Hidden Scars by InitialLuv

Chapter Two

MICKEY

"I missed you, Markie," I say, and surprisingly, it doesn't feel like a lie.

It's more for her than him; the nickname, indulging the kid. Not only is it a good way to draw the attention off of me and my shortcomings, but sometimes she'll just change when I try to be a good father. Her face will soften, her whole body become less tense. And she seems pretty tense right now.

I set Mark on the floor, then make a pantomime of checking all the pockets in my jacket and slacks. He stands before me, bouncing on his feet with hardly contained enthusiasm and anticipation.

"I know I had something in one of these pockets. . . Maybe it fell out?"

Mark doesn't buy the tease. "No, look again, look again!" His smile is so wide his dimple creases. Yeah, I actually had missed the kid.

With a flourish rivaling that of the magicians I often perform after (or before, depending on the establishment), I finally produce Mark's souvenir: a small diecast airplane, about the same size as his favorite toy cars.

His face lights up in a kind of rapture as he cradles the plane in his hands. And then he's in my arms again, kissing me on my rough cheek. All this for a dime-store toy picked up as an afterthought. Before I can even recover from the second embrace, Mark is running to his mother to share his new possession. The distraction gives me some time to shrug out of my jacket and push up my shirtsleeves, in an attempt to try to make myself a little more comfortable and a little less disheveled.

Meanwhile, Donna is "oohing" and "aahing" over the airplane. After an appropriate amount of appreciation has been expressed, Mark begins to "fly" the plane around the room, making a passable jet sound with his mouth. He leaps onto the sofa next to his mother, jumps down, and then just as quickly scales the piano bench, much to my displeasure. Donna can at least pick out a recognizable song on the piano, but Mark's interest in it is mainly as a jungle gym. I've only been home for five minutes; I can't bring myself to chastise him. It's only a second-hand, after all. Yet I can't help cringing, and I hope it's not obvious to the kid.

But I am momentarily forgotten. Well, at least by him.

Donna rises from the sofa to approach me. For a moment, a hopeful moment, I think she's coming for an embrace. I actually start to lift my arms. But then she just stands before me with her arms crossed and an unreadable expression.

"You're late."

"I'm here, aren't I?" I try to not sound petulant, but I'm tired.

She shakes her head tersely. "I knew you'd be home eventually. But these long trips - it's hard on him. I'm running out of excuses. He idolizes you, you know." The tone in her voice makes it seem she is envious, maybe even a little concerned by the supposed idolization.

"C'mon, Donna, cut it out. He's used to me being gone for a few days at a time."

"That's the whole point. That's why you're so important to him – he has to take the little time he has with you, and make it really count. I'm always here. I have to be the heavy, and you're the fun-loving guy who brings him presents."

I really do not need this. I walk into my apartment, that I pay for, that she gets to live in, and I get raked over the coals. I'm here. I showed up. And less than twenty-four hours ago, that might not even have been a possibility. Mistakes had been made. Not all by me, but enough. I have been Mickey Thompson so long I had gotten complacent. It was only by the generous assistance of the "gentleman" who desired items only I could procure that I wasn't still in jail. I had been a hair's breadth from taking a fall.

And damned if she didn't know it.

I leave her comment hanging as I walk past her into the kitchen to grab a beer and scrounge for leftovers. Mark runs by with the plane, and I reach out to tousle his hair, but he ducks under my hand with practiced ease. He's weirdly protective of his shock of curls. I think it's partially because it hurts so much to untangle them when his mother decides they both need to get gussied up for church. As I'm not exactly Catholic, that's something the two of them always do alone.

Also, if I ever got too close to a confessional, I'd be afraid of what I might say.

I sit at the table with my beer and some cold fried chicken. Donna has followed me, and she sits by me now, pulling her chair close enough so our knees touch. When I set the beer down to take a bite of chicken, she picks the bottle up and takes a swig.

"How long are you staying? When's the next three-day 'show'?"

I flinch at the accent on the word. I can't help it. She can be so damn infuriating. I reach to take the bottle back from her, my fingers brushing hers. She doesn't readily release it, and when she does finally let go she does it with a sly smile. I feel a familiar warmth starting in my face and spreading through my body.

Oh, hell, I had missed her, too.

She leans against me then, resting her head on my shoulder. I lower my head into her hair and breathe deeply. Just a day ago. This woman, this boy, this home – just a day ago I might have lost it all.

And I still could.

"I'll stay close as long as I can. I have some nearby gigs set up. But some 'things' might come up . . . maybe next week, or the weekend." I had been twisting a tendril of her hair around my finger. She suddenly shifts away from my hand, wincing as I accidentally pull her hair. She rises to her feet, shaking her head slightly against the pain.

"Mark's birthday is next Friday." Her accusing voice makes it seem I had planned this.

"What about it? Are you planning a big party? Inviting your brother?"

Her eyes flash. The brief moment of attraction that we had held has disappeared.

"Is that supposed to be funny? Why do you have to be so mean?"

I look down at the Formica table. God, I'm tired. I can still smell the stink of the lock-up, feel the anxious fear in the pit of my stomach. I don't want to lash out at her. She doesn't deserve it. She puts up with my crap, with my increasing absences. She's kind, she's forgiving, and she's resourceful. She has practically raised this great kid on her own, with no help from her family and not enough help from me. Mark might look like me, but I think that's where the similarities need to end. It would be much better for him to adopt his mother's examples than to follow me down the road to hell.

"I'm sorry, Donna, I didn't mean it. You know I'll do my best to be here. We'll do something nice for the kid, a little get-together. Maybe invite some neighbors. . . Are you going to have the twins up from downstairs?"

She pulls a face. "I don't know about those girls. I mean, I know they're two years older than him, but I don't like how they treat him. Like he's a pet or something." She pauses, thinking. "And I think he likes it. Pretty blonde twins." She frowns, looks at me like it's my fault. "I know he gets that from you."

I try for my most dazzling smile. "No way, not me, baby. You're all I ever needed."

I turn my chair out from the table and hold out my arms. This time she doesn't hesitate, and when she comes to me I pull her into my lap. I can feel her mouth smiling as she bends slightly to kiss me, her arms draped around my shoulders. After a few moments she pulls away from the kiss, but not from my embrace. The smile is still on her lips. "Oh, Mickey, you really do not play fair," she breathes.

I don't play fair? That husky voice, her body so close to mine I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. I nuzzle her neck, and am rewarded with her shiver. My voice when I speak has a slight tremble.

"Hey, is it bedtime yet?"

She laughs, and begins to respond, but whatever she starts to say is impossible to hear over the anguished howls of pain that suddenly emanate from the living room.