Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Thirty-Three

It is never pleasant to look through the glass of offense and find yourself looking back.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

It was three days before Christmas. I was in bed with a cold when the doorbell rang. I ignored it and it rang again. Then again. Then again. Finally, I got up angry, put on my robe, and walked to the front. I yanked open the door ready to rail on whoever was there.

Incredibly, Marc was standing at my door.

“Hi,” he said calmly. He looked out of place. It was hard to picture him away from the property, let alone Massachusetts.

“How did you find me?”

“I went to your old place.” He held up a necklace. “I bought some sea glass from a hippie-looking guy, and a fish sculpture made of driftwood. I don’t think he sells many of them. But it’s a fish. It might look good at the house. If not, we’ll make a fire in the pit with it.”

“Arlo told you where I was,” I said.

“That’s his name. Like the folk singer. May I come in?”

I sighed. “Why not?”

He brushed the snow off his shoulders, then stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

“May I take your coat?”

“No.” He shrugged it off, folded it in half over his arm, and just held it. He looked around my pathetic ugly apartment. “Nice place.”

“No, it’s not. Do you want something to drink? Something hot?”

“Do you have mulled wine?”

“No.”

“What about a hot buttered rum with one of those little cinnamon sticks?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything like that. I have powdered hot chocolate I can put in the microwave.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Whatever, have a seat.”

Marc looked around at his seating options, then perched reluctantly on my couch.

“You don’t like to wear clothes, do you.”

“I’m sick. You got me out of bed.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. You got me out of Massachusetts.”

“You should have told me you were coming,” I said. “I could have made dinner for you.”

“I didn’t come to eat. I would have gone someplace nice.”

“Your brother sent you?”

He kept looking around my place, like he was trying to find a way out. He turned back to me. “No, he doesn’t know I’m here. He’s back out on the road.”

“I thought he was done with his tour.”

“He was.” Characteristically, without warning he launched into the conversation. “You’re not right.”

“What?”

“You’re not right. Leaving Al wasn’t right. You’re not being fair.”

“I’m not being fair? At least I’m not a liar.”

“Yes, you are. You’re one of the biggest liars I know.”

“How dare you?”

“That wasn’t really daring, I was just telling the truth. Isn’t that why Al came and got you the first time, because you were lying to yourself that you weren’t worthy of him? Everyone lies. Some lie to protect themselves; some lie to hurt themselves. No difference.”

“I don’t care why he lied.”

He looked perplexed. “Why?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. “I told Lee that I loved him because of what he wrote in Bethel. It was you who wrote the words that reached me. Not him.”

“Then if you’re honest, you should be in love with me.”

He had a point.

“Do you know where Bethel is?” He asked it like he had forgotten our conversation and was now looking for directions.

“It’s thirty miles north of here.”

“Not the one in Pennsylvania. The one in the book.”

“No. You’re vague about it. It could be anywhere.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist. Not on any map. It only exists in Al.”

“What do you mean?”

“As children, there were times our mother would beat us so severely that it would be hours before we even dared move. During those times, Al would rub my back, then tell me a story about a place called Bethel. It was a place where people were kind, and mothers and fathers were good to their children. There would always be enough to eat because ice cream bars grew on trees. And children forgot how to cry because there was no reason to.

“I asked him where Bethel was. He said it was close. Very close. And one day, he would take me there.” He looked me in the eyes. “Do you even know what the word Bethel means?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“It means ‘the House of God.’ That’s what Al created for me, for my mind. He gave me my own religion. He gave me a place I could have hope.” Marc was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I know you’ve seen the burns on his back. Do you know where they came from?”

“They came from your mother.”

“Do you know why?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“It was my fault. When I was seven, I found my mother’s cigarettes. I wanted to be big like her. So I tried to smoke them. But each time I’d choke on it then spit it out of my mouth. Then I’d light another one.

“I caught the carpet on fire. It could have been a big fire, but Al came in. He stomped on the fire, then covered it with a blanket and put it out. But there was already a big hole in the carpet and the room was filled with smoke. The smell was like burnt rubber. It filled the room.

“That’s when my mother walked in. She was going out that night, so she was dressed in her skanky dress and her hair was done up. As usual, she had been drinking. She had that look of hell in her eyes, that crazy, mad look that turned our blood cold.

“She shouted at us, ‘What did you do?’

“I had never been so afraid in my life. I thought, this time she’ll kill me. I knew she would.

“But before I could say anything, Al turned to my mother and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to start the fire. I won’t ever smoke your cigarettes again. I promise.’

“She glanced at me, then she went after him with a rage I’d never seen before. She beat him with her fists until he was bloody.

“Then she got this sadistic, gleeful look in her eyes and said, ‘You like to burn things?’ She went out of the room, then came back with her curling iron. She lifted his shirt, then pressed her knee into the small of his back so he couldn’t move.

“Then she pressed the iron against him. It sizzled against his skin. I could smell his flesh burn. He screamed in pain. I shouted at her to stop. I even ran at her, but she pushed me away with the iron. That’s when I got that big scar on my arm you saw. But she wouldn’t stop. She was hell-bent on making him pay. I wanted to tell her it was my fault, but I was a coward.

“But Al never told on me. She just kept pressing the iron against him over and over until it wasn’t hot enough to burn anymore. Then she threw it against the wall, pointed at me, and said, ‘If you ever light a match in my house, you’ll get the same.’ Then she got up and left.

“I just looked at my brother. His eyes were glazed, and I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. He was in shock. His back was one massive blister.

“He didn’t move all that night. He would groan lightly, then he would suddenly be silent. Several times I was sure he had died. My mother had come home in the middle of the night drunk and fallen asleep on the couch. I wanted to kill her. I was only seven years old, and I felt that much hate. But I hated myself even more than I hated her. Because it was my fault.

“The next morning, she got up, hungover. She must have remembered what she had done, because she came into the room mumbling, holding a beer can against her head and a brown bottle of something, probably hydrogen peroxide, that she poured on his back. It just foamed up. He groaned but didn’t move or speak. A couple hours later she came back in and put a big piece of gauze over his back and said, ‘If anyone asks what happened, tell them you fell asleep against the radiator.’

“The next night I asked him to tell me stories about Bethel, but he wouldn’t. He never spoke of Bethel again. That’s why I wrote the book. I wanted to believe again. I wanted him to believe again.”

To my surprise, Marc’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “The only reason I could write about Bethel was because Al lived it. He taught me what it meant to love. You keep saying that you fell in love with my words—like they magically saved your life. What are words? They’re cheap. Anyone can give words. Lies are words. Insults are words. Al showed me what love really was. He lived Bethel. He was Bethel.

“You decide, do you want words, or do you want the real thing? Because that’s what this is about. That’s all this is about.

“He covered for me when I burned the carpet, he covered for me when I wrote a book. It’s no different. You think you’re better than him? Yeah, right. His whole life he’s been hurt by the people he loves. People like you and me. Welcome to the club, baby.” He stood and walked to the door. “That’s all I have to say. Merry Christmas.” He put on his jacket, then opened the door.

“Marc.”

He turned back. “What?”

“Where is he?”

“He’s out doing what I didn’t have the courage to do.”

“Where?”

“No idea. Look it up,” he said, walking out my door.