Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 30: Only The Lonely

By the time my car braked at the Fisherman's Alley stop sign, the last rays of the setting sun were threading through the intersecting branches. Cutting deep black shadows where the light had failed to reach. Out from the side of the open roof, as I watched the rows of houses in Danae's Bay slip away one after another, the space of a vacant lot provided a little vista from which I could see the ocean. The geography of the bay and the roof peaks prevented me from seeing the sun itself, but the pink and blue sea guarded by the dark cloud honorably mirrored its expression.

My heart battered at the cage of my body as I turned down Bayview. No doubt in a desperate attempt to escape and save itself from the inevitable wounds to come. I could always just drive on; transform my intentions, and therefore myself, into just another car on the road passing by. But despite all the internal alarms, blaring on high alert, my mind was set in a stone heavy determination.

As my front tires straddled the curb three houses down, the long frilly leaves draped from the massive heights of the willow trees swayed lazily to and fro. Beyond the vegetated curtain, I saw a tiny playground I had never noticed before on Bayview. The playground held only a pinkish, sun-faded slide, and next to it, a two-seated swing set. The cloth of the caved-in seats had long since been worn down, and the steel had rusted where the beams conjoined and the chains were browned with age.

And in that second I saw it all: Mary as a toddler, chubby-cheeked and curly-haired, struggling with the mechanics of flight. The scrawny and hungry kid, only nine years of age, camping out after another night of her father's drunken rage. She was also there as a heartbroken fifteen-year-old, blanketing herself with the invisibility of a hoodie. Maybe the day was cold and wet with April's rain.

The willows and the scenes I imagined quickly fled out of sight. An uncertain purple glow from the sky descended upon the evening. In the lull afterward, I slid my key out of the ignition and listened to the distant waves of the Atlantic crashing along the shore. And as the birds sang to each other, Roy Orbison over the stereo sang "Only the Lonely" to me.

From down on the street, I looked up at her house. The dirty floor of the porch. The rain-beaten shingles. All of the splinters mottling the wood. Jim's burnt-out Chevy pickup in the driveway. The back of my neck cracked as I glanced up to the treetops one last time. I then popped open the glovebox, pulling out our map. Fear stilled my hand as I grabbed the door handle, but courage pushed it open. Cutting the running battery off, Roy Orbison sang no more. My Converse crunched against a scattering of loose gravel as I stepped out of my car.

Above those three rickety steps of the front porch, I heard the front door unlock. The pulse in my head gunned. The screen door pushed open and then slammed back as Mary ran onto the porch. Her white sweater, falling down long like a dress, swayed with the stride of her feet. Mary stopped and gazed down at me from the porch's edge. Three more steps were all that it would take.

"Danny."

Mary's long hair lapped against her shoulders as she stepped to the side and grabbed the railing.

Just walk down those three steps.

"I heard about Max—I am so sorry."

The wind sighed through the trees. "I... I can't even think about—that—right now." I fell back against my car. "Can we talk?"

Mary let go of the railing and then backed away to grab the screen door handle. "I can't. I'm sorry, Danny. I can't. I have to go."

"No, Mary, please! Don't run back inside. Please, Mary. Don't run back inside."

She hesitated, but slowly, reluctantly, returned to the porch's edge; one foot away from those three steps.

"What if my dad sees you?"

"I don't know," I answered. "Are you just going to put up with his bullshit for the rest of your life?"

Mary stared at me. Her lips trembled, resisting the urge to settle into a frown. I stole a glance at the concrete beneath my feet. And then as my gaze lifted over the weeds that shot out from the lawn, and went past the dark scars splintering the paint, and landed on her face, studying the expression I hoped was remorse, I noticed something was off. Horribly off. It only took me a second to realize what it was—and what it was killed me.

That slight obscuring of her eye had skewed the alignment of her entire face. Mary was still beautiful—nothing, no force in this world could ever alter that. But Mary was never going to be as beautiful as she had once been when the arrangement of her face inspired perfect harmony. How each of her features flawlessly spiraled in with the rest, leaving not a single disruption in the current of the admirer's eye. Her face at seventeen was gone forever.

In that lack of her response, I said, "You're better than that." Shattering the silence.

Mary started shaking her head. "Well. What am I supposed to do, Danny?"

"Come with me, like we talked about."

"Where? Like, actually go to California?"

"Yes! There. Somewhere. Anywhere. God." Tears blurred the corners of my eyes. "I just know there has to be some place better than here."

Mary wavered in her stance. It was only when the porch light flashed on that I realized the sun had set.

"How do you know?" she asked. Behind me, a pair of evening larks began to sing.

"Because... because we promised each other in the old abandoned—"

"Oh my God. Danny, don't do this."

"Okay. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me. That was stupid and childish. And I should grow up. I know, Mary."

She stopped moving. I swallowed through a lump in my throat.

"That's not even it, Danny."

"Then what, Mary?"

"Danny, I've had a lot of time to think about it. And, like, you—you grabbed me, that day. You got mean, angry. Aggressive, with me, Danny. Like you bruised my arm." With her palm facing her, Mary bent her arm up as to emphasize the veracity.

Mary continued saying, "I don't think I know you, well enough. As well as I thought."

"Mary! My God! I'm sorry! It was once, and it was a mistake. Let me prove to you that it will never happen again and—and that, that wasn't me!"

Mary fell silent. She then took a deep breath, looked up to the sky, and then sighed as she said, "But, Danny, it was you. Maybe it's not who you are every day, but that was you who grabbed me."

"Mary, please. I'm so sorry. It will never happen again."

"I don't...trust...that. I've been—too many times, in my life. I don't trust you." Mary started stepping back toward the door. "I don't know you."

"Mary, please! I hate myself so much!"

"Don't," she said, stopping. "Danny, you're the last person who should hate themselves. You're an amazing person. Maybe the most amazing person I have ever met. The way you see the world. Your dreams. It's all beautiful. Don't ever stop. But that's not for me, I can't see things the way you do. I didn't grow up like that." She gestured helplessly toward her house. "I want to. I thought I did. But...I can't. I can't trust you, anymore. Please go now."

"But—but, Mary!" I whipped our map out of my pocket and fumbled to unfold it. "I have our map! What about all the places we talked about seeing? Colorado! You can finally see Denver! The mountains! The desert, California—"

"Danny. I just told you—those aren't my dreams. I thought they were. But they're not."

"Mary, come on. You can't be serious—"

"I am, Danny. Please, please, forget about me. Just go," she said, retreating further, pulling open the screen door.

"But Mary! No, wait! I love you—"

But by then, the screen door had already slammed back behind her after she went inside.