Absent Friends

MARIAN'S STORY

Chapter 11

image

The Water Dreams

October 31, 2001

Such strange things, words, Marian thought. They create poetry, and death sentences, and lies. They describe how it feels to make love, or to freeze to death. Without words people would remain as unconnected as rooted trees, unable to approach each other, yearning, but forever alone, on a vast plain.

“Tom?”

Marian stared at Tom in the unfamiliar room, noisier, she was sure, than when they'd arrived. Words were being chattered, shouted, whispered, and flung everywhere all around them, masking and disguising one another, and Marian understood none of them, least of all the ones Tom had just spoken.

Tom slumped in his chair, as though trying to move away from Marian, away from his own past and the memories his words were summoning the way a magician's spell summons evil spirits. She was suddenly terrified he'd get up and leave, leave her, leave her alone here where nothing looked right and all the words had different meanings. In the comics Jimmy used to read—Bizarro World, that was where these things happened. Bizarro World, from Superman.

“We were all there that night,” Tom said. “All four of us. It wasn't Markie and Jack having a few beers on the building site. It was Markie, Jimmy, Jack, and me.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know. Just listen.” A breath. “Jack was drunk. I—I guess we all were. Jack pulled out a gun and started waving it around. He was pissed as hell.”

This needed to be clearer, it really did. “Why?”

“Something Markie said. Jack and Markie'd been talking, a day or two back. That's what it seemed like, anyway. I don't really know, my brother wasn't making a lot of sense. He was pissed, and he kept saying Markie was full of shit and he was going to kill him.”

“That's what Markie said happened.” Marian's voice sounded very faint to her.

“We tried to talk Jack down,” Tom said. “Jimmy and me both. He was—he should have calmed down. You know. He usually did, or he went away steaming and came back when it was okay. But he was so drunk, Marian. And the gun. He fired off a shot, blew a hole in that f*cking two-by-four.”

Suddenly every word was sharp, each meaning unmistakable. Was it better this way?

“I thought he'd stop then,” Tom said. “See how stupid it was, and stop. But he aimed at Markie and shot again.”

Tom raised his beer and gazed at her, and this time Marian knew he was not seeing her, he was seeing a skeleton house, his brother, his friends.

“Markie froze. He froze like he always did. What the hell did he think he was doing, Marian?”

Marian didn't know whether Tom meant Jack, or Markie, and in any case she had no idea, none.

“After the second shot Jimmy tackled Markie. Knocked him out of the way.” Tom gulped more beer. “Everything Jack was—everything we all were, Marian, everything, it was all there, you could see it all. Like this bright light was shining. Like we were naked. No, no, not naked. Like you could, like you could see right through us.”

Tired to the bone from waiting, waiting so many years, Marian said it for him. “It was Jimmy, wasn't it?”

Tom raised his eyes to her. “It . . .” He looked down again, shook his head. “I can't, Marian. And it doesn't matter.”

“It was—”

“Don't you see? What each of us was. What we always were. It was right there.”

“Tom—”

“Marian?” He was pleading for something. How could that be? Tom always had the answers, the smart ideas. Tom never needed anything. Tom was the one other people asked for things from. It was she who'd asked the question, the only question that had ever mattered, ever, the one question, because of that, she'd never asked.

And now she had to hear Tom's answer.

But Tom said, “Marian, I can't. And it doesn't matter.”