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July 4th, 1951
His twenties. Apricot flesh under teeth. New tires against uneven road. His 20s. A perfume bottle he can’t touch still on Her vanity, only a few sprays left, golden hairs still in his bedsheets, tangled in the carpet, stuck to his socks, His 20s.
Dad always told him, “Mark, you’re not even thirty. Go fool off. Turn the music dial on the radio higher. Go see that movie, Mark. Go take your car on a spin, Mark. Go to a play. Go to a bar. Be alive, Mark. Have fun.”
(Go meet someone else, Mark, you’re not even thirty Mark, don’t waste your entire life missing a woman who died when you were–)
Horrors in a hospital bed, swollen feet, Judy, His Judy, His Sunshine, his girl, hand to his cheek, and–
Dad met Mama when he was 20. Dad used to be so interesting. Least before—
Explosions and empty casket funerals and— the ever-unfolding mess that is his modern history.
It's 1951.
It’s 1951.
But
But that's not, not then,
That's not right now. His dad dying and not having enough of him to fill a casket. That's not right now. Because he's not-won’t-can’t think about vaporized dads, and being an orphan at 26, and how his younger brother who doesn't remember Mama and might not remember Dad right in a few years. Because Mark hardly remembers being 13, really! And Wands talks about Mama like she was a dream sometimes, because she was 13 when Mama died, and—
And it's July. It is July. Summer-sun and scraped-knees July.
It is July, and his son sits in front of him, disgruntled in his summer outfit, shorts and a button shirt, as Mark brushes out his hair. And his son looks up to him with His Judy’s perfect nose, and His Judy’s perfect smile, and—
And his twenties. He was thinking about the concept of them. Being in his twenties. That's right. Clawing at the door to 30 like Uncle Pete’s huge dog. Banging on the door like Wands has spent ten thousand years in the bathroom in their hall, fixing her makeup for her 10th date this week with Mister-Professor-working-on-his-doctorate-whatever Hottie, and that cannot be his real name but it was and—
And Wanda’s ID still says Wanda Hottie, she can’t touch it long enough to do the paperwork to go back to Walter, she gags when she looks at it too long, fingers trembling, and–
And it's 1951.
It's 1951, and he's turning 27.
And his son bats his hands away, says, “Dada, my hair is fine,” and its not, its all sideways and a Walter-cowlick-mess made worse by Judy’s ringlets, but Mark lets his son (his son, Judy’s son,) down, and off to go pick out socks from his sock bin, and thinks about anything but the mostly-empty-casket funerals of his dad and his brother-in-law, because those are not important right now.
He's turning 27. Twenty-seven.
His uncle would always sit there, squint at Dad when he said that sort of thing. That their 20s are for slacking off and living. Uncle Pete would always wave his hand, dash cigarette-smoke-ash to the tray, say his 20s were burnt up trying to figure out how to be alive again, Peter. Stop trying to convince the boy he needs to have any sort of fun before he turns 30, Peter.
Uncle Pete would take Mark by the shoulder and say being 20 was for making mistakes, taking out girls who will ruin his life, (though the way Dad scoffed at ‘girls’ always made Mark wonder,) bad relationships and going to college and failing three semesters straight, and not getting hooked on anything addictive but bad relationships, his uncle says.
His twenties, Uncle Pete would say, with the voice of a man who lied to the government about Mark being absolutely entirely pivotal to their war contracts to get him II-B selective immunity, that his twenties are absolutely not for trampling across Europe nearly getting his head blown off. That he’s not having whatever little Walter-sense he was born with knocked out of his thick skull.
The second World War.
He didn’t fight in it. Maybe he should have enlisted.
Mark is…
Well.
If the fact Uncle Pete hardly slept before Dad died is anything to keep in mind, or the fact he describes being covered in rancid globs of trench guts and being nibbled on by rats the size of the badgers Hatchy used to make is anything, Mark is glad Uncle Pete lied to keep him home. War manufacturing. They took deals in the war. Everyone did. Supposedly he was pivotal to making things at home, so as to be useless comparatively across the sea. All to keep him out of the army. Out of Europe or where-else.
It wasn’t that he wasn't. He did work manufacturing here.
But not at the level his uncle said he did.
….At least Mark's twenties aren't War. That’s a bright side, maybe. Even if he's an orphan at 26.
But who knows.
Maybe if he wasn't home with Judy, they wouldn't have—
He stares after his son, arms deep and looking for whatever sock he’s got in his head, and he wishes he could just hold Pete close to him like he did before Pete could do things like sprint and run and say No, dada let me go.
Because No. No no no no
As much as he misses Judy he can't think that. He cant think that. He cant think that. Their baby is the only thing left of Her and she–
She….
So, sure, he's a widower with a 3 year old, and no parents, with only a stressed to pieces uncle, a falling apart sister, and a 13 year old brother who he has to make sure gets to school every morning, but at least he wasn't in the war.
He knows people who tell him about the war. He…um.
He feels kinda bad about not going, but Uncle Pete's death grip on his shoulder when he heard the draft was pulling young men to Europe again was–
It was…
Telling.
And Dad died months ago. Right? Wanda’s husband gone with him. And Rabbit’s been unstable since. Emotionally. Physically. Generally. And Petey hangs out who knows where after school. And Judy—
Judy’s been dead for nearly 4 years now. But that's not—
That's not important! That's not this,
Because it's about to be his birthday. He's taking his sister, his little brother, his uncle, and his son to a restaurant. And then maybe, if uncle Pete isn’t too tired, they’ll take some photos in the back garden. And—
And it's July.
Photos in the back garden with his son. And going out to eat. Because it's going to be his birthday. And he's going to break out Judy’s old camera equipment just like she'd want him too, and he’s going to take some family photos, and it—
It's going to be nice.
Because it is July and nice.
And if he has to spend even another second watching Wanda deconstruct alone, or watch Petey stare at walls, or Uncle Pete all but bleed what is left of him into customer orders to keep the lights on and the bills paid he is going to snap.
And sure.
His Judy is gone.
Dad and Mama are gone.
Wanda’s Guy is gone.
And Rabbit hardly leaves her room. And The Spine hardly leaves her side. And The Jon and Upgrade are nowhere to be found half the time. And Hatchy's been downstairs since he was 14. And everything feels like its rotting around him, festering and sickly green and dead where Judy was, but he—
But he's turning 27! And his son is 3 years old. And his son loves the park. And he promised himself he'd give his son a beautiful life that Judy would love. And he promised Judy’s grave that their son would grow up okay and happy and healthy without her. And—
And sure it's hard. Sure since Dad died it's like peeling off his nails one by one to eat and take care of little-baby-Pete, and he's lost nearly 30 pounds he hasn't meant to. And sure his-baby-Pete only just stopped asking where grandpa went so often. And sometimes Mark just holds him and tries not to cry. But—
But he's turning 27! And Judy’s scrapbook is hard to fill without her, and without Dad, and Mama never would have even gotten to see it, but—
But he's going to have a good day.
He's going to have just one good day.
Please let him just have one good day.
He leaves his son with Wanda downstairs, while he heads upstairs to make sure Uncle Pete’s awake.
Wanda's a ghost in the living room. Blue and pale. But she hugs him good morning so tightly he feels like his ribs are going to snap.
It's always like this these days
Uncle Pete's not doing well. In the morning. Headache and frustrated by his limp and worse arm. But as Mark walks him down to the kitchen (Uncle Pete hates it, hates needing to be minded,) he's been wished happy birthday at least twice by him.
Petey sits on the arm chair with his comics, hardly looks up as Mark passes him, squeezing his shoulder before turning to his son.
His son who is stacking little people in a house set. Mark reaches down, scoops him up and sets him on his lap, as he sits next to his uncle, on the couch and–
Today is going to be a good day.
Just let today be a good day.
And he sort of thinks they all need it too, really.
…
In the living room, Uncle Pete sits pressed forward beside him, gripping onto his cane, eyes set on him and his son.
“So we’re going to you and Judy’s malt shop for lunch?” His uncle says, eyes turning down to Mark, “Then photos, out in the yard?”
And Petey, so far over there on the recliner only sinks back into the cushions, and Wanda’s jittering, nearly, and–
“I have Judy’s camera all set up. For when we get home.” Mark says, “And– yes.”
And his uncle nods. Reaches for his son, pulls Pete into his lap, and Mark is–
It’s–
A bit too much, suddenly.
He looks at the three of them, and last year they didn’t do anything for his birthday, other than another doctors visit for his uncle, and more immunizations for his baby, it slipped everyone's mind but his, and–
Dad should be here. (Mama should be here) (Judy, his Judy should be here)
Uncle Pete’s arm snags around his back, squeezing at his shoulder, and Wanda is just staring at him, and–
He wants his Dad.
He wants his Judy.
Judy died 4 years ago. And everything in his life has been counting since after she died since. And now he’s going to need count off from when dad died too, and before Judy it was from when Mama died and—
And Uncle Pete pulls him closer. And–
And Petey is staring at him too, now, eyes twitching, now, as his shoulders hitch, as his shoulders hitch? As his uncle drags him into a sideways hug, and–
“I’m alright,” he says, and he isn't, and he hasn’t been all morning, maybe, and–
And oh.
Wanda’s teeth are breaking the skin above her knuckles as she looks at him. He–
So…he can't do this?
“Wanda, stop,” He says, too piercing, too frantic, making himself pull away from Uncle, reaching for her, sharp, quick, as he rips her hand away from her mouth,
And the silence is too long, as he looks at her, as she looks right back at him.
Then Petey says, dry and low and all teenage anger: “Wanda, could you maybe just stop being awful?”
And she freezes up, and Mark winces, and Petey stares at her,
“Peter.” She snaps, sharpening, and he stares right at her,
“His wife died too, Wands,” Petey mutters, crossing his arms, glaring, “So. Stop. It's his birthday.”
“Petey, don’t talk to–” Mark starts, but Wanda just stands. And walks out. Through the arch out and to the hall. And Mark just stares after her.
Mark folds over his hands. Shuts his eyes so tight his ears roar behind his head, and Petey glares after her, Uncle takes his shoulder, and–
“I’ll talk to her.” his uncle says, and his baby’s looking up at him, wide eyed, and…
“Alright.” Mark says, and–
And it’s July, and it's summer, and it’s his birthday, and he just needs one good day.
…
And Wanda’s been falling for over a year now. Ground pulled out beneath her again and again and all over again. Every time she might find her footing another board breaks and she falls another floor down. Her legs have already shattered. Her ribs are following. Soon it’ll be her skull, and that’ll be all that's left of her.
Blood and brains and finally rot.
Petey’s right.
She is awful.
She can’t go with them. Because she’ll ruin it. Ruin him. Ruin his day. Ruin it all. Ruin it all.
She’s sitting on the steps to upstairs. Butterfly breaths against her knees, dress falling flimsy astrew her ankles.
She is past the end of the world, sailed over the edge of it, and somehow still sitting right here.
Her uncle sits down next to her. She can hear his pity, nearly, as he sets a hand on her shoulder. She bites her lip at the way his joints creak, at the effort it takes for him to fold himself down.
She buries herself further into her knees.
“Wanda.” He says, like everything hasn’t shattered beyond fixing.
He’s so calm, is the infuriating part, in the face of her— in the face of her own ending, he’s so calm, even as she can’t look up at him. Can’t pull her fingers from her hair, can't excise them from where they curl into her scalp.
“Wanda, we’re all going. And that includes you.” and it's firm, and it’s final, and it’s the fact that she wants to, she does, she does,
Her brother’s Cadillac convertible, the wind in her air, something like pretending to still be anything but destined to die,
“What if we die?” she says, and she doesn’t even know why she says it, but it's true.
What if they all die?
She can hear the way his lungs deflate, feel the way he shifts in the air, as he moves his hand to her knee.
Guy was nothing, when they scraped him up and brought him home. Fingerbones and scraps of flesh, the inside of bodies can be broken down to nothing, her uncle's nearly was,
“It’s just bad luck, Wanda.”
And she shakes her head. Because it can’t be that. It can’t be. Because he was in the room with Guy and her father, and he saw–
“Wanda.” His thumb rubs circles over her kneecap, visceral, here, hers, “None of what happened to your father, and your husband, will happen to us if we go to a diner. Alright? You know that. I didn’t go to all of your graduations for you to think that makes any sense.”
She shakes her head again.
They could.
They all could die.
“Wanda, it was Ignatius, Alright? it wasn’t anything your father or Guy did, to cause it, I was there,”
And he’s told her this, he’s told her this enough times it should have taken root by now, should have choked out her terror like a strangler vine, but she–
She leans into his shoulder.
He wraps his arm around her.
But it's not just Guy, is it? It’s not just Dad, is it? It was Judy, and Mama, and Gramma Iris, and Grandpa, maybe, and now its Mark, in how his cheeks retreat back into his face, in how his spine pushes out of his back, in how he sleeps so long every day, and how he stumbles where he stands, some days, and he doesn't see it, and how he doesn’t eat, but he’s–
She’s going to lose him too.
“Your brother needs to get out of this house. And so do you, Wanda.” Her uncle says.
She nods, and–
She’s going to lose him too. Her uncle. She’s going to lose everyone. She can feel it already. See it already. Know it already.
Petey is going to be the only one left when she goes. And maybe he’d be better for it if she was gone.
Everyone would be, probably.
They’d worry less, after all.
…
Blue. Green. When blue matter and green matter react, absolutely no one at all has a good time.
Petey knows this.
Wanda. Mark. When Wanda Walter and Mark Walter start arguing, he’d sooner jump out a window to not get involved than to get wrapped up in Wanda’s perpetual misery or Mark’s about-to-finally-crack-break demeanor, and he–
When Wanda and Mark argue, something’s being broken. And if it’s not what’s left of Wanda’s head, or the strung out bits of Mark’s bleeding heart, it’s his own patience in the middle because they’re both so infuriating.
He stands up, then, as Mark's son is deposited on the ground, as Uncle Pete goes after Wanda, as Mark folds up just like Wanda always does – hollow cheeks, he’s getting thinner every month. He sleeps through breakfast and lunch.
Petey’s not going to feel guilty for yelling at her. It’s Mark’s fucking birthday. The least she could do was not be awful for fifteen minutes.
(There’s a reason he prefers Red matter to Blue and Green. It doesn’t explode the same way.)
“Hey Pete,” He says, to his brother's son, standing, then, “Do you want to go make sure the car’s ready to leave? Help me find your dads keys?”
Mark looks up, a half second, and Petey wants to go and scream at Wanda more, at how pale he is, but Petey stares him down, before reaching down, taking Pete’s hand.
“Happy birthday, Mark,” he says, as walks his nephew out of the room so his brother can have a second to just breathe.
…
He misses Judy. Her smile – her hands – her lips to his. He misses feeling like he was headed anywhere but down. Sinking to his hips in quicksand, trying to claw himself up inch by inch.
But his son is getting older, Petey is getting taller, things might be getting steadier, maybe.
And it’s his birthday.
His birthday.
Twenty-seven years old, and his 14-year-old brother is watching his son while he draws his knees closer to his chest, and tries to gather himself entirely.
Judy’s cameras are all set up upstairs for him to take down, later. He’s got a nice outfit for Pete all laid out for after they eat.
Dad isn’t here.
Mama hasn’t been for even longer.
But he takes a breath, then another, and pretends, a moment, that Judy can see him still, that she can tell him it’ll all be alright.
Hearing Wanda and his uncle down the hall, coming back, he stands up. May as well get his keys. And make sure his son doesn't somehow toss them down a vent somewhere.
…
As Mark pulls his Cadillac around the front to where Peter stands, waiting, his nephew maybe he looks a bit more alive than he did this morning – Peter’s glad every day he gave the kid that loan to help him buy the thing.
Call it an 18th birthday gift. He never expected a dime back from him. Refused every time Mark brought it up.
Peter can hardly believe it's been 9 years.
He’s a good man, Mark. And he needs a break, they all do, but it's Mark’s birthday, so Peter makes himself smile, tries to, at least, with how his lip doesn’t like going up how it used to, as he stands there, makes himself keep on keeping on. Pats Mark on the back as he passes off the baby to his other nephew, before letting himself into the passenger seat. Crossing his ankles around his cane.
It's funny, in a way that really isn't, that when Peter died he ended up needing a cane after.
He stares into the rearview mirror back at Wanda and Petey as they settle the baby in and between them in the carseat. Watches as Wanda gives Petey a look – before Petey grimaces at her, as Pete shrinks a bit between them.
“You all behave back there,” He says, perhaps a bit too shortly, perhaps a bit too hotly, but sharp enough the two of them stop whatever spat they were brewing between them.
None of them need an argument right now.
And those two argue far more than is reasonable.
Him and Peter did too, argued more than any sort of reason, Peter with him about his choice in lovers, his apparent lack of sense, his lack of interest in company management, him with Peter over his honestly harebrained trips into the recesses of Kazoo, (and lack of ability to just book a venue) but Wanda’s a decade and some change older than Petey. There's no excuse for this.
His left hand doesn’t move all the way, anymore. He’s been selling off his clockwork to keep the bills paid.
He does not have the energy to mediate today, and Mark does not need his birthday ruined by needing to mediate. He sets his hand on his nephew's shoulder, decidedly not staring back at the kids as they turn out past the giraffe gates and onto the road.
He wishes Peter were here. He… Peter would be able to hold things together.
More than him, at least. Peter was always good at that. Reeling his kids into line, and Wanda wasn’t so…. Wanda wasn’t bleeding then. Mark was, but Wanda wasn’t. And Petey wasn’t so upset, every passing hour, and–
And he still had his brother, then.
(Didn’t have to live with the haunting guilt that he brought Ignatius into their lives to start with.)
The road rolls out ahead of them, yellow hills, distant mountains. Orange poppies peaking out of brush.
Wanda’s leaning over the car door, Peter’s playing what color is this in your book with the baby, and Mark…
Mark’s humming along to the radio. Eyes forward. Posture a lot easier than earlier.
Peter Walter III turns his gaze through the windshield, reclines back against the leather, and lets the wind tear back his hair as the road winds on.
It grows in blue nearly from the roots now. White in places, too. In ways it never did about a year ago.
His hands are blue in the veins crawling past his elbows.
But they’re getting there, still. They’re getting there.
He doesn’t even have to tell the kids in the back to stop arguing.
Mark and his Judy had been going to this diner since before either of them could drive. He was their ride more often than Peter was, really, through their school years. Mark bribed him by running him out a milkshake while they spent all evening out here.
He’s a good kid.
Judy was better, though. Kept his head on his shoulders. Peter knows better than he has any right to falling in love that hard doesn’t go well for any party.
“Open spot there,” He says to Mark, and Mark barks out something like it’s too thin, when it's not, but who’s Peter to decide how far he has to walk anyway.
(And when Mark gets a spot right near the doors as someone reverses, he ignores the half-grin his nephew shoots at him)
Petey tumbles out of the car first. The toddler in his arms, as Wanda extracts herself from the other side, and Mark rolls up the windows.
Mark’s brighter in the eyes than he was when they left. Smiles wide as his boy struggles out of Petey’s arms and insists on walking right in front. Leading the way to the food, he says, determinedly.
Peter follows them in the back with Wanda.
Her hair’s starting to streak blue from her temples. She’s done it up in a bun. She looks backwards at him, and he tries to offer her a smile.
They’re getting there.
She stops for him to be next to him, takes his arm, and they walk in together.
…
Mark takes his baby’s hand, as Pete tries (and fails, as he is a little tiny) to get the door open himself. Brings him in as his family follows behind.
Stepping back into this place is always like pretending Judy’s still right around the corner at their table, shoveling fries and a burger to her mouth as she gossips with their waitress, him sliding in and across from her and stealing a kiss. Red lipstick grin, infectious laugh.
He misses her.
Pete drags him to their table, he knows where they sit, and clambers to the bench, all smiles, as–
As things get better.
Petey follows, taking a chair, as his uncle and sister sit, and,
And Mark orders two milkshakes. Sets one at the empty chair for his wife, may she rest in peace, as his son demands pancakes, and–
And it's a nice day, for once, maybe.
He walks his son through the jukebox, while they wait for the food. Lets him pick the song.
His uncle admits he’s been trying at making some new clockwork, as Petey goes on a wild ramble about the new comic series he’s picked up, Mysteries In Space, and as Wanda eats a whole meal, before admitting she’s been thinking about trying some new experiments with Blue Matter and, and–
And Mark really thinks, as Wanda insists on lighting candles on the cake she ordered for him, that things are going to get better, he really, really does.
His uncle squeezes his shoulder, and his son demands he get some cake too please, dada, please, and Mark knows things are going to be okay.
…
They take a photo in the yard, when they get home, Wanda to his right, arm around his shoulders, his son excited in the front. Petey with his hair combed nice to his left, with his uncle beside him.
When Mark processes the film in the dark room, that night, files away the negative, sets the positive to dry, he….
He’s smiling in it.
But he can’t babysit the film for too long, as it dries, because his son probably wants a bedtime story by now, and after all that cake and sweets, Mark really needs to convince him to brush his teeth.
Here’s to 27.