one swoop.
Mark hadn’t lived at home for years, but as his mom explained while expertly arranging tulips, daffodils, and other early blooms in a glass vase, they had never been out of touch for more than a few weeks.
“He was a good boy,” she said. I immediately noted she used the past tense. “You’re speaking like you think he’s dead,” I pointed out. “I do think he’s dead.”
No other theory made sense to her. Long past the point of worrying about embarrassing her son, she’d gone to the police a couple of weeks after the wedding fiasco, filed a missing person report, and gotten the runaround.
“They told me adults are entitled to privacy and big boys don’t need to check in with mommy if they want to take off.”
I must have smiled at her characterization of the police response because she felt compelled to defend it.
“Basically, that’s what they said,” she insisted as she tied a blue lace ribbon around the neck of the vase. “I tried calling the media, even your station, but nobody cared.”
I didn’t doubt her. Missing men don’t trigger immediate searches unless they’re vulnerable adults or there’s evidence of foul play. Neither existed in Mark’s case. And frankly, past experience tells cops that when men go missing, they’re often in Vegas.
I asked whether Mark might have taken his comedy act on the road. Maybe tested his talent on the Strip.
She shook her head. Only death would have kept him from his wedding. And besides, if he had an act going somewhere, he’d have called her to come and watch.
“He always said a friendly audience can spread laughter like the plague.”
She’d given the police a picture of him and a description of his Jeep. They told her they’d put out a license plate alert, so if the vehicle was stopped, the officer on the scene could make inquiries. If Mark was still missing after a month, they’d enter his name in a national register of missing persons. She called each month to check, but the police never had anything new to report. And she doubted they were doing any actual investigating.
“What did you think of him wanting to be a comedian?” I asked.
“I didn’t have a lot of patience for his dream,” she admitted.
Much of his life, she had to go around apologizing to people and telling them he didn’t mean it. Or make him go around apologizing to people and telling them he didn’t mean it. The problem was, in most cases, Mark did mean it. Reducing a target to tears seemed almost as fulfilling as garnering a belly laugh. Like the time the lunchroom cook cried after he climbed on a cafeteria table and read a list of top-ten Secrets About Hot Lunches.
While his early start seemed to indicate an attack comedian in the making, as he matured, his humor became less cruel and more sophisticated. But he could still crush a mother’s feelings.
Mrs. Lefevre stuck a card in the flowers and wrapped them in yellow tissue paper while explaining that her son had been a bright student, but dropped out of college after a year because he claimed it didn’t offer what he needed. He also wanted nothing more to do with the flower shop because he said girls would think he was gay. He could tell that remark hurt her, so he claimed to be joking. But that was another problem with Mark, it was hard to tell when he was serious and when he was joking.
What’s a mother to do with an aging, aspiring comic?
Then Mark met Madeline and she believed in his talent and he called her his muse and she asked him to marry her.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “She proposed to Mark?” That scenario was very different from Madeline’s.
“Yes, that’s what he told me. He seemed elated, even relieved. Like he had wanted to pop the question, but didn’t quite dare.”
“And you were happy for him?”
She paused while wrapping plastic over the floral arrangement. I enjoyed watching her work and breathing the fragrant air inside her shop.
“Well, it was all
Mark hadn’t lived at home for years, but as his mom explained while expertly arranging tulips, daffodils, and other early blooms in a glass vase, they had never been out of touch for more than a few weeks.
“He was a good boy,” she said. I immediately noted she used the past tense. “You’re speaking like you think he’s dead,” I pointed out. “I do think he’s dead.”
No other theory made sense to her. Long past the point of worrying about embarrassing her son, she’d gone to the police a couple of weeks after the wedding fiasco, filed a missing person report, and gotten the runaround.
“They told me adults are entitled to privacy and big boys don’t need to check in with mommy if they want to take off.”
I must have smiled at her characterization of the police response because she felt compelled to defend it.
“Basically, that’s what they said,” she insisted as she tied a blue lace ribbon around the neck of the vase. “I tried calling the media, even your station, but nobody cared.”
I didn’t doubt her. Missing men don’t trigger immediate searches unless they’re vulnerable adults or there’s evidence of foul play. Neither existed in Mark’s case. And frankly, past experience tells cops that when men go missing, they’re often in Vegas.
I asked whether Mark might have taken his comedy act on the road. Maybe tested his talent on the Strip.
She shook her head. Only death would have kept him from his wedding. And besides, if he had an act going somewhere, he’d have called her to come and watch.
“He always said a friendly audience can spread laughter like the plague.”
She’d given the police a picture of him and a description of his Jeep. They told her they’d put out a license plate alert, so if the vehicle was stopped, the officer on the scene could make inquiries. If Mark was still missing after a month, they’d enter his name in a national register of missing persons. She called each month to check, but the police never had anything new to report. And she doubted they were doing any actual investigating.
“What did you think of him wanting to be a comedian?” I asked.
“I didn’t have a lot of patience for his dream,” she admitted.
Much of his life, she had to go around apologizing to people and telling them he didn’t mean it. Or make him go around apologizing to people and telling them he didn’t mean it. The problem was, in most cases, Mark did mean it. Reducing a target to tears seemed almost as fulfilling as garnering a belly laugh. Like the time the lunchroom cook cried after he climbed on a cafeteria table and read a list of top-ten Secrets About Hot Lunches.
While his early start seemed to indicate an attack comedian in the making, as he matured, his humor became less cruel and more sophisticated. But he could still crush a mother’s feelings.
Mrs. Lefevre stuck a card in the flowers and wrapped them in yellow tissue paper while explaining that her son had been a bright student, but dropped out of college after a year because he claimed it didn’t offer what he needed. He also wanted nothing more to do with the flower shop because he said girls would think he was gay. He could tell that remark hurt her, so he claimed to be joking. But that was another problem with Mark, it was hard to tell when he was serious and when he was joking.
What’s a mother to do with an aging, aspiring comic?
Then Mark met Madeline and she believed in his talent and he called her his muse and she asked him to marry her.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “She proposed to Mark?” That scenario was very different from Madeline’s.
“Yes, that’s what he told me. He seemed elated, even relieved. Like he had wanted to pop the question, but didn’t quite dare.”
“And you were happy for him?”
She paused while wrapping plastic over the floral arrangement. I enjoyed watching her work and breathing the fragrant air inside her shop.
“Well, it was all
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