Goodnight, Boy

by Nikki Sheehan

  Most of all we wanted them to take us in a plane, where we would fly like a bird through the clouds.

  Who wouldn’t want that, Boy?

  It wasn’t until me and Oskar were the oldest that a man and a lady came for me.

  Stop snoring, Boy. I won’t waste my story on a sleeping dog.

  Your ear twitched. Are you trying to tell me you are listening?

  Look, you did it again, raising it like a little black sail.

  Your poor ears. All ripped and ragged from your old life. There’s a tiny triangle missing from the right one.

  But you can still hear a grain of rice drop into your bowl.

  I wish I had a grain of rice to wake you up with.

  Or to eat.

  Boy, wake up and see this! You have webbed feet! The skin between your toes is like a bat’s wing.

  Only hairy.

  And dirty.

  Please wake up and look.

  Dirty, hairy bat-wing feet.

  Boy, why is there no fur on your belly? Have you rubbed it all off from lying down SLEEPING all the time?

  Have you?

  Have you?

  Lazy dog.

  Boy, did you know that your nose looks like a lump of coal?

  Like a snowman’s eyes.

  If my friends could have seen me making that snowman, they wouldn’t have believed it was possible. In my country a snowman would melt into a puddle before the eyes had been pushed into its face.

  I didn’t want to build it. Melanie insisted. I didn’t want to freeze-burn my hands on the snow. I was scared that the sting and ache would never stop.

  ‘Come on, JC!’ she said. ‘Let’s have some fun!’

  Then I felt something hit me on the back. I spun, my frozen hands clenched.

  She was laughing, and I

  I

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I was hurt and she was laughing at me.

  Laughing!

  ‘Come on, it’s just a game!’ she said. ‘Snowball fight!’

  I checked the place where the snowball had hit me and it didn’t hurt.

  Meanwhile she was scooping another handful of the crunching snow which she pressed and patted into a ball.

  ‘Come on, you throw one at me!’ she said, her voice high, like a girl’s.

  He came out of the house and stood at the doorway, his arms wrapped across his chest, and the wind of his breath visible like a cloud.

  She looked at him, smiling.

  She loved him.

  But she wanted to play snowball fight with me.

  I bent and scraped some snow from the ground and pressed until it squeaked into a ball, and I was going to throw it.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Stop this instant, JC!’

  Stop!

  Stop!

  Stop!

  Stop!

  I stopped.

  Melanie’s smile melted.

  ‘I know, let’s build a snowman,’ she said.

  Your nose is much nicer than coal. The pattern on it is like honeycomb.

  So shiny.

  Get ready, I’m going blow on it now.

  Ahhh…see! It ripples.

  It’s a beautiful thing, Boy.

  You’re a beautiful thing.

  Finally you’ve woken up.

  Good.

  Lie here, with your back to my belly. It will keep us both warm while I tell you about the man and woman who wanted me.

  They weren’t foreigners. They were rich people from my country, with good clothes and bright skin.

  Mr Bodin had pointed me out to them, and instead of looking through me to the younger boys, the woman walked over.

  ‘Are you strong?’ she asked, and I raised my arm and showed them my muscles.

  She smiled, and the man nodded.

  ‘Are you a hard worker?’ she asked.

  ‘The hardest,’ I said, but my eyes slid over to Oskar, who worked harder than me.

  He looked scared.

  The woman put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I have a present for you,’ she said, and she handed me a toy gun with a trigger that clicked. ‘Do you like it? We have other toys at our house, and children that you can play with when your work is done. We have adopted nine others, so you will never be lonely. And, as long as you work hard helping on the farm, you will have nice food every day.’

  ‘You don’t want him,’ Oskar shouted, ‘he shits his pants!’ and I could tell from his voice that he was going to cry.

  After they had left I punched him hard in the stomach and we rolled on the ground wrestling and pulling and pushing until we were separated.

  ‘They’re not even foreigners,’ Oskar said. ‘They want you as a slave.’

  I punched him again, and said that was a lie and I was happy to be going. But really I was disappointed because I would be leaving the orphanage in a car instead of riding through the clouds like a hawk.

  It’s impossible to imagine a different place if you’ve never watched television, or read a book, or heard stories about other countries or cities or even streets. I had only ever seen my village and the orphanage, and the roads and towns that looked smoke-wrapped through the grimy darkened windows of the van. In my head only those places existed. Although I suppose I had some ideas about Overseas, which was past the sky and was where money fluttered like butterflies; yours to net and keep.

  So, I thought, if their house isn’t near the orphanage then it must be close to my old home, and I would be able to run back to my real family.

  I liked this idea very much.

  The next thing I remember is standing outside the Sweet Angel Orphanage waiting for the people to take me away.

  But I didn’t feel happy anymore.

  My stomach was turning and I was sweating and itching all over.

  ‘It’s just nerves,’ the guardians said. ‘Don’t cry or your new family will think you’re ungrateful.’

  I closed my eyes to stop the tears, but they still leaked out.

  By the time my new Parents arrived my skin was hot and tender. I wriggled on my car seat, sticking and unsticking the backs of my legs to the plastic to stop myself from scratching, because I knew there would be trouble if I did.

  My Parents drove us along roads I didn’t recognise and past mountains I couldn’t have believed.

  But a lump began to grow in my throat, and when I felt it pushing to escape I called out.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please stop the car.’

  ‘We have miles to go,’ the woman said. Then she stared at me. ‘Why are you scratching? Do you have fleas?’

  I tried to hold the sick inside; I cupped my hand in front of my mouth. When it exploded the vomit sprayed through my fingers, covering the car seats, splattering my Parents’ hair and pooling between my legs.

  I can still smell it now; sour like vinegar.

  The man pulled onto the side of a busy road, and they cleaned themselves with paper towels.

  Then the woman held my shoulders where my T-shirt was clean and shook me. ‘Why didn’t you say you felt sick?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said and a trickle of hot liquid hit the ground at my feet.

  ‘Those criminals have given us an animal!’ she shouted.

  And I knew that she was probably right.

  I slept the rest of the journey. When I woke we were parked outside a big stone house, backed by mountains and surrounded by farm buildings and horned cattle, calling like devils.

  This wasn’t home. The Parents weren’t smiling. The cattle were terrifying.

  I began to wail.

  The woman called for a boy to clean the car, then took me into one of the farm buildings and made me stand by a sink.

  ‘Don’t move from here,’ she said.

  The floor was dirty with trodden straw and dust, but I lay because I couldn’t stand.

  When she came back she was wearing rubber gloves and carrying a plastic bag.

  ’Take off your clothes,’ she said.

&nb
sp; I didn’t want to be naked in front of this woman. I didn’t know her, I didn’t like her, I was terrified and ill, and I said no.

  ‘Then I’ll have to do it for you.’

  I was too weak to resist, and she pulled off my shorts.

  ‘Oh no! Spots! No! No! No!’

  She called for the man in a voice like a car alarm, and when he came she showed him my skin; the angry, itchy bumps and blisters. Now I understood why I couldn’t stop scratching.

  I lay naked on the floor shivering through my burning skin, watching as the spots took over my body.

  The man went away and returned with a white sheet. He wrapped me in it like a shroud.

  I wondered if I was already dead.

  Then he carried me into the car, which now smelled of lemons, and he drove.

  When we arrived at the Sweet Angel Orphanage one of the guardians stood in the doorway.

  ‘We can’t take him back. He must have caught it from you. If I let him inside he’ll infect the others. There will be an epidemic,’ he was saying.

  ‘From us? The boy was sick when we got him!’ The man was shouting so loud that I could hear him through the window. ‘You tricked us! I can’t take him back to infect the entire farm. It’s nearly harvest time. Should I let my crops rot while we nurse our workforce?’ He yanked open my door.

  ‘The boy stays here and you will give me my money back.’

  ‘I don’t have it,’ the orphanage worker said. ‘Mr Bodin, the man who arranged the adoption, has your money. We just tend the kids.’

  The man turned to look at me. By now the spots were blooming like hibiscus on my cheeks.

  ‘Get out,’ he said, and when I did, he drove away.

  While I lay in the dust the orphanage worker went into the building. He came back with a scarf over his mouth and his nose. He said he would take me to the hospital, and he told me to walk to a van parked nearby and get into the back.

  When I awoke we were outside a brick building with strong fencing all around.

  A guard, who must have let us into the enclosure, was holding a wad of money and trying to calm a snarling dog straining at its chain.

  It was late and there were few lights on inside.

  ‘You have to stay here until your spots have gone,’ the man told me. ‘I can’t come in with you. We don’t have the money to pay for your treatment.’ Though he was close, his voice was distant. ‘Please don’t tell them where you’ve come from.’

  He lifted me out of the van, still wrapped in the sheet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Then he carried me to the main door.

  ‘They will take care of you,’ he whispered.

  The man climbed back into the van, sounded the horn and drove off.

  I collapsed onto the step and slept until I was found in the morning.

  At first I was happy to be in a bed. There was nothing to do but ride the fever fits, floating from wakefulness into dreams, and back again.

  Then one day I opened my eyes and looked around. I understood what sort of place this was.

  In the room there were twenty beds. In each was a child, but even I could see that it wasn’t a hospital where people go with broken limbs or invading growths. Most of the children there would never recover; their bodies, their brains, everything was twisted and damaged. The lucky ones passed their days rocking for comfort. The unlucky ones suffered from unseen pains that would tip their heads back and make them howl and grunt like animals.

  Even in daylight, these children were held in a nightmare. I’m sorry to say that at first they frightened and disgusted me.

  No Parents came to choose from these children. No visitors came at all. No one wanted sons with withered legs like my Pierre, or brains that were addled like bad eggs. No one wanted a child who banged her skull against the walls, or would never sit up.

  None of them would ever leave. But I recovered fast. And then I realised that I was in trouble.

  The nurses were kind, but although I was well they treated me as if I were ill. I tried to tell them, and I asked to leave, or at least to be allowed to walk around and play outside. But they watched me, waiting for the truth of my illness to show.

  I hated that room, but each time I left it they would threaten to tie me down. I’d seen the marks that cords dug into other children’s wrists, so I did my best to stay in bed and keep quiet.

  And so I passed my time picking at the crusts on my spots until the blood ran freely, and soon the bumps were angry scars on my face, my arms, on anywhere I could reach.

  Perhaps I wanted to mark myself because it showed them why I was there. It showed that I was different.

  One day a man arrived to work at the hospital.

  ‘I’m not ill,’ I said. ‘The Sweet Angel Orphanage sent me here because of the spots.’

  I had told the others the same thing, but he listened.

  Just one day later a guardian from the orphanage arrived.

  I saw him through the window, and in the background I heard a fight about payment. They shouted and swore. No one wanted me. But then a deal was struck and the guardian came to my bed to take me back.

  ‘Oh,’ he said when he saw my face, marked and ugly. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t.’ He left the room and drove away again.

  He couldn’t have found me a family, you see. People like handsome boys.

  Not someone with spots like a leopard.

  So I was left there to wait for my scars to fade.

  And as they did, so did I. I became the same as the others. I didn’t talk because there was no one to talk with, and I joined the line of children rocking in bed for comfort. It was better than nothing.

  I was there for years.

  Boy, why are we holding hands?

  What’s that noise?

  The children from the school are shouting.

  Let’s go outside so we can hear better.

  They’re cheering. Why are they cheering?

  Look!

  Balloons!

  They’ve released hundreds of balloons!

  They’re beautiful!

  We did the same thing at my school. We put our name on a postcard and whoever found it had to mail it back to us again. I can remember it so well. Mine was blue. It never came back, but a few did.

  One even made it across the sea to another country.

  I wonder how far these balloons will go?

  Perhaps one will go to my country. Wouldn’t it be great if someone at the Sweet Angel Orphanage saw these balloons floating through their deep blue sky?

  Things are different there, but we’re still connected.

  Oh, listen, that’s the bell. The kids are going to their lessons now, but we’re lucky. We can stay and enjoy their balloons.

  Boy, come and lie down here with me.

  The sky is like a huge TV screen.

  Which would you choose?

  Red.

  I think you’d like the red.

  My favourite is the blue, right in the middle of the group.

  That might be the one that makes it to my country.

  Boy, look! A balloon is caught in the tree above our heads! It’s red, just for you!

  I hope the wind will set it free.

  It’s wrong to be trapped like that. It should be free to fly away.

  It’s wrong.

  Sometimes I’m jealous.

  I wonder what they’re studying today.

  I went to school for six months while I waited for Melanie to come.

  A few of us walked there together, and we studied with the others; the ones who had families. At recess we played soccer in the dusty yard and I was in goal. I could dive and catch a ball inches from the ground. They called me the astronaut because they said that I defied gravity. If we won a match they would shout my name.

  As-tro-naut! As-tro-naut!

  Can you believe that?

  I was a hero.

  I still have a lot to learn, so when I’m Official I’ll
go to school here.

  I’ll be the hardest worker in the class.

  I hope they let me take goal at recess.

  If I break my leg when I dive for the ball I will go to the hospital.

  I will go anywhere. Everywhere.

  I’ll take you with me, Boy.

  You can come with me to the store on the corner. To the park. To visit friends.

  When I have friends.

  I‘ll be allowed to meet the neighbours because when I’m Official Melanie can’t be arrested and I won’t be sent back to my country.

  I didn’t understand Official when I first came.

  I knew that bringing me to America had been a risk, but I thought the danger was from the police in my country.

  I thought that America wanted me as much as Melanie wanted me.

  But she explained that being here was illegal not immoral. She said that there’s a big difference.

  Like if I say SIT, but you don’t, you’re breaking my law, so it’s illegal. But if you eat my dinner when I’ve gone to fetch a glass of water, I’ll be hungry, and you didn’t really need my dinner because you’ve had your own, so that’s immoral.

  Melanie says that dogs are more moral than people.

  She said the laws in my country are absurd.

  She said it’s the fault of the president.

  She said the world was judging him.

  Once she said that my government was worried about the election, so they made a new rule that no child could be taken abroad without their parents’ agreement or death certificate.

  She said that Jesus wouldn’t have left me there when there’s a family in America with a space exactly the right shape for me.

  Mostly she says, ‘Politics and red tape, JC,’ which means rules that are changed to suit whoever’s in charge.

  I never knew that there could be so many reasons for one thing.

  And then I wondered what all this has to do with me. Why it means I can’t attend school. In my country, where I had nothing, I was freer than in the land of the free.

  When Melanie comes home we’ll take a walk past the school. To see if it looks how I imagine, with happy children and smiling teachers, and no fences to keep them in.