“Mother?” I called out in the dollhouse halls, and up the stairwell.
I knew she was somewhere, a microbe, a germ-sized woman lost among the impossible largeness of the dollhouse.
“I’m still here,” her voice said.
“Where?” I asked, scouring the microscopic floorboards, the pinky-nail sized flower vases and pots and pans.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “Nothing is recognizable.”
My breath quickened, my stomach tightened up. I had lost my mother! I had lost my vulnerable speck of a mother! Was she floating in the air now, not tethered to gravity? Would she be carried away by the breeze of an open window, like a dot of pollen, never to be heard from again?
“You have to tell me where you are,” I pled. “Describe something. Lead me to you.”
“I honestly have no idea,” she said. “It’s indescribable, it’s…colorless. I can’t even feel my feet. I seem to be floating.”
I scoured my room’s corners—windowsills, cobwebs, dust bunnies. There was no woman among the grime and grout between tiles.
“Don’t be so alarmed,” she said. “It’s very peaceful here. I feel like I’m finally the right size.”
I never saw my mother again, though I looked for her each day, and whenever the vacuum cleaner or the Swiffer came out, I told her to yell if the sucking or sweeping disturbed her. She only replied, “It’s fine, I’m fine, dear, you go on ahead.”
For Dez’s third birthday, she inherited the dollhouse. Dez appeared so titanic, towering over the plastic girls she fisted as she shoved them from room to room, her fingers monstrous in comparison to their tiny pinched plastic waists.
I wanted to be despondent, to mourn like a daughter should mourn a mother, but how could I when her voice was still there, clear and ringing as a bird’s cry in my ear? I asked questions and she answered, and it didn’t matter if I was in the apartment, or in the park, or walking the noisy people-cluttered sidewalks. My mother’s voice was there. In the middle of the night, I would call out “Mother?” And she would answer, “Go back to sleep, baby.”
It wasn’t until Dez got up out of her bed one night, and hung in the doorway twirling her tangled hair around her finger, asking, “Mommy, who are you talking to?” that I realized that voice—that bell-clear comfort I carried with me everywhere—was now mine alone.
faith gardner
has had short fiction published in places like zyzzyva, mcsweeney’s internet tendency, and cutbank literary magazine. her ya novel perdita will be published by merit press in 2015. she lives in berkeley with a husband, a daughter, and a cat.
find her at faithgardner.com.
FRAGILE
MAGIC
ALEX KANE
As soon as he heard the front door slam shut downstairs, Ezekiel Buckner rolled free of his bedclothes and thudded to the floor. He groaned in the unanswering dark, and felt his way toward the door without making too much commotion. Zeke’s father wouldn’t have liked him wandering about like this, with his leg braces on for the night. His bedtime was past. Daddy would have told him to get his scrawny ass back into bed right this instant—but for now, he had the house to himself. Zeke listened as the car accelerated on down the street, the purr of its engine growing distant until all he heard was the gentle clawing of the trees against the siding.
With a squeak of the tarnished doorknob, he escaped into the dimness of the upstairs hallway, wriggling and pulling with his elbows to reach the narrow rug that ran down the center of the hardwood.
His destination called out to him: a dangling length of string, about ten inches or so above the floor, and a set of pale wooden stairs shadowed by the greater darkness that hung above them, like a yawning rectangular mouth filled with midnight sky.
Daddy had left the trapdoor open. For at least the next hour, the frontier of the attic was his to explore.
The forbidden, the supposedly dangerous and unreachable, always seemed to cry out for his inspection. After all, he’d spent most of his seven years confined to the indoors, to his father’s notions of safety, to the doctor’s unending list of cautionary suggestions.
If he were given the option to trade his childhood for some less hellish existence, Zeke supposed he’d first have to wrap his pristine little life in a layer or two of bubble wrap, throw in a small ocean of Styrofoam pellets, and box it all up in a cardboard package stamped, in bold red ink, fragile.
But of course he had cable television in his bedroom, and since he was privately tutored and didn’t go to school with the other kids in the neighborhood, he stayed up late each night clicking through the channels. Drifting toward sleep to the violet flicker of the changing signal, the sound muted to avoid alerting Daddy, he got his education from programs like Tales from the Crypt and The Twilight Zone. Old black-and-white fright films like Psycho and The Creature from the Black Lagoon.
So he knew that everyone was fragile in one way or another, that there was no exchanging your lot for someone else’s. You made do with what you had. Or you suffered for it.
As Zeke crawled up the first step, a sudden throb of pain ran the length of his right leg the instant he allowed his weight to fall on the knee. He reached upward with a tired, shaky hand, and pulled with all his strength.
He tried to imagine the secrets that had been hidden away from him, the untold treasures waiting to be found in the upper darkness of the centuries-old house. If the rickety stairs that led the way were any indication, the world of the attic was coated in a thick membrane of dust, gray and stringy like tufts of an old man’s hair.
The second step brought yet another ache. A duller pain, this time in his left knee. Zeke clattered upward until he could see the floor of the attic, the wooden edges of the steps jabbing him in the ribcage with each jerky motion.
Moonlight slanted in through a single ornamented window at the opposite end of the attic. It cast a silvery-blue light on the dust-caked hardwood, splintered by the fragmented windowpane and the skeletal shapes of the trees outside.
Milk crates, cardboard boxes, and filing cabinets of every shape and size were piled as high as the ceiling would allow, walling in the sliver of illuminated space in the center and making most of the room inaccessible to anyone larger than a mouse.
The pull-down staircase shimmied and creaked as he crept up the last few steps. An undisturbed patch of dust tickled his chin as he crossed the floor, on all fours like some helpless animal. He shivered, imagining for a moment that the dust was not dust but a spider web, that he was about to feel the scurrying of legs like soft needles across his face.
With this thought, he scrambled to get a grip on the handle of one of Daddy’s many locked cabinets, then began to pull with all his might. The strain on his leg braces caused a thin metallic snap. He didn’t let it worry him. Right now, he was standing up.
Zeke slowly released his hand, taking care not to let his fingers fall too far from the drawer handle, but found that the braces were holding. His legs wobbled, a little nervous in this unfamiliar upright position, but—
He was standing on his own two legs.
No crutches, no special chair; just a cautionary hand to keep his balance.
He’d spent his childhood in and out of operating rooms and doctors’ offices. Special, his daddy had once told him. Your legs are special, bud—and after we get you all fixed up, they’ll be as good as anybody’s. Hell, probably better.
Years and years of sleeping in the cold metal braces. Tossing about in the night for hours, hoping exhaustion would knock him out. Sometimes, he’d just give up the prospect of sleep and lie motionless until dawn slipped over the horizon.
He let his left leg glide forward and find its footing in the dark. The sole of the leg brace whispered as it parted the dust, drawing up splinters from the hardwood. He lifted the other leg, got it caught momentarily on the corner of a heavy box, and took another step. Despite the suspicion that he might be dreaming, he kept on walking.
From atop a mostly-empty shelf just beneath the window, he saw a small face eyeing him.
Zeke steadied himself, and then leaned down to get a better look at the figure that had met his gaze. The little wooden man wore a bright red suit, its buttons and lapel painted on in the same brilliant white as the gentleman’s enormous eyes and lips. A beige skimmer hat topped his black head, tilted to one side. Zeke took another step closer.
A long lever jutted from the disc on which the small man stood, the same unpainted pine as his shoes and the smooth twigs that served him for legs. It rested on a green fulcrum that sat on the pedestal opposite the wide-eyed figure himself.
With a steady finger, Zeke tapped the lever.
The little wooden man began to dance. His legs trip-trapped a jubilant rhythm that rocked his body left and right, the pivot of his hips keeping parallel to his shoulders. His hollow knees jerked back and forth in skittering arcs like the sticks of a jazz drummer: tap, tap-tap, trippety-thok!
“Wow,” Zeke whispered. “You can dance?” He’d never seen anyone dancing before, except on TV. It struck him as magical.
He flicked the lever again, and then a third time. Watched with delight as the small man danced some more.
“Do you think you could teach me?”
In just a few short minutes of exploring the attic, he’d already learned to walk. Nothing seemed impossible to him now.
Tap, cluck-cluck—
Zeke picked up the little wooden man and carefully made his way back down the attic stairs.
“How’d this happen?” his father asked, holding up the leg brace he had broken last night. A single silver wire dangled from the snapped joint, loose and frayed.
“Daddy, I’ll tell you, but you can’t get mad,” Zeke reasoned. “Promise?”
“You had them on, and you were told to go to sleep.”
“I know, I—”
“So why didn’t you?”
Zeke sucked air through his teeth. “The attic, Daddy. I wanted to see the attic.”
His father tossed his spoon into the sink, then turned on the faucet and rinsed out his oatmeal bowl. Zeke just kept eating.
“You wanted to see the attic?” The creases in Daddy’s forehead deepened. “What for?”
“You can’t get mad. Promise.” Zeke set his own spoon down, stared at a spot where the sun was reflecting off the surface of the table.
“Okay, fine. I promise.” Daddy crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “You can tell me about it, buddy. I . . . won’t get mad.”
“I only wanted to see what was up there. I didn’t want to do anything, but I thought I could just look around. Maybe find something of Mommy’s.”
Right away he wished he could take it back, could close his mouth and hit the mute button. Wake up again and start the day over. He twisted his lips.
“Well,” his father said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “did you find anything?”
“Yes. A toy.”
“One of Mommy’s?”
“Don’t know.” He hadn’t given any thought to who might own it. Probably yours, he thought. Instead he said, “But I can walk on my own, now. Without the braces, even—I think.”
“Oh yeah?” His daddy nodded almost imperceptibly. Zeke had known this would happen; Daddy never believed him unless he had something bad to tell.
“Watch,” he said, and struggled to stand up without the support of his crutches before his father could object. He had rehearsed this moment in his bedroom, standing up and walking about with neither his leg braces nor his crutches to keep him from falling. The nearer he kept the dancing toy, the easier walking seemed to be. Down here in the kitchen, though, his bony legs shook and ached in protest. He gritted his teeth.
“Whoa, whoa! Sit down. Right now,” Daddy said. He reached out with his arms as if Zeke might fall at any moment.
“It’s okay, watch.” Zeke left the kitchen and headed for the stairs. He figured he’d just go to his room, show his father the toy—he hadn’t yet named the small wooden man—and gauge his reaction. He’s gotta see the magic, Zeke thought. And then maybe he’ll take me out for a walk . . .
But his daddy didn’t want to watch anything, would rather stop the spectacle before it began. He grabbed the back of Zeke’s T-shirt and pulled, tried to rob him of his footing on the cold, hard stairs. Zeke’s feet, clad only in a pair of old Adidas socks, slipped right out from beneath him, and he collapsed backward into Daddy’s arms.
“You’re gonna give me that toy you found. If it belonged to your mommy, it belongs to me now. And don’t you fool yourself into thinking you can go prancing around without your crutches, because sure as shit, you’ll fall and your legs will snap like twigs—and then they’ll never heal.”
Zeke said nothing. His daddy didn’t like to be told he was wrong.
“I’m going to Terry’s real quick,” his father said as he finished putting Zeke’s leg braces on for bedtime. “You’ll go to sleep before I get back, or I’m going to take a hammer to that new toy of yours.”
Terry was a doctor friend of Daddy’s, who he went to see whenever he needed more of his medicine. Zeke worried that his father took too much, because his pills outnumbered Zeke’s own by more than double the prescriptions, and the capsules themselves were bigger, too.
He guessed his daddy must be sick, but since he had never mentioned it neither did Zeke.
Underneath the blankets, he grasped the little dancing man and prayed silently for his father to leave without asking for it, without getting mad at him for hiding it. On his nightstand, the platformed lever and the dowel that held the toy man up while he danced sat empty. “I will,” Zeke promised, but he could hear the falseness in his own voice. “But, Daddy . . . ”
“Huh?”
Zeke bit down on his lip. “When will I be able to walk on my own?” Without the magic, he thought to himself. “When will my legs be all fixed up?”
“I don’t know, bud,” his father said. “Just go to sleep.”
In the chill nighttime gloom, Zeke found his new friend’s face suddenly frightening. It was black enough that it disappeared into the surrounding dark, leaving visible only its wide shining eyes and pale-lipped grin. Zeke shivered, pulled his warm blankets tight around him, and then bolted onto the floor, upright and on his feet. Even as his bones ached within the support of his braces, he found a deep comfort in the standing position. He held on to nothing. The influence of the small wooden man at his bedside gave his legs all the balance and stability they needed.
Do you think you could teach me? he’d asked his new friend the night before, in awe at the sight of the dancing toy. The desire had become obsession in the hours since. “Well,” he whispered, “will you?”
With ease he crossed to the light switch beside the door and flicked it on.
The dancing man eyed him from across the room, his thin legs hanging motionless. They seemed to call out for Zeke’s play.
Zeke had listened as his daddy’s car sped off into the night. Again, he was alone in the house, if only for a little while. If he was quick, he’d have time to learn the toy man’s dance.
“How do you do it?” he asked. “I don’t think my knees’ll bend like yours.”
Carefully, he stretched one leg out, and the sole of his brace hit the floor with a clack. He slid his foot back in, tried swinging the other leg outward. Zeke tried to visualize the toy’s smooth rhythm—tap, tap-tap, trippety-thok!—to feel the divine music of the world coursing through him—tap, cluck-cluck—to hear the quiet thrumming of the earth far below.
His bowed legs wobbled, and his knees rubbed against one another as he fought to develop a groove. He found the music thumping in his heart good enough, but his legs didn’t obey the overwhelming rush of emotion he was feeling.
“Harder than you make it look, toy man. Way harder,” Zeke said. He tapped the lever and watched his friend dance a while.
Then he got back on his feet and tried once more. His bon
es cried out for relief, for rest, but he did his best to ignore them. The world sung softly beyond the window: the whispering of the wind against the trees, the chittering of the crickets and the locusts, the hissing and rustling of autumn leaves. He listened, he absorbed, he dreamed waking dreams. And when at last he was sure he had the rhythm in him, the bedroom door swung open.
“Damnit, I said lights out!” Spit flew from his father’s mouth with every word. His eyes were dark and moist, alight with an anger Zeke had never seen before.
“But, but I . . . ,” Zeke stammered. Then he paused to take a deep, shuddering breath. “Please don’t. Don’t be mad.”
He ignored his plea, and opened the door to the closet, searched in a frenzy for something on the upper shelf. He found it.
The hammer was all black save for a red band around the grip and some rust on the nose.
“I told you what I’d do. If you didn’t mind and stay in your goddamned bed.”
“Please,” Zeke whispered. “Don’t.”
“No, no, no. You knew what’d happen.” His father raised the hammer, stalked over to the nightstand, and swung.
The little wooden man slammed down on the table, and the dowel that held him up while he danced split lengthwise in half. The platform where he’d stood cracked in a jagged line down the middle.
Again Daddy struck the little man. Wood chips flung across the room—red, black, splintery bare pine.
Zeke winced. The sound of the hammer striking his toy disgusted him, knotted his innards. He wanted to move in and stop him, but he knew it was hopeless; his friend would never dance—or do anything else—again.
“Stop it,” he rasped, almost inaudibly. “Stop . . .” His legs gave out, shaky and tired, and he collapsed to his knees. The surgical pins that held his legs together felt like knives scraping against the bone.
Exigencies Page 14
