The Marbury Lens (11 page)

Conner shrugged and slapped my shoulder. “I’m thirsty, Jack. Don’t you think we’ve gone far enough for jet-lag boy today?”

“Okay. Let’s go back.”

And Conner just shook his head and laughed as we turned back toward Marylebone Road, saying, “Seriously, dude. Seriously. Maybe I should give you a play-by-play of the porno I’m visualizing right now.”

“I’ll get back to you on that, Con.”

That night, we got drunk at The Prince of Wales.

It wasn’t like we hadn’t planned it: It was the one thing that Conner and I had talked about since deciding to take this trip in the first place.

Conner had me laughing so hard, I thought I would pee in my pants.

It felt good. Finally, good.

There were only a few other people in the pub; even the bartender sat down with us and had a beer. He wanted to talk about basketball, and assumed we did, too, since we were from California. He said he was a Lakers fan, but neither of us cared about basketball much at all.

And he said, “That gent who bought the beer for you the other night, he did come back yesterday. I told him that you had his glasses, but he said they weren’t his. He said they belonged to you.”

Conner looked at me. I just hoped he was so drunk that none of this would matter.

I wasn’t really scared that Henry was looking for me. He had to be hurting so bad, wanting to return to Marbury, but he was dead there. Game over. And, sitting in the pub in that weak state, I couldn’t help but think about Ben and Griffin, even if I hated myself for it, too.

“Well, it was just a mistake,” I said. I emptied my beer, even though I was full. I only wished the bartender would get the idea to shut the hell up and go pour some more for us.

“But the girl,” he continued, “I haven’t seen her since the night you left here with her. Very pretty.”

“She’s in Blackpool,” I said. “And, yeah, she’s beautiful.”

“Hey,” Conner said. “You should call her, Jack!”

“Dude. I am not going to call her when I’m drunk.”

“Then let me.”

“Not going to happen.”

The bartender scooped up our glasses and walked back to the bar.

Conner grabbed at my pocket. “Let me see your phone.”

I laughed. “Get off me. I think I’m done for tonight.”

“Have one more,” Conner pleaded.

“Okay. But that’s it.” I waved an order to the bartender and got up. “Be right back. Gotta pee.”

I lied again. I just wanted to get away from Conner. I really did want to call Nickie, I just didn’t want to do it around him. So as soon as I’d closed the door to the toilet behind me, I had my phone out of my pocket.

“I’m sorry for calling so late, but Conner’s here and I just wanted to say hello. I needed to hear your voice.”

I could hear the smile in her tone. “Why?”

“To prove you’re real,” I whispered. I tried to make it sound like a compliment, a line, even if it meant something entirely different to me.

Nickie said, “You don’t strike me as being that needy, Jack.”

“I try to manage, I guess.”

Nickie laughed. “Is your friend enjoying himself?”

“I think he’s finally tired enough to go to sleep.”

We talked for a few minutes, and eventually I promised Nickie that I’d come up to Blackpool before the end of the week, and she sounded happy about that.

“There’s something about you that’s different, Jack,” she’d said.

“I know. Try and not let it get in the way of your starting to like me.”

When I came out to the bar, I saw Conner was already halfway through the beer I’d ordered. There was a full glass waiting for me. Conner leaned slightly to one side, looking relaxed enough that he could fall to sleep right there in that pub.

I’d had enough. My legs were rubber.

Then I looked over at the bar.

Henry Hewitt was leaning against it, wearing the same sweater and long coat, unshaven and scruffy-looking. And he just kept glancing back and forth, from me to Conner, with an expression on his face like he was watching something horrifying, like an execution.

You haven’t gotten away from anything, Jack.

But Conner didn’t notice him.

I half-stumbled toward our table, leaned over my friend, and said, “I’m going to pay the tab, Con. I think it’s time to get to sleep.”

Conner nodded and finished his beer.

And when I got up to the bar next to Henry, I pulled some money from my pocket and whispered. I kept my head turned straight so that it didn’t look like I was talking to him. “Wait here for me. I need to talk to you. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just, don’t leave.”

Henry Hewitt didn’t answer.

I said, “Please?”

And then I turned around, grabbed Conner to help him to his feet, and we left.

I think we must have looked like caricatures of inebriates, Conner and I, as we walked crookedly, arms locked around one another’s shoulders, trying to make our way back to the hotel. I’ll admit that I kind of exaggerated it, though, because I wasn’t nearly as drunk as he was. In fact, although Conner babbled on in a singsong voice about every kind of nonsense, I hardly paid any attention to him at all as I ran through the dozens of things I wanted to say—and do—to Henry Hewitt.

By the time we’d gotten up to the room, Conner could hardly manage to stand without leaning on me, so I guided him over to the bed and dropped him down at the nearest edge.

“Looks like this side, Con,” I said.

“This side what?”

“Where you sleep.”

“Oh. Okay. Take my clothes off, Jack.”

“You are gay,” I said. Then added, “Here.” I slipped his shoes off.

“Now you’re on your own. Good night.” I threw his shoes onto the floor next to my pack.

“Night,” Conner said. “I’m glad we did this, Jack. We’re going to have a great summer.”

“Maybe.” I opened the pack, began snaking my hand down through all the things I’d balled up earlier. “I’m going outside for a minute so I can talk to Nickie. I’ll be right back.”

“You don’t need to go outside. Talk to her here, so I can listen.”

“Go to sleep.”

My hand closed around the familiar wire frames of the glasses Henry left for me.

Roll. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Roll.

“What’s that noise?”

I pulled the glasses out. In the dark of the room, I immediately saw through the lenses: windless white sky, the blackened peaks of mountains, a flash of Griffin Goodrich looking at me from on top of his horse.

I shut my eyes tight, felt like I was standing halfway between the panic that Conner would pay too much attention to Seth’s stubborn tapping and the pull of needing to look one time—just a peek—to see if Griffin was okay.

“Nothing. It’s coming from the street. Go to sleep.”

Conner rolled over onto his side. He was trying to get his pants off, but gave up.

I found one of my socks that I’d stuffed into a running shoe earlier; then I blindly felt down inside the pack as I fed the glasses into it. I didn’t want to look at them.

But I was lying to myself. I wanted to look through them so bad that I began shaking and went completely sober, sweating as though I’d just eaten a bottle of caffeine pills.

I tucked the glasses into the waist of my jeans.

Conner began breathing heavily. He was asleep.

And for just a minute, I stood at the side of the bed watching him. He looked so relaxed and happy. I envied him. And I thought,
No matter what goes on anywhere else, Con, you will always be my best friend.

I promise.

I turned the lights off and hurried back to The Prince of Wales.

The whole way there, dripping with sweat, and once stumbling out into the street, stupidly looking in the wrong direction and nearly being run down by a car, I kept wanting to pull the glasses out and slip them onto my face.

It’ll only be a second, Jack.

Just a peek.

Ben.

Griffin.

I wanted to howl, to hit someone, to hit myself.

I’m sick of this shit.

I’m sick of me.

I had to stop. I bent over a trash barrel near Warren Street and forced myself to hold in the urge to vomit.

My guts ached.

Roll. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Something moved along the ground, a quiet vibration against the steel can beside my foot.

I felt it.

Tap.

Tap.

My hands shook so badly. I couldn’t control it. I grabbed the sock with the glasses, pulled it out like a junkie opening his kit. Sweat poured from my scalp. I put my fingers into the sock.

“It’s a difficult thing to control once you step foot over the edge, Jack.”

I gasped, straightened. My stomach caved in again.

Henry stood in the darkness by the edge of the street, watching me.

I dropped the glasses into the trash can.

Roll. Tap.

“Fuck you!” I screamed, “Fuck you, you goddamned sonofabitch!”

I ran at Henry, both fists balled tight, and began punching him as hard as I could. Everywhere, until he fell to the sidewalk, trying to cover up, but I kept hitting him until my hands ached and I dropped down beside him and sat there on the ground next to him.

I didn’t cry.

Jack doesn’t cry.

“Fuck you, Henry.”

Fuck you, Freddie.

Henry moaned and rolled away from me.

He spit blood; there was a small puddle of it on the pavement stone beneath his face.

Then he wiped his mouth and said, “Unfortunate to have waited around for that, I should think.”

I pulled my knees in to my chest and just sat there, out of breath. I watched the street.

“Well.” Henry pushed himself to his feet. I could tell he was looking at me, but I didn’t move. “If it means anything, I felt the same way about it, Jack. And now look what’s happened to us. I apologize.”

“Why are you still following me?”

“You know. How can you stop? Part of me is grateful to be free of that place, but most of me wants to go back more desperately than I can say.”

“Then take them back.”

“I can’t go back. And you wouldn’t want to give them up, now.” Henry took a step closer to me. I tensed, still wanted to hit him. “I would give anything to go back. The glasses show me nothing. Only black. Did you see what happened to me? You saw it, didn’t you, Jack? In Marbury?”

I saw your head nailed to a fucking wall.

“Yes.”

“Not a very pretty world, is it?”

“Which one?”

Henry laughed. “I like you, Jack. I always have. And those boys love you. You’re all Ben and Griffin have now.”

“Are there any others?”

“I don’t know.” Then Henry kneeled down behind me, almost whispering, “I didn’t realize about your friend. The one I saw you with tonight. I swear, I didn’t know.”

“You’ve seen him before? In Marbury?”

“Yes.” He put his hand on my shoulder, but I pushed it away. “I didn’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t have looked for you, Jack. I would have looked for Ben. You have to believe me. His name is Conner.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. It’s why I told you to be careful. About who you look for, about looking for your friends. I don’t know. I’m afraid there’s almost nothing alive there now. And fewer of us than them. But I know our connections in this world connect us in Marbury. That’s why I never lost hope that I would find you. I swear I thought I would find Ben and Griffin, too.” Henry stood up and took a step away from me. “It’s how all worlds begin, Jack. How they all end. War. I haven’t been able to tell if it’s the beginning or the end in Marbury.”

I didn’t want to hear him. “Because you’re full of shit.”

“Look, I’m going to leave now. I’m going to make myself leave you alone now, I promise, Jack. Only one thing: Can you tell me, please, what’s happened since you’ve gone there, to you, and Griffin, and Ben? Tell me that, and I’ll try and forget all about it and leave you alone. Can you tell me?”

“Fuck off.”

I wouldn’t look at him, didn’t want to. He was just another monster out to take something from me. I was through with him, with Marbury, with everything.

I sat there and stared at the road. I listened to the sound of Henry Hewitt walking away from me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Leaning over the garbage can, I pushed my arm down into the darkness until I found the sock with the glasses wrapped up inside. I looked back once and saw that Henry had watched me do it.

“It’s a difficult thing to control, Jack, once you step over the edge.”

I pushed the glasses down inside my pants and walked out into the street, away from him.

And Henry called out after me, “Take care, Jack. I’ll be around.”

“Fuck you, Henry,” I whispered.

One in the morning.

I shook.

I sat at the desk with my elbows propping me up, looking at the little white bundle that lay on the polished wood in front of me.

Like being born.

One in the morning.

I watched Conner as he slept, wished I was asleep.

I wrote it on the paper and my hand shook doing it:
One in the morning.

Roll.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“Shhhhh…”

And he said, “Seth.”

“My name is Jack,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“Why can’t I see you here?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of me?”

Then I realized he was standing right there between the empty side of the bed and the wall: the faint image of the boy I’d seen in the cave and, later, on the train in Marbury, standing, not moving, his dark eyes fixed on me, with the steadiest, most relaxed expression on his face. It was Seth, barefoot and shirtless, wearing thin, ragged pants tied around his bony hips on a strand of twine. And almost as soon as I could focus on him, he vanished again, and his little song began from somewhere beneath the bed—the rolling, tapping, rolling, tapping.

“Shhhhh…,” I said. I swallowed. “I’m supposed to go, aren’t I? You want me to go?”

I slipped the glasses out of the sock.

I could already see the Marbury sky on the other side of the lens.

A world between my fingers.

I can’t get away, don’t want to get away.

I deserve this.

Fuck you, Jack.

My hand quaked as I unfolded the glasses.

One in the morning.

It’ll just be for a second.