Being alone when you need to is not something you need to regret. I said it then and I stand by what I said now. I’d take a bullet for that philosophy if I needed to, honest to God I would. But I’d be lying if I said being alone isn’t a sacrifice. I’d be lying if I told you there weren’t things I wish I could’ve brought with me and there were truths I wish still meant something, but the point of solitude is that all of that releases you, your shackles are broken and you’re free. What’s harder is letting that past go.


I’m old now, damn old. Older than I thought I ever would be. At sixty-two I’m an old man and ignorable. I just don’t have the energy to feel things the way I used to. All that fire in me, that defining feature of youth that used to encapsulate me is as long gone as my hairline. As void as how small my pant size used to be. I’ve gotten smarter for a kid who was always particularly rash, my hormonal brain replaced with a grim and vague knowledge of what everything before my sixty-second year of life meant. For as damn old as I am, I’ve gotten a few things straight.


Firstly, I now know that I shouldn’t have been so rough to her before I left. She didn’t deserve that. It was 1968 and we had been married in a church too small and an age too young. I can’t help but think she’s to blame for it, because she looked so damn pretty all the time. She had that soft, golden hair that she cropped to barely brush her shoulder, and she had those big china-blue eyes that made your soul go soft. She always wore these pretty, frilly dresses that looked full and soft, in colors that matched spring flowers and pastel paintings.

We met at the same church we were married in, that very spring in fact. I had been hauled to the Sunday service; my thick, dark hair (none of which is still around today, mind you) was untamed, and danced wildly around my head like it was trying to escape in all directions. I was a handsome young man, thin with freckled, olive skin and a great big smile. What always stands out to me in those old photographs, besides how much dust they have collected, is how big my eyes are. They are wide, catching the suns’ rays on their dark surface in slivers of light. I don’t remember my eyes being that way.

You’d take one look at me and you’d know I didn’t want to be there. My mother’s churchfriends (she said it in one word like that) gave me narrow, pointed glares as I passed them, my shirttail peeping out from my pair of pressed Sunday pants. My mothers’ eyes widened in shock and embarrassment, and she abruptly turned into the closest set of pews and sat down rigidly, her mouth pressed in a firm line. I let all my weight drop into the old wooden bench, making a dull thud and I landed. Out of the corner of my eye I think I may have saw my mother wince, but I my attention was elsewhere.

Sitting across the aisle from me, within reaching distance, was Marie Elizabeth Valley. The same Marie who moved to sleepy Derry, Maine in the fifth grade, the same Marie who lived down the street, the same Marie I had never given a thought to until that day. Her father worked in business, and had up and left with Marie and her mother two years ago, while Marie still had braces and a boney, childish frame. She used to come over for dinner every once and a while, and sometimes we would play soccer together on her big front lawn. She moved back in March, and I had yet to acknowledge her presence at the end of my street where Kenslow and Raymond intersect. But she was always just a girl I knew, and I was absolutely positive she was nothing more.

The Marie that I saw that day in church was not a girl. She was a lady, a young woman I should say. This Marie was a mystery. She wore a soft golden dress that swung around her knees in a seeming constant state of motion. She had filled out into lovely curves; her long legs no longer seemed fragile. They seemed profound. Her hair had gotten shorter, but it also looked thicker, the color more nearly the same as her dress. She wore white kitten heels, and it struck me that I had never seen her wearing nice shoes before.

In short, she had become a real stunner since the last time I saw her. Her eyes were downcast, and she wore a solemn, purposeful expression throughout the service. She had a nervous demeanor, the kind homely girls had at school dances. My mother came to prove her worth to her churchfriends, the hairy-legged boys that were sprinkled about the church because they had to, but little Marie came because she wanted to pray. And I admired her for it.

Once the mass had ended I walked up to Marie with my palms sweating. I was good with talking to girls, I considered myself smooth. You just smile and laugh a lot, compliment them when they need it, and lean against something like your shoulders and too heavy to support. With Marie I had the sneaking suspicion that wouldn’t work so hot. I felt off my game, out of my elements, and to be honest, I was scared she wouldn’t think I was cool. At the time, that seemed important.

I walked over to her with as much confidence as I could muster, but the second she turned those blue eyes to face me I felt my shoulders slump and my pick-up line dry up in my throat. She smiled a soft, almost sad smile and said, “Leo.” She said it matter-of-factly, her cheeks slightly flushed. Her round eyes were almost watering, and I could feel how warm her breath was on my cheeks. She smelt like old perfume and dusty books. She looked down at her girly white heels, her eyelashes casting deep shadows down her cheeks. “It’s so nice to see you, Leo. I missed seeing you.” She was shockingly shy, and shockingly alluring. At the time I felt a connection pass between us, something a long time in the making. I had an uncanny feeling that she had chose me long ago, but truthfully Marie was just lonely. Very lonely and very sad. So was I.

I walked her out to her car, a very nice car, the same shade of blue as her eyes. I wondered what it would be like to drive it. I asked her if she wanted to go to a movie and she smiled coyly. She knew exactly how a teenage boy’s mind worked. She said no, but she’d love to go to dinner. I laughed, grinning my white-toothed grin. She didn’t seem to see it though, and she descended into her car and drove away, creating a wake of dust behind her.

I don’t remember much about our first date, because it was quickly followed by another, and another. The time we spent together seemed to bleed together until it seemed we were never apart. She became my best friend and my first love. We did all that cheesy s*** you see in movies, I’d hug her from behind and kiss her neck and she would stand up on her tiptoes when I leaned in to kiss her. It was intoxicating, and the more time we spend together the more I needed the fix. The first time I tried to unbutton her blouse she put her thin hand on mine and pulled away from me, her breath thick and deep. “No, Leo, I don’t want to do that.” She sighed, dropping both her hands to her lap and looking at her open palm. I felt a blush rise up and my cheeks, and an itchy guilt chastising me for being so cliché. “Hey, it’s okay, no sweat.” I said, putting a hand on her cheek. “You’re a good girl, Marie. I get it.” She bit her lip, and in a hurt mumble she said, “The good girls always die ‘round here. They’re the real fools.”

That was the first time I watched Marie cry. I wrapped my arms around her like she was threatening to float away. I guess she was scared, that’s what she said. “I’m so scared, Leo. You scare me so bad sometimes.” I just held her like stone, unmoving, and I told her that I loved her, and I didn’t want her to hurt. It was terrible watching her cry, her somehow inhuman persona melting before me. She had never looked so young. She was just a little girl, and I had never even realized.

Marie and I got closer everyday, and Christmas Eve we finally made love. And Marie Elizabeth Valley opened up to someone for the first time in her life. She told me so many things I swear I saw her soul. It was in her attic on a picnic blanket, and that night I decided that I was going to marry her, because we were in love and because I knew her better than I knew myself. I remember thinking, God, she is so beautiful. I was a damned fool at 18, and I was a damned fool for taking advantage of poor Marie, who wasn’t prepared to be known.

For such a powerful romance, you’d think the day I asked her to marry me would be a fairytale, because that’s what the whole year had been like. But it was one of the worst nights of my life. We were sitting in her car, and I had just taken her out to a diner for pancakes, an odd meal to have at eight o’clock. I wanted to make reservations at Muffeletta, the town’s nicest restaurant because it was February 3rd, Marie’s eighteenth birthday. She insisted on the pancakes, saying she had a “craving”.

She looked awful that night, her gold hair a mess of delicate knots tucked behind her ears. She didn’t have on any make up, and her skin was a charcoal gray. She wore a big, loose sweater with a hole in the elbow and a loose jean skirt that went below her knees. At the time, I thought she hadn’t slept, but now I know that Marie was simply unraveling like the ugly, tired sweater she was wearing.

We were parked outside her house, and every time I tried to touch her she’d tell me to stop. “Not tonight, Leo, not now.” I drew back tensely, a bitter urge to continue tingling in my fingertips. I wanted her I primal way, and it showed, I suppose. I wanted to be on top of her, I wanted to own her. She hadn’t given me much more than a good-night kiss for the past few weeks. It made me angry. It made me angry that she wasn’t talking to me the way she used to. In my mind, I was entitled to that much. She wouldn’t look me in the eye, she just stared out in front of her at the dark road and with such intensity I wondered if she seeing the same things I was. “Marie, what’s going on?” I asked, direct and pleading. She didn’t move her gaze, but spoke in a distant voice that was chilling. “I’m going to have a baby, Leo. Your baby.” She crumbled like a sand castle, her body sliding down in the car seat as she choked out pained, breathy sobs. “Leo I knew this would happen. I knew we would mess up like this.” At first I thought I would faint, because the world was moving in circles and I was sitting still. “That’s not possible…” I mused, but I knew it was. I think I had known for a long time.

After that, I was overcome what you could call ‘stupidity’ or ‘optisism’. Take you pick, folks. I thought What a blessing! This is our chance. We are going to get married, and have a child and a house like we always knew we were. We’re going to be in love forever. I grabbed Marie’s hands in mine with such force and speed she jumped and her sob caught in her throat. “I want to marry you, baby,” I said, almost a demand. “I want to raise this baby and I want to do it with you. I want to live in that big white house we talked about and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” She shook her head like she did the first time I asked her out, and in almost a scream she cried, “You don’t mean that, Leo, you couldn’t!” She tried to turn around to the car door but I didn’t let her. I told her I meant every word I said, and that I loved her. I wasn’t afraid, I said, and that was the truth. I could’ve sworn I was ready. I was too young to be scared of the unknown, that’s where I went wrong. She said yes and I went inside with her to tell her dad the good news.

If you’re any smarter that I was I’m sure could guess that the “good news” didn’t go over too well with her dad. After she told him her dad grabbed me by my collar and threw me against the wall, his knuckles making bruises on my collarbone as he slammed me into it… a few times, actually. I was terrified he was going to start throwing punches. “You damn kid! You bastard, she’s only a girl! You sonuvabitch…” the rant goes on, but I don’t like to relive it. I’ve never felt so guilty in my life. You’d think I’d killed his little girl instead of impregnate her, but I guess there wasn’t much of a difference to him. She never spoke to her father again.

Our wedding was in a tiny, sweaty church, and nobody came. All my friends thought I had gone crazy, that’d I changed and all that crap. I had, of course, but I told them they didn’t understand and that they should leave us alone. They happily obliged. Marie didn’t have any friends from school, and she had renounced her family the day her daddy beat me up. We were all each other had. The priest had a pursed, constipated look on his face throughout the ceremony, and paused for a bit too long when he asked the empty crowd if anyone had any reason we should not be married to please speak up. Father Bryan went bowling with my dad every couple weekends and had more than once told me I needed to resist the temptation women like Marie presented. Seeing her round, full stomach, he was disappointed that I hadn’t.

We both dropped out of school, and compiled our college savings to buy a small house in the next town over, with a sinking porch and a raccoon that we had locked in the attic the first day we purchased it. We could hear his sharp feet scampering around in the attic at night, looking for a way out as he slowly starved. Marie was shocked at how inhumane I could be, and as much as I wanted to sympathize with the pitiful rodent I felt nothing. I didn’t call an exterminator because I insisted we didn’t need his help. I also didn’t think we could afford it.

Marie got a day job at the drycleaners and worked as a waitress in the olive garden. She worked harder than a pregnant woman should ever have to, and to this day I’m pissed I let her. I remember eating with her there one night, and under the dim, golden light of the restaurant she looked out of place, nearly ridiculous in her uniform that fit sung around her ever-growing stomach. It was alarming how much she was showing, nearly downright oppressive.

I had gotten a job working at a car garage, and I befriended a man who owned a gas station at a bar he was a regular at. He would give me a few hours when I needed them, and every time he’d give me my pay check he’d ask, “What the hell are you doin’ here, kid? Shouldn’t you be in school or sumthin’?” I’d take the check out of his callused, thick-skinned hands and tell him “Yeah, I should be.” He nodded, pursing his lips and looking deeply into my eyes trying to judge my character. It profusely bothered me. “That bad, huh? Lemme tell you, kid, it’ll get better. If you’re deep in the kinda s*** I think you are, it’ll get better. My little William’s the best thing that ‘er happened ta me.” Then he’d pull out an old picture of a boy from his wallet, and unfold it with his big, unsteady hands. The picture was of a boy about my age, with a diploma in his hand and a big, glossy grin like the ones I used to give. He had curly, reddish hair and freckles that spanned from cheek to cheek. Something about him looked a great deal like me, but I was never able to pinpoint it. Maybe something about the eyes.

The old man, who I was accustomed to calling Sir, would delicately fold the photo in the same places and slip it back into his leathery wallet. His skin was deeply colored by the sun, and he wore a cowboy hat with loose straw even when he was inside. His shirts were always buttoned up and tucked into a large belt that sat beneath his potbelly. He could have been an attractive man once, but time had robbed him of all but his hazel eyes and endearing smile. After that we’d fall into a comfortable silence and I would say, “Thank you, Sir.” He tipped his hat, and walked away mumbling, “Things’ll get a lot better, kid, a lot. Lot better or a lot worse.”

Marie and I slowly began to drift apart, like two separate winds. She had closed up again, grown resentful of my presence in her life, as well as the life that was growing inside her. She rarely went out during the daytime, and her skin became dry and pale, cold and rigid. She saved up a little money and dyed her hair a muddy brown, the same shade of brown as the rotten wood floors in our rotting wood house. She asked me what I thought, shaking her head from side to side like a wet dog. I told her she looked beautiful, but on the inside I felt a piece of the young Marie Valley die. I realized with a dull horror that there was nothing golden left about her. She became leaden, desiring my affection yet not allowing it to reach her. She reached for me and danced away from my outstretched hand. She temped me with her old self and then hid it away in a place no one would ever find it. Hell, I think she couldn’t even find her way back to it.

Let’s face it, by the time she was five months along I was no Prince Charming anymore. I sincerely believe in the beginning I was; I was a real stand-up kid while I was in school. Now I was just bitterness, surrounded by a little flesh and running veins. I hated my job at the garage, because I hated the sweaty, black-teethed men I worked with and the long, hot days that left me dizzy and sickly. I had always loved the heat, but out here the sun was a killer. I’ve never liked it since. I didn’t like looking at Marie anymore because I made up my mind that I hated her. I hated how big her stomach had gotten, I hated the ugly t-shirts of mine she slept in, and I hated having to take care of her all the time. The marriage should’ve died there; I should’ve walked up to that walking corpse of Marie Valley and told her that I wasn’t in love with her the way I thought I was. I should’ve pointed my finger at that skeleton of Marie Valley and told her that she wasn’t Marie anymore. I went to sleep with these thoughts in my head and woke up with mad dreams, dreams of zombies tearing at my flesh that had the faces of my old life. I think what drove those thoughts into my head was that throughout all this time, I blamed Marie for everything. I never admitted what I’d become.

I was a disaster and a mess and I made life hell for everyone round me. It seemed the angrier I got, the thirstier I became. I went to Louis Barley’s bar every night and drank until Sir had to drive me home yelling, “You’ve gotta get your head screwed on straight, son!” I was a loud drunk, and I’d be crying and clawing at my face, screaming, “It’s everything around me! It’s my whole life! I got dealt s*** cards and all I want is to just be alone!” He’d shake his head and tell me to shut my trap because the whole neighborhood was listening. “Son, you got some problems holdin’ your liquor. You even old enough to be drinkin’?”

I’d get home every night and Marie would be sitting on the porch with wet, puffy eyes and her cheeks wild with an angry scarlet color. I’d stumble up to the house (fall down one or two times) and I could feel my shoulders get heavier. I hated myself for this, But the minute I saw Marie set in front of me with the big belly and crazy eyes, all I wanted to do was hit her. Smush her like a bug and get into my house and sleep in an empty bed. I wanted her to not exist anymore.

She stepped in front of the doorway and put her hands on her hips. “You’ve been drinking again.” She’d say, her accusation taking on a hint of resignation. She looks so tired, so weak with her skinny little arms resting on her stomach. I used to think that baby of hers was drinking the life right out of her. I wish I had been sober enough to see that. Instead, I put my hand on her shoulder and moved her out of my way, as gently as a drunk man can do, and I yelled, “What do you want from me, Marie? Can’t you just leave me alone for a damn second?” I’d make my way towards the steps, looking ahead of me pretending if I didn’t see Marie she wasn’t there. But she was nearly as stubborn as I was, and she yanked on my shoulder until I spun around to look her in those lovely blue eyes.

“I want you to top drinking, Leo, is that too much to ask of you? I want you to try and make this work, I want you to try and make this a family, is that too hard for you? A big baby, that’s all you are, a good-for-nothing. You think I want this-“ she’d gesture towards my entirety- “to be the man to raise my child? Is this helping anyone?” I pushed past her again, this time with enough force to sent her back a step or two. “It’s helping me! Now if you’re done pointing fingers I’m gunna get some blankets and sleep on the couch.”

Her voice got considerably louder, and she got right up in my face as close as her pregnant stomach would allow her to be. “No, Leo! No, you’re not going to go to be like a little kid you’re going to be an adult! Tell me, big man, why is it that you got the right to blame everything on somebody else? Why are you such a victim?” I shouted for her to shut up. “Tell me, Leo, tell me! Tell me why you think it’s okay to get drunk off your ass while I’m sitting at home worried sick about you? Why do you get to run away while I’m stuck here with the problem we made! Tell me WHY LEO!”

At this, my body reacted quicker than my mind did. Without even thinking, I threw my big, angry fist into Marie’s jaw. Without so much as a second thought I hit her so hard she fell to the ground and nearly hit her head on our coffee table. A part of me, a very dark part, almost wishes she had. And I hate myself for that but it’s the truth, and I will live with that for the rest of my life. Marie lay there on the ground with black, syrupy blood pooling in the corner of her lip and spilling over like tree sap. She sniffled quietly, one hand resting on her swelling cheek. At first I felt no sympathy. I simply felt a sense of power, the way a white man felt chastising his slave during the civil war. I was a monster.

Marie rose slowly, her eyes down and her hair a cloud of knots and sweat. There were shiny marks on her cheeks from were her tears had passed, but she made no sound. I tried to reach out and touch her but she cringed like a wild animal, as if I were a threat. I tried to look her in the eyes, those lovely china blue eyes, but I couldn’t find them in the dark. So I leaned down and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Her silhouette was slumped over, defeated in a way I didn’t think Marie would allow, and she barely murmured, “Sorry doesn’t do s***, Leo. Sorry doesn’t even come close to cutting it.” She walked up the stairs to the creaky bedroom we once shared, leaving me crying into my rough, dirty hands and yelling that I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.

That was the last night I ever stepped foot in that house I bought on Syndale Avenue. That night I threw in a couple pairs of pants, a handful of underwear and socks, and all the photos Marie and I had taken over the years. At the time, I told myself that was an act of mercy, and that if everything about me was gone Marie would move on quicker. Now I’m not so sure. Now I think I just wanted to hold on to her more than I cared to admit, and it was selfish.