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Mark knew he looked a mess. He shirt was wrinkled and his trousers dotted with spots of dampness where his tears had fallen. Fuck. He couldn't stop crying. As he climbed the stairs, his shoes turned to iron. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Samuel set his hand flat against his son's back. "Just keep going," he said.

Instinct sent Mark to his parents' bedroom. His knees turned to jelly. All his life, every time he stepped over the threshold Mark felt he was leaving home. He was stepping into the dark forest, braving Mordor, only without bravery. Mark made no choice, acted not for righteousness but out of coercion. Even after several incidents of violence, several nights sitting on the table with Roger rubbing ice across newborn bruises and pressing compresses to any bleeding place, Mark did not fear New York City. He feared this place, this moment.

He feared the moment in which he failed his father. The moment would make itself known with a sharp slap. Mark had never seen Roger hit, but he imagined that Roger would take a slap, let his head snap to one side, then slowly recover and respond with a terrifying violence. His eyes would blaze and his voice would send an attacker to his knees; Roger would not harm that person, he would just scare them so badly they begged for his mercy.

Mark would crumple to the floor.

Frantic, he tried to stop crying, scrubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry," he insisted. "I'm sorry. I know I promised, I know… I didn't mean to…" Now was that moment. Now climaxed Mark's failure as a son, now ended his life as a son. As he fought not to cry, the knowledge brought fresh waves of misery crashing down on Mark, crushing him.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, at last giving up. He stood, defeated, his head bowed, his arms at his sides. This was it. He heard the door close silently, heard Samuel's footsteps until he was close enough for Mark to see his shoes.

"Shh." Samuel wrapped his arms around Mark and held him. When had he gotten so small, so thin? "S'ok, buddy." Mark sobbed into Samuel's chest.

For the first time since Mark's arrival, Samuel felt comfortable. For the first time, he knew what to do beyond any shadow of doubt. This was his son. Maybe he was a homosexual, maybe he was sleeping with a gentile, but there was one unchangeable fact, and that was that Mark was his son. That mattered.

"I can't help what I am, and what I am is not a business major. It's just not in my heart!" Mark insisted, begging his father to understand. He could not continue at Brown. He would die.

"Aren't you a little old for fairy tales?"

Mark hadn't said a word. His face registered pain and tears welled behind his eyes, but he would not let himself cry. He just picked up his bag and headed for the door.

"You walk out that door, don't bother comin' back!"

---

Lily pulled out the couch for Rachel and Joshua. The house had not felt so full in a long time. When Mark and Cindy were little they had shared a bedroom when their grandparents came to visit. When Cindy hit puberty, this ended quite abruptly. She insisted that she absolutely could not share a bedroom with her little brother; the reasons she gave mostly had to do with his being "really gross and disgusting."

Mark was not supposed to hear that discussion. He was not supposed to return from his after-school group half an hour early to stand in the doorway and listen to his sister describe in detail exactly what was wrong with him: "He's like a retard! He can't take care of himself, he can't even fasten his own overalls! And he talks in his sleep, and I'm sick of listening to you read him the same stupid book every night! I've already memorized it and I don't care what happens when you give a mouse a cookie!"

After Cindy's fit, the couch was pulled out and the grandparents slept in one of the kids' rooms. As she set up the couch now, Lily realized that it had always been Mark. Mark gave up his room; "I don't mind," he lied, and though she knew it was a lie, Lily had been so relieved for an easy moment that she just kissed his cheek and said, "Thank you, Mark. You're my good boy."

He was pushed aside so often. Cindy, puberty and high school was a dangerous combination. Suddenly she had a group of friends, five girls who gathered together in Cindy's room and stayed up laughing and eating all the snacks in the house. Mark again insisted that he didn't mind, he could work over the noise and he liked carrot sticks. He didn't need it rubbed in his face that he had no friends, but he never complained. He never complained when Samuel's doctor told him his blood pressure was dangerously high, and chocolate was banned from the house. Mark, ten years old and already thoroughly miserable, had watched as his sister smuggled chocolate bars in and stashed them in her closet, and as much as he loved Mr. Goodbar, Mark never broke the rule. That was Mark, always obedient, never raising a fuss. With Cindy for an older sister, it was no surprise.

The worst incident came three years ago, in 1989. After his "year off" in New York, "finding himself" in a grungy loft which he shared with a dangerous teenage runaway and an eccentric oft-caught-between-jobs philosopher, Mark went to college. Within three months, letters began to arrive.

The first was from the Dean of Discipline. Mark's student advisor had not known where else to turn. The dean recounted the concern for Mark's emotional and psychological health. He was adjusting poorly, fitting in poorly. No one complained, there were no fights, no trouble, but Mark did not seem completely happy.

"What's wrong with that kid? He only ever makes friends with these weird cast-offs. There's plenty'a fine people at Brown and if just stopped sulking and gave it half a chance he'd see that…" The lecture would have been fine if addressed solely to Lily, but Samuel had to drag Mark home for it.

The second letter was from the school's psychiatrist. The psychiatrist would like their permission to speak with their son. "These sessions are much more productive with parental support," he said, and Lily gave her consent. This would be fine. Samuel would hate it, so he must never know.

Mark made it to second semester. Shortly after the semester began the third letter arrived. "Mark has made very little progress," reported the psychiatrist, "and though I am not at liberty to discuss specifics I urge you to take action to ensure that Mark understands that you love and support him." After Mark's grades were released, Lily understood where the questions came from.

"Grades are all he's ever been good at. He's gonna throw that all away now? No, he'll just have to try a little…"

It wasn't that Samuel didn't love Mark. He did. He had great faith in Mark, and wanted him to fulfill his potential. The best way to ensure this, in Samuel's opinion, was to challenge the boy. Which, in Lily's opinion, was what landed Mark back home, telling his parents that at twenty, he was ready to leave college despite not having completed his freshman year. He wasn't happy.

For three years after that, Mark never returned Lily's letters and phone calls. He had shut her out of his life completely. Samuel had shut Mark out of her life.

"There, that should be fine now," Lily said, indicating the folded-out couch. Already Cindy was sharing a room with her children and Mark with Roger; there was so little space.

"Thank you. Good night, Lily."

"'Night, Dad." Lily's own father had died when she was small, and she had easily accepted Samuel's parents as her own when she married him.

She climbed the stairs to her room; she heard crying and nothing more. Lily's heart jumped wildly. What had he done? She stood to lose him again, once more to lose her son. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door.

"Oh, thank G-d."

Mark sat on the bed in tears. Something about tears had always humiliated Mark, from the time he was five and Andie Sanders made his mouth bleed. He sat with his shoulders slumped, arms resting on his thighs, hands curled together. His fragile body trembled with each sob, just as it always had. The only difference on that night was that as Mark cried helplessly, Samuel held him with an arm around his shoulders, opposite hand on Mark's head as though somehow he could shut out the things Rachel had said.

Lily closed the door and retreated, a touch jealous. Her son had come back. Mark had come back.

But she was the one who called and wrote. She was the one who asked after him, the one who approved the psychiatric visits, the one who told him that he could be a homosexual and still be a Cohen. Yet when Mark returned, he returned to Samuel.

TO BE CONTINUED!

For the record, I love If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Almost as much as I love reviews! (hint, hint) Also I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.