Fierce Pretty Things

by Tom Howard

  Chubby kid out in the field. Running back and forth, trying to fly kite despite windless day. Wearing a hunting cap with ear flaps, unfortunate. Also using way too much string, so kite by this point just dragging along ground, shredded to pieces. Now and then chubby kid leaped into air like superhero. Knocked down repeatedly by gravity, being chubby kid. He looked up after a while and saw us and trotted over.

  Is your dog dead, he said.

  He’s pretending to be asleep, I told him.

  He said why does he have padding coming out of his butt.

  Long story, I said. Told him he needed to use less string until the kite was airborne. And a windy day would help.

  He said thanks. Said he wished he was older, like me, so he’d just know things like that.

  I agreed it was nice to be old.

  He said his name was Kozma. It’s Greek, he said.

  Told him my name was Mike. He asked what kind of name Mike was, and I said it wasn’t really any kind of name as far as I knew. Said I had a granddaughter with a wooden arm a few years younger than him, named Kady with a K.

  Wooden arm, he said, but real fingers?

  I said I thought she had wooden fingers, too, but couldn’t say for sure because I’d never met her. Also a long story.

  He took off his cap. Crazy hair flew in every direction. You like to hunt? he said.

  I said not really.

  He nodded and said, Me neither. His dad, the judge, was a hunter. Had tracked and caught a runner last year. Killed him with his bare hands, snapped his neck. Bounty money was going to pay for his whole college education.

  I said that’s impressive, and Kozma agreed.

  He asked if I’d ever beaten anyone up, and I said no. He asked if I’d ever been beaten up myself.

  I told him I was mugged once. Coming out of the train station with Philip, when he was nine. Pictured tiny Philip in mind’s eye. So serious, holding model airplane he’d bought at gift shop back in Philadelphia.

  Kozma said, Did you fight back?

  I shook my head.

  Because your boy was there, he said. You didn’t want to risk it.

  I told him I was just scared. Hands were shaking when I gave thief wallet and wristwatch, birthday present from Gwen. Didn’t say that thief also took Philip’s model airplane. Who steals kid’s airplane? Philip speechless, furious. Demanded I chase thief down, beat him senseless, set him on fire. I told him we’d let police handle it. Philip was silent for next two days, communicated only via glares. When he got back to Philadelphia, told Gwen he wanted to sign up for tae kwon do lessons.

  Kozma looked at me sideways, as if he knew all of that. As if he was reevaluating me in light of this new information.

  Well, he said. Good luck with your dog.

  * * *

  Birthday started out okay. Quiet, just Bo and me. Went down to basement and hauled up old magic chest from childhood. Faded marker in my old handwriting on lid of chest: PRIVATE STAY AWAY JANET!!! Many fights with Janet, accused her of spying many times, usually furious with her. Still, loved her a lot. Great sister in most ways. Discovered later that she was imaginary. Tough time for me, for parents too. Me: You don’t even care that Janet’s dead. Them: But Janet’s not dead. There is no Janet. Me: Because you murdered her.

  Sifted through contents of chest. Decks of cards, handkerchiefs, Cape of Invisibility. Old drawings for tricks I couldn’t remember. Non-working version of Marvelous Orange Tree, which Janet called Non-Marvelous Orange Tree.

  What is it that makes us smile, seeing things from childhood? And then feel kind of sad, even before smile is gone. Kind of like, this is who you were, remember? But not anymore. Not anymore.

  Poured margarita, poured Bo dogarita. Not really special drink for Bo, just plain water. Sat outside and began reading Learn French in a Day! Practiced on Bo, who I called Pierre. Kept phone nearby, just in case.

  Was in the middle of telling Pierre an important fact about Marie’s hair when phone rang. Answered and said, Philip!

  I know it’s been awhile since I’ve called, he said.

  I told him I knew he was busy. Told him I felt like we’d been “corresponding” through voice-mail messages, which are like today’s version of old-fashioned letters, honest and reflective. Or like letters written to person who can’t respond, trapped in rubble maybe, but can still read and appreciate letters. You wonder: Why can’t mail delivery person save this person from rubble while delivering reflective old-fashioned letters? But no, can’t. Can only keep delivering letters.

  That’s great, he said. So listen, I wouldn’t even bring this up if it weren’t an emergency. I feel bad asking at all, considering, you know. But Kady? She’s in a bad spot right now, Dad.

  Okay, I said. Sure, son. Tell me what’s going on.

  He said she’s been taking a lot of heat from other kids at school due to wooden arm. Is called Peg, and classmates have spread rumor she is descended from pirates and probably has syphilis. Other prosthetic kids at school have titanium arms and robotic arms wired directly to central nervous system.

  I said I didn’t realize there were so many kids with prosthetic arms in preschool.

  She’s sunk into a terrible depression, he said. Is developing stump infection due to low-quality wood in prosthetic. Really needs a new arm but they can’t afford one, insurance won’t cover. Considered cosmetic!

  That’s horrible, I said.

  She’s seeing a therapist, he said. To cope with dark thoughts. Do you want her to have dark thoughts?

  No, I said. Of course not!

  He said the therapist sessions weren’t covered either, but he was paying out of pocket. What else could he do, he said, except give her what she needed?

  I tried to focus. Wished I hadn’t had margarita. Seemed like perfect time to be clear-headed. Instead, still thinking about mail delivery person, refusing to save Philip from rubble.

  He said, I’ve never begged before. Do I really need to beg? Is that what you want? Because if that’s what I need to do, then okay. Okay, Dad. I love my daughter and I’m begging. Are you happy?

  I asked how much.

  The titanium arm or the good one, the one that’s wired to the central nervous system?

  I swallowed and said, Well tell me about both of them.

  He told me.

  Started sweating. Philip, I said. I’m sorry.

  Forget it. Listen, I’ve got to go. Kady’s screaming.

  Maybe your mom, I said, but didn’t get any farther than that. His mom, he said, had already gone above and beyond for him and for his family. Had raised Margot and him after the divorce, bailed him out of jail during that period when he was stealing things, later paid his way through rehab. He wouldn’t dream of asking her for more help. Was only asking me because he thought maybe I would want to do this. If not for him, then for Kady. Wasn’t Kady an innocent? Maybe he’d fucked everything up and disappointed me, he said. But what had Kady ever done to anyone? Why did she deserve to suffer and die? Just because he was a screwup and couldn’t afford to give her the care that she needed?

  Sun was going down, and someone set off fireworks. Bo grabbed lounge pad in teeth, started eating. I yelled at him to stop.

  Who’s Pierre? Philip asked. Suspicious.

  I explained that Pierre was Bo, Bo was Pierre.

  He said, I don’t know why I even asked. Then hung up.

  Went inside and sat down at computer. Checked 401k, somewhat depressing. Should have saved more, should have started saving before fortieth birthday. Could maybe pay for one-fourth of arm, after withdrawal penalty. What is one-fourth of arm? Just shoulder, probably, plus partial bicep. Imagined Kady staring down at robotic shoulder connected to rotting wooden arm, then reaching sadly for razor blade. Awful. Logged in to banking site. Filled out quick-loan application, provided home equity details and social security number and projected lifetime earning potential. Hit submit. We’ll have an answer for you in moments! Cartoon millionaire holding bag
marked with dollar sign, tap-dancing on-screen.

  More fireworks. Dog moaned and looked for place to throw up.

  Tapped fingers on desk, watching cartoon millionaire. Cartoon millionaire stopped dancing, got in limousine and drove away, disappeared in puff of smoke. Replaced with single word, giant black letters on white screen. NO. Then letters sprouted little feet, followed millionaire offscreen, dancing.

  Called Philip back, no answer. Called Margot. When I couldn’t reach her, went to her blog. Read message that she was offline to celebrate life of her beloved father, Brian David Winston. Clicked on Contact Me! page and left her a note. It’s me, it’s Mike, it’s Uncle Mike. Call if you can. If you want to!

  Cleaned up Bo’s mess. Kept remembering day I explained bankruptcy situation to kids. Gwen: Kids, Gelato Man has something to tell you. Philip, in middle school, looking at me as I talked about need to tighten our belts, lead simple unfettered lives, et cetera. Demanding to know how I’d let this happen, why I couldn’t have done more, why I couldn’t have worked harder. I said sometimes you just make mistakes, that’s all, no matter how hard you try, and he yelled then what’s the fucking point of trying. What’s the fucking point of anything? Then ran off, tried to lock himself in bedroom. Except lock never worked, so had to push heavy dresser across doorway to keep us out, which took some time. Another source of fury for Philip. Waited politely outside bedroom while he moved dresser, then tried to explain. I wish you were dead, Philip said. Out of breath from moving dresser, half sobbing. I said, You don’t really wish that, and I forgive you. And he said, Oh, Dad, but I do.

  * * *

  Sat on front porch that night with Marvelous Orange Tree. Found in old magic book as a kid, tried to recreate. Idea is to make beautiful woman’s handkerchief vanish, then reappear inside magically blooming orange tree, suspended by butterfly wings. Jaw-dropping spectacle, leaves audience in tears. Audience thinks, Thank you, magician, for this gift. Except it never worked. Could never get gears working right, made horrible sound completely different from sound real orange tree makes. Embarrassed, told Janet sound was butterflies caught in gears, screaming. Janet burst into tears, wouldn’t speak to me for weeks.

  Could sell magic chest, maybe. For how much? Not enough, not with broken Marvelous Orange Tree that sounded like screaming butterflies.

  Maybe go on tour, perform at local events. Mike the Magnificent Returns! Assume four shows a weekend. Not reasonable, considering lack of experience, but assume anyway. Fifty dollars a show. Or a hundred? Say fifty. Two hundred a week, fifty weeks a year, that’s ten thousand. Five more years to raise money for new arm wired directly to Kady’s central nervous system. Imagined calling Philip, telling him plan. Thanks, Dad! Only five more years of stump infections and dark thoughts for Kady.

  Went inside and put Orange Tree back in chest. Found small square envelope taped to underside of lid. Inside was a faded sheet of construction paper, folded in quarters. A crayon drawing. Our family as giant sunflowers, standing in front of house. Margot dancing, Philip flexing stick sunflower muscles. Me with big goofy smile, weird teeth. Gwen as nearby rain cloud. (“Just kidding!” underneath cloud, in Margot’s handwriting.) Signed at the bottom by both of them.

  Looked at envelope again. Something written there in pencil, the letters faded, almost gone.

  FOR WHEN YOU NEED IT.

  * * *

  Dreamed that night of the train station. Both kids were with me. Stay close, I said. Felt sudden, horrible sense of dread. Knew what was coming. Heart pounding. Overcome by profound sense of tragic inevitability, but couldn’t stop moving.

  Rounded the corner and he was there. Like in real life, holding a gun. Only in dream it wasn’t a gun, just gooseneck gourd. But in dream world, such gourds incredibly deadly. Just do as I say and nobody gets hurt. Brandishing gourd in menacing way.

  The world slowed down, became almost still. A weird and beautiful sunset on the horizon. Margot looked up at me. Philip too. Clutching model airplane. So beautiful, both of them. So sweet and undamaged. Just waiting for me, trusting. Was overwhelmed by love for them, from them. Felt powerful and certain of everything, of what to do. Maybe for first time. Knocked mugger to the sidewalk and began beating him. Like wild person, like animal protecting its young. Heart pounding as mugger’s face turned to mush underneath me. So much blood. Pushed thumbs into mugger’s eye sockets and felt adrenaline-fueled joy. Lifted mugger’s head and bashed it into pavement, again and again. At last Philip knelt down next to me and held out a book of matches. Margot, pouring the gasoline.

  Didn’t remember dream right away when I woke up. But felt calm, happy. Certain. Went to the kitchen and searched through recycling bin until I found letter from Retirement Recruiters.

  * * *

  Recruiter was friendly and professional, named Ellis. Younger than me, but very accomplished, wall covered in diplomas.

  He explained everything. Very patient. Living to a hundred or a hundred and fifty is great, he said, sure, if you have the money. Otherwise not so great. Otherwise, maybe long life really just sad, costly decline. Still get diseases, still spend time in hospital, losing faculties, not working. Who pays for care? Who pays for miracle cures? Children and grandchildren pay, society pays. Pretty soon world is full of unproductive old people supported by children and grandchildren. And by taxes on the rich, who make everything possible. What kind of world is that for old rich person who just wants to enjoy long life earned through simple hard work? What kind of world is that for children and grandchildren, who only want same chance at long, happy life?

  Handed me brochure. Take One for the Team. Get out of the game early, he said, and everybody wins. Of course your beneficiaries will receive maximum payout due to your young age, magnitude of your sacrifice, et cetera. But that wasn’t most important thing. Most important thing, he said, was my commitment to children, grandchildren, et cetera, giving them chance at something better. He showed me photographs of crowds in front of Grand Wall of Heroes in Times Square, names carved in diamond in granite wall, designed to catch final rays of sunset and blaze like stars for all eternity.

  Our local version maybe not as elaborate, he said, maybe name would only flash on simple digital screen below time and temperature, every few months. But is that what motivates heroes? Real heroes not concerned with name blazing like star for all eternity on Grand Wall of Heroes, he said. Important thing is that I’d be beloved. Or not important thing, exactly, but a nice thing, sure, important thing being my commitment to children, grandchildren, humanity, et cetera. Still, nice to be beloved. The end’s going to come sooner or later. When bell finally tolls, how many can truly say they were beloved?

  I stared down at the contract. Thought about little sunflower family. Just wanted to do the right thing for once.

  Okay, I said.

  After signing, I asked how long.

  A whole week, Ellis said. Enjoy it! Set your affairs in order, of course. But have fun. Gather ye rosebuds. Spend your money, take a trip, get laid! You’ve earned it!

  And in a week, I said, I come back here and die?

  Painlessly, he said, and with a heart at peace! What more could you want? What more could anyone want?

  I agreed. Could never want any more than that.

  * * *

  Found Kozma on front porch when I got home, sitting with Bo.

  He was in my backyard, Kozma said. I think he ate an inflatable raft?

  I said I was sorry and thanked him, and let Bo back inside. Kozma walked in behind us and said milk would be really good, and I agreed that it would be. Then understood what he meant, and walked to the kitchen to get milk while he wandered around the house.

  Brought two glasses of milk to the living room. Kozma was sitting on the floor with Bo, looking at magic chest. Eyes wide.

  It’s like from olden times, he said.

  You can open it, I said. It’s mostly junk.

  He looked at the writing on the lid, STAY AWAY, et ceter
a. He asked, Who’s Janet?

  I explained.

  Always spying on you, he said. I get it.

  He opened the chest and pulled out Marvelous Orange Tree. I told him how it was supposed to work, re: handkerchief, butterflies, everyone’s jaw dropping to the floor. He found the hidden crank and turned it, and we both cringed.

  Still, he said. It could work, right?

  I said I always thought so.

  He pulled out other things, asked questions. I showed him Cups and Balls, vanishing coin, a few card tricks. How to palm. Easy stuff, far as I ever got. He picked up the Cape of Invisibility and blinked at me. From when I first started learning, I said, before I knew how anything worked. Said I thought maybe a thing could just have magic in it, with no tricks. He tied the cape around his neck and I gasped, demanded that Bo tell me this instant what he’d done with Kozma. Bo wagged his tail while Kozma laughed.

  What’s this, he said. Pulled out a poster that had been rolled up and tied with a ribbon. He unrolled it and spread it across the floor. Looked like an old treasure map, taped together in a hundred places.

  You drew this? he asked, and I nodded. A skiff, he said. And you got everything labeled.

  I looked down, remembered. Rub rails, tackle locker, flag holder for Jolly Roger, et cetera. The Grand Adventure written across the transom in three-dimensional letters, words curving up and down like ocean waves.

  Kozma whispered the boat’s name. Did you ever build it? he asked.

  I said I brought the drawing to my dad so we could build it together. Had seen photograph of him and Pop-Pop in similar boat from back when he was a boy. My dad stared at the drawing for a long time. Then said, You want to know what a grand adventure is? It’s when you go to work at the cannery when you’re fifteen and then spend the next fifty years in the same place, coming home every night smelling like fish guts with your palms cut to pieces from the cannery knives. Cut yourself so many times that the nerves are dead and you can’t hold a cup of coffee without dropping it. You grow old. You think at least you’ll get to retire and spend golden years alongside loving companion. Retirement comes, you go out to mall with Grandmom to celebrate, except Grandmom has heart attack while eating bowl of macaroni salad. You grab defibrillator from wall and run back to save her, only can’t hold defibrillator due to nerve damage in hands. Defibrillator drops stupidly to floor and she dies, face covered in macaroni. That’s the grand adventure of life! Then he tore up the drawing.