Imagine

by Jill Barnett

He watched her for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, what the hell, I guess that means yes.”

  He crossed the clearing and picked up one of Smitty’s iron cooking pots, then he moved in on the goat. When he was about three feet away, the goat looked up. They stared at each other.

  The goat blinked, then ate some more grass.

  Not bad, he thought and moved closer, slowly sliding the pot under the goat’s udder. Very carefully he squatted down. He rested his hand on his bent knees and looked at the goat.

  It just chewed on the grass, not even bothering to look at him.

  He reached toward a tit.

  The goat shifted so its butt was in his face. Hank swore.

  “Sit!”

  He scowled at the kid. She was still sitting on the rock, watching him as if it were the most important thing she could do. And Smitty acted as if taking care of a kid was hard. Women. . . . Everything’s a big deal.

  He turned back, and the goat kicked him right in the gut.

  The air left his lungs, and he doubled over. “God . . .”

  He shook his head and focused just as the goat shifted out of reach. Hank drew a deep breath. An instant later he vaulted toward the goat.

  The damn thing ran almost as fast as Smitty. He chased it all over the clearing, through trees, around bushes, down the beach, and around the rocks.

  For the next five minutes, the goat outmaneuvered his every move, and the kid clapped and laughed and echoed every curse he hollered. He rounded the rocks and made one last leap for the goat. It darted back, and he missed.

  Hank lay face down in the sand, trying to catch his wind. It took a while. Hell, he was getting old.

  He lifted his head up and watched the goat’s butt disappear into the jungle.

  The kid clapped her hands. “Fun!”

  He glowered at her. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

  She grinned.

  “Yeah, well, I know when to throw in my cards.” He pushed up to his knees, took another breath, and stood. He turned and walked over to pick up Smitty’s cooking pot.

  “Hi!”

  “Yeah, yeah, kid. I know you’re there.” He bent down and grabbed the pot handle.

  “Damn goat!”

  Hank paused, half bent down, and turned to look at the kid. “What?”

  And the goat nailed him right in the ass.

  Margaret walked into the jungle beyond the beach. It was like another world. Fern fronds and climbing pothos webbed a narrow path that twisted where the jungle grew deeper and darker and the bamboo more dense. As if weighed down by the monsoonlike humidity, the air turned thick and heavy.

  The sounds even changed. The birds whistled their songs and the insects hummed and clicked and chattered in nimble tunes dichotomous with the sluggish air. Looming like pillars at a courthouse were tall, ribbed ebony trees, their lower branches matted with dense jungle vines. Orchids in rainbow shades dripped from the dark creeper ivy and thick waxy leaves. Pockets of mist and fog lingered like forgotten guests, untouched by the heat of the island sun.

  On the flowers and plants, leaves and bushes, dew glimmered in minute rivers and trickled down the veins in the foliage the same way the humidity ran down Margaret’s skin. As she walked into the interior, the path grew wider and darker. Because the rain forest was covered with a lush canopy, entering it was almost like being swallowed by dark green night.

  There was a sudden stillness here, a perfectly frozen world. No motion, no breeze, just jungle.

  She moved more slowly. Then, as if a giant hand had carved out a small piece of Eden, she entered into the fringes of a clearing where fuchsias, orchids, and stephanotis dangled like a socialite’s jewels from the tree branches and creepers overhead.

  Sunlight sliced through the crowns of the trees like prisms on the most exquisite crystal chandelier, spilling rainbow colors on the moss- and lichen-covered ground. It was a world of color, all colors of the spectrum.

  And there, sitting on a fallen hollow log of an old tree, was Lydia. Her back was to Margaret, and there were quivers of movement about her shoulders.

  Margaret stood silently, afraid to move.

  Lydia was crying. Her head was buried in smooth hands too young to have to cope with mourning.

  Yet Margaret knew the desolate feeling well enough herself. She remembered being scared and feeling alone even though she was with her father and uncles. She remembered crying like Lydia, that empty aching sound of the lonely ones the dead left behind.

  Instinctively she reached out a hand toward the girl but stopped, uncertain of what she should do. How could she explain to Lydia that time and age would lessen the confusion and turn it into acceptance?

  To Lydia, her loss was all still too fresh and too painful.

  From behind Margaret came a thrashing sound, someone running through the jungle. She shifted back behind a tree laced with vines.

  The goat trotted up the path, then moved into the small clearing.

  Lydia looked up and turned. The goat and the girl eyed each other. Lydia wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “Come here, goat. Come here.”

  No one, not Hank, not Theodore, not even Margaret, had been able to coerce the goat to stay near enough to even make the slightest attempt to milk it.

  The goat gave a bleat, then trotted over to Lydia just as merrily as a lapdog. Lydia reached out and petted the goat, which shifted closer and nudged the girl with its muzzle.

  “Good goat,” she murmured and laid her head against the goat’s neck. Lydia began to cry again, hugging the goat and sobbing, sputtering words broken and lost and desolate. Disjointed words that made no sense, but somehow Margaret understood.

  The girl talked to the goat through her sobs, telling it how scared she was and lonely and sobbing that no one could understand. Lydia finally held the goat so tightly that it bleated but didn’t move away.

  Lydia moved back and stroked the goat as she tried to catch a breath. “I’m sorry,” she told the goat. “I hugged you too hard, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to hold you so tightly. I guess . . . I guess I’m just scared . . . because there’s no one left to hold me anymore.”

  Margaret leaned against the tree and rubbed her forehead, trying to think. She waited a few minutes, then took a deep breath and called out, “Lydia!” Then she tromped toward the clearing with as much noise as possible. “Lydia!” She stood on the fringes of the clearing. “Oh, here you are.”

  This time the girl’s back was straight and stiff as an ebony tree.

  Margaret stood there a second longer. “This is a lovely spot.”

  Lydia said nothing.

  Okay. . . . Now what?

  The girl began to fiddle with the goat’s beard.

  Margaret took a deep breath and walked into the clearing. She stood over Lydia. “What are you doing?”

  “Braiding the goat’s beard.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “Because she’s a girl. My mama always said girls should wear braids.”

  Margaret sat down next to Lydia. Their arms brushed slightly, and Lydia jerked a few inches away. She looked at the girl’s hair, the side sections tied back off her troubled face with blue ribbons. “I never learned to do that.”

  “What?”

  “Braid hair.” Margaret gave a short laugh, hoping she might break the ice between them. “For the life of me, I can’t do it.”

  Lydia didn’t say anything.

  “We need to name that goat. I don’t think it’s fair to keep calling it ‘goat.’ Do you?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “You can name her,” Margaret suggested.

  “I can’t think of anything right now.” Lydia let go of the goat’s beard.

  Margaret stared at the vines twisted into knots on the moss-covered ground. She felt just as choked as they were because she was so unsure of what she could say to help Lydia. Some part of her needed to help the girl, for herself as much as for Lydia. Finally she cocked her head and looked
at the girl. “Why are you here?”

  “No reason.”

  Margaret made a big deal of looking around the jungle. “It’s rather quiet and secluded, isn’t it?”

  “I like to be alone.” Lydia folded her hands in her lap.

  “Do you? I never did.” Margaret turned toward Lydia. “After my mother died, it took a long time before I could stand to be alone.”

  Lydia’s knuckles were white because her hands were so tightly knotted. She turned toward Margaret. Her cheeks were blotchy, her lips and eyes slightly pink and swollen. “Your mother died?”

  Margaret nodded and stared at the lines in her palm. She realized that Lydia wouldn’t truly listen if she were looking at her. “I never wanted to be alone after that. I think I was always afraid that if I wasn’t with the only family I had left, that they would die, too.” She paused, then admitted, “I was more afraid of being left alone than almost anything I could imagine.”

  “I’m not alone,” Lydia said defiantly, as if she wanted to fight with the world. “I have Theodore and Annabelle.”

  “That’s right. You do.”

  The silence just hung there.

  Finally Lydia spoke. “Who did you have left?”

  “My father and my uncles.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Oh.” Lydia pulled an orchid from a nearby stem and absently twisted it in her hand. After a moment, she began to pluck off the thick pink petals, letting them drift to the jungle floor. “Did they know you were scared?”

  “I don’t know. It must have been difficult for my dad. He had to worry about me when he was still grieving himself.”

  “Did he cry for her?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “Yes. Sometimes I still do.”

  “You do?” She sounded surprised at that. “How old were you when she died?”

  “Seven.” Margaret looked off at the flowers around them. “Too young to remember very much about her and too old to forget she had been there.”

  “I’ll always remember them,” Lydia said with quiet fierceness. “Always.”

  And Margaret sat there, a little raw and open herself. In trying to make Lydia see a pathway out of her grief, she understood the path her own had taken—the knowledge that the memories were still there soothing the loss after time. A dead parent was never truly gone because they lived forever in your memory.

  She looked at Lydia as something kindred passed between them. “Yes,” she said with a quiet certitude. “You always will remember.”

  Chapter 19

  “Let me see if I have this straight. You want me to hold hands with a guy in earrings, purple pants, and toe bells, then fly around in a cloud of smoke and shrink so I can fit inside this bottle?”

  Muddy kept a straight face, but it wasn’t easy. Hank was making his mastership more interesting than most.

  “I don’t know what else we can do.” Margaret threw up her hands and watched Hank pace. “Theodore won’t come out.”

  Hank ran a hand through his hair and turned, winced once, then slowly began to walk a new path, favoring one leg.

  Margaret frowned at Hank. “Are you hurt?”

  He stopped suddenly and pivoted with the rigid motion of a German soldier. He gave her a black look. “No.”

  “Then why are you limping?”

  His look turned incendiary and shifted to the goat, gnawing on some grass behind Margaret. Lydia stood over the animal, stroking it like one stroked a pet cat. “I’m just stiff,” he barked, then glared at all of them, his expression warning them to drop the subject.

  Not that Muddy was foolish enough to bring it up. He had survived for two thousand years, after all. Besides which, Hank could barely look at him without getting a wild look in his eyes that warned Muddy to stay away.

  “Hank, we need to find out why Theodore refuses to come out of the bottle. He told the genie he wants you. You have to go into the bottle with Muddy. The only way to do that is to take hold of his hand.”

  “If you’re lying, chump, it’ll be your last lie.” Hank gave him a hard stare.

  Muddy remained silent.

  “Why would he lie?” Margaret asked.

  “I believe Hank is afraid that all I truly want is to hold his hand.” Muddy kept a perfectly straight face even though Hank’s was red._

  “Do you think he’s afraid?” Margaret asked with enough exaggeration that Muddy wanted to congratulate her. He winked at her instead.

  “I’m standing here, dammit. And I’m not afraid of a chump in purple pants.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” Margaret appeared to be biting back a laugh. “Then just pretend you’re giving a handshake.”

  After a few minutes of grousing and swearing, Hank stepped in front of the genie and stuck out his hand.

  Muddy grabbed it. The devil in him wanted to tickle Hank’s palm, but he was afraid he might get punched. Instead, he donned an appropriately serious look. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  Hank scowled at all of them but especially at him.

  “You want to say your last good-byes?” Margaret laughed a little as she bounced Annabelle on her hip.

  “Cute, Smitty.”

  “No last words, huh?” She had a wicked glint in her eye.

  “Yeah, I have something to say. Tie that damn goat up while I’m gone.”

  She looked at him, then at his backside. “Did the goat butt you again?”

  Hank’s silence gave them the answer.

  “Oh! I thought of a name!” Lydia said, showing the first bit of excitement anyone had seen. They turned and stared at her. “For the goat! We can call her Rebuttal!”

  Margaret smiled at the little girl. “That’s a wonderful name.”

  Lydia gave them her first smile, bright and filled with pride. And Muddy saw a look that was part happiness and part relief cross Margaret’s face.

  “Let’s get this the hell over with,’ Hank groused. Muddy glanced at Margaret, and she rolled her eyes. He looked at Hank, who cringed slightly, then eyed him the way Paris should have eyed that Trojan horse.

  “We must face the east,” Muddy told him in a very serious and deep monotone.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not going, Smitty. You’d have a helluva time figuring out which way to turn.”

  “That’s the east,” Margaret said, pointing north. Hank snorted and turned.

  “May Allah bless this flight,” Muddy prayed aloud with what he thought was just the right touch of melodrama. Then he added in a stage whisper, “And please don’t let that most horrid . . . gory . . . and bloody of all accidents happen again.”

  Hank looked sick. His jaw tightened until he had a tick in his cheek. He glanced down at the ground and rubbed his forehead with his free hand.

  Muddy cast a quick glance at Margaret and winked, then turned to Hank. “Okay.” He paused for a full minute. “Get ready.” He paused again.

  Hank looked up, his expression that of a man on his way to the executioner.

  Muddy held Hank’s hand firmly and warned, “Hang on . . .”

  Hank’s eyes narrowed.

  “. . . chump!”

  And up they flew. Straight up. “Sonofabitch!”

  A good five hundred feet.

  Hank blinked for a minute to get the purple smoke from his eyes. It didn’t help. The interior of the bottle looked like a junkman’s heaven. He’d been in pawn shops that were less cluttered.

  Contraptions sat in every corner, some with cogs and belts and strange mechanics. An ancient battle ax and a bowl of figs and dates sat next to a fat clock filled with water and sand and a series of chutes that looked like a rat’s maze.

  There was a camera and tripod, a powdered wig, shoe buckles, and a collection of vests, each more gaudy than the last. A fancy board game like checkers sat next to a hand organ that was propped against a bed warmer and bellows.

  Hank shifted,
and his elbow hit a tall Greek urn filled with—he frowned and picked up a small book—dime novels? He glanced at the genie, who sat on the edge of an orange-and-red-striped bench seat with feet shaped like dragons. The genie’s legs were crossed, and he rested his chin on one hand while he swung one foot to the tune of his toe bell.

  Hank couldn’t get used to this.

  He looked down and saw stacks of newspapers, pamphlets, and scrolls piled beneath the seat.

  He looked up. Silk drapes in .purple and red and yellow hung like tents in a carnival nightmare from the sides of the bottle and a thin film of mosquito netting was hooked over brass wall hooks that were in the shape of pythons.

  There were pillows, fancy tasseled pillows in every color and style, strewn over a collection of small but old Persian carpets. A gong went off near his right ear, and he turned Just as a carved wooden clock chimed a stupid tune while a small wooden man and woman with finger cymbals for hats rolled out of doors in the face of the clock, rode along a small track where they met, then bent and banged their heads to the count of the hour.

  He turned away and froze when he saw something he hadn’t seen in years. Leaning against a gaudy red wall was a baseball bat, a black Al Spalding glove, and a ball.

  He took a couple of stiff steps closer and picked up the baseball bat. The wood felt heavy, and he slid his hands to the grip, instinctively testing the bat for weight and balance. He held it in front of him and stared at it.

  His mind drifted back to a time when he had one foolish dream—well, not a dream, but a chance. And now, after so many years had passed, it seemed as if that chance hadn’t been a moment from his past, but one from someone else’s life, some tall tale he’d heard another man telling, a story, a lie, an excuse—like the big fish that got away.

  He looked at the bat in his hand. Perhaps because he’d been locked away for the last four years, perhaps because he was getting older, whatever, he stared at that damned baseball bat, and it stood for everything he’d thrown away over forty years, every door that might have opened and shone a crack of light on the dark path he’d chosen for himself, chosen because he was so damn afraid that life might not really be as bad as he thought it was.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and saw himself running fast and hard with fists flying away from every opportunity. Ready to lose, because deep inside him, he was too damn scared to try to win.