Rapture

Top Man

The windows in their flat were so fogged by condensation Emma and Jonathan couldn’t see out - the hot August day and boiling vegetables competed with weak central air for ascendancy. Jonathan had suggested salad for Sunday lunch but she couldn’t bring herself to serve Martin such an insubstantial meal. She checked her watch; he was due in half an hour, just enough time to mash the potatoes, set the table and change.

When the doorbell rang at noon, Emma buzzed him in. She listened to the familiar voices in the entryway, Jonathan’s low and calm, Martin’s voluble. As they entered the kitchen, Martin brusquely kissed her cheek and handed over the weekly bunch of flowers, a mix of white carnations and daisies, dyed strangely blue, which she felt compelled to admire extravagantly while arranging them in a vase. Last week’s bunch, wilted and tilting at different angles, splayed in a pickle jar on the kitchen counter.

Jonathan offered Martin a glass of sherry, and Emma, hurt by her brother’s coldness, began to dress the salad. Martin leaned against the kitchen counter and ignoring her, recounted his week. Jonathan murmured encouraging replies. Listening, she knew that though he resented Jonathan, he hoped to impress him, and she forgave Martin’s attempt to exile her for finding a new man. Conversation with Martin never an easy proposition, guiltily, she smiled at Jonathan, receiving in return a look she couldn’t interpret.

They moved from the kitchen through the dining area and into the living room, all three spaces interconnecting without walls. Cramped, they sat in a row on the sofa, Emma in the middle. She picked her cuticles, trying to think of something Martin would like to talk about. An avid moviegoer, he loved to discuss plots, and often gave them a blow by blow account, which drove Jonathan mad.

Seen any movies this week? she said.

He turned to her, his mood now improved.

"I saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." He looked at Jonathan to gauge his reaction.

Part two hundred and seventy one, Jonathan said rolling his eyes.

Martin laughed.

You have to admit, there’s been no more successful story, Emma said.

Do you mind if I put on some music? Martin asked, kneeling before the CD player.

Whatever you’d like, Emma said.

Jonathan offered refills and Emma joined him in the kitchen to serve. She dug him in the ribs with her elbow at the stove, feeling conspicuous with only the dining area and the music to shield them. She wanted Jonathan to embrace Martin, too, to know and love him as she did, though without the perspective of the good years, she knew how hard he found it.

Please, she whispered, be gentle with him.

"I am trying. If only it wasn’t every Sunday." 

He looks up to you.

Little does he know.

She smiled. "You didn’t know him then. He could have been just like you, a professor of English. He was so smart. And, she gulped, it breaks my heart that he thinks Harry Potter is something you’d like to talk about."

I’m sorry, Jonathan said. The man is impossible to pin down. There are so many versions I have to take into account.

Sshh. We all have versions; don’t make it sound like he alone has changed. 

Jonathan gave her a hug. I promise I’ll do better.

She served the salad followed by dinner. Emma forced herself to eat the hot food and Jonathan, perspiring, ate with little appetite. But Martin relished his meal, attacking each item individually - first his peas followed by carrots, potatoes, and finally chicken. She knew from childhood he ate in order of least preferred.

After lunch they sat in the living room with bowls of ice cream on their laps.

Jonathan, ashamed now of his callous attitude, rose gamely to the responsibility of getting to know Martin better.

What do you like to read? he said, as Martin shuffled through the CDs, scattered on the floor.

Oh, I like most anything. You may find this strange, he said, taking in Jonathan’s receptive smile, but what I like most is reading maps.

Old maps?

I like new maps best.

Martin has mastered the whole of London while it’s all I can do to get to work and back, Emma said, grateful for Jonathan’s about-face. She squeezed his hand.

Not so, Martin said. But I can surely try.

It’s a noble aim. London, though I’ve lived here for a long while, is not easy to navigate, Jonathan said.

Martin looked up and smiled. Well, the important thing is I know how to get here.

Emma and Jonathan exchanged glances.

Martin, you know that nothing stays the same, Emma said.

Of course I do.

In the face of his optimism, she found herself unable to go on.

How would you feel if we were related, old chap? Jonathan said, coming to the rescue.

Martin’s face suffused with the creep of a blush at the shock of this. For a long moment, he didn’t reply. Well, that’d be fine, he said at last. He scrambled to his feet, stuffing a couple of CDs into the rucksack he’d brought the flowers in. You don’t mind if I borrow these, do you? I’ll bring them back next time.

Of course I don’t, Emma said with a sigh.

She was proud of Martin’s independence, the way he worked a full-time job and lived in a flat from which he walked to work every day, living at the height of his capability - beyond her parents’ wildest dreams. Substituted by the Sunday ritual, the relationship she craved with her younger brother, though unfair, even foolish in its impossibility, didn’t stop her wishful thinking, the lunches not only filling Martin’s emptiness but attempting to fill hers. The past remained too close, reminding her not only of their loss but of their fleeting happiness. Martin once her closest friend, their love in some way unassailable, had vanished. Now that boy was gone and Martin had taken his place.

She walked him to the Sloane Square tube station.

Is it true, he said outside the entrance, that you’re going to marry Jonathan?

Yes, she said. But it won’t change things between us. I’ll be married, that’s all.

When? he said.

We’re going to put the flat on the market first. We plan to list within the month. And once it’s sold and we’ve bought a house we’ll get married.

He looked at her, trying to retain his composure. He’s a good bloke.

He is, isn’t he?

He finds me a chore, I think, even though I try my hardest.

That’s just not true, she said firmly. You don’t know each other yet, that’s all.

If you say so.

Martin, she thought, despite his limitations, could not be taken in that easily.

Though he made the trip weekly, he consulted the map, placing his finger on the first connection. Looking up he smiled wryly, as though making fun of himself.

Bye, Emma. His smile enigmatic, not that of a man who had suffered a traumatic brain injury, his normal appearance a trick life played on her. She hugged him with too much feeling and he pulled away impatiently. In an attempt to recover, she stooped to examine her hemline and smoothed her cotton dress.

Well, bye then, Martin, she said. Same time next week?

Right-o, he said briskly. He glanced at his watch, kissed her and then began his descent into the station, lifting his arm to wave without looking back.

*

Emma took the tube to work every day. She found it unbearable, the crush at times so intense sweat broke out on her body and it was all she could do not to faint, willing the spots in her vision to break up and not consolidate into one black opening through which she would fall. She had moved to London from Essex for a promotion in the personal trust department at the bank where she worked, moving in with Jonathan who she’d been dating for a year. If the promotion hadn’t brought her, she would have found a way. They had met at Lilette’s wedding and she loved his gentleness from the start. A tall man, broad and bearish, whose dark hair often flopped into his eyes, he nonetheless possessed physical grace, his contradictions making him all the more appealing. When he sat reading student essays, his glasses slipping off his nose, or reading the newspaper, she wanted to tousle his hair and bring him back to her.

Moving to London was thrilling but the reality of it proved another matter altogether. She just couldn’t get the hang of the place – how vast, unfamiliar, and soulless it could be. Only Jonathan made living here worthwhile, and sometimes he seemed impatient at her sense of dislocation, as though it was her fault. Perhaps he would begin to find her more trouble than she was worth and send her away. But he hadn’t sent her away. In time she knew his love for her made him as vulnerable to her as she was to him.

Their small flat, though they’d done their best to furnish and decorate, remained tiny and anonymous, resistant to their efforts to personalize it. The simplest of errands required more energy than she possessed - cabs, tubes, buses, connections all along the way. She often got lost, turning down one street then another, unable to get her bearings. As she began to talk of moving Jonathan opposed it; he’d lived in the city since college, loved its vitality.

Its vitality, she told him, is stealing mine.

He looked at her. How is that possible?

I can’t explain. It’s all I can do to live here. After that there is precious little left.

She could tell he knew it was true, unhappy, losing confidence in many quarters. And so he agreed they should move, put the flat on the market and once it sold some months later, they bought a cottage in Surrey not far from the train line. Emma transferred to a job closer to home and Jonathan commuted to London. This seemed ideal, decorating, gardening, entertaining friends, exploring their new surrounds. Before long Emma’s parents brought up again the question they’d put to her when she and Jonathan placed the flat on the market. Who would look after Martin? They relied on her to explain things to them about him; their special past particularly suited her to understand his current state of mind. She repeated her earlier assurances. Surrey wasn’t the back of beyond. Their times together need not change that much. They’d have to trust him; he was, after all, thirty-one years old, employed and capable of handling his own life.

Yet Emma was feeling guilty. Though they still invited Martin to Sunday lunch, the visits were now unpleasant. He came at first but not without reluctance. The train ride was too long and he took false turns, wound up on the wrong line, forcing him to turn back. Jonathan mapped it out for him, even took the train into the city on occasion to accompany him back to their station in Surrey. But in time he stopped coming. They began meeting in London for lunch but eventually this, too, petered out. Emma and Jonathan got married with little fanfare in a chapel not far from Emma and Martin’s childhood home. When Emma became pregnant and the baby came, life got complicated, Martin a casualty. She loved her brother but she was getting on with life as people do. It wasn’t the only reason things changed between them; their love forced, dutiful and compromised by all they endured, could no longer be faced. Life had gone on for her and so, she supposed, he was demonstrating his independence. Consequences aside, she respected him for this.

*

Martin worked in the mailroom at a large paper manufacturer. One of its benefits was he had occasion to passing contact with people at the company all the way to the top. He entered the administrative staff office instead of the factory, a distinction that mattered to him for the factory workers were another breed, coarser, less cultured. Fridays he walked with his work-mate, William, to a local Pret a Manger for lunch, eating at one of the tables or in the park across the road. As he greeted co-workers, sometimes Martin detected condescension in their heartiness. Feeling small and alone, he craved above all things, to be indistinguishable from the next man.

There were six in the mailroom, the supervisor, and five staff who traded delivery duties, liberation from the dull daily routine. Surreptitious walkabouts, detours and coffee breaks were commonplace. The supervisor, a non-confrontational woman who prized popularity at the expense of quality, allowed these delinquencies. What some thought spineless, Martin thought expedient – a discontented staff bred a discontented supervisor. Proud of his professionalism, he stopped at mail stations and popped in offices to chat and inquire about things, in this way gaining knowledge of the company’s operations.

Friday Neil Davis, the chief executive officer, stood outside his office as Martin passed by. He turned to Martin and smiled, asked him how he was without a hint of condescension or dismissiveness. Martin stood with him for a moment exchanging pleasantries. They established things about each another. Neil lived in Windsor and came in on the 7:57, the father of two grown daughters, Nicola and Freya. Martin told him about his parents in Essex, and Emma, Jonathan and the baby. At last Neil nodded, wished him a good weekend, and Martin walked away uplifted.

But the weekend lay ahead with little to fill it. Martin went for long walks to avoid his flatmates, three young men who bathed infrequently, brought girls home for noisy sex, pocked the upholstery with cigarette burns, and left dirty glasses and plates everywhere. He walked to his usual haunts, along the embankment, to Trafalgar Square, the National Portrait Gallery, and Covent Garden where he browsed the market. Once a month he took the train home to Essex for the weekend and he trailed around the old neighborhood with his parents and the dog. Sometimes they took him on a drive into the country. Evenings when it was fine they sat on the patio in the garden with gin and tonics; on chilly nights, the gas fire lit, they ate dinner on trays and watched television. His mother, Judith, asked him about Emma, when he last spoke to or saw her. Martin was evasive, but his mother, as always, sensed undercurrents and probed where it hurt.

One Saturday evening on one of Martin’s visits, Emma, Jonathan and Veronica came for dinner. A raw November day, outside the living room window leaves scudded in the evening air, the dark sky threatening rain. Inside, the lamps lit, cozy and intimate, a fire flickered in the grate. As Judith and Tony made last-minute preparations for dinner in the kitchen, conversation had ground to a standstill in the living room. Not knowing the first thing about children, Martin pretended Veronica wasn’t in the room. Emma lifted Veronica off her lap so the baby stood straddling her thighs. Veronica swayed unsteadily, her mother clasping her fluttering hands, and proceeded to jump up and down, her eyes wild with amazement at this new and surprising game. Jonathan laughed at his daughter’s joy. Martin sipped his sherry and watched this domestic scene unfold. It had been bad enough when Jonathan came on the scene, stealing Emma’s love, now here was Veronica, taking her away completely. He missed Emma, the essential childless Emma. Motherhood has ruined her he thought, a mere extension of her child.

Distracted by Veronica’s constant needs, Emma only half listened as he attempted to draw her into talk.

How’s work? Jonathan said, filling the awkward silence.

Fine, Martin mumbled barely audibly.

Do you like the job?

Sure. Defensiveness had crept into his voice.

It’s important to enjoy what you do.

I may not be a professor but even I know that.

Jonathan and Emma exchanged glances, not lost on Martin. Jonathan respected Martin’s struggle to hold onto his sister. He just wished he would grow up.

Listen, old man, Jonathan tried again, I know you and Emma want to talk, and Veronica does have a way of bringing a conversation to its knees.

Emma laughed gratefully though Martin smiled mildly.

I’ll take over so you and Emma can chat.

Don’t bother, Martin said.

Martin doesn’t like me anymore, Emma said. Do you?

That’s not true. 

What then?

We have nothing in common. What’s to say?

Emma, hurt, sighed heavily.

Judith called them to dinner. Filing morosely in, they took their usual places at the table. Judith, serving the vegetables while Tony carved the lamb, asked Jonathan to pour wine. Veronica squirmed in her mother’s lap.

Wouldn’t you rather put her in the high chair, dear? Judith asked, frowning as Veronica reached for Emma’s wineglass and almost knocked it over. Jonathan deftly saved it. Emma lifted Veronica into the high chair with an air of displeasure. Veronica banged the tray until Emma fed her bite-sized pieces of potatoes and carrots, spitting food, dribbling down her chin. Martin couldn’t watch and handed plates around as his parents filled them.

Conversation didn’t quite take hold, interspersed by shrieks and thumping from the high chair. When dinner was over, Judith took Veronica onto her lap and Emma occasionally reached over to remove a strand of hair from her eyes or stroke her cheek. Martin helped Tony rinse the dishes and stack the dishwasher, excused himself and stamped upstairs to his room.

The room remained unchanged from his teenage years, posters still tacked on the deep purple walls, his hi-fi system in its old position on a table in front of the window. He often wondered why his parents didn’t redecorate; his old bedroom, stuck in a time warp, rather depressed him. With his arms stretched, his hands under his head, he lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t resentful, he told himself, he just couldn’t stand babies, their contradictory adorableness and horrifying clamor consuming every available atom of energy in the room. Turning on the small television with the remote he switched channels until he came upon a Mystery program on ITV, in time following the story line. Two middle-aged female gardeners stumbled across murder and mayhem at a large country estate where they were employed to overhaul the garden. Just as it reached the climax there was a knock at the door. Martin wasn’t given time to answer before it opened to reveal Emma in her coat, ready to depart.

Can I come in?

Martin gestured for her to enter and she sat on the edge of the bed.

What are you watching?

"Rosemary and Thyme."

Oh, I like that. Jonathan and I watch it all the time.

Between howls? Martin said.

Emma looked at him severely and fingered a button on her coat. Veronica isn’t even one yet, Martin. She’s a baby and that’s what babies are like. You were like that once, you know.

Martin asked himself if he wanted to be Emma’s baby, an absurd notion he rejected.

If you came to visit, you’d get to know her. She’s lovely and she’s your niece.

Martin turned his attention back to the show where the credits were rolling.

You do know you’re behaving like a child. I was so proud of you, living independently. I thought you were mature but you’re not, are you? You can’t accept change.

This was insufferable. He could not abide allusions to the accident or his limitations. It was implicit family code not to speak of his injury and no one until now had violated it.

I don’t need you to be proud of me, he growled.

But I am. Or I was.

There was a long silence. Emma sighed heavily.

He turned to her suddenly. It’s not Veronica; it’s you. You used to be someone. You’ve gone away. Poof.

Emma’s sudden flush, spreading from her face to her neck, didn’t lift for a long time. Don’t say things like that to me, Martin. You don’t understand do you, what it’s like to balance the demands of being a mother while trying to retain some semblance of yourself? You’ve only got you.

Martin didn’t hear the plea, only the accusation that he didn’t understand, couldn’t hope to.

I only have me. And I only ever will have me. Thank you for reminding me.

"Oh, Martin. Don’t say that; it’s not true. I’m just trying to tell you it’s hard for me. I want you to understand. I don’t like that every moment is devoted to Veronica."

You used to be someone, he repeated.

Emma began to cry. "Why don’t you understand? You could try to understand."

I do understand. I’m not as stupid as you think I am.

I don’t think that! she cried.

"Yes, you do. All your bloody help. And now, he shouted, now that you have Jonathan and Veronica I don’t matter, do I? Well, I don’t need you either."

But I love you.

You don’t love me. You pity me. And you can take your pity. Take it and go live your perfect little life. But remember, it’s yours, not mine, and I don’t have to listen to you.

You selfish, selfish man, she shouted, jumping up from the bed, her tears stanched. She rushed from the room and slammed the door behind her, but it stuck noiselessly in the jamb.

On the train he tried to put the ugly scene from his mind, Emma’s final words still ringing disagreeably. He looked out the windows at the rolling fields, gradually transitioning into villages and towns and then the vistas of London, the crowded outlying stretches of houses and office complexes. He opened the door to his small and cluttered room. Heaving his overnight bag onto the bed, this, he thought, is all there is.

*

Knowing his parents sided with Emma in the quarrel, Martin began to visit less, putting them off when they tried to schedule weekend visits. Three months passed without a visit yet he didn’t miss them, unspoken tensions always lurking, trying to find a way to express themselves. Sometimes he called; he even spoke with Emma once or twice, neither of them alluding to their argument. In this way Martin was able to tell himself nothing was terribly wrong.

Work filled the week days, and weekends he started to go on Sunday jaunts. Train rides to Hampton Court, Legoland, Kew Gardens, and Greenwich. With a spirit of adventure and sense of purpose, Martin’s confidence grew. He planned each excursion, mapped the train route. He bought souvenirs and lined them on his bookcase shelves, stopping at pubs for lunch or a drink, eating ice cream while he sat on a park bench watching passers-by. These outings became a life-blood for him, an exploration into the world beyond the cramped confines of his life.

At work one day while delivering mail, Martin noticed a new name plate on the office cube of Virginia Crosby, recently retired. Katherine Allen. Martin glanced around the partition where Katherine sat at her desk tapping desultorily on the keyboard, face rapt in concentration. He estimated her to be thirty or so, shoulder length thin red hair tapering away at the ends, plump freckled country-style face bordering on pretty. Martin stood for some time sorting and re-sorting already sorted mail. At last he deposited hers in the incoming box outside her cube, stealing a glance as she focused on the computer screen.

Any outgoing mail? he said at last as this brainwave struck.

She looked up. Excuse me?

Any outgoing mail? he repeated.

No. She looked back down again.

Virginia sometimes gave me last minute mail.

She looked up again, her expression unreceptive. In fact, she looked downright annoyed. Well, I don’t. But thanks, she added after a pause.

I’m Martin Barnett.

That rhymes.

He said nothing, smiling in what he hoped was a receptive way at a comment he heard often and rather disliked.

Kate Allen.

You’re new.

Yes. She fingered her necklace, lifting and dropping the pendant onto the exposed skin within the V of her neckline.

Well, it’s good to meet you, he said, not unaware of her lack of warmth. I’ll see you around.

Sure. Nice to meet you, too. She turned back to her work with unseemly haste.

The next time Martin saw Kate she stood in front of him in line in the office cafeteria. Making his selections, he kept an eye on her as she took a seat at an empty table and opened her book. Martin wished the tables jammed to overflowing so he could join her, begging no other available seat. But today, the room almost empty, he stood indecisively before taking a table one over. He positioned himself to face her should there be an opportunity to speak, but she continued to read. How indecent it seemed, though he didn’t know why, to interrupt someone reading. Hunched over his plate, shoveling food in his mouth, he waited for her to look up. At last he was rewarded though she gazed dreamily into space. Afraid to miss the opening, he waved and said hello. A momentary flash of irritation crossed her face.

Anything interesting? he said, inclining his head toward the opened book, print down, the spine cracked and white from being repeatedly opened to its full extent. He could tell by the cover it was something trashy.

Oh, she said. Not really.

London A to Z lay on Martin’s lunch tray. He leafed through it at lunchtime.

Studying to become a cabby? she asked.

No, he laughed though it seemed to him the question cast him in a foolish light. I go places and it helps to know how to get there.

You go places? Where do you go?

You know, he said, waving his hand. Around.

"Teenage dreams in a teenage circus, running around like a clown on purpose, who gives a damn about the family you come from? No giving up when you’re young and you want some."

He looked at her in disbelief.

They’re lyrics.

He couldn’t find words with which to respond. She stood.

See you.

Yeah, he said bleakly.

Threading her way between the tables, she left the cafeteria. He hated her, she was diabolical.

*

In his room, Martin tried to sort out his attraction to this insulting girl. It struck him suddenly he targeted her due to her solitariness, unconscious until now that an appearance of need or vulnerability made her approachable, or that this might be suspect. He wanted to pierce her armor, redeem himself for blunders he couldn’t quite grasp. Though subtlety and nonchalance were called for, the intensity of his interest presented a problem for, as he saw it, Kate had no liking for him at all. Sometimes the impenetrability of his feelings made them hard to navigate.

His success rate with women low, fumbling embraces on the sidewalk following nights at the pub, twice he had been invited back to the flat of a girl he had spent the evening trying to seduce. Both episodes clumsy, empty and embarrassing, he skulked away before dawn. These transitory encounters, leading to nothing except loss of his virginity, were not mistaken for sexual experience  – for something essential seemed to elude him.

Designated to deliver mail on Friday, Martin waited until the end of the day to stop at the mail station by Kate’s cubicle. She was reading a manual and making notes as he dropped several envelopes into the bin and picked up the outgoing mail. He stood for a moment waiting for her to look up. At last she did, took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

Time to go yet? he asked with an ironic smile.

Almost. There’s so much to learn.

How about a drink? There’s a pub just around the corner.

She looked at him with doubt. I’m not sure.

Just a quick one to start off the weekend. How about it?

Well. She still hesitated.

He waited intently.

All right.

I’ll meet you at the front entrance at five. Is that okay?

All right, she repeated sighing.

He went back to the mailroom feeling exultant though nothing in her manner justified this happiness. For the remaining half hour until five o’clock, he didn’t have much to do. He sat at his desk and drummed his fingers, looking at the computer screen. At five, he bid his co-workers a good weekend and hurried out. He didn’t reach the front door where Kate stood looking at her watch until five past.

Sorry, he said. I got held up.

A crisis in the mailroom? she said.

He liked irony unless it was directed at him. Yeah, he said dryly. A misplaced letter.

When she laughed he felt he’d struck the right note. They walked in the direction of the pub, two blocks from the office, situated at an intersection on Northumberland Avenue. Kate immediately took a seat at a vacant table outside, though the April evening was cool. Martin went inside to order drinks, returning a few minutes later. Kate’s nose in her book, she didn’t look up when he sat down.

He had tried to curb his habit of blurting inconsequential things when nervous without much success but tonight, his defenses on alert, he sat waiting for her to look up. She turned the page and slid her bookmark in place.

Must be riveting, he said.

She smiled, didn’t say anything.

Do you read a lot?

"How are you coming along with London A to Z?" she said, ignoring his question.

It’s only a reference. I’m not reading it.

She took a sip of her gin and tonic and looked around. I’ve never been here before. She pulled her jacket close, buttoned it up.

Are you cold? We can move inside.

No, I’m fine.

Neither of them said anything.

Are you enjoying the job? he asked.

Yes. There’s a lot to learn.

Do you live close by?

Not far.

I’m close enough to walk to work.

That’s nice.

He looked at her hands, freckled so thickly, her skin tone was suffused with orange. He decided to volunteer something, quit asking questions.

I’ve been with the company eight years. I grew up in Essex and moved here when I got the job.

I suppose there was a lot of competition?

He looked at her, not understanding.

For the job.

Was she being facetious? He supposed so. He lifted his beer glass to his lips and sipped.

It was a lucky break. I found a flat not far from work. I share it but I couldn’t afford a place in the city unless I did.

How convenient.

You’re not easy to talk to, he blurted.

Funny you should say that. I think the same about you.

I was just trying to make you feel welcome.

She poured more tonic into her drink and drained it, regarded him across the table. Blokes like you keep hitting on me. I guess they figure I’m pretty easy prey.

He struggled to say what he wanted to say, though he didn’t know what that was. Although grateful she’d said they instead of you, he couldn’t help but be more intrigued by her at this moment.

You do yourself an injustice, he said at last.

You misunderstand. I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you. She stood up. Thanks for the drink.

Though the conversation had gotten unpleasant, he needed to understand. Blokes like me? he said quickly before she could get away.

Misfits, outcasts, she waved her hand as though to encompass all manner of social incompetence.

He didn’t answer, sitting in a slough of bitterness. Why did you say yes then? he said as she slung her handbag on her shoulder.

I’m not sure. I felt sorry for you, and maybe I just wanted to show you.

Show me what?

Listen, Martin, we’re not the same. I know you think we are.

At last she had been honest but he received only the hurt. He stood to face her. You don’t know me and I don’t need your pity.

You’re right, I don’t. Consider it done.

He sat at the table after she’d gone, staring at the grimy pavement beneath his feet, slices of lemon and swizzle sticks, crushed napkins and strewn beer mats. He drained his beer and ordered another.

A pattern he couldn’t break. Renewed confidence and the conviction that, if only he put his mind to it the outcome would be different, was met with disappointment time and again - and nothing he could do about it.

His mind returned to that summer when everything changed, and no amount of wanting life to be as it had been would restore it. He was sixteen then. His family traveled by train to Bradford for the annual summer holiday where they stayed with his aunt and uncle in their big brick house on Manningham Lane. Martin liked these holidays; he and Emma could disappear into the weave of the expanded household, exchange impressions, imitate his aunt and uncle’s Yorkshire accent and odd expressions, and hang out with the neighborhood kids they met up with each year. He loved Aunt Brenda and Uncle John, a warm if overly demonstrative couple who kept flinging their arms around Emma and Martin in great bear hugs and ruing that they, themselves, had no children.

Each year when the weather was fine they all walked the short distance to Manningham Park to the Lido to swim. That day at the pool Martin wanted to make up for his private parodies of Brenda and John, something he and Emma did for a reason unknown to him. They were watching, he knew, as they always did, with eagerness, as he climbed the stairs to the high dive. And then it happened. He remembered his fear, the splashing and laughter and screams of children, the choppy water below him glinting deceptively. He ran down the diving board in haste should he lose his nerve, made a false start, stumbled and instead of gracefully jackknifing through air, struck his head on the edge of the diving board and flailed backwards, arms and legs wheeling. From that point onwards he only imagined, never asked what happened. Visualizing his blood gush into the water spreading like a hemorrhage, his motionless body as it floated beneath the water’s surface, the commotion, the ambulance rushing him away.

To what? Months of recovery, rehabilitation, counseling and for what? For this. They told him he had suffered mild traumatic brain injury. What did they know? All his energy and intelligence centered on concealing his struggle. So what if some cruel and vindictive girl took the opportunity to hurt him. Who was she, anyway? She knew nothing about him; no one did. His unrealizable hopes slowly re-gathered as they always did - punishingly, terribly - relentlessly.

*

At work Martin avoided Kate, though she now took to greeting him, waving even from a distance. He did not respond at all. He didn’t care about the game she might be playing out of apology, remorse, guilt, victory – he didn’t care. He no longer stopped to speak to her when delivering the mail and when he needed to pass her cube, he slunk around the rear.

He chatted with Neil Davis when his office door was open. Almost always receptive, if Neil couldn’t take the time, he was rushed or too busy. Martin told him about his weekend excursions, and Neil remarked his eldest daughter Nicola expected a baby. Martin felt guilty then, thinking of Emma and Veronica. Though he hadn’t spoken to Emma in months, one day walking down Oxford