The Blood Orange Moon

Then she looked back at Stevie and those thoughts and fears were banished. She'd missed him so much. She couldn't bear to again have him taken away. She only hoped he was right. She only hoped this was the one girl that would stay with him forever.

The girl that would be with him forever. The girl that would visit her when he did so she could know he was happy wherever he was when he wasn't by her side.

* * * * *

David Roberts picked up his son at three on the button. Actually, he'd been waiting down the street, illegally double parked for almost fifteen minutes. He only nosed the car forward at one minute to three when Mark walked out the front doors amidst a throng of students and placed a duffel bag on the curb. He didn't bother looking around for Roberts and, when Roberts pulled to the curb seconds later. Without any recognition, he walked around the passenger side, tossed the duffel bag in, threw his jacket in the back seat, and slid in, staring straight forward.

"Let's go," he said.

They were the last words he'd speak for almost two hours. Roberts was afraid to say anything for fear Mark would back out. Instead, he concentrated on getting them out of Chicago and Gary and getting them to Indianapolis in one piece. The traffic was horrendous this Friday night, and he was glad to have that to concentrate on.

An hour north of Indianapolis, Mark spoke for the first time.

"No sit down dinner."

"What?"

"Just go to a drive through. We can switch over there."

"I can drive for awhile longer," Roberts said.

"We'll switch over there," Mark repeated, his head turned to watch the passing scenery.

"Okay," Roberts agreed, biting his tongue.

Mark surprised him a moment later when, in a soft, even voice, he said, "You really have no idea what you people have done to us. To me."

"I'm sorry. Really, Mark, I can't begin to tell-- "

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Dad." He wasn't angry. His tone was sad and worn out. "You used to mock me--probably still do--but you said I was naive. A boy scout. But you know what?"

Roberts could feel his son's eyes now on him, and he said, "What?"

"I never saw it that way. I saw it as giving people the benefit of the doubt. I believed people were good, Dad. That they basically wanted to do good and that they wouldn't screw you. I knew it was wrong. I always knew there were people out there who would screw me over without a second thought. But you know what?"

"I . . . you're-- "

"I didn't care," Mark continued as if talking to himself. "I never cared if someone screwed me over because . . . well, if they weren't family or a really close friend, how bad could they really screw me over? A couple of bucks? So what. Take it."

"And now it was family," Roberts concluded.

"And it was more than a couple of bucks, Dad. Way more. It was everything."

"I know."

"Last night," Mark said, turning back to the window and pausing, gathering himself. "Last time you saw us together back then--almost a year ago--you probably saw me and Sandy happy again and figured at least everything would be fine now."

"Yeah," Roberts admitted. "I was at least relieved about that."

"We were all a bit quick to jump to that conclusion. It wasn't fine. Maybe a month later, it all started. Sandy wanted a nicer place, but I didn't want to move. I was comfortable and I just wanted to relax for awhile. You know, just keep settling down. Then I got to thinkin' she was manipulating me again. Anything she did, it was to get me to go along with her, Dad. You know what's so bad about that? Do you?"

"You'd never thought about her manipulating you before."

Mark laughed. "Give me a break. Everyone manipulates everyone else, Sandy included. Me included, for that matter. But before, when I really thought ours was the fairy tale romance, I never gave a shit. If she wanted it and it wasn't a big deal or if I thought it would really make her happy, I just went ahead and did it. Made me feel better knowing I could make her happy. No, Dad, what's so bad about it was now I just saw it as evil. I saw it as my wife going back to manipulating me to get what she wanted. Instead of saying, 'Sure. No big deal. We really could use a nicer place,' I told her to fuck off. In those exact words. If she didn't like it, she could leave."

"Must've been . . . difficult."

"Yeah, difficult. Try impossible. She just nodded and dropped it. But when she'd do something--hell, if she made my fucking dinner--I thought she was trying to butter me up again. Tryin' to get me back to getting her a new place. A nicer place I knew we both wanted and could easily afford. But it didn't matter, because she was the only one that wanted it at the time, and I didn't want to back down."

"Pretty shitty thing to do."

"Now you're getting it," he said, his voice rising for the first time. "It was an incredibly shitty thing to do. I became something I'd never been before, a complete, total, class "A" bastard. Just like you and Mom always wanted."

"I never-- "

"Yes you did. And when I wasn't, you took it for weakness."

Roberts frantically tried to steer the conversation back to civility. "How did you get past it?"

"I hurt her, that's how. Just like she described last night happening to that maid? That's what I did. My anger was so all consuming that one night when she came to me to . . . ." His voice cracked, and he struggled to regain his composure.

Roberts said nothing, waiting for Mark to settle down.

When Mark spoke again, his voice was husky. "I figured if she's gonna use sex to manipulate me, I was damned sure gonna make her pay a stiff price. And I hurt her."

Roberts sensed Mark wanted to talk this out now, to share this with someone other than Sandy. To somehow expiate his guilt at what he'd become. In a whisper, Roberts said, "What happened after?"

"She was sobbing; wouldn't come near me. Locked herself in the bathroom and stayed there, just crying for hours. And I sat on the bed wondering what the hell I'd become, wondering if maybe this wasn't just a huge mistake."

"And then?"

"I apologized, but she wouldn't look at me. She was afraid of me, cringing if I reached out to touch her, walking way around me if I was in the room. She stayed in the same bed, but she'd freeze up if I rolled over in the middle of the night and touched her. Like she was afraid I'd hurt her again."

Roberts felt a tears rolling down his cheeks, and the road was becoming blurry. He rubbed his eyes and tried to stop crying. He didn't want to trigger Mark's rage or run off the road. Mark didn't seem to notice, though.

"A couple weeks, maybe a month later, I sat down with her. I told her I'd get counseling--we'd get counseling--and we'd try to get back to where we were. She refused, told me she wasn't sure she wanted to stay anymore. She said I wasn't the Mark she'd fallen in love with. I'd become someone else; someone who was just angry all the time and paranoid and upset. And she was so sad and frightened when she said it, like she was at the end of her rope and was just ready to give up. Not an ounce of manipulation there. Just pain."

"So what happened?"

"I made an offer on the house she wanted."

"And that settled it?"

He laughed and shook his head. "She refused to move there. Said I'd always think she tricked me into it."

"Would you have? Is that what you thought?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Then?"

"At least I made the effort. I killed the contract right away, lost the earnest money, but she saw I was really trying again. I think that's why she didn't leave. After awhile--after I fought really hard for a couple of months to just keep my anger in check--things started to settle down. We were touching again. You know. Kissing, holding hands. It just got easier."

"And then she got pregnant," Roberts said.

"No. And then I asked her if we were good enough to have a baby. She said no, we weren't."

Mark cleared his throat, turning to his father. "That was my last test, Dad. I don't think she knew it, but I tested her on having a baby."

"How so?"

"If she'd said yes, I knew she'd be figuring that would tie me to her forever. Give her the upper hand again."

"And when she said no, you knew she still wanted the marriage to really get back on track again," Roberts concluded.

"Exactly."

"Pretty shitty thing to do."

Mark sighed. "I know. If she gives in to what I knew had been her dream before, I hold it against her as somehow being a sign she's betrayin' me. How fucked up is that, huh?"

"Can I say something?"

"Yeah."

"I know what I said before, son. And I felt that way, too. But I want you to know that I was wrong. Way wrong. I really liked the old Mark a lot better."

"Yeah," he whispered, looking back out the window. "Me too."

* * * * *

Amanda was in her room, changing out of her uniform and into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. She heard the click from the lock across the hallway. She heard Barbara slip into the room, closing the door behind her. There were whispers, then some chuckling. A moment later, she heard the door close, but no click as the lock was again set.

"Amanda," Barbara said, rapping on her door before stepping in.

"Yes, ma'am," Amanda said, jerking the sweat pants the rest of the way up.

Her employer smiled at the glimpse of silk panties, then looked her in the eye and said, "I'll be going shortly. Charles is taking me to dinner at the club."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You enjoy your free time, and I'll be back in time for us to have our tea."

Amanda nodded, and Barbara slipped out the door, closing it behind her.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard the front door close as the matron of the house left for dinner with a man not her husband. Slowly, her feet not making a sound, she slipped out her door and put her ear to the door across the hallway.

Hearing nothing, she knocked on the door, standing back and ready to flee.

There was no response.

She knocked again and said, "Hello? Sir?"

Still, no response.

Slowly, her hand trembling, she turned the brass doorknob. Pushing the door open inch by inch, every muscle taut and ready to sprint back to the safety of her room, she got the door open enough to look inside.

It was dark, and her hands slid over the wall, looking for the light switch. Finding it, she flipped it on and stepped back out of the doorway, praying no one was inside.

Hearing no movement, she looked back inside the room again.

It was a boy's room; that much was obvious. The bed was neatly made, the dresser topped with trophies from various sporting events, and posters of basketball and football players covered the walls.

Stepping inside, she walked to the dresser, picking up a framed picture.

It was a young man, tall and well built. He was in a tuxedo, his hand holding that of a young, blonde woman dressed in a long, pale yellow dress. The boy's handsome was face topped by a mass of curly brown hair, his broad smile a touch lecherous and creating deep dimples in his cheeks. The giveaway was his eyes, though. He'd have been handsome--every girl's dream--if not for those eyes. They were sparkling and cruel, showing disdain and contempt.

With a shudder, Amanda put the picture back down, being careful to place it in its exact spot.

Turning to leave the room, she froze, her mouth agape. Terror swept through her torso to the ends of her limbs, and her eyes went wide and stayed there, staring.

Staring at the jacket draped over the chair in the corner of the room.

At the maroon jacket with white leather sleeves and white lettering.

"Stevie," was embroidered across the left chest.

It was a high school letterman's jacket.

It was the jacket from her dreams.

* * * * *

They stopped at a drive through just south of Indianapolis. Roberts got a burger, fries, and a Diet Coke. Mark made do with fries and bottled water. He also took over the driving, and they started making better time.

Dusk was turning the eastern sky black. Mark was glad for the lighter traffic. He set the cruise at seventy-two and just ate up the miles to home. To the place he swore time and again he'd never again go. To the place where he was, even now, wondering why he was now headed.

His father crumpled the half-eaten hamburger and pushed it back into the paper bag, placing it on the floor of the car. A couple of times, he started to say something, but he managed to choke back his statements.

"What," Mark finally demanded. "You wanna say it, now's the time to say it. You've got me captive for the next four hours, so you might as well say it."

He sighed, girding himself for the backlash. "Does Sandy ever talk about her parents?"

Mark said nothing for a moment, his eyes narrowing and focusing on the ribbon of interstate. "She misses her mom," he finally conceded. "She doesn't say anything, but I can tell. Not her dad so much. Hell, maybe not at all. But she misses her mom."

"Has she called?"

"Dunno. Don't think so, but I don't check up on her."

"You think she's afraid to, though? Afraid you'll find out and get mad?"

"Yeah. Probably."

"Have you told her it's okay?"

"Is it?" Mark said, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the steering wheel. "Is it okay to bring them all--you included--back into our lives?"

His father was silent for a moment. "Her daddy's paid a pretty big price already, you know."

Mark snorted. "How's that? Last I checked, he was still Governor."

"He had a real shot at the White House."

"Then why didn't he just go ahead and run?"

"Because of Sandy's threat. At first, he couldn't announce because you'd run off. He didn't know why--none of us knew why--and he couldn't take the chance the press would find you and he'd be sunk or worse. After we all found you, though, and Sandy confronted him?" He chuckled. "He was just plain screwed and tattooed. He knew for a fact the press would be camping on your doorsteps within days of announcing and he'd still be sunk."

"Like to say I feel for him, but I don't. Not after what he did and why he did it."

"He's retiring when this term's up," Roberts continued. "Term limits."

"Then he'll go back to the State House."

Roberts shook his head. "Can't go backwards or you're a goner. Was a time he'd have been a fine Federal judge--Sixth Circuit was the talk--but he'll never get the appointment with a Democrat in the White House. By the time he's gone, no one'll remember Pat."

"Good," Mark insisted.

"I just want you to think about something, Mark. Tell me to go to hell, that's fine, but think it over."

Mark hesitated, his eyes on the road. After a moment, he willed himself to exhale and relax. "What," he said. Not a question; just resignation.

"This new Mark? The one that's tearin' you up inside? He'd tell Pat and Debra to go to hell. But not the old Mark, son. Not the old Mark. He'd give 'em a second chance."

"So you sayin' I should give you and Mom a second chance, too?"

"I'd like to think so, at least for me. Your Mom? She's not sorry, so I'm not sure how you should play that one. I'm not even sure how the old Mark would've played that one. He'd probably still have told her to go to hell."

Mark chuckled, pondering it. The old Mark--or at least the dying remnants of what he used to be--had done just that. He'd told them all to go to hell, and he'd meant every last word of it. Now, after all of the strife and anguish of trying to rebuild his marriage, it seemed even more farfetched to ask this of him.

"If you don't do it for them," his dad said after a moment, "then do it for you and Sandy. Don't let us all--what we did to you--don't let it keep all that hatred festering inside of you. If only for you and Sandy, don't give any of us the satisfaction, okay?"

Mark shot a glance at his father. He was looking down in his lap, too hang dog to look his son in the eye. His father was now ashamed to ask his son to not become what he'd always wrongfully wanted him to become.

But he was right, Mark thought. They'd all wanted to create Frankenstein's monster. They'd wanted Mark to become what he'd never been. Then, once he'd become that, they'd seen the price of getting their wish. They had, in fact, created a monster.

Yet, Mark didn't like the monster he'd become, either.

Couldn't someone just wave a goddamned magic wand and make all of this good again? Why was it falling on him again?

"Out of all of us," his father mumbled, as if reading Mark's mind, "you're the only one strong enough--the only one good enough--to make this right again."

Mark said nothing in return.

He drove on in silence, thinking.

* * * * *

At five to eight, Barbara Roberts came to a sudden halt outside Amanda's room. Looking at Stevie's door, she saw that the lock was not set.

She thought back to a few hours before. Had she locked it when she'd left? She always did. Always. Granted, it wouldn't keep anyone out. They could unlock it just as easily as she could. Still, she'd always locked it. Ever since Stevie had been killed all those years before, she'd kept it locked off as her own private shrine to what could have been.

She rapped on Amanda's door, trying to maintain her composure and not just walking right in like she usually did.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Amanda poked her head out. "Is it eight already?"

She forced a smile in place and said, "Yes, dear."

The girl hesitated, fidgety, her eyes avoiding Barbara. "Yessum," she said.

Barbara stood back and Amanda stepped out, her eyes turning to look at Stevie's door before shooting back straight down the hallway.

While Amanda was in the kitchen brewing the tea, Barbara pondered how to play this.

"She knows, Mama," Stevie said, his displeasure evident. "She went in there. Saw the jacket."

"I realize that, dear," Barbara said.

"So what're you gonna do about it?"

Barbara smiled. "She'll be nervous. Afraid. Maybe even suspect what we're doing here, having our little tea times together and all."

"So how're you gonna get her to drink it?"

"I'll pour the bourbon in plain sight is how."

"And the stuff?"

She turned the palm of her hand over and showed him the tiny capsule pinched in there. "She'll never see it. I'll do it right in front of her, and she'll never see a thing."

"You think it'll-- " he started, then froze and turned at the sound of Amanda's footsteps drawing near. In a flash, he was gone.

"There you go, dear," Barbara said, walking toward her to take the tray away and toward the table with the brandy decanter.

Amanda sat down in her usual chair, her eyes locked on Barbara. Barbara only smiled, still facing the girl as she poured the brandy into both cups in full view of her. Amanda's relief was evident, and Barbara just gave a broader smile as she wiped the powdery residue still clinging to her palm against the side of her dress.

Barbara decided to go forward with business as usual. No tricks or blustering, no mention of Amanda's entry into the forbidden room. Just play it all out with a run down of the next day's cleaning tasks.

Once they'd both finished their first cup of tea, Barbara stood and said, "I hope you don't mind, dear, but dinner has worn me out. Charles can be so energetic when he has a mind to be. I won't be taking a second cup this evening."

Amanda stood, looking from her empty tea cup to Barbara's and back again.

"You're more than welcome to have another cup if you wish," Barbara continued. "You do seem to have taken a fancy to it."

Amanda's eyes showed gratitude. "No thank you, ma'am," she said, the trace of a smile on her lips.

"Good night then," Barbara said, walking past her and toward her bedroom.

"Good night, ma'am," the girl replied.

Amanda never saw the smile of triumph on Barbara's face as she ascended the stairway.

* * * * *