Author's Note: Ha! Betcha didn't think I would actually update so soon, did you? Well, I did! I actually updated without waiting three-hundred-sixty-five days in between. Hoorah! Oh, and by the way, the nice moment between the boys in this chapter isn't meant to be slashy, but if you want to interpret it as such, I suppose I can't stop you. Whatever floats your boat. All the action is coming to a head!
"You have a friend?"
Mark grimaced as he locked the front door behind him. During the bus ride from the hospital, as he half-watched Roger mumble angrily to himself, he had spent most of his energy on wishing that no one would be at his house. Of course, Cindy opened the door. And of course, she did it with the same courtesy of a female praying mantis just before it eats its mate.
"Yeah," Mark replied defensively.
Cindy rolled her eyes. "He looks like he's about twelve, Mark. What, couldn't you get any of the other freshman boys to hang out with you?"
Mark watched Roger, waiting for some sort of reaction, but the other boy was still lost in his own world. Cindy had a point; even as tall as he was, with all the weight he had lost and in his current state of duress, Roger did look a lot younger.
"He's a freshman."
"What's the matter with him?" Cindy was never discreet about anything.
Mark shrugged evasively. "He's sick, that's all."
"Well, don't let him bring it in here."
"Shut up, Cindy."
"Shut up, Marky," Cindy mimicked.
"Don't call me that," Mark growled.
"I can call you whatever I want."
"No, you may not, Cynthia."
Both Cohen children groaned as their mother's singsong voice penetrated their perfectly good fight. Mrs. Cohen emerged from the kitchen, vigorously wiping her hands on her hideous 'Kiss the Chef: It's Good For Your Belly' apron. She practically sashayed across the living room and into the entryway. She made no bones about staring long and hard at her houseguest, who still had yet to really acknowledge his surroundings.
"Mark, you have a friend!"
Mark wanted to smack his head against the wall. "Would everyone please stop saying that?"
"Oh, pish-tosh. Introduce me, honey."
"Um. Roger?"
Roger looked up from his hands. They had been his main focus for nearly an hour.
"Roger, this is my mom."
"So very nice to make your acquaintance, Roger," Mrs. Cohen replied. Her voice was too cheery, and Roger could only stare at her outstretched hand. The woman had hot pink nails. Roger was fairly certain that no one over forty was supposed to have hot pink nails. It was somewhat like wearing white pants after labor day. If his mind hadn't been a million miles away, Roger might have laughed. Instead, he forgot himself, and reflexively took off his baseball cap.
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cohen," Roger mumbled, shaking her perky pink paw. Mrs. Cohen, however, was no longer interested in his hand shake.
She saw his bruises. They were old news and had gone from purple to an unsettling yellow-blue. She could see the swollen cut above his eyebrow. She could see his red eyes, made so by too many sleepless nights and some secret bouts of tears. Roger still looked awful, and there was no way he could hide it now.
"My God, sweetie! You like something the devil digested!" Mrs. Cohen exclaimed. Her hand inched toward Roger's face. "What happened to you?"
"Oh, no," Roger started. He shoved his baseball cap on. "No. No. No. No!"
Mrs. Cohen looked at Mark. "Mark?"
Wrapping his finger's around Roger's shaking elbow, Mark decided on the diplomatic course of action. Lying. "He's just embarrassed. Got into a fight at school."
"Well, that was dumb. Whoever took him probably could have busted him in half. He's like a stick."
"Cynthia!" Mrs. Cohen reprimanded. "Roger is a guest in our house."
Cindy huffed. "I was just telling the truth."
"I don't care. That's no way to behave with company. Roger, dear, would you like an ice pack? Maybe some Tang?"
Roger stopped wringing his hands. "Tang?"
xxx
Dinner was uneventful. Mr. Cohen had seemed relieved that Mark was spending his time with a boy that was actually willing to get into fights, and he had only remarked on his son's seemingly nonexistent testosterone and mundane personality two or three times instead of the usual baker's dozen. Mrs. Cohen was glad for the extra mouth to feed, and had tried to make obnoxious small talk with the boy all evening. Cindy, of course, had stared at Roger's bruises; Mrs. Cohen had informed him that it was not polite to wear a baseball cap to the table. Mark spent most of the meal trying not to throw up. Roger was silent.
"Your mom is something else, man," Roger replied, slipping off his undershirt. When Mark had explained that Roger's parents were on their second honeymoon in the Caribbean, Mrs. Cohen had graciously agreed to put him up in Mark's room for the remainder of their trip.
"Yeah," Mark replied. "That's an understatement."
"She's cool, though. Really nice, y'know?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Sorry about your dad, though."
Mark shrugged. "Yeah, he doesn't seem to like me much."
"I know how that goes," Roger replied. Mark could see his attention fading into the distance.
"Roger," Mark pressed cautiously. "Roger, what did Muriel say to you today?"
Roger's head snapped toward his friend. "What do you mean?"
"You were really pissed when we left. I figured it was something she said."
Roger propped himself up on his crutches, preparing for the great toothbrush hunt. "I don't think you'd understand, Mark."
"C'mon."
"No."
Mark wasn't going to back down. "Roger."
"No!"
"Roger, look, you're here. I didn't even try to get you to go home. You're in my house, you're sleeping in my room, and I'm not gonna ask any more questions. You might as well answer this one."
Roger glared at Mark. "You know, I liked it a lot better when you didn't talk all the time."
"Dude."
"No, Mark!"
"Roger."
"No!"
"C'mon. It helped the last time you-"
"Fine!" Roger replied, exasperated. "Fine! She said that she was going to call social services."
"Is that it?"
"What do you mean, 'is that it?' That's a big deal, Mark. A really big deal."
Mark was puzzled. Roger started to pace the room as best he could on crutches.
"I don't get it."
Roger stomped the rubber feet of his crutches angrily on the carpet. "Damnit! She just can't do that. She can't, Mark."
"Actually, I think she can," Mark replied.
"No. She can't. If she calls social services, they'll take Annie away. They'll take us all away from Mom, and then they'll separate us."
"You don't know that, Roger."
Roger shook his head. "I do, Mark."
"You don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
"I do," Roger said. He maneuvered a pace closer to Mark, and even on crutches, he would have the upper hand in a fight.
"Fine, you do," Mark replied, backing away from his angry friend. "You do."
Roger nodded. "If I'm not with them, how am I gonna know if they're okay?"
"Maybe you won't," Mark tried. His voice was cautious. "But what if it's better for them?"
"How can it be better for them, Mark? Would you wanna be raised by strangers? People you don't belong to, so it really doesn't matter to them what you do or what happens to you?"
"Sometimes it's like that with the people that you do belong to," Mark replied bitterly. "Sometimes what you get isn't what you deserve, and God has a way of intervening."
Roger laughed. "Don't spout that 'God' stuff at me, Mark. I don't really think that He's a real good guy. Shouldn't He just give us what we deserve? I mean, what was my dad? What's Annie? Is that God, the Great and Powerful, intervening so that I can have what I want? 'Cause lemme tell you, all of my prayers were answered that first time Matthew hit me. Hallelujah, I've seen the light!"
Mark watched Roger with interest. He could see the anger building in his friend's body; the boy's arms were tense and curled around the tops of his crutches, and his fingers were wrapped so tight around the grips that his knuckles had turned white. His breathing was heavy, and Mark was worried that he might actually hyperventilate. Instead, Roger threw his crutches. He threw them across the room, narrowly missing Mark's head, and collapsed on the floor.
"It's not fair!"
It was then that Mark realized.
Roger was stuck. The night that his father died, Roger had defied progress. He stopped growing. Sure, he was the man of the house, but there was no one there to show him the ropes. He was going to have to be father and brother to Annie and Adam; he was going to have to take care of his mother. But Roger wasn't a man. Not really. Roger was still a twelve-year-old boy, trying not to cry while his mother tried to explain to him where his dad had gone. No matter how long Roger lived, he would always be a little boy searching for his father.
"Roger?" Mark whispered. The other boy had curled himself into a ball, and Mark could see that his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. "Roger?"
"My dad would- he never would've hurt me," Roger whispered.
"I know."
"When he died, I thought that everything would be okay. I would take care of everything."
"You do."
"I don't. I can't," Roger finally looked up. He was crying, He was in the midst of a bona fide jag. Mark wasn't sure what to do. "I'm scared of Matthew, Mark. I'm scared of him. Sometimes, in the hospital, I had nightmares about him. And I could feel everything. I'd wake up screaming, and Muriel would be there, just staring at me. Like I was crazy or something."
"You're not," Mark tried weakly.
Roger shook his head and choked down a sob. "I am. Mark, I can't remember what my dad looked like. I try to remember him, and all I can see is Matthew. And I hate him. I hate my dad because he let him in. I hate my mom for ignoring it. And I'm scared that I'm going to start hating Adam. And hating Annie. But it won't stop. I keep trying to make it go away, but it won't. It won't.
"It's like a monster, or something. I hate it. I hate it. And I hate me for not being a man. For not being strong enough to take it."
Mark stared hard at Roger. His words had dissolved into a sob that he hadn't made any effort to hide, and Mark knew that Roger had said what he had to say. Slowly, Mark scooted a little closer, and wrapped his arms around his friend. He remembered the hugs his mother had given him when he was a little boy, when his father had smacked him across the face and broken his glasses, or after the countless occasions where he'd assured Mark that somewhere out there was the son he had really wanted, and how her arms had made him feel important and real. And so he hugged Roger, and Roger cried into his Chewbacca tee-shirt, and for a moment, they both felt relevant. Someone cared about them. And it occurred to Mark that it was nice to have a friend.
xxx
"Mark?"
Mark groaned and rolled over. In lieu of having his exhausted roommate the bed, he had fallen asleep on top of a pile of Lego-s. It was not the most comfortable of accommodations, and his mother's cheery voice did nothing to improve the crick in his neck.
"Mark?" Mrs. Cohen persisted.
Mark grunted. "What?"
"A Karen Howard just called. She's coming here to meet with Roger."
"What?"
"Apparently, she's from social services."
"Oh, God."
"Mark, watch your tone," Mrs. Cohen snapped. Her tone seldom exceeded the realm of lollypops and rainbows, but for once, she meant what she said. "Where are Roger's parents?"
