🌕⭐️I love you. Thank you for inspiring me so. I would never have found my voice, whatever it might be, if I had never seen you. I know it’s true. I remember what life was like before. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. To me. You are so wonderfully precious. … There’s a big ol’ full moon in the sky tonight! Giving such light. And all I can think is … thank you for shining your light on me. Your look has saved my life. In so many ways. I will always adore you. ❤️ May I still send flowers to some nondescript PO box where you might find them? It would have to be a pretty big box if so. 😅

❤️ Thank you for all the amazing comments on my posts. I’m sorry it’s been such an exhausting time, but I’ll respond to all! Thank you! Here’s Chapter 4 of my novel, “Evercreek Falls,” for those following along! Chapters 1 – 3 are available in posts here if you scroll down to 1/4/20 for Ch. 1 and 1/25/20 for 2 & 3!! Or go to todddemartinis.com to find them there! The full novel will be out this summer! I hope it’s enjoyable for those reading! Thank you so much for your kindness and support! You’re amazing! I hope it’s a beautiful weekend for you! (Please forgive if formatting errors, etc., in this text version!)  “THERE SHE IS!!” a book of my posts celebrating the most amazing woman in the world!! – is now available on Kindle and in paperback versions. Search “todd demartinis” to find it on Amazon. Free for those with Kindle services, and long free 30-page sample either way! Thank you so much for all. 

EVERCREEK FALLS by Todd De Martinis  

Chapter Four

Mark was cruising an abandoned stretch of Route 97 in that dead time of night – a couple hours after the last drunk left the last call at the last bar, and before the first hardened trucker made his coffee stop at Jim’s Diner, kept company only by a half-sleeping waitress and the whistle of a waking bird or two. Mark was looking for something important. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he knew he’d know it when he found it. Mark had hunches about things.

Sure enough, when he arrived at Crocetti’s, the building had been turned upside down, as if by a giant’s hand. The base of the building, which was now the roof, ran upward into the sky like a massive ramp, resting on the little second floor apartment, which was now cracking under the weight of the structure. He turned his cruiser’s flood light against the scene and, just as he came to expect it, there was Beth, sitting in the scarecrow’s wheelbarrow and holding Mark’s dead son – both of them crying, both of them bloodied and ashen.

“Daddy!  …  Daddy! …  Daddy, where were you? …”

“Anthony?  Anthony?  I’m so sorry,” Mark said, crying and straining to get out of the cruiser, his back in shreds.  “I’m so sorry, baby.”

He hobbled despite himself toward the scene where the scarecrow in the Fedora hat was holding a sign that read:

CROCETTI’S, BLOOD ON THE FLOOR, ALL-DAY, EVERY-DAY, HOLI-DAY, GOA-WAY.

Beth turned her head to Mark, revealing black sockets where her eyes had once been.  And with her pasty skin glowing in the dark, she rose out of the rusted instrument in a torn gown, and carted his son away in the wheelbarrow as the boy shrieked in the night.

“No!  Oh, God, no,” Mark begged, hobbling forward.  

Beth was wheeling the boy toward a tunnel newly created by the abstract shape of the flip-flopped building, and Mark staggered with all he had inside him, the moonlit river providing a scant backdrop of illumination from which to follow their shapes.  But once inside, he lost them.  And a sound like that of running water from burst pipes flowed around him, until he was drenched in pungent splashes of dark wine, pouring from the barroom that was now above his head.

“Oh-no-oh-God-oh-help-me-please …” he cried beneath the torrent.  “Where’s my boy?  Where’s my boy?”

A man in a polyester suit stood calmly by, untouched by the pouring of the wine, except where it splattered in loud smacks against the script he extended with his hand.

“Walter, … where’s my boy, Walter?  Where’s my boy?”

“I’d like to finish the scene, please,” Walter said politely in answer to Mark’s cry, in a tranquil voice touched with childlike innocence and sadness.  “I think we should finish the scene.”

Mark sobbed as he obliviously reached behind himself, and pulled long silver knives from his back one by one, dropping each to the floor.

He awoke to hear his own screaming and to find himself lying horizontally across his bed, his legs on the floor and tightly wrapped by the bed sheets that had ended up there. He desperately wanted to stand and turn on the lights.  But as was typical, his back grew so stiff in the night, he was often paralyzed for minutes upon awakening, until he had completed the tortured process of small stretches and bends which ultimately would result in his sitting upright.  

Instead he was forced to lie still and inhale the faint smell of sweat and piss around him, and afraid in his waking state that Walter might be standing behind him in the dark. His face was wet with tears, and pressed hard against the bare corrugated mattress.  And he continued to cry out to God in his pain.

When the small back and forth stretching finally evolved into his ability to lean up on one elbow, he deliberately rolled himself off the foot of the bed, shaking the room in a thud of agony.  He sat with his back against the wall, and shimmied himself up with his colossal thighs, finding the light.

He proceeded down the stairs of his Cape into the kitchen where he searched every cabinet for anything alcoholic, knowing he had scoured the house and thrown out everything booze and booze-related (including the corkscrews) one hundred and nineteen days earlier – or, one hundred and twenty days ago, now that it was almost morning.  But, he vainly hoped he might have missed something.  He hadn’t.

So he sat at the kitchen table and cried, his massive wail coming from a well that had no bottom.

Mark arrived at the station earlier than usual that morning, hoping to occupy his mind with anything that would take him away from the dream and his pain. The guys had bought him a huge wooden rocking chair for his birthday a few months back. They had heard the Chief often speak of how President Kennedy had used one in the Oval Office to bring peace to his own ravaged spine. Now he had his own, and it sat majestically – if not a bit odd-looking – behind his big metal desk with the nameplate that simply read CHIEF.

Mark rested his morning Boston Globe – with a story warning of impending Y2K computer disasters when 1999 would roll over to 2000, only months away. He placed his coffee before him in much the same way he began every day. And he sat, closing his eyes and gently rocking back and forth in the one chair in town that proudly met the challenge of accommodating his size.

Mark had Anthony for that whole weekend, he remembered – not wanting to remember, but having to.  

It was part of the custody arrangement; one weekend per month.  He had lucked out on that particular weekend, because it was a long one. Memorial Day Weekend, 1992. Over seven years had now gone by. Anthony was excited to see Little Shop of Horrors at Crocetti’s. It was all he’d talked about that whole month it seemed. And Mark was looking forward it, too. He most especially loved the idea of sharing his own love of the arts with his son wherever such opportunities presented themselves. As it stood, the child – at the age of four – already had a love of sports, and Mark thought there could be nothing better than a well-rounded kid. Especially if it were his own kid.

Anthony also loved cars. Most especially, he loved police cars, like the ones Daddy drove. And Mark would often let the boy sit on his lap and steer the car as they drove around safe abandoned parking lots.

On that Memorial Day Sunday of 1992, they had blown a flat about a half-mile from the theater and instead of pulling over to repair it, Mark drove on the rim the few extra hundred feet to at least get Anthony into the show, which was only a few minutes from starting.

Lenny met them at the ramp. He was serving on the wait staff that weekend, which was common for many of the actors who wished to make some fast cash.

“Oh, no!  She’s melting!  She’s meelt-ing!” Lenny cried, doing his best Wizard of Oz takeoff, and sending Anthony who had rushed to examine the wheel frame into fits of wild laughter.

“Lenny, can you help me get the boy seated while I fix this mess?” Mark remembered asking, but Lenny insisted both he and Anthony watch the show while Lenny changed the flat for them.

“No, no, Lenny.  It’s really not necessary,” Mark had said, but by the time he had finished, Lenny had already pulled his trusty tools from his own van.

It was just like Lenny to do that. Always wanting to be of help.

“I guess you never take no for an answer do you? Well, I owe you one, Lenny,” he had said, if not something to that effect, and pried his son away from the flattened tire that fascinated him.  

“C’mon, Anthony.  Let’s go, son.”

“Noooo,” he cried.

“Now don’t you want to see the big monster plant that gobbles people up?” Mark asked. That seemed to be enough to do the trick, and the boy pattered up the ramp by his father’s side into the theater.

That’s where the story should have ended.

The Chief and his son had taken their seats, and Anthony was quickly preoccupied by the chicken sticks Michael had brought to the table. The house lights were starting to dim when Lenny was back, whispering in the Chief’s ear that the doughnut spare one of the guys at the precinct had thrown in the trunk was the wrong size.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lenny added.  “It can wait till after the show.”  

But, for whatever reason, Mark wanted to take care of the problem then and there. In retrospect, he figured that maybe he thought it would be in poor form for the Chief of Police’s car to be sitting deflated in a public lot for two hours. Even if he was, in fact, off-duty.

Mark told Anthony to sit tight, and Lenny followed him back out to the lot to inspect the situation.

“I’m done with my tables, and I got the tire number off the side,” Lenny had said. “I’ll take her off the jack and run down to Tom’s Auto and get you a spare. By the end of the show, she’ll be good to go!”

By the time Mark uttered ‘Never you mind that’, Anthony had sped past them to continue his fascination with the tire, knocking the jack over and crushing his head beneath the car.

There was no audio in the rest of the memory that came after the sound to end sounds. Only pictures remained. Mark lifting the car three feet into the air by his own strength, which tore his back to pieces in the process.  His cradling the bloodied boy’s head.  Skull fragments floating in a sea of blood that disappeared beneath the sand.

“You’re dead to the world now, aren’t you?”

“Hm?” 

Mark snapped back to find he had a precarious grip on his coffee, which was spilling onto the floor.  Sergeant Peterson was standing in the doorframe.  He was the youngest of the eight guys who made up the small department, and he was wrapping up a night detail.

“It’s the back again, isn’t it?  Keeping you up all night?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, Kurt,” Mark answered.  “Sometimes the pain just gets to be too much.”

“You gotta get that surgery, Chief. It’s not going to get any better on its own.”

Mark exhaled a painful laugh. “Thank you, Doctor Peterson.”

“And, it’s turning you into a grumpy old shit, too,” the young cop added.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you grumpy in the five years I’ve known you.”

“Well, you call me an old shit again and you’re going to see a lot more than ‘grumpy’, Sergeant.”  

Mark unconsciously turned the pages of his newspaper.  “If it doesn’t get any better I’ll schedule something for the end of the year,” he added.

But Mark knew Peterson was right. It wouldn’t get any better on its own.  The x-rays showed four damaged disks on his lower spine; the lowest two were actually crumbled in pieces, loosely held together by sacs of fluid. Over time, the situation would only grow progressively worse.

The doctor had marveled that no mortal could possibly endure the pain of the bone chunks rubbing against his spinal nerves, never mind function in spite of them. And, although Mark had hated the idea of surgery even more than he despised the pain he suffered, surgery was finally beginning to win out.

“If you guys can take care of things here, maybe they can find a bed for me over the holidays,” he said.

“We just want to see you better, Chief.”

The rest of the day was uneventful at best, if only because Mark was half-asleep for most of it. He did personally take it upon himself to continue with the Beth DeAngelis case, questioning Chip Skelly once again. And, once again, he came up with nothing. Otherwise, there were simply no other suspects.

Labor Day arrived and the old money who spent their summers in Maine or Plum Island returned to their historic castles on the East Side – the others, to the ubiquitous prefab mansions all over midtown, which provided comfort in their upper-middle class sameness. The sailboats on the Merrimack defied the observed changing of the season and would continue to sail until the elements told them to do otherwise. And the suburban side streets, where children would carve heart shapes and obscenities in the sun-softened tar, would be eerily vacant in just a day.

The Crocetti’s stage was dark over the weekend. Through the years, it had been discovered – quite painfully – that the place hardly made a dime over that particular holiday, with the exception of the handful of regulars who were fixtures in the restaurant or bar. Mark put in a request with Linda over the holiday to speak with members of the Cinderella cast for a few minutes after rehearsal that following Tuesday.

With the house lights dimmed, Mark moved discreetly to a table at the farthest end of the room, and took in the sights and sounds of the rehearsal on the stage. He knew most of the faces, but there were some new ones, as well.

Randall paced back and forth in long rows on the floor, scribbling ideas onto his notepad whenever inspiration struck, which appeared to be often. Mark recalled that Randall hadn’t changed much since the time he was a boy.  Even when he appeared in the children’s musical productions with his sister Kate, he’d make his best effort each time to direct the show, and he had a grave seriousness about him that followed – or propelled – him straight into adulthood.

Kate, by contrast, seemed only to aspire to happiness. She was the most darling little girl, Mark thought. As a child, she worked the tables as if she were the second coming of Shirley Temple, except with exquisitely red hair and deep blue eyes. There wasn’t a heart too cold that wouldn’t melt under her spell. And as much as Mark longed to see that child once more, the way she now held her head, the way she cast a glance, the way she moved, all told of a beautiful young woman. Kate now gracefully danced under the spotlight where a little girl had once slipped on her behind singing I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. And Mark, sitting in the dark of the house, was left to wonder just how he had missed this transformation.

Lenny meanwhile was crawling about the stage. He was pretending he was a cow who was spastic on the same caffeine he was, and bellowing moos wherever he went, which sent the younger cast members into laughter and the older ones away.  

But it was the young man who was working on his lines off to the side who most commanded Mark’s attention.  He’d seen him before, the day of the auditions when he passed through the lobby.  And in that moment, he would have sworn it was Josh. In fact, at times, he still wasn’t entirely sure.  The same demure manner.  The natural good looks accompanied by a shy evasiveness.  The quiet vulnerability that seemed to scream its way across a room.

Sometimes there are just too many memories.  

And Mark still wanted a drink after his episode that morning.  He even wondered at this point why he was staying sober.  He was loyal to his responsibilities, but it seemed to him that his own life was essentially over.  All he could hope was that death would entail breezy summer nights spent in a hazy fog of happy drunkenness on an illuminated golf course, somewhere that was eternally twenty years before.

A surprise tropical storm had hit town a few summers earlier, and that wasn’t the only surprise for Mark.  He first saw Josh in the storm. Josh who represented everything he wanted and everything of which he was ashamed. It was six years after his divorce; two years after Anthony’s death. He had been an active drunk, at least when alone, which he always made sure he was between the hours of evening and dawn. Alone and drunk.

Mark had denied his homosexuality in much the same way he had denied his alcoholism. Neither really existed as long as he didn’t think about it. When he dated and eventually married Megan, he had convinced himself he was as straight as his record of public achievement. And when he was occasionally physically riled by someone of the same sex, he attributed it to a harmless kinky nature that somehow inhabited him.  After all, he thought, everyone has secret fantasies at least once in a while, don’t they? The key was not to act on them. And Mark never acted on his fantasies.  

He didn’t act on much else, either. And, not long after the marriage began, he spent fewer nights in passionate embraces with his wife, and more nights falling asleep to TV police dramas in his living room armchair.

Despite whatever was brewing beneath the surface, Mark loved Megan.  He was sure of that. And he couldn’t think of anything worse than to lose her. So the failures that occurred in the bedroom he’d chalk up to such things as going too heavy on the sauce, or that he ‘couldn’t shake something that happened on the job’ that day.

But his ability to repress feelings was not matched by an equally determined imagination. And over time the excuses were running out. At the beginning, Megan blamed herself, questioning whether he was simply not attracted to her. At the end, she timidly confronted him with regard to his sexuality. And something that should be so simple as two human beings expressing their love for each other had been reduced to questions and tension in the unquiet dark.

But, that was all in the past. And there was simply no sense in dwelling there, he thought.

Randall directed the cast to gather around the piano and spend the remainder of the rehearsal working their songs with Arnie, a newcomer who was serving as the musical director.  He then gathered up his bulk of materials and approached the Chief at the back of the house.

“Hi, Mark,” Randall said as he pulled out a chair for himself with such a demeanor that almost implied he were about to interview Mark, and not the other way around.

“Randall,” Mark said in a low tone and with a wide smile.  “You really do fine work, son.”

“Thanks. Linda said you wanted to talk to me.”

Mark gathered from his posture that he wished to skip any niceties, but Mark excelled at both small talk and not being rushed. “How’s this cast treating you?  Are they giving you what you want?”

“No,” he laughed snidely. “But they will.”

“Right, right.” Mark looked closely as Randall brushed his dark hair from his forehead with both hands. “Well, I can’t argue with your talent to get the most from actors.  You know, I was just remembering when you were a little kid up on that stage.”

Randall shuffled in his seat, vainly looking from side to side and seemingly hoping for any diversion to whisk him away. He obviously didn’t want to be reminded that he was ever a kid, Mark thought, and perhaps he never really was one after all.

“You’ve come a long way here,” he continued.  “I figure twenty years of shows here by now, one way or another?”

“Something like that,” Randall said.

“The folks here would be mighty lucky to get another twenty from you. I sure know that when I see your name as the director, it’s going to be a good one.”

“Oh, forget that,” he said with disdain.  “Mark, this place is a shit hole. Anyone can see that.”

Mark was momentarily taken aback, not so much hurt by the comment as saddened by the anger that seemed to be behind it.  

“So, you have bigger dreams, do you? Well, you should. A talented man like yourself.” Randall didn’t seem to respond cheerily to compliments, but it was in Mark’s nature to hand them out where he saw fit.

“I think I’ll maybe do another show or two here, then head to New York. I’ve got connections with a lot of actors and choreographers who live around Staten Island.” He looked at Mark as if he weren’t sure the man had heard of the place, and Mark nodded knowingly. “They keep telling me to come out – that I’m so much better than most of the people there. I don’t know why I’m wasting my time here, but can you imagine how bad these musicals would be if someone else were directing them?” He stopped, perhaps realizing he had revealed a pretentious nature – one he assumed he normally hid. “My God, they pick the worst of the worst, because Victor is too cheap to pay royalties for the good ones.” He seemed satisfied that the additional comment justified his tack, and was perhaps oblivious that it was an insulting one.

“Well, from what I understand, Rodgers and Hammerstein did pretty well for themselves. But, you have a creative way with whatever material they give you. I know we’ll all be sad to see you go.”

“Who’s going?” asked Lenny, who had maneuvered his way to the back table like a remote-controlled car that responded to a button labeled none-of-your-fucking-business.  Mark thought it might be quicker to ask his questions to the two of them simultaneously, due both to his growing dismay that all leads were already exhausted, and because he really wasn’t feeling in the mood to endure a pseudo Martin and Lewis sketch. And he usually sensed when one was coming on.

“No one’s going anywhere, Lenny.  Why aren’t you rehearsing at the piano?”  Randall asked with no attempt to hide his irritation.

“Helen’s making goo-goo faces at me when I sing!” he yelled, which generated a giddily defensive retort from Helen of  ‘No, I’m not, Randall!’ from across the room, and a mushy cloud of giggles from the piano circle.

“Why don’t you sit down here with us, Lenny?” Mark asked. “I’d like to speak to both of you privately for a moment.”

“We’re having a very important conversation over here!” Lenny roared back at the crowd, which was followed by a few sarcastic ‘Oooooo’s, and Randall shook his head in disgust.

“It must be an experience for you to have to deal with a musical director other than yourself,” Mark commented to Lenny.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t hit so many clams. You’d think a monkey taught him to play,” Lenny said, this time at a volume so no one in the cast could hear.  And Randall did smile, although it was anyone’s guess as to whether or not it was a genuine one.

“I see another new face out there, too,” Mark couldn’t help but add.  “Who’s that one?”

“His name’s Joe,” Randall said.

“Is he any good?”

Randall’s only response was to raise his eyebrows for a moment, which told enough.

“He wants that apartment upstairs,” Lenny interjected. “He says Crocetti offered it to him. But I highly doubt it. And we saw him fall down the stairs from it after the last rehearsal. It was so obvious he was drunk.”

“Or stoned on something,” Randall added.

“Ask anyone,” Lenny said. “He’d probably light the place on fire if he got it.”

“Oh. … Well, isn’t that a shame,” Mark said quietly. “I guess it’s true that artistic types all have their crosses to bear. But, I suppose that goes for all of us, doesn’t it?”  Randall and Lenny responded with blank expressions.  

“I just don’t know if he’s a good match as the Prince for Kate.  She’s so good,” Randall said.

“She told me she thinks he’s kind of creepy,” Lenny added.  “But, if anyone can work with him, it’s Randall.”

“I’m sure it’ll all work out,” Mark said, finally attempting to change the course of the conversation. “You’ll forgive me if what I’m about to ask you is redundant, but I’m just looking for anything I might have missed before.”

“This is about Beth, isn’t it?” Randall asked. Lenny lowered his head like an electric puppet that had its power yanked from the wall socket.

“I’m afraid so. That final performance of Bye-Bye Birdie, did she say anything to either of you as to what her plans might be?”

“Well, she was at the cast party at my place,” Randall said. Mark knew that, but this was how he questioned anybody – leaving it to them to repeat details.

“Right,” he said. “Did she say anything to either of you that was even slightly out of the ordinary?  Or, did you even hear from someone else anything that would give you some pause?”

“She spent most of her time making out with Chip on the sofa,” Randall said.  “But, she did tell me she was sad that the show was over. Chip was the last one to see her.”

“Well, it seems he was out of town at the time she was last seen five days later,” Mark said. “I’m more interested in anything the two of you might have heard.”

“During the run of the show, she did mention a friend named Donna  …  I think her name was Donna. She said if things ever got too rough at home, she might run away up there.”

Mark stared in disbelief at Lenny. “Up where?  Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“New Hampshire, New Hampshire.” Lenny was beginning to cry, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve cuff. “I’m sorry. I racked my brain over and over again trying to remember every little thing she said, but I’m only human. She did mention this Donna woman when she was fighting a lot with her mother, but that was early in the run, and I just dismissed it from my mind.”

“Where does she live?”

 “I think Beth said she lived in Laconia, but I’m not sure. And I think she was an older woman. I was afraid she was a big ol’ lesbian who was going to take advantage of her, but Beth assured me it was all on the level.”

“No last name?” Lenny nodded his head from side to side. “Randall, did you know anything about this?”

“Not a thing. I was too busy directing, which is what I should be doing now.”

“Well, Lenny, do your best to remember her last name, will you?” Mark asked.

“I will, Chief.  I’m just sorry it took me so long to remember Beth having told of it.”

“That’s okay.  This is good information.  I do believe today is my lucky day,” he said.

 Mark asked if they would send Kate to the table and then dismissed the two men.  She had just finished singing In My Own Little Corner at the piano in a tentative and shy way, timidly searching out the right notes, all of which made her even more precious to the Chief.  

“I must be in heaven,” he said to the girl. “Because I swear I just heard an angel sing.”

“Right!” she joyfully replied, as she kicked off her sandals and sat in the chair, pulling her feet in beneath her thighs forming a kind of lotus position. Although her body had taken on the shape of a woman, there was still the joy of a child bursting through her eyes, Mark had realized. “I hope angels sing better than that!” she added. “It would be horrible to see someone throwing tomatoes at an angel.”

Mark laughed, and he wondered how it was possible that she and Randall were siblings. “Well, I don’t know what you were listening to, but I swear I heard an angel,” he said. “You’ve grown up to be such a pretty young woman, Kate.”

She blushed while she self-consciously played with her toes. “Thank you, Chief. How are you?”

“You know, you’re the first person to ask me that all day?  I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said. “Kate, I know I’ve already spoken with all of you before, but I need to find out if Beth said anything to you about a woman named Donna in New Hampshire. Or, can you think of anything at all that could help us out?”

She thought before speaking, but only to say there had been nothing too out of the ordinary, besides what had already been revealed. She also contradicted Lenny’s claim of the existence of some older woman named Donna.  In fact, by the time Mark questioned Brett, Helen, Douglas, and the rest of the cast who had worked with Beth, the only truly new bit of information was that which had come from Lenny. Linda and Marjorie thought they also heard Beth speak of this woman, but neither could be positive as to her name.        

Mark stretched his back in the darkness, and he watched as the piano grew silent and the cast drifted up the stairs, taking the life of the darkened stage with them.  He was dead tired.  His eyes moved about, taking in the ceiling and the cornices above the stage, and he wondered if it were possible that happiness might someday return to his life in some way.

He thought he’d have a Moxie at the bar and see if he could engage Otis in some meaningless banter that would take his mind off a mountain of woes. The cast had left by the time he reached the top of the stairs. It had been a long night, and Mark knew that the reason it had been so long was at least partially his own doing. When he entered the silent bar he caught a sight he would never have expected.    

Joe was alone on a stool, drinking a beer and staring at a patch of nothing about a foot below the television screen. Mark took a step forward to observe him, but at a comfortable distance so as not to be seen in his periphery.  

Joe had that classic American face, he thought, one that could sell shaving cream or suntan lotion to hapless consumers with a quick wink and broad grin. And he might have been blessed with that gift to a greater extent than even Josh had been. But, unlike Josh, this man exuded a sadness about him, and the subtle appearance of faint lines around his eyes and mouth suggested it might not be too many more years before the mask of physical splendor was stolen away from him. Hopefully he wouldn’t care. Hopefully he had a comparable amount of inner beauty to get him by. And for a moment the huge man was nervous. And he was both astonished and embarrassed to feel that way.  

He lifted himself onto the corner barstool, leaving an empty one between them.

“Anything good on the TV?” Mark asked.

Joe shook minutely, and his weary eyes suggested he had been rattled out of a dream. “Not really, Officer,” he said.

“Mark. The name’s Mark. Anyone who does plays here can tell you I’m kind of a fixture here, … maybe more than I should be.” Mark exuded his familiar warm laugh, yet it was one that never registered in quite the same decibels twice.

“I’m Joe,” he said, and there was a pause as the young man traced his finger over the circle of dew where his bar glass had rested. “Are you here because you like the place, or because there’s that much trouble around here?”

“Oh, there’s no trouble here,” Mark laughed, and this time it was a laugh that trailed off uncertainly into the sound of a question before it disappeared in the air.  He had folded his hands politely atop the bar. “I just like it here, I guess you could say. I’ve always enjoyed the theater, and the plays they put on here. I think you’ll find this is a good group of people.”  

Joe then stared blankly at the television screen for a moment, and in following that protocol, Mark politely did the same.  

“Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re playing the Prince in Cinderella?” he finally asked.

“That’s right,” Joe said. “I guess they couldn’t find a real Prince, so they picked me.”

“Now, what would make you say a thing like that?”

Joe laughed self-consciously. “Well, I can’t say I feel like much of a Prince.  But, I guess that’s what acting is all about.”

“Oh, sure.  You know it amazes me how you folks can stand up there in front of all those people and not get nervous.  There isn’t all that much in this world that scares me, but if I had to stand on that stage, I’d be shaking in my boots, you can believe that. Heck, I can’t even figure how you all remember all those lines,” he said, and he was certain he was babbling.

“I usually write `em down on my palms,” Joe said. Mark didn’t quite know how to react, until Joe smiled.  

“That’s what I’d do! That’s what I’d do for sure! I swear I’d have to!”  Mark was gushing, and thoroughly embarrassed by it. But he felt a motion inside him, like a sail propelled by a warm breeze.

“It’s really easier than you’d think. Easier than your job, I’m sure,” Joe said, and took a long sip from his draft.

“Well, I guess that’s in the eye of the beholder. It’s a good thing it takes all types in this world.” He had forgotten the pain in his back. “You looked pretty comfortable rehearsing down there.”

“It’s early yet. I didn’t really have all that much to do tonight,” he said.  “I’d save your judgment for the actual performance,” he added, and expressed a smile that shyly asked you to like him.

Mark knew what he wanted to ask him, but he wasn’t quite sure how to approach it, or if he even had the nerve. “I bet your girl will be very proud when she sees you up on that stage,” he heard himself say.

“Well, she’ll be proud and I’ll be shocked, cuz I don’t have one.”

Mark excitedly fumbled over which chess piece to move next in his mind.  “Oh?” he asked. It was the equivalent of moving a pawn one space forward.

“If you asked me a month ago, I would have said, ‘and that’s fine with me.’” He drank the remaining foam at the bottom of his glass. “But, I tell ya, there’s not much worse than falling for a girl you can’t have. Especially when you were minding your own business in the first place.”

And, with that revelation, there were two lonely men; a bar stool and a world dividing them.

 

“Looks like you could use a little Moxie.”

Mark hardly registered Otis’s presence as he placed a glass and an orange-colored can in front of him, and he winced from a new pang in his spine. But, he could now see at least a part of the misery’s source of this person who could well have been Josh’s protégé.  

“Do you know you can’t have the girl?” he asked helpfully. “You’re a fine-looking young man. And you seem like a decent fellow. Did she tell you so, that there was no hope in it?”

Otis took his rag and stood within inches of the TV, enthralled by whatever it was on the screen that had eluded the other two.  

“It’s all pretty silly actually,” Joe said, feigning the irrelevance of it all.  But, Mark saw a glimmer of hopefulness in his eyes, as if he thought just talking about it might surely make it all better.

“Oh, there’s nothing silly about love, Joe, no matter the person or situation,” he said. “The highs and the hurts feel pretty much the same for everyone, as far as I can tell.”

Joe looked into Mark’s eyes, then at his uniform, then a laugh came out of nowhere. “I’m sorry. I just never met a cop who seemed like such a nice guy before. I think I’d swear you were a counselor before I ever guessed that.”

“Oh, I’ve done my share of that around here, too, believe me,” he laughed, with no trace of pain in it. “Of course, I don’t know how much help I’ve been, but these big ears bend for a reason,” he said, and with a grip on his lobes he demonstrated the fact. “Now, tell me about this girl who’s driving your heart wild.”

“I wish there was something to tell, but it’s kind of a hopeless situation.  She’s – ah – in the show actually.”

“She’s in the show?  In this show?” Mark asked.

“You wouldn’t say anything, would you?”

“My ears might bend, but my mouth stays closed on matters like these,” he said in a soothing rhythm.

“It’s Kate.”

“… Kate.” And a montage of pictures flickered past Mark’s eyes, as though he were thumbing through the pages of a scrapbook. Of course it was Kate! Who else could it have honestly been, he thought. And the secret provoked a bout of great laughter from the man.

“What?” Joe asked. “Is that stupid?  It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

He quickly swallowed his laughter, but at least a bit more would seep out between his words.  “No, no, no. It’s not stupid. Not stupid at all, actually. She’s a beautiful girl. But, you do know, don’t you?”

“Know what? That she’s with Brett?”

He didn’t know, Mark could see, and he wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. “No, she’s not with Brett. But, you would have your work cut out for you when it comes to her.”  

“She’s not with him?” Joe asked, hopeful and incredulous.

“No, she’s not. But, she’s Linda’s daughter.  And, she’s Mr. Crocetti’s granddaughter. And, they’re a protective bunch. Just between you and me, I’d sometimes swear they were planning a life for her in a nunnery. There have been a few other boys who have gotten close, but they almost lost a few fingers or toes by doing so. I’m just saying you might want to be careful, or you could lose something worse.”

Joe pushed the stool that separated them to the side with his foot, and leaned in closer to Mark. “I don’t understand. Mr. Crocetti seems like the nicest guy I’ve ever met. He even offered me that apartment upstairs after only knowing me for ten minutes. He even asked me if I had a girl. From the sound of it, I almost thought he had someone in mind to set me up with.”

“Oh, he’s a nice guy for sure. One of the nicest, you’re right,” Mark said. “Maybe he’s changing his ways in his older age. If you don’t mind my complimenting you, Joe, you seem to be one of those people that folks just like right away. Maybe you charmed the old man and didn’t know it. That would most definitely put you in good stead. As for Linda and Randall, well, they’re a little tougher to charm if you haven’t figured that out yet.”

“I’m not trying to charm anybody,” Joe said sincerely.  “Can I ask you something, Mark? You seem like a pretty good guy yourself, and you seem to know the run of this place. … Should I take that apartment? I already feel like I’m stepping on toes around here. Randall wants the place, and I’m caught in the middle. And, I can’t figure why he would offer it to me and not his own grandson – especially if they’re all so close.”

Otis reappeared and he proceeded to wipe down the bar glasses. His gaze lay somewhere beyond the two, although he seemed to have at least one ear in the moment. “Another beer and Moxie?”

They both agreed to another.  And Mark, although he now accepted Joe’s preference as a certainty, still felt a vague pleasure in the idea that the two might form a kind of spiritual kinship. He had learned not to allow his fantasies to ever grow too big, and the idea of a friendship between the two seemed at least half as satisfying and twice as possible. He only hoped he wasn’t fooling himself.

“I’ll be honest with you, Joe.  That one kind of mystifies me, too.  Like I said, they’re a close group. But, like any family, there’s bound to be friction in certain areas. Maybe the old man figured he’s not responsible enough yet, I just don’t know. Or, maybe Linda’s gotten between the two. It’s hard to let go of your baby,” Mark said, and breathed an almost undetected sigh into the thick barroom air.

“Randall is her son,” Joe said, the familial puzzle pieces forming together in his mind.

“Yes, he is,” Mark said. “He’s still living with his mom. And, Linda’s kind of a den mother in her own way, too. She’s always taking in cubs. I don’t know if you knew that Kate’s mother and father passed away?”

“I don’t know anything,” Joe replied.

“Well, she did. And her dad took off when she was just very little. She’s lived with her aunt ever since. And Linda’s even taken in Brett.”

“Brett? But, they’re not together you said?”

“That’s right.  He’s more of … Randall’s friend.  At least that seems to be the story around here,” Mark said, and wiped his dark brow. “I should tell you something important, Joe. I’m not one for gossip. I’m just trying to help you understand the situation, that’s all.”

“No, I understand,” Joe said. “I really appreciate it. I’ve been stumbling around in the dark the last two weeks.” His shoulders seemed broader now to Mark, as if he were coming alive from under a weight of doubt that had now been lifted. And he changed the subject as if momentarily satisfied with what he had heard regarding his potential chance with the girl. “So, do you like being a cop?”

“I do,” Mark said. “It’s all I’ve ever known, really. But, to tell you the truth, being the Chief is even better.”

“You’re the Chief of Police? Here? In Evercreek Falls?”

“I’m afraid so,” he smiled.

“I’d better make sure my car is still legal.”

“You best do that,” Mark laughed, and he finished his second Moxie. “So, are you looking to make a career out of acting, or is this just a hobby for you?”

“No, sir,” Joe answered. “I intend to make a life out of it. I’m working for an Internet company right now, but I’m almost ready to make the jump. Actually, I’ve been ready for a while now.”

“You’re gonna go all the way, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes. I haven’t even seen you perform, but I can see you have the determination,” he said. “And, who knows? Maybe you’ll get the girl, too.”

“Well, I have to say you kind of put the fear of God in me when it comes to her family.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Joe. Old Mr. Crocetti, Linda, Randall, … well, they do seem to have odd relationships with each other a lot of the time. They’re a creative family. Not your typical one, I suppose. But, I firmly believe if a person follows his heart, things always end up more good than bad.” Mark was recalling Lenny’s comment regarding Joe. The one where Beth had called him ‘creepy’. “But, if you let Kate know how you feel, you have to be sure you’re ready for either outcome. Can you get through this show – excel in this show – if she shuts you down, son?”

Joe swiveled from side to side on his stool like a pendulum, giving the question earnest consideration, then stopped dead center. “Yeah, I can,” he answered. “I’ve never really had all that much luck with women I’ve liked, anyway.” Mark found this difficult to believe.

“Acting,” Joe continued. “Being someone else up on the stage – well, that’s how I pretty much get through everything.  … And, I probably won’t tell her at all.”

“You’re Italian, aren’t you?” Mark asked. “You just remember what Mr. Sinatra sang: ‘nice `n easy does it every time’. Don’t be in such a rush to make something happen. Get to know the girl. Who knows? She might not be all that you expected. And, even if she is, I learned it’s really just a blessing to fall in love at all, no matter how it turns out. … That’s the truth, too.”  

At least in that moment, Mark did believe it to be true.

The corners of Joe’s mouth lifted slightly, and for just a second Mark thought the man might cry. But, that expression vanished as soon as it had arrived. “You’re a really good guy,” Joe repeated. “You know, there’s really not that many people I can talk to. Beethoven – I mean, Arnie, the musical director, is a lot of fun. Even Lenny’s gone out of his way to be a good friend.”

Mark just nodded.

“But, there aren’t many people I can really talk to.”

“… Thanks,” Joe added, in a voice that sounded with such genuineness, Mark wasn’t sure if it were the first time he had ever heard such a speech tone.  And he realized that this evening was the first time he had felt good in a very long time.

“Well, … it’s my pleasure,” he said, at a momentary loss for words.  “I’d be happy to be a friend, Joe. I certainly would.”

Mark motioned with his finger to the ceiling. “And, if you do take that place upstairs, you know you can always come down and bend my ear,” he continued. “I do spend far too much time here, that is a fact.”

Without saying another word, the two men stood in a gesture to call it a night, as if it were understood they had both said enough for one evening.  Despite his protests, Mark threw a bill down to pay for Joe’s beers.

“You know you don’t gotta pay, Chief,” Otis said, wiping his bar glasses.

“It’s for De Niro,” he answered, motioning to Joe.

“Hey, kid,” Otis called as they neared the exit.  “Good luck here.”  Joe didn’t expect the gesture, and he thanked him.

The September night air was unseasonably humid and even the varied daisies and jonquils in the flowerbed seemed to be perspiring and crying for relief.  But the stars were so bright they illuminated the sand lot with help from a waning moon and a couple of moth-infested lights.  As they were about to part ways to their respective cars, Joe broke the brief silence.

“Do you think I should take the place?”

“Oh, that is a decision only you can make.” 

“I already packed a lot of my things, so I guess I made the decision already.”

Mark found some amusement in that. “I guess you have, I guess you have.  Just don’t pay any mind to no one else. If you want it, it’s between you and Mr. Crocetti.”

Mark approached his cruiser, and looked over to see Joe’s silhouette standing behind an old Buick. 

“Have you ever been up there?” Joe asked from the distance, and for a moment Mark wasn’t sure if that was an offer of some sort, but he quickly determined otherwise.

“Once or twice. A long time ago,” he answered.

“The place …” Joe’s car door made a squeal as he opened it, and he began again.  “The place is kind of … strange, huh?”

“How so?” Mark called back.

“I don’t know.  It’s just … the place seems a little odd, I think.”

“What?”

“I’d like to finish the scene, please,” he said.

A rush of cold horror went up Mark’s feet and through the ends of the strands of hair on his head. “What?” 

“‘Goodnight’, that’s all,” he clarified.  “… Nice meeting you, Mark.”

“Okay, you take care now,” Mark thought he heard himself say, and he forced his pained back into the cruiser and hastily closed the door.

Mark deliberately inhaled and exhaled deeply in an effort to control his breathing, and he watched Joe’s car as it left the lot and disappeared down Route 97.

His fingers trembled as he put the cruiser into drive and pulled to the edge of the sand and initiated his left turn signal.  Breathless again, he sat motionless and watched the indicator blink red over and over again – its steady clicking sound reverberating like a drum in his head.  

In the periphery to his right, he felt the scarecrow staring at him.  

He forced his head to turn in that direction in spite of his fear.  The inanimate object was – of course – there, sitting in the wheelbarrow, facing Mark, and holding a sign that read:

GET READY! YOUR DREAMS WILL COME TRUE!

“CINDERELLA”

COMING SOON TO CROCETTI’S!

He numbly drove off onto Route 97 and looked at the clock on the dashboard, which blinked 11:05 p.m., signifying all liquor stores had closed for the night.

****

*From “Evercreek Falls,” a novel by Todd DeMartinis. Copyright © 2020. All Rights Reserved.