.
In the second photo, Caleb sat to Heather’s left, with his arms around both mother and alleged son. Caleb was crying; Heather was frowning and about to cry.
Martin wept. “I want my twin,” he said to the photo. He kissed the first photo as he had, all his life, every time he viewed them. He kissed the baby’s face and hands and feet. “I miss you.”
Grief swept over him, engulfing him: not just the anger and sadness over losing his father; not just the sharp heartache of losing Rose; but also the confusion over why a newborn baby had died ... along with the righteous disappointment and deep sadness over the ninety-seven incidents, described in the list he had given his mother.
He felt distanced from himself and the chair and the apartment as he wept and breathed raggedly. For several long confused minutes he tried to text someone ... anyone ... thinking he needed help, but decided not to, when his fingers could not type out a simple message, and also because he wanted to handle this on his own. It was probably grief mixed with the onset of a seizure; except for the intense emotions, he would be fine.
“Okay. Okay. Okay,” he said between breaths. “Prepare for a seizure. If it happens. I’d welcome ... I’d welcome ... I’d welcome one right now.” He adjusted the big comfortable armchair, setting it mostly horizontal. He put aside all sharp objects, and put the phone in his shirt pocket.
He cried out sharply, then covered his face and tried to be quiet as he sought the bliss and comfort of sleep.
* * * * *
A few streets over, Carter suddenly woke up, out of a sound sleep, as he had most of his life.
At first, he thought about the letter he had received the previous afternoon: an invitation to attend an annual business meeting later in the week. He had wondered why he had been invited. He was no longer an heir to the business. That had ended when he emancipated. A bit of research indicated he needed to inform the company that he no longer wished to be contacted. That made him happy, but he still felt uneasy about the whole thing. He thought he had been rid of that part of his life long ago.
“Just haaave Hughes take caaare of it,” he muttered as he watched the lights of the city through the tall windows of his apartment.
He hoped to feel better.
But it came at him, suddenly but not surprisingly: everything. All two hundred plus incidents, all at once, all of them taking him back as if time had not passed. He had been dealing with this since the day he emancipated.
One of the incidents clarified into several words: “Carter, why are you so bitter?” after being accused of knocking down and breaking a large vase ... which someone else had done ... without witnesses present. He was thankful that the police had arrived and explained that they believed Carter’s version of events, and that the entities involved needed to understand the difference between the truth and a lie.
He said out loud, “Thaaat would be nice. Just bitterness. Unfortunately, it is faaar more serious aaand grave than thaaat.”
The incidents whirled and whooshed.
An owl hooted loudly somewhere up above, making him jump. A phrase came to mind: “Exaggerated startle response.”
Another incident made him wonder only ... why? The lift incident. The lift going up and down. Calling the social worker. Outright denial of the lift going up and down.
Other incidents: being called names. Calling the social worker. Denial of the names being spoken. She wasn’t buying it. She never did. She was on his side.
Being removed from the building. Twice. Each time, for a week. While he was gone, there had been classes. Classes. As if no one knew how to do what they were supposed to be doing. When he returned, behavior started out formal ... and then degenerated slowly back into the same old patterns.
There had been the day he met Dennis, the TV-show producer who was looking for a background actor. That had been the last day at The Building, which was Carter’s name for the place where he had lived.
Carter had been grabbed away from Dennis. Accused of not knowing how to take public transportation. Accused of flirting with Dennis, a perfect stranger. Dennis had told the perpetrators to back off while they were talking. Carter had arranged to see Dennis and his co-worker again, regarding a job with the science fiction TV show ‘Gibby’s Hunt.’ Back at The Building, Carter had been harassed while he was taking a nap. And then ....
His voice was calm in the dark room, “I don’t waaant to think or sayyy it. But aaafterward I just waaalked out. Aaand went to the hospital tooo get treated.”
He rubbed the left side of his ribcage. He had received a text message while he was in the emergency room: “Where are you? Dinner is ready.” His response: “I was just yanked off my bed and dropped to the floor. One or more ribs might have been fractured. I am at a hospital.”
An hour later was the response, “We just asked around if you could have fractured your ribs while GETTING OUT OF BED. You were NOT YANKED. We don’t think you’re injured. You’d better go back to that emergency room and ask them what is TRULY wrong with you. You’re always FAKING being injured. You’d better ask them why you’re always faking being sick. They should treat you for whatever makes you lie so much. Dinner is ready. Get back here and forget about the stupid hospital.”
The police had arrived and told them what to do with themselves and their words. One of the officers had summarized the scene succinctly: “Guess what hit the fan. In your favor.”
Meanwhile, his left side was on fire, and had remained on fire for about six weeks, then gradually felt better after two more weeks. His lawyer had demanded X-rays and an MRI for the emancipation proceedings. With legal prodding and very little needed other than simple X-rays, the doctors swiftly discovered that Carter had sustained three long hairline fractures on the left side of his rib cage when he had been yanked off the bed, and fallen onto his crutches.
The other incidents closed in on him.
Carter watched the city lights as he imagined a graphic representation of his experiences.
On one side of an imaginary piece of paper: Himself, and all he wanted to be, and what he loved about life, including good and happy and joyful and pleasant interactions with others who harbored only good and platonic intentions toward him.
On the other side of the paper: Being shoved, being battered, being called a liar, being followed and stalked, being accused of doing what others had done, being physically injured and called a liar about how much it hurt, being called a troublemaker (“Why did you call the social worker to begin with? You know you started this whole thing when you committed that violence with your crutch”) when he had done nothing at all, being smiled and laughed at while he was having allergic reactions, being called a liar ... a liar ... a liar.
He scratched his left ankle, feeling irritated and disgusted and terribly sad.
Why did he have to feel this way? That was always on his mind. Why had all those terrible things happened? But he knew why. It happened for any reason. The sun came up. The sky is blue. A horn honked. Because you don’t understand things the first time, Carter. Or it happened for no reason at all, like an itch being scratched: see Carter, look around for witnesses; if none were present, start trouble. And then it would turn into a days-long, weeks-long, months-long, years-long situation of remember what Carter did? When Carter did nothing at all. Nothing. There just happened to be no one else around. No one. Just him ... and whoever had caused the problem.
“It’s nooot yourrr fault,” he said over and over. But the words did not comfort him.
He continued to rub his ankle, then used his phone to aim its flashlight at the skin. A large, oval, translucent, tan spot marked the intersection of leg and foot. A doctor had pronounced the spot benign and rather unusual, but they were to keep an eye on it.
Martin suddenly came to mind.
Carter smiled. He enjoyed Martin’s company. So far, their friendship was going well. But they had hit an awkward phase: Carter wanted to proceed a bit further, perhaps spending more time together as friends, but he was procrastinating on saying anything, hoping Martin might say something first. But Martin could be shy, so Carter was wondering how to say what he wanted to say without it being awkward, and also hoping that if they indeed spent more time together, that the friendship would last; time spent alone was mostly good, but time spent with those who enjoyed his company was also good. It had been rare in life so far, but Carter hoped to experience it again.
He put the phone aside and relaxed as well as he could, with the ever-present insomnia.
Just before he fell asleep, he wondered why Martin had come to mind. He snoozed, woke up and forgot what he was wondering about. He remembered and wondered again about Martin. Then forgot again, and wondered what he was wondering about: something mysterious yet pleasant. He became a bit more alert, wondered what had been so interesting, but forgot, and fell asleep.
* * * * *
Carter woke up. It was morning. At some point he had slept. Not enough. But it would get him through the day.
He went to the bathroom and showered; returned to the bedroom and dressed; packed his commuter bag, then went downstairs and waited for the taxi.
At the studio, he was early. He sat patiently through makeup and wardrobe, listening and looking for Martin. After that, Carter found his chair and sat, wondering why Martin was late; they were both usually ten minutes early on a regular basis.
One minute later, Martin stood in the doorway of the huge studio set. He was camera ready. He noticed Carter, nodded, and made his way to their chairs.
“Good morning,” Martin said. The corners of his mouth turned down; a tiny ‘v’ wrinkled the space between his eyebrows; faint dark circles underlined his eyes, despite moderate makeup.
“Good morning.” Carter swiftly looked around. They were alone; the film crew was behind a translucent wall with the cameras; cast members and extras were gradually trickling in, and hovering around the food and drinks area.
Martin sat up straight, holding on to his crutches. He sighed audibly. He looked all around, with big eyes. His mouth was much more serious than Carter had ever seen.
“Hey, guys?”
They both looked up. One of the makeup artists approached them, along with the episode director and the director of photography.
Carter whispered, “Not aaagain. Prepare for a major chaaange.”
Martin nodded but said nothing. He folded his hands and clenched them.
“Just a bit more green,” the makeup artist said as she studied Martin’s face, then applied more makeup.
The episode director watched silently.
The director of photography said, “Carter looks perfect.”
“Thank you,” the makeup artist said. She held out a piece of paper. “Now ....”
The episode director frowned as he looked first at Martin, then at Carter, and back and forth again. “You look more alike than different.”
“Is everything okayyy?” Carter asked.
“Yes,” the director of photography said. He and the episode director returned to the other room.
The makeup artist said, “You're such a trooper, Martin. This should hide your identity even more. I can't believe anyone could recognize you even before this change.”
Carter said, “Someone recognized youuu on TV?”
Martin said, “They might have. And Carter’s the trooper. He wears the most makeup.”
“Thanks, Maaarty.”
“I don't like that nickname.”
“Maaarty Maaarty bo Baaarty.”
Martin’s face relaxed only a tiny bit: the muscles around his eyes wrinkled slightly. But he continued to look around and flinch at random noises.
Their fellow extras gathered around, waiting to be called to the set. One of the others laughed and said, “I’ll be at the fairgrounds on Saturday.”
Martin turned, observed the fairground attendee, then went still. He appeared to see something in the distance as his face stiffened again.
As Carter shifted so he was blocking Martin’s right side, an assistant director arrived. “Okay, I’ll just need ... you three.” She pointed to three of the other men. They went with her, and the remainder of the group continued to read the paper, or look at cell phones, or eat and chat.
Carter felt a tap on his left thigh.
Martin said in a low voice, “Thanks for doing that. Shielding me. You’ve done that from the beginning.”
Delight warmed Carter’s heart. “You’re welcome. Weee help each other ouuut.”
Martin’s face finally relaxed. “Yeah.”
“Aaare you okayyy?”
After a brief hesitation Martin said, “No.”
“Todayyy it doesn’t look like seizure aaactivity.”
“Just having a bad day. Sorry.”
Carter heard, as always, some type of English accent, which had grown more pronounced recently. Martin’s words had sounded more like, “Just ‘aving abad day-ee. Sorreh.”
Martin said, rather quietly and seriously, “You ever think about how your name sounds?” He started snickering.
“Whaaat?”
“Meaning ... how your name sounds to yourself? I think my name sounds like a skin disease. Martin Cole. I can hear it in a commercial--” Carter heard the English accent pick up “--‘Ave abad cay-ees uv Mah-tincole? Troy aloe creem. Gets rid uv the itch.’ Or calling in sick: my martincole is acting up again. Or perhaps a recent discovery of a new disease: try not to catch martincole; it’s contagious.” Martin continued to giggle.
Carter smiled and nodded. “Myyy naaame sounds like the soluuution to aaa puzzle. Or like aaan old English gentleman.”
Martin frowned briefly but continued to giggle. “Carter Locke. Carterlocke. Or a security company.”
“Maaartin. Our names aaare similar. Take awayyy the K in miiine.”
“Yeah. Great minds think alike.”
Carter leaned closer. “Tooo prevent contraaacting maaartincole, alwayyys take precautions.”
“Using carterlocke, the latest in medical technology.”
They giggled together; Carter tilted his head; he thought they sounded alike.
“Carter and Martin.”
They went to take their places on a moving walkway. A camera and its operator were to Martin’s left side. He and Carter stood against a tall dolly that would be digitally removed from the film. Their legs and backs were supported with blue belts and weights that would also be digitally removed, and replaced with computer graphics.
They tried to stop giggling, but failed.
“Quiet on the set,” an assistant director said, frowning at them.
“Rolling,” a voice called out.
“Gibbys Hunt, Season three, episode classified, take classified.” A clapper snapped shut nearby.
“And background.”
Martin and Carter moved their arms as if walking.
“And action.”
They worked on the scene for twelve hours. Carter welcomed the work, and the ongoing debates among the crew about colors, placements, set design, lighting and costumes. He observed Martin, who made a few more jokes but sat silently most of the day, with his arms folded. Later, they waited as the makeup artists cleaned makeup off their faces; went to wardrobe to change back into their street clothes; then left the studio and waited for an elevator.
Carter said, “Well. Aaanother dayyyy aaat work.”
Martin nodded. “Work is work, huh? No matter how glamorous.”
Carter nodded. “Yes. It payyys the bills. And I I I would not caaall this glamorous.” He thought once again about spending more time together--
“Carter. I know you like your privacy. But why don't you join me for dinner. As friends. Then you can go home.”
“I waaas about to ask youuu.”
Martin said, “Cool. I like old-fashioned cafe food. And Mexican. And some other stuff. How about you?”
“Most foods. There is a French bistro nearby. Whaaat do youuu think?”
“French. I haven’t had that in a while. I think so.”
“Let’s go, then.”
In the elevator Martin said, “You usually take the taxi. And I, the bus. What do you think?”
“The bus is fine tooo the restaurant. I I I will take the taaaxi to myyy place after.”
As they boarded the bus, the driver said, “Whoa. I think I’m seeing double.”
Carter laughed; Martin nodded. They sat in the handicapped seats just behind the driver.
As the bus pulled away from the curb, Carter looked around. To his right, a short, blond pregnant woman sat in the first row, and held on to a small boy who was plastering his face on her left shoulder and saying, “I don’t want to take the bus.”
“Arthur, we take the bus almost every day. Please stop moaning.”
“I’m nooot moooaning,” Arthur moaned. He cried briefly then said, “I’m tired.”
“I think you are sad, too. Would you please hold on to me, or sit next to me? The bus is moving.”
“I am sad. I don’t want Daddy to leave again.”
“He’ll be back in a few days.”
“Is he going on business again?"
“Yes. And we need to be helpful for each other. Remember?”
“Yes.”
Arthur looked over his mother’s left shoulder during the entire conversation while holding on to her. After that he appeared to fall asleep in the same position.
Carter watched and listened at first, rather fascinated at the gentle exchange, then looked away. He had a brief memory of utter disappointment at that age, prepared for flashbacks, then suddenly felt better when he looked at Martin, who was viewing the bistro’s menu on his cell phone.
“Ham and cheese sandwich, onion soup, fish over salad,” Martin said. “I’ll have something light. What are you getting?”
“Aaa salad and onion soup aaand bread. Aaand a light dessert. Maybe some wine.”
“That’s the good thing about not owning a car. You can drink and then get on a bus or taxi.”
“Yes.”
As they stood to leave the bus, Carter heard Arthur say loudly, “Mommy, look! Twins!”
Inside the restaurant, Carter sat with great pleasure in a small booth that had a screen in front of it. To his right, heavy maroon curtains allowed just a small view of the historic neighborhood. Across from him, Martin said, “Nice. I’d like to get drunk.”
Carter stared.
“Seriously. I prefer red wine. You?”
“The same.”
“Cabernet Sauvignon?”
“I I I don’t know. I I I aaam viticulturallyyy challenged.”
“That’s okay. I know a little bit. If you like red, you’ve probably had it.”
Martin ordered a bottle of red wine from California and said, “You like to drink?”
“Just aaa little. I I I don’t like the taste of most liquor.”
“Get drunk with me.”
“Whaaat’s wrong, Maaartin?”
Silence.
The wine arrived. The waiter fussed over them, then left.
As Martin took a sip of wine, Carter said, “I I I think youuu like your privacy too. But I also think youuu could have aaasked me for help when you were homeless. It’s silly that I I I haaad to read about that in aaa magazine. I have a big place, aaand you could have stayed with meee.”
Martin nodded; his face was still deadly serious. “I almost asked. But I wanted to do things my way and did not want to compromise myself, or impose upon anyone else.”
“I haaave been there.”
“Homeless?”
“Almost.”
“Then drink.”
Carter took a sip. The wine was silky and buttery and smooth; with a hint of grapes that was not too sweet, not too bitter. “I I I like it.”
Martin said, “Homeless? What about that other stuff? I remember the media coverage of your emancipation. I've thought about asking but figured it might be uncomfortable for you to talk about it.”
“It is.”
Tears spilled out of Martin’s eyes. His face remained still.
“Maaartin, please. We haaave been friends for aaabout six years. Let’s have aaa serious talk.”
Martin pushed his glass away, closed his eyes, and folded his arms. “Just a minute.” He twitched a few times.
“Does liquor aaafect or cause your seizures?”
“Not ... not ... not necessarily.”
Carter sighed. He sipped and savored the wine, and pulled out his phone, just in case medical assistance was needed. He buttered a big slice of bread and placed it on Martin’s plate.
“Eat,” Carter said. “Youuu didn’t eat much today.”
“I know.” Martin frowned and twitched again. He sat forward and took a big bite of bread and chewed slowly as he shook his head. “I ... I ... I ... shit.”
“Eat something.”
After eating half of the basket of bread and drinking most of his water and more wine, Martin said, “It’s a long story. How late is this place open?”
“It’s twenty-four hours.”
“A twenty-four hour bistro? Cool. And when do we have to be at work tomorrow?”
“Not until one p.m.”
“Then, if you’d care to hear it ....”
“Yes, Maaartin. Youuu look troubled.”
“I am. I should have told you this when we first met. I emancipated at age fifteen, too.”
Delight warmed Carter’s heart again. He did his best to appear serious. “Really. Whyyy?”
“Well ....”
* * * * *
Martin heard about the dinner several days after it happened.
He was at boarding school, where his parents visited and took a tour. Later, they sat with him and told him the whole story.
The first part of the story was familiar: he had started having nightmares at age eight, shortly after being left behind just before a family trip to Scotland.
On that day, he had gone downstairs on the lift, holding his small suitcase, eager to drive to Scotland with the whole clan, and learn about a new culture. It was the time of year when they were in England, in the countryside, in a big two-story house. Once on the first floor, he looked around.
Everyone was gone.
He looked out the window. The car was gone.
Three years of mildly traumatic events finally had their way with him: he went into shock and just stared out the window with his mouth open.
He had suspected for years that his parents might be behind the furtive incidents ... like being shoved in the kitchen, and the Port-O-Potty tip-over. There had been other incidents, each of them not exactly life-threatening, but still disturbing. His father always had thorough and complete intelligence. His mother did, too, although she was not as vocal about it. But if they both knew ... then why were the events happening? Martin suspected the two adults were behind the increasingly dangerous incidents: do terrible things to Martin and make him think it was okay. So far, he believed justice was being served. But maybe they just wanted him to think that, and believe he was safe, when he was not. He had heard of such things. And he had heard of such things ending in death for the victim. Every time.
When the shock wore off a little, he leaned awkwardly on his crutches and began wringing his hands and saying, “I knew it ... I knew it ... I knew it. And what if .. what if ... what if ....” There was a man down the road who always stared at Martin in a highly inappropriate manner.
He looked out the window. The man was walking up the street right now. Right now.
Martin moaned. They had left, so the man could hurt him and kill him. That was the plan.
The man walked up the walkway and knocked politely on the door. “Martin?”
Martin began to shake. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no.”
“Martin? It’s Mr. Orville, your neighbor.”
Instinct shoved Martin; he responded by flipping open the mail slot and screaming, “Don’t you come in here! Or I’ll call the police! I don’t like how you look at me! You look at me funny!”
The man squatted, several feet away from the door. “That you, Martin?” Mr. Orville’s eyes moved independently of each other as he squinted.
Martin cried briefly then shouted, “Don’t you try to trick me!” He stuck his left hand into his mouth. He wanted out of this terrible house. Now.
“Martin, I’m going to call your mum and dad. They rang me and asked if I’d check on you. And I’m terribly sorry about my eyes. I’ve got a brain injury and my eyes don’t focus well.”
“WHO CARES!” Martin shouted. He chewed on his left hand. He wondered if he would die in agony, or swiftly. He took one of his crutches and hit the door. “Don’t you come in here! You stay out there!”
“I’m not coming in, Martin. Your parents will be back, soon.” The man made a call on his cell phone and said, “Right, ma’am. He’s here. Yes, ma’am. He’s not doing well. He’s highly distressed. He seems to be terrified. No, I won’t go inside. Right. Right. I’ll stay here on the walkway.”
Martin wrung his hands over and over and said, “I knew it. I knew it. No, no, no.” He banged the crutch on the door again. “You stay out there!”
He moved away from the door and positioned himself so he could see all entrances to the front room. Just as he found the best spot, he heard the car outside.
“Oh, god,” he heard Heather say. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t think so, ma’am. He seems troubled.”
Keys jiggled in the lock on the door, which opened.
Caleb stood on the doorstep, tall and slim, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, almost blocking the way out, frowning. Heather was right behind him, shorter and also slim, also wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, trying to get past; her face was strained and stiff.
Martin went into shock again. They were going to kill him. No. They were going to take him to the brain-injured man, who would kill him ... after doing inappropriate things to him.
Heather rushed to him. “Martin? Oh, gosh. Caleb, I think he’s in shock--”
Martin socked her in her stupid face.
“Ouch,” she said.
Caleb pulled her away. “Let him alone. I’ve seen this on the battlefield. Let him be for a moment. You okay?”
“Don’t worry about me.” She touched her face. Her left jawbone was red.
Martin stood there, wringing his hands and moaning and shaking his head. He began shaking, and hoped it was a seizure. He went to good places during the worst seizures. But he remained conscious.
He began making nonsense sounds. Then he moaned again. Finally, he found his words. He screeched at them, “I HATE YOU. I HATE BOTH OF YOU. GET OUT OF HERE.” He swung at his father and feebly hit a thick, steel-hard, blue-jeans-encased thigh.
Caleb said, “Someone’s ass is about to get whipped. All three of the usual suspects. Right the ever-loving hell now--” He turned toward the door.
Heather suddenly smiled, then laughed. “Caleb. No. Wait.” She tugged on his jeans; she was still squatting. He helped her up, and she mumbled for a while.
Caleb said, “What.”
She mumbled again, at length.
He laughed softly. “That’s wicked.”
“THIS is wicked, Caleb. Look at our Baby. I went through something similar at age eight, and it lasted for not even a minute with a bunch of people around, who figured out what happened right away. I was scared, but I didn’t do this. LOOK AT HIM. I say an eye for an eye.”
Martin started making nonsense sounds again. He let out several long moans.
Caleb reached for him.
“I SAID I HATE YOU,” Martin shouted. “LEAVE ME ALONE.”
He stood in the living room for about thirty minutes while Caleb and Heather observed him. Caleb went outside for a while, then returned. Another car pulled up. Martin saw through the window that the rest of the kids plus another couple entered the second car, then drove away.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
Martin watched, wringing his hands. The shock was wearing off again.
A woman entered. She was short, with long dark hair; she wore a long doctor’s coat. She shook hands with Heather and Caleb. After mumbling with them, the woman turned and said, “Martin? Remember me? I’m Jenna, one of your doctors. I’m here to see if you need to go to the hospital.”
Fatigue set in. Martin leaned on his crutches. “I’m tired. I just want to sleep.”
“That’s okay. Would you like to sleep here? That couch looks comfortable.”
“No. I don’t want to be here, anymore. This place is evil. Not because of Mom and Dad.”
“Would you mind if I checked you out?”
“Just don’t touch me weird or kill me.”
“I won’t.”
“Why don’t you sit here. Mom and Dad are right here.”
“Okay.”
Jenna helped him sit. She looked him over, checked his heart rate, took his blood pressure, and tested his reflexes.
Martin said dully, “I don’t hate you, Mom and Dad. I love you. I can’t take any more of this. It is too much. And I am sorry I hit you.”
“I’m sorry, Martin,” Heather said. “We did not double check. We assigned that task to--”
“Garance,” Martin said. “Thinking she could handle it. And she probably did not have her hearing aids in.”
“Oh, she had them in,” Caleb said. “Because I called to her from another room and she answered.”
“And how did you find out I was missing?” Martin asked.
Caleb said, “As we drove away, I called out to each of my wonderful children. We checked off six. I asked where was Number Eight. Christopher laughed. Hayley giggled. Garance snickered. One of the others said, ‘He’s number seven.’ I gently reminded them of Howard.”
Heather said, “I did not need to hear anything else. That was when I said, ‘Turn the car around.’ I called our neighbor and asked him to check on you, Martin.”
Once again, Martin went into shock. He fell asleep on the floor, when the sun was still out.
He came to on the couch, and it was nighttime. Across from him, Heather and Caleb were kissing and holding hands.
Martin watched, dully, feeling far away. When they were together, they could not keep their hands off each other. He liked that.
They hugged for a long time, then parted and smiled at each other.
Caleb said, “The little one is awake.”
Martin wept. He felt strong arms pick him up and carry him. He snuggled into his father, who sat, and held him.
A seizure followed.
He came to, and was talking, but even he could hear the slurring. Nothing made sense.
“What, Baby?” Heather said.
He tried again.
He came to, lying across both laps of his parents. Heather stroked his hair over and over.
“I want to sleep,” he said. “My head hurts.”
“How about a bath first?” Caleb said.
“Okay. It might calm me down.”
Heather ran a bath; Martin had enough energy to bathe by himself. Martin had enough energy to bathe by himself. He dressed in light pajamas and opened his bathroom door. They were sitting in the hallway. Heather carried Martin downstairs, where he wiggled away from her. He said, hearing panic in his voice again, “How could you not know?” He sobbed briefly.
“Go outside with me. I’ll get your robe.”
She was back quickly; she always moved like lightning. He moved slowly behind her as they went outside to the car.
“Look,” she said.
In the third row on the passenger side of their van was the hair of what appeared to be a brown-haired child. Martin moved closer and closer and looked inside. It was a big doll.
He said, “She asked me if I would look in the attic for that doll, before I started packing. And she knows it takes me a long time.”
He turned away from his mother and the van, and went back inside and got comfortable on one of the couches.
“You should eat, Martin.” Caleb appeared with a tray. On it was a bowl of homemade chicken soup, tortillas, and a tiny glass of white wine.
After, Martin continued to stare dully. “Did they go on the trip with Mandie and ... and ... and ....”
“Yes,” Caleb said. “They think we’re going to join them.”
“Do they know yet that you’re ... you’re ... you’re ....”
“That we are not? No, not yet. We have not heard from them.”
Heather said, “Baby. How do you feel?”
“I don’t feel good. I feel like ... like ... like ... I have seen enough of life. I feel old. And I see death. That’s all I see.”
Caleb kissed Martin’s head. “We want you to visit the doctor tomorrow with us. We need to be sure you will be okay. I think you will need counseling.”
“I will. Something is wrong. I always feel sad.”
Heather said, “Martin. How would you like to live somewhere else?”
He felt a tiny smile on his face. “Yes.”
“What about boarding school? There are several we think you might like.”
“That costs money.”
“If that bothers you, we can set up a payment schedule and you can pay us back.”
Martin sat up, wavered, frowned, and leaned against Caleb’s chest again. “Maybe we could do that.”
“Let’s not worry about the money right now. Why don’t you see if you like it, and we’ll go from there?”
“Yeah.”
The landline phone rang. Heather picked up and said, “Hello? Oh, hello, Hayley. No. No, we won’t be joining you for the vacation. What? Oh, we decided not to go. Why are you crying? You’re sorry about what? Sweetie, I can’t understand you. Wait until you can speak again. Okay. Now, try again. You’re sorry for laughing about Martin? Okay. Oh, really. Okay. Bye. Hi, Garance. What? Okay, thank you for apologizing. Bye. Hi, Christopher. Well, you’re gonna have to stay there until they take you home. Are you eating well? Good. Are you in danger? Well, if you are, let us know. Well. If you are prevented from using the phone, then leave the house and find another phone. Okay. Are you going to have great adventures in Scotland? Excellent. No, you may not talk to Dad. Because he is busy. Anything else? Bye. Thank you. Oh, hey. Yep. I really appreciate that. You think they’ll be okay? Cool. Thanks, Bye.”
She hung up.
Caleb said, “And the latest?”
“They sat them down and gently ... gently advised them. Not about the truth. But gave them a choice: think about what they did and apologize on the phone, or deal with one of your choices when they return.”
“They chose to apologize.”
“Yes.”
Martin said, “That was smart.”
Caleb held him close. “I won’t let them hurt you anymore. Not as long as I’m alive.”
Martin suddenly laughed. “The protection will end when I’m dead?”
“Let me rephrase that ....”
They all slept in the living room that night.
Martin woke five times, each time moaning and crying out.
He was too upset to see the doctor the next day.
The next night, he woke five times.
The next day he agreed to see the doctor with his parents.
He spent a month alone with them. Each night he woke with nightmares. The others stayed with Mandie and her husband. During the month, Martin attended counseling with his parents. He was sad at first, but then began to thrive, and told them that he felt like the person he originally wanted to be, before all the furtive “incidents” began.
When the others returned, Martin was gone, having packed up and been taken to a summer term at a school which welcomed children of all abilities.
What happened next, he heard from Caleb and Heather, during a visit to his school.
The family, minus Martin, spent about a week together. Then there was a meeting. The parents explained that taking care of seven children was not a huge job, but not small, either. They would be splitting the household into two, with Mandie and her husband in charge of the second. After a vote, those going to the second household were to be called ‘The Others’ and would have their privacy protected. Anyone visiting or doing business with that household would have to sign a confidentiality agreement. Hayley, Garance and Christopher, at, respectively, ages fifteen and fourteen and thirteen, would live with their parents.
During the week, everyone asked about Martin. The answer was, “Martin has gone to boarding school.”
At the end of the week, on a Friday, Caleb and Heather took all day to prepare a big dinner. They decorated the dining room, and tied balloons to the chairs: red and white and blue for their U.S roots. They made a cake. They baked a whole chicken, and made mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, a big salad, and guacamole and chips. They took the three children out for a long hike and played for a while, then went back inside and told the three to get washed up.
Heather and Caleb made sure the dining room looked fabulous.
They glanced at each other, rather worried, when they heard their children’s chatter as they emerged into the dining room.
Everyone sat and Heather said, “In the spirit of our household, as always, let us have a moment of silence to observe and thank whomever we choose to worship, or not worship, for the gifts of good food and a place to live, and people who care about us.”
After a great deal of admiration for the food and decorations, Caleb said, “Let’s eat.”
As they passed food around the table, Christopher said, in a rather somber way, “Is Martin coming back?”
Heather said, “No. He’s at boarding school. He probably won’t come back until he is eighteen.”
“That’s a long time,” Hayley said. She also appeared to be sad.
Caleb filled glasses with wine for himself and Heather. He gave the children just a small amount each. After doing so, he said, “Well. Congratulations.”
Garance swallowed a bite of food and wiped her mouth. “For what.” She sat quite still.
Christopher studied her, continued chewing, and frowned.
Hayley raised her eyebrows.
Heather said in a voice that could too easily become sarcastic and dry, “Martin has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
Hayley looked around at all the decorations, suddenly stopped eating, and pushed her plate away.
Garance said, “The thing that soldiers have?”
Christopher was watching Hayley. He also looked around. He eyed the cake, and shook his head. “I thought we were celebrating something.”
Caleb said gently, “Oh, we are. Yes, Garance. The thing that soldiers have. Civilians can get it too. No one touched the guacamole and chips. Christopher?”
“I hate that stuff.”
“Why don’t you have some anyway?” Caleb pushed the bowl of bright green guacamole closer.
Christopher stared. “No, thank you.”
“How about I sneak some into your water bottle when you’re not looking.”
The table became deathly quiet.
Caleb said, “Would you like that, Christopher?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why would you sneak ketchup into Martin’s water bottle?”
“I didn’t--”
Caleb pulled out a remote and aimed it at a TV. Hidden camera footage revealed Christopher, at night, shaking copious amounts of ketchup into a water bottle labeled, ‘Martin.’ Martin entered the kitchen about eight hours later, leaned on one crutch, took his water bottle and stared at it, then opened it and poured ketchup into the sink, saying, “Gross!” over and over.
Heather said, “We really hated getting the hidden camera. But ....”
Caleb aimed the remote again. Footage revealed Martin being called names, falsely accused of not getting his chores done, not “getting things the first time” after being spoken to in a crazy way by all three of them which naturally made it impossible to understand the first time, and accused of faking his seizures, repeatedly.
Another long silence filled the room.
Only Heather ate. Caleb took an occasional bite.
The children watched with wide eyes.
Caleb picked up the pace of his eating, and spoke between bites. “You three. I’ve had enough. Each one of those incidents was not all that terrible. But added up, they can wear away at some people. Martin had enough a long time ago, when you three shoved him and physically harmed him. He wanted out, back then. He’s just been faking it since then. When he came downstairs just before the Scotland trip and found everyone gone, he went into shock. So congratulations. If you’ve wanted him to suffer, he will. Most likely the rest of his life. Celebrate your ... win.” He made air quotes to emphasize the last word.
Heather speared a small piece of chicken and shook it onto her plate. “Yum. Kids, eat. You’ll need the calories.”
Garance said, rather shakily, “For what.”
“For nutrition. It’ll be about eight or nine tomorrow when you have breakfast.”
Hayley said, “Are we in trouble?”
Caleb said, still gently, “No. You’ve been punished already. You called and apologized. What happens now is you get what you probably wanted. You get us full time.”
“I mean for those things. On the hidden camera.”
Caleb said, “Oh. Well. No. If I catch you doing such things again, this is what will happen until morale improves: privileges taken away, and if that doesn’t work -- sending you off to military school, and if that doesn’t set you straight then jail-time. After jail-time, you’ll be on your own. But I will still love you and visit you.”
Heather said, “And you may wonder: how are you supposed to improve how you act around Martin and treat him if he will not be living here any more? You already knew how, and don’t tell me that you did not or do not. What you will do is assist with The Others a few hours a week. When we feel your behavior has improved, you will have a choice of continuing to do so, or assisting with the maintenance of this household, until you turn eighteen. Then you will have the choice of working or attending college. If you live with us while doing either one, all you have to do is fulfill your end of any agreements. We love you, and you are always welcome to be with us.”
Hayley started crying, and appeared to wail.
Garance went to her, and held her. “What’s going to happen to us?”
Heather said, “We’re going to have the life we’ve always had. We expect you to follow the rules while you live in our house. If you don’t, we will have you removed.”
Christopher said, “So we left him behind. Why is that so bad?”
Caleb said gently and slowly, “Think about someone else ... besides yourself ... just for once. Imagine ... how being left behind ... must have felt--” he gestured toward the TV “--after all that.”
“I do.” Christopher appeared to be sad.
“Not to the extent ... that I’d like you to. Plotting ... and then carrying out a plan ... to keep Martin in here by himself ... could have ended tragically.”
“But it didn’t,” Christopher said hopefully, with just a bit of a whine.
Caleb slammed one huge hand on the table. Everyone flinched except Heather, who ate more bread and butter and followed it with several long sips of wine. She wiped her mouth and took a big bite of chicken and smiled at everyone, then drained her wine glass and filled it again.
Caleb smiled back, then said, “If we had returned, and Martin had been seriously injured or dead ....” His face was red. “Do you think you’d be sitting at a dining room table, eating a nice meal, and looking forward to an uninterrupted night’s sleep?” He shook his head and ate more chicken and bread. “Any of you three? You’d be down at the station, giving statements, and explaining yourselves. You know what? Lying and criminal activity can be a way of life. But while you’re living in either one of our houses, you will do your best not to do either one. Do that after you’re out on your own. I’m going to my grave knowing I did right by all of you. After that, any mistakes are your own. God bless this woman for loving you. I don’t know how she does it.”
Hayley wailed again. “Don’t you love us, Daddy?”
Garance wiped her own face, still hanging on to her sister.
Caleb said, “Yes, I love all of you, equally. And by the way, Hayley ... don’t you ever again shout at me and accuse me of loving Martin more. That was rude--”
“I’m sorrryyy!”
“I love all of you equally. I wish you would stop causing so much pain and sorrow. What do you get out of that?”
Christopher cried, too. “It was just a trick and a joke.”
Caleb shook his head. “That’s going too far.”
The three children sobbed.
Caleb watched sternly in between hearty bites of food.
Heather appeared to be growing more relaxed with each sip of wine. She helped herself to a tiny chicken wing and a dollop of potatoes.
Hayley whined, “How can you eat so much and stay so skinny? Why can’t I be skinny like you?”
“I move a lot, sometimes racing from Dad--”
“Now, Heather.” Caleb turned red again.
“Never mind. Taking care of seven children keeps me skinny. When we’ve had a few days to recuperate, we’re going to a few refresher classes on how to function as a team and also as an individual. We are also going to counseling, so we can reduce and eliminate this crap.”
Garance wailed, “We’re not crap.”
Caleb said, “No one said you were. Why don’t you sit down and eat. You’ve been running around all day. Food is good and gives you energy.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Okay. More for me and your mom.”
Garance studied the guacamole, then sat and took some, and worked her way through her plate of food.
Christopher ate quietly, patting Hayley now and then.
Caleb and Heather chatted for a while, and the children ate. The parents discussed the next few weeks, and what to have for meals for the next few days.
During cake and milk, a subdued Christopher said, “Is Martin going to be okay?”
Caleb stared solemnly into the air. “No. Not for a while. In some ways, probably not ever.”
Hayley had been sobbing for most of the evening, and had cried while eating the rest of her dinner. “I don’t want to be deaf. I get angry. And I hate it.”
Caleb said, “I don’t want that, either. But you shouldn’t use that as an excuse to harm Martin.”
“I’m not!”
“Sure looks like it. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? And you too, Garance.”
Garance pouted and wiped under her eyes; Hayley cried and said, “I’m going to lose all of my hearing, Dad! That’s not fair! Garance only has to wear hearing aids. I have to learn sign language and everything else. I don’t want to!”
Caleb sniffed and wiped under his own eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. But you’ll have to learn to live with it. Just like Christopher has to live with his dyslexia, and Martin with his cerebral palsy, and The Others with their disabilities.”
Hayley wandered to Heather and sat in her lap and received hugs and kisses. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t here. This is too hard.”
“Life is hard for almost everyone,” Heather said. “I don’t know anyone who has an easy life.”
Christopher and Garance surrounded them and also received hugs and kisses. Garance said, “Hayley. I would miss you if you had never been born.”
“Me too. Miss you.”
Christopher said, “I’d miss both of you. Even though you’re girls.” He went to Caleb and hugged him, hard. “I’m sorry, Dad. I still get things backwards. I don’t want to.”
“We can work with you on that. But I would hope that between harming Martin ... and loving Martin like good brothers and sisters, you would choose the latter.”
Christopher nodded and frowned.
Caleb covered his own face for a while, then welcomed the girls for hugs. “You three get ready for bed. We need to clean up.”
“No. We’ll do it.”
“Why don’t we all do it.”
A few days later, Heather and Caleb visited Martin and relayed the events of the evening.
Martin listened, solemnly.
They told him he looked healthier and happier: his pale skin had color, and the dark circles under his eyes were fading, and he had gained a little bit of weight. His doctors said he burned off a lot of calories from moving with crutches, so he might always be on the slim side. The school took good care of their disabled students; Martin had no complaints so far.
For seven years, Martin enjoyed boarding school. At that time, he informed his parents he would be emancipating. He wanted to be out on his own, and would be changing his last name because he did not want special treatment based upon his ancestry.
Heather took this well. Caleb worried.
But Martin survived.
* * * * *
Carter sipped his third glass of wine. “Aaand you’ve been okayyy since then. I I I met you three years later.”
“Yes. Three years of exactly what I thought it would be. I was able to complete high school on time, and go to college. There are many ways to live the life you want.”
“But ... did youuu have aaa flashback last night? Or some kind of trigger?”
“Sort of. Recently, I received a text message from ... well ... one of them calling me a mooch right after I left my mom’s place. I was so afraid she was behind it. I decided to just change my phone number. Then, yesterday, I received this DVD from her about a meeting she had with them. They had sent the message to her, too. She sent me a DVD of the meeting. I watched it last night, and thought I’d be okay. But afterwards ... all that grief ... my dad ... my girlfriend ... my twin. It all came at me last night. I expected a seizure. I cried a lot, and felt terrible. It’s becoming more sad as the years go by.”
“I I I aaam sorry.”
“Thanks. This mooch thing was like what used to happen long ago, only on a much larger scale. I don’t want any of it.” Martin sighed. “Just ... well ... good things. I’m so tired of all the contention and all the rage. So many good things could be happening. So many good things. And even though I’ve told you all this, it seems ridiculous to do so. I’ve read a tiny bit about you. About the ... well ... your wandering the streets at age five. Now that’s something to vent about.”
“Don’t compare. Aaabuse is aaabuse. We’ve both been treated poorly. It’s not stupid to share. Aaand I I I’m glad to hear thaaat you were rescued. I I I can experience thaaat vicariously.”
“Did they -- who you lived with -- seriously tell you to stop grieving the loss of your friend?”
“Yes. I I I just ignored them. The body aaand orgaaanic brain themselves have to grieve. You can’t turn it on and off upon request. It’s not a faaast food order. Once I I I started crying, it would go on until it stopped by itself. I I I did not need anyone around; I instinctively knew what to do: just let me be. If they had just left meee alone. But theyyy made fun of myyy fatigue and myyy lack of interest. They made fun of myyy facial expressions and myyy inability to focus. There waaas no end. I I slipped outside and sought help and that happened three times. Theyyy were told to let me grieve, and to leave me aaalone if they could not comfort me.”
“I’m so sorry. You must have been confused and afraid.”
“Never confused. Never aaafraid. Only disturbed aaand disappointed. Aaaand always tired. There was insomnia starting age five.”
Carter inhaled deeply. The food was filling his stomach; the wine had relaxed him a bit; the scents were comforting. “I am sorry for you, Maaartin. Perhaaaps each incident separately waaas not terrible. But one after the other ... it was a pattern of exploitation. Thaaat is not love.”
Martin winced and hunched when dishes crashed somewhere nearby. A pleasant alto voice called out, “Sorry for the noise.”
He shook his head and said, “Exploitation. Sounds about right. I allowed that randomly until age eight. When I refused to be abused, you’d have thought I was the incarnation of all that is wrong with the world. Refusing to be treated poorly was greeted with ranting and raving and sneaky acts of aggravation. If my dad hadn’t been there ....”
“Yeah. But what about your mom?” Carter wanted to be impressed with the woman but still needed convincing.
“She was my dad, only female. One soul in two bodies. Their faces ....” Martin smiled. “Even their faces matched.”
“A backup.”
“No. The same. She would do and say the same things he would. Only with a smile, gently, like a Disney character with a serious message. I’ve heard her being patient with all of the others, and strong for them, and encouraging them when I thought they deserved much less than that.”
“Sheee believed in them aaand supported them?”
“Always. Those are her children. Watch out for some women; they are very protective of their children, no matter what the children do. Also, a woman who does not want her children harmed in any way, will fight to the death. Mom once heard a single cry, ran from the kitchen to upstairs -- which was actually a long way -- and found a stranger in Garance’s bedroom, tearing things up, threatening to burn the house down. Mom stood in the doorway and would not move even though the dude grew more and more agitated. He walked around her, and left, but did not get far. Later, after the psycho was arrested and taken away, when we all gathered together, Garance said she had not cried out, just called for Christopher. Mom said there are certain tones that should never be in a child’s voice, and she heard one of them, and that was what made her run. That happened several times, only the one time with a stranger, the rest when someone was in danger and she just took off. Dad was usually right behind her.”
“Sheee taaakes action, aaand doesn’t just speak.”
“Exactly. And she reminds me of that princess character in that movie ‘Enchanted.’ That silly one with Amy Adams. She’s so ....” Martin smiled again. “Well. She’s dad. I would not be surprised if they were once a single entity.”
Carter nodded. “I read aaa faaantasy story once. Aaabout something like thaaat. Couples uncoupling from aaa unit. Aaand I I I saw some of that movie. It waaas corny but cute.” He felt delight again. He also felt challenged: a good friendship would be possible with equal efforts from both of them. He was up for the work.
“It’s the theeeme of the eeevening,” Carter said.
“What.”
“Twins. Or two souls thaaat could be called one.”
Martin smiled tiredly. “Yeah. Of the day. That director was looking at both of us weird. And the bus driver. And that boy. You said you have a fraternal twin?”
“Yes.”
“Weird. And your birthday is ... sometime in the spring?”
“Yes. April.”
Martin frowned. “Mine is in January. Nine months between us. Strange.”
“Yeah. What if ... well ... what if we were really twins? Buuut if there waaas some mix-up ... howww could a nine-month old baby ....”
“Nope. Wouldn’t quite match up.”
Carter felt disappointed. He kept more thoughts to himself: if their respective biological parents had known each other and fooled around ....
Martin said, “I’m glad we met in the bookstore six years ago. I’m sorry you had your experiences. We can help each other. Maybe.” Martin held out his glass.
Carter toasted. “Yes.”
Martin started giggling.
Carter watched, curious.
“I’ve longed for my twin all my life,” Martin said. “But what if ... what if ... what if ....” He giggled and finally managed, “What if he had lived and ended up on their side? Then I’ve longed for him, for nothing.”
“Mayyybe. But whaaat if he had lived aaand cared about you aaand had your baaack? Platonically aaand in a G-rated manner?”
Martin sipped the last of his wine; a little smile softened his face. “Sounds like something my mom would say. Do you know her?”
“Onlyyy through youuu.”
“That’s possible ... having a loyal twin. I would have liked that.”
“Meee, too.” Carter fought, successfully, to keep his face neutral, doing his best to keep a sense of doom from reaching his face; he suddenly felt deeply sad, wishing his birthday were closer to Martin’s.
He might have looked too long at his glass of wine; Martin glanced at it too, frowned, went still, then pulled out his wallet.
The bill came, and Martin had trouble counting out his cash.
Carter said, “Do youuu need help?”
“No. Let’s see. How’s this.” Martin carefully counted out his portion again. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Looks fine. How aaabout I see youuu to your place?”
“I can do it.”
“You’re tipsy.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“No, Maaartin. Sleep aaat myyy office. I I I’m going there now.”
Martin processed this as he finished a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “Your office.”
“Well. I I I share it with myyy business partners. But weee haaave a place to sleep when weee don’t waaant to go home.”
“What do you do at the office?”
Carter giggled. “You forgot?”
“Oh yeah. The tech job. The apps and stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Is it far from here?”
“No. Go with me. Weee haaave a few things to do. Then I I I’m going to sleep there and will go home tomorrow.”
“Right. As long as everyone is kind. I don’t think I could handle any more degenerative raging contention.”
“Theyyy are kind. So far, they are good men, and mostly patient.”
They paid and went outside. Carter moved with more care, and kept an eye on Martin, who weaved a bit.
Carter gestured for a taxi. A swarthy driver saw them, pulled over, got out, and took his time helping them in, advising in a musical mid-eastern accent, “Be careful, gentlemen. Liquor and limited mobility do not mix well.”
They arrived quickly at their destination, where the driver helped them out. Carter paid with a credit card; Martin gave Carter some money, then handed the driver a five and said, “Dude. You’re an angel.”
“No tip. You gentlemen take care.”
“But I want you--”
“Goodnight, sir. Pay it forward.” The driver ran to his seat and sped away.
Carter said, “Let’s go inside. It’s aaan okayyy neighborhood, but it’s dark.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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