Cracks of Marble
written by: N.A. Johnson
It wasn’t my occupation or obligation to help the quarreling Knox family; rather, I saw it as compensation for my dear friend, to whom I seldom granted money when they needed it most. Sure, I wasn’t his primary caretaker, and he chose to leave his family, but regret runs rampant when I think too much, and thinking is my clockwork. That and reading my Bible.
And it certainly didn’t help my conscience that I had assisted the Knoxes in a great deal of other issues that had plagued them in the past. It had started with simple gestures of giving advice on how to handle crabby relatives, but soon turned to me having to dwell on the facts of misbehavior amongst them. It never boiled over to the heights it did in this case with my friend. The abundance of information I learned about the Knox family and my long tenure as a close and trusting ally led Mr. Knox to deem me as his unbiological second son many times.
What more can I say about my friend than that they are the most miserable person I’ve ever come across. Not indifferent with love for his girlfriend and acts of suicide, he cried to me every night about his loneliness. I thank God in every prayer that he has a lover. I’d surely wake up to the news of his corpse in the sewer if she didn’t exist. If Martha left him. If Martha decided Mark wasn’t the one. The old double Ms Martha and Mark. The letters M and M are loved by society, yet are the bane of the Knox family.
He ended up a vagrant many miles away from the hamlet where we first met. Having been pushed around, he skipped town impulsively without Martha. After a sobbing story about a conflict with her parents, I assisted Mark home via money for a bus ticket. I reeled him like a common trout back to his abandoned family. The Gospel of Jesus served as a very successful bait. The only fear I had was my banishment from talking through this topic with the Knox family, but it would be an unusual act if I were denied the opportunity. Mark admitted to being scared. I wore a facade that I wasn’t.
“What’s the worst thing that can happen?” I asked him. I asked him not only to bring comfort but also to get an idea of what could potentially happen.
“A lot,” he said. He curled up in my passenger seat. His gaunt limbs formed a pile of dead sticks.
I had no inkling of where the hell Mark had come from. I only knew that it was a three-hour drive. His hair was flattened by grease and grime. His cheeks caved in, further outlining his round skull. Mark’s usually plump figure had morphed into a walking skeleton. The remains of his clothing were strands of a withered gray T-shirt and black jeans. The shoes he wore neared their expiration. In my trunk, I had adequate clothing for him, but I delayed giving it. I did not wish for him to change while I was driving. At the minimum, he got sweet treats and chocolate to quench his starvation.
I had let my beard grow out (thanks to my laziness in shaving). It brought him a great shock. Once that subsided and our journey away from the bus station prolonged, I explained carefully my intentions and goals in meeting with the Knox family. I ascertained that Mark would listen twice as much as he spoke (“God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason”), speak only with peace and love, not take personal offense to anything said, and stay with his family, rekindling it through a therapist or pastor (“With the love of Jesus Christ, of course”).
“What if it fails?” he asked.
“It won’t. Believe me,” I proclaimed. My inner monologue prated: “It failed for your family! Why do you lie to your friends? Why don’t you care?” I muttered for its silence, causing Mark to question. I told him a fib about what I said.
Mark expressed his glee at being back home many times. It was likely, and a guess, that his polarizing emotions were to cope with the stress he had endured. As the sun settled above and humidity thickened the air, I felt that my tongue had become tighter. My throat fissured with each breath. The swallowing of spit failed as a remedy but succeeded at deepening the craving for water. I spoke very little. Mark blabbered on. He was unaffected by the world’s heat. I said what I said at the perfect time.
My car halted on Poplar Street. At the peak of a cul-de-sac sat the Knoxes’ domicile. White with black roofing, in the eyes of contemporaries, it was quite quaint, but to me, it seemed to match the style of the neighborhood. Faint stripes of black gunk laced the walls. Containing a single Red Maple in the front lawn, oblong bushes stretched along the sides, all trimmed of any uncomely growths. It was a home I had visited many times. I was fond of it, both by Mark’s kin who inhabited it and the unfamiliarity that I felt. I wasn’t uncomfortable, but I also wasn’t comfortable. It was a limbo I sought and enjoyed.
“Drop off Mark and leave. This is not your problem,” I heard my mind suggest. I gave Mark some new clothing and let him change. I sat on the hood, watching a bird feed her baby chicks. The nest was just visible through the slits of the branches and dangling leaves. I could barely make out the yellow stubble of each chick. “Leave and fix your family.” Mark got out. Although baggy and plain in design, he seemed pleased with the outfit. He crimped a smile and hugged me. We walked together to the front door. His hands trembled. My psyche rattled. “Coward.”
A welcome mat greeted us. I nitpicked and construed every thread it bore. I wanted Mark to look him in the eye first. The reactions would judge how difficult this would be.
Mrs. Knox answered our knocks. Her greeting spurred off, “Mark?” He responded with a coy hello and nod. “What are you doing here? And your friend?”
“I’ve come to talk. My friend is here to help,” answered Mark.
This would decide my afternoon. The tone of the response, coupled with the sharpness of her body language, determined what circle of hell I’d be entering, for this atonement of mine would have at least one loser. Part of me was wishing she would slam the door in our faces. I had no doubt that Mark did as well.
“Okay. Both of you, come in,” Mrs. Knox replied coldly. She wore a deadpan mask.
We plodded inside. The chilly home air brought me great relief. My pale skin avoided being burnt, but the temple of my skull throbbed, no doubt due to the strain of thoughts. The glowing white walls did no favor in soothing me. We seated ourselves on a loveseat in their living room. An empty couch was across from us. The first moment I got I used to request a beverage. I was handed a glass of milk.
My mind chimed in, “Milk? Pathetic. Leave now. Drink your father’s beer. He’s got plenty.” I smiled. “I’m grateful for your hospitality. This is refreshing.”
Mr. Knox entered from the backyard. His bald head pulsated scarlet red. A shower of sweat dripped off his face and was absorbed by his wrinkled shirt collar. His eyeglasses balanced on the edge of his nose. He sat down with a groan, fixing a glare at Mark. Mark was busy chewing his fingernails. Mrs. Knox emerged behind us, escorting her young daughter. Both had frizzy hair that bobbed with each step. They sat next to Mr. Knox. A rustic table filled the space between us. It was clear that none of them had gone out in public yet based on their casual attire.
I started with small talk, “Hot outside, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” muttered Mr. Knox.
“I was burning up.”
“I found it to be lukewarm,” added Mrs. Knox.
“They hate you. Get out now before this all explodes in your head.” I sipped my milk and placed it on an adjacent table. A wooden picture frame displayed a Knox family photo. In it, the quartet stood in front of a marble column. Mark and his sister in the front with the parents behind them. They all held the same beaming Duchenne smiles.
“Was that taken from the courthouse?” I inquired.
“It was,” said Mr. Knox.
“How’d the column get so cracked up?”
“A lot of riots have been going on.”
I traced my finger along the image. “I took a photo there myself three months ago. The thing was smooth like something you’d see in Greece.” I chuckled. “Your parents were gone. Your brothers and sisters were east and west from there. Yet you remained alone in that dump.”
“Alone? What for?” questioned Mrs. Knox.
“Just how it turned out.” I quickly leaned back on the couch, now having the courage to face the inevitable. “So, shall we begin?” My stomach churned at the silence that followed. “I can start it…”
“Let Mark start,” demanded Mr. Knox. I was in no mood to argue the suggestion, let alone in the home of another person. All eyes transfixed on Mark.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, avoiding eye contact.
“For what?”
“For leaving.”
Mr. Knox shook his head, “No, you have more to be sorry about.”
“I know what I did wrong.”
He thrusted a finger at Mark, “You don’t. You would’ve returned sooner if you did. If you knew how it affected me, your mother, and your sister.”
Mark glanced at me. I was the only one with pity for him. He released a heavy sigh and bit his bottom lip, “You beat me.”
“Excuse me?”
I shot from my seat, trying to cordon between to maintain the lull. “I have markings all over my body from your hand. Bruises and scabs the size of baseballs!”
“Those weren’t from me!”
I cried a plea for their silence. They settled down, but all hovered on the edges of their seats waiting to pop up again (except for the young Knox). I got time on the floor. “I don’t know the truth of those claims, but I hope you all will speak with only candid remarks.” I glossed over their eyes. “They’re all lying. They don’t know the true feeling of abuse. Just look at their eyes. None of them contains fear.”
“No abuse took place,” chirped Mrs. Knox.
The young Knox concurred with a nod. She brushed the hair from her face. Maybe it was stereotypes manipulating my judgments, but I thought she looked too innocent to lie. “The bastard Mark is lying. Rid yourself of sympathy.” I cleared my throat, “Speak with peace. Speak with love.”
“I never hurt him,” Mr. Knox declared, “Any I did was not physical and was the cause of our misunderstandings. I gave him a home, food, and clothing.” He gritted his teeth, trying to restrain his anger.
“He stole my money too,” accused Mark.
“You robbed our joy,” retorted Mrs. Knox.
Mark shot his eyebrows up, “Joy isn’t in our blood. It doesn’t live in the Knox family. I can’t rob something that never existed.”
“Then I logically never took your money!”
“Easy. Easy.” I felt like a rancher taming barbarous stallions. It was tough gauging the dogmatic accusations. I found myself watching the young Knox, not because of her beauty, but more due to her tranquil composure. It was a sangfroid few children possessed. “Let’s be calm.” We all settled in our seats. I proceeded only when all their backs were supported by the cushions. “There is a colossal amount of conflict and tension brewing here. It all needs settling, but not in the methods explored so far.”
“What method do you recommend then?” questioned Mrs. Knox, leaning forward.
“What do you think? The Knoxes aren’t known for their intelligence.” I tapped my chin. “A family therapist or church.”
Mr. Knox rubbed his head. He grumbled, “We can’t fix our issues. It isn’t possible.”
“Family love has never existed for us,” added Mrs. Knox.
The cynical ideals irked me. “Leave. You can’t help. You shouldn’t help. They are too broken.” I neared the end of my milk. I thought of using it as an excuse to exit. I clanged the glass onto the table. The young Knox gazed at me. Her doll eyes twinkled like stars. “Ms. Knox?”
Mrs. Knox answered, but I directed it to the young Knox who spoke softly, “Yes?”
“When’s the last time your family was happy?”
With a hush, I allowed her amicable time to answer my question. She dipped her chin, sticking out her tongue whilst she thought, “Up…I don’t know.”
“The opinion of a young girl? How credible is that? Your siblings were stupid when they were younger. Remember the officer who asked about your dad? The whiskey and revolver they claimed to have never seen. The drunkard should’ve been put away.” I brought my face to her level, yet not leaving my seat. “What were you gonna say?”
“Up until Mark left.”
“You were happy as a family until Mark left?” I was deliberate in my extra confirmation.
“Yes.” She added a subtle head bow.
“Love exists here. It has existed.” I swayed my head to make sure I was heard. By no means was this a massive revelation for me, but it uncovered a chance for the Knoxes. It showed hope that treatment would flourish. “It’s a lie. It’s a farce. It’s a joke.” We all sat quietly after with our arms folded. I cannot speak for the Knoxes, but I felt no discomfort in the awkwardness of waiting. I wanted them to speak first. I had given my conversing keys to them.
“So,” said Mark, “We gotta talk. Let’s talk.”
“Start by apologizing,” insisted Mr. Knox. His glasses tipped and fell to the floor.
“For what?”
“For your false accusations!”
“Enough!” I screamed. The point of my patience had become overrun. The patriarch of the Knoxes had failed at amity. “No bickering.”
“He has to apologize!” Mr. Knox stood up. His hand was clenched in a fist.
“For what?” Mark came nose-to-nose with his father.
I heard none of the ensuing debate. Without a thought, I marched out of the house, cursing under my breath. “Told you. They’re all idiots.” I reached my car. I was reminded again of the heat outdoors. My head pounded about their belligerent attitudes. I wasn’t frugal enough to care about the money I had spent on Mark. “The Knoxes are like your family.” I put my head down and gripped the car door handle. The chirps of birds stopped me from entering. I spotted the mommy bird still feeding her chicks. No matter the mess, they ate what she gave them. “They’ll all be dispersed by the start of autumn.” I looked at their house. So peaceful the exterior was compared to the heinous duels inside. The bird’s nest, masterfully built with God’s resources, had no walls or roofing. The tide of my vexations started ebbing. “Forget them. Forget Mark.
“Shut up,” I muttered. I stomped back to the front door, hoping my wrath would exit through the soles of my feet. I replanned my strategy of combating the Knox family along the way. It was worth trying again from a different approach.
- Cracks of Marble - December 10, 2025
