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Martin, Revisited
Chapter Two
THE MOOCH MESSAGE
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 SIXTEEN - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
About Draft Three:
Every time I read this,
I want it to be more entertaining,
and as funny as possible.
They still don’t look exactly the way I see them in my mind;
more changes to come regarding physical descriptions.
When writing scenes like this, I consider many questions:
How serious should it be?
How about some fantasy?
How about some comedy?
How about long, heart-felt confessions
based upon true remorse
(which certainly rarely happens in real life).
How about suddenly the contention ends,
and beautiful things start happening?
I had a vision of the place shimmering
and changing into a place of love and tolerance and joy.
But not all of them are ready for that ...
who knows, it might happen later in the story.
I briefly considered a big group of Steele lookalikes
bombarding the room, but then, no.
More About Draft Three:
After putting this aside for a while,
I decided I'm not thrilled with this chapter.
It needs more work,
and it's not quite what the characters would do.
What I think they should do,
and what they would do if they were to be sentient,
are two different things,
so it's important to let the characters be themselves.
Also: people are complex and complicated,
and not always predictable and simple.
As writers, we need to have fun
with those possibilities in fiction.
Even though this is fiction,
I still want the conversation to make a little bit of sense,
so this chapter needs a more "logical"
(or as logical as it can be) meeting in the conference room.
When it comes to me and My Love
and what our children might have looked like ...
well, they would have looked a bit
like the stereotypical space alien with huge eyes and oval faces.
That's a running gag in this story in many ways.
Thus, the kids still don't look the way they should.
More on that in the next draft.
More about Draft Three:
Getting there.
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.
Martin moved away from the door of his mother’s place and aimed for the elevator.
“Don’t feel much better than I did a month ago,” he muttered. “But I gotta--”
His phone buzzed. Maybe it was work. They contacted him at almost all hours of the day and night. Or it might be Carter. Or it might be Heather sending one last good-bye.
Martin leaned against the wall and checked his phone, which swung from a short lanyard around his neck. The message was from his brother, Christopher.
“Cool,” Martin continued to mutter. “Maybe we’ll finally get together--”
The text message: “Ding dong the mooch is gone. Which old mooch? Martin the mooch.”
Martin felt nausea creeping up from his stomach. He retched several times. He dropped the phone and it swung from the lanyard.
He said, “Well. That’s disappointing.”
As the elevator ascended, Martin thought: She either told him I just left. Or he was messing with the security guard and was able to watch, via the security cameras, when I left.
He thought about the last few text messages he had exchanged with Christopher about six months ago. Martin had sent a message a year, for three years, asking if they could get together ... with no response. Finally, Christopher had sent a message: “Do you have ten thousand dollars I can borrow?” Martin had sent, “You move like Holker,” referencing the skills of one of Christopher’s college classmates on the basketball court: moving one way and then the other. There had been no response since then.
“Retribution text?” Martin muttered as the elevator descended. “He didn’t like the Holker comparison so he’s calling me a mooch? Perhaps.”
He thought about getting involved in this: fighting and haggling and demanding. But he’d had enough. He’d had enough since age five from the first shove. That day could have been wonderful, and the next, and the next. He smiled at all the good times that could have happened since then: sweet and joyful and comradely times among himself and them. The past three years could have been times spent catching up, and sharing about their lives, and so much more.
“Might never happen,” he said upon reaching the ground floor. He quickly scanned the area. He saw only the security guard.
Martin nodded at the man while thinking about his mother. He could not imagine her being behind the text message. But there was always a first time for anything and everything. He loved his mother. She was good to him. However, the timing of the message was disturbing and offensive.
The guard nodded back and said, “Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes?”
The guard gestured for Martin to join him.
“What’s up?”
“Generally, I don’t get involved in the tenants’ private lives. But I promised your father I’d look out for you. Your brother, Christopher, was here earlier. It was all good until he tried to check out the surveillance screens. I told him to leave. I informed your mother.”
“What time was that?”
“It was ....” The guard checked a list. “Eleven-thirty-two.”
Martin checked his message. It had arrived on his phone at twelve-ten -- enough time for several people to be informed and get involved in sending the message.
He made his final decision: Not getting involved. Not even informing his mother. It was tempting, but he had things to do; chiefly: to survive.
“Thank you,” he said to the guard.
* * * * *
Martin went home. He deleted the message, then realized he had enough time to change his phone number, and did so.
For a few moments he entertained himself by anagramming some of the words in Christopher’s message: “Martin, how is it going?” and then choosing the ‘speak’ option to sound it out, using one of the British male voices, which sounded somewhat like Chris’s faint English accent.
“It’s okay, thanks for asking!” Martin replied to his phone, smiling. “Now this is more how it should be! I’m doing quite well, actually. How are you, Chris?”
After more typing and commands, Martin made his phone reply, “Brilliant! Business appears to be doing quite well. We just expanded into the corporate world, and we’re getting a lot of orders. We can’t keep up with it. What about you? How’s work?”
Martin said, “Well, I don’t talk much about work, for many reasons. Why don’t we talk about something we both feel comfortable discussing?”
More typing; more commands. “Okay, Martin. I understand. What should we talk about?”
“Hmm. Just tell me about your interests. What kinds of hobbies are you into lately? Share with me!”
“Well, as you know, my favorite thing to do is ....”
With a big smile at this fantasy, Martin fell asleep into a deep comforting darkness.
*****
Several weeks later Martin received a DVD in the mail, along with a letter written and signed by Hayley, Garance and Christopher.
The letter said: “Dear Martin. This letter is to apologize for the text message that was sent to your phone. We had a long talk with Mom and four friends of her and Dad, and had no idea you've been on your own since age fifteen, and that you won't be a beneficiary of the will. We hope the enclosed DVD will address other issues that have cropped up recently.”
An additional letter was from Heather: “Dear Martin. The text message was also sent to my phone. I asked them why they sent it to you and me. At a meeting, I reminded them they are not supposed to get caught insulting each other, or you, or The Others, per the will. We recorded the meeting and here is the DVD. Love, Mom.”
Martin looked over the items for about ten minutes, then turned on his TV and DVD player, set up everything, sat, and started watching.
His mother was sitting at the table in the small conference room at her place. The camera was about shoulder height, looking over her right shoulder toward, from left to right, Garance, Christopher, and Hayley as they sat across from her.
Martin paused the DVD, considering each of them. Once upon a time, he had viewed his family as a sports team because there were so many of them, and because they all looked startlingly alike, even his mother and father.
Shortly before his father had died, the whole family had been at a party, and a friend had walked up and said, “No chance of mistaking who’s related to whom, among you all!”
Martin had looked around: most of the children were exactly five-feet-ten-inches tall. His mother was shorter; his father was taller. All of the kids standing together composed a group of dark-haired, blue-eyed, mostly slender beings with big oval heads and big eyes.
Garance was tall and shapely and resembled both of her parents, with close-set big eyes and a wide, uneven face and long dark brown hair. She was married with three children, and she was hard of hearing and wore hearing aids. To Garance’s left, Christopher looked like a combination of their mother and the British movie star David Niven (Martin had come up with several possible scenarios in which this coupling could be entirely possible); Christopher had Heather’s big face and big blue eyes; he had a slim yet big-boned and wide-shouldered build similar to Martin’s. Christopher had struggled with dyslexia for years, but appeared to be doing well lately. To Christopher’s left, Hayley played with her hair, which she had colored blond at age thirteen, after discovering she had been named after the British actress Hayley Mills. Like Garance, Hayley was curvy, stylish and also hard of hearing; she had been dating the same man since they were both three years old, when they had decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Garance, Christopher and Hayley had founded, and currently owned and operated, an interior design business. The rest of the family lived in another household, run by friends of their parents. Anyone with knowledge of The Others had to sign a confidentiality agreement. All of the children were in their twenties, with Hayley the oldest and Martin the youngest.
After frowning briefly at the thought of his deceased twin, Howard, who would have been four minutes older, Martin pressed ‘play.’
Mom said, “Christopher, why did you send this message? Do you know anything about Martin these days? No one is taking advantage of anyone. No one is a mooch. I'm in excellent health and able to have one or all of you here as long as you fulfill your end of any agreements.”
“Then why was he with you?”
“Why don't you return his phone calls and text messages so you can stay current on that?”
Martin heard a brief hesitation before Christopher said smoothly, “I don't know of any ... calls or text messages.”
Their mother’s voice became dry, to the point of imitating her husband’s voice. “And if we were in a court of law right now you would swear that's absolute truth.”
Silence. Then, several seconds later, stubbornly: “Yes!” And then, cockily, “Garance and Hayley never hear from him either.”
Martin thought the other two nodded way too eagerly in agreement. “Liars,” he muttered.
Christopher's voice grew smooth again. “And he's been asking us for money, Mom. He asked for fifty thousand to live on for a year so he can do some stupid thing with a coffee shop.”
Martin shook his head and felt sick to his stomach. “A blatant lie. Why? I just don’t get it.”
On the screen, silence spread out.
Christopher said in a voice that suddenly changed to a lower, less cocky tone, “So why are we here?”
Mom said, “We need to go over a few things.”
“Where's Martin?”
“I don't know. Why don't you text or call him?”
He responded in a stuttering, blustery way, “Uh ... no ... I'll try him some other time.”
The door opened. A stall, slim man walked in. He had long, spiky, black hair which was gelled straight up; long angular features; and wore a mostly silver leather outfit that look like it had been stolen from an outer space alien. He held a walkie-talkie in one slim hand.
Martin thought the man looked familiar, but could not place him.
Garance backed away and pulled out pepper spray. Christopher saw this and said, “What's going on.”
The man said, “Listen up,” in a high tenor. “We can get to the bottom of this, or you can leave, get cut out of the will, and have reduced contact with Martin. Your choice.”
Garance, Christopher and Hayley stared.
Hayley said, “Didn’t you used to babysit us?”
“Yes, ma’am, you used to know me as Susan. I now go by Steele.”
Christopher said, rather nicely instead of threateningly which surprised Martin, “You’re going to remove us. Just you. Against the three of us.”
The door opened again. Three more people walked in: tall slim copies of the original man.
They sat around the table and one of them said, “Let’s be nice and straightforward, as you all agreed to do when you are in this room. If you choose to leave without discussing this, the will is going to be modified, and not in your favor.”
Martin giggled. “Where did they come from? ‘Mom’s Outer Space Security Network’?” He grabbed a jar of chocolate candies, and unwrapped one slowly, feeling like Michael Jackson in the Thriller video. “This isn’t going to be good, but it might be interesting.”
On the screen, one by one, Garance and Christopher and Hayley turned and got closer to the table and pulled out paper and pens and cell phones.
Garance spoke for the first time. “Mom. I’d like to know who these people are and why they are here. I feel uncomfortable with this excessive use of force.”
“These are friend of me and Dad. No one is forcing you to do anything. You have been offered a choice. Please make a decision.”
No one said anything.
Their mother said, “Before we begin, we will identify ourselves for the DVD we will be sending Martin. I will be referred to by my nickname: Heather. Your father, may he rest in peace, will be referred to as Caleb, as usual. Also here is Steele, who is my assistant, and his co-workers. The rest of you, please identify yourselves.”
The others quickly stated their names.
Heather said, “This is not just about this message. There has been a lot of rudeness going on regarding how you communicate with Martin and we are going to resolve this today. If we can’t, the will is going to be drastically modified.”
She nodded at Steele.
He said, “Good morning. You know the rules. You will be honest, or at the least, straightforward. You have all signed an agreement acknowledging that when there is a meeting in this room, you will do these things.”
Heather said, “Recently, Martin and I received a text message right after he left my place. At first, I thought nothing of Christopher’s insistence on seeing me that day, and his demanding to know exactly when Martin was leaving. Then I told him he could see me later in the day, perhaps after five, and we could have dinner together. When I received this message, I figured out what had happened: he was waiting for Martin to leave, so the message could be timed for maximum effect--”
Christopher said, rather weakly, “No, it wasn’t.” Garance and Hayley looked at the table.
Heather said, “I believe it was.” After a long silence she added, “This meeting is to resolve the issues behind the message, and behind several other disturbing incidents. If we can not resolve them, I will be modifying the will. I’ve had enough of your rudeness toward Martin.”
Steele said gently, “Would you please explain why you sent this message? And why you would refer to Martin this way?”
Christopher stared at the air, no expression.
Silence began and went on and on.
Christopher’s shoulders suddenly straightened and he said, “He lived here and did not pay his fair share.”
“Your proof, sir.”
Christopher's face screwed up as if he had encountered a difficult math problem.
“Sir, do you have proof that Heather has been taken advantage of? Proof that Martin is preying upon your mother? That they made an agreement and that he did not fulfill his part of it?”
Christopher stared blandly at the air. He said, “I asked if he was paying her money and she said he was painting the place instead.”
Steele said, “So what’s the problem?”
Silence.
Steele said, “You want to call around and find out how much a professional would have cost?”
Hayley said, “It would have cost far more than the property taxes for a month. I told them that the arrangement was not in Martin’s favor, which should have made them feel happy, and asked Christopher and Garance to drop it, but they would not.”
Martin said to the screen, “Well. Interesting.”
Steele said, “You also told your mother quote ‘and he asked to borrow fifty thousand dollars for some coffee shop thing.’ But according to Martin’s text messages YOU asked HIM if you could borrow ten thousand dollars to pay off some debts. Why are you turning things around?”
Christopher looked like he was sucking on a lemon. He glanced at Heather who said, “Honesty, please.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Chris, you accused someone else of something that you did. This is not the first time. We all need it to be the last, and I and Martin want an explanation.”
Martin grinned as he chewed a piece of semi-sweet chocolate. “Awesome. What happens next? Denial, followed by the ‘You’re/You’re Not Game?’ Are they gonna get up and do the Blame Dance? That’s always amusing.”
On the TV screen, Christopher’s face screwed up again. He looked around the room then said, “The truth about the coffee text: I needed ten grand ASAP. Martin has loaned me money before. So I texted him.”
Steele said, “Yet you accused him of doing that.”
Christopher’s face fell strangely, from stiff to haunted. “I did not think I would get caught, either with the text message, or about the fifty grand. About the message: I thought I had chosen a text message group consisting of only Garance and Hayley and some mutual friends from college. I forgot that I had created a similar group which included Martin, for the holidays. I chose that second group without confirming it was the correct one, and that is why we are here.”
Martin said to the TV screen, “Well. That’s new and unusual. Sounds like something close to what the truth ... might ... be.”
Steele said, “Don’t accuse Martin of what you’re guilty of. We want that to be the last time. Would you give us your word or a promise that it will not happen again?”
Christopher’s lemon-sucking face returned.
Steele said, “We can’t have any more of that, Chris. It’s gotten out of hand. Would you give us your word?”
“If I say I won’t do it anymore, and it happens again, then there’s a big problem. I don’t want that to happen.”
Heather said in an increasingly aggravated way, “Why don’t you just ... NOT ... DO it? Are you having problems with self-control? Why would you WANT to turn things around like that? Is someone MAKING you? Threatening you if you don’t DO it? Are you getting PAID per word or incident? I don’t know you to have any issues that affect your ability not to do this. Is there something we need to know, or that you’d rather tell us in private?”
Christopher was silent for a long time. Garance looked at him and Hayley, then said, “We agreed ....”
Hayley said, “Yeah. We did.”
Garance said, “Chris. It has to start sooner or later.”
“Yep. I’ll just jump in.” Christopher sucked on that imaginary lemon some more, then said, “Yes. I’m getting paid.”
Silence. Everyone in the room frowned at him, including the Steele-lookalikes.
Christopher said, “I’m getting paid to say certain words to Martin, and getting paid a bonus for the following things: if he even responds at all, if he gets upset, if he says certain words, and a special bonus if he responds exactly the way I predict he will.”
Martin said loosely to the screen, around a mouthful of chocolate, “Yep. I suspected that a long time ago. Nothing new or exciting there. He should be debt-free ... if all that is true.”
Christopher said, “We have blatantly and outright accused Martin of doing things that he has not done, and we bet each other about the outcomes. The stuff said about Martin makes him look bad. He has not done anything wrong, and he is not guilty of anything we have accused him of. We can promise you that we will do our best to simply communicate in as polite and straightforward a way as possible from now on, and if you think we are lying, please confront us.”
Steele said, “That’s an admirable start.”
Heather said, “Why don’t you avoid contacting Martin unless you’re legitimately and sincerely interested in having a pleasant, platonic conversation with him. Don’t do this with him. Just do it among yourselves. If you had been more careful, and just taken the extra steps to ensure no one else knew what you were up to, we would not be sitting here.” She shook her head and sighed.
Garance said, “I have a question. What about that message Martin sent Chris a while ago? The one about Holker? It seems hypocritical for us to be confronted over this mooch thing, after the Holker thing.”
Steele said, “Heather and I discussed that with Christopher. We considered Martin’s message to be critical, and told Chris we would meet with Martin, but ... Chris ... please remind us how that played out.”
Christopher said, “I decided it was actually a compliment, and the attempt to either irritate or offend me backfired. My friend Holker uses his some of his unconventional moves on the basketball court to fake out his opponents. He’s considered one of the best college basketball players of the past decade. So ... texting me that I ‘move like Holker’ was good to hear.”
Heather said, “If you change your mind, let us know.”
“I won’t.”
Heather said, “What about not returning his text messages? He contacted each of you three times during the past three years. That would be nine messages from him until some time around the end of last year. No response.”
The room was silent.
Steele said, “Why don’t you think about that for a while. Martin has given me permission to explain a few things.
“This gentleman, your brother, could not afford a rent hike. He chose to be homeless for several months. He wanted some peace and quiet. He got his wish. He also fell in love. Just when he and his love were discussing marriage, she died. Your brother was devastated and depressed. Your mother just happened to be walking by a coffee shop where he was crying, and asked him what was wrong. He was in shock, and had a seizure, and almost refused to go with her when she offered to help him. But he relented, and agreed to live with her for a while under certain conditions which he exceeded, including this-”
Steele pointed a remote control at a TV.
The others watched as security camera footage played.
“You sure you can do this on your own, Marty?” Heather said.
“Yes, mom. And I hate that nickname. Just run a time-lapse on me.”
A time-lapse played: Martin sitting in a wheelchair painting each room at her place, whistling, working steadily. At one point he fell out of the chair and said to the empty room, “I’ll be ok. Nobody has to get up.” The final scenes showed before and after for each room.
Steele said, “Sir, your brother is brave and resourceful; hard-working and responsible; loyal and way too tolerant. Your message does not reflect what Martin did during his stay with your mother, or who he is as a person in general.”
Christopher remained silent.
Nobody moved or said anything.
Christopher said in a somber voice, “We can't joke around?”
“Sir, there is joking around. And there is also being rude. Or judgmental. Or implying the worst about someone. Calling a responsible person a mooch is not kind, true or necessary. Do you seriously believe that to be true about your brother?”
Christopher said, rather hopefully, “Every time I visited this past year, he was on the couch.” When he finished, Garance touched his arm and mumbled something. Chris nodded.
“What does that have to do with anything? Do you remember what was on his lap?”
“What.” Christopher frowned.
“You heard me.” Steele added a nasty word.
Hayley shouted, “WHAT did you call him?”
Steele said, “What did ... I ... call HIM? What about what YOU all call MARTIN?” He aimed the remote at the TV. Voice recordings and video provided evidence that Martin had been called a variety of names by the three of them during the past three years. The snippet lasted about thirty seconds, and flicked from incident to incident, apparently being filmed or recorded by a hidden camera as they greeted a smiling, polite yet shy Martin at various functions.
Garance said, “You've been taping us without our consent.”
Steele said, “No. You were in public places when you said these things. And aren't you taping this meeting?”
She shut her mouth.
Steele said, “Back to the question. What was on Martin’s lap?”
Christopher appeared to give this some thought. “His computer.”
Steele said, “Upon which he was working.”
The cocky tone returned to Christopher’s voice. “He was laughing.” Garance touched his arm again.
“Do you laugh, sir?”
Christopher's face curled into a scowl. “What.”
Silence.
Christopher said, “Yes.”
“Then what is your point? Speak plainly.”
“So he's allegedly working at his computer. Every time I stopped by?”
“What’s he supposed to do with cerebral palsy? Walk around the place, like everyone else? His mobility is limited. Your words could be taken as presumptuous and rude and discriminatory toward his disability. As a so-called family member, you should be more understanding and accommodating. Also, one can function in today's world and never leave one’s home. I'm guessing you do some or all of your business on your iPhone or your fancy iWatch. Am I right?”
Christopher shook his head, not looking at anyone.
“Am I right?” Steele asked politely.
Christopher said, “Yes.” He scowled again.
“Then what is the point of your words?”
Silence for a long time.
Garance poked Christopher again. He said, “Nothing. No point.”
Steele said, “I’m glad to hear that. With that in mind, we want you to stop communicating with Martin in the way you have in the past.”
“What way?” Hayley asked defiantly.
Garance said “Hayley,” softly.
Steele said, “In the ways we just described: greeting him with name-calling and weird questions and rudeness.”
The other men distributed stacks of paper to everyone. One of the men said in a deep voice, “This way. It’s all there. Including things we still need to address.”
Christopher glanced over the papers and said, “What the hell is this--” Garance poked him again. He said in a gentler tone: “What is this? Incident Number one, two, three ....” He flipped to the last page of his stack and said, “Ninety-seven? What are these?” He looked at his sisters, who were reading.
After a while everyone looked at Heather and Steele.
Steel said, “This is a report written by Martin, outlining ninety-seven incidents he has experienced during his lifetime. Notice that there are no names or dates or time frames. Each of these incidents alone is enough for him to feel disturbed enough to never want to see the perpetrators again. While one or all of the individuals in this room may recognize one or all of the incidents, there’s no need to admit guilt or denial. The point of presenting them to you, is to let you experience life from Martin’s point of view. Do it. Put yourself in his shoes. I know you can. The sum of these experiences has affected him so deeply that he has made a serious decision, which we will explain later.”
Christopher said slowly, in a tone of voice that appeared to be patient, “Like ... I ... said. These ... are ... allegations. How do we know they are true? Maybe he is making them up. Why do we have to read this rubbish?”
Hayley said, “Chris.”
Garance, to the left of the screen, turned a page and smiled quickly. The smile was replaced by a blank expression.
Steele said, “Do you know Martin to be a habitual liar?”
“No. But--”
“Garance? Hayley.”
They both shook their heads ‘no.’
Christopher said, “There’s always a first time.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I believe him.”
Garance said, “So. Each one of these so-called incidents--” she made air-quotes “--happened to him.”
Steele said, “Yes.”
Hayley said, “This is disgusting. Who shoved him into a Port-O-Potty without his crutches, barred the door, and then knocked it over?”
Martin paused the DVD. He studied Hayley’s face, studying what a liar could look like: she was trying hard to avoid appearing guilty. But a smile was desperately trying to manifest itself through her twitching lips and lowered eyes. “You did it,” Martin said. “You did it after a county fair a long time ago, and no one else was around. Except Dad. Somehow he knew without either of us saying anything. You were supposed to be watching out for me. You dare to sit at that table and say that?” He pressed ‘play’ again.
Steele said, “Consider that incident alone. Who wants to be inside a contraption that could literally dump crap all over you, given the right circumstances? That was endangering and abusing a disabled individual, kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault and battery, abuse of a minor by a person in a position of trust, and a few other things. Would it have gotten to the point of a trial and those precise convictions and jail time? Maybe not. Perhaps most listening to a story like that would consider it just kids being kids, and would impose a few minor punishments. But it was painful to Martin, both physically and emotionally. As if being knocked down and seriously injured wasn’t enough at age five, he suffered contusions and a sprained wrist after this incident. Do you think that was funny and amusing and trivial and not all that important? Luckily, he realized what was happening, and somehow wedged the toilet lid shut.”
Hayley’s eyes appeared to be glazed over.
Christopher nudged her.
She said, “Sorry?”
Steele said, with what appeared to be infinite patience, “Do you think that was funny?”
Hayley stared, but said nothing.
Heather sighed loudly and shook her head. “This is garbage. How much longer will this go on? Are you going to be in your forties and fifties and sixties, still being rude to each other, and accusing each other of falsehoods? I had a dream I was a hundred years old and still moderating rubbish like this.”
Garance studied the list; Christopher screwed up his lips; Hayley appeared to be upset.
Garance said, “You’re always calling us rubbish. Ever since that day we had to go to Scotland without you.”
“The SITUATION is rubbish. Why can’t we all be having fun together, laughing, and enjoying each others’ company? Why? Or remembering Dad? Why the constant raging contention? And we would have gone to Scotland as a family if Martin had not been tricked into being left alone ... remember?”
Now Garance’s face looked haunted. “Yes. I do. Because I was indirectly responsible for the problems that day.”
Martin said to the screen: “Well hush my mouth. Accountability,” and unwrapped another chocolate.
Christopher looked at the other men, one by one. Hayley and Garance appeared to be engrossed in the list.
Steele said, “Well. We have had enough. So this is what we have to say. Listen and listen well.”
After a long pause, he added, “There is a big difference between ‘Hi Martin. It's great to see you’ and ‘Space-waster. Why don’t you have an iWatch yet.’
“There is a big difference between ‘Hi Martin. How’s it going?’ and ‘Hey, space-waster. Isn't that shirt fifteen years old now?’
“There is a big difference between ‘Martin! It's been a while! What have you been up to?’ And ‘What the hell. You’re still taking the bus to get everywhere. Why don't you get a customized car.’ And for the record, you know Martin has epilepsy, which by law prevents him from driving unless he is seizure-free for a certain period of time. He has to take the bus or a taxi.
“We all know there is a big difference between taking the high road and being kind, as opposed to assuming the absolute worst, and jumping to conclusions, and making rude comments.
“I could go on and on. This is not about being perfect or without fault. It is about good manners and tact and acting like a grownup and being loyal. Greeting Martin about what YOU want out of life for YOURSELF, and LYING about him, are not signs of loyalty. What you are doing is displaying hatred, and anger, and hostility. It is rage. It is sometimes apathy. And most of all, it is simply rejection. Rejection of Martin as a brother, as a man, and as a human being."
After a long silence Heather said, “This is a time when you all need to speak plainly. If I go away from this meeting unhappy and unsatisfied, I am going to modify the will.”
“Why do you keep saying that? We get it,” Hayley said impatiently.
Christopher said, “Yeah and then he gets more of the money and assets and property, right?”
Steele passed out copies of the will.
After a brief silence Christopher said, “Where is Martin in this?”
Heather said, “Martin is not a beneficiary of the will. He has not been since age fifteen.”
Garance said, “Why? How is he supposed to pay his bills after you're gone? We can't support him.”
Steele said, “Ma’am, that is the same mindset behind the text message. Why do you think so little of your brother?”
Hayley said, “Does he even work? Where is he now? What's he been doing since he turned fifteen? He disappears at random times then comes back and says he needs help. This can't keep happening.”
Steele said, “Again, the same mindset. This has happened only twice. Once when your father died and help was needed BY your mother WHO ASKED Martin, who then stepped up to the plate, and then he was invited to stay here while he RECUPERATED from his LOSSES. Your point.”
“My point remains the same. If it happens again and mom is dead, he can’t stay with any of us. He needs to leave everyone alone.”
“He has never STAYED WITH any of you. Martin was invited to live here both times. He did so reluctantly both times. He did not force anyone to do anything.”
Garance said, “I'm still curious. Why doesn't Martin want to be a beneficiary? That’s a lot of money, even split among all us kids. He will need it. He’s got cerebral palsy. How is he supposed to take care of his condition?”
The man said, “Your brother has made it clear to his parents that their money is not important.”
Utter silence.
Martin laughed loudly at how Hayley’s mouth popped open. She said sarcastically, “THEIR MONEY. Is NOT imPORtant.” Her voice rose to a squeak. “How is he supposed to pay his bills?” She coughed and Christopher patted her back.
There was a long silence. After a while, one of the additional three men looked up from his cell phone and said, “Sounds like this Martin dude has no idea how to navigate life.” When Hayley snickered, the man said, “NOT. You all need to show more loyalty and respect to this person. What has he done to you?”
Hayley said, “Who the hell are you?”
“None of your business. Let’s get back to the business at hand. Steele?”
As Hayley sputtered, Steele said, “Your mother will read from a letter Martin wrote when he emancipated at age fifteen.”
Garance said, “Wait. What? Emancipated? Why? What the hell?”
Christopher said, “Emancipated? He’s been on his own since then? Why are we just now hearing about this?”
Hayley pushed away from the table and stood up. “I’m not leaving. I just need a break from this mess. What a freaking mess. What a mess.” She walked around in a tiny circle, shaking her head.
Heather said in a voice that sounded remarkably like her deceased husband, “The mess thaaat youuu created?”
Christopher sat and said, “No--”
Steele said, “Why don’t you try the truth for once.”
Christopher stared. He appeared to struggle mightily. His mouth screwed up and he frowned. Then he said, “No. The mess that WE created.”
Garance and Hayley slumped ever so slightly but remained silent.
Heather said, “What’s the matter? Are we actually going to hit the truth? Or will we continue to play ‘Clowns In Backwardsland?’ I so enjoy doing that. NOT. I could be having dinner, or reading a good book. Or grieving the loss of my husband. Or writing. Or sleeping. Or working on my shoe business. No ... no. I have to sit here and get to the bottom of the latest episode of ‘Clowns In Backwardsland.’ Lovely. Can’t wait.”
Christopher said, “Backwardsland? What?”
Heather said, “Yes. Everything is always backwards. When it comes to Martin. When he’s doing well, instead of being happy and enjoying his successes, you’re bitching and complaining, moaning and groaning, figuratively crying and cutting yourselves. Over what? Why not be happy? What’s stopping you from being kind? When he’s experiencing negative life changes, there is a big giant steaming load of mockery, served with accusations, backed up by loads and loads of suspicions. Backwardsland. Make sense?”
Garance frowned at the table. “What? When did that happen?”
Steele aimed the remote at the TV again. “This is from a few years ago. One of the last conversations any of you had with him.”
On the screen, Martin looked tired and slightly pale as he leaned a bit on his crutches. Steele’s voice said, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “Just tired. My schedule has been jam-packed lately. Lots of work; nice paychecks; not much time to enjoy the situation.” He smiled and said, “Hey, Chris.”
The camera, ostensibly a hidden camera somewhere on Steele, turned to Christopher, who squinted at Martin, no smile visible, and said, “Ah. You showed up. Isn’t that shirt about fifteen years old now?”
“No. It’s brand new.”
“You’re always wearing the same shirt--”
“So what’s going on, Chris? How’s work?” Martin’s face was pleasant, yet his patient smile did not reach his eyes.
Christopher stared, then said distinctly with a pronounced Hertfordshire accent, “Mah-tin. The. Shurt. You. Ah. Wearing--”
“I’ve explained that over and over to you. How about work? How’s business?”
Christopher shook his head as if dealing with a troublesome child. “Better than anything you’re involved in. Do you even have a job?”
Martin said, “I told you at the last party what I do.”
Christopher stared, as if Martin’s words made no sense.
Steele said, “Come on, Chris. He told you he was working long, crazy hours and had no time to spend his money. Do you remember what he said?”
Christopher’s teeth showed; his eyebrows formed a V as said, “I don’t remember ... any conversations about that.” He sounded aggravated; he shook his head and said, “You don’t know how to talk to people, MAH-tin,” and walked away.
Martin turned to Steele, the patient smile gone, his face pale and disappointed. “Did you get all that?”
“Yep. Might come in handy some day.”
Steele aimed the remote, paused the video, and said, “Martin told each of you what he does for a living during that time frame. You’re gonna have to remember what he said, because none of us, including Martin, are interested in enlightening you anymore.”
“Steaming load.” Hayley’s eyebrows rose. “Are you calling us ....”
“No. The behavior patterns. Like this.”
Steele aimed the remote again. Martin was sitting in an armchair, his arms folded, his eyes shut, his face grim, as he twitched. The camera, presumably inside or attached to an object to his right, revealed Garance and Hayley to his left, on a couch in the living room of Heather’s place. Garance frowned and said, “Faking it again.” Hayley’s voice, low: “Always. I can do better than that.” She leaned back and stiffened, then sat up; Garance snorted. Another person entered the room, looked at Martin, and said loudly, “Mom! Martin’s having a seizure! Garance and Hayley are just staring at him and making fun of him! You two need to grow up! You’re adults!” Garance said, “So is the faker.” Heather arrived and gently eased the armchair into a reclining position, and with help from the whistleblower, turned Martin to his right side. He sighed then opened his eyes. Heather said, “Baby. You ok?” He stared and frowned and said, “Yeah. I better sit here for a bit before I go home.” Heather said, “Would you two please stop calling him names?” Garance and Hayley sipped from big mugs and said nothing. The whistleblower said, “You both have children with significant health issues. Would you want someone accusing them of faking their illnesses?” The girls rolled their eyes.
Steele paused the video again. “This has happened over and over. And over.”
Heather said, “Martin updated all of you a few years ago about his life. None of you expressed any joy or interest in what he was sharing. Then you interacted with him after that, by claiming you had no idea what he had said, and accusing him of doing nothing, instead of asking him about what he shared with you. When you find him suffering, you laugh and joke around and make fun of him, and Garance once accused him of scheduling his seizures and their corresponding recovery times to coincide with holidays and her birthday. Thus: Clowns in Backwardsland. Some people share and find joy and meaning and happiness in the sharing; and when they are suffering, the comfort each other in some way. And there are ways of comforting without spending money or being present physically. I really don’t know why it’s all backwards when it comes to Martin. It doesn’t make any sense, and it looks ridiculous and clownish.”
Garance said with a grimace, “Are you calling us clowns?”
Heather turned to Steele. “Am I calling them clowns?”
Steele said, “No, I don’t believe you are.”
“What exactly did I do?”
“Well, you said something in their presence that does not specifically refer to them, but by the nature of what was being discussed prior to your remarks, could be taken to refer to them, and thus offend them. But who cares about things like that? May I refer to Incident Number Thirteen, during which a perpetrator or perpetrators said in Martin’s presence after he had a seizure, ‘Some of us don’t fake being sick’ and then walked away flipping him off. I counted ten more incidents like that.”
Christopher stared at the table. “That’s kind of low. Calling us clowns.”
“Did I call anyone in particular a clown? Did I? And that’s kind of low -- saying something like that right after Martin had a seizure. It’s rude and unnecessary. And what does Martin do? He pretends it’s not happening. And he gives you the benefit of the doubt.”
They were silent.
Heather said, “How about someone just suddenly threatens you and accuses you of not being hard of hearing, Garance and Hayley? And says it over and over, at least ten times? And you, Christopher? You’re doing well these days, but you struggled a lot with dyslexia. Dad and I worked our asses off with you, and cried with you over your challenges. How would you like to be accused of faking it? Would that make you feel good? How about it happens ten times? Would you like that? To be accused of faking a serious illness? I’m so tired of all of this.”
Hayley said, “No. No, you did not. Call us clowns. Directly. And no ... I would not like to be accused of faking my disability.”
Steele said, “If no one called you a clown then why are you alleging that you are offended?”
Garance said, “It’s obvious whom she is targeting.”
“And it was obvious to Martin when similar things were said in his presence. Why say those things? But oh ... maybe they were NOT said. Maybe Martin is a liar liar pants on fire.”
Their faces were still.
Christopher said with a sigh, “It was wrong. Whoever accused Martin of faking was wrong. It was rude.” He folded his arms and shook his head.
Steele said, “That’s right. We don’t want to hear about things like that again, either. Be kind to one another. Stop accusing Martin of faking things.”
Heather said, “You had better read that report. Read every incident. Not one of them communicates love or joy or happiness. It is a sad, terrible report of harassment. Now listen because I am going to read from a letter Martin wrote when he was fifteen.
“He gave us this letter after he was granted emancipation, and just before he left our household to begin his life as an adult.
“He wrote: ‘The money and assets and property and all that stuff in your estate are not important to me. What is important to me: Money and assets and property can’t turn back time and get their hands off my back. It can’t turn back the clock and turn that day, and so many other days, from disappointing into fabulous. It can’t erase all the ugly vulgar things said to me. What is important is loyalty. And kindness. And honesty or being straightforward. Your estate can not buy these things for me from them. So I don’t want any of it. I’ll take care of myself.’ He told us not to read that letter until he was officially gone. Dad and I cried, and wished there was some way we could erase those experiences for him.”
Christopher sighed loudly.
Garance stared at the air, then at the pages.
Hayley said as she looked through the pages, with wrinkled brows: “There are no names or dates on these incidents.”
Steele said, “We’ve already established that, but I’ll repeat: that is to protect the guilty.”
Garance said, “Someone called him a what?” She shook her head. “These things in this list. Maybe he’s just making this stuff up.” Once again a smile crossed her face rapidly and vanished.
“Doooo youuuu seriously belieeeeve that?” Heather asked in a sneering tone that made Martin laugh abruptly. She sounded exactly like her deceased husband. For a moment she sounded a lot like Carter, which made Martin smile.
Garance looked up with a strange look: slightly sarcastic, mostly wounded.
Chris said, “What you said. About hands on his back. That happened a long time ago.”
Steele said, “Not for Martin. Never forget. He was shoved down three times and the third time he sustained several serious injuries, including a broken nose, whiplash, and a fractured rib. That was assault and battery. Your parents were too lenient over that incident.”
Heather said, “Yes, we were.”
The room was silent for a long time.
Steele said, “As we’ve said a few times now, the treatment of your brother has gone on long enough.” He pulled out a stack of papers and started going through them. “We'll be starting with no contact for about a year. Which should be no skin off anyone’s behind, as barely any contact has been made for the past three years.”
Silence.
Heather sighed loudly.
Steele said, “At the end of the year -- contingent upon absolutely no contact -- we will consider the situation resolved. It is hoped that the no contact rule -- which will be a verbal agreement between all of us today, but will progress to a legal issue upon Martin’s request if you harass him any further -- will help you sort out your feelings and bring back some sort of solid loyal platonic affection. After the year is over, if Martin still does not feel comfortable with contact, he will extend the no-contact rule until he does feel comfortable. If he never again feels comfortable, we will let you know, and that will be the end of it. If any or all of you feel that a permanent no-contact solution is right as of this moment, we can simply send out letters to everyone and that will be the end of it.”
Silence.
Martin paused the DVD. He studied their faces. They appeared to feel somewhat serious. He pressed ‘play.’
Garance said, “To clarify: We are not to contact him at all for one year. At all.”
Heather and Steele said in unison: “Yes.”
Steele added, “And he will not contact you.”
Christopher frowned. “That seems extreme for a text message that was accidentally sent to him, and which was meant to be humorous to the others.”
“Was it seriously accidental?” Heather asked roughly.
Christopher’s mouth screwed up again.
Steele said, “Sir. Perhaps you meant to be humorous, but the word ‘mooch’ refers to someone who asks for help, receives it, and then basically does nothing or very little in return, or who refuses to keep their end of an agreement despite being helped. Your brother has paid back beyond what he ever promised to anyone in any negotiations he had with any of you. He is a fair, brave, responsible, reliable, kind, resourceful person. He is not a mooch.”
Garance said, “How is he supposed to pay his bills? I'm serious.”
“Ma’am, is that your business?”
She stared.
“Ma’am, has your brother ever asked to borrow money?”
She said nothing.
Steele said, “Martin has never asked any of you for money. So what exactly is the problem? Is his financial situation your business?”
Silence.
Chris said in a low serious voice, “If money doesn't matter, then what the hell? How does he get through life? And he has no idea how to read social cues.”
“Is your brother stupid?”
Three smiles flickered on three faces.
Heather channeled her husband, “Answer: No. They just want to convince him and the rest of the world that he is. And they refuse to acknowledge any other possibility. Such loyalty. Not.”
“That’s mean,” Garance said, as she stared into the air with glazed eyes.
Heather said, “YOU are mean. And the incidents targeting Martin are mean. Why do they keep happening? Or should I not be worried, because, as has been pointed out ... maybe he’s just a LIAR.” She shouted the last word and the others flinched. “And he doesn’t know how to read social cues? Go on believing that. Might work in all of your favors, in the long run.”
Steele pulled out a sheet of paper, clicked a pen and said, “We're going to make a list of ways Martin is able to pay his bills and probably will be able to do so until he drops dead. Garance, start.”
Her eyebrows formed a V. Her teeth showed. “I have no idea. He has a better job than we think he does?”
“One. Chris.”
Christopher shook his head. “He won the lottery.”
“Two. Hayley.”
Her teeth were showing. She said, “What will this prove?”
Steele said, “Answer, please.”
She yawned then said, “He ... has a regular business on eBay? I have no idea.”
“Garance?”
She was scowling at the table. “He’s got a sugar momma.”
“Chris.”
“He’s got a sugar daddy.”
Hayley said, “Seriously.”
“Just being politically correct.”
“Hayley.”
She appeared to be stumped as she frowned at the air. “Someone else is paying his bills. Just because. He’s not doing anything in return.”
Christopher laughed loudly then shut up at a look from Steele.
“Garance.”
“I thought I saw him on TV once. But the character was wearing heavy makeup.”
Christopher said, “I saw that too. Mom, you should check out this black and blue chap. Sometimes he’s green. Has something to do with the plot and arithmetic. Looks a lot like Martin. But he was walking, no crutches.”
“Chris, your turn.”
“He’s a hippy and a free spirit and gets by on the essence of the universe.”
“Hayley.”
“He’s not really our brother and he’s getting paid to inspire us by entering our lives now and then.”
Heather said, “From the way you all act, I highly doubt you find him inspiring.”
All three of them appeared to grow solemn.
Christopher said, “How does he do it?”
Steele said, “Do what?”
Hayley studied Christopher then said, “He’s not human. He’s some kind of super power. No matter what, he’s just doing it.”
“Explain.”
Christopher shook his head, as if dazed and confused. “How the hell. What the hell. Doesn’t he struggle?”
“Everyone struggles,” Heather said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Garance said, “But how does he keep going? I think I’d be dead now if I had his life."
Steele said, “Why? Martin has the same type of life you do. He wakes up, works, and goes back to bed. What’s the difference?”
Garance frowned and winced and her face twitched. “He ... he ... he needs to be more ... upscale.”
Martin laughed at the TV screen. “What the hell kind of a response is that? What’s the twitching about? Is she lying? What the eff.”
Steele said, “Upscale?” He aimed the remote at the TV again. On the screen, images flicked by, one by one: Martin, impeccably groomed, in jeans and button-down shirts and ties and shoes that always appeared to be brand new. A few photos showed him in three-piece suits, impeccably groomed, with gunmetal-gray crutches.
Steele said, “Martin looks fine to me. ”
Christopher said, “I never feel comfortable around him. Not really.”
“Why.”
Hayley said, “He’s too concentrated. He’s not diluted.”
Chris said, “That’s exactly it.”
Heather said, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have any other words for it,” Hayley said. “He’s not intense. ... Just concentrated. If he could somehow be diluted somewhat--”
Steele said, “So you--”
Christopher said, “Would you run that paint job thing again because I can't believe my eyes.”
Everyone watched it.
Christopher said, “Almost every room.”
Heather said, “Yes.”
Garance started crying. “He looks the most like Dad.”
Hayley said, “He does.”
Steele said, “Too concentrated? He’s not a frozen beverage. He’s himself. He is beloved and cherished by his closest social group. Maybe you just don’t like him.”
Garance, Christopher and Hayley stared solemnly at the air.
Steele said, “Sometimes that happens. You are not required by law to spend time with him, or like him, or be in touch with him. If you’d rather not, why don’t you put an end to this, now. If you care to stay in touch, wait a year, and he will decide how best to proceed.”
Garance wiped her eyes and said softly, “I received his messages. He asked if he could attend my children’s piano and ballet recitals. I did not get back to him. Those things are usually ... well ... rather upscale and I did not want him arriving late.”
“Then why didn’t you call him and express your concerns?” Heather asked. “And he hasn’t been late for anything in years, now. He was late a few times because of the bus, and because he wanted to get you a gift for hosting parties and for inviting him. You could even have found fun, warm ways to address these issues.”
“I put it off, not wanting to. And then I decided not to.”
Christopher said in a strange gentle way, “He sent me messages asking if I wanted to get together. But he doesn’t know anything about sports.”
Heather said, “And yet he listens and asks intelligent questions. I don’t see what the problem is.”
Christopher said, “Why do I have to explain? Why can’t he just know it?”
Heather sighed loudly. “He has told you many times it just doesn’t stick in his head.”
“And those shirts.”
“Don’t start on the shirts again. He is not an object. He is your brother. He is always well-groomed. Who cares about his shirts?”
“They’re always the same color. Doesn’t he own anything else?”
“If you would just pay attention to him beyond appearances, you would understand.”
“Understand what.”
“He prefers to wear shirts that are shades of tan or off-white, to remember his twin. Howard? Who died at birth? Remember? OR HAS THAT ESCAPED YOUR MIND? He has EXPLAINED all of this to you.” Heather’s voice grew from calm to shouting.
Christopher just stared. The others studied the table.
Heather sobbed briefly.
Christopher said, “I’m sorry. And I think about Howard a lot. That sucks.”
Garance and Hayley nodded, each of them wiping under their eyes.
Heather said, “Martin would rather not wear a black arm-band, or a ribbon, or a pin; he prefers to wear the shirts. If Howard had not died, Martin would have a twin to hang out with. He’s a few years younger than the rest of you. He’d have a friend and companion.” Heather wiped her eyes. “He was alone a lot when you all started school, and he enjoyed his friends and neighbors, and the rest of our family--”
“How are they?” Hayley asked, as she wiped her own eyes.
“They’re fine, and we’ll talk about them later. I’m talking about Martin.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Martin muttered, “So manners do crop up now and then.”
On the screen, Heather said, “Martin wears the white and tan shirts to remember Howard. Christopher, you three really need to get to know Martin better. You seem to base your opinion of him on appearances. That’s so sad.”
After what appeared to be a heavy struggle, with great mouth-twisting, Christopher said, “It’s not about appearances. It’s about variety and flash and style. He has none of those. He lives in this weird place--”
Steele said, “Yes, when the subject of Martin comes up, you focus on appearances, rather than who he is on the inside. But let us remind you of a few things he has shared with you, and a few you may be aware of, by simply having lived in this city for the past year or so.”
Steele aimed the remote at the TV. A tall slim man was on the screen, in what appeared to be a magazine advertisement. He was standing against a wall, holding on to it with one hand. His dark brown hair was combed back, and he had a thin dark brown mustache and beard, and big serious blue eyes. He wore a bright white button-down shirt tucked into bright red pants which were covered with a pink and orange pastel flowery pattern, and black suspenders. His shoes were big and thick and black. The words on the bottom announced: “Rinwether. Fall collection, 2015.”
Garance said, “Who’s that? He’s kinda cute.”
Hayley said, “Ew. That’s Martin.”
“What?” Garance squinted. “How’s he standing up?”
Heather said slowly and distinctly, “Look ... at ... his left ... HAND. See how he is gripping ... the corner ... of the WALL?”
One of the other men said, “Heather. You’re about to lose it. I say we wrap this up, soon.”
Hayley said with undiluted, dripping sarcasm, “What are you, dude? A human therapy dog?”
The man said, “More than that. Steele, let’s see if we can stop soon. Heather has a busy schedule today.”
Garance said, “He’s got that much strength in his left hand? He always seems so weak.”
“WHY?” Heather said loudly.
Garance winced. “Why are you shouting? He’s so pale and uncoordinated. It’s hard to believe he looks that good, and can support himself like that.”
“Symbolic and representative of everything else you bitch about. Pale and uncoordinated? He’s healthy and strong! When was the last time you actually saw him? And use your brains ... all of you. If you used your arms and hands daily for most of your life, maneuvering crutches and using them more than you use your legs and feet, don’t you think you’d have great upper body strength?”
Silence.
Steele said, “I’m wondering why none of you have mentioned this ad campaign. Not one word from any of you. You’re telling me you haven’t seen this in all the magazines and billboards around town?”
Silence.
Steele continued, “Christopher, get to know Martin. His life is about what makes HIM comfortable and happy. It’s not about YOU. Be happy with what you get: he’s always clean and well-groomed, when he’s not wearing clothes like this. Who cares what his clothes look like?”
Hayley said, “Ad campaign? You can fake images like that. He probably Photo-shopped that whole thing and made up that name. Rinwether? Who the hell is that?”
Steele aimed the remote again, showing a series of photos of Martin in a studio, dressing and undressing -- a brief shot caught him only in underpants, his upper body defined and muscular and his legs slightly less defined, as he struggled with pulling up a pair of dress pants -- and chatting with photographers; posing dressed with the fashion designer, and mingling in his own clothes at a small after-party. The last image showed a purchase order for wallpaper designed by Rinwether, ordered by Hayley for the interior design business, with prices blurred out.
Garance said in a business-like manner, “How did you get that purchase order?”
Hayley said in the same way, “Yeah. How did you get that?”
Steele said, “Do you continue to deny knowledge of Rinwether?”
Christopher said, “G and H, we did agree to be straightforward. Let’s continue to do so. And both Rinwether and we agreed to promote each other. So.”
Hayley sighed heavily and said, “No. Not denying it. What I said was just a reflex. It’s a bad habit. Rinwether’s got a big mouth and we’re used to it.”
After a long awkward silence, Christopher said, “Why doesn’t he dress like that all the time? That’s what a man should look like.”
Hayley said, “If he’s not sure what his gender identity is.” She glanced at Steele and said, “He looks somewhere in between.”
Steele said, “Who cares what he looks like, or what his gender identity is. He’s a human being. Why don’t you value him on an intellectual, emotional and spiritual level? He’s not your lover or your object.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“Your comments, complaints, and observations focus on how he looks, rather than who he is on the inside. Objectification.”
Christopher said, “Why can’t he just look nice? He always wears those white shirts and jeans.”
Heather said, “That has been explained.”
“And he lives in this weird place. I went there once. I don’t want to go back. Why can’t he afford a better place?”
“What weird place?” Steele asked.
Christopher shrugged. “Some weird gray place. It was miserable. Why couldn’t he stay in that state-of-the-art skyscraper?”
Steele aimed the remote again. A tall, twisted, shiny gunmetal-gray high-rise filled the screen. “He hated this place--”
“”WHY?” Christopher asked loudly. “It’s a NICE PLACE.”
Steele said, “Would you please stop interrupting me and shouting.”
Christopher shook his head, scowling, then said in a halting manner, “Sorry. What. Exactly. Was. Wrong. With. That. Place.”
Heather said, “Somehow he got a good deal with some type of bartering, but another tenant brought in bedbugs and infested the whole building--”
“The WHOLE building?” Hayley asked, rolling her eyes. “It’s about sixty stories tall! Why do you believe this crap?”
Heather said, “Yes. The entire building. It was in the papers. I’m surprised you’ve never brought this up. Martin had a severe allergic reaction that took a while to heal. He actually went to court over that and won a small settlement.--”
The screen flipped to another tall high-rise, this one a deep, rich, scarlet with gunmetal-gray trim and green shutters with eyeball-like designs on them.
Christopher said, “That’s the miserable place. Some dude with big eyes accosted me in the foyer. He did not have any arms.”
Heather said, “That would be the architect, who lived on the premises, and he preferred not to wear his prosthetic arms on occasion. He accosted you? Or greeted you politely?”
Silence.
Hayley nudged Christopher, who said, “Okay, then. He just said hello. I went there only once. The place was dim and dark. Even with the curtains open. Martin’s place had a view of the south. There should have been more light.”
“In what season did you visit?” Steele asked.
“Wintertime.”
“And outside that day, was the sun shining?”
“No.”
“Was it cloudy?”
“Yes.”
“Was it by chance raining or snowing?”
“It was raining, then sleeting, then snowing.”
“So you hate this apartment because on the day you visited in the wintertime, the weather was bad, hindering maximum light exposure. And that was the only day you visited and based upon that, you have these complaints.”
Christopher shook his head. “Yes.”
“Is that Martin’s fault?”
Christopher stared at the TV. Garance nudged him. He said, with what appeared to be extreme difficulty, “No. The weather. Is not. Martin’s fault.”
Steele aimed the remote control again. The image switched to a seven-story, banana-gold building with gunmetal-gray trim. Extraneous items attached to the sides and top of the building were either black or deep dark brown, clearly revealing pipes and skylights and small storage spaces. A long, black, Slinky-like thing hung over one side of the building. “What’s wrong with this place, Christopher? The Slinky? The foyer is too tan, clashing with the gunmetal gray floor and the pale blond walls? Half of the tenants are physically disabled? The landlord is too discriminatory and an able-bodied person would be justified in filing a lawsuit if turned down? The roof is not to your liking and needs to be less avant-garde and more traditional? It’s too close to the buildings on either side of it? You went inside and up to Martin’s apartment and found it to be too ordinary? What about it does not meet YOUR needs, Christopher. Tell us all about how MARTIN’S living arrangements do not meet YOUR criteria. Tell us all about how Martin could not possibly have ANY idea WHERE to live, HOW to live, WHAT do with himself, HOW to maintain, how to plan ahead, and blah ... blah ... blah.”
Christopher slumped, leaning against the back of his chair.
Steele said, “You’re gonna have to stop playing this game called ‘Something Is Wrong With Martin.’ NOTHING is wrong with Martin. He’s doing the same thing you’re doing: surviving. You should be more concerned with interacting with him on an emotional, intellectual, social and spiritual level, and less concerned about money and materialism and professional status. All of that is temporal and subject to change at any time. What about your platonic relationships? You can maintain those almost for free. You can get together and discuss a lot of things without getting angry. You can talk about movies and books. You can talk about sports; just talk to him as you would anyone else. You can take walks and engage in hobbies together. Instead, you choose to single out random things to BITCH about, that are absolutely and entirely NONE of your business.”
After a long silence, Heather said, “You have a year. Just leave him alone. He’s taken steps that will prevent him from being contacted. Just go about your lives, and pretend he doesn’t exist. I’m thinking you might even feel happier. ”
The three just sat there, shaking their heads and playing with their pens and paper.
Steele said, “We’ll need you to agree or not agree.”
Christopher said, “I agree.”
Hayley said, “I agree.”
Garance said, “I agree, too. Perhaps it’s the best thing for everyone.”
Christopher said, “He’ll be missing out.” One of those smiles flickered and vanished.
Steele said, “On what? Name-calling? Being misrepresented? Lied about? Lied to? Objectified?” He aimed the remote again. A clip highlighted all of these things.
Heather said, “What exactly do you need him for? Aside from what Steele and this film clip just listed, I think ... nothing.”
There was a long silence.
Steele said, “I motion to end this meeting.”
Everyone else agreed.
The screen went black.
TO BE CONTINUED
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