Make Believe

by Joanna Scott

  They walked through the parking lot, across a street, down the sidewalk, then Mama carried him piggyback across a long bridge that spanned the river. They strolled through empty gardens and window-shopped along the street, and then they climbed up steps into a buzzing, binging circular lobby lined with windows — what else could it be but a toy store! Bo was about to rush through the open set of red doors but was stopped by his mama, who told him that there wasn’t anything for kids. It was a party place for grown-ups, she said, and the party never stopped. Bo looked inside and saw people descending on an escalator, some with drinks in their hands, others with cigarettes, one lady holding a fistful of dollars.

  On the floors above, folks tried to guess what number would come up when a man threw the dice. You could win enough money to buy yourself a new car, maybe even a house with a swimming pool. And people could win money playing cards at the tables, like Mama did three games in a row while Bo waited in the lobby next to the coat check. She’d warned him not to wander off and under no circumstances to talk to strangers, oh he’d be in for it if she found him talking to strangers! Bo sat in an armchair and counted his fingers, and after not quite forever she came back looking as if she’d just stepped from a warm shower. She let Bo touch three crackly twenty-dollar bills and even shared a hot dog with him for lunch. Later she let him sneak around the corner and watch as she put quarters in a slot machine. He tried to predict what pictures would show up at the end, and sometimes silver coins came tumbling out like the water of Niagara Falls, and Mama clapped her hands, as happy as Bo had ever seen her.

  They were rich, rich, rich! Mama sang when she buckled him back into the car for the ride home. Her little Hobo was her good-luck charm!

  He drew a new picture beneath his rug of the machine with little windows and pictures that whirled round — lemons, grapes, bananas. What color were lemons? He colored them green, then realized that he’d made a mistake and threw the crayon across the room in a rage. But he found that with some effort he could scrape away the green with his thumbnail, and he colored the lemons yellow like the sun.

  Listen!

  Buzzing and binging, one thousand people talking at the same time, the sputter of wheels spinning, the clink of coins. Bo leaped out of bed and pulled a corner of the rug back to reveal his pictures. The windows of the slot machine were a blur of whirling shapes, the carousel was turning, the pig was dancing, Josie flicked her tail and hissed, and the dinosaur thudded across the floor and into the shadows beneath the bed, its huge tail burning a groove in the wood. Bo wanted to smash the pictures with his bare feet, but he resisted and instead squatted on the floor and watched the colors swishing and swaying, knowing even as he stared that no one would believe him when he tried to describe what he’d seen. You and your imagination, Gran would say. Go back to sleep, Mama would say, which reminded him that he’d better keep those pictures quiet or Mama would wake up and blame him for the noise. He unrolled the rug, smoothed it back into place with his palms, and when he still heard the sounds he lay on top of the rug and tried to quiet the pictures with his body but failed even to muffle the clamor. The next thing he knew he felt the floor begin to shake beneath him like the lid of a pot about to boil over, and he could do nothing but clutch the fibers to steady himself against the trembling of the house and the raucous laughter of one thousand strangers, the clatter of a river of coins tumbling over the edge of a cliff, the beeping and hissing of machines, the cheeping of birds, the plock plock of rain, a truck shifting gears uphill, the distant hum of a lawn mower, and a sportscaster shouting something incomprehensible into his microphone.

  But what if they hadn’t driven home after Mama won a million dollars at the casino? What if they’d walked past the parking lot to the edge of the river above the falls? The sky was dark as he imagined it, heavy with black clouds, and spotlights shone on the white water, illuminating the smooth swell of the river as it curled over the lip of the cliff. Without warning, Mama unzipped her purse, pulled out fistfuls of dollar bills, and threw them into the air, squealing happily as the dollars fluttered and spiraled like a flock of parrots toward the foamy water. Then Mama stepped out of her shoes and climbed over the rail and down the rocks toward the water. Bo watched as she lowered herself into the river. She gave Bo a thumbs-up before she turned and disappeared beneath the surface.

  Bo tried to go after her, managed to curl his fingers around the top rail, pressed his feet against the lower rail, and just hung there. If he let go he would have fallen back onto the concrete, not into the foamy water. So he held on, thought maybe if I swing a leg around, and had just decided that the easiest way to the other side was to crawl under the lower rail when a policeman grabbed him from behind, wrapped his thick arms around Bo’s waist, and pulled him away. Bo kicked and squirmed in the policeman’s arms but the man held him fast.

  So that was how he lost his mama.

  Oh!

  Not what he’d seen but the dream of what he thought he’d seen took his breath away. His mama stepping into the water, disappearing.

  And here they were making it worse by prying open his lips to look inside and discover his secrets.

  Get your hands out of my mouth!

  “Are you in?”

  “You’re overextended — you’re occluded — you’re, what the fuck, using a cuff! No no no, get the tube without the cuff, the seal will be fine without the cuff, you idiot!”

  “Two milliliters, put it in the jugular.”

  “Epinephrine ready?”

  “Don’t you want atro—”

  “Yes, atropine, get it ready, now are you in?”

  “I think I think I think I can’t tell.”

  “We’re okay, folks, hold the atropine. We’re reading 170. Anyone know who’s on in surgery? Carlie, you call, tell them we need a consult. Any family yet? Anyone here to claim the boy? Anyone know anything, or did this child fall out of the sky?”

  Did you say something, Sam?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you want to say something, Sam?”

  “Nope.”

  He had planted himself back on the couch and held a bag of chips on his lap while he thought about nothing, a talent Erma Gilbert envied. With the books sorted for the sale she had a chance to relax beside him again. But now that the television was off and her eyes were too tired to focus on print, she couldn’t help but think about her firstborn, Alcinder: Would he keep his job with Park and Rec, what with all the cutbacks? And would Danny and Meredith stay married? Would her nephew Taft stay clean through his probation? And why did Kamon have to go out to the grocery store that night? Eleven-thirty at night stepping out for cigarettes, the foolish boy. And what would become of her four grandkids — Jeffrey, Joseph, Miraja, and Bo? And why did Jenny insist on living out in the suburbs, forty minutes each way when the traffic was light, but in the rain … And what could she do with Bo tomorrow? Another rainy day promised by the weatherman. She was tired of the mall but Sam’s birthday was coming up and two weeks after that Miraja would turn seven, which meant a trip to the toy store, where Bo would want to choose something for himself. Why not? Her children thought she spoiled him but she spoiled them all and favored no one over the others. She loved her grandkids equally just as she loved her own children equally or almost, almost … all right, she had to admit, Kamon had been her baby and had a smile that said Here I am! She couldn’t resist giving him a hug even when he was all greased up after a day at the garage. He never pushed her away, not once, never was embarrassed by love. No wonder Jenny gave up everything for him, no wonder she left behind her own blood relations to start a new family, no wonder….

  Sam took a bite out of a potato chip. He examined the jagged border left by his teeth, finished the chip in one more bite, and licked the oily salt from his fingers. He reached for another chip, held it beneath the lamp shade so he could admire the waves and folds and red barbecue dust, hardly more substantial than … what? Than a compliment. Why, Sam Gilbert, how handsom
e you are! He broke off a piece of the chip between his teeth, chewed it into fine crumbs, and swallowed.

  A communion of past and present. The pleasure of every chip he’d ever tasted relived with this new bag of chips. He took a deep breath and blew out with a whistle. Then and now. How handsome you are. Luck of the draw, ma’am. He’d been born handsome and would die handsome. White soft hair, smile lines around his eyes, brown skin as smooth as the skin of an apple no matter how many potato chips he consumed over the course of the —

  “Telephone, Sam. You answer it.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “Why me?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You’re just sitting there.”

  “Well so are you. And I’m sitting here thinking about something but you’re sitting there thinking about nothing. So you answer it, Sam.”

  “Okay then, okay, just hold on, I’m coming, you keep ringing, you damn ear-buster, I’m coming fast as I can so don’t you give up on me now, I’ll be there before you can say … Hey-low!”

  “Mr. Gilbert?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Sam Gilbert?”

  It should have been Bo on the line. It should have been Bo announcing, Pop, it’s me, so Sam could wonder, Where are you calling from, child? Where is your mama? and Bo could answer, I don’t know and Sam could try to find out whether Bo had gone wandering again, and Bo could insist that he wasn’t lost, he just didn’t know where he was, which would have left Sam to figure it out — Now let me get this straight. You’re somewhere, you’ve got to be somewhere. You don’t know exactly where you are, but you know you aren’t lost.

  But it wasn’t Bo. Not Bo saying, I want to go home, and not Sam replying, Course you do, you belong at home. You stay right there, wherever there is, do you hear? Your granny and me are coming straightaway, so you stay put. We’re coming to fetch you, so don’t wander off again, you hear? Bo!

  Instead, it was an Officer Tinney calling for Mr. Samuel Gilbert.

  “What’s that? Speak up, will you? There’s static on the line. Officer who? Someone in trouble?”

  It was Officer Tinney, Arcade Police Department. He’d been given this number by a Mrs. Kelper.

  “I don’t know any Mrs. Kelper.”

  “Jennifer Tow … let me see, Templer, or Templin … I can’t quite…”

  “Jenny — what about her?”

  “We are trying to contact her family. If you could tell —”

  — tell Bo a story, which was what he would have wanted most right then, if only he could have said it: one of my pop’s stories. What kind of story? Something that would make him listen, keep him hanging on his grandfather’s words from beginning to end.

  Now I’m going to tell you a story about rain, about a fat raindrop that landed on the head of a little boy and turned him into a fish, and everyone thought the boy had drowned.

  That’s a sad story.

  Hold on, Bo, there’s more to come. I haven’t even gotten to the part about the fisherman.

  — Make it really scary.

  — I’ll scare the living daylights out of you, if that’s what you want! I’ll make it hell for that boy-fish and you’ll be thinking he’s done for, but don’t be so sure ’cause this is one story full of surprises, it’s going to twist and turn every which way, and you’ve got to stay with me, you hear? I’m telling it to nobody except you, so you got to stay with me until I say, And they all lived happily ever after the end. You with me, child? You still there? Bo! Bo!

  “There’s been an accident, Mr. Gilbert, and we’re trying to contact the family of Miss Templin. If you could help us out.…”

  “We are her family, officer. Now you tell me —”

  “What’s going on, Sam?” Erma had come into the kitchen and in her eagerness to find out what was wrong tried to grab the phone. Sam rotated in a heavy step and put his back toward her.

  “No other relatives?”

  “None willing to admit it.”

  “We’re required to contact —”

  “Her mother lives in Hadleyville. That’s all I know.”

  “Sam, who are you talking to? Who’s there? What’s wrong? I got to know, Sam!”

  “Hadleyville, you say?”

  “That’s what I said. Now you tell me what’s happened. You tell me that Jenny and Bo are fine. You tell me that much and give me my peace of mind back, you hear, officer?”

  For those few minutes while Sam was listening to the details, Erma figured that after losing Kamon three years earlier she’d lost Bo as well and Jenny, too, that the Lord had decided to call back to His side those who were too good for this debased world. Well, she knew how to mourn. She knew how to howl and curse Heaven for its separateness, and she was just summoning the strength to begin when Sam got off the phone and told her Jenny was dead but Bo was alive, though apparently he’d been knocked around some and was over at the city hospital. Erma’s first thought when she heard the news was not thank God or poor Jenny but Now that white girl is gone Bo is mine to raise properly. She gulped down the realization to hide it from herself. Then she began to cry for Jenny.

  Sounds of the night on West Lake Road off of Main Street in Hadleyville: the distant growl of a truck engine, the clack clack clack of a neighbor hammering a nail into plywood, the whine of a dog chained on a back porch, the broken what did you … hahahah! of a television show, the buzz of a twin-engine plane, the click and fizz of a man opening a soda can, the suck of rubber against rubber as the refrigerator door closed, a girl muttering into the phone, it’s out of the goddamn question is all he said to me! — the rip of tries on wet asphalt, mice scraping through plaster behind the wall, the shush of a man’s fingernails scratching his chin stubble, water running in the pipes, the refrigerator whirring, warm air whooshing through the grate in the floor, lashes sticky with mascara clicking faintly when Marge blinked, the surf of blood when she cupped her hands over her ears, the gurgle at the back of her throat when she swallowed, the irregular puffs of her own breathing as she thought about the cigarette she was denying herself, the whisper of nylon against wood when she rubbed her heel against the leg of the chair, the meow of a stray cat she’d been feeding on and off for three days, the man’s sudden cough, the girl’s fuck you and the slam of the phone back onto its cradle, the music of a television commercial, the rattle of a car, the remnant of rain dripping from a stopped-up gutter at the corner of the roof.

  The only thing Marge couldn’t hear was the sound of her satisfaction. Another day behind her and she could look around and calculate the sum of it. No more than this? To be alive and secure, with a house of her own, a yard big enough for a vegetable garden, sunflowers, and a bed of roses, a husband who didn’t mind hard work, and children who were mostly grown. Soon Ann would leave, just like her older sister, Jenny. Sure, someday prodigal Jenny would come home, though not to stay — Jenny had her own life to lead and a child in tow and Marge herself had finished with all that. She was like a traveler who had arrived at her destination and found everything in place in her modest hotel room, everything just so, and though she’d never have more than what she had now, well, flip the coin around and consider this: she didn’t have much to lose.

  She wouldn’t deny that she’d made her share of mistakes, nor that Tony Templin had been her worst mistake. Tony and his whiskey. Tony promising her this and that. If it had been up to him they would have had eight children together. He’d wanted to fill the house with the voices of children, with Christmas presents piled to the ceiling, with little bodies in pajamas, with little shoes lined up the side of the stairs, with little hands holding little spoons, with little mouths shouting, crying, screaming — and then off he’d go to Gifferton one town over, to the Jubilee Lounge or the Rabbit Hole or Romeo’s, and maybe he’d drag himself home a few days later or maybe he’d wait a few months. An old story, Marge would be the first to admit, and why she hadn’t known better than to agree to marry such a man and
throw away her love on him, she couldn’t explain.

  It had taken far too long for her to recognize her mistake, but when she finally did she had no trouble turning love into cold indifference. She divorced Tony, spent a decade raising her children on her own, and then Eddie came along, Eddie Gantz, without promises, Eddie, the most honest and to-the-point man she’d ever met. For more than thirty years he’d been employed as a service technician and manager for Worthco Appliances and hadn’t once skipped out. And he’d proved as reliable at marriage as he’d always been at his job. He paid the utilities, he took Marge to dinner every Saturday, and he covered all expenses for their annual vacation. Last year they’d gone to Miami Beach. Marge wouldn’t mind a repeat trip, along with five hundred dollars of spending money, which Eddie would give her without any strings attached, not even asking for affection in return. He didn’t need Marge to display her love and never demanded favors from her; truthfully, he didn’t show much interest in sex, a relief to Marge, who had given up desire when she gave up Tony and who had let herself thicken, as she liked to describe it, for the word thick, unlike the word fat, was compatible with vanity. Thin women suffered during the winter, but thick women thrived, she’d tell her thickening friends, who all agreed. It was better to have padding to protect you against the blow to your buttocks when you slipped on the ice, better to have blubber to seal in the body’s heat. It was simply better to be thick than thin.

  Marge smiled at the thought of her friends at lunch, the fun they had, the sense of secret power, these thick old broads who had managed to arrange their lives in such a way that now they could do just as they pleased. When she was with her girlfriends Marge didn’t lament the paucity of her accumulations, no more than she lamented her dimpled flesh. The girls made her laugh, and when she was in the midst of a crowd there was no better defense than laughter. Laughter was evidence of a person’s value, the hiccups of pleasure as significant as one’s appearance, and since Marge’s wardrobe came from discount outlet shops and her hair and nails were done by Tessie on Main Street rather than by any Monsieur Couture, she enjoyed flaunting herself inexpensively, over a cheeseburger and Coke, laughing so loudly that everyone else in the diner would look at her and wonder what she found so funny.