Mayor of the Universe: A Novel

by Lorna Landvik

  Miss DuBarry had been drinking tea (she found it staved off hunger pains) and nearly spit it all over the pages of the magazine.

  “Good heavens,” she said, after swallowing hard. “That’s Mervin Phillips!”

  Indeed it was, although the obese boy with the black curls was now Jack Parrish, a tall and sculpted man whose musculature was shown off in several very flattering photographs and whose curls were now controlled by Brylcreem.

  She wrote him immediately, in care of the magazine, and got a reply back two months later.

  “So nice to hear from you, Lucille! Of course I remember you—you were my best friend!”

  The letters continued, and there were even several long-distance phone calls, and when Lucille got the Eureka Flash to ask Jack (he explained gently to her that Mervin Phillips was dead and gone as far as he was concerned) if he’d ever consider doing anything “for my campers who’re in the same shape you and I were in once,” he couldn’t have said yes faster.

  “And now,” Miss DuBarry had said on opening day, after the New Identity Ceremony, “let me tell you what very special prize awaits the boy who loses the most weight.”

  This got the boys’ attention—there was even a bigger prize than their name joining past winners on the brass plaque in the Great Hall?

  The nostrils of Miss DuBarry’s long narrow nose pinched shut as she inhaled deeply and flared with her mighty exhale. “This one very special, hard-working boy,” she said, “will be rewarded with a one-on-one meeting here at camp with Mr. Jack Parrish!”

  A gasp snatched at the air—there were a few children who hadn’t seen Agent of Impossibility yet, but they all had heard about it and knew the name of its red-hot new star.

  “That’s right, the day after the final weigh-in, Mr. Parrish, whom I knew as a child”—the campers traded looks and elbow jabs, the strange, skinny camp director’s stock suddenly rising—“and who had something of a weight problem himself, will come to our camp and have a healthy lunch with everyone and then meet the winner for a private conversation while riding in his limousine!”

  The prize had its desired effect on the children; every boy vowed to himself, “I’m going to win!”

  “All right, men,” said Mac, after a quick blast of his whistle. “Now we’ve got to get down to business. We’ve got a volleyball tournament to play, so after you bus your tables, get yourselves out on the north lawn pronto.”

  Shark tugged at the brim of his baseball cap and wiped his hand—again—on the seat of his shorts. The heat had colluded with his nerves to produce unending perspiration.

  I’m like a fountain! he thought, tucking the ball against his hip so he could wipe his other hand.

  “Come on!” yelled Rocky on the other side. “Serve the dang ball!”

  Holding the ball on his sweaty palm, Shark made a sweaty fist with his other hand. Trying to visualize where he wanted the ball to land—right in between two Oak players—he announced the score, “One—seven,” and hit the ball.

  He was happy that it made it over the net—barely—but not so happy when Rocky jumped up and smacked the ball, not just over the net, but directly at Shark, who fought his impulse to step aside and instead tried to return it. He was unsuccessful, the ball bouncing off his forearm and sputtering into the net. The Oak boys cheered the play and Shark tried to avoid the looks of his fellow teammates.

  He felt heat on his face and stared at the ground as he rotated to his new position in the front. Back home, he was the fat kid chosen last on every team, but among his peers here, these overweight and clumsy boys, he was one of the better athletes—able to hit a baseball with a bat or shoot a basketball into a net or throw a football with a fair aim—but today he was incapable of doing anything worthwhile with a volleyball.

  “C’mon, Allegheny, burn it in there, burn it in,” shouted Rocky as his teammate prepared to serve.

  “Okay, back row,” said the Birch’s counselor from the sidelines. “Move back and cover your positions.”

  Shark wiped his hands on his shorts again and crouched into what he thought was a more prepared stance.

  Pyrennes smiled at him through the net, the sort that didn’t invite a return smile but that inferred, I look forward to your annihilation.

  “Seven-one!” shouted Allegheny, striking the ball with his fist. It sailed over the net and landed in between Cheetah and Cougar, who shrugged at each other helplessly.

  Even though the ball, surprisingly, was in play a few times back and forth over the net, the score continued to mount in the Oaks’ favor—eight-one, nine-one, ten-one.

  “Way to go boys, way to go,” encouraged their counselor, Mac.

  “Just keep your eyes on the ball,” countered Bear.

  A sudden flare of desire rose in Shark; he would keep his eye on the ball; he would do good by his counselor, whose belief in his Birch campers never seemed to flag. He would show Bear he was worthy of his belief; he wasn’t some fat pathetic kid who couldn’t hit a ball if it was right in front of his face—

  Thwack! Reflexively, he’d held up a fist against the ball coming at him like a targeted bomb.

  It streaked over the net like a meteor and right into an Oak player’s face.

  “Owwww!” squealed Rocky, blood spurting out of his nose.

  Shark stood slack-jawed. It had been thrilling to hit a ball with such force, but that it had landed in the middle of Rocky’s face was an extraspecial bonus.

  “I think it’s broken!” wailed Rocky, through cupped and bloodied hands.

  “You broke his nose!” shouted Andes.

  Shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe one of his men had been felled by a mere volleyball, Mac put his hand on Rocky’s shoulder.

  “Come on, let’s get some ice on that,” he said, and as he led the boy off the volleyball court, Rocky stopped blubbering and turned to offer a warning to Shark.

  “I’m going to get you!”

  Nervousness caused an inappropriate response in Shark: he laughed.

  Live Field Report

  To: Charmat

  From: Tandala

  We may be able to defy the laws of gravity and time and space, but that we gave up crying seems to be a big step backwards. Charmat, I have cried more tears than I thought I had bodily fluid, yet after each jag I think, I needed that; I am cleansed and now ready for what’s next. Clarence and I had a fight (a stupid one—my fault), and now everything makes me cry: Doris Day singing “Que Sera Sera,” the awkward, flapping pink cloud of a group of flamingoes taking flight, the smell of toast in the morning. I didn’t know love involves so many tears. I only know I’m willing to cry them if it means I get to keep loving!

  Instant Reply

  To: Tandala

  From: Charmat

  To quote our Cosmic Evolutions professor:

  “The flip side of love is not hate but loss. The emotional entanglements of the human race are what prevent them from acting with sound clarity—imagine trying to retain equilibrium when scaling the peaks of love and plunging into the depths of a love lost.”

  It’s hard for me to scold you for insubordination when insubordination is one of the precepts on which our Lodge is based. Still, you seem to be falling into territory so strange and unfamiliar I am unsure I can help you escape! I urge you to step back and remember your responsibilities are to Fletcher; being more a part of his life at this moment would be more helpful to our mission, him, and you. If you’re unable to do that, please send more calamari and a couple bouquets of frangipani.

  That night in the Birch cabin, Shark heard from his cabin-mates what he could expect from Rocky.

  “He’s gonna cream you!” said Jaguar.

  “He’s gonna murdalize you!” said Cheetah.

  “Yeth,” said Zebra. “He’th gonna cream you and murdalithe you!”

  “It’s not like I meant it,” said Shark. “I didn’t aim for his nose.”

  “That would have been so cool if you did,” said Ch
eetah.

  “Yeah, but even if you didn’t,” said Jaguar, “the fact is you still hit him. And he’s going to want to hit you back.”

  “Juth ignore him,” said Zebra, offering advice his mother gave him when dealing with all the kids who teased him about his weight or the way he talked. “Ignore him and thay out of hith way.”

  At Lights Out, the predictions of violence about to be perpetuated against him played on and on in Shark’s head, an anti-lullaby shouting away sleep.

  Why did I have to play volleyball today? Why couldn’t I have missed that ball—like usual? Why did I even have to come to this stupid camp?

  Moonlight shone through the cabin windows, and from his bottom bunk he looked at the shadowy figures in the beds across from him.

  That’s why, he thought sadly, seeing the hump of Jaguar’s belly, the big round mass that was Cheetah’s backside.

  He threw his camp blanket off and rolled out of bed. He grabbed his robe (every boy brought a robe; it was good camouflage) and tiptoed across the wooden floor, taking the big flashlight on the shelf by the door.

  Shark would have ignored Nature’s call if he could have; the walk to the outhouses was not far from the cabins, but any distance in the dark was far enough. It wasn’t as if he was afraid of the dark; he just preferred to have company in it. He race-waddled, wagging his hand back and forth on the path so that the streaking motion of light from his flashlight would scare away any mountain lions or armed-and-dangerous escaped convicts who might be hiding out at a weight-loss camp for kids in Vermont.

  His relief, as he stood urinating into the hole in the small wooden outhouse, was both physical and mental. The trip there had been noneventful and gave him confidence that the return trip would be the same. Opening the outhouse door, he began to whistle, but softly, so as to not wake up his fellow campers. The whistle froze on his lips as he stepped off the wooden steps.

  “Oh, you scared me!” he whispered hoarsely to the figure standing in front of him, and the boy’s shock swung into the man’s surprised recognition.

  “Tandy!” said Fletcher.

  They rocked gently in the canoe, as if they were in a cradle in the water.

  “So where’ve you been? I thought you would have been here days ago! Don’t you know—”

  “You are so cute,” said Tandy, reaching across to poke him in his soft belly.

  Fletcher swatted away her hand. “I am not cute! I’m an obese eleven-year-old boy! And if you think it’s fun—it’s not!”

  Tandy had started talking on their walk down to the lake, but Fletcher had shushed her, telling her he’d get in trouble if he were caught outside so late at night.

  “Especially with a strange woman,” he whispered, adding to himself, If only they knew how strange.

  Now that they had paddled out past the diving raft, he thought it safe to converse but reminded her to keep her voice down.

  “And why are you still in your maid’s uniform? Shouldn’t you be dressed like a camp counselor or a grounds keeper or something?”

  “I’m still under the employ of Deke Drake.”

  “But how can that be? I’m Deke!”

  Tandy shrugged. “In my world, Mr. Drake is on a business trip to Shanghai.”

  “But I’m Deke!” Fletcher whispered fiercely. “Or was!”

  Crossing her arms, Tandy looked him up and down. “So you’re not enjoying experiencing childhood again?”

  “No!” Fletcher whispered fiercely. “I mean, I was mildly chubby as a kid, but nothing like this!” He opened his robe and grabbed his chest. “This is fat! My Vince Shark was a suave and debonair spy—and this, this kid Vince aka Shark needs a training bra!” He pulled his robe around him again and folded his arms on the shelf his big belly made. As happy as he was to see Tandy, he also had an urge to smack her. “And you, for one, should not tease someone about their size.”

  “And what, mon, is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, look at you!” Fletcher regarded the alien with a look of disapproval. “You’re like a caricature—I mean, speaking of bras, what’s your cup size? A triple E? And you have to admit you’re riding a pretty big caboose.”

  “Fletch-aire, that’s mean.”

  “You’re right, it is. Almost as mean as making me this kind of Shark.”

  It seemed a possibility that the canoe might sink under the weight of their mutual hurt feelings until Tandy made the effort to bail out the resentment.

  “Oh, Fletcher,” she said, leaning toward him and putting a hand over his. “I really am sorry you’re not happy with this version of Shark. But how many times must I tell you—I have nothing to do with who and what you become. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Only you haven’t been! One minute I’m with you and Miss Plum and then I’m practically drowning in this very lake and you’re nowhere to be found! I haven’t seen you for more than two weeks—and now I find you’re hanging out in my old fantasy!”

  Fletcher frowned at the pout in his voice. It was bad enough having the body of an eleven-year-old; did he have to sound like one, too?

  Tandala’s deep breath was one that inflated her chest, and Fletcher couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “What?” asked Tandy eagerly, wanting to share in the joke. “What’s so funny?”

  “Actually, I think I spoke too soon. You look thinner to me, Tandy. Here I am at fat camp, and you’re the one who’s losing weight.”

  “I . . . I guess I hadn’t noticed,” she said, pulling at the fabric of her uniform.

  They sat for a moment, the dark water gently slapping the sides of the canoe, the sky above them a celestial Vegas, welcoming its convention of stars.

  “Tandy,” he said softly, “are you crying?”

  The face of the alien, as dear to Fletcher as a sister’s might have been, was puckered in sadness and a line of tears zipped from each eye down her cheeks as if in a race.

  “It’s just . . . ,” her hands opened. “Hoola, baby . . . all of this.”

  “All of what?”

  She drew her head back, and he heard the click of her beaded braids. “Are you kidding? Oh, Fletcher—everything! This water!”

  In an instant, without a splash, they were out of the canoe and in the lake.

  “Tandy!” Fletcher gasped. “Give a guy a little warning!”

  He realized as the water swished around him like a soft fabric that he wasn’t wearing his robe . . . or his pajama bottoms.

  “You just can’t get enough of nudity, can you?”

  The alien laughed. “It’s just so nice to feel things on your skin.”

  Fletcher had to agree; it was like a submersion into cool liquid silk.

  Tandy flipped over to float on her back and Fletcher followed suit, the darkness hiding their nakedness, which was completely inconsequential to both of them anyway.

  “It’s so different from the ocean,” said Tandy, and her voice in the middle of the lake seemed as if it were the only voice in the world. “I was scared to go in the ocean—those big foamy waves crashing!—and then I learned how to body surf! I rode waves like they were an animal!”

  “When did you, who showed you how to—”

  “But this water. So calm, so clear . . ." She brought the fingers of one hand to her mouth. “And absolutely no taste of salt. Isn’t it funny, Fletcher, that the ocean tastes like tears?”

  The ocean tastes like tears, thought Fletcher, filled with an odd sense of serenity and sadness.

  “We knew about water, of course,” continued Tandy, “we know it’s one of humans’ basic necessities—but it’s so much more talented than food or oxygen!”

  Fletcher chuckled, knowing he’d probably never hear again water described as talented.

  “Think of it—you can’t swim in food or oxygen!”

  “No, you can’t,” agreed Fletcher.

  “But not only can you swim in water, you can submerge yourself in it, can water-ski on it, or . . . or skate on it
when it’s frozen—not to mention crush it up for those lovely tropical drinks. And you can get rained on by it—water literally falls from the sky!”

  Laughing with delight, Tandy flipped over and began to breaststroke toward the drifting canoe. Fletcher followed her.

  “To be out on this quiet lake, Fletcher—first floating on top of it on a boat and now in it swimming! And look! Look at how the moon shines on the surface.” She jabbed her chin toward it. “Look how the light looks like a white ribbon you could walk on. Imagine—walking across a lake on moonshine!”

  “I can imagine stumbling on moonshine, or throwing up on moonshine . . . ”

  Ignoring his play on words, Tandy said, “Only let’s not imagine, let’s do it!”

  Appropriate clothing materialized on them as they rose.

  A local fisherman, convinced that trout bit best in the middle of the night, had almost decided to leave his sleeping wife and go on a late-night trout expedition. Had he gone through with his plans, he would have seen an exotic-looking woman in a silver gown and a fat boy in a silver tuxedo walking on water on a path of moonlight. Fortunately for the fisherman and his sanity, he decided the warmth of his wife’s body was the bigger lure, and he snuggled close to her, dreaming dreams far more pedestrian than what was happening on the surface of Lake WoogiWikki.

  I don’t want to make a cheap joke about this being a religious experience, thought Fletcher, but it is.

  He couldn’t describe the feeling; it was as if he were walking on water woven thicker by more water, his feet shattering a buoyancy that was immediately recovered with each step.

  And the light! The cool silvery light of the moon!

  “It’s so beautiful,” he whispered and then, getting one of the best ideas of his life, he said, “Tandy, let’s dance.”

  The alien turned to him and took his other hand and there, down the glittering strip of moonlight, the couple danced. It was a waltz, and the pine trees, huddled like chaperones across the lake, began to hum. An owl hooted a soft bass and a squirrel chittered some percussion. Tandy towered over Fletcher, but they were beyond grace, and the water splashed up sparkles of applause.