"It sounds strange that your parents would not have told you anything, too," Marshall said. It was strange, although not quite the strangest story I ever heard. For one thing, Marshall seemed not quite the jealous type, although he did write a good deal of it off to jealousy, or to simple romantic infatuation.
For another, Marshall seemed genuinely torn between wanting me to tell the tale and wanting me to write it down. The writing thing really unnerved me. On the one hand, Marshall's expression seemed more sincere than when I first met him. On the other hand, the idea that I was being manipulated by my own literary skills seemed equally false.
I decided that the story was a bridge I could not cross. "If there is something I can do, please," Marshall said. I hesitated. Marshall's tone was so odd. My imagination told me that he was just begging me to write the story down, and I knew I had no reason to refuse. I sat back. Marshall seemed pleased. He had grabbed the opportunity to write me down without delay. He thought I would be happy to write it all down, too. His words did not seem angry.
They did not seem eager or frantic. He seemed to be only slightly upset, maybe disappointed, that I would not write the story he wanted me to. "Let me read you a piece," Marshall said, handing me a small sheet of paper. I considered refusing. I had no reason to write it down. I did not want to be indebted to Marshall. There was no reason that he should want to be indebted to me, either. Yet I wanted to. Marshall's letter had made the decision.
I felt uncomfortable, like a stranger in a strange town, still not sure of the laws or the codes. I knew the law was supposed to go one way, but if I disregarded that, did I not offend my own self-awareness? I felt like a book, in the mold of a garden, not sure whether to open, to close, to hide, to show. I hesitated for a moment. I considered the possibility of a crime. I wondered if I had accidentally violated some law. "Could you just read it?" Marshall asked.
I did not wish to offend him or be angry with him. I agreed to write down the story, under certain terms. The agreement started in the morning after the party. My friend Marshall and I were walking. A homeless man tried to pick a fight with Marshall. Marshall refused to fight. The homeless man attacked me. I fought back. Marshall grabbed the homeless man, and we took him to a hospital. There was a long conversation between Marshall and my parents. Marshall seemed determined not to hurt the man, but to place him somewhere safe.
My parents were not sure. The incident would probably have been completely forgotten, except that I now had the piece of paper in my pocket. Marshall was furious with me. He accused me of fabricating the entire story, and convinced my parents that I was the sort of person who could hurt someone just because I felt like it. My parents had to concede. I had to stay away from Marshall, and I was not allowed to return to the party. My parents thought about the implications of what had happened.
Their fight with Marshall and their decision to stay away from him had made them lose respect for him. When I came home after the party, they were nervous, and thought the worst about me. My mother assumed I would not come back to my college. She insisted that I had to finish my college, even if it was difficult. My father wanted to make sure I was healthy. He was convinced that Marshall had not put me into an accident, but rather had cut my hands.
He thought that Marshall had purposely inflicted me with a wound that would leave me useless. He told me that I should not try to go back to the college. Even if I had been hurt, it would not be as bad as what I had now. I was lucky. Marshall and my parents decided that I should write the story. I had no reason to refuse. I did not want to make my parents angry with me.
There was another meeting between my parents and Marshall. Marshall seemed embarrassed by my parents, and wanted to keep the conversation short. Marshall did not tell them the story, but they would not tell him the story. My parents told me that Marshall thought they did not believe him. My parents did not want to upset Marshall. They did not want him to be angry at them. I felt guilty for caring so much about what Marshall might think of me. In the summer, I was at home in California.
I went to visit Marshall. He had been told by my parents not to tell the story. "That was the last time I saw you," Marshall said. He wanted to tell me the story. He said I needed to write it down. "What would you like me to write?" I asked. "Anything you want to write." "I don't want to upset you. I won't write it down if it makes you angry." "It is supposed to make you angry, but that is only the part of the story that I want to tell you." "I don't know anything about it." "That is not true." "I really don't know." "You can write it down." "I don't want to upset you." I felt guilty for lying to him, even if it was what he wanted. "What does it start with?" I asked. "What does the last sentence of the story start with?" "We started out at a party," I said.
"We drank and walked home. The guy attacked me, and then I hit him back. Then we took him to a hospital." "What does the first sentence of the story say?" "It starts with us trying to have a normal conversation at a party." "What about the rest of the story?" "It ends with the guy being in the hospital, and I was in the hospital." "That is your story?" Marshall asked. I could not read my story without my parents seeing it. "That is what it says." "I want you to write it down," Marshall said. "Are you mad at me? I can't write it if it makes you mad." "You are a selfish person.
You are a selfish person." I was nervous. I could not tell him that I did not write it down. "I am not happy with you. You need to know." "I don't know what you want me to do." "Write down what you know. Write down what you feel. Write down what you have seen. Write down what you have imagined." "I don't feel bad.
I don't feel guilty. I don't want to make you angry. I don't want to go back to the college." "You have a choice. You can write down what you know and feel. You can write down what you imagine. Or you can not write it down. Then I will tell you that you made a bad choice." "I don't think it is a bad choice to write down what I know and what I feel." "You made a bad choice. You made a choice for the wrong reasons.
Then I made a choice for the wrong reasons." I did not know what he was saying. I did not understand it. "What will you write down?" "All the bad things that I know, the bad things that I feel." "Marshall, you have not said anything about what I should write down." "Do not talk with me about the story," Marshall said. "No matter how much you feel bad, do not write down what you know.
If you write what you know, then I will be angry. That is my choice. That is my choice. It does not matter if you feel bad. Do not write what you know. Do not write what you feel. Do not write what you imagine." "But I feel bad." "Then that is my choice.
I story Continues