My very first memory of Mark DeLancey I was six years old. I suppose he must have been about sixteen. He was out the front of his place working on his motorbike. All the parts spread out on the driveway. His hands and face splattered with oil, his clothes filthy. I remember thinking his hands were nice. They had an angular shape and looked strong, even though they were dirty. My brother was there. Trying to help, I guess, but probably getting in the way more. And my sister, too. She kept asking Mark if she could go for a ride on his bike when it was ready. She would look at him all sweet and girly. Even now I think of it I feel embarrassed.
Mark just shook his head and said, "Never gonna happen."
Tina, that's my sister, looked unhappy and asked him why. But he ignored her and kept working away.
Mark DeLancey and his mother were our neighbours, in a little town out the back of woop woop. You know those unremarkable towns that no one ever remembers but everyone wants to raise their kids in. I don't know why. There's nothing there. Except plenty of gossip and zero opportunities.
Mark's house was small like ours, but it had a neat garden and trimmed lawn. Our house, on the other hand, could use a paint, some gutter repairs and a few days of weeding, trimming and mowing. Nothing at our place was looked after or kept well. I think I knew that, even at six.
My brother was fourteen then, in grade 9 at school. My sister was twelve. I remember little else about that day, except when I asked Mark if I could go for a ride on his bike he leant down and said close to my ear, "I'll think about it, Pipsqueak, but don't tell your sister."
YOU ARE READING
Mark DeLancey
Short StoryA small town, a neglected child, a good and kind Samaritan. Even through a life of hardship, a thread of cherished memories can trail and make life worth living. **I was sixteen now and someone like Mark DeLancey interested me. His tall, solid build...
