Fire escape: Mark Sonata stood here, naked but for thin briefs that the rain pasted to his skin. His hands squeezed the metal rail and showed white with the pressure; breaths came, his shoulders heaved, and the dawn heard his anger. Anger born of shame. A scream.
There was a time in Mark's second life when the pain from this anniversary came easily -- when he would slip into a void, the anguish in his chest; agony was fitting, and it was apt to be crushed.
But that was years ago. The mourning never fully ceased, but there came a new ability to cope that arose from the death of the shock, the first blow. Diana's death, Mark carried it with him, but the wound rarely reopened completely.
And he hated himself for it.
All morning long the sound of rain -- through Mark's open apartment windows, on the metal fire escape, on the outstretched beech branches along the street, and now on the folded newspaper he held over his head as he prepared himself for the meeting to come: a spring rain light enough to walk through, consistent enough to soak everything and change the color of the air. He let himself look at the rain and think nothing but thoughts of the rain, its hiss on the pavement, its coolness down his back, its source gray and rumbling.
But only for a moment. The cafe in front of him was busy. The people inside, he could see them -- going on like it was any other day. He took the paper away from his head and looked at the front page. The day's date. That's as far as he read.
Finally, once he was soaked thoroughly, he went in, still holding the news out in front of him.
A melody Mark wasn't prepared for beat at the back of his mind, softly, carefully lifting him from the noise of the street into a booth. He knew the cafe music would be playing, but as soon as he stepped in, it took his attention and kept it. Eyes closed, palms to his head, he tried to work it away so he could think.
***
There was a time in Mark's second life when the pain from this anniversary came easily -- when he would slip into a void, the anguish in his chest; agony was fitting, and it was apt to be crushed.
But that was years ago. The mourning never fully ceased, but there came a new ability to cope that arose from the death of the shock, the first blow. Diana's death, Mark carried it with him, but the wound rarely reopened completely.
And he hated himself for it.
***
All morning long the sound of rain -- through Mark's open apartment windows, on the metal fire escape, on the outstretched beech branches along the street, and now on the folded newspaper he held over his head as he prepared himself for the meeting to come: a spring rain light enough to walk through, consistent enough to soak everything and change the color of the air. He let himself look at the rain and think nothing but thoughts of the rain, its hiss on the pavement, its coolness down his back, its source gray and rumbling.
But only for a moment. The cafe in front of him was busy. The people inside, he could see them -- going on like it was any other day. He took the paper away from his head and looked at the front page. The day's date. That's as far as he read.
Finally, once he was soaked thoroughly, he went in, still holding the news out in front of him.
A melody Mark wasn't prepared for beat at the back of his mind, softly, carefully lifting him from the noise of the street into a booth. He knew the cafe music would be playing, but as soon as he stepped in, it took his attention and kept it. Eyes closed, palms to his head, he tried to work it away so he could think.
"It's just David," he said, and then he opened his eyes so that the movement of the people around him might distract his ears. "Young server; elderly couple, maybe married -- no, brother and sister," and he continued to repeat what he saw, describing the people to himself. "Students, all avoiding their books; a new cook." And he went on, his hands at his temples, at his jaw, pressing, pressing.
The music, however, seemed to know its advantage. A hard bass drum thumped and an electronic mix of sounds ushered in a female voice that swept Mark back into the parallel world of sound. No one else seemed to notice, but he couldn't hear anything else. On any other day, he may have enjoyed it, may have asked his server what it was, but today the association was too much.
"It's just David." Mark again closed his eyes and begged his mind to reject what he heard. The relief came from an unexpected quarter.
"May I -- help you?" It might have been the lighting, but Mark's first thought was that the girl standing at his table had liquid blue hair. Blonde streaked out through her ponytail. And she stood so still. Looking at him.
"Yes," he said. "Coffee please. Water. I'm meeting someone, a friend, so -- "
"You want to wait to order?"
Mark nodded.
She poured him his drinks, all the while thinking of what she'd overheard him say; she watched him on her way back to his table, her mind woking. "Here you go," she said and made eye contact. "Anything else?"
"No, thank you," Mark said, but he didn't look away.
"I'm Henrietta." She wiped her hands on her apron, fiddled with her pencil.
"Mark."
"Listen, I'm sorry. I heard you say something about David before I walked up -- "
"It's okay."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything." And she looked down before turning back to her work.
Mark put up his hand too late. Now he watched her go about her business, something undetectable stirring within him. The cafe's lighting and music framed Henrietta for him, her dimples, the freckles on her forehead. Once, when a little boy dipped his finger in his syrup and dabbed it on her nose, he heard her laughter; it was young and belonged to her.
"Hi, Mark." David stood at the table next to Mark's elbow.
"David, sit," Mark said. His eye caught the front page news again, and his heart remembered the date.
Outside, the rain continued while the two men talked. It fell without the aid of much wind, steady and in step with the melody inside. Mark heard it when David paused or when neither had more to say. It seemed to pull at him, a distracting tug away from -- what?
"Mark," David looked across at Mark and sighed before he continued. "I can't keep meeting like this. I -- I loved Diana. And you know that, right? But she's gone."
"David."
"I met someone." David said it and labored to keep his eyes on Mark's.
"David -- I'm glad for you."
"You are? I thought -- "
"I know. I know what you thought. That I'd be angry. But," and Mark felt the rain and the music, and he caught a glimpse of Henrietta's profile, "really -- I'm glad for you."
"Mark -- "
"And don't worry about me. That's -- that's," and the tears reared up suddenly, "not your job. David, I would have loved to have you as my son." Mark reached out and his hand squeezed David's arm. "But -- "
David nodded and looked at his hands.
"I'm sorry we did this for so many years."
"No, Mark, I'm not." David paused, looked outside at the puddles. "I'm getting married. Her name is Rachel. It was two years ago we met."
"Have you told her you lost Diana?"
"I did, yes. She knows that I'm here with you."
Mark smiled. "That's a good start, David." And then it took everything in him to say, "Send me a picture, will you? Of Rachel and you on your wedding day?"
"Okay, sure."
For a few more minutes they sat together, but Mark knew he had to let David go, and so he told him he should go tell Rachel that all was well. They embraced in the aisle between two tables, the music and the rain renewed for Mark, and soon he sat alone again, the beat of his heart keeping time at his ears, his throat.
"More coffee?" Henrietta looked beyond the Mark who sat there, alone. She saw more than he wanted her to see, and over the last month he hesitated each time he thought of returning to the cafe. But he did. And they'd talked about loss and about music and about hope.
She was studying art at a well-known school in the city, but she'd run from her family. The last time the two of them talked, she'd said Mark sounded like her mother -- the language of mourning connected them in her mind; it was a chord struck in the background, the beat that was the foundation.
But it was also a threat. "I had to leave," she told him. "She expected all of us to hold on. I couldn't. She'd sit in his room, which she wouldn't change -- she created someone who wasn't my brother, Mark. Do you know what I mean?"
Mark had nodded.
"I love him. His name was Sam. He used to wake me up in the middle of the night when he had a bad dream, crawl into bed with me. And there were nights after he died when I thought I felt him next to me. A lot of nights."
"And the pain was deepest then."
"Yeah, it was." Henrietta's hair splashed over her shoulder as she turned toward Mark. "But I miss that, too. And I want to know that he's okay, and where he is."
Mark let his head drop as he listened. He closed his eyes.
"But I have to let him go -- if he doesn't ever visit me again, maybe that's good for him. You know?"
"That's why I said those things to David the other day," Mark said, his chin resting on his chest.
Henrietta's face flushed. She closed her eyes and said, "No, Mark, it isn't -- that's a lie you can't afford to live with." Mark didn't move. He waited for her to break him completely. There was no rain, but he heard rain; there was no music, but he felt its pulse: a rhythm of hope he feared. "You wanted David to leave you to your grief. Maybe a new loneliness would recapture the pain?"
Silence. Only Mark and Henrietta, their booth settled on the floor of the sea. Silence and pressure.
And now she spoke for herself: "Bitterness, right? My mother holds it close, wears it around her neck. Once she realized I'd moved on -- in a way -- she pushed me out. I watched her sit in my brother's room, Mark. Nothing on her face. She tried to make tears come. There were none." Now she shook, her hands, her voice. "When she saw me standing in the hallway -- " but she couldn't finish.
Without looking at Henrietta, without feeling, without thinking, Mark moved into the aisle, stumbled to the door, walked into the street.
Fire escape: Mark Sonata stood here, naked but for thin briefs that the rain pasted to his skin. But this time Henrietta's words pelted him, and the air around him thickened into more than air -- it rose like the tide and swirled past his ankles, his knees. Water, and it was the color of her hair: liquid blue. Mark's hands squeezed the metal rail and showed white with the pressure. It rose beyond his waist, his heaving shoulders. He prepared to scream, but water filled his mouth, filled his lungs. No panic. No fight. -- a movement beside him, a wisp of something floating toward him. And a small girl stood next to him, her floral dress drifting in the current. Silence, stillness, pressure. Diana beckoned her father to bend down to her, and he looked at her face as she smiled and her fingers searched the sides of his worn cheeks. Soon, the water lifted Diana, and Mark stood and raised his arms as her body rose. Her hands slid from him, and he watched her go, let her go, and the ocean with her.
Fire escape: Mark Sonata stood here, naked but for thin briefs that the rain pasted to his skin. His hands covered his eyes; breaths came, and with them the freedom of hope and the chorus of a waking city.
"You want to wait to order?"
Mark nodded.
She poured him his drinks, all the while thinking of what she'd overheard him say; she watched him on her way back to his table, her mind woking. "Here you go," she said and made eye contact. "Anything else?"
"No, thank you," Mark said, but he didn't look away.
"I'm Henrietta." She wiped her hands on her apron, fiddled with her pencil.
"Mark."
"Listen, I'm sorry. I heard you say something about David before I walked up -- "
"It's okay."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything." And she looked down before turning back to her work.
Mark put up his hand too late. Now he watched her go about her business, something undetectable stirring within him. The cafe's lighting and music framed Henrietta for him, her dimples, the freckles on her forehead. Once, when a little boy dipped his finger in his syrup and dabbed it on her nose, he heard her laughter; it was young and belonged to her.
"Hi, Mark." David stood at the table next to Mark's elbow.
"David, sit," Mark said. His eye caught the front page news again, and his heart remembered the date.
Outside, the rain continued while the two men talked. It fell without the aid of much wind, steady and in step with the melody inside. Mark heard it when David paused or when neither had more to say. It seemed to pull at him, a distracting tug away from -- what?
"Mark," David looked across at Mark and sighed before he continued. "I can't keep meeting like this. I -- I loved Diana. And you know that, right? But she's gone."
"David."
"I met someone." David said it and labored to keep his eyes on Mark's.
"David -- I'm glad for you."
"You are? I thought -- "
"I know. I know what you thought. That I'd be angry. But," and Mark felt the rain and the music, and he caught a glimpse of Henrietta's profile, "really -- I'm glad for you."
"Mark -- "
"And don't worry about me. That's -- that's," and the tears reared up suddenly, "not your job. David, I would have loved to have you as my son." Mark reached out and his hand squeezed David's arm. "But -- "
David nodded and looked at his hands.
"I'm sorry we did this for so many years."
"No, Mark, I'm not." David paused, looked outside at the puddles. "I'm getting married. Her name is Rachel. It was two years ago we met."
"Have you told her you lost Diana?"
"I did, yes. She knows that I'm here with you."
Mark smiled. "That's a good start, David." And then it took everything in him to say, "Send me a picture, will you? Of Rachel and you on your wedding day?"
"Okay, sure."
For a few more minutes they sat together, but Mark knew he had to let David go, and so he told him he should go tell Rachel that all was well. They embraced in the aisle between two tables, the music and the rain renewed for Mark, and soon he sat alone again, the beat of his heart keeping time at his ears, his throat.
***
"More coffee?" Henrietta looked beyond the Mark who sat there, alone. She saw more than he wanted her to see, and over the last month he hesitated each time he thought of returning to the cafe. But he did. And they'd talked about loss and about music and about hope.
She was studying art at a well-known school in the city, but she'd run from her family. The last time the two of them talked, she'd said Mark sounded like her mother -- the language of mourning connected them in her mind; it was a chord struck in the background, the beat that was the foundation.
But it was also a threat. "I had to leave," she told him. "She expected all of us to hold on. I couldn't. She'd sit in his room, which she wouldn't change -- she created someone who wasn't my brother, Mark. Do you know what I mean?"
Mark had nodded.
"I love him. His name was Sam. He used to wake me up in the middle of the night when he had a bad dream, crawl into bed with me. And there were nights after he died when I thought I felt him next to me. A lot of nights."
"And the pain was deepest then."
"Yeah, it was." Henrietta's hair splashed over her shoulder as she turned toward Mark. "But I miss that, too. And I want to know that he's okay, and where he is."
Mark let his head drop as he listened. He closed his eyes.
"But I have to let him go -- if he doesn't ever visit me again, maybe that's good for him. You know?"
"That's why I said those things to David the other day," Mark said, his chin resting on his chest.
Henrietta's face flushed. She closed her eyes and said, "No, Mark, it isn't -- that's a lie you can't afford to live with." Mark didn't move. He waited for her to break him completely. There was no rain, but he heard rain; there was no music, but he felt its pulse: a rhythm of hope he feared. "You wanted David to leave you to your grief. Maybe a new loneliness would recapture the pain?"
Silence. Only Mark and Henrietta, their booth settled on the floor of the sea. Silence and pressure.
And now she spoke for herself: "Bitterness, right? My mother holds it close, wears it around her neck. Once she realized I'd moved on -- in a way -- she pushed me out. I watched her sit in my brother's room, Mark. Nothing on her face. She tried to make tears come. There were none." Now she shook, her hands, her voice. "When she saw me standing in the hallway -- " but she couldn't finish.
Without looking at Henrietta, without feeling, without thinking, Mark moved into the aisle, stumbled to the door, walked into the street.
***
Fire escape: Mark Sonata stood here, naked but for thin briefs that the rain pasted to his skin. But this time Henrietta's words pelted him, and the air around him thickened into more than air -- it rose like the tide and swirled past his ankles, his knees. Water, and it was the color of her hair: liquid blue. Mark's hands squeezed the metal rail and showed white with the pressure. It rose beyond his waist, his heaving shoulders. He prepared to scream, but water filled his mouth, filled his lungs. No panic. No fight. -- a movement beside him, a wisp of something floating toward him. And a small girl stood next to him, her floral dress drifting in the current. Silence, stillness, pressure. Diana beckoned her father to bend down to her, and he looked at her face as she smiled and her fingers searched the sides of his worn cheeks. Soon, the water lifted Diana, and Mark stood and raised his arms as her body rose. Her hands slid from him, and he watched her go, let her go, and the ocean with her.
Fire escape: Mark Sonata stood here, naked but for thin briefs that the rain pasted to his skin. His hands covered his eyes; breaths came, and with them the freedom of hope and the chorus of a waking city.
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