Marlowe protests with a jerky shake of her head.
"I'll carry you," he says, glancing at her bare feet. "Piggy-back ride. Let's go."
"No, I have to go." Her voice crackles like cellophane; her eyes are round and wide and fretful. "I just want to go home for a minute," she whimpers.
Lucas inhales a sharp breath. It is a child's request, something you say when you're lost and can't find your way. Marlowe has extended herself beyond her borders; unexpectedly attacked, she fought back with resources that she didn't know she had, and now she's drained. Adrenaline collides with exhaustion in her veins; she shakes as though her skin has been stripped off. She's going to collapse any second. Lucas would like nothing better than to take her away from everything, permanently. But he can't. "We're not leaving," he says hoarsely.
Marlowe doesn't say a word; she just stares at him with her limpid eyes.
Lucas turns abruptly and squats down in front of her. "Let's go," he repeats gruffly. He can't look at her anymore; her expression raises a fury in him that only hell knows the depth of. Moments ago, his heart was bursting with pride for her. Now her vulnerability is breaking his heart.
She obeys like children do. Lucas hoists her up and she reflexively locks her arms around his neck. Her cheek finds a resting place against the side of his head; she bounces along silently as he carries her across the street to one of the complex' small playgrounds. He stops in front of the merry-go-round, turns, and deposits her between two red and blue rails. He scoots back, folds her long lean legs around his waist, and then reaches up and draws one of her arms across his chest. He kisses her hand before tucking it inside of his shirt.
They remain silent while they watch the party disperse. Car after car pulls out of the yard and lines up in the small cul de sac like a funeral procession. Nate is among the last to leave. He staggers out of the house and tramps through Tamara's hedges toward his car. Lucas' shoulders tense; beneath Marlowe's fingertips, he goes so still that he seems to have stopped breathing.
"You were gonna pop him," she murmurs.
"I thought about it."
She leans forward, dropping her head to the side so she can see his face. "How come you didn't?"
"You asked me to watch your back so that's what I did."
Marlowe studies the geometrical lines of his face, almost cruel now in their harshness. "Good," she says after a long moment, brushing her fingertips over his heart. "I never want to see his face again."
"Let's hope not. I'm too young to go to prison," Lucas replies darkly.
Marlowe folds her other arm around him and begins to rock back and forth. She watches until the last car departs, until there is nothing left between her and her brother except the man between her thighs. Then she implodes. She falls on her back on the cold coarse steel apparatus and cries out.
Lucas jumps up and spins around. "Please - don't," he pleads, reaching towards her. But she has already drawn up her legs. She curls up into a ball in the center of the merry-go-round, sobbing incoherently.
This is why it matters: not because she had something to prove, not even because she had something to lose. It matters because even the valiant bleed when they are stabbed. It matters because even the wounds worth taking leave a scar. Lucas knows that in war, triumph is difficult to distinguish from loss when you're half dead and there are corpses piled up all around. She can't see that now; he has to show her.
He kneels on the hard patterned steel and pulls his mate into his arms. "Ssh," he whispers. He loves her; he has welcomed her love, waited for it and cherished it. But now he has to drawn love forth, gather it together like a poultice to heal her. He has to make good on all of the promises that he has kissed onto her lips. Marlowe needs both him and Roderick; they are all three bound together - Lucas can't cut his losses this time. He clenches his jaw against the anxiety in his stomach; he can't afford to lose either of them. He won't. "Ssh," he croons softly. "I'm here. I'll take care of you."
By the time he bursts through the front door with Marlowe cradled in his arms, she has spent her tears - she is nearly asleep. Lucas carries her into the guest bedroom and gingerly places her on the bed. He brushes the hair back from her swollen eyelids, kisses her forehead, and quietly walks out. He strides through the living room, his eyes roaming over the skeletal remains of the party. Once in the kitchen, he pushes back a foil pan of rolls, pulls out a chair, and takes up his post. The sun is setting over the house; a gray haze gobbles up all light except the green digital display on the microwave. Lucas waits, glancing infrequently at the clock, until Roderick finally appears.
He shuffles into the living room in jersey shorts and a rumpled white t shirt. He's been sleeping, or at least trying to sleep, with Tamara draped across his belly snoring softly. He spent an hour staring at the ceiling, twisting a lock of her hair, his breath shallow beneath the weight of the women in his life. Finally, the need to see Marlowe drove him downstairs.
Roderick hesitates almost imperceptibly when he reaches the sofa and catches sight of Lucas. He picks up the pace of his weary gait, strides into the kitchen, walks straight to the refrigerator and opens the door. "How's Mo?" he asks awkwardly, his grim face illuminated by the sharp white light. He has to know even though his pride recoils from having to glean the information second hand.
"She cried herself to sleep," Lucas replies hoarsely. He swallows and then clears his throat.
Roderick pulls two cans of pop from the refrigerator. He moves to the table, places one in front of Lucas, and then sets the other in front of the chair across from Lucas. "That's what they do," he says, returning to the fridge and yanking it open. "They cry it all out and just start over. Tam started crying because . . ." Roderick stops abruptly, cutting off his confession. "She fell asleep too."
Lucas opens his pop and drains half the contents. He can tell more from Roderick's tone than he can from the conversation. This is not the jovial, trash talking Roderick or the crisp professional Dr. Ross. This is the husband and the brother, the practical, plain speaking head of the household.
"Ten trays; two pieces of chicken," Roderick announces flatly. "They cleaned us out and didn't clean up a damn thing." He closes the refrigerator and approaches the table with a glass casserole dish a quarter full of lasagna that Tamara made Thursday night. He sits down, pulls a plastic fork from the box on the table, and begins to eat. "You want some?" he asks between mouthfuls.
"I already ate."
"Right," Roderick replies, flinching slightly as his mind drifts back to recent events. "Right."
Lucas drinks the rest of his pop and sets the empty can on the table. "I love her," he declares baldly because he doesn't know any other way to talk.
"That's what I hear: my best friend is in love with my sister." Roderick doesn't look up from the casserole dish; he chews quietly, thoughtfully, and then swallows. "I heard that one time before. But it was a lie, and I just figured that shit out today." He cracks the aluminum seal on his pop and takes a sip. "So I can't just take your word for it," he finishes in a tired gritty voice.
"You have to."
"No," Roderick protests, his voice sharpening to an edge. "You have to show me." He takes another sip of his pop before picking up his fork. "Let me tell you what I got: sex in the backyard, a lonely sister, and a friend that don't talk to his own folks. And I got two choices: be pissed and hurt Mo, or take a chance on you," he says, jabbing at Lucas with his fork, "and watch Mo get hurt. Come up with something," Roderick suggests coolly. "Help me out."
Lucas leans back in his chair, considering the comment about his parents. Marlowe said something similar. It doesn't make sense to them that he can keep his family at a distance when they would do anything to hold their parents close even just once more. Lucas' gray gaze locks on Roderick's face; he sees the same tight lines that he saw earlier before Roderick left the guest room. Roderick threatened him, the way the head of a household would. "It's different with my family, Roderick. This is a different situation." Lucas heaves a fast hard breath, reaching for explanations so deeply buried that they elude his grasp. "I love her," he repeats because that is the only explanation he has. "I wouldn't hurt her for the world."
Roderick nods. "How long I been knowing you?"
"Ten years or so."
"Right," Roderick says, nodding again. "So for ten years I been thinking, I'm a good person. We're friends; we're close. I'm not color struck." He stops and takes a drink of his pop. "But I saw you and Mo . . . if I would've seen you with Mo in the backyard, I would've killed you." No inflection, no remorse - Roderick's voice is flat and sober.
Lucas tenses as though he has been slapped. Roderick still isn't looking at him; he's eating the lasagna, chewing over crimes addressed to an image in his mind that overshadows the man in front of him. Lucas scrubs his hand over his face. His heart recoils from the idea of apologizing for the fearless and exquisitely moving love he made with Marlowe today. That isn't the apology that Roderick wants anyway. Just like Marlowe, Roderick wants Lucas to change something in his nature that can't be undone. They love him in spite of, not because of. It's another kind of insult, another kind of crime.
Lucas stands up and digs his wallet out of his pocket. He produces a strip of paper the size of a grocery receipt, unfolds it, and slaps it on the table in front of Roderick. "This is what I've got," he says coldly, pointing at the four photographs from the airport. "A few weeks of moments like this with your sister, and it's not nearly enough." He places his hands on the table and leans in close to Roderick's face. "If that's wrong, you might as well kill me. I'll still love her," he says darkly, his tone final, "in this life or the next." Lucas shoves away form the table and paces into the dining room.
Because they are men, there are no tearful apologies or elaborate exchanges of blame and guilt. Their positions shift with the quiet snick of the table lamp as darkness finally claims the kitchen. "Sit down," Roderick says when Lucas passes by a fifth time. He leans over and pulls out the chair next to him. Lucas sits down and they stare at each other for a long time, seeing things that cannot be spoken. There is love there - questioned, answered, and immeasurably stronger.
Roderick fingers the pictures one last time before sliding them across the table. "You seen my lunch pail?" he asks softly.
"Yes."
"That's how they get you, with the little worthless shit. Then you end up spending a fortune on a ring. You gonna marry her?" he asks sharply.
It's not just a question; it's a transfer of responsibility. "If she'll have me," Lucas replies, accepting the burden.
"She will." Roderick twists his wedding ring around with his thumb. "Tam told me what happened with Nate. She heard the whole thing."
Lucas' shoulders tense instinctively; he clears his throat.
"You ain't the only one," Roderick comments quietly. He pokes at the remains of the cold lasagna and finally breaks off one of the plastic tines in the pasta. "I didn't see it at first because I went there too, you know? I've heard some shit in my time . . ." he trails off, fixing his gaze on Lucas. "But that ain't you." And that's the best Roderick can do for now - just one exception to the rule, just one stone that crumbles from the mountain, precipitating a landslide. "I still ain't used to it, but I'll get used to it. As long as you don't fuck up."
"I can't promise that, Rod. But I'll fix it if I do."
"You better," Roderick grumbles. "Florida - don't forget that. I'm good with knives."
"Scalpels," Lucas corrects, picking up his empty soda can and tossing it across the room into the trashcan. "I'm good with knives."
"I ain't scared of you. Bruce," Roderick adds awkwardly. He's forcing himself, but sometimes that's what you have to do. The very wise know which instincts to trust; they feel their way over the mountain when they cannot see clearly. They lock arms with strangers knowing that when they are pulled over the summit, the true nature of a friend will come into the light. "If we throw down, I got Tamara on my side."
"I've got Marlowe," Lucas replies. And he smiles. He sees his life moving forward, parallel to Roderick's, and it looks like a good thing. It looks like everything he's ever wanted.
Roderick smiles too, a genuine smile born of hope. There is a fine line between wisdom and pessimism. If he doesn't at least hope for the best, what is there to redeem the bloodshed and tragedies of the past? "You can have Mo. She's crazy."
"Yeah, but she's mine. And I love me some Marlowe Ross."
Roderick stares at him silently, bemusedly. He leans back in his chair and looks over Lucas' face, fixing his gaze on the familiar, overlooking the strange. They aren't so different - they love the same woman. "Yeah, bro. Me too." He rises with a grunt, reaches for the lasagna, and then flicks his wrist dismissively. "I'm gonna go catch a few winks and then we'll clean this shit up. They've done enough."
Lucas nods. He rises as well and follows Roderick to the stairs before detouring to the guest room, opening the door, and shutting it softly. He doesn't see Roderick watching him, grimly but kindly. Lucas shucks off his shoes and lowers himself onto the bed next to Marlowe. He drapes his arm over her waist and buries his face in her hair, inhaling, breathing freely.
"Lucas?" Marlowe murmurs, her hand instinctively reaching for his.
"Yes." He kisses her neck and draws her close. "Go back to sleep. I'm here."
