After Six

It was almost six and the sun bore through the only window in the bedroom. Mark was stretched out across his bed, staring at his phone in the shadow of his headboard. At the knock on the door, he sat up into the sun’s spotlight.

“Come in,” Mark said, in a tone that he hoped would communicate the exact opposite.

But his dad entered the room anyway, clutching papers up against the buttons on his pastel orange office shirt and squinting against the light until he found a comfortable shadow.

“How’s studying going?” his dad asked.

“I took a break.”

Mark’s dad sat beside him, shifting the balance of the bed. “I see that. Well, I looked over the report card you brought home.”

“Okay?” Mark tapped his phone screen to check the time. 5:57.

“It seems you’re taking too many breaks. Your grades don’t look good at all.”

“It’s the divorce,” said Mark, looking back at his dad to watch him react.

Sighing, his dad deflated like a day-old balloon. With that little word, divorce, he always melted like he no doubt did before his bosses, real men who held jobs far more interesting than endless numbers.

“Quit using that excuse,” said Mark’s dad. “It’s been a year and a half.”

“It’s not an excuse.” Mark let himself fall back down on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. “Mom always used to help me with homework, until someone decided to piss her off.”

“I can help. If you’re struggling, all you have to do is ask. I’m an accountant, I can help with this stuff.”

The white ceiling had little irregular chunks all over, put there on purpose at a time when popcorn ceilings were as in style as pastel orange. Mark had a sudden urge to get up there with an axe or something and scrape it all off.

“But a 63 in math?” his dad was saying now. “That’s not acceptable!”

“If only you could hear the clichés you’re playing into right now,” said Mark.

Didn’t people say popcorn ceilings were a pain to take out? Mark felt like it might be fun.

“Your grades have tanked. It’s like you’re not even trying.”

Bingo. He wasn’t trying. How did it take his dad so long to catch on? Mark sat up, smiling though he knew he shouldn’t be. “You know math’s not my thing.”

            “You know that is not how this works,” said Mark’s dad, and for the first time Mark heard authority in his tone. “Let me help–”

The doorbell rang downstairs like the last bell at school, long awaited and freeing.

            Pushing past his dad, Mark resisted the urge to say something sarcastic, something that would make it clear the victory had been his.

“Mom’s here,” he said instead.

He hurried downstairs and pulled the door open before his dad had even reached the bottom of the stairwell.

“Baby,” said his mom, spreading out her arms despite the white plastic to-go bag in her right hand and the purse in her left. She smiled at him and he rushed into her hug before she had even finished down the purse. She let it fall and used her newly free hand to pat his head.

The plastic to-go bag crinkled against Mark’s back and the corner of a Styrofoam box pressed into his shoulder, but he held the embrace until he felt her withdraw.

Mark’s mother looked past him to his father. “Steve,” she said, by way of a greeting.

Mark’s dad inclined his head. “Good to see you, Tiffany.”

“Yeah right,” said Mark.

His dad shot him a look. His mom bent to pick up her purse and stood again.

Mark wanted to say something to her, get the conversation headed in the right direction, but his dad was still standing there acting like this visit was for him.

She didn’t have anything to say, either; she was trying to rummage through her purse with the hand still weighed down with takeout, no doubt trying to think of a way to tell Mark’s dad he wasn’t welcome.

The silence was unbearable.

“Let me help you out,” said Mark, taking the plastic bag from his mom and pushing past his dad into the kitchen. He hoped his dad would take the hint.

“Oh, wait,” said Mark’s dad, following him, “don’t put the Styrofoam in the microwave!”

“I know,” said Mark. “The noodles should still be hot anyway.” He stared at the food in front of him.

There were three Styrofoam boxes.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. His mom. “Remember when we used to all go down to that Chinese place over by Gowns of Gold?” she asked. “Would you believe I went all the way out there to get this stuff, on top of the drive it took to get here?”

“Wow, thank you.” Mark dumped the contents of a box onto a plate. He didn’t remember liking that place too much anyway, but it was touching to know she had remembered they used to go there.

His dad stepped beside him and started preparing the next two plates. “Thank you, Tiffany.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’d better believe I got myself a dress while I was there. It’s got glass pieces on it, it’s so unique.” She squeezed Mark’s shoulder and withdrew her hand.

“How was the drive over, mom?” Mark asked. If not for the fact that the divorce settlement had not been generous to her, he would see her more often. She was stuck in lower income housing two hours away. She often mentioned it.

            “Oh, the drive’s always decent.” She studied her manicured nails.

            Mark waited. She just had to ask him about school, anything to do with it. He was ready.

“So, Marky,” she said, “how are the cute girls at school?”

“Mom,” he said. He was smiling despite himself, and he knew he was turning red. This was not the question he wanted her to ask.

“Come on, I know there are girls just dying over you. Who is she?”

He was smiling at her compliment and pricked by how untrue it was. “There’s no one.”

“Oh, come on, surely you’re not that lame. You’ve got someone, I know it,” she said.

“Let’s go sit down, shall we?” said Mark’s dad.

Mark followed him to the dining room, relieved at the interruption and yet feeling guilty for his relief. If only girls really did like him as much as his mom always claimed they did. Maybe, if she could still be around to help, they would.

Under the bright light of the chandelier Mark’s dad never used, the three of them together around a table again felt like a dream. They had not eaten together like this in years.

But she had been here five minutes, at least, and still she had not asked about anything to do with Mark’s grades. When she sat down she set her purse on the floor by her chair and mentioned how she had gotten it at a specialty designer sale.

“I’m glad you found a good deal on it,” said Mark’s dad. He sounded like he did when he got stuck in small talk with strangers: stiff.

She pulled out lipstick and started applying it even though they were about to eat dinner. “You never did like my shopping trips, did you, Steve? At least you didn’t have to drive all the way here.” She put the cap on the lipstick and put it back in the designer purse.

            Was she trying to impress Mark’s dad, applying lipstick right now? Surely not, for more reasons than the obvious. Her hair wasn’t done, it was thrown up in a clip, and she was in a short dress that hugged her figure but that was what she always wore, not something special.

It didn’t matter. Mark could see she was tired, that was why she was being like this. She was always tired lately. “Two hours is a long way in Pittsburg traffic,” he said.

His dad, beside him, just shoveled a forkful of noodles into his mouth. Why was he even here? If he weren’t here, the atmosphere would not be so tense. It would just be Mark and his mom, and she could freely complain about the drive she had to make because Steve wasn’t paying her enough, and she could give Mark life advice and tell him if he lived with her she would make sure he was popular in school and got a good start in life.

But as it was, they were still talking about her drive over and they hadn’t moved one step closer to Steve, why won’t you just let Mark live with me. Last year all Mark had wanted was for her to say Steve, let Mark come to Hawaii with me, but because her friends hadn’t had a chance to meet him yet and somehow all his parents could talk about was legal stuff, the conversation never got there and he had to spend his summer without seeing his mom once.

But the conversation would get there this time. Mark was sure of it. He had an ace in the hole. He had never been that good at school anyway, and now it was a weapon he could pull out when he chose.

The silence had grown long again, only disturbed by the sound of Mark’s dad chewing. His mom was staring up at the chandelier.

“Fancy thing,” she said. “I forgot how fancy it was.”

“We never use it,” said Mark, before his dad could finish his bite. Steve had no understanding of fancy things, of style, of social codes, of fun. Not like anyone at school would ever care if Mark had a chandelier, but it counted for something.

            “It’s a shame,” she said. “The only tolerable thing about this house.”

            Somehow despite the best of his logic, Mark too felt snubbed by her insult. The old house was stuffy, and intolerable to him too, but it had always been theirs. She had once been here.

Mark’s mind went to the paper his dad had left in the bedroom.

“School’s been all right,” said Mark. Ask, he thought.

“Oh, has it?” she said.

A tightness grew in Mark’s chest, like the walls of the house were closing in. “It has.”

Chewing, more chewing. Why couldn’t Mark’s dad just stop? With his out-of-style silver glasses and button up shirt and his presence in this conversation he had no business participating in! If he weren’t here, she would have asked how Mark’s friends were. She would have asked how his driving was coming along. She would have asked, maybe, how his grades–

“Unfortunately,” his dad swallowed, “Mark’s grades haven’t been doing so well.”

            Perhaps Steve was good for something. Slow, despite his high-paying job, too slow to see that he had played right into Mark’s plan, but here he was helping. Mark looked to his mother. It was all falling into place.

            His grades? What has he gotten? Her red-painted lips would part in surprise.

            That’s horrendous! You’re doing a terrible job parenting! Her dangly earrings would rattle as she waved her hands.

            I need to take over! I need to take Mark back! She would practically drag Mark out of the house, and he would let her.

            “That’s too bad,” she said.

            The chandelier was too bright overhead, that must be why Mark’s dad never used it. It gave headaches. It made the world seem like a dream, but not the good kind, the kind you never quite understand until you wake up and you try to forget it.

            “Listen, I came over tonight because I have news to share with you both,” Mark’s mother said, her silver butterfly earrings rattling.

            Mark watched the earrings catch the glare of the chandelier.

            “What news?” asked his dad.

            “I’m moving to Tampa.”

            “What?” cried Mark. “Why? Is the rent too high where you are?”

            “No, dear, of course not,” she said, smiling, a red painted plastic smile. “No, in Tampa there are opportunities for a woman like me. There’s life and light all the time. It’s like I’m a moth and it's a flame, of course I’d be down there sooner or later. Beaches are marvelous right near there, dear, and if you ever come to visit you should go!”

            Narrowing his eyes, Mark’s dad set down his fork. “How far is that?”

            “About fifteen hours to drive,” she said, as if it were the shortest distance in the world, and her tacky earrings nodded in agreement.

            Mark’s dad looked his way, his eyes so full of concern Mark wanted to punch him, or punch himself.

            “How often will you come back?” asked Mark.

            She laughed, lifting her chin so her face shone in the glow of that blasted chandelier. “Oh, as often as the weather gets above 85 degrees.”

            The weather wouldn’t be getting above eighty-five degrees except during dead summer, and then only a few days a year. It was Pennsylvania, for goodness’ sake. It wasn’t a place known for its beaches and its life; it was known for its history. It was known for the past, for things people didn’t leave behind.

            “Tiff,” said Mark’s dad, using a nickname he only seemed to use when he was about to argue. It always used to feel cold to Mark, but now he could hear the love in it; love, however, that had nothing to do with Mark’s mother.

            Mark pushed out his chair and ran upstairs.

            He dove on his bed and threw a pillow over his head.

            Why didn’t anything go right? Why hadn’t he considered the possibility that maybe she wouldn’t care if he failed all his classes because maybe she didn’t care about him at all?

            Tampa. Who would have thought Tampa? Two hours wasn’t too long, it was only an excuse, and Tampa was nothing but an excuse. Running away was supposed to be something kids did, some big rebellious thing like failing all your classes. It wasn’t something normal people did, normal adults who had people who loved them and people they loved. It wasn’t something mothers did.

            There was a soft knock on the door and he knew it to be hers. She didn’t even need to knock. He hadn’t closed the door.

            Mark pulled the pillow off his face and sat up. She stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe, his dad nowhere to be seen.

            “Honey,” she said, sticking out her lower lip. “I never wanted to hurt you, baby.”

            He stared back at her, trying not to let any emotions show.

            She sat down on the bed next to him. She put her hand on his knee.

            “I’ll miss you. You know that, right?” she said.

            “Yeah.” He said it in a low tone but his voice wavered, even on just that one word.

            She put her arm around him and kissed him on the side of the head. “I’m just finding my way in life. I never thought it would be this hard.”

            Mark nodded, slowly, not looking at her.

            She hugged him, and he stared at the open door over her shoulder. She didn’t let go until he finally lifted his arms to hug her back.

            “I love you,” she said. “I’ll never stop loving you.”

She got up and left.

            Mark waited on the bed, not sure what he was waiting for. He heard her talking to his dad downstairs, their voices rising and falling. His dad was annoyed. They went back and forth–arguing, he knew well by now–and then the conversation fell back into its normal tones; stilted but cordial. The front door opened, and then it shut.

            She was gone.

Mark went and sat at the desk by the door, staring at his computer.

            His grades were terrible, that much was certain, but it wasn’t like he could do much about it now. Math was only one topic, even if being an accountant meant you could help your son with math, and Mark had never been good at school to begin with.

            Downstairs, footsteps told Mark his dad was tidying up, putting away dinner, locking up the house. Turning off the lights.

            Mark scrolled through his assignments, not reading a single one. Click, he came to a sudden stop on a test due tomorrow. He was definitely going to fail that, even if it was history, a subject that used to be his favorite. And just beneath the test there was math homework due Friday that he could never begin to understand in time. There wasn’t much he could do about it.

            Is that how it was for his mother? Did she think there was nothing else she could do about her life but run on forever like a moth toward brighter and brighter flame? Mark could easily imagine his father going around snuffing out candles just like he was turning off the lights downstairs. He could easily see, now, why his parents would never get back together.

His dad was always putting out fires.

            Mark stared at Friday’s math assignment, a long list of problems even Google wouldn’t help him grasp, and then he shut his computer. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Mark stood there for a moment, letting the silence surround him before he called out, his voice tentative in the dark.

“Hey dad?”