Disclaimer: As we know, Jonathan Larson is the Supreme Creator of RENT and wearenotworth.

Roger stood at the sink, feeling extremely awkward. He dunked his hands into the soapy water, rinsed the plate in the next basin and handed it to Cindy. Why was he working with Cindy? Why could he not have kept his big mouth shut and agreed when Mrs. Cohen said that as a guest, Roger didn't need to help with the dishes. Roger had insisted, and now here he was with Cindy Cohen, alone.

"May I ask you something?"

No. "Sure."

"Don't you know the story of Passover?" Cindy asked. "I can't imagine a man from the city not knowing it."

Roger shrugged. "I'm not originally from the city," he said, "but of course I know the story. I've just never had anyone tell it like it was happening to me. It's like being a little kid and scared that the wolf will blow down your bedroom door." You never know, as a kid, that the wolf isn't the one to fear. It's not strength. It's cunning. It's the fox.

Cindy nodded. That made sense. "Listen, about earlier--"

"We don't need to talk about it," Roger muttered.

"I was wrong," Cindy said. Clearly she needed to talk about it, wanted to; Roger stiffened. He was not dissimilar. Whenever he wanted an issue closed, he needed discussion after discussion of it, an in-depth analysis of each action and an understanding of motivation. Roger had learned early that this approach bothered people and no one cared why something was done, so he learned to squash his concerns and make peace internally.

"In so many ways… You know, it's funny, I never cared much for my brother, growing up."

Roger was growing less and less fond of Mark's sister. He saw nothing amusing in that. Roger was upset when random strangers bumped into Mark and didn't apologize. That his own sister could so easily disregard him… Roger's chest didn't feel right.

"He was just kind of there. Looking back, he was miserable. He… had no friends, I didn't care, Dad was always pressuring him… And I only noticed him around report cards, when I was jealous. I had everything he didn't, and I still wanted the one thing he had."

Is she trying to justify herself? I'm not the right person.

"Nothing's changed. I still want what he has. The difference is that now, he has everything. Mark has his own place, he's happy, he has a boyfriend--"

"Maybe it's just who he is," Roger blurted. His head dipped nearer to the water. That was wrong. Angry as he was with Cindy, he was a guest.

"Probably," Cindy agreed quietly.

Roger raised his eyes. Was she playing him? Did she want to be comforted? The ploy would have worked, had he not been wary of it. Yet Cindy turned away as she wiped her eyes.

"I can't justify what I was doing," she said. "I know that. I just… I can explain," she managed. "I can make sense out of it."

Roger nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'm listening."

Cindy inhaled deeply. "I did it right. I married a doctor and had Jewish babies with him. And then I divorced my Jewish doctor when he admitted to his affair with a nurse called Montana. And I live here, in my parents' house, and I'm… I'm in school and working as a fucking secretary…" Throughout this entire tirade, Cindy held herself together. She did not cry, did not even pause in dish-drying. It was this more than anything that won Roger's respect. "Like I said, I can't justify what I did. It was a jealous, arrogant act and… I regret it, very much."

Without using those particular words, she was asking his forgiveness. Roger bit his lip. He hated being cross with anyone, but Cindy's flirting had been more wrong by Mark than by Roger. "I think," he said, "that you should speak to your brother."

---

Mark sighed. The water drained from the tap as the room filled with noise: splashing water, whistling in the pipes, Mark's heavy breathing. He looked at himself in the mirror and repressed a shudder. His face was splotchy, his eyes shimmering and swollen. "Happy Pesach," he told himself, somewhere between wry and furious.

He folded his glasses and set them carefully aside before filling his hands with water and bringing them quickly up to his face. The cold stung and he blinked his raw eyes rapidly, but he felt much calmer now. He took another deep breath and another as he toweled his face dry. "That's it," he promised himself. There would be no more tears now. He didn't think he could pull himself out of another fit.

Mark tossed down the towel and groped for his glasses. He could see without them; he could walk about without tripping or stumbling, find things in a room. Edges blurred, though. He would stub his toes and not be able to read from a distance. He wasn't blind, but he was impaired, and the transition from confusion to clarity always left him with a small headache, so he kept his eyes shut as he sought his glasses.

There!

Mark slid the plastic frames onto his face and opened his eyes. "Well, you look nice," he told his reflection sarcastically. Behind him, someone giggled. Mark whirled around.

Ethan and David stood in the doorway; under Mark's gaze David suddenly became interested in the tiles of the bathroom floor. Ethan stared at Mark. "What are you doing here?" he asked after a moment. "Why did you come?"

Though he had asked himself that question, Mark was stung. "Because this is my home," he said.

"No, it's not," Ethan retorted.

"Shut up," David hissed, and was ignored.

"You don't live here. We do. This is our home." He had his hands on his hips, brown eyes firmly set. Cindy's children looked nothing like Mark. Cindy looked nothing like Mark. In fact, Mark was the only blond Jew he knew in the entire Scarsdale congregation, excluding his father who had been blond but now was more silver-grey.

Mark had nothing to say. He just nodded. "Well, I'll be gone in another day or two," he said. "Now let me by." Ethan scampered. David followed Mark down the hallway to his room; when Mark sat on the bed, David paused at the doorway, leaning into the room but not daring to cross the threshold. Mark put his face in his hands. He had not noticed his nephew.

David, a born sleuth, knew how to disappear. He became a shadow as his mother passed him by, and remained so as she sat on the bed beside Mark. "How are you?" she asked, rubbing slow circles on his back.

Mark laughed. "How am I?" he echoed, then shook his head. "You don't have to do this. We weren't that close, I'm okay with that," he muttered, more hurt than he was cold.

"What if I'm not?" Cindy asked. "What if I'm sick half to death of only ever feeling envy for my little brother? I should've taken care of you, Mark."

Something in the statement aggravated Mark. Did she want to make amends? Was she going to do that now, after her diction at the table suggesting an innate deficiency? Now, after three years of silence, after so many times sitting by as Mark was chewed out and lectured to the brink of tears? And now, now when the climax of his sorrow was past, she wanted to make amends.

"Yeah, you should've," Mark said.

Cindy nodded. "I… wronged you," she said. "A lot." Mark agreed. "And tonight, I… I think tonight I did the worst thing I have ever done." She had his attention: for the first time, Mark looked at Cindy. His eyebrows were up, awaiting an explanation. Cindy took a deep breath. "You remember how I was always taking things? Like I took that fountain pen when you were fourteen, or your Snickers when you were six." She laughed. "Maybe you've forgotten the Snickers. I downed half the thing and jammed the rest into your hands, then--"

Mark interrupted, "Get to the point, Cindy." He immediately regretted it. He had never snapped at his sister before, and she seemed to shrink away.

"Right. Well, tonight I… I tried again," she said. "I tried to take something I had no right to. I hit on your boyfriend."

Mark's eyes widened. "On… on Roger?" he asked, unable to believe it. "You came on to Roger?" Cindy nodded. "Fuck!" Mark shook his head. "How could you… how could he--"

"He didn't do anything!" Cindy added quickly. Mark was on his feet now, casting about with his eyes and shaking his head, trying to understand. "I just said a few things and touched his arm. He shook me off and left the room. It was while we were hiding the afikhomen."

"Ok." Mark nodded. His head was pounding, his eyes throbbed. What had happened? How had this happened? Why? More than anything, he needed to talk to Roger. He needed to know that nothing had happened. He needed to hear that from Roger's lips that everything was all right. "I just… need you to leave the room," he said. "I want you to go. Please."

Cindy nodded. She rose and sobbed quietly on her way out the door, until she was nothing but mussed sheets where she had rested to speak with her brother.

Mark collapsed onto the bed. He stretched out with his head in his hands, wishing anything made sense. His family… hated him. His mother had looked at him only with tears in her eyes, he made Cindy cry--Cindy. Should he care? He didn't. She brought it on herself. She never understood boundaries. Idiot sister, she got her comeuppance and that was that.

"Uncle Mark."

At a tug on his sleeve, Mark opened his eyes. He glanced at the small child, the boy who only the previous day greeted him with an enthusiastic bite on the leg. "What is it, David?"

David grinned. "I like you," he said.

TO BE CONTINUED!