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Elias liked to think of himself as a hopeful man. His faith gave him hope. The scriptures were full of prophets who suffered, and remained steadfast. Patriarchs who were tested, and did not surrender their convictions. To face hardship was to be challenged to stand firm.
But it was hard to feel hopeful or firm, when he came home to a quiet house.
Sometimes when he came home, Wendy would have the windows open and the music on. Songs that her Abuela had taught her long ago, and she’d taught Marc and Roro all the words to, when they were kindergarteners chattering in spanglish. Then there would be dinner ready for him, and Elias would make conversation about his day, and Wendy would discuss groceries, or one of the holy days if one was coming up, and maybe Marc would say a little something about his day at school, while he handled his knife and fork with the utmost care and kept his napkin spotlessly clean.
More often Elias would come home to the sound of the television. Soap operas, western reruns, or ads for the latest diet pill throwing black and blue shadows on the panel moulding and the closely drawn curtains. On those days he could expect tv dinner waiting for him on the coffee table, cooled from whenever Wendy had microwaved it, and she would hand it to him if she was awake sipping from a wineglass, or he would retrieve it himself if she was asleep, with her hand wrapped around a coffee mug that smelled too strong. One of them would change the channel to baseball if it was on, or tennis if that was on, and Elias might catch a brief glimpse of Marc when he came padding down the stairs and flitted into the kitchen for cold leftovers. Sometimes Elias would invite him to watch the game, and Marc would slide into the opposite corner of the couch from where Wendy was sitting, tuck his toes under Elias’s leg if he was between the two of them, and stay there like a mouse until it was bedtime.
And then there were the quiet nights, when he came home to the ticking of the clock. That kind of silence came more often on the first of the month, when they got the paycheck and Wendy went to the grocery store, and even more frequently during the summer. It was a guarantee on the anniversary. On those nights Wendy and Marc were both upstairs, Wendy back in bed if she’d even left it at all, and Marc doing homework behind closed doors. A quiet house meant getting dinner for himself, tidying the disarray, and putting Wendy’s bottles out in the dumpster. Marc never came out on those nights, and would only open the door if Elias made him, just to check on how he was holding up.
The quiet nights always made Elias wonder if they were even a family anymore.
So yes, he liked to think of himself as a hopeful man. But he couldn’t help the way his shoulders sagged, as he let himself through the front door, turned the bolt, and toed off his loafers, only to realize how silent the front entry was. A glance into the living room showed it was empty and disheveled. He pushed the coffee table back into place and dug out the remote from behind the couch, just to switch the tv on and have some white noise while he finished picking up the books that had fallen from the shelf, and straightened a crooked family photo on the wall.
Going to the kitchen he almost stepped on a broken plate in the dark, and only avoided it because he stumbled to a halt at the sudden wetness rapidly soaking through his socks. He flicked on the light and jumped at the sight of a sizable puddle on the floor, stretching all the way from the sink to his toes at the edge of the kitchen. The sink was half full of cold dishwater and abandoned tableware, and the shards of several broken dishes were scattered across the floor. Watermarks trailed down the walls like a thunderstorm had gone off over the sink, and he could hear the occasional plick, plick of water drops from the trailing dishrag, like the echoes a tiny but dreadful death knell.
He’d never seen the kitchen such a mess before.
Elias’s vision tunneled in on that dripping dishrag, and he felt something flip and squirm with alarm in his stomach. He should—he could at least check on Marc. Just check. Leaving the water and broken glass, Elias softly turned away, and began rushing with quick but silent steps up the stairs.
Marc was a good kid. A tough kid. He’d adapted to the changes in their family like a champ. Handled the grief like an adult, picked up the slack on chores, dedicated himself to his grades. He was the one thing Elias could depend on not to rock the boat when it counted. Elias was sure he was fine. He’d always been OK before now, of course he would be this time. It was fine. Marc was fine.
The bedroom door was open.
At the sight of it, Elias stopped, with another flip-flop in his stomach. That was new. Marc liked his door closed. He always kept his door closed. Even when he went to school, Elias had seen him carefully slip around just far enough to stand with his backpack pressed against it, and pull it shut behind him before tiptoeing downstairs.
When Elias reached the door he saw why it was open. The doorjamb was cracked, and the latch plate had been ripped off, hanging by one screw. At least it looked clean inside. No clutter and mess on the floor, like the rest of the house. Everything was perfectly clean—almost unnaturally so for a nine year old boy—bed made, desk clear, closet doors shut, posters and nicknacks all meticulous and straight. Nothing could have gone too wrong, if Marc’s room was so neat. Right?
Right.
Of course.
Elias stepped back from the door, rocking on his heels and shoving his hands into his pockets. It was all good. Nothing too bad. Nothing to worry about…
He should—he might as well—find Marc. Just to check.
But that was easier said than done, apparently. Elias looked all over the house, but couldn’t find the boy anywhere. Wendy was in bed, completely buried under the blankets, and the room was quiet and dark, so he only padded softly through. Marc would never hang around and disturb his mother if she was resting anyway, so that was the one room Elias could rule out.
After going over every other inch of the house from top to bottom, Elias was beginning to feel cautiously optimistic. Maybe Marc had just gone over to a friend’s house? Or…it was too late for the library to be open, but sometimes he liked to take his borrowed books across the street to the diner and read them, before dropping them into the return box so he didn’t have to carry them home. Elias had instructed Marc very carefully about customer etiquette, and not taking up restaurant space for free, so he would save up his allowance to buy milkshakes. Which wasn’t exactly enough money to allow him to stay as long as he did, but the owners were very kind about it, even though Elias felt guilty.
That must be where he was.
So Elias went back downstairs and mopped up all the spilled water in the kitchen. The garbage can was overflowing, and he carefully shoved down the empty bottles, tugging a flattened cereal box to cover them before removing the bag. It was not cheering to look at them more than he had to. Stepping out into the back courtyard on his way to the garbage can, he almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of a childish voice and rustling to his right.
He stopped to look, and realized he’d found where Marc was. A row of tall leafy bushes was planted against the wall, reaching higher than Elias’s head, and he could just barely make out the dark form of Marc behind them, crouching under the leaves. He seemed to be bent on his hands and knees, and Elias could hear him mumbling, too far away to catch the words. Since it didn’t seem like his son had noticed him yet, he set the trashbag on the top step, and circled down to get closer.
“A tough one to crack for sure, mate…” Marc intoned, speaking low to himself, in a childish attempt at an English accent.
What?
There was only silence for a long moment, which didn’t help to explain anything. Then more rustling, as Marc crawled a little farther along the leafy tunnel beneath the bushes. “Of course it’s difficult!” He said, and it sounded like he might be smiling. “This ‘ere was written by some of the most intelligent people that ever walked the earth. Bloody brilliant they were. You wouldn’t expect them to make a riddle that was easy to solve, now would ya?”
What on earth was he up to? Some sort of game? It sounded like he might be playing pretend.
“Marc?” Elias called softly, beginning to smile.
Silence from under the bush.
“Why don’t you come out and I’ll make you some dinner, bub. How’s that sound?”
“Shhhh.” Marc hissed, and Elias frowned at being hushed, but the boy kept speaking before he could scold him. “Careful, mate. It could be a native, tryin’ to make us into a sackery-fice! Stay quiet.”
Definitely playing pretend then.
Elias crouched down, even though his knees twinged in protest, and tried to peer under the leaves. It was surprisingly dark under there, and he could only make out his son as a vague shape, against the green and brown. “I’m not a native, I promise.”
Silence.
“Marc?”
More silence
Going all the way round to the wall, Elias could see better, crouching to look along the row of bushes at his son crouching about halfway down. He was staying impressively still, and his big dark eyes looked even bigger and darker under his damp curls, with that watchful way he had of staring at the world.
“Hey, bud.”
Still no answer, but Marc tugged a handful of curls forward out of their combed back style, pulling them down over his forehead, and hiding his eyes behind them.
This wasn’t working.
And almost on a whim, Elias decided to switch tracks. The boys used to have that movie they watched all the time. The silly jungle one, with the British doctor who used a machete. He could faintly remember hearing them play Tomb Breakers, or whatever it was called, and pretend to be British for hours. Now that Elias was looking at his son hiding behind the bushes, fidgeting in a half bashful, half outright frightened way with his curls, Elias realized how long it had been since he’d seen his son play a game. Do anything fun at all.
Far, far, far, far too long.
Everything had been absolute chaos in the immediate aftermath of Roro’s death. Going through Roro’s things, arranging the shiva, gritting teeth through the condolences from his synagog and neighbors, reaching settlement with the wildlife conservation committee that protected the cave area from city development, and supporting Wendy through her explosion of grief. Through all that hurricane of pain, and shock, and daily (sometimes hourly) crisis, it had been a relief, no—a benediction—to have one less thing to worry about. And Marc had been so good about staying quiet and out of trouble, when it felt like every other force wanted their ship to flounder.
At least, that was what Elias had hoped at first.
Now he was really starting to wonder—he was really almost certain—that it hadn’t been a good thing. How long had it been since Elias really sat down and spent time with his son? Real time. Not rides to school, not awkward dinner conversations, not silence in front of the television, but actual Time…
When was the last time Marc had wanted to play pretend?
Both questions had the same answer, and Elias desperately didn’t want to think about it.
(He couldn’t remember)
“Steven Grant, right?” He broke the silence as kindly as he could, trying to make everything about the words inviting. “I’ve heard about you. You’re really smart, and a doctor?”
It’s been too, too long, Marc was his only son left, and Elias Spector would love nothing more than to join him in a game of Tomb Breakers Pretend.
Knees creaking all the way, Elias bent almost double to squeeze himself under the bushes. It wasn’t nearly as easy for him as small, agile little Marc. His son seemed to find it hardly an inconvenience to move, but Elias could feel leaves and twigs scraping along his back, he couldn’t sit comfortably, and he was sure to get mud stains all over the knees of his slacks. But he pushed through it, and crawled as carefully as he could closer to Marc.
“I’m…Russel.” He said with the briefest hesitation when he tried to remember the name. He wasn’t quite sure he got it right.
He was rewarded for his effort with a darting glance from beneath the fringe of Marc’s curls, and what might be the ghost of a smile.
“You remember your old pal, Russel, right? I’m your sidekick on all your adventures.”
Marc allowed him to get close, posture unwinding the whole time, and there was definitely the beginnings of a smile around the corners of his mouth now. Elias came to a stop right next to his son, and then—because his knees really were killing him—flopped down on one elbow, letting his legs stretch out behind him, ankles and shoes just poking out into the open air.
“Now what’s the brilliant Steven Grant doing out here in the jungles I wonder?” He said with a prompting grin.
“Issa desert.”
“What’s Steven Grant doing out here in the desert?”
“We’re on’a hunt to find buried treasure,” Marc informed him, fully dedicated to the fake British accent again. “See this ‘ere is the long lost tomb of King Tut, the greatest of all the pharaohs! We’re inside his sacred burial chamber.”
“I thought we were looking for buried treasure?” Elias said, confused by the inconsistency of children’s storytelling.
“No we ‘aven’t found it yet, you see?” Marc rushed to explain eagerly. “We’re in the tomb, but the treasure ain’t here. Tut hid it away, and we’ve gotta figure out where it is. He’s left us a riddle, but it’s a right doosy, mate. I can’t figur’ out wot it’s sayin’.”
“What kind of riddle is it?”
“See is’all letters and numbers like. It’s a numeric cypher.” Marc announced proudly, saying the difficult words with great care.
Elias suddenly remembered seeing some kid’s of book about codes under his son’s arm, a few days ago. He must be absorbed in the idea of encryption and secret codes at the moment.
“So there must be a key somewhere in the tomb and we can solve it.” Elias suggested.
But with childlike autocracy over the story they were making, Marc rejected that idea without compromise. “No, there isn’t a key. We have to solve it on our own!”
“Well that’s going to be hard.”
“No it’s not!” Marc asserted with boyish scorn, even though he’d been pretending the riddle was difficult just a moment ago.
Elias didn’t mind playing along. “But how do we solve it without a key! It’s just strings of numbers right?”
“You ‘ave to decode the letters with logic.” Marc said with great superiority. “When you’ve got’a string o’numbers that you’re pretty sure mean somethin’, but you don’t ‘ave a key, you’ve gotta solve it on your own with the process of elimination. We need to look for a short, common word like ‘the’ or ‘a’ or somethin’ that’ll show up in the sequence lotsa times—“
As Marc went into a long and passionate explanation of code decryption, anagrams, and cryptography, Elias realized with a growing sense of sadness how long it had been since he’d heard his son talk so much. Most of the time he was like a ghost in the house. They were all ghosts, in their own way. Sometimes it felt like Wendy was so absorbed in her own world, Elias lost hope of trying to reach her, buoyed up by the faint scraps of hope, waiting for another good day when the music was on when he came home. And Marc…Marc was so quiet. It was like he was fading from existence. A photo getting un-developed in the dark.
And he was so smart.
Elias watched his hands fly over the brick exterior of the house in front of them, illustrating a string of imaginary numbers on the ‘wall of the tomb’ they were in. The pride he felt mingled with some sharp, nameless feeling that ached in the bottom of his chest, and burned behind his eyes. He’d forgotten just how clever his boy was. Just how eager to learn, and full of delight in knowledge. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten Marc’s good grades—though his teachers said he was a disruptive influence at school, and he’d started to act out more and more in the last year or two—but Elias had stopped praising Marc for them at some point. Stopped complementing his hard work, and making him feel special. That was a failure on his part. He should have been reaching out more, all this time.
There were a lot of things he should have been doing more…But he wouldn’t learn about those things until later.
For now he was hiding under a bush, playing pretend with his son. Both of them had grubby knees. The collar of Marc’s shirt was damp, and his curls were drying into frizzy ringlets like they always did after getting wet. He was almost vibrating with excitement and pleasure at being listened to, far more animated than he’d been for months on end, passionately absorbed in the stories of mythic kings and ancient history that Elias had no idea he’d cared so much about. It was a whole new side of Marc he’d never seen before.
He would remember now, though. Elias promised himself, as he watched his son chatter at him happily. He would remember Marc’s passions this time. He wouldn’t forget about his son’s inner world again. From now on he would try harder. Make an effort to stay close, stay aware, stay present. To be accessible for his son, and safe, and within reach of his small humble desires. Marc wasn’t as bold or assertive as he used to be. The loss in their family had changed him, suppressed his forceful decisive nature, and made him more introspective and reserved than before. Elias would have to change too, and change quickly, to remain perceptive of his son’s needs, to pay attention now that Marc didn’t demand it quite as much as he used to.
And that would have to begin right now, with this game of pretend. He’d been drifting away from his boy for far too long.
“I think I’ve cracked it Doctor Grant.” He said, trying to gently cut across Marc’s chatter with as much tact as he could, while it seemed his son had no intention of stopping to breathe any time soon.
Marc’s stream of innocent prattle cut off with truncated suddenness, and he gave Elias a strange, confused look, like he’d almost forgotten the man was there. That hadn’t been his intention at all, and something bothered him about the wary expression in Marc’s eyes, which he hurried to rectify.
“The numeric cypher, I think I’ve cracked it.” He reached out to run a finger across the brick facade of the building before them, where Marc had been pretending the hieroglyphic puzzle was. “It’s coordinates don’t you see? 50 to the west, 30 south by southeast.”
(Which was an entirely bogus number, because Elias had no idea how real latitude and longitude worked. But it wasn’t like nine year old Marc would know the difference).
“That means we have to leave the tomb, and search for another location.” Elias explained.
Laboriously he worked to crawl backwards, and Marc began to follow him. If crawling into the bushes had been difficult, crawling out was even worse. He couldn’t get enough room to turn around, so he had to shimmy backwards, and he could feel wet dirt grinding into his knees while stubborn branches seemed intent on getting caught in his shirt and pulling it up over his shoulders. But he managed to extract himself, and Marc emerged with unconcerned ease a moment later, apparently not in the least out of breath or bothered by fitting himself into small spaces.
“Now lets see…” Elias, trying hard to make a good playmate, pulled out his wallet and fished out his driver’s license. “I wrote the numbers down, so we can remember them.” He squinted at the DLN in the gathering dusk, and read them off with as much ostentation as he could.
It still felt a little silly, but Marc’s growing interest in his actions made up for the lingering sense of awkwardness.
“I think it’s this way,” he said, making a show of tiptoeing and peering about, like they were brave adventurers in a wilderness. Marc’s round black eyes ate it up.
Slowly, step by step, Elias led Marc back into the house. Both of them moved with upmost stealth, though Elias’s center mass was too heavy and still creaked the floorboards. Marc flitted gingerly from wall to wall with practiced grace, avoiding the creaks and pitfalls that Elias tripped up, and making no more noise than a cat. Elias brought them to the bookshelf in the living room.
It wasn’t like he was trying to hide anything exactly. But Wendy was very particular about their bills. She didn’t like wasting money on luxuries, and sometimes it was nice to just buy himself a candy bar, or a new tie, or some books, without having to make a big fuss about it. Sometimes he just wanted to treat himself. So every now and then, when Elias came home and there was an extra bill in his pocket, or he’d found some money in the sidewalk, he’d tuck it between the pages of the dictionary. Not to save up for anything in particular—he used to take an extra half hour at the bar after work sometimes, but he had to admit Wendy’s cabinet above the fridge had rather soured his taste for casual beer, and he didn’t go anymore—but just to have it. Just in case. For the quiet nights when he needed to take a walk to the corner store, or the bookstore, or really anywhere but their house; just a small, private thing for himself.
Now he pulled down the book, made a show of blowing dust off the binding, like it had sat up there collecting the sands of time for a hundred years, and opened it to the page where he had a twenty dollar bill poked between the definitions of habanero and habedasher. “And viola,” he said, flourishing the bill as he held it out for Marc to inspect. “The great treasure of King Tut.”
Marc looked at the money in his hand like it was the tablets of Moses, and clasped his hands to his chest as if he was almost scared to take it. Slowly, Elias eased himself to one knee so he could look his son in the eyes. “Now, Mr. Grant,” he said, gesturing with the money as he talked. “What say, you and me go take this and buy some gelato at Fourth Street Pizza. How would you like that?”
The round eyed awe transferred from the twenty to Elias holding it, and Marc’s entire face lit up in excitement. “You’re not pullin’ my leg or somethin’?” He demanded, but he was so full of happy anticipation it seemed rhetorical.
“Get your shoes.” Elias said in answer.
It was done almost as soon as he said it. Marc bounded away with a huge grin, his untidy curls bobbing, and Elias more slowly recovered his feet and followed. The whole way out the door Marc discussed which flavor he should get, hotly debating them all without any apparent expectation of being answered. He really was a talker, once you set him going. And apparently dedicated to the Steven Grant bit. He kept up the accent, clumsy and fake as it was, the whole time. It was quite a performance. But he’d always been a determined child who didn’t give up on things easily. It was only in-character, Elias supposed, for Marc to remain loyal to a game of pretend after most children would have grown tired of it.
So, still clinging to their identities of Steven Grant and Russel, Elias took his son down to the pizza joint on Fourth Street where they sold Chicago deep dish and had a gelato counter. The restaurant was usually more pricey than Elias cared for, especially since Wendy almost never wanted to eat out, but it seemed like the time to splurge. It took almost all the money, but soon enough Elias was sitting across from his son with a bowl of pistachio and caramel tiramisu (he’d expected his son to pick something less sophisticated like cookies and cream, but Marc seemed bent on surprising him tonight) sitting between them.
Marc lifted his tiny gelato spoon with mincing anticipation and scooped up a bite of his treat, careful to leave the round dome of gelato pristine, and gathering up some of the caramel syrup to garnish his bite. He slid it into his mouth and seemed intent on making it last forever by holding it in his mouth with his eyes closed. Elias couldn’t help but chuckle, watching him sit there and savor it, as if there wasn’t more where that came from.
“It’s gonna melt, if you don’t eat it quick.” He observed affectionately.
All he got in answer was a non-committal hum, but Marc straightened up and began on his gelato in earnest soon after.
“I didn’t know you liked the pharaohs so much.” Elias said.
Sometimes it was hard to get Marc to open up, but he seemed more expansive and friendly tonight. Not to mention the gelato gave them a nice excuse to avoid looking at each other too closely, which Elias had heard made pre-teens and adolescents uncomfortable. Maybe he’d be a little more communicative, after how well their time had gone together so far.
“They’re bloody brilliant.” Marc enthused. “Did you know they invented navigation? Like, usin’ the stars and stuff to get about? It’s really cool.” He did a little wiggle on his chair and noisily sucked the spoon. In spite of Elias’s warnings the gelato was starting to melt faster than Marc ate it, and there were smears around his mouth while more gummed his fingers and dripped on his shirt.
Elias quietly passed him a napkin, more amused than otherwise at the mess his son was making of his hands, and tried to investigate more from a different angle. “Is that what your teacher is doing in school right now? Learning about the Egyptians?”
“Oh no.” Marc shook his head, curls bouncing, and ineffectually trying to use his napkin. “It’sa load of rot about the British empire. Don’t get me wrong, yea? England is cool or whatever, but it’s not very interestin’ compared to learnin’ about other places.”
“So you just discovered Egypt on your own I guess.” Elias said. “Did you rent a library book or something recently that made you like it?” Maybe he could get Marc to show it to him, if he was willing and Wendy wasn’t downstairs watching tv when they got home. They could extend this enchanted closeness just a little longer…
But Marc only gave him a funny look, and said “I’ve always liked it.” As if it was an obvious fact. Like saying his hair was black: completely foolish to think otherwise.
And maybe it was. Maybe Elias really was just that out of touch. He realized when Marc stuffed a larger bite into his mouth to keep it from falling off the spoon, that there was a gap in his smile. He must have lost one of his baby teeth recently. He hadn’t noticed until now, and that too sent a twist of guilt through Elias’s chest.
He’d always been careful to keep up the story of the Toothfairy in the past, and put a dollar under Marc and Roro’s pillows. But Marc hadn’t said anything to brag about this loss, and so Elias had missed the date. And it wasn’t like Wendy would be likely to keep up the tradition, yet Marc hadn’t even complained about the missing dollar, or questioned it’s disappearance. The illusion was probably broken now. Too late to keep telling him the Toothfairy always knew about his teeth. Elias certainly hadn’t.
In spite of Elias’s best efforts, the magical cheer of their game of pretend was slowly tarnishing. Recriminations and doubts assaulted him now, overwhelmed by the growing list of his failures, and Marc’s good mood seemed to be slipping too, even with the doubtless hefty payload of sugar hitting his system. He got quieter and quieter in the last twenty minutes, and then finally trailed off into abrupt silence as they neared home, head turned listless and disinterested toward the car window.
Elias shifted gears into park, and the noise shocked Marc out of his reverie. He turned a startled gaze on Elias in the driver’s seat, and it was suddenly a silent, fearful shadow sitting across from him again. Gone was the smile, and the happy chatter, and the animated body language. The return of Marc’s usual self, flitting through doorways and watching from corners, seemed painfully sharp in contrast. Why hadn’t Elias ever noticed that? Was he just crazy? Or paying more attention than usual.
“How ya feelin’ bub?” He asked softly, trying as best he could to reach the guarded child next to him.
“Full.” Marc said shortly. He tried to rake the curls back from his forehead, but they only flopped forward, and he examined his fingers in annoyance. “Sticky.”
“Yeah, you really went to town there.”
Marc began trying to suck the residue of syrup clean from his thumb.
“Hey,” Elias reached out to touch his son’s leg, and Marc went as stiff as a coiled wire. “This was fun.” Why was it so hard to talk to children? Had it always been this difficult? “I had fun.”
“Yeah…” Marc agreed finally, posture loosening just a little. “Yeah, thanks dad.”
“I love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too.”
As Marc darted out of the passenger door, Elias moved to follow, looking after him as he mounted the steps to the front door. Yes, he certainly had been drifting. But Elias would try harder. Marc was still his child, even of Roro was gone. Elias would pay more attention now.
After all, Marc wouldn’t stay a child for long.