What I Loved

began to walk down the hallway.
    It has been four years since I talked to Mark at the Opryland Hotel. We seated ourselves at a small red metal table with a large white heart on it in a café called the Love Corner. I've had years to digest what he told me, but I'm still not sure what to make of it Mark lifted his chin and looked at me with an expression I recognized. His eyes were wide with innocent sorrow, and his lip protruded in the pout he had been using since early childhood. I wondered if his repertoire of facial expressions had narrowed. Either he was losing his gift for variation or drugs were interfering with his performance. I stared at the mask of regret and shook my head.
    "I don't think you understand, Mark," I said. "It's too late for that face. I heard you on the escalator. I heard your voice. It's not the one I know, and even if I hadn't heard it, I've seen that expression a thousand times before. It's the one you put on for the grown-ups you've hurt, but you're not three years old anymore. You're a man. That puppy-dog face is inappropriate. No, it's worse than that. It's pathetic."
    Mark looked surprised for a half a second. Then, as if on command, his expression changed. He withdrew his lip, and suddenly his face looked more mature. Altering his expression so quickly was a blunder on his part, and I felt a sudden advantage.
    "It must be hard," I said, "to juggle so many feces, so many lies. I'm sorry for you—concocting that story about the gun and a murder just so Violet would send you money. How stupid do you think she is? Did you really imagine that she would wire you money after all you've done?"
    Mark lowered his eyes and looked at the table. "It's not a story." He spoke to me in the voice I knew.
    "I don't believe you."
    Mark raised his eyes but not his chin. The blue irises were liquid with feeling. I recognized that look, too. I had fallen for it again and again. "Teddy told me he did it—that he killed him."
    "But this was all long before you were at Hazelden. Why did you run off with Teddy now?"
    "He asked me to come, and I was afraid to say no."
    "You're lying," I said.
    Mark shook his head vigorously. "No!" There was a little shout in his voice. Three tables away from us, a woman turned her head toward the sound.
    "Mark," I said, keeping my voice very low, "do you understand how berserk you sound? You could have come back with me from Minneapolis. I was there to take you home." I paused. "I saw you in the wig, saw you get into the taxi with him..." I stopped when Mark smirked and shrugged his shoulders.
    "What are you smiling about?"
    "I don't know. You're acting like I'm a queen or something."
    "Well, what's it all about? Are you telling me that you and Teddy aren't lovers?"
    "It's just for kicks. It's nothing serious. I'm not gay—only with him…"
    I studied Mark's face. He looked a little embarrassed, nothing more. I leaned toward him. "What kind of a person goes off with someone he thinks is a murderer, claiming to be afraid of him, and then has a few kicks on the side?"
    Mark didn't answer me.
    "That man destroyed one of your father's paintings. Doesn't that bother you? A portrait of you, Mark."
    "It wasn't me," he said in a sulky voice. His eyes had gone blank.
    "Yes, it was," I said. "What are you talking about?"
    "It didn't look like me," he said. "It was ugly."
    I was silent. Mark's antipathy to the portrait blew like a breeze through me. It changed things. I wondered if it had affected Giles's motives. He must have known how Mark felt.
    "Mom kept it in the barn all wrapped up. She didn't like it either."
    "I see," I said.
    "I don't get why it's such a big deal. Dad made lots of paintings. That was just one—"
    "Just imagine how he would have felt," I said.
    Mark shook his head. "He wasn't even around."
    The word "around" set me off. Looking into Mark's shallow, dead eyes and hearing that moronic euphemism for his father's death made me furious. "That painting was better than you are, Mark. It was more real, more alive, more powerful than you have ever been or will ever be. You are the thing that's ugly, not that painting. You're ugly and empty and cold. You're something your father would hate." I was breathing loudly through my nose. My rage overwhelmed me. I made an effort to gain control of it.
    "Uncle Leo," Mark simpered, "that's mean."
    I swallowed. My face was shaking. "It's nevertheless true. As far as I can tell, it's the only thing that is true. I have no idea if