The Color of Cold and Ice Page 10

  “I didn’t have a wedding, not a real one. Not one where you break the glass or are toasted after.”

  “Would you have had a traditional Jewish wedding? John is Protestant.”

  “I don’t know. Probably. Rice is thrown afterward, no matter what we would have had. And we always said we would take a proper honeymoon. We haven’t yet.”

  “Why are you talking about this?”

  “I don’t know. Just looking at the rice made me think about it.”

  “Sis, I’m no expert on weddings, but I don’t think organic brown rice is thrown.”

  “I know, silly, but still it made me think. Besides, brown is better for you.”

  “You see, you are a little obsessed.”

  “I should have been looser, freer, like you.”

  “Really? Do you want to be like me? I don’t have any work that I can really call a career. I don’t even have a college education. I can’t seem to keep a relationship going or can’t get serious in one. Look at you. You have a great family, a great house.”

  “I do, but things aren’t always as they seem.” A tear formed in her eye.

  “Ali, what’s wrong?” He put his arm around her.

  “You are the one who was jilted, booted out of your apartment, and you’re comforting me?” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Maybe you’re just being reflective. I mean, you’re dealing with your loser brother. Is it that time of the month?”

  “No, it’s not that time of the month,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Just asking. Everyday seemed to be Shelly’s time of the month.”

  She winced.

  “Okay, forget I said that.”

  “Mark, you’re not a loser. Out of the two of us, you are the strong one. You just don’t realize that.”

  “Ali, let’s go sit on the couch.”

  “But dinner?”

  “It can wait.”

  “But the kids.”

  “They’ll be fine. Trust me.” Mark led her over to the couch. “Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “So much is on my mind, has been on my mind. But I should be the one listening to you, consoling you. I’m the oldest, supposedly the wisest. You are the one who went through the breakup.”

  “And you’ve been there for me, through lots of things. How about the time Mom sent me off to Virginia? I remember you speaking up for me.”

  “Didn’t do any good. She sent you anyway, didn’t she? The whole thing was a bit extreme. After all, I did a bit of drugs in my time.”

  “You? Really?”

  “Just a joint or two. So, I could relate somewhat.”

  “Sis, you, a joint? I’m surprised. Wouldn’t you lose control?” he asked, almost instantly regretting that last statement.

  “I think that’s what I wanted. And, I’ve never been supporting when it came to your choice of women.”

  “I should have listened. But it’s your turn now. I’m listening.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Molly came running in. “Mommy, I’m finished. Do you want to see?”

  Allison gave Mark a defeated look. “Sure, let me go see.”

  Mark got up. “Hey kids, do you want to watch a movie?”

  “Yes,” Molly said as she looked over at her mom.

  “Mark, I don’t let them watch movies until after dinner.”

  “Looser, Sis, looser.”

  “Okay,” she caved.

  “Yeah!” Molly shouted. Little John continued to color.

  Mark looked over at Little John, “How about you, Buddy?” He noticed, even though the crayons were lined up precisely, that the paper he was drawing on still had the squiggly abstract lines of a four year old. What was the picture about? It all seemed so clear at that age. Each line was a specific rendering of universal equations, something that could only be seen with the eyes of youth.

  “What movie?” Little John asked.

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what you have.” He started looking through the movies in the wicker basket in the shelf beneath the TV. Allison had them arranged alphabetically. “What about Polar Express?”

  Little John looked at him as if he were stupid. “That’s a Christmas movie. Christmas already happened.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, let’s watch it. I’ll set it up for you. You guys can bring your crayons in here and color on the coffee table.”

  “Mark!” exclaimed Allison.

  “Allison, I’m giving you lessons in loosening up.”

  She looked over at the kids. “You understand this is a one time deal because Uncle Mark is here. Right?”

  “Yes.” Molly clapped her hands.

  Little John looked dumfounded as well as a bit nonchalant about the whole experience but went back over to the table in the kitchen and moved his crayons and coloring book into the living room. Within five minutes, they were mesmerized by the large screen.

  “Now, we’ll sit in the kitchen and talk.”

  “Well, you certainly know how to handle a situation. Who would have thought? Although I don’t think bribing children is a solution.”

  “Mom did it all the time. Don’t you remember?”

  “I never thought of it. Maybe that’s why I don’t.”

  “Maybe I should be a father.”

  “Is that something you’ve been thinking about?”

  “Well, sure, sometimes. I like children after all.”

  “I don’t know. Would you buy them a toy every time they pouted?”

  “Maybe not a toy.” His blue eyes sparkled. “I don’t think I could afford a toy at every turn, but I’d think of something.”

  “I’m sure you would, and actually, I think you would make a good father. We just have to find you the right woman.”

  “Well, not right at this moment. I am thinking of taking a break for a while. So, back to you. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Allison began slowly, pouring out her fears and insecurities in trickles, matching the tears on her cheeks. A steady stream of words spilled from her mouth. At first they came like an engine leaving the tracks and then gained speed. There were confessions, a list of fears, wrongdoings, and perceived feelings and suspicions concerning John, more intimacy than Mark ever expected or wanted from his sister. By the end, a floodgate of tears streamed from her eyes.

  Mark reached for a paper towel, the only thing handy, for her to dry her face and eyes. “Here, blow.”

  “You must think I’m a mess of a person.”

  “No, I think you are human like the rest of us. And, you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m greatly relieved.” A ding came from the kitchen, the rice steamer.

  “Oh, my god. The time,” Allison gasped.

  Mark looked down at his watch, making out the numbers through the foggy glass. “Shouldn’t John be home by now?”

  “Yes. He’s never this late.” Allison got up to look at her cell phone on the kitchen counter.

  “Mark, there are no messages. He’s over an hour late.”

  She hit the number. It went directly to voicemail.

  “There’s no answer.” She looked over at him.

  “Don’t panic. Maybe you should try his office. Maybe an emergency came up.”

  She hit that number. The out of office and in case of an emergency number recording came on.

  “Can you call that number?”

  “It rings into an urgent care center.”

  “Well, don’t panic. Maybe he went there.”

  “I don’t think so. They have a doctor on staff through the night. John shouldn’t need to go.”

  “Just try it. Ask. You never know.”

  Allison called back and rang through to the urgent care number. “Well, thank you,” she said as she ended the call and looked up at Mark, who was now standing next to her with his hand on her shou
lder. “I’m worried, Mark, really worried.”

  “I’ll get my jacket, retrace his steps to the subway, maybe I’ll see him. I’m sure he’s fine, Sis. Don’t worry.” He gave her a hug and went out the front door.

  “All aboard,” came the sound of Tom Hank’s voice before Allison shut the door behind him. But just before she did, she yelled out, “Mark, I will never tease you about flying monkeys again.” She wiped what dampness remained under one of her eyes and gave him a weak smile.

  He looked back and gave her a wink.

  Chapter 14

  Mark and John

  * * *

  MARK SQUEEZED THE collar of his leather jacket close to his chest. This time, at least, he had gloves, an old pair of John’s that Allison handed him as he walked out the door. He put his gloved hands in his jacket pockets. He felt his phone in the right-hand pocket. His left pocket was empty. Where was his key? He reached into both of the front pockets of his jeans. It wasn’t there. Nor was it in his back pockets, just his wallet. He could have lost it this morning in Central Park or in the coffee shop. It was possibly at the record store. If he lost it at the record store, he would probably find it. If not, he would have to retrieve his possessions when Shelly was there. Monkey Boy might be there, too. He sighed heavily into the night air, choking on the thought.

  He choked harder on the thought of John not coming home. He looked up at the night stars and thought of Van Gogh. He started humming the song by Don McLean. The street was dead, an eerie feeling for the city.

  Could John be having an affair? That was one of the first things he thought after Allison’s confession of a less than ideal marriage. They had talked for nearly an hour. The last time he ever remembered Allison crying was when she had been stood up by a date. It was brief because Allison didn’t like to lose control of a situation. She wiped away her tears like a trooper and called one of her girlfriends. Mark had been listening at the door. “I changed my mind. I thought I wanted to go out with him, but then decided I didn’t. He took it hard. He will probably lie about it to his friends at school tomorrow. Just wanted to give you the heads up. Just so you know what really happened. You know Andrea will tell everyone a whole different story. She likes him, you know. She’s always been jealous of me and that Kirk asked me out instead of her. She’s probably taking it hard that she was his second choice.” Had he been Allison’s older brother, rather than five years younger, he would have gone to school the next day and punched the guy.

  Mark liked John, in fact respected John. It was hard to imagine John messing around with another woman. If he was, he didn’t want to take sides. At the same time, he wanted to be there for Allison. He could see how Allison might drive any man into the arms of another woman.

  They could get counseling. Whatever it was, it could be fixed. They had the kids to consider. And they really did have a good thing. He had observed them plenty of times. They fit. He couldn’t really say that about anyone he had ever been with.

  There was also the possibility that John was hurt or sick. Could he have been attacked? Maybe the subway broke down. Perhaps everyone had to be transferred to another car. It had to be something simple. But why did his phone go straight to voice mail? He took his own cell phone out of his pocket and hit John’s number just to make sure. Sure enough, the voicemail came on. If he had been attacked, the mugger would more than likely have taken his phone. What if John had been stabbed or shot? Panic crept in. He tried to control it. He would have to check the hospitals if he couldn’t find him. No use in thinking the worst.

  Mark continued to walk down the slush-covered street, looking ahead for John, but also looking at all the lights in the windows. This had been a hell of a day. Hopefully, it wouldn’t get worse. So many secrets within those stone structures, he thought. What if all the stones came crashing down, all the facades destroyed? It might make life easier.

  He crossed the street and saw the sign for the school crossing. He jumped back, startled as he came to the other side. A man sat slumped over in the snow, his back to a stop sign. One didn’t normally see the homeless in this neighborhood. Maybe he was a mugger. His clothes looked too nice for either. Mark stood still, eyeing him. Then, the man looked up.

  “John?” he asked. A fear rippled through him. Was he sick?

  John moved slowly as if Mark’s sudden appearance didn’t register with him.

  “John, what are you doing?” He moved closer and stooped down to John’s level.

  John ogled him in a daze. He wiped his frosted glove against a runny nose. “Thinking. No, not thinking. I’m not thinking at all. I’m melting into the nothingness.”

  “What?” Mark asked, as he moved in closer to John’s face, inspecting it for signs of what, he didn’t know. John was the expert in this area, not him. It just looked red.

  “Reflecting on life. Haven’t you ever done that Mark? I know you have. You are the great reflector,” John said. Mark couldn’t tell if he was joking or being sarcastic.

  “Allison is worried. She tried to call.”

  “My phone died.”

  Mark reached in his pocket and pulled out his. “Allison, he’s okay. Just running late,” he said in a casual voice not to alarm her. “I ran into him down the street. He couldn’t call you. His phone battery died,” Mark told her, although he doubted John had any intention of calling. “We will be there in a bit.”

  “Mark, do you ever wish you would have done things differently?” John asked, ignoring any supposition that his wife might be frantic.

  What was happening? He had spent the wee hours of the morning in introspection of his own life against the backdrop of the cold, and now John. Allison was having her own melt down in a warm house. What about all those people in the houses he passed? What was happening to them? Was this the date the Mayan calendar had predicted and not December 21, 2012? Or was this phenomenon of change just happening in his own small world?

  “I think we should get out of the cold, John. You don’t look like you can take any more of it,” he said, reaching for John’s hand and pulling him up off the ground.

  “Mark, I’m a doctor,” he said through chattering teeth, swaying a bit like a toddler learning to walk. “I know when to call it quits.”

  Mark grabbed John’s shoulder lest he should fall back to the ground. “There’s a restaurant down the street. Let’s go in there, get some coffee, warm you up.” It was best if Allison didn’t see John in this condition, especially after her soulful outpouring earlier.

  “It’s not Chinese, is it? I don’t want Chinese,” John said, half-heartedly brushing the snow off his coat.

  “No, I think it’s Mediterranean. Maybe we can get some of their sweet tea, maybe a baklava.”

  “No, I want hot chocolate. Hot chocolate with marshmallows.” John struggled to get the words out.

  “Okay, we’ll try to find you some,” he lied. There was nowhere he knew to find hot chocolate in this mostly residential neighborhood. John obediently walked beside him down the vacant street.

  * * *

  A little bell rang as they opened the restaurant door. A few people looked up from their dinners, unnerved and annoyed by the rush of cold air as they came through the entrance.

  “There’s two of us,” Mark told the small balding man, who he guessed to be the owner. “Someplace warm please.”

  The restaurant looked to be a mom-and-pop business. The row of booths had high backs. Fortunately, there was a booth open at the end, near the kitchen, perfect for privacy as well as shelter against the air from the doorway. The small restaurant wasn’t that crowded; only half of the tables in the center were filled, and one party was making their way towards the coat rack. The conversations for the most part were in Greek. One woman sat alone at a booth absorbed in a book. He recognized the cover, a Wayne Dyer book, Living the Wisdom of the Tao. Mark had read most of his books. This one was about the year he had given away all of his possessions and studied the Tao. Mark had no home to leave, n
o possessions to leave behind, except for his guitar. Maybe it was time to leave it behind. Shelly would surely concur as might his parents.

  Mark helped John off with his coat, like he would with Little John, and placed it beside him on the bench seat instead of on the rack a few feet down from their table. He did the same with his own. He scanned John, red face, running nose, wet hair. He was a sight, far from the professional Manhattan doctor he was used to seeing. Allison had looked similar when he left — eyes all puffy and swollen from crying, mascara running. She was probably washing her face, reapplying makeup this very moment. Mark was acting the roll of a mother or therapist, a strange sensation, something he had no practice with, something he wasn’t qualified for, but something that was needed at the moment.

  “Are you getting warm?” he asked John.

  John blew into his hands. “I think so.” His body was shaking.

  The little bald man returned, handing them menus. “No, maybe just some very hot tea and baklava,” Mark said, handing back the menus.

  “I’ll have hot chocolate with mine,” John said in a more discernible voice than he had spoken with earlier.

  “We don’t have hot chocolate,” the man said, looking a bit aggravated that someone would come to a Mediterranean restaurant and ask for hot chocolate.

  Mark gave a heavy sigh and looked at John. “How does some hot soup sound, John?”

  John nodded.

  “We’ll take a couple of bowls of lentil soup or whatever you have, along with a big pot of hot tea and some baklava,” Mark added as the man turned to walk away.

  “We don’t have big pots of tea, only small pots,” the man said as he turned, this time trying not to show annoyance at their ignorance of how it was done there.

  “Well, whatever you have just keep it coming, okay?” Mark said like a father giving a child another option.

  He huffed and walked away with their menus.

  Mark reached back into his coat pocket for his phone and hit Allison’s number once again.

  “Hello,” she said, an unsureness and desperation resonating in her voice.

  “Allison, John and I stopped off for a bite to eat.”