Archive of Our Own

December 15th, 1951 

December’s teeth. Cold sun. Empty skies. Mark Ray Walter is 27 years old. Mark Ray Walter turned 27 months ago now, back on the first of July. 

His father used to tell him he was a summer child. Bright eyed, wild. 

When he was small he’d run from that mean old rooster in the yard. He'd shovel blackberries from the garden to his mouth, staining shirts and hands purple. He'd climb up the trees by the pond, toss sticks and cones down at the ducks, laughing his head light as Wanda wailed helplessly up at him to not fall again.

But that was then. Then. During July’s of when he was small. That was then. 

That was when everything was still alright. That was when the world still turned on its same-old axis. That was then, when Mama was more than a gravemark up on the hill in the back. That was before his world ended the first time. And now it's ended twice since. 

But last July was July. A warmer month. A safer month. July was his son sitting out in the grass, pulling up the clover by the roots. Dirt under little nails, screaming baths in the evening to get the soil and sand from his toes. July was his sister managing some sun on her face after months hidden in her room, weeks spent tearing yellow wallpaper from the walls by her bloody nails. 

Last July was July. Warm and more welcome than still-grey-sky. Summer and bright despite the fact the world hasn't turned once since his Judy went. Since his father died. Since Wanda's Guy died. 

And now it’s December. 

Now it’s December. 

December. The end of the year.

December. The month his son was born.

December. The month his Judy died.

His father had tried to take care of him these last few Decembers. Without Judy. But his father hasn’t taken care of anything in 14 months now. 

His father is buried up on that hill by Mama. By Judy. By where Papa and Gramma are. By the growing graveheads. 

His father is buried.

Wanda is shattered in her bed again with the cold.

And his Judy would have turned 27 years old yesterday. 

And his Judy would have turned 27 years old yesterday. 

And Judy has been 23 for 4 years now.

Judy. Judy. “Don't call me Jude, jeez, Markie, what do you take me for,” Judy. His Judith. His Judy Walter. His girl. His wife. His Miss One-And-Only. Her golden hair, her ruby lips, she’d be beside him, now, sitting in his passenger seat, chewing gum, hand out the window singing to the radio as it plays a crackling song, she’d be there, and the world would be only them.

Only the two of them. Him and his Judy.

His Judith.

Or maybe it wouldn’t be. Not really. Not now.

…Their son turns 4 years old in 6 days. 

And that means Judy has been buried and 23 for nearly 4 years now.

Their son is at home, three nearly four years old.

And Judy has been 23 for 4 years now.

And his father has been dead for 14 months now.

And his son turns 4 in six days.

And Judy is dead. Gone. Buried. Gone.

And somehow, despite the fact the world doesn't turn anymore, it's December all over again. 

And Mark is driving.

And Mark Ray Walter is driving.

Sometimes he drives. Drives until the gas light glows, until the muted-red tells him to pull over. Sometimes he drives until he can mistake the wind in his hair for Judy’s fingers. Sometimes he sets his baby up in the front with him, lowering down the roof off his Cadillac, lets his son see the stars.

And sometimes Mark drives because it's the only thing left for him anymore. 

Uncle Pete keeps telling him he needs to help with the company orders. He tries. 

He stares at the tools until his vision goes blurry, and can't manage to help. 

Uncle Pete tells him between gritted teeth and barely constrained panic that he needs to help keep the gas bill paid, the electric bill paid, the water bill paid. 

And he does work. He does. 

But home is work, now. 

And his car is all he has left, really. 

His car is the only thing left that’s his.

…Judy loved this car, loved the drive ins, loved the way he'd speed them down empty winding roads, steep up, fast down, the two of them kissed by the stars and the music so loud it drowned out their voices no matter how loud they sang.

And Mark is in his car. His car. 

And he 

Well he’s driving.

There is no getting better from here. There’s no sign pointing to the off ramp. All the speed signs have been knocked from their posts as things move fast and hard and he's left gripping the wheel to steer them through.

Dad is dead. Mama has been dead longer. Wanda’s not helping them with the company. Uncle Pete's sick in bed half the time, and when he's not he's screaming on the phone with lawyers or at the man that ruined them.

He doesn’t know what to do from here. 

There's no stopping anymore. 

There's no breaks.

And they’re so behind on customer orders.

Uncle Pete’s not getting any better. Uncle Pete can hardly even close his right hand. He can’t work anymore. Not the same as before. 

And it's only him left. 

Him and Wanda. And Wanda’s not going to be any help anytime soon. And Petey’s still just a kid. A kid. And— 

Sometimes he wants to take Wanda by the shoulders, shake her, shout Sure, Wands! Yeah! Guy died! But my Judy did too! My Judy died and left me with a starving infant, Wands, but—

But that wouldn't help anything. Not her. Not him. Not uncle Pete. Not Petey. Not his baby. Not anything at all.

The world hasn’t turned once since his Judy died. 

Not once. 

And he’s still driving anyway.

The road under his wheels is rough, ragged bumps. Cracked pavement. Lines scraped, old. 

He can imagine Judy next to him, in his car.

He can imagine what she'd say.

“Markie, darlin’, breathe,” She'd say and he can hear her, nearly, sitting there beside him. She'd grab his hand, or the wheel itself, have him steer the car to the side of the road, pull them over. Climb into the driver's seat, straddle him back to the leather, kiss him back into the headrest as she fumbles for the lever to press them back. 

What's the point without her? What's the point without anything? Uncle Pete won't get better. Dad is dead. Wanda’s falling apart. 

Judy is gone.

Tears press against his eyes. Blurring the road lines as he presses down on the gas.

Maybe if he goes just a little faster the wind will clear his eyes. 

His son turns four years old next week.

His baby turns four years old, and his Judy turns four years dead.

She was sick the whole pregnancy. She got sicker towards the end. 

Her parents never liked him. Her parents never liked that he didn't enlist in the second war. Didn’t like the exemptions from the draft he got from the war manufacturing work they did back then. Her parents never liked that she ran away from them to him. 

The School dances and sports games, the car rides so late the moon was the only light left. Dates in the malt shop, milkshakes shared over the jukebox. Silly dances in empty fields, the world theirs, theirs. 

Judy was his.

She would love their son.

Mark loves their son.

He's all he has left of her.

Loves him with all the air he has left in his lungs, and whatever strength he can find in the morning, he loves him with it. 

But his son is at home. 

And Mark is just driving. Driving. Driving. 

He presses down on the gas, wind ripping the tears from his eyes, he doesn't care if they pull him over. He doesn't care anymore. 

His odometer ticks up mile after mile. His gas meter sinking towards E.  

Going home means facing Wanda. Means her trembling voice asking where he's been all night, means her crawling out from her room, or from whatever work orders she's managed to tremble over. She’ll ask him why he went on a drive instead of helping. Like she can say anything with how much she decomposes and doesn't help. 

Why was he was out so late. Why was he not helping. Why did he leave Pete with Norman. Why this why that and—

Or maybe she won’t have even noticed he was gone.

All he ever does is help at home. He never has the air to breathe anymore. 

He'd wanted to show Judy the whole world.

He'd only ended up showing her to her grave.

He reaches out, turns up the radio, shuts his eyes against the wind.

Tries to hear Judy beside him. Tries to pretend she's there. He still finds her hair sometimes, golden long and curly, tangled in the seats, the blankets, the pillows, or against his pillowcase. Her perfume still sits on her vanity. 

His girl. His Judy. Golden hair. Ruby lips. Electric stare. Moonlight catching on her pretty hair. 

The radio crackles as he sobs to the sky.

It's all gone, hasn't it?

It's all gone.

He feels it more than he sees his tires hit something that isn't smooth road, eyes snapping open as the wheel veers left, wheels spinning out, traction jerking his wheel, his headlamps shining against yellow grass, against the sky, 

And,

And maybe he screams, 

His car veers out, crashes over the edge of a cliff he’d come out against, his hands white knuckle to the steering wheel, two wheels off the road, off the ground, tipping wildly.

Oh. he thinks. 

Oh.

He crashes forward over his steering wheel, cracking his head into it as his car falls, shifts, falls. Crashes sideways and over into the passenger seat as the car flips, 

Sending him to fly.

He hits the water as the car does, flung through the open roof, head cracked against the wheel column, blood in the water, thrashing red and faint, and,

Hitting the water, feet tangled in the door as the car drags him deep. The water ice, his car is sinking, water in his mouth as he gasps, flowing through down and into his lungs, burning and cold and salt,

And it's all gone

And he

And his vision is gone first, from the cold, from the salt, eyes burning from the water, thrashing panic, arms heavy, coat sodden and,

And his pants are stuck on broken glass, pinned under the door, 

Water winter cold, lungs burning with salt as he begs for air, but all he gets is water, and,

And he can’t leave Wanda, he can't leave his son, his son, his–

But water is all he can breathe, and–

And god, god, Wanda needs him, Petey needs him, his son needs him, he can’t, he can’t–

But he sees Her, then,

Her, 

Golden hair above him, face shining beyond the surface above, 

‘Judy?’ and whatever air he had left leaves with it, as fingerless gloves reaching down, pull him up, up and,

And it's all gone, gone, gone to rust.