Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Catalina Middle employed only one janitor and his name was Paul Marks. He had one daughter, Christina Marks, who attended the school and was a straight-A student. He loved Christina very much, though truthfully he didn't know very much about her. 

Paul liked Catalina Middle best after three thirty when the school was blissfully emptied. During the day he couldn't shake off the feeling of being judged -- this kids, is why you go to school, so you don't end up like Mr. Marks here. Yet Paul didn't hate his job -- he was simply apathetic about it, a feeling that had lately started to define his life. It was such an easy feeling, apathy, so much easier than anger, or worry, or love. 

It had started with his wife's death -- ovarian cancer, five years ago -- the transition from overwhelming sorrow to simple numbness so smooth it made him think of polished marble. After Abby's death, the house grew quiet, his frustratingly circular thoughts all he had left, and though the term "widower" seemed too depressing for a man his age, he had never remarried.

Foot by foot, he made his way down the school's main hallway, pushing a bucket and mop with him. He mopped the floor at a steady pace, thinking. Life had just slipped him by; he didn't even recognize himself anymore. That morning he had looked into the steamed mirror after his shower and was so surprised to see the first streak of grey in his hair it was downright alarming. It made him think back on the days of his youth. Now, back then, he had been a specimen to behold. Star quarterback, prom king -- his date had been pretty little Jessica Stuart who had had the juiciest piece of a*s he'd ever seen. But then, he remembered morosely, Jessica had died too, a year later in a car crash off Highway 17.

Paul plopped the mop down on the floor wetly. How many of his graduating class were left, he wondered. So many of them had scattered, keen on getting out of dinky little Catalina, Kansas. But who of them had really made it? Maybe most of them had only ended up as school janitors as well, in other dinky little towns just like this one…

There was the click of high heels behind him and he turned around to see Mary -- well, Nurse Hendrick -- coming out of the school clinic and locking the door behind her. For a second, she fiddled with her keys before looking up to see him standing there. In that instant her face showed what she was feeling perfectly: blind panic. 

Immediately, she cast her eyes to the ground. He read her dilemma: to make eye contact or to not make eye contact? To nod in goodbye or to ignore him completely? But, of course, Paul knew what she would do even before she did. She'd look up with false brightness, send him a jaunty nod in goodbye, and adjust her purse from one arm to the other in a familiar gesture. Maybe he'd even receive a cheery "See you tomorrow, Paul!"

Eye contact? Check.

Jaunty nod? Check.

Adjust purse? Check.

"See you tomorrow, Paul!" Check.

Paul knew Mary Hendrick well. Hell, he'd worked with her for years. A beautiful woman in every way, with dark black hair that reminded him of Abby's. Her tiny, birdlike body was filled with warmth, her face open, her green eyes lined by strikingly dark lashes. Paul swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His heart beat uncomfortably in his chest. He felt her guilt as she walked down the freshly mopped hallway, her shoes leaving marks on the drying film of water. She finally made her way past the neon yellow "CAUTION! WET FLOOR!" sign, exiting though the heavy metal doors at the end of the hallway. Watching her sink into the distance, Paul felt a mixture of bitterness and relief. 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow…? The old nursery rhyme ran through his head. Mary, Mary, quite contrary… Indeed.

His body ached for the warmth of a woman, but another ache -- more present and physical and real -- overtook it. His back was acting up again. Careful not to strain himself, he rolled the bucket back into the janitor's closet, where he emptied it and rinsed out the mop. His callused hands gripped the grimy wet cloth tightly and he squinted in the darkness of the windowless room. Maybe you are getting old, old man… Body's not working like it used to…

The idea of his mortality frightened him and he had to suppress the feeling in the same way he had to suppress the fear when he was fighting in the Gulf. He had to get by. Apathy, he reminded himself for the millionth time, was the best way to go. But apathy couldn't stop the tears, which welled up in his eyes with disturbing swiftness. The sting they caused made him cry even more, and then he was sobbing -- all blubbery, with snot running down his nose, his body racked with too much feeling, more feeling than this little shithole of a room could contain. 

He was, for God's sake, surrounded by extra rolls of toilet paper.

***

That night Mary Hendrick decided to cook her family dinner for the first time in many months. She was a good cook; as a child she'd learned from her grandmother, a full-blown Southern matriarch who believed nothing was better than a home-cooked meal. Mary lorded over her kitchen, blasting old Lynyrd Skynyrd records, bashing around pots and pans, the heat from the oven and stove adding on to the almost unbearable heat of the evening. 

If I leave here tomorrow 

Would you still remember me? 

For I must be travelling on, now, 

Cause there's too many places I've got to see.

After work, she'd changed into a tank top and some raggedy short shorts she'd made out of an old pair of jeans. She'd kept her body, thankfully, though after Lucas' death she had lost an unhealthy amount of weight. But she wouldn't let herself think about that now. 

Bye, bye, it's been a sweet love 

Though this feeling I can't change.

But please don't take it badly,

Cause Lord knows I'm to blame.

No, she'd think about making love to Jack tonight. She'd think about Jamie, how he needed a new pair of shoes because the ones he had now were just plain sad. She'd think about not overcooking this roast… she'd think about anything but Lucas.

And this bird you'll never change.

And this bird you can not change.

Lord knows, I can't change.

Lord help me, I can't change.

Jamie came into the kitchen, the screen to the back door bouncing a little behind him. He looked so beautiful in the dim light and Mary's heart swelled just looking into his sunburned, freckled face. His blue eyes were just like his brother's.

Carelessly, he threw his backpack to the floor and bent down to pet Fletcher, who lay out across the cool wood, his liquid black eyes reflecting the lazily swirling ceiling fan above. "Hi Fletch," said Jamie in greeting, quickly giving the dog's ear a friendly pull. Mary noticed that the boy refrained from giving her a hello, but tried not to let the omission get to her. He was a teenage boy, after all; that was what teenage boys did… ignore their mothers.

"I'm making dinner!" she said, giving him a wide smile. "Beef roast, lasagna, black-eyed peas, cornbread, and ambrosia!" She gestured to the active stovetop with relish. "I even made a fresh beaker of iced tea!"

Jamie stared at the plentiful array listlessly. "I'm not hungry," he finally deigned to reply. He slumped past her leaving his backpack -- and much of his homework, Mary was sure -- lying on the kitchen floor. She knew he was on the edge of academic probation, but the teachers were cutting him some slack considering the circumstances of his younger brother's death. Everybody in town knew Jamie was a smart kid, just a little lost. 

Mary poured herself a glass of tea. She had wanted this night to work so much, be a chance for normalcy. But the off feeling the family had wouldn't be shaken. Jamie would hide away in his room, and Mary knew Jack had probably already fallen asleep in front of the TV again. Maybe they knew that a family dinner at the kitchen table wouldn't have been right without Lucas. Was she so out of their loop that she hadn't realized it too?

A wave of depression rolled over her. The life she had built in Catalina had never seemed so futile. She and Jack etched out a living, barely making the gas bill every month. A school nurse wasn't the most lucrative profession, she knew, but she couldn't afford night school in Topeka and there weren't any extra jobs around Catalina anyway, what with the town dying on its feet and all. But the idea of leaving the farm, which had been in the Hendrick family for generations, was an idea she knew Jack would never accept. 

The house they lived in was a battered one-story, off-white with navy blue shutters. The floors creaked and the heating wasn't worth a damn, but there was a roof over their heads and she had used every trick in the book for decorating the place. And Lucas had grown up in the house, spent his brief time on Earth roaming its rooms and playing on the front lawn. Would she really leave it even if she had the chance?

She put her empty glass in the sink and slowly started to transfer the food into the Tupperware containers she took out of the cabinets above the stove. All this work, just for leftovers… In a brief fantasy flash, she imagined throwing the roast out of the window, screaming in frustration like a wild banshee. But she didn't do it and it didn't happen. After storing the food in the fridge, she peeked into the living room where she found, as expected, Jack asleep on the couch, an old football game flickering on the TV.

Mary loved her husband very much. This love had been a guiding constant in her life, and after fifteen years of marriage it was as strong as it was the first day she'd met him. Sure, Jack Hendrick had been poor, had been from farming stock, while she, Mary Deyn, had been the only daughter of a prominent Kansas state representative. But none of it had mattered then and it sure as hell didn't matter now. She was crazy about the man. He took the word "uncommunicative" to a whole new level, but if there was one thing in life Mary was damn well sure of, it was that her husband loved her just as much as she loved him.

Mary grabbed her purse, an old J.C. Penny's handbag she'd gotten for Christmas a few years back, and walked out onto the back porch. Moths were circling the porch light, their grey and brown wings fluttering fitfully. She reached into her purse and grabbed a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a lighter, lighting a cigarette in the hot late evening air. She'd picked up the bad habit again after years of being clean, but was too tired to feel properly guilty about it. Instead, she blew out a stream of smoke, starting to feel the first sedative effects of the nicotine. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi she counted before taking another drag.

She looked out onto the fields and fields of wheat, all the stalks strong and yellow. Jack was an excellent farmer and he took pride in what he did. "Salt-of-the-Earth" wasn't enough to describe him. There was a simple beauty to these wheat fields that Mary saw reflected in her husband and was starting to see reflected in her son. They were good, she thought. 

Her eyes went past the fields and landed on the back forests. Her heart skipped a beat. They found Lucas' body in those woods. Once the police had brought out the bloodhounds, after all that snow had melted, they had found her son's body in her own backyard. 

In her hand, the cigarette trembled slightly.

It wasn't fair that it happened to her. Why her boy?

The trees rustled in the distance, bringing her back to the present. From the forest, Isaiah Grimm stepped out of the shadows. She could make him out, standing on the edge of the fields. He was dressed in rags and his beard looked longer than ever now. They studied each other, her green eyes meeting his piercing black ones over the dying twilight. 

She did not wave.

Author's Note

the song mary's listening to is lynyrd skynyrd's 'free bird' (1974)