Pool_2

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Doctored photos? Tainted reviewers? Verbal smears? How can you prove what you haven't done? Macaluso didn't even know what he was doing in his car, but there he was, compelled to drive. Churning events were bringing up a bottom sludge of his mentality. From the hospital toward home, visions of Mama swirled, warning about trust, Jazz Man oathing to God, Aldo reciting names for novenas to Father Joe, baby Chucky crying nu-mommy, and Sissy's ever present and aloof sadness. There was not a thought of where he was or where he was going, his life was no longer in his control. Marcus, caught in what could be a lethal undercurrent, just went with it. It was the only thing that seemed to have direction. But where to? Turning up the lonely hill on which his house was perched in near seclusion, ghosts of North Mountain fluttered into recollection, lingering through a sharp left down his steep driveway, and a k-turn right into the indoor garage whose automatic opening was his only welcome. From the street, the only hint that this house had a garage, was the driveway itself. The doors closed behind him. The other car bay was empty. Mina wouldn't be home until later tonight. Sitting in his car, in a quiet garage, he toyed with the radio buttons which he left off, finger dusted the steering column, rubbed the extra glue that inevitably framed the inspection sticker, "Isn't blood thicker? You trust too much. Just sticking up for kids. Truth has no value when process is cranked." At least home was secure from the madness. Home is a place from which to evolve or involute. Home can be anything, but right now it was just a place away. In the depths of a ranch house with the classic simple style hip roof, a place cozy with trees and space, sat confusion seeking clarity. Clarity was not to be found in the dust on the steering