Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson. I'm just borrowing his characters with every respect intended.
Roger crouched by the clay squirrel. "Hey, Badger," he said, lifted the figure and drew the key from the ground below it. He replaced the squirrel and unlocked the door. "Come on," he told his friends, and stepped inside.
The house presented the perfect air of suburbia: modest but large enough for a family: Mom, Dad, a couple of kids. It did not stand out, but was different enough to be noticed. His parents purchased it shortly after their wedding day and moved in to start a family. As he stepped into the dusty house, Roger imagined them, young, as they were in the photographs, happy, hopeful.
"You grew up here?" Mark asked.
"Yes," Roger said. "Here, then in Nana's place, then here again. And now it's…" Empty. Mine. The will left everything to Roger: some money, the property and her possessions.
Collins turned on the lights in the living room. "Hey," he said, "there's you." It was Roger in a wooden picture frame, a six-year-old Roger with disheveled hair and a huge grin, in gi.
Roger knew he should blush, but lacked the urge. He shut the door and locked it. You always lock the door, Roger. Safety first. "Yeah, there are pictures…" It was a stupid comment, but he needed to break the silence. Collins was now observing a family snapshot, Roger with his parents at the beach. "You don't have to do that."
"I enjoy it."
"There's albums if you wanna look…" Roger motioned vaguely.
Mark decided to take action. "I'll see if there's any food," he said. "Okay, Roger? Where's the kitchen?"
Roger led Mark down the corridor, to the kitchen in which he had learned to cook. They found crackers and snacks in the cupboards, fruits, dairy and vegetables in the refrigerator and meat in the freezer. This was not the home of a woman ready to die.
"What do you want?" Mark asked.
"You choose. I don't care," Roger mumbled. "I'm sorry…" he said quickly, when Mark's face softened into its hurt impression of tears. "I don't… I just… Sorry, Mark."
"It's okay." What the fuck, Cohen? He's trying.
The kitchen was an awkward place for Roger. It was the sight of his first memory: the night he, at six years, wandered out of bed for a forgotten reason and saw his parents screwing on the table. They had been fighting earlier that night, and a dish was broken.
Roger blurted, "Let's have macaroni and cheese."
Mark looked up at him, surprised. He had expected to choose something and have Roger pretend to eat, pretend to appreciate, then offer to do the dishes so no one would see how little he had eaten. "Seriously?" he asked. "You'll eat it?"
"Yeah," Roger said, and without a thought brought his fingers up to touch the points of the compass over his heart.
TO BE CONTINUED!