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He turns back the covers for me, then stands back and gestures for me to get in, but I am not dressed for bed, and I don’t want to sleep. I want to be awake when the next terrible thing happens. I want to see it coming.
“Slip the dress off and get in,” Mark says. “I will leave you to get ready, but I want you in that bed in two minutes, understand me?”
He has a natural dominance, very different from Angelo’s dark intensity which makes me fear not only for my life, but my actual soul.
I am tired. I’m exhausted, actually. But it’s the wakeful, stressed exhaustion of a prey animal who knows she cannot afford to fall asleep.
“Matilda…”
“Call me Tilly.”
“Tilly. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. You can get some sleep.”
“Your… Bobby…”
“I won’t let him hurt you.”
“But he… what’s…”
“What’s his deal? It’s complicated. Believe it or not, he’s actually better than he used to be. Don’t worry. Angelo doesn’t waste his time, and bringing you here just to let Bobby kill you would be a waste of time.”
That wasn’t what most people would technically classify as reassuring, but it does make me feel better. Mark seems like the sort of guy who tells the truth. I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those before. Everybody in my life has lied to me for as long as I can remember.
He leaves the room and I do as I was told. It is good to be told what to do when you are running on auto-pilot, and the pilot hasn’t shown up for work.
The slip beneath my dress keeps me modest as I slide between soft sheets and sit in the bed. I do not feel safe here. The energy in this house is particularly intense and masculine, and I feel out of place. I don’t think a woman has ever been in this room, or any of the others. The decor, such as it is, exists only as practical items. Lamps. Clocks. A clock that’s probably also a lamp.
A light tap on the door heralds Mark's return.
“… come in?”
I am not sure if I should be inviting him in, this broad-shouldered, handsome man who offers what might be the most dangerous thing to me right now. Kindness.
He steps back into the room and smiles when he sees that I am in bed.
“Does that feel better?”
The softness of the bedding is threatening to draw me down into it. As much as I want to stay vigilantly awake, I am exhausted, just as he said.
“It is better,” I admit.
“Good,” he says.
There's a silence between us, a silence which I feel compelled to fill in case he turns and leaves me alone. I don’t want to be alone anymore.
“My father died this morning. Or maybe it’s yesterday morning by now,” I say. “They shot him, over breakfast.”
His gaze softens, and when he speaks, his tone is gentle and consoling.
“Who shot him?”
“I don’t know. There are always men in suits and they’re interchangeable. I don’t know if these ones were supposed to be enemies or allies.”
“You were there,” Mark says. “You saw it, didn’t you.”
I nod.
“I am sorry,” he says. “Violent death is not something anybody should have to witness, especially not that of a parent.”
I give a little shrug.
“You don’t think so?”
The bed shifts as he sits down on it, keeping his distance from me, his seat a few inches from my feet. I find myself holding my breath. Even at this distance, there is something which feels like intimacy between us. I am lost, and afraid and vulnerable. He is strong, and calm, and kind. Or at least, he wants me to believe he is.
“I didn’t like him.”
“Ah.”
That’s not what people usually say when I tell them that I don’t, or now, didn’t like my father. Usually they whine something like, oh, but he’s your daddddddd.”
Mark doesn’t do that. He seems to understand without my having to explain. He seems largely platitude free. Maybe that’s what Angelo does to you. Pulls you out of easy society and lets you be whatever kind of animal you are. What kind of animal is Mark?
I look at him and I see the kind of man who cares. For some reason, he cares about me, even though I’m an interloper in his home, and a total stranger.
“You should probably hate me. Like Bobby does.”
“Bobby doesn’t hate you. He’s afraid. Angelo is all he has. All he knows.”
“They must love each other a lot.”
“It’s complicated,” Mark smiles. “Everything is.”
“I’m used to complicated. I’m used to cruel. Angelo… he feels familiar. In a way. I mean, he’s way more intense than anybody I’ve ever known. But, I get what he wants. I think.”
“I don’t think you do,” Mark says. “Angelo is hard to know, and harder to live with. But I think I understand what you’re saying. You haven’t had a happy life.”
