Fierce Pretty Things

by Tom Howard

  Moved off sidewalk and crouched beside bushes. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and waited for head to explode.

  Come with me, Kozma said.

  * * *

  Spent evening in Kozma’s shed.

  He told me his plan. I’d have to lay low for a while, he said. In the evenings we’d practice our act, coming up with new tricks and working on our patter. We’d have to come up with a good name, too, something to inspire wonder and dread. During the day, he said, he’d help me build the ship.

  What ship, I said.

  He pointed. My taped sketch for The Grand Adventure was hanging on the back wall, next to a US map. He said we’d head south once we reached the Mississippi. Perform our act in small villages, build up a name for ourselves. Become legendary figures of danger and mystery. The locals would take blood oaths to protect us.

  I stared at the drawing and map for some time. Finally said, Then we’d better practice an awful lot, I guess.

  Kozma beamed.

  We stayed up late. Talked about our upcoming adventures, which always ended with a daring escape through sewer tunnels, secret catacombs, et cetera. Discussed how to include Bo in our act, and what colors we’d paint the ship. Finally Kozma yawned, and I said he ought to get to bed.

  He nodded and looked toward the door. Well, he said, it’s nice to think about, isn’t it?

  It is, I said. Don’t think even he really believed it was something we would do, but still. The thought of it. Setting out like that. As if everything was new again.

  Tomorrow we’ll come up with a good name, he said. Standing by the door now, hesitating.

  Don’t worry, I said. Go to sleep.

  Almost hugged him then, but didn’t. Not my place.

  Night, he said.

  * * *

  Didn’t sleep. Rain started around midnight, pounding against shed roof. Now and then heard helicopters passing overhead.

  Stared up at shed roof and thought about what would happen. Someone would find me soon. Gun me down in shed, probably splatter blood all over magic chest and sketch of The Grand Adventure. Maybe splatter brains too. Kozma would run out, find me dead, brains splattered, et cetera. Would have horrible picture of my brains on shed floor stuck in his mind forever, and feel like he hadn’t done enough. Would spend rest of days thinking life was tragic and filled with unexpected horror.

  Had to leave.

  Stood up as the shed door opened and the Judge walked in. Dripping wet, holding a rifle. He stared at me, at everything in the shed. Like he’d never walked in here before. Finally brought his eyes back to me, leveled rifle at my chest.

  His hands shook. Never saw anyone look so old.

  I dropped down to my knees and closed my eyes.

  Get up, he said. Get up! He stepped out of the way and jerked the rifle at the open doorway. His face twisted. Run, he roared.

  I ran out into the rain, into the empty street. Helicopter passed by again, shining spotlight down. I headed down beneath the bridge.

  Bridge Guy was still wrapped in his blanket, but his body was half in the rain, not moving. Walked closer and asked if he was okay. He wasn’t. Obviously dead. Not Bridge Guy anymore, just rotting meat lying in the rain. Shouldn’t have given him money. Probably bought heroin, overdosed, crawled back down here to die. Gwen always said not to give money to homeless for exactly that reason. Smart Gwen, terrible Gwen.

  Backed away and stumbled over something. The bag I left, still filled with money. Felt relieved because hadn’t contributed to Bridge Guy’s heroin overdose. He just died, that’s all. Just died all alone under bridge, despite bag of money a few feet away.

  Found dry spot far away from corpse and curled up into ball, listened to helicopter as it passed back and forth. Last thing I saw before falling asleep was bridge graffiti, lit by helicopter spotlight.

  I WAS HERE, it said.

  * * *

  When I woke up the rain was gone. Flies buzzed around Bridge Guy. I called 911 and said I wanted to report the death of a homeless man under the bridge, and the operator said why. I hung up.

  It was still early. I climbed up the path and walked through the streets. Quiet, everyone home for the holiday. Walked past the Judge’s house, Stinton’s place. My own house was already boarded up.

  Came to the Civil War park. Sun was still rising through the eastern trees. Thought about the Judge, letting me go. For his boy, who made no sense to him. And still he let me go. I called Philip. Told him where I was, and then said goodbye. Threw the phone into the trees. Then went out into the field and knelt down in the dawn shadows. Felt at peace. Just glad I was here. Glad I’d ever been here.

  Somewhere a car door slammed. I rose up straight.

  The ground next to me came to life. Kozma sprang up. Holding his cape wide, laughing. It works! he shrieked. I’m invisible! We’re invisible! And he leaned down to envelop me. Kozma the Magnificent.

  There just wasn’t any time.

  First bullet struck me in the back. Heard the second blast as Kozma fell into my arms, but didn’t feel anything. Rolled onto the ground with Kozma and tried to cover him. Felt something pop in back of head. Couldn’t see anything from right eye, but left eye pretty good. Left eye good enough to see Kozma wasn’t doing great. Face pale, already in shock. Listened for his breathing but hard to hear anything. Hard to think clearly. So much blood on both of us.

  Oh Jesus, someone behind me said.

  Turned and looked with good left eye. Didn’t need to say anything. He already knew. Poor Philip.

  Son, I said. Give me the gun.

  He didn’t move. Breathing hard. Staring at Kozma, at me. So lost.

  Now! I yelled, and finally he handed me the gun. Now run, I said. Please, Philip, run.

  And he ran.

  Looked down at Kozma. All the color leaving his face, but he was still awake. Confused. Scared. A helicopter passed overhead and sirens sounded.

  He cried and asked for his dad. Just like any little boy, just wanted his dad. Just wanted to be safe, that’s all. I brushed his hair back and told him he was good. I said his dad was coming soon. Helicopter passed by again. Heard voices yelling but couldn’t see anything anymore. Felt the sun burst over the trees and held Kozma’s hand. With the other hand I raised the gun high. Told Kozma again that his dad was coming. Someone charged toward us through the trees. I hoped it was him. Hoped that just this once I got it right, and it was him.

  8

  Xiomara

  Friday afternoon, 3:15 p.m. Traffic hums merrily along as the weekend approaches. Songbirds overhead are in full voice. Far beyond the suburban streets, high in the hills, the earth is abloom with color. The world’s every breeze carries upon it the scent and the promise of summer, et cetera, et cetera.

  And yet. Does the universe not teeter on the very brink of destruction?

  Yes. Yes, it does teeter, on that exact brink.

  Charlie pauses with one foot in the air. Poised in mid-footfall above the narrow curb, he wonders if just maybe the universe, in fact, totters on the brink, et cetera. The whole teeters versus totters question. A classic question, sure, a question for the ages: but. Come on, man. This is no time to get distracted. Not with so much on the line vis-à-vis the universe, imminent destruction of. Charlie’s admittedly wide feet are almost as wide as the curb, and it’s critical that he not brush even the edge of his shoe against that neighboring sidewalk there. That’s how big this is. How big? Try eschatologically big. Try end-of-times big. That’s all we’re talking about here. Despite the traffic, songbirds, world being abloom with color, et cetera. Despite the rest of the world being oblivious to the tightrope walk—no, the death waltz, if by death you mean the heat-death of the universe—that Charlie is walking, or rather waltzing, here.

  His phone buzzes, and then. Oops. He whips his head around to make sure the destruction of the universe has gone unwitnessed by his eighth-grade classmates. Checks his message.

  Working late again, sorr
y!

  He taps back, De nada, milady. Which always makes Xiomara smile. Ah, mijo, she says. Such a Casanova! You talk to all the girls like that? To which Charlie is like, ha ha, yes? The last time he talked to a girl other than Xiomara was last November. The girl in question being Trish Mackey, fabled Trish Mackey of the azure eyes that have tormented Charlie’s dreams since kindergarten, who one day in November dropped her notebook in the hallway on the way (en route) to Social Studies. At which point Charlie, seized by an instinct so powerful, no, so primordial that questioning it would have been anathema (yes!), grabbed the notebook from the floor and took off after her at full speed, which for Charlie wasn’t exceptionally fast, no, but still left him out of breath by the time he reached her, sweating, let’s just say, profusely, stomach lurching just a bit more than one would consider the normal amount of lurching. And then, head bowed just so as he presented the notebook, a knight laying the Grail before the queen, eyes on Trish Mackey’s pretty gold-painted toenails showing through her designer flip-flops, on which Charlie was trying with all of his thirteen-year-old might to neither sweat nor vomit, he proclaimed: Your scroll, milady.

  A great story right up until that exact point. And then, not so much. Then: screaming, running, a certain not insignificant amount of shame.

  Buzz. Beso grande. Late bus? Or maybe ride w/SteveO? And then some kind of crazy-eye emoji thing, what Xiomara calls her trademark.

  He taps, No problema. Hugs. Best to keep old Steve-O out of this. Xiomara’s been telling him to invite the legendary Steve-O to dinner for the last three months, which means that Steve-O’s days might, sadly, be numbered. Certain difficult decisions have to be made. Possibly Steve-O’s heading to China as part of a foreign-exchange program, or he’s suffering from memory loss after that spectacular fall from the water tower. Foreshadowed, of course, by comments Charlie has lately made over Sunday Sundaes with Xiomara: Yeah, old Steve-O can’t stop talking about China! Everything’s Tiananmen Square and the Falun Gong with this guy! Also: Steve-O’s been acting kind of weird, said some crazy things to me in homeroom. Maybe that fall last week affected him more than he’s let on, ha ha. But a sad ha ha. A tragicomic ha ha. Followed by a day or two of Charlie moping around, distracted by the tiff with old Steve-O, with whom he’d become pretty damn close. Such bad luck with friends, chiquito—Xiomara shaking her head—and after that thing with Big John’s family going into the Witness Protection Program last year.

  Buzz. Will bring chicken tacos. L8r pooh bear. Crazy-eye thing.

  Pooh Bear—her name for him. Maybe not the absolute most flattering nickname. Maybe a nickname that caused him a few problems after he left his phone in Algebra class and Alan Mears found it. For a few days he was called Pooh Bear by everyone, including Trish Mackey, which would’ve been bad enough. Ah, but then. Then Alan’s friend Miggs suggested a better name: Shit Bear. Which caught on so, so quickly.

  Xiomara doesn’t know this. She calls him Pooh Bear, she says, because he never gets angry or upset. Because he’s always sweet, always smiling, always gentle. Oh, if she only knew. For example: Just this morning, after Charlie finished reading aloud his poem, “When to the Silence (I Summon Thy Joyful Roar),” Alan called out Shit bear shit bear shit-shit-shit. Which was stupid and not even in iambic pentameter, and what did it even mean? But everyone laughed and even the teacher smiled, and for an instant Charlie was filled with the most bilious (yes!) hatred, and a desire for biblical-level vengeance. For an instant he wanted Alan Mears to, like, explode. Or no, not explode. Maybe just have a stroke. And be disabled and not be able to walk or speak! Yes! And to drool everywhere, so that everyone in class pointed and said nasty things like Drooly Drooly Alan Mears! Also nastier things, too, probably. But then Charlie pictured Alan’s half-paralyzed face, drool running down onto his wheelchair, kids laughing, Alan staring at the floor in shame. Alan’s mother wiping his face for him, feeding him, changing his diaper because he’s just constantly pooping for some reason, and bathing him like a toddler. And crying herself to sleep every night, because what kind of hideous life is that? For Alan, for either one of them? She’ll have to get a second job to pay for his physical therapy and his drugs and his diapers, and she’ll get run down and end up sick herself. She’ll have to sell the house and rent a room in some flophouse with a single dirty mattress in the most godforsaken part of town, although the flophouse will have a nice name, like Paradise Gardens, because the nicer the name, the worse the flophouse, everybody knows that. Eventually she, Alan’s mom, will develop consumption. She’ll crawl into bed with drooling Alan at Paradise Gardens, and they’ll pull up the covers and she’ll tell him everything’s going to be okay, except clearly it’s not going to be okay. Clearly it’s the most horrible thing in the world, and one night, probably a Tuesday night, she’ll look over at Alan while he sleeps, and she’ll think that maybe she should just smother him to death. She won’t actually do it, but she’ll think about it. At first she’ll think it’s for his own good and she’ll just be helping her son end his grievous suffering, but then she’ll realize that it would actually be for her. It will end her suffering if she just quietly snuffs the life out of her misbegotten vegetable son. And she’ll have to live with that forever, in secret shame and horror on top of the everyday shame and horror of Alan’s constant pooping and drooling and helplessness.

  And all because Charlie used his one allotted wish, the one everybody dreams of, for this—to send Alan Mears and his consumptive mom to a flophouse to die.

  There’s your sweet and gentle. What would Xiomara think of that? He almost wants to tell her when he gets home, just to get it off his chest. But he knows he can’t.

  “Say it again,” Charlie said, when his dad first told him the new girlfriend’s name. And then: “Spell it.” Xiomara could have been the ugliest girl who ever lived and he would have loved her because of her name. You couldn’t have a name like that without some crazy exotic magic rubbing off on you, could you?

  Except she wasn’t ugly. She was dark and Spanish and beautiful. That she also had a tiny left arm the size of an infant’s, connected to a pretty little hand with painted nails, only made her more beautiful.

  “Don’t stare at her baby arm,” said Charlie’s dad. “That’s why she’s got tits, Jesus.” Which drew a one-eyed glare from Xiomara that made Charlie’s dad grin.

  “’S okay, chiquito,” she said. She leaned down, all breasts and one tiny arm, and stared at him hard. Evaluating him. And then, very slowly, she made a V sign with the first two fingers on her right, regular-sized hand, and held them horizontally across her right eye.

  Charlie did the same, but with the first two fingers on his left hand, holding them horizontally across his left eye.

  Xiomara nodded. “So, mijo, we understand each other,” she said gravely.

  And Charlie beamed.

  “Weirdos,” said Charlie’s dad. Xiomara stood up and unleashed a gorgeous Spanish fury at him, and Charlie’s dad laughed, and then the rest of the evening was a blur of El Salvadoran food and loud music, with Xiomara now and then flashing Charlie another sign from The Thunder, Perfect Mind, the sci-fi adventure show that Charlie and (as it turned out) Xiomara’s nephew back in El Salvador both held dear. Not the horizontal V sign, no—that was only used, as Xiomara understood, for moments of intense and immediate spiritual recognition.

  When she left, Charlie stood at the door and waved goodbye as his dad squeezed Xiomara’s butt and kissed her.

  After that, he saw Xiomara once a week, and then twice a week, and then pretty much every day. Mostly with his dad, but sometimes, more often as time went on, it would just be Charlie and Xiomara. They’d play Tripa Chuca or Crazy Eights and watch the latest episode of The Thunder, Perfect Mind, or they’d sit together on Xiomara’s couch and find an old movie (she loved anything old, but especially, to Charlie’s endless fascination, old Abbott and Costello movies). Or she’d ask him to talk to her while she got ready for her shift at Lucky’s, so he
’d read aloud from some poem he’d learned in class by Edgar Allan Poe or W. B. Yeats or Alfred, Lord Tennyson (he always stressed the comma). She said she just liked hearing him talk. His English, muy exótico. That anything Charlie said could ever be exotic was absurd, and maybe he knew even then that she was only being kind. He decided he was totally fine with that.

  The months passed. One day his father called when Charlie was at Xiomara’s and said he had good news and bad news. He asked which one Charlie wanted first.

  “Bad?” said Charlie.

  “Let’s do the good news. Your mom called from Newport and got a boob job and we’re getting back together.”

  “She was in Newport?” Charlie asked.

  “Bad news is that we need some I guess you’d call it one-on-one time? Or maybe one-on-two time, ha ha? Seriously, though. Long story short, we’re heading out of town. But we think an awful lot of you.”

  “Sure,” said Charlie.

  “See how it wouldn’t have worked if I started with the bad news?”

  Charlie agreed.

  “’Mara there?”

  Xiomara at that moment was in her Lucky’s uniform, tiny shorts with four-leaf clovers covering each nipple. She grabbed the phone and listened, shouted in Spanish, said Yeah, yeah, yeah, rolled her eyes—she was a world-class eye roller—and flexed the fingers of her baby hand as she paced back and forth across the kitchen.

  Charlie retreated to the other room, half listening, and opened Xiomara’s laptop to research orphanages. Which he recognized as being not totally logical, but better an orphanage than a foster home. In an orphanage at least he’d be surrounded by rapscallions. They’d have great names like the Artful Dodger and Lefty and Snaggletooth and Bobby No Legs. That incorrigible scoundrel, Bobby No Legs. Who had a crusty exterior, sure, but a heart of gold. Always listening to Charlie’s ideas, yelling at Lefty and Snaggletooth to pipe down because Charlie’s onto something here, and then saying, “Go on, kid.” Always calling Charlie “kid” even though they were pretty much the same age, in fact wasn’t Charlie actually one week older exactly, but still, hard to get upset with Bobby No Legs. Not because of his missing legs—a mystery, sure, and someday they’d find those crazy legs—but because of his tragic past, e.g., the suspicious fire at the Old Mill, right around the time that Old Man Muldoon was trying to buy up all the land, only he’d run into, let’s just say, “resistance” from Bobby’s parents, Dashiell and Mariposa. No. Roberto and Esmé. Although Esmé always went by “Cookie” on account of that time with her aunt—