The Mark

29

The Amtrak train hurtled along on tender rails. My stomach churned, every muscle in my body thanking me for this brief respite. Then I caught sight of my reflection in the train’s window.

Jesus H. Christ. Amanda sure had a vivid imagination.

I admired the fake gold running from my right nostril to my right ear, the long, blond wig covering all but a sliver of my brown sideburns. All kidding aside, I looked like the love child of Joey Ramone and a rodeo clown. Completing my getup was a pair of tattered black jeans covered with glitter pen scribblings, written to the gods of whatever ’80s hair bands Amanda worshipped. I wore a black T-shirt with a red A in the center. The word below it read anarchy.

Amanda wore black lipstick, dark enough to make people think she’d been seriously making out with a chocolate bar, and her mohawked hair had enough gel to sate the cast of Friends for another ten seasons.

Right.

On a train that was otherwise packed, nobody was sitting within ten feet of us. Amanda was scribbling in a familiar notebook.

“You said you left that at home,” I said.

She shrugged. “I lied.”

She closed the pad and stuffed it into the nylon fanny pack we’d bought at Union Station for $1.99. Nothing said “you don’t want to talk to us” more than a fanny pack. I shook my head at the wad of twenties inside.

“I still can’t believe you stole that guy’s wallet.”

“I didn’t steal his wallet,” she said defensively. “I borrowed it. Besides, did you see that Rolex? Trust me, Henry, we need the money a whole lot more than he does.”

I hoped Mr. Rolex would understand that logic.

I looked past Amanda, saw a conductor collecting tickets. He was overweight, blue hat sitting awkwardly on his head, midsection resembling a stuffed mushroom. Smiling as he clipped tickets.

Then I looked at Amanda, her silly makeup unable to obscure her natural beauty, the softness of her eyes. She knew the truth about me, about Henry Parker, and deep down I knew I’d never lie to her again.

On an adjacent seat I noticed a discarded Chicago Sun-Times. I picked it up, figured it would keep my mind off the mound of shit that was suddenly my life. Most of the news was local: a three-alarm fire at a nursing home in the North Shore, a Cook County bowling alley under investigation for ties to organized crime. Then, on page three, I saw a column that would have made me lose my lunch if I’d eaten any.

The author was Paulina Cole. Her byline read Special to the New York Gazette.

The headline was The Art Of Deception.

The subtitle read The Truth About Henry Parker.

I read on.

Henry Parker came to New York with a journalistic pedigree any young reporter would kill for and an eye most people would die for. And suddenly, two days ago, somebody did. And now one of the most-watched man-hunts in New York City history is still in progress. And the questions remain.

The noble profession of journalism has taken its lumps in recent years, mainly from rampant plagiarism scandals that have tried in vain to discredit the rest of us, who are hardworking and honest, who make our livings with a clean conscience and have weathered this ship through the turbulence of the past few years.

But at the same time, the media glorifies these alleged villains, giving them even more access to the fame and fortune they so desired, despite working in a vocation where the noblest of writers desire none. Several of these literary desperados inked book deals worth hundreds of thousands of dollars within weeks of their scandals, had movies made about their transgressions and had more ink spilled on their scandals than most wartime atrocities.

You might say we don’t have our priorities straight. That we foster this culture. But hopefully once the dirt is uncovered in this sordid mess, we can go back to healing that rift.

Those of us who knew Henry Parker can scarcely believe this shocking turn of events. Yet it should come as no great surprise that the evolutionary leap in journalistic crime has finally reached a fatal precedent. We can only hope this tragedy, which has an entire city-nay, a country-up in arms, reaches a swift resolution. We can only blame Henry so much.

As the media and the ever-adoring public deifies its journalists, crowning them with the same mantle of celebrity bestowed upon those in other forms of entertainment, it should come as no shock that the crimes inherent in those mediums have cross-pollinated this world.

And so I’ve been forced to ask myself this question, a question that strikes at the very heart and soul of this nation, and the news which serves as its soul: Was this violent, uncaring gene embedded in Henry Parker’s DNA from the moment he was born, or was it this world that drove a good man bad?

I let the paper fall from my hand. Suddenly I felt cold, dizzy. Amanda picked up the paper and read Paulina’s column. Then she crumpled it up and threw it into the aisle. My head pounded. It took all my strength to hold in the wretched sorrow that filled my chest like a lead balloon.

“Don’t listen to a word of it,” she said. “You know the truth. I know the truth. And soon everyone will.”

“It’s not that,” I said, my voice weak. “Things like this don’t go away. I worked with Paulina. I don’t buy this ‘me against the world’ b.s. She’s trying to make a name for herself off this mess, and pretending she’s doing something noble.”

“And there’s nothing you can do about it right now. So don’t waste your energy.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s just…this is my life. How can I ever go back there after this?”

“We’ll find a way,” Amanda said. “People need heroes right now. They don’t realize that when all this is over, it’ll be you, not Paulina.”

I couldn’t help but smile at Amanda.

“You have no idea how ridiculous you look,” I whispered.

“Look who’s talking. You know punk went out of style when we were in high school,” she said.

“I’d be hurt if I didn’t know you picked this stuff out.” I looked at the spiral notebook peeking out of the fanny pack. “Hey, can I ask you a kind of personal question?”

“Of course,” she said. Her eyes were dubious.

“Why do you write what you do in those notebooks?”

Amanda looked at me for a moment, our eyes locking, then she turned away.

“Why do you want to know that?”

I paused as an elderly couple inched past, watching us like we were disrupting their peaceful earth just by existing.

“When we were at your house,” I said, “I went into your room when I thought you were in the shower. I noticed the trunk under your bed, and…I don’t know. I just couldn’t help myself. I read them. I read about all those people you’d met, everything you wrote about them.”

“You read them,” she said, more a statement than a question. I nodded, guilt burning through me like hot coal.

I said, “Take curiosity and turn the volume to eleven, and that’s what’s inside me. So I’m sorry. But I need to know.”

She said nothing, her mind somewhere else. I paused, trying to find the words.

“I’ve been around every kind of journalist imaginable, from people who take the most detailed records to people who claim they have a dictaphone in their head. But I’ve never seen anything like that. Why do you keep records of everyone you meet?”

Amanda shifted her body, staring out the window. Roads passing by so fast. So many miles traveled, none really observed. A single tear escaped her eye. She quickly wiped it away.

“My parents died in a car accident when I was five. One second you have the whole world, the next second the world the way you know it just ceases to exist.

“Social services moved me from orphanage to orphanage. I was still in shock. You can’t really explain death to a five-year-old, so for years I thought my parents were just on a long vacation. I don’t know how many orphanages I bounced around, I lost count after the first four or five. Then when I turned eleven, Larry and Harriet Stein adopted me.”

My mouth opened, but no words came out. Amanda stared out the window.

“Most orphans are so happy when they finally find a home. But when I was adopted, it just crushed everything. It was like somebody slapped me in the face and said, hey, your parents aren’t coming back.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t seem to hear me.

“The whole time I was in those awful places, I watched couples take child after child home with them. My friends disappeared like I’d never even known them. My parents died and nobody wanted me. I was like a girl somebody lost at the bus stop and didn’t bother to look for. I couldn’t make any friends because in time, they all left me.”

“I don’t understand,” I said softly. “Why the notebooks?”

Amanda sat back, resting her head against the seat. She closed her eyes and I could almost see the pain rush through her as she conjured up these painful memories.

“Nobody wanted me, nobody stayed in my life.” A fat tear streaked down Amanda’s cheek. She went to wipe it away, but I gently took her hand, letting the droplet fall. Her eyes were so wide and open, I just wanted to jump in, see everything from the inside.

“I figured that if eventually everyone left me, I had to do something to make them stay. And since I couldn’t physically make them stay, I wanted to remember them. So everywhere I went I brought along a notebook. Whenever I met anyone, even if it was only for a few seconds, I wrote about them. When my friends left me, I would open a notebook and read about my memories. But the worst part was that over time, I started to judge people based on the littlest things. The way a couple held hands. The way a parent spoke to their child. The way someone held a soup spoon. Every detail was symbolic of an entire life. And for me, that was much easier to understand.”

Amanda turned in her seat until she was facing me fully. “We’re pretty similar, me and you,” she said. “We both try to see what’s beneath the surface based on what little we can discern from it. Only you, you dig deeper. Me, I let it go. It’s always been easier that way for me. But you cut through the skin.”

I gripped the armrest as the train shook. Amanda turned back to the window. She had nothing else to say.

Underneath the makeup, her eyes remained the same. I didn’t know it at the time, but as I searched through Amanda’s hidden notebooks, I knew her heart beat to the same rhythm as mine.

Perhaps meeting Amanda under different circumstances could have led to something beautiful, sincere.

Amanda. Studying to become a child advocacy lawyer. She worked to help those who couldn’t help themselves, because help wasn’t there when she’d needed it. Like I wasn’t there for Mya. And now Amanda was here for me.

I placed my palm in hers, her skin cool to the touch. Her fingers closed around mine. Tighter, then tighter still, until our hands were knotted like twine, the bond unbreakable. Her head fell onto my shoulder as I listened to her breathe. Steady. I could almost feel the life coursing through her.

“Where are we?” Amanda asked wearily. I checked my watch.

“We should be at Penn Station in less than two hours,” I said.

“Thank God,” Amanda said, letting out a deep breath. “I need a massage and a painkiller, stat. And we need to get that leg of yours to a doctor.”

“I think I saw an unwrapped Tylenol under my seat cushion. You’re on your own with the massage.”

“Thanks. You’re quite the gentleman.”

Suddenly there was a horrible screaming of metal, and I was thrown forward in my seat. Dozens of suitcases toppled onto the floor around us. I heard the squeal of grinding gears. My soda can fell onto the floor, spilling fizzy brown liquid everywhere. People standing in the aisles flailed for balance as the train jerked back and forth. The high-pitched shriek of metal on metal rang out like fingernails on a blackboard, then filtered through the world’s loudest bullhorn. I jammed my hands over my ears and pressed my body against Amanda’s, holding her. Then the realization hit me like a hammer to the gut.

The train was slowing down.

When we finally ground to a halt, I looked out the window. My heart pumped like mad, my mouth dried up. There was no station outside, no platform to exit onto, no passengers waiting to embark. All I could see was a dusty road alongside the train tracks and a highway off in the distance.

We were trapped.

A static-filled crackle broke through the passengers’ groans, and then a voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats. We’ve just been informed by the Manhattan Transit Authority that they’ve received notice of a possible disturbance on this train. Amtrak staff will be coming through the aisles. Please have both your ticket stubs ready as well as picture identification. We apologize for the inconvenience, and we’ll be underway as soon as this issue is resolved. Thank you for your patience and understanding.”

The microphone clicked off. Cold sweat trickled down my back. In layman terms, there was a situation on the train. In real-life terms, we were in huge fucking trouble if we didn’t get the hell off of it.

I stood up, located the exits at either end of the car.

I took Amanda’s hand and we headed for the nearest exit. Just as we approached the door, a conductor appeared through the window. He was in the adjoining car checking tickets and identification. He looked none too pleased to be doing it.

Amanda tugged my arm.

“Henry, what do we do?”

I turned around. The other exit looked clear. I looked out the window, saw that the train tracks ran parallel to a line of trees fifty yards away. Through the treeline, I could see cars speeding down a highway.

“There,” I whispered. “The highway.” Amanda looked at me like I’d just given birth.

“How the hell…”

“Come on,” I said, pulling her to her feet. “Just act sick.”

When the conductor entered our car, I ran toward him, my arms and nose chain flapping wildly. Passengers stared at us as they waited with tickets and IDs in hand. I snapped my fingers and yelled.

“Hey, you, Mr. Ticket-Taker person. My girlfriend’s sick and she’s gonna puke all over your crappy blue leather seats if you don’t do something right quick.”

“Henry,” Amanda breathed. “What are you…”

“Start retching,” I said from the corner of my mouth. No sooner had I said it than a low guttural moan came from her lips, followed by a thick hacking cough. I felt warm spittle hit my cheek. The girl was good.

The conductor apologized to the passengers as he wedged his way down the aisle. Amanda-who I was now convinced should have studied at Juilliard-threw her arm over my shoulder and feigned collapsing. I held her up, with visible difficulty.

“What’s going on?” the conductor asked, his face a mixture of disgust and concern. Disgust, I imagined, with our appearance. Concern, because Amanda genuinely looked like she was ready to vomit all over the old lady in the next seat.

“Girlfriend’s gonna puke, stupid. You want it to get all over your nice train?”

“Goddamn it,” he said, wiping his brow with a fleshy hand. “Can’t you just take her to the restroom?”

“Toilet’s clogged. There’s shit all over the seat.”

“There’s another bathroom two cars down.”

On cue, Amanda covered her mouth and burped.

“Don’t think she’s gonna make it, my man.”

The conductor took off his cap, ran a hand through his thinning hair. A woman seated a few rows down yelled, “Hey, let’s get a move on.”

“What do you suggest I do?” the conductor asked, his patience wearing thin.

I replied, “Just give us a minute for some fresh air, to let her clear out the mucous and phlegm and bile, you know. We’ll be back in no time, I promise. And Mrs. Crabapple here won’t have to worry about her getting her hair mussed.”

“I’m not supposed to let passengers off unless we’re stopped at a station.” Again, like the world’s finest clairvoyant, Amanda leaned over and let a thin string of saliva drip from her mouth to the floor. The conductor watched in horror.

“That’s just revolting,” said the old woman in the next row. “Please get this creature away from my seat.” The conductor cursed under his breath.

“Come on.”

He gestured for us to follow him. Amanda limped like she’d been shot in both kneecaps. He led us to the entryway. The conductor, perhaps having one final doubt, looked back at us. Fortunately Amanda’s trail of saliva was now several feet long. That was all the convincing he needed.

He grabbed a small black handle and pulled it down. There was a loud fizz, like a freshly popped soda can, and the doors retracted.

Amanda sighed. “Air, sweet air.”

“You have five minutes,” the conductor said. “After that I’m not making any promises.”

“Gotcha, chief. Let’s go, honey. I knew you shouldn’t have eaten all that bacon before going to the rave.”

We stumbled down the steps, and I led Amanda to a patch of dry grass twenty yards from the train. As she leaned over, I caught the conductor going back inside. I waited until he was out of sight, and said, “Now.”

We bolted toward the cover of the tree line and the expansive stretch of gray highway behind it. A bolt of pain shot down my leg with each step, but there was no time to look back, no time to make sure we hadn’t been seen.

Then we were in the trees, ripping past branches, hiding behind a pair of large oaks. A soft wind poured down on us as we caught our breath. I peeked out from behind the tree, saw the blue brim of a conductor’s hat scanning the area. Then the conductor retreated inside and the door closed behind him.

As we began walking toward the highway, I heard the screeching of metal behind us, then an air-shattering horn. When I turned back, the train was pulling away.

I looked at Amanda, sweat dotting her forehead.

“You did real good, kid.” I brushed a strand of brown hair from her face, feeling her soft skin beneath my finger. She smiled, and I knew she felt it, too. “You did real good.”

“Thanks.” She was flushed a deep red from the exertion and, maybe, because she was blushing. “So how far are we from the city?”

“My guess? Nine or ten hours by foot, three or less by car.” Amanda furrowed her brow.

“I’ve never hitchhiked before.”

“Well, I’d never been shot before, but I guess there are some things you don’t have much say in.”

She took my hand as we approached the highway, the sun beating down on us, relentless. New York lay somewhere beyond the horizon. We were so close to the lion’s den, and somewhere within lay the truth. Somehow, I had to pry it loose before the jaws collapsed on me. Heading toward the highway, I wondered if I was walking toward absolution, or some terrible destiny.