The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Unremembered Blood - 9/21/04

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

That Saturday morning, it was drizzly and grey out. Not the most inviting day, but I didn't want to wait to talk to Gwendolyn. I wanted some answers right then. Some illumination.

So I called her up, asked if she could meet for lunch. I told her outright that it was important, no more waffling from this prince of Denmark. She sounded like she knew she had an interrogation coming. I guess she was resigned to it, though, because she agreed to meet me at noon in the Circle.

I met her by the fountain. It had high foot traffic, even in the rain, because you could cut right through the little park to keep going wherever you wanted to go—Connecticut Ave, New Hampshire Ave, Massachusetts Ave—hell, Dupont really is kind of like being back in New England, isn’t it? Was that a subconscious reason that I chose to live in this neighborhood in the first place? Or was it the abundance of Thai food?

Anyway, plenty of people passing through, but nobody lingering in the area but a couple of homeless guys. I spotted Gwen with a small umbrella perched on her shoulder. I hadn't bothered with one, myself. As I’ve said before, I don't mind a little rain.

She nodded at me and said, “Hey… are you sick?”

“No, but thanks for asking,” I said. Made an effort to smile. Of course I looked like crap. I was running on fumes after a night with little sleep. And my stomach still didn’t feel great.

Plus, I kept blinking and rubbing my eyes, because just to pile onto my problems, I was experiencing a slight blurriness in both of them. It was different than before, though, somehow. It didn't so much obscure the details in things as add weird discolorations to them. But this was just a minor distraction—it’d have to take a back seat to the business of today. 

Gwen's hair had gotten wet in spite of her umbrella. It looked dark greenish instead of the brown I knew it to be. That seriousness was back in her eyes, with an almost haunted intensity.

"Are you hungry?" I said.

"No," she said.

"Neither am I."

"But we can't just sit out here," Gwendolyn said. She nodded at Connecticut Ave, north side. "Walk?"

Yes, walk. We started down the too-red street. She tried to shield me with her umbrella. But I turned her down— I was fine. We didn't say much... I was trying to figure out how to grill her without putting her on the defensive. And she was probably just waiting for my barrage of questions to hit her. Maybe it wasn’t nice of me to draw the waiting out.

The rain started to patter down harder, and we ended up ducking into Childe Harold. It’s a sunken-level restaurant that's really more of a glorified bar, with a dark-paneled, melancholy feel to it that would have made Byron proud. There were only a couple of other patrons in there. 

We sat on stools at the bar. I still wasn't hungry, but I ordered a Harp for courage. Gwendolyn ordered a small sandwich and a Bass. It was about a quarter after twelve—I supposed they didn’t get a big crowd for lunch. Good. I figured I’d dive right in.

"Tell me what you were going to say," I said. "That night after Citron. You asked me if I remembered when we were nine."

Gwen sighed. Her hand trembled as she took a gulp from her beer. "What do you remember from that year, Mark?"

"Honestly, in my conscious mind, I can't remember anything unusual happening," I told her. "But I've had these... dreams lately, that I can't help but think are really memories. Or, like, twisted versions of them."