Author's Note: The title of this chapter was inspired by the Weakerthan's song 'Pamphleteer'.
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Mark's POV, December 17th, 1950
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I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat and wedge open the café door with my shoulder. I spin a bit to block the blast of December air that launches itself vindictively at my face. It crackles against my cheeks and temporarily makes breathing difficult. I nuzzle my mouth into the wool of my collar and try to sip up any remaining warmth that may have settled there.
The sky is low and desolate looking, continual clouds pregnant with the winter's first snowfall. All of Greenwich is gray, as if the low-hanging haze touched down to cloak the city. The clouds don't even billow, but rather suspend themselves sternly and obstruct the sun in an unnatural filter. Ice has wound its way along the streets, and the frost and the color of the sky blend in such a sedative manner I feel like closing my eyes and letting sleep take me. Instead, I am rudely forced awake, eyes wrenched open by the day's seething cold.
I squint through the unending grayness, retinas burning in the motionless chill. West 3rd stretches before me, tilting ever farther into the gray horizon. I feel woozy and displaced all at once and instantly regret tea-smoking all afternoon. The heavens are almost threatening, and the silence is deafening, vociferously crawling into my ears and making an empty static sound that makes me want to vomit. Even the muffle of falling snow would be louder than this soporific wrinkle in time. Where is everyone else? I am the only thing moving on the shivering streets, making myself vulnerable to wind and quiet and that doomed peculiarity of Greenwich in winter. I suddenly am small and lost, shying away beneath the barrages of the immaculate stone apartments.
The tips of my ears turn crimson with a dislocated fear and from the biting wind, and I suddenly have the impulse to run- to get out of the path of the leering buildings and crushing sky and get somewhere safe and warm.
For an interminable second I forget that this year I am not a vagrant. I have grown far too accustomed to being uprooted on my breaks from college. I'm used to walking until my feet are numb and my fingers blue with cold, until I find suitable accommodations- at least for a night. Usually Russell has somewhere outré to tuck into, and if there's something comforting about this wretched Village, there's always a niche of unlawful tenants hidden somewhere…but they are usually only a substitute in extreme emergencies. There's usually a friendly couple or willing versifier at The Gaslight accommodating enough to take me home…if I play my cards right…
This December world is unnerving. I feel like I'm trapped under glass and cannot bring myself to turn around and stay in The Gaslight until night falls. "But it was so cozy there…" I whine to myself. I wasn't even reading tonight…just sitting in the back and listening to a live broadcast of Lester Young. I could just go back and ask Russell to lead me to somebody's undernourished pad…
I wrinkle my nose. I'm sick of depending on him. It seems that I am unwelcome in New York today. I do not want to stand on this tranquil sidewalk a moment longer. I want- I need to go home.
And then all of the sudden a leisurely warmth trickles its way into the back of my mind, and works its way down my spine and settles into every vein and blood vessel.
Roger.
And abruptly the nauseating cold and desolation seem more dreamlike than terrifying.
I do have somewhere to go today! And even though it is not my home it is slowly becoming it.
I push past the leafless trees and black-windowed buildings, eager to cease my drifting. There's a newfound exhilaration to my walk- the frost is forgotten and my heart feels like it wants to burst from pure…romance!
I blush.
Suppressing my joy, I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and carefully redirect my wandering.
Roger…
Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back and grin. I'm not used to this. Someone to come home to? And at the same time I'm too used to this. Two years with him. We'd been together two years and he still manages to get my heart racing.
I'd been nomadic and hedonistic for far too long, and there was still that viscous thread remaining between my unrestrained lifestyle. I wasn't going to altogether discontinue my bohemian values, but I guess I was involuntarily making some changes for Roger. He was reserved and inexperienced, and I was too deeply in love to juggle both existences. Although it was easy to forget my priorities- and for years without a home or someone who cared about me as much as Roger- I had an excuse. I love Roger; and as I near his- our- apartment, I find it necessary to make a livid list of reasons. Because although I get the most out of life when I am with my friends, I find life has more meaning when I am with Roger.
The tip of the iceberg is the little things he does- tending to my bumps and bruises and broken bones received from demonstrations gone awry or the sometimes intolerant lowbrows pillaging through Greenwich looking to bash and to rant. It takes courage to enter the line of fire…that's something not even Russell would do…
Last year, Christmas time, Roger and I were walking together down Christopher Street, and I was feeling mischievous, among other things. I was bounding around, making a big deal out of the season, with Roger just shuffling behind me looking dreary. I felt it was my duty to be whimsical when Roger fell into one of his many unexpected mood swings, especially when he had nothing in particular to be moody about.
"Merry Christmas!" I yelled to an empty shop window.
"Christmas is tomorrow." Roger's monotone lack of enthusiasm.
I spin in the snow, sliding up to him and clamping both hands on his shoulders. "I know! You're not excited?"
"I didn't say that."
I graciously tip my hat at a passing couple, bidding them seasons greetings. The woman snuggles her rosy cheeks into her lovers shoulder and smiles at me before they trek on.
"Well aren't you just the Tiny Tim of Greenwich?"
"I am not crippled." I argue, pirouetting around a lamppost to demonstrate.
"Wow. I wouldn't have noticed. Besides, I never said I wasn't keen on Christmas."
"You don't appear to be very keen on anything today. What isn't there to be excited about? The snow is beautiful. You've got me. And I mean…you've got somewhere to live- somewhere safe and dry and out of the cold… That's all I'd ask for. It's perfect. It's Christmas!"
"Well, sorry if I'm not gallivanting around like you. Sometimes it's hard to see…the 'magic' in things. I'll leave that up to you, all right?"
"…No. It's not all right. No one's holding me back! I plan to gallivant until the sky caves in!" Whooping with joy, and simply to spite Roger, I leap in front of an oncoming stranger, take his hands, and spin him. He nearly drops his briefcase, scowling, frazzled, on the first rotation, but tries to contain a dizzied grin the next time around. "Merry Christmas!" I propose to him, too, and then release his hands, catapulting him down the sidewalk. He glances over his shoulder with a look of both displeased perplexity and genuine glee.
"You see? It's the atmosphere. Christmas makes people giddy. It's perfectly acceptable to make a little magic." I give him a sincere nod. "You're the only one in the city who's bothered." Forcing back a giggle, I grab his hand and sling him, skidding in the dustings that have escaped shovels in the storefront walks. He's not accustomed or prepared to run on slippery ground and his clumsy impetus knocks me into an entrance of a candle shop. Our legs tangle, we stagger a few feet suspended gracefully in the falling snow, and then 'bam', fall face first into the store. The little tin bell in the doorway jingles, announcing our ungainly arrival.
The man at the counter looks up, frowning impatiently. He pounds the pedestal of a tarnished brass candlestick on his countertop and clears his throat to get our attention. I'm too busy trying to squirm out from beneath Roger to really notice his peeved scowl, and to my surprise, Roger is laughing at him. This sets me off, and we remain intertwined the slushy welcome mat failing to catch our breath and trying to stand up. However, my hysterics do not render me unobservant. Besides, it is quite hard to miss the festive green sprig of mistletoe dangling inches from the little bell. I snap my mouth shut and stare at it, completely still. Roger is still chuckling, pinning me to the floor. He doesn't notice yet. I lay motionless, ogling at it pale-faced, like it's a ghost. When Roger finally realizes I'm no longer laughing, he coughs and looks down at me.
"What?"
I bite my cheek to keep from smiling and stare.
At this point the clerk has left his counter and is stomping over to us, very upset. Several shoppers peek their heads from around shelves, curious.
Roger searches my face for a second and then turns his head around to follow my gaze, bringing his eyes to the ceiling.
His smile fades and his face drops.
He notices.
"MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!" I squeal, grabbing his head, and banging our faces together.
The storeowner, who is now inches from where we lay, jumps about three feet in the air and all but knocks himself flat on his ass. He paws at his apron and wrings the neck of the candlestick, making breathless inhales of objection.
"Hey…hey…HEY!" This last 'hey' makes me a bit frightened he's going to clobber us with the candlestick. Roger clears his throat and pushes off my shoulders, kneeling.
"Mark!" He hisses, blushing redder than I've ever seen.
"Time to go!" I snigger, wiping my mouth. "Terribly sorry 'bout your doormat sir," I bow to the terrified clerk, "…but do have a Merry Christmas. And…God bless us, every one."
With that I leap up and snatch the little twig of mistletoe dangling it by two fingers and then tucking it behind my ear. I swipe at the air for Roger's hand, make contact, and then duck out the door. Roger doesn't have to think twice to follow.
We break into a run, now much more coordinated on the icy streets.
"What was that about Mark?! You can't…just…do that!"
"What?" Laughing and running is hard to do. "Wish people a Merry Chris-'THUNK!"
What I believe to be the big brass candlestick has hit me squarely in the nape of my neck.
Still smiling, and still gripping Roger's hand, I collapse onto the frozen sidewalk, accidentally pulling Roger down with me. My chin slides along the icy curb and I shed a few good layers of skin, glasses skittering under a car. Roger grabs the pole of a parking meter and manages to catch himself.
"Mark- what-"
THUNK! And again, the candlestick makes splintering contact with my right shoulder blade. I yelp and grab my shoulder, to my mistake, because for a third time the pedestal pounds into the fingers on my left hand. They throb and turn black in seconds.
"Shit!" I ball my fist and roll into the street seconds before the candlestick bashes into the sidewalk.
"Stay out of my store- damn queers!"
My vision is blurry, but I can see him swinging the thing down straight for my face. I quickly scissor my legs, trapping his ankles. He loses his balance and smashes his lip on a nearby car window. I take the opportunity to drive my foot directly into his groin. Moaning, he slumps to the curb and I whoop in triumph, scrambling over to hoist Roger to his feet.
"Ha! Take that you fucking goon!" I scoff, fumbling to kiss Roger in front of my helpless attacker. Roger pulls away again, not so much from embarrassment this time, but because another man has snuck behind me and is now wielding the candlestick.
Roger emits a warning cry, but not soon enough, and his blow has me out cold.
---
I wake up on Roger's couch, cold compress pressed firmly to the back of my throbbing head. I can't see, mainly because my glasses are still gone, but also because my head is so tender I can't bear to shift its position.
"God, it feels like I've got an egg growing out of the back of my head…"
Roger harshly says nothing.
"Is it critical doctor?" I grin as much as my bleeding mouth is able.
"Why don't you just shut your mouth for a while Mark?" This is a very sarcastic question.
"No, that's okay. So what happened after I blacked out?"
Again, the cutting silence.
"Did we win?"
The cold compress is unexpectedly yanked from behind my head and I slam into the couch arm.
"Ow! Did we win?"
"Mark! Mark how-" He grunts. "How can you be so- how do you do it? What is your problem? You just run around like…no one cares how you act! You can't just…the world doesn't revolve around you. You're not invincible. Do you have to make such a damn spectacle of yourself all the time? And worse, drag me into it? Just because your thick-headed friends think that opening their mouths and spewing all their subversive bullshit will change the fucking world, it won't. Haven't you ever had a humbling experience?! Are you that…stupid that you can't tell when enough is enough? God gave you a brain- use it!"
I feel guilty, sure. But I don't think it's me that's the problem. He needs to learn to open up and accept who he is…or wants to be.
I close my eyes. "So…we didn't win?"
Roger punches the couch and leaves the room.
--
This is what I love about him. He'll argue with me. I'd finally found someone who wouldn't just nod and agree. He had opinions, and most of the time I opposed them. And that was strange…having someone outside my customary circle of friends. I am, by nature, caustic, and Roger's offhand personality seems to balance that. I don't have him wrapped around my finger as thoroughly as I'm trying to wrap my head around him.
I am eternally thankful for his putting up with me. He chooses to take on everything I can dish out. My bullshit comes standard. From the moment we met I made sure he knew what I was about. And I test him for that reason. I stretch his patience past its breaking point and watch it tirelessly rebound, and that's not even something I do consciously. I have my personality flaws, and Roger is loyal. He sees something in me that I may never be able to see in myself…
But what most intrigues me is that he has things to hide- his past, his future, and really everything else. He's a trip, and I'm curious. Our relationship tends to be about discovery- and I mean that in more ways than one…
-
The April following that perturbed Christmas I was received amiably. Whoever coined the phrase 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' was tragically accurate, and for that I was grateful. Roger missed me, and whether or not I was expecting a warm welcome was beyond the point.
It's drizzling lightly the day I arrive. It always seems to be precipitating in some form or another when I'm in the city. In hindsight this could be taken as some unusual omen, or an accentuation of Roger's personality. Even in the gorgeous summer months the forecast habitually makes time for rain.
"You know, they say April is the crudest month."
Roger stares out the kitchen window at the clouded sky.
"Who's they?" He asks.
I look idly up from 'The New York Times' that I've buried my nose in. "…I wish I knew. Sounds like something you would say. I could disagree though. I think January's pretty malevolent. Especially in Providence. You can't get away…The Atlantic just cuts the air like a knife. There's always wind."
Roger shakes his head. "Winter is worse here."
He falls silent again.
"…How so?"
"The winter drags on forever. After December the months mix. It's endless cold and the sun just disappears. Between the buildings and the winter solstice, it's always dim."
Thunder rumbles gently from far away, making the table vibrate.
"…But the sun is constantly there in winter. It's just…in the distance. In spring it gets blocked out completely. Dominated by rain. April showers…"
"I miss you in winter." He interjects.
"Why?"
"…You're…just…like the sun..."
"But, not in April..."
"No. That's why it's not crude."
"…A storm's coming. It says in the paper."
He nods.
He eventually goes back to staring out the window, pressing his forehead to the glass. There's no sound in the apartment except for me turning pages every few seconds, and the approaching rumble.
"…Do you want to take a walk?" Roger asks, finally.
I set the paper down and stand up.
I don't think twice about the rain.
---
When I finally arrive at Roger's apartment, I bound up the stairs, fervent to flee this bleak winter reverie.
When I come in, Roger is sitting backwards on his kitchen chair, staring, unfocused at the doorway, looking complacent as always.
He doesn't even blink when I greet him.
…This aggravates me a little bit. How can he stand to be so immutable?
I squirm- I want a response- a smile, a nod… I stop mid-step and try to position myself in his line of vision. But his eyes stay glazed and he looks right through me. I know better than to whine, so I bite my lip and stand still until something shifts in his head and he pulls back.
"Mark." It is neither excited nor disappointed.
I wave and kneel in front of him, crossing my arms over the back of his chair and resting my chin.
"Hi."
He gives a strong little smile and his eyes finally seem back in the present, here, in the room. I tap his forehead.
"What's goin' on in there?"
His smile fades and he pulls back reluctantly, taking my raised hand in his and squeezing it. He sighs, and then lets go.
I frown resolutely, watching his hand fall to his lap.
I shuffle closer and cock my head- like a dog, reaching out to press his forehead to mine.
I whisper. "…What are you thinking about?"
He shrugs- his safeguard. A verbal answer isn't required. Flinching me away, he's obstinate, and a hardened look thickens in his eyes. Again, they're no longer focused.
"Roger." I'm not scolding him as much as calling him back.
"Not now Mark." His voice too, is affected and distant.
I squirm some more. Something is wrong.
I let up and sit back on my heels, chewing my lower lip and contemplating a way in. I want him to talk, damnit.
His rashness seems to decrease the second I withdraw. This is not good. Half the time whatever's on his face is ten times worse than what's in his mind. His territory has been violated. I'm an intruder in his house. I want to help him, and he wants to fight me.
Swinging his leg over the chair, he stands up, giving a collective sigh and then slipping away to his bedroom.
But first he lingers a second in the hallway. I know it's because he doesn't want to leave me here on the kitchen floor in his vague detachment. It's not me he's mad at, but heaven knows- I might take it the wrong way! I know he's not mad at me.
He's not even mad.
He's just got something weighty to mull over….
The bedroom door clicks shut.
…I'm too damn nosey for my own good.
-
A short while later I quietly knock on his door and enter slowly. I don't want to impose, but I do…
He's sitting cross-legged on the bed with his head in his hands. He peers out at me through splayed fingers, and the look in his eyes is so torn I have second thoughts about coming in.
I step back but say gently, "Something is wrong…"
"Mark. Not now. Please."
I shake my head and walk over to sit next to him. I lean over and gently kiss his neck but he writhes away.
"Don't." His voice is low in his throat.
I frown and think for a moment. Sighing exaggeratedly, I throw myself down onto my back. Then I roll over into his lap and gaze up at him, grinning like a maniac.
I manage to catch his eye.
My grin slowly fades, cheeks hollowing with worry.
Roger does not fall for my playful persuasion, but rather gives me a look that's so upsetting my heart aches.
I sit up.
"What?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "Mark, I can't-" His eyes dart away.
I raise my palm to the side of his face and direct them back.
"Roger, what's going on?"
He snorts and shakes his head.
"…There's no way I can tell you..."
"Tell me what?" I can't stop my voice from sounding inked and frantic. I don't even know the gravity of the situation, but I can't take the look on his face.
He begins to laugh quietly.
Slowly, he shakes his head. "I can't. There's- you're never going to understand. Fuck. Fuck!" He grabs his forehead. "Mark, you have to get out of my room for a minute. I need time. You're- this is going to take time."
"Time?"
"Yes. Please stop looking at me like that. I can't handle…you right now. Just forget I ever said anything. Just…maybe tomorrow. I can't tell y-…I can't." He shakes his head. I think he's convincing himself.
I stand up and pace for a second. What could possibly be going on? I am far too bothered to 'get out of the room.' I sit on the floor at the foot of the bed.
"…Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Can you go?"
"No. Is your family all right?"
He snorts.
"Are you moving?"
He glares at me. I raise my eyebrows, annoyed.
He closes his eyes and his head is back in his hands. He scoots to the edge of the mattress.
"…No."
I keep my eyebrows raised.
"You're not going to underst-" He stands up and smiles with his mouth closed, raising his own eyebrows mockingly and cocking his head. "Fine. You want me to explain?"
"Yes."
He clears his throat and stands as if he's about to recite a speech. "Mark, 30,000 UNC soldiers were killed last month in Manchuria. MacArthur-" He stops. "…Has…no men…anymore…and…North… Korea isn't… negotiating for prisoners. And…we're losing South Korea."
"…I know..."
"We're going to lose the war."
He sounds like he just witnessed a murder. I squint.
"Okay…"
"No. It's…not…okay."
I gasp. "Your brother isn't there, is he?"
"No." He pauses for an eternity. "…But… I will be."
I flinch.
"What?"
He inhales and for a third time his head is in his hands.
He's squeezing his temples now, angrily, violently, like he's trying to crush his own head. His eyes turn red, then they're moist, and then he's crying.
I scoot back on the floor and then leap up to prevent him from mashing in his eyes.
"What?"
"I want to go Mark!"
"Go where?" My mind is racing and I have to wrestle Roger's hands away from his face.
"Korea Mark! I'm…going. I enlisted! January 10th. I have to go…"
My mind freezes. "You-what…?"
He nods and falls to the bed.
"What?" I furrow my eyebrows and smirk, plopping onto the bed next to him.
"You don't get it! You'll never understand…I'm just…a traitor, okay? I don't want…this. You. I can't…You're not…I have to go…I'm going to fight."
I pull back, completely silent.
And then I laugh.
What else can I do but laugh?
"No really…what's wrong with you?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and restrains himself from attacking his temples. The veins in his forearms pop out as he digs his nails into his palms. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head.
"Go…away. It's true, all right Mark? Now get out. Go and think about it. Just- LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A SECOND. I can't talk to you anymore. Get out of my room."
I'm still chuckling. "…W-what?"
He snarls and leaps to his feet, eyes wild. He takes hold of my shoulders and pushes me at the doorway.
"JUST GET OUT! PLEASE!"
I stumble and the door slams in my face. The momentum sends me staggering into the kitchen and I let myself fall into the kitchen chair in perplexity.
There's wail from the bedroom, and then sound of Roger driving his foot into the wall.
As I try to calm my breathing, suddenly the cold gray world of outside seems a lot more familiar than this apartment.