Shadow of the Past (11 page)

“I just feel like everyone will be
watching me. That I won’t . . . I dunno. I just don’t want people
to freak out because I’m there.”

“Mark,” Steve said, turning to glare at
him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not trying to be a dick
here, but I think people are going to have other things on their
mind than you.”

Mark sighed. “You’re right. Let’s just
get this over with, okay?”

Steve had gotten his parents’
permission to miss school for the funeral and to borrow his
mother’s car for the day so they wouldn’t have to drive around in
formal clothes on the back of a scooter. Joe had just shrugged his
shoulders and told Mark that if he needed to go he could go.
Clara’s daughter, Persephone, who had flown in over the weekend,
arranged the funeral. Mark had never met her and Clara had told him
that the two hadn’t been in touch much since Clara’s husband passed
away.

The funeral home was irritatingly
cheerful and in the same middle-class DMZ that Steve lived in and
helped Cedar Ridge put a happy face on class warfare. They walked
in and headed towards the archway marked “Washington Funeral,” and
were handed tiny prayer cards by the funeral directors.

There were at least forty people
milling about the room, standing together in small groups. There
were a couple of glances towards them when they entered, and that
was enough to make Mark stop in his tracks and take a seat at the
closest chair.

“Yeah, here is good,” Steve said,
taking the chair next to him. “Why walk around when there’s a chair
right here?”

“Knock it off,” Mark said with his
mouth clenched, looking around the room.

“Do you see anyone you
recognize?”

“There’s the guy that has the Chinese
food place next to hers. A couple of the regular customers, but
that’s it. I never really met her family.”

“Do you want to go say Hi or
something?”

“I’m fine right here.”

Steve sighed. “Okay, fair
enough.”

There was a large photo of Clara on a
stand next to a podium at the front of the room. The photo had been
taken outdoors and she looked years younger. She was looking over
her shoulder and smiling, the sunlight behind her giving her a
divine luminescence. Next to the photo was a small pedestal with an
urn on top.

He didn’t want her burned,
so they did it anyway. Way to have the last word, family
members.

After several minutes, a woman in her
early thirties came to the podium, and everyone in the room who was
still milling around found a seat. Next to her mother’s picture,
the resemblance between the two was striking.

Persephone began talking but Mark tuned
her out, staring only at Clara’s picture. When Aunt Martha died,
Clara had told him that she never believed death was an ending,
just another step in a never-ending journey. Whenever Clara talked
like that he’d just roll his eyes behind her back and nod and
smile. She’d also told him that everything “worked out for the
best,” but Mark knew that was crap too.

There wasn’t anything about this that
worked out for the best.

Persephone stopped talking and there
was a smattering of applause and “Amen’s.”

Only a few more people spoke, and then
the service began to disperse. Mark and Steve got up, and as Mark
turned to leave the room, he found himself face to face with
Detective Prescott.

“Mark. Steve. How’s it going?” he
said.

“Good. Y’know, all things considered,”
Steve said. The detective turned to look at Mark, who just nodded
his head in agreement.

Hey, maybe he wants more
lame, half-assed answers for your erratic and sketchy behavior. Or
maybe he’s a crying enthusiast like you.

“Well, if you guys will excuse me, I’m
going to go pay my respects,” Detective Prescott said.

Steve continued towards the door, but
Mark stayed where he was. Once Steve realized Mark wasn’t with him,
he turned back to him. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I . . .” Mark started, but trailed off
as he watched the detective go over to Persephone, who was standing
next to a wide, stocky Asian man with a crew cut. The detective
held out his hand, and after a moment, Persephone and her companion
took a turn shaking it.

“Mark?” Steve repeated, coming back up
along side of him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Mark said, still not looking
at him. The detective and Persephone were talking, and he could
tell that whatever he was saying wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
Her voice was rising but not loud enough for Mark to hear from
across the room. The Asian man put his arm around Persephone and
she leaned into him.

Then she turned and meet Mark’s
gaze.

Everything froze as she squinted at
him, trying to place where they may have met before. Mark’s first
instinct was to turn and look away, but he realized that if he did
it too quickly he’d look strange. Stranger than staring someone
down at their mother’s funeral at least.

Detective Prescott looked over as well
and Mark suddenly felt the weight of his lie pressing down on him
like a giant, bloody stamp saying “GUILTY!”

“C’mon, let’s go,” Mark said. Breaking
the stare took every ounce of willpower he had.

“Mark do you want to go over there, pay
your respects?” Steve said, trailing after Mark as he headed for
the door.

“No,” Mark said, pushing open the door
and taking a deep lungful of air. “Clara knew she had my
respects.”

“I think you’re being paranoid,”
Christine said the next day after school as they headed for the
bike rack where the V was parked.

“Why?” Mark said, trying to keep his
voice down to an inconspicuous level. “Why else do you think he was
there? Why do you think she was looking at me like that? They think
that I’m involved! They--” he lowered his voice as someone passed
by. “They probably have me as a suspect.”

“Mark, c’mon,” she said. “There’s no
way he thinks any of us are involved. He was probably just there to
be nice.”

“No,” Mark said. “When I went to see
him last week he asked me why I didn’t say anything to him about
the whole falling down the stairs thing.”

“
You didn’t? Why
not?”

“I don’t know,” Mark said, fumbling
with his keys. “I just didn’t think it was important. I mean, I
thought it was just me falling down the steps, not some huge
deal.”

“It wasn’t,” she said, putting a hand
on his shoulder. “It just came out when he asked if anything
unusual happened. I wasn’t trying to say anything about you
or--”

“I know, I know. I just hate how it
makes me look. Like I was trying to hide something.”

She reached out and placed her hand on
his cheek. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

Yes.

“No.”

“Then relax. There’s nothing you can do
about what they think.”

He knelt down, placing his helmet on
the ground as he unlocked the chain around the bike. He just had
the chain unlocked when he heard Christine say “Mark,” in a warning
tone. He glanced up and the keys slipped through his
fingers.

Jack was strolling towards them with
three of his friends in tow: Victor and Kyle from gym class and
Eric Simmons, Jack’s co-captain on the lacrosse team. There was
nothing like a quartet of assholes to really drive home a bad
day.

“Hey Mark,” Jack said. “How’s it going,
buddy?” As they got closer Vic, Kyle and Eric spread out in a
semi-circle around Mark, trapping him with his back to the bike
rack.

“What do you want, Jack?” Mark said,
picking up his helmet and getting to his feet, straightening up as
tall as his limited self-confidence would allow. Christine drifted
behind him, apparently laboring under the delusion that he’d be
able to protect her.

Fuck that. You better do
something about this you coward, before she sees you for what you
really are.

“Nothing, man. This has got to be a
tough time for you,” Jack said with a lazy grin. “I mean, I know
blacks liked barbecue, but damn!”

Everything slowed down. He could hear
Christine gasp as Jack and his friends snickered in satisfaction.
His hand was damp and sweaty from clutching his helmet in a
death-grip.

“That’s fucking sick,” Christine said,
moving out from behind him.

Oh look. *She’s* going to
protect *you!*

“Oh, don’t get your cunt in a twist,
sweetie, I’m just having fun with him.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she said, taking
another step towards Jack.

Jack rolled his head around from right
to left, letting out a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Mark, control your
bitch before I put her in her place.”

“Like you could, asshole,” she said,
crossing her arms over her chest.

Jack turned and glared at her. “Mark,
I’m going to seriously hurt this bitch if you don’t tell her to
keep her fucking mouth shut. Now, why don’t we--”

“Leave her alone,” Mark
growled.

“Well,” Jack said, turning his head to
look at Mark. “Look who grew a pai--”

And then the helmet smashed into Jack’s
mouth.

He stumbled backwards, blood spilling
from his already swelling lips. Jack raised a hand to his mouth,
wiped it, and looked at the red in his hand. Mark looked down at
his own hand, still rattling slightly from the impact, and the bike
helmet he hadn’t even realized he’d swung. The shiver in his arm
was replaced by his heart pounding in his chest. It felt
good.

Really, really good.

The good feeling lasted only until he
looked back at Jack. Jack’s surprise had been converted to anger,
his cheeks blooming with red that nearly matched the blood dripping
from his mouth. Jack spat a bloody wad of it on the ground and
raised his fists, shuffling to one side and then springing
forward.

Jack swung wildly, and Mark barely
stepped out of the way. His dodge carried him inside the swing and
he brought the helmet up, catching Jack on the point of his chin.
His head snapped back, and Mark kicked him in the stomach, pushing
him down on his back.

“Motherfucker,” Eric said, stepping in
from Mark’s right. Mark turned and snarled. That flash of anger was
enough to make Eric’s drawn back fist waver, and Mark rewarded his
indecision by clasping the helmet in both hands and driving it
forward with all of his strength, smashing the top into Eric’s
nose. He toppled backwards, hands going to stem the sudden eruption
of blood. Eric’s foot caught on the edge of the bike rack and he
lost his balance, falling ass over elbow to the ground.

There was a high-pitched yell that gave
Mark just enough time to dodge out of the way of Jack’s berserk
charge. He crashed into the bike rack and whirled around. His blood
smeared mouth twisted in rage, eyes bulging and face purple. He
pushed off from the rack and sprung forward. Mark retreated,
backing towards the crowd of kids that had begun to
form.

Mark planted his feet, cocked back his
helmet-hand and held his other hand palm-out, fingers spread. Jack
stopped short and raised his fists again. Around them, Mark could
see more kids running to join the expanding crowd.

There had been times where Mark had
fantasized of this moment. He was usually wielding a sword or flame
thrower or a high powered rifle, but revenge was
revenge.

Destroy him. Put him down
now, once and for all.

Jack lunged forward with a jab, and
Mark stepped to the side, swatting the fist away with his free
hand. Jack swung again, and Mark ducked under it and swung the
helmet up, hitting him across the jaw. Jack staggered, and Mark
swung again, smashing him on one cheek, and then swinging
backhanded and hitting the other. Jack wobbled on his feet, hands
dropping down to his waist. With a triumphant scream, Mark swung
again, hitting Jack in the temple and driving him down on one
knee.

Mark tossed aside the helmet with
another yell and moved in for the kill.

Fist-fights and male teenage bullshit
were nothing new to Christine. The boys she knew in Boston were
practically choking themselves on it to prove whose balls were
bigger. Even “messing with the nerds” was standard fare, and
although she’d never admit it she’d done her share of laughing at
boys like Mark when they got put on the spot and started tripping
over their own social inadequacies.

She’d never seen anything like the
gleeful venom that spewed forth from Jack or the rage on his face
when Mark hit him. What erupted before her was wholly new, and as
Mark screamed in triumph after battering Jack with his helmet she
wasn’t sure which if the two was more dangerous.

Mark tossed the helmet aside (“I had to
save up for months to get it,” he’d said with earnest pride just a
couple days earlier) and it skidded to stop at her feet. Along the
top there was a jagged crack forming, dotted with blood.

Mark had crawled atop Jack, grabbing a
handful of t-shirt with his left hand and slamming his right down
into Jack’s face.