Harry pocketed the ATM card, written in wobbly script on the back was his mother's name. The hours previous had been spent writhing in agony, obsessing over thoughts of Marion, alone and sedate in her apartment, of Ty enduring the wrath of racist prison guards, toiling away his hours in sweat and withdrawal,
of his mother foggy eyed and shivering beneath the thin hospital sheets in Brighton Beach's finest psych ward, lost in her own little world. He'd been staying in her apartment lately;
the rent was being taken care of by another one of Sarah's friends, the ATM card had been slipped under the front door sometime this morning by Ethel who lived down the hall.
A note was attached: "For groceries and stuff, Sarah left it in my charge. A growing boy needs to eat. :)". Still, he felt guilty as hell, the blue face of the card winking at him beneath the overhead lights, forever mocking him. But he had gotten into the swift change of things, wiped a new slate clean, something like that. He'd left the apartment before to pick up some groceries: nothing too substanial- black coffee to feed the empty machine, eggs, white bread, some bologna, high fat mayonnaise. He just felt like keeping the fridge somewhat stocked, even though he wasn't going to eat any of it, though his stomach growled with well repressed hunger. He stalked back and forth, trapped in the endless cycle of his thoughts,
spinning and frothing like blood in a centrifuge. The carpeted floorboards creaked beneath his weight now and then, he flicked on the massive television, turned off the "Tappy Tibbons"
crap. God, he thought burying his face in his hands. What is it with Ma and her infomericials? He rubbed sleep from his eyes, and collapsed into the Laz-boy armchair, his body cool against the worn leather arms.
Should I stay or should I go? He mused. Harry palmed a methadone, used to wean addicts off the dope and swallowed it dry, his patience wearing thin at the prospect of being all alone. He rifled through the faded, bills in his pocket. Harry, although paranoid as hell and worried he'd get caught, had sold the staggering pile of amphet-
amines at the crook of morning light. One of his dealers, out his mind for speed, had payed him up in full. "Not a word about this, to anyone." Harry had said warningly, wagging his finger in distress and practically crashing from exhaustion against the edge of the doorway. The dealer had bore a solemn face, quieted a finger to his lips, slipped him some cash and left, without a word.
He knew he should visit his Ma soon, but of all things, that was not something he was entirely ready for. The thought of witnessing her all drugged out and hallucinating wigged him out a bit. His counselor had suggested taking things one step at a time, that 'each day was a new beginining', some crap like that. Some oddball, loony shit meant to keep him satisfied. Harry didn't understand what anyone would expect him to do in this state-of-mind. He couldn't connect with Marion, yet because thoughts of her blowing some black daddy, or hooking up with any guy besides him, working the pole to supply her habit. Ugh, the very possiblity alone disgusted him.
And he loved Marion. He could remember many a time, one moment in particular, chilling out at Ty's apartment, while he went on a run, and a high buzzing through him like the drone of a small plane, a blue sweep of cloudless sky, the rickety wooden pier and Marion in a classy, red dress greeted him. Just as he was about to be reunited with his so-called girlfriend, the vision faded out, and left him reeling, aching for more just as Ty returned and roused him from his stupor. Some things were definitely too good to be true.
Knock, knock a rap sounded at the door. Harry quickly folded the bills up straight, and shoved them down deep into the pocket of his worn, ratty jeans with his one good hand. He cautiously threaded the expanse of carpeted floor, weight shifting from side to side uncomfortably, wondering who it could be, and what did they want? His ma's friends seemed to gravitate toward him, if only to check in, and offer homebaked goods, they worried about him too much. When he wanted to eat, and felt his stomach could tolerate any sort of sodium packed or sugar infused treat, he would gladly restore his emaciated frame, until then nothin'. "Marion? How the hell did you. . . ?" His words trailed off in the midst of spotting toothpick thin, Marion with her slender jawline, and wide seafoam green eyes lit up with worry, welling with tears at the sight of him and his stump of an arm, drowning in a three sizes too big t-shirt.
"It wasn't hard to track you down. I asked around the hallways, various tenants where you would be. I remember when we were chasing down the length of this floor, escaping to the rooftop and you jimmied the security lock on the elevator and we-" Harry cut her off in the rush of her reedy, breathless voice rambling on and on. She was drowsy looking. Her hair looked greasy and limp, circles dark as coffee ringed below her puffy, swollen from grief eyes, and he shuddered at the appalling sight of her. Because, she was high, he could just easily tell from the half-assed way she presented herself. "Marion," he said quietly, his urge to be in her arms, to stroke the small of her back and love her, he restrained himself. It was far too soon, and what did she want? Money to stock more dope? The sober, rational wheel of his mind clicked and he was jolted back to reality. "You can't be here. I've been in recovery for a month now? I can't handle any crazy shit, Mare. I can't be burdened with it. I don't wanna worry about you,
that you're on somethin' now. You need to straighten up, okay? Get help, get sober."
"So the fact that I've been suffering for the past month, worried out of my mind for you, means nothing?" Marion's features twisted into something ugly. "That I've endured an endless stream of guys forcing me into prostitution, just to score some heroin? Just to get me through the night?"
"Marion, there's nothing I can do about that. You chose to get yourself involved in a guy who loves broads. Big Tim is a nasty,
son of a bitch. He'd do anything to take advantage of a beautiful girl like you, you know that. It's not my fault, that shit escalated like this. I can't be involved with you, I'm sorry." He'd made up his mind, this was it. The final good-bye, ending the extremely morbid chapter of his life, and beginning a new one, a start that wasn't centered around ex-girlfriend, prostitutes groveling on his door step, not even- his ma's he reminded himself. She wouldn't want this for him, hell he didn't even care for this himself. Sure, he was struggling to sleep, and eat, but he couldn't deal with a swarming round of anxiety, every time his ex crept in and expected something from him. It just wasn't relevant, it wouldn't help him anymore. Besides, he wanted to visit his ma, with every bit of clarity striking his mind, without this worry, this warped reality dragging him down.
His ma's, smiling face, wizened with age, putting up with his TV stealing and pawning it back from the old Russian, manning the old pawn shop, stationed at the pier, made his choice that more relevant. She wouldn't want this for him. He rationalized. She would never want to meet Marion,
or know that he'd sold a pound of pure, or that he'd decided to strike it in his vein, that he lost his arm, and lost some of himself in the process, she would not want to be aware of the fact that he'd lied over and over, repeatedly defying her in every moment, reassuring her that he'd come back and visit her,
make himself more available to her needs and that he, Harry Goldfarb, only twenty one years of age, had neglected to honor his promise in time. That with the weight of things unsaid, and obsessively tossing back pill after pill, Sarah crumpled because of him, like age old mortar, bricks laid to rest, she suffocated in the end. And now he was back, living in her apartment, while she wasted away in some friggen' institute, rattled beyond compare, it was all his fault and it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for him to deal with a delirious, wild untamed feral Marion, who no longer in control of herself and swarming under the hard, stony impact of heroin. But he couldn't help her, he had to help himself first. Scraping his dark, tousled hair off his increasingly throbbing forehead masked with sweat, he in desperate need of a hair cut and craving for the first time, an egg and cheese sandwhich from the best bistro in town,
brushed past a startled, shaking Marion Silver, clicking the door shut, palming the keys in his pocket, making sure the ATM card was safe in place, Harry turned down the hallway, ran down the flight of run down stairway and moved on with his life.