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Marc's lungs burned and his legs ached. He ran as fast as his dwindling energy could carry him. Finally, he stopped. Leaning against a rough concrete abandon storefront, he gasped for air. A bead of sweat slid down his back. Unconsciously, he shivered as a chill shot up his spine.
As dusk turned to darkness, Marc scanned the street. He heard sirens, but saw no lights. He listened, tensely, as he sucked in air. Suddenly, to the right, a whirling red light flashed against a darkened building. Quickly, he darted left, down an alley and dove head first into a half-full dumpster. His hat slid off his shaved head. Groping in the dark, he couldn't find it.
He struggled to slow his breathing. The sirens wailed closer. Like a dog searching for a bone, Marc dug a crater in the rotten food scraps and trash. He threw his body into it and pulled the garbage over him.
How did I ever end up here? He wondered.
Dylan said the trouble with Dad over college was bad enough. But, then, Peter changed it all. And, Teresa, beautiful Teresa...
Marc closed his eyes tighter and like a film he watched over and over again, he remembered...
The school office was busy that cloudy afternoon. Marc sat in a molded plastic chair and watched kids and teachers rush in and out. The people blurred in front of him and disappeared, as his focus sharpened. He saw only one person.
Wow! Marc thought. Who's that?
The girl closed her locker door, walked over to the fountain, and took a deep drink of water. Her thick long, dark brown hair glistened with gold highlights as it fell down the side of the fountain. As she lifted her head, their eyes met, briefly. Her golden brown eyes were rimmed with thick lashes.
Where did she come from?
"Marcus Owens?" the secretary asked.
Marc's attention stayed focused on the girl.
"Marcus Owens!" she repeated, "Mr. Webster will see you now."
Marc rose reluctantly and walked backwards. His gaze followed the mysterious girl.
After school Marc ran home, did his homework and scarfed down some dinner. He was thankful his dad was involved with his beloved news. Every morning at seven, each evening from six to seven, and every night at eleven, he watched. Marc couldn't think of anything more depressing.
As he scraped the remains from his plate into the trash he heard a familiar knock on the door. A rapid beat of five knocks, pause and two more. Dylan opened the door and stuck his head in. His large hazel eyes were bright with excitement.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Yeah, just give me a sec." Marc swallowed his last bite, rinsed the plate and downed the last of his milk.
"Let's go," Marc said. "Bye Dad," he called through the doorway between the kitchen and living room. "I'll see you when I get home."
"Wow," Dylan said as they left the driveway. "This is going to be so cool. How long will it take to get to the observatory?"
Marc couldn't help but smile. He had to talk Dylan into joining the astronomy club with him, since he didn't want to go by himself, but it was Dylan that had gone nuts over the whole thing. His parents had finally bought him a telescope for his birthday, just to shut him up.
"It takes about a half an hour once we're on the bus. Not long," Marc said.
"Hey, Dylan, I have something I wanted to ask you about. I saw this incredible girl in the hall today. She must be new here 'cause I sure would have noticed her before. I was wondering if you've seen her? She's short, under five foot I'd say. Her skin is olive with the most beautiful long dark hair and brown eyes you've ever seen?"
Dylan let out a wolf whistle. "Quite a looker, huh! She just transferred and is in my algebra class. Her name is Teresa. Let's see, her last name is, uh," he squinted his face as he tried to remember. "Martin, Martinea. No. Martinez. Yeah, that's it, Martinez. She sure is pretty. Quiet, though."
"I can't imagine you let anyone get a word in when you're around any way," Marc laughed. "She is beautiful," Marc agreed. His deep green eyes stared off into the distance.
Dylan snapped his fingers in front of Marc's face. "Earth to Marc. Earth to Marc...Oh man, you've got it bad!"
Marc turned and stared at Dylan. "What?"
Dylan's eyes narrowed. Unconsciously he slid his hand through his brown hair. The tone of his voice became serious, "Don't even think about it! You think you got trouble now with your dad. Dang! He'll have a fit if you go out with someone like that. You better just start taking applications for a girlfriend with the first requirement being extremely white, with extremely white parents and grandparents."
Marc's smile vanished. "I know," he said solemnly. "I've tried not to think about her. But, she's so pretty. The last thing in the world I need right now is a girlfriend, anyway. It's actually been pretty easy 'coz none of the girls around here interest me. But, boy, she sure does. I've never had my heart beat so fast in my life."
Dylan sighed sympathetically, "It sounds like it, but Marc, you're just asking for misery. You have enough problems with this college business. You don't need any more. By the way, what did 'The Walrus' have to say?"
Marc grinned. Mr. Webster, the high school counselor, had a thick woolly mustache and round chubby face. The kids had called him 'The Walrus' long before Marc even started high school.
Marc lowered his voice to imitate him, "'Marc,' he said, 'you have to be persistent in letting your dad know what you want to do with the rest of your life. You can't live your life trying to recapture the things your dad wishes he'd done in his youth. Remember, Son, if you don't do what you want to do, you will have many years of unhappiness ahead of you.'"
Dylan laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. "That's what I said! Remember? You didn't need to see him to find that out. It is your life."
Before school the next morning, his dad confronted Marc.
"Marc, you've got to make a decision about what college you want to go to," he paused. "I don't understand why you are making this so difficult."
"Dad, it's hard to decide where to go, since I don't know what I want to study."
"You've already had three and a half years of high school! Just when did you think you would need to figure this stuff out?"
Marc knew if he told him how he really felt, his dad would go through the roof. How could he tell him he didn't want to go to college? All he had heard from his dad was how lucky he was to have the opportunity to go, how he didn't want his son stuck in a dead-end job. He wanted Marc to go to college and have all the opportunities he had missed.
But that was Dad's dream, not his.
"I'm sorry Dad. I'll make a decision soon. I still have a little time."
"Time will not wait. I don't want you to apply just to find out they don't have any room left. Besides, the first two years will be taken up with classes required for any degree. That gives you plenty of time to make a final decision." Dad's face lost some of its redness and his eyes lightened. "Okay?"
"Yeah," said Marc.
On the way to school Marc kept trying to force the image of Teresa out of his mind.
Dylan is right. The last thing I need in my life right now is a girlfriend. Especially one that Dad will have a fit over.
Her image filled his mind again.
Only in my dreams, he thought sadly.
That afternoon, directly after the bell rang, Marc rushed out and found an inconspicuous place to stand while he waited for Teresa to come by her locker.
I know I shouldn't see her, but I want to. I want to pick my own girlfriend. If Dad is going to have his way about college, I should at least be able to see whoever I want.
He spotted her as she took the last couple steps down the stairs. Momentarily, he lost her in the wave of faces and bodies that moved in both directions.
He moved to the drinking fountain just as she opened her locker and tossed in her books. Methodically, she scanned the books, extracted two, and slammed the door. Her brightly colored skirt caught the air and moved, as if in a dance. She turned and headed directly toward him.
Oh, gawd. No place to hide!
He bent over and took a drink. Her eyes met his as she stood next to him, waiting for the fountain. Feeling stupid, he brushed the last remaining droplets of the water from his lips.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be hogging the water," he said. He smiled, as he studied her face up close. Her brown eyes reflected the light from overhead as she looked up at him.
"No problem."
Marc felt stupid when he realized he was blocking her from the fountain. He stepped back, but found he couldn't go any further. Her hair cascaded over the fountain and he took in the refreshing scent of her light, sweet perfume. When she lifted her head he realized he was staring at her. He turned and headed toward the door. She smiled and fell in step next to him.
Don't act stupid, he thought. Say something.
"Did you just start going to school here?" he asked.
"Yes. I was living in San Francisco, but my dad was transferred to Portland for his job."
"How do you like it so far?"
"It's nice here. I'm still finding my way around school and what not, but I like it."
Marc held his books out to his side; he tapped his thumb against the stack nervously.
"Do you take the bus?" he inquired, as they came upon the buses awaiting departure.
"Yeah. You?"
"No, I just live a few blocks away and walk." He hesitated, "So, I guess I'll see you later."
She smiled.
Marc's stomach churned.
"By the way, my name's Teresa."
"I know. Marc Owens."
"Nice to meet you," she said, with that she turned and boarded the bus.
Marc's spirits were up as he practically power walked the distance home. He was so up he decided that tonight was going to be the night. He would talk to Dad about trade school the minute he got home from work. The worst that could happen was he would say 'no', which Marc expected anyway. But, maybe, just maybe, he would be surprised. As he got in sight of the house, he wondered what his dad 's car was doing in the drive way so early.
"Hey, Dad, ya home?" he called as he shut the front door.
"Yeah," Dad hollered from the bedroom. "I'm in here."
Marc stopped in the doorway when he noticed the bouquet of yellow and white daisies on the dresser.
Dang, I forgot all about the anniversary today.
"Dad, I was thinking maybe I would stay home this year?"
"Absolutely not," Dad said sternly. "It would be disrespectful to your Mother's memory if you didn't go."
A look of agony crossed Dad's face, "I can't believe it was fourteen years ago today when she was taken from us." He shook his head. "I only ask you to go this one day a year, that's not too much to ask. We're leaving in ten minutes."
Marc changed out of his jeans and into a pair of black slacks. Carefully, he pulled a white starched cotton shirt from the closet and added a navy blue "V" neck sweater over the shirt.
"I'm ready," he said as he joined his father in the living room. Absently, he reached up and smoothed his hair down. "Want me to drive?" he asked optimistically.
Since he had gotten his driver's license the previous year, he looked for every opportunity to drive. He loved sliding into the driver seat of the '74 Mustang. He tried to talk Dad into buying a new car the previous year, but had resigned himself to the fact the Mustang would most likely be the only car his dad ever owned.
His dad and Mom had shopped for a car just prior to their wedding and his Mom fell in love with the crimson red Mustang convertible. His dad told him the story of how it wasn't in their budget, as he had only saved five hundred dollars toward a car. But, with some finagling and some credit he was able to get it. That purchase made things pretty tight financially for several years, but every time he saw her look at that car, ride in it or drive it, he knew it was the right decision.
Dad took meticulous care of the car and tinkered with it on weekends to keep it in top running condition. Marc remembered when he was little, his dad let him crawl under the car and help him work on it. He was six years old the first time his dad let him lay on the creeper and slide under the car.
Very patiently, Dad had explained everything he was doing to Marc. Removing the oil pan and letting the old oil flow thickly into a container. Replacing the filter, checking the shocks. Afterwards, they sat on the porch, grease covered hands and smeared faces while they drank sweet pink lemonade. Marc even had coveralls that matched his dad 's. He missed those days when they shared time together. Those were days when Marc felt like he could talk to his dad about anything. Marc was glad now that Dad hadn't given in to his idea of a new car. The more he drove it, the more he loved the Mustang.
"No," Dad said, "I think I'll drive out to the cemetery and you can drive us home."
The drive out was always gloomy. His father always became quiet and sullen on these journeys. But each year they traveled out to the cemetery and laid flowers on her grave.
Marc wished he remembered more about his mother. He had just a few vague memories. He was not quite four when she was killed. He still remembered when he fell down and scrapped his knee. He felt safe when she cuddled him in her arms. Her straw blond hair tickled his nose. Her breath made him warm. He remembered she played hide-and-seek with him in the back yard. Sometimes she would spin him around and gently let him go. Dizzy, he would keep spinning a second, before he fell laughing into the soft itchy grass.
"Dad, tell me about Mom?" The question, a ritual in itself.
"Ah, she was a beautiful, amazing woman. Beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside, where it counts. She had the sweetest disposition of anyone I've ever met, with the most infectious laugh. Of course, you have her blond hair, green eyes and dimples. She used to say you were a Fields, through and through."
Dad winced at the memory of his father-in-law. His eyes appeared to go far beyond the road in front of him. "I wish she was here for you to know her." He became lost in his own thoughts.
Marc's thoughts drifted. Thinking about his Grandfather, he wished he knew him, too. Dad told him once that Grandfather Fields strongly disapproved of his daughter's choice in a husband. The Fields' lived on the east coast and were apparently very well off. Grandfather felt a mechanic was the bottom of the barrel on the husband chain. He had great expectations for his only daughter. Unfortunately, in his eyes, his daughter's decision to marry a 'grease monkey' was the last straw.
It had been bad enough that Mom fell into the hippie culture, dropped out of college, hitch-hiked to the west coast and marched in demonstrations for peace. But, marrying his Father was the end. Seven years prior to her death, Grandfather cut her name out of his will, and her out of his heart.
Over the years, she sent several letters trying to make the situation better, especially the last three years, after Marc had been born. But, she never received any acknowledgment from him. Marc's Grandmother died a couple of years after his mom and dad married, but even that didn't seem to make any difference to his Grandfather.
Dad drove the car through the cemetery gates and parked. They left the car and followed the familiar path through the cemetery. The wind stirred up dry leaves that crackled under Marc's feet. He saw the familiar angel that sat on top of his Mother's headstone. The angel always fascinated him. Her white marble wings were open wide, her arms reaching out as if to hold him. When he was little, he thought it was a statue of his Mama when she became an angel in heaven. Part of him still believed that. The sweet smile on her lips seemed to tell him everything would be all right. The angel always comforted him.
He didn't feel as sad about these visits as he got older. His father did, though. He always cried while he knelt at her grave. Not a quiet crying, but a sobbing. Like his soul grieving for it's mate. Once in a while, he would mutter "if only..." but that was all he said.
He must feel empty, Marc thought.
He often wondered why his dad hadn't remarried. Marc wouldn't have minded. He thought maybe his dad would be happy then. With the strong emotions his dad had, Marc envisioned he must remember the day of her death as if it were today.
A fog seemed to engulf his dad and remained with him. Marc was glad to finally get to drive, but his enthusiasm was gone. The thirty-minute ride back home was quieter than the ride there. Marc turned the car into the driveway and shut it off. His dad got out and walked into the house, as if Marc wasn't even there.
Marc leaned his chin against the steering wheel and watched his dad close the door.
Guess our talk will have to wait. It'll keep 'till tomorrow.