Protector of Children - 17. Chapter 17: Lucas and Mark, Part I

Sunday, December 23

Sirens no longer woke him although they were often woven into his dreams. On this night, he woke briefly to the pop, pop of gunfire. Small caliber, not close he thought. He fell asleep before the sirens began.

He no longer needed an alarm clock. His mind and body were attuned to the city and woke when it did. The subtle vibration of the kitchen vent fans from the deli below his bedroom signaled three o’clock. Had he been inclined to go back to sleep, the slamming of the dumpster lid echoing against the walls of the alley below, and the smell of baking bread would have kept him awake.

He stepped confidently through the pre-dawn darkness then touched the button that would turn on the computer. Bending over the keyboard, he rested his index fingers on the f and j keys and typed. A pop from the speakers was followed by the voice of a radio newsreader. He stepped into the kitchen to prepare coffee. While it brewed, he ate a banana and a container of yoghurt and promised himself he would fix vegetables rather than a sandwich for lunch.

Twenty minutes later, he turned off the news feed and logged onto his blog. He already knew that the end of the world as allegedly predicted for Friday by the Mayan calendar had not happened, and that there was nothing of immediate interest in the national news. There had been more than sixty thousand hits on the blog yesterday. Micropayments from people who had clicked on the ads had added about $175 to his bank account. Not bad for the Saturday before Christmas. He shrugged. It was enough.

By 4:00 AM, he had responded to a dozen posts and ignored hundreds of others, checked his personal email account, and flipped through a handful of news sources while looking for something current—something that would capture the imagination of his readers and that would be worthwhile to write about.

“Local or national? National or international?” he muttered to himself. He didn’t know when he’d started talking to himself as he worked. It didn’t matter. There was no one to disturb. There hadn’t been anyone to disturb for a long time.

“Got it!” He said. The story was from the National Weather Service. A late-season tropical storm was headed for the Chesapeake Bay, threatening Virginia, Maryland, and the District of Columbia with more flooding. Temperatures were expected to remain above freezing. None of the moisture would reach the Southeast, which was in the second year of a drought. Most of the rest of the nation could expect a white Christmas from storms sweeping from the Rockies, the Pacific, and Labrador. The latter was a nor’easter and the governor of New York had already send his requirements to Congress: he’d need another fifty billion dollars for storm relief on top of the forty billion he’d demanded following the recent hurricane. Congress wasn’t listening. Alerted to the storm well before the news reached the public, Congresspersons and their aides had mobbed Reagan and Dulles airports for the past two days. The president was safely in Hawaii.

He was circumspect as he wrote, balancing what needed to be said against what the censors at DHS would allow. They would not have left Washington; they were in place around the clock and would be alerted the instant he posted. He was on their Internet watch list. And the no-fly list. I didn’t ask Ted how he’d found that out or how he was able to set up an email account the DHS couldn’t block or . . . .

The cell phone buzzed only seconds after he posted the piece on his blog. He snapped at himself for forgetting to turn on the ringer and grabbed the device. It was Mark. He wanted to be taken shopping—a Christmas present for his mother.

“Mark, there’s nothing open at six o’clock in the morning except the deli and the coffee shop.”

“I’m going to get her a coffee cup, one of the insulated ones. She’s all the time saying how her coffee gets cold,” Mark said. “I’ll buy you a latte if you’ll take me?” The boy’s voice held the question.

That would be a lot of money for Mark to spend. Coffee at Daddy Warbuck’s isn’t cheap. “Tell you what, Mark,” he said. “You take me to the coffee shop and I’ll buy you a latte.”

“Please? I want to treat you. I want to buy you a Christmas present and that’s all I can afford. Please?”

He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He heard the plea and the embarrassment in the boy’s voice. It took a lot of courage to say that. And, I didn’t think to get him anything. What can I get for him between now and Monday night?

Mark was waiting for an answer. “Okay, Mark. I’m not yet dressed to go out, so don’t hurry . . . Yes, you may buy me a latte, thank you for thinking of that.”

He was changing from the sweats he wore for pajamas to street clothes when he heard a key in the lock and Mark’s voice. Mark hadn’t waited. “Luke?”

“That’s Lucas to you, Markus,” Luke called. “Guess who’s early?”

“Must be Mark, ’cause there’s no Markus here. Can I read your blog?”

“May I,” Lucas corrected, automatically. “Sure. Help yourself.” He heard the clicks as the boy logged onto the computer.

Ten minutes later they rode the rattling freight elevator to the ground floor, then through the alley to the street.

“Light’s about to change,” Mark said. “Green,” he added. “All clear.” Stop, look, listen—Lucas had drummed that into his mind.

Lucas waited at a table while Mark bought his mother’s gift, a coffee for himself, and a latte for Lucas. There were few other patrons so early on a Sunday; had it been a weekday, the place would have been crowded.

“Hold out your hand,” Mark said. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thank you, Mark.” Lucas took a sip of the latte. “Oh, that is good. Did you get the cup for your mother?”

“Yeah, it’s got Christmas decorations on it so she’ll remember.” He quickly changed the subject. “Your blog was awesome! You really nailed that senator who doesn’t believe in global warming! Like it’s a matter of faith, or something.”

“Global climate change,” Lucas corrected. “Global warming is accurate and correct, but it’s only part of the picture. And, it’s very much overused and misused.”

“Uh, oh!” Mark said. “The senator must have sent the Army for you. Guy in cammies just came in.” The boy giggled, but the laughter was cut short.

“He’s got heat, too. Must think he’s George Patton—or some old west gunslinger—he’s wearing two pistols—oh shit, he’s coming straight this way.”

“Why are you in a wheelchair?” The voice was deep, and gravely as if the speaker were a long-time smoker.

“I was born in a wheelchair,” Mark said. “Who are you? The boy captured and squeezed Lucas’s hand.

“Here, now,” Lucas said to Gravely Voice. “Who are you? Don’t bother the boy.”

“The boy, as you call him is my son, Markus. Who are you?”

“Your son? I know that Mark’s father died before he was born. Please leave, or I will call for help.”

“Lucas? It won’t do any good,” Mark whispered. “Everyone else is frozen, like a movie or something. Please Mister, you’re not my daddy. Please go away!”

“Are you a fool as well as a cripple?” Gravely Voice asked. “Your mother never told you?”

Lucas had never felt as helpless in his life. Gravely Voice—according to Mark a soldier, armed—and apparently insane, was threatening Mark. Mark was so frightened he thought the other people in the coffee house were ignoring them. And he was squeezing Lucas’s left hand so hard it hurt. Lucas had only his cane and his wits.

“What should his mother have told him?” Lucas asked. Get him talking. If I call for help he may get violent. Maybe someone will notice, and call the police. Someone wearing weapons, even a soldier, should get someone’s attention.

“Who are you?” Gravely Voice asked.

“Lucas. I am Mark’s friend.” Lucas held out his free hand. It was ignored.

“Lucas, Light-Bringer. Are you a modern Prometheus? You know what happened to him.”

“I do,” Lucas said. “He was chained to a rock. Each day, Zeus’ eagle ate his liver. It regrew every night. He was rescued by Heracles.” Keep him talking.

“Hercules!” Gravely Voice said. “He goes by Hercules, ever since that stupid cartoon . . . .”

“What do you go by?” Lucas asked. Delusional, paranoid. Is anyone seeing this?

“Mars,” said Gravely Voice. “And I am neither delusional nor paranoid. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. No, it is not a lucky guess. Sixteen. That’s the number you’re thinking . . . Never mind! No one sees. They’re not frozen, we’re slipping in time. Why are you in a wheelchair?”

“My fucking legs don’t work!” Mark was crying. Lucas heard his gasps, the catch in his throat with each quick breath.

“You say he’s your son, and you torture him?” You’re no father; and if you are, you’re a fool.

Lukas reached into his pocket. “Mark, take my handkerchief. Here. And don’t say the f-word.”

“You forget I hear your thoughts,” Mars said. “I am Mars. I am his father. I am not a fool!” Lucas heard thunder that rattled the plate glass windows of the coffee shop.

“I’d be careful with the thunder, then,” Lucas said. “That’s the province of Zeus. Now, what was his mother supposed to have told him?” Am I starting to believe this guy?

“On his twelfth birthday she was to tell him that I was his father and would return to claim him today.”

“You’re not my father! I know, I know, you’re something magic, ’cause the people really aren’t moving, but even if you’re really Mars, you’re not my daddy and you’ll never be my daddy! Lucas is my daddy!”

“Blind Prometheus is your daddy? The two of you suit one another. If you want him, you may have him.” Lucas wasn’t sure to whom Gravely Voice had been speaking.

A susurrus of voices began. Lucas realized, then, how quiet it had been. Were they really frozen? How else could it have been that quiet?

“Mark? Has he left?”

“Yes. He just disappeared, and everybody unfroze.”

“I don’t know how much of what just happened was real, but you said something important.”

“I said that you were my daddy,” the boy said. His voice was a shaky whisper.

“That was it.”

“I said it ’cause I wanted it to be true. Not just ’cause I didn’t want Mars to be my daddy.”

“Mark, I think we need to go somewhere else to talk.”

“I’ve got your latte and cane.”

Lucas stood and took the handles of the boy’s wheelchair.

# # # # #

I sat on the couch, lifted Mark from his wheelchair and set him beside me. “Mark, I am very happy being your friend, but I’m only twenty-four years old. I’m too young to be your daddy.” I didn’t want to hurt the boy, and thought the best way to do that would be to settle the matter quickly. That didn’t work.

“Being a daddy isn’t about how old you are,” he said. “It’s about all the things you do for me. You help me with my homework and keep after me to study. You tell me how happy you are when I get good grades and kick my butt when I don’t. You play games with me when nobody else will, and you don’t let me win—much.”

He giggled. “I know when you let me win. And I figured it out. You let me win just enough so I’ll keep playing until I get good enough to beat you fair and square—then you bring out another game.

“You let me sleep over when Mama has to work the night shift. If you didn’t, she’d lose her job ’cause she’s afraid to leave me alone at night. And I know you sometimes give her money. You take me places I couldn’t go without you. And I know you kissed my cheek last week after you thought I was asleep.”

Mark’s voice held a challenge when he added, “I know you love me, and I love you.”

That’s the problem. I do love him, a lot more than I should. He must suspect that. And he’s smart. What he suspects he’ll figure out. That frightened me so much my stomach turned to ice; my mouth got so dry my tongue stuck to my teeth when I tried to talk. I got dizzy and passed out.

Mark was crying when I woke up. He had pulled me close and was cradling my head in his arms. His tears splashed on my face. He was crying so hard I don’t think he knew I was awake.

“Please don’t die! Please don’t leave me! Please don’t hate me! Please . . . .”

“I don’t hate you, Mark,” I whispered. “Mark? I’m over my head. I’m so far over my head I don’t even know which way is up. I believe what you said about Mars. I believe you love me and I’ve never been more sure of anything than I am sure that I love you. I just don’t know where to go from here.”

We didn’t have to think about it just then. Mark’s mother called. She was going to work the midnight shift and would I let Mark sleep over. She knew I would, but she always asked and always thanked me when she came to pick him up. She would be by with extra clothes for him in a few minutes.

Mark’s apartment had only a shower, and he considered it a real treat to bathe in my tub. It was a two-person operation. He couldn’t bend his legs to take off his pants, briefs, shoes, and socks so I did that after he unsnapped and unzipped. He would pull his shirt over his head and then wheel himself into the bathroom. I sat in an invalid chair by the side of the tub and then lifted him in. That was easier than getting him out when he was wet and slippery.

I sat and waited while he was in the tub. We both knew that if he ever slipped down into the water, he might drown since he couldn’t push himself out with his legs. After he washed what he could reach, I knelt by the tub and washed the rest. After the water drained I lifted Mark into a terry towel in my lap. His arms were strong enough that that he could hang around my neck while I lifted him. If they hadn’t been, it never would have worked. I didn’t know what we would do when he got too big for me to lift. I rubbed him dry, and then put him back in his chair to go into the bedroom to dress.

The ever-present Chicago wind had picked up. It moaned through the strips of insulation in the windows and sighed as it passed across the plumbing vents. “Dress warmly,” I said. “I don’t know if we’ll be going out again today but even if we don’t, it may get cold.”

Just as I had helped him undress, I helped him dress. He could do most it himself, after a fashion, but it was awkward and I thought degrading. Somehow, I didn’t think it degrading when he put his arms around my neck and I lifted him a few inches from his wheelchair to pull up his briefs and flannel sweat pants, nor when I knelt to put on his socks and shoes—not degrading to him or to me.

I set him on the couch, and then asked, “Mark? What game would you like to play?”

“Truth or Dare,” he said. There was no hesitation and no question in his voice.

“I’m not sure we should do that,” I said.

“And I am sure we should,” Mark said. “But with different rules: no dares, only truth.”

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free, I thought. We’re about to find out if there’s truth in that promise. I took a deep breath. “Okay, Mark. You go first.”

“Do you really love me?”

“Yes, I do. My turn. What does love mean to you?”

“Unfair! That’s a hard question! They’re supposed to be yes or no.”

I knew I was taking advantage of the situation. Still, this had to be explored. “Mark, when I said okay with no dares I meant that I was willing to open my heart to you. I don’t need a game to do that, if you don’t. But I still want to know what you think love is.”

There was a long pause before Mark answered. “Lucas? I truly do not know. All I know is that when I think of you and when I see you it’s like when Mother pulls the blankets under my chin at night. I feel safe and snuggly and warm. When you tell me I did good, I feel like pumping my fists into the air or dancing behind the goal line on a football field—even though I can’t do that. When you tell me I didn’t live up to your expectations, I feel like I’m going to upchuck. When you write an especially good blog, I feel like shouting for everyone in the world to hear that I know you, and that you’re my friend. When you stood up to Mars, today, I was so happy that you would do that, that you would be strong for me. There’s probably a lot more, and it’s not simple, but that’s what I think love is.”

Mark’s answer was surprisingly mature and reasonable—and hard to digest. I must have been quiet for too long, because Mark said, “You want to go back to yes and no questions? Or,” he waited a few seconds, “do you want to tell me what love is?”

“I asked for that, didn’t I? And you are right. Love is very hard to describe. All I know is that when I think of you or hear you it’s as if I had found the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, the one piece that completes the picture. When you succeed, I rejoice, because I know that life is going to be hard for you, and that the more you can do, the easier it may be. When you are not as successful, I feel like I’m going to upchuck, because I know that’s one more hurdle that you are going to have to overcome. When you tell me you like my blog, I get a good feeling, because I know I write for you and your generation. And when we encountered Mars, I was frightened that he might hurt you . . . and that he might take you away from me. And I was more afraid than I’d ever been, before. There’s a lot more to it, and it’s not that simple, but I think that’s what love is.”

Oh, if it were only that simple.

“My turn,” I said. “Did you know, I mean, did your mother tell you about this guy who thinks he’s your father?”

Mark sniffled. “Yes. Yesterday. My birthday. She told me. You know that Mama doesn’t drink, but she had gotten a bottle of wine as a present and was halfway into it when she told me. She’s never told me anything about my father except that he was a soldier. She never said, but I figured that he’d died. I thought the wine had made her tipsy—and sad. She went to bed, then and was still asleep when I got up this morning.”

Yesterday was Mark's birthday? I didn't know! I've known him for four years and never. . .

Mark coughed, cleared his throat, and sniffled. “I was afraid to tell you! He was real. I knew it. And when I knew he was real, I knew what Mama had told me was real. I was afraid he would hurt you if he found out you knew for sure. I was afraid he would kill you to keep you from being my daddy.” He buried his head in my chest, and sobbed.

We didn’t have time to think about that, or to ask more questions before a ding-dong broke my thought. What? A doorbell? I didn’t even know I had a doorbell. Mark’s mother always knocks; Mark has a key. No one else ever visits.

A voice came through the door. “Lucas? It’s Avi Simmons. There’s a boy here to see Mark. Is he in there?” Mr. Simmons operated the deli and owned the building.

I opened the door. “A boy?”

“Hello?” a soprano voice said. “My name is Aiden? You’re Lucas, right? He’s Mark? Old Gravely Voice said he could have you? Or you could have him? Same thing, right?” Everything the boy said seemed to be a question.

“Is it okay?” Mr. Simmons asked. I nodded and stood aside. I felt the boy walk past me. He smelled of coconut and oranges.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Simmons.” I closed the door.

“Aiden!” Mark said. “What happened to your clothes? What are you wearing?”

“It’s a tunic. I had to wear school clothes to get Mr. Simmons to let me in. I didn’t think you’d answer the door if I came by myself, or if I brought one of the adults with me. This is my duty uniform, like the cammies Mars wears.”

“You know Mars?” I asked.

“Sir, I know who he is. And I know what he said. Actually, Dike has been waiting for him to say that for a long time.”

“Dike?”

“I work for her most of the time, although Athena is my real boss.”

“Athena?” I knew who he was talking about. I had lots of time for audio books including books on mythology and history. I’d listened to The Iliad and The Odyssey years ago. They got me interested in Greek mythology, including Edith Hamilton’s books. I knew who he was talking about, but in spite of what Mark had just said, I wasn’t sure I could accept it.

“Mark?” Aiden said. “You are truly the son of Mars. He and your mother were, um, good friends when she was an Army nurse in Iraq. I’m pretty sure she loved him. When she got pregnant with you, she was shipped back to the USA and discharged. No one knew that she’d been exposed to a neurotoxin from one of the chemical weapons. That’s why you were born crippled. Sorry, differently abled.”

“Crippled,” Mark said. “Calling it something else doesn’t make it any different—or any better.”

“Sorry,” Aiden said. “I know that, but it’s still hard. Dike was listening this morning, and when Mars rejected you, she summoned me to prepare papers—before he could change his mind. My biological father is a judge.

“Lucas? Do you mind if I call you Lucas? All of the other adults let us kids use their first names. These papers give you the legal authority to take care of Mark when his mother is working, including ordering medical treatment. Something you haven’t had, but should have. Your custody would become permanent should something happen to her. There’s a paragraph that emancipates Mark from his natural father whoever that may be. Of course, Mars doesn’t have to obey a human judge, but this document is signed by Dike. She’s a real judge, but she’s also a god. She’s as powerful as Mars, and I don’t think he would stand up to her on this.”

“Aiden? A lot of strange things have happened in the past few hours,” I said. “I’m not sure I can understand them, much less believe them. I want to believe them, I want to believe them so badly. I’m not sure I can.”

“He’s right,” Mark said. “We saw—I saw—a dude in cammies and pistols threaten Lucas, pick on me, and then say that Lucas and I deserved one another. And then he disappeared and the people who were frozen weren’t any more.”

Mark gasped for breath and kept talking. “I heard Lucas say he loved me, and I said I loved him. I saw you come in the door wearing regular clothes, and then wearing a T-shirt that barely covers your bottom . . . and your . . . .”

I felt Mark shaking, and wondered for a moment how he had gotten into my arms.

“Aiden? Making Lucas my daddy would be like a dream. But, there’s always a catch, isn’t there? What’s the catch?”

A sigh came from Aiden’s direction. “You’re right. There’s a catch; there’s always a catch and nothing is as it seems.”

His voice changed. It was deeper and more measured, flatter and quieter, considerably more serious. “There are actually two catches. The first is that you are a demi-god: the son of a god and a mortal. That means you have powers and it means that you will be in danger. The second is that Mars called Lucas Prometheus. We don’t know exactly what he meant, but we do know that the words of the gods not only reflect reality, but also create reality. Mars may have foretold something. He may have created something. We just don’t know.”

“I didn’t know that! How was I supposed to know that?” Mark protested. “Why didn’t Mother tell me? What else don’t I know?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” Aiden said. “I’m not a god, just an avatar, but Dike warned me not to say anything but what I had to say. You need to talk to your mother about what she knows and can tell you. Here’s my card. After you talk to her, call me. Maybe we could go for pizza sometime?”

I felt a slight disturbance in the air and heard Mark’s gasp. “He disappeared,” Mark said. “He just disappeared.”

“Mark? Are you sure? Disappeared? Like Mars?”

He hugged me, hard. “Yes. It’s real. At least the disappearing part. And the papers he left. They look real. They’ve got seals and stuff.”

“Tell me about Aiden,” I asked.

Mark described the boy—about the same age as Mark, straight blond hair with bangs over his forehead. He had walked in wearing what looked like a school uniform of shorts, shirt and tie, knee socks, and jacket with a crest. Mark hadn’t paid attention to the crest.

“As soon as you shut the door, he was wearing this long T-shirt thing with a belt. I didn’t see the crest on the buckle, either. And he had a book bag over his shoulder—not a backpack, but like a satchel. Oh, and sandals. And sometimes I could see his—his bottom and penis—when he moved. He wasn’t wearing underpants.”

Mark giggled at that. I was glad he could find humor in this. I was having trouble finding anything but fear and worry.

I asked Mark to read the documents to me, felt the seals on the documents, and believed them. I was really in loco parentis when his mother was not around; and Mark’s natural father, whether that was Mars wasn’t stated, had been cut out of Mark’s life, at least officially. Whether Mars could harm Mark—or me—was still a question in my mind. I no longer doubted that it had been Mars in the coffee shop, nor that Aiden was a messenger of the gods—Dike and Athena, at least. I did wonder how Aiden had gotten the papers signed so quickly, especially on a Sunday morning.

I must have said that aloud, because Mark answered. “Mars said the people in the coffee shop weren’t frozen but we were slipping in time? Maybe Aiden can do that, too. And he said Dike was a real judge. The name on this one paper? It’s Judge Candi K. Everheart. The letters in the middle? They spell d-i-k-e.”

I wanted to believe. I wanted so badly to believe I was afraid. I knew about confirmational bias. I’d even written an article about it—the notion that we look for and accept easily facts that support our beliefs, and ignore or reject those that do not. The way to the truth was always questioning and research. “Computer time,” I said.

Mark wheeled himself beside me so that he could see the screen. Yes. There was a Judge Candi K. Everheart, and a Judge Aiden Smith, Sr. who was also a notary and whose seal and signature attested the documents Aiden had left. Nothing about Smith being a twelve-year-old.

“Check for a son,” Mark said. “Facebook. Maybe I’ll recognize his picture.”

Bingo. “That’s him!” Mark said.

“That’s he,” I said automatically.

“That’s he,” Mark repeated. “Same kid. School picture. School uniform, just like he was wearing. Page hasn’t been updated in a while. Too busy being a spirit, maybe.”

I heard the gasp that told me Mark had discovered something.

“What?”

“Maybe, maybe he’s dead and that kind of spirit.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Which explanation was simpler, that Aiden was the ghost of a dead boy, or the avatar of some ancient spirit? Both required more leaps than I was willing to take, although both might have explained a lot of things that had happened.

Mark and I talked some more without needing truth or dare. We decided that we’d talk to his mother as soon as we could. Actually, Mark decided that. He was afraid, he said, and he wanted me to be there. Given her schedule, that wouldn’t be for a couple of days: the hospital was short-handed because of the holiday, and she’d be sleeping there between working twelve-hour shifts. She would try to be home for a couple of hours on Christmas morning.