Lisa Unger - Fragile

An early-morning meeting at the school, with police and some of Charlene’s friends and their parents, had yielded nothing. Rumors abounded about a boyfriend in the city, someone she’d met at a concert, but no one knew a name or address. Calls to her cell phone went straight to voice mail. Other than the status bar update, no one had heard from her since early evening yesterday. Melody Murray looked cored out by worry, dark under the eyes; her voice was quaking. But the attitude of the police, Jones Cooper in particular, was that Charlene Murray was a runaway.

“She’ll come home when she runs out of money,” he’d said. “Or nerve.”

Maggie had shot her husband a look; then her eyes fell on Henry. After the meeting, Maggie told him about Marshall’s visit to her home, about her conversation with Marshall’s aunt.

“I feel like everyone’s backing away from him,” she said. “That’s what happens.”

Then, “Maybe you should stop by there, Henry. If you think you can keep your cool with Travis.”

Maggie was a person who cared too much. It was one of the reasons why he still loved her. Maybe he always would.

• • •

Henry lifted a hand and knocked on the door. It was flimsy, the glass in square panes rattling with each knock. The air had lost all the warmth and humidity it had held yesterday and taken a hard dive into winter. The lawns around him were a litter of fallen leaves, the trees already turning ashen fingers against the sky. No answer. He knocked again.

Just as he was turning to leave, he heard footsteps inside. A moment later Travis, thick-jawed and barrel-chested, opened the door. The two men regarded each other.

“What do you want, Ivy?”

Henry still remembered Travis lean and handsome. The man before him had deep lines at his eyes and around his mouth, a grayish cast to his skin. He was a bad facsimile of himself, had a chewed up, defeated aura.

“I’m looking for Marshall. Are you aware that he hasn’t been in school in a week?”

Travis offered an exaggerated shrug, took a sip from a big mug of coffee he held. “News to me.”

Henry felt a tingle of anger, a little flood of adrenaline. Travis leaned against the door frame.

“He told Dr. Cooper that he was helping you paint your office,” Henry said. He tried to subtly peer into the house behind Travis, but the big man filled the doorway.

“True. In the afternoons and at night, though. Not during the school day.”

Henry calculated that Travis had about fifty pounds on him. But he reeked of cigarettes. Henry ran five miles a day, lifted weights, even took a yoga class now and then. He was in good shape, just five pounds heavier than he’d been as a senior in college, and that was hard-gained muscle.

“Do you know where he is right now?” Henry glanced over at the car.

“You’re telling me he’s not in school, then I don’t know.”

Narrowed eyes, slack posture, a muscle clenching and unclenching in his jaw, Travis radiated a lazy meanness. It was an attitude he’d cultivated as an adolescent and then perfected as a town cop. Now that Travis had been stripped of his uniform, Henry thought the guy looked more dangerous than ever. It chilled Henry to think that Travis was no longer bound even by the code of the department.

“Look, Travis,” said Henry. “Marshall’s been doing really well. He’s been on medication, studying hard. I think he has a good shot at a school like Rutgers or Fordham. But he needs to keep it up, come to class. You want what’s best for him, don’t you?”

Travis dug his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, seeming to consider Henry’s words. And Henry thought for a moment that he’d been heard. But then a derisive sneer spread across Travis’s face.

“And you think you know what’s best for him?” he said. “A bunch of head shrinking, pills, and history lessons?”

Henry felt his fist clench, felt the urge to take a step back and prepare to fight. But he kept his cool, thinking of Maggie, and held his ground.

“I do think some psychological help-medication combined with talk therapy-and a good education are the right things for Marshall, yes,” he said. “And most people would agree with me.”

“Well,” said Travis. “I’m not most people. And Marshall is my son. So I’ll decide what’s best for him. And you, my sister, and that shrink can all fuck right off.”

Instead of anger, Henry felt a kind of resigned sadness close around him like a curtain. He remembered how unsatisfying it had been to beat on Travis, how much it had hurt. Turned out Mrs. Monroe was right after all. The smarter among us must use our intellects to resolve conflict . He’d find another way to help Marshall. Henry offered a deferential nod, the lift of a hand.

“When you see Marshall tonight, ask him to come to school, to finish out the year and get his degree. After that, it’s up to him.”

He didn’t look Travis in the face again, knew he couldn’t see that nasty grin without being moved to do something he didn’t want to do. So he turned and walked away.

At the bottom step, he heard Travis whisper, “Fucking faggot.” And he thought, but couldn’t be sure, that he heard Marshall, or someone, laugh in response. Henry Ivy kept walking.

Marshall thought he might throw up, but he pasted a wide smile across his face, so that when his father turned back from the doorway that’s what he saw. The effort of holding up the corners of his mouth felt like it would break his face in two.

“I told you he was a pussy,” said Travis.

Marshall tried to laugh, but it sounded strangled. He was so tired. He didn’t remember ever being this tired before. He pushed himself off the bottom stair and went to stand by the side of the window by the door. He watched Mr. Ivy hesitate by his car a moment and look back at the house. Then Mr. Ivy climbed inside and closed the door. It was another minute before the engine started, as if he was watching the house, waiting. He was giving Marshall a sign. It’s not too late; if you come out now, I can take you away . Marshall rested his hand on the knob just as Mr. Ivy pulled the silver Honda into the street and drove away. Marshall felt a part of himself go with him. He wanted to run into the street and wave his arms. Mr. Ivy, help me!

“What are you looking at? Is he still out there?”

Marshall watched the street, hoping that he’d see the car come back… maybe this time with the police. Maybe they knew who he was and what he’d done. Maybe they’d come back and take him away. In the fantasy of this, where they broke down the door and led him away in handcuffs, he only felt relief, a blessed, knee-weakening relief. Something like the feeling he’d had when he’d seen his father led away from the courtroom in handcuffs, knowing Travis would be in jail for six months, and that Marshall would be staying with Leila and Mark. He’d been scared; he’d been sad, too. But he’d also felt something inside him relax and expand. He wouldn’t always be steeling himself, preparing to ward off blows. He could put down his guard.

“No. He’s gone.”

He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you get some rest? You’ve had a hard night.” His father sounded almost nice , almost like he imagined other fathers sounded when they talked to their sons.

He turned to look at Travis. “But-,” he started.

His father lifted a hand. “We’ll deal with it later. Go on upstairs.”

He couldn’t bring himself to argue, didn’t want to ruin it by starting a fight. And he was so tired; he could barely keep his eyes open. He headed up the stairs. When he turned around, he saw that his father was shouldering on his plaid wool jacket, something it seemed like he’d been wearing forever. Marshall was about to ask where he was going, but the words wouldn’t come. Travis couldn’t be going far because he wasn’t allowed to drive. As he reached the landing and turned for his room, he barely registered the door opening and closing.