The big Airstream trailer and the small egg shaped one were pulled into a bare grassy patch parallel to Mark's driveway. Mom and Eliyah promptly moved right into his cabin, but we children were disallowed from entering it except for mealtimes and other selected occasions. It was strange to see the solitary, refined, meticulous aura of Marks house being engulfed by the chaos of our household. I felt defensive about Mark's space every time they moved something from where he'd placed it; the whole thing felt like such a violation, particularly since he was such an intensely private person. Moreover, I was used to the place being a refuge from Mom and Denis, and now there were here, in it. That was jarring. At least his scent still clung to the place. What did he smell like? Sophisticated, woody, complex, intelligent.

If we children couldn't sleep in the house, where did we sleep? In the cars. It was still very cold at night since it was spring. My sister and I have different recollections of Mark's return. She recalls that he drove up with Elizabeth, saw all our vehicles there, and left her in the car while he went to see what was going on. That he came to our parents and said, "What are you guys doing here? Are you living here?", and told us that he was taking Elizabeth to lunch or something and that when he came back, they had to be out of his house, the house restored to its previous state. That's slightly different from what I remember, but memories are slippery things. Mark might have an entirely different take on it, I don't know. Here, then, is my version:

Mark drove up, alone. I don't remember his actual arrival. I am sure he was upset, but I must have been sheltered from it. Denis tried to bargain to do work on the place in exchange for staying there until we could find another place to live. Mark's deck had no step leading up to it; Denis has the lumber and skill, and could easily make one. We could rake pine needles, pick up brush, and so on. We were told that we had to get out of the house because he had to go to the airport to pick up Elizabeth. In the meantime, he had bought particular foods for her, foods that were never usually seen in his house, things like fancy Milano cookies by Pepperidge farm, Earl Grey tea, and so on. Because of our poverty, my siblings and I regarded these foods with a sort of awe. Just by looking at them, we could tell what sort of person this woman would be, and my resentment deepened, having not even met her yet. He rattled around his house restlessly, happy, excited, terribly nervous. He said that he felt like he was on his first date, and I realized suddenly that in effect, this time at his cabin would be their first date.

Denis was already building the step for the deck when he left. He assigned us to find a lot of "nigger head" rocks, oval, head shaped granite stones, to mark the edges of the path to the house. It seemed that hauling the wheelbarrows full of rocks took forever. We set them into the ground so that they wouldn't roll away. When we were done, two lines of rounded stones framed a pine needle duff path, winding to the new step. By this time we (Raphah and I) were tired of waiting for Mark to come back. We had no idea what Elizabeth would look like, other than the reflection granted us by Mark's actions and purchases. Would he still be the same Mark, or would he get all stuck up or too busy to hang out with us? Raphah went to do his thing, and I went for a walk. As I walked, I thought. I realized that making an enemy out of Elizabeth was a bad idea. Mark apparently really liked her. Alienating her would be alienating him. Or maybe I was so conflicted by jealousy that I wanted to cover it up by doing something nice. At any rate, I picked a beautiful big bouquet of flowers, some wild, and some from the house that was for sale. And then I came back to give them to her.

She was tall and slender, pale, quiet, and sophisticated with a page boy haircut. Elizabeth would have been quite at home with my family back in Chicago, her place of origin, but she was acutely out of place in Idaho, except perhaps at a high end resort. She looked decidedly uncomfortable and unsure of herself, surprised by this strange teenage girl in jeans and hiking boots offering her an armful of flowers. We fluttered around her like a flock of birds, hovering, retreating, approaching, but never touching.

Somehow (had he asked for her opinion?) my Mom had gotten the idea that it was the task of our family to inquire of Yahweh and help Mark select which woman was his soul mate, "the right one". Someone, not me, had received some prophecy stating that the true name of the right one was Patricia. This didn't mean that her name when we met her would be Patricia, only that her new name would be Patricia. This Patricia would be kind, gentle, loving. Elizabeth was cultured, well bred, and the sort of woman that any man would be proud to walk in with on his arm, but I wasn't sure that she was Patricia.

It wasn't that I didn't like her, because in spite of her very reserved nature and the differences between us, we did like her. But, one got the feeling that she was attracted to a different side of Mark, the brilliant, intellectual, polished side of him. I wondered if she knew about the side that could romp on the forest floor in abandon with kids and dogs, blow raspberries on puppies tummies, and do all sorts of other deliciously wild things, cutting very tight curves in the lake with his boat until we thought we might fall out, dangerous stunts on motorcycles, that sort of thing. At any rate, the choice was his...regardless of the prophecies my mother continuously delivered to him.