Her unmade-up cheeks flushed with anger, but she fought to keep her cool. I’m not going to let him needle me! “I’m a mother,” she answered tightly, “I’m supposed to worry. And I think Bradey being so depressed is something to be concerned about. Obviously you don’t.”
“Of course I do,” he replied appeasingly, obviously seeking to forestall another argument. “I just think it’s something that has to work itself out. He’ll talk to us when he needs to.” He glanced over at the watering can-shaped clock on the wall (which had been warped from the heat of the oven beneath it), and announced, “I’ve gotta go.”
He haphazardly dropped his coffee mug onto the white, just-cleaned countertop and dashed from the kitchen. Without even saying goodbye, Marge noted sourly, as she eyed the spilled coffee forming a brown ring around the base of the mug. He’d long ago given up kissing her goodbye, and now it seemed the degeneration of their communication was complete.
Bradley Wallace wandered through school that day like a zombie, and Sister Margaret Raphael called him down numerous times for woolgathering. He also had to contend with the whispering behind his back, no doubt a direct result of his “freak out” (as the other kids were labeling yesterday’s antisocial behavior). But interestingly, it seemed subliminally to him (though no one dared approach him that day, probably afraid his temper might flare again) that the tide of sentiment rode in his favor. None of the other kids liked Simon, and all seemed inordinately pleased the “fat little porker” had finally, “gotten his.” These same kids also conspicuously avoided Simon and showed no sympathy for his injuries.
Though he tried with all his will, Bradley Wallace could not put Whilly out of his mind, or his heart. To his own amazement, he even worried whether or not the dragon was getting any food. However, despite these momentary lapses into sentimentality, the boy’s mind remained resolutely closed. That intransigent demon called pride would not allow him to open it. Whilly had wronged him, he kept repeating like a broken record; friends just didn’t lie to each other like that. Not true friends.
He noticed pig-faced Simon sporting his black eye like a war injury, and felt a momentary pang of remorse. But he couldn’t bring himself to apologize to that little turd, either, who had, after all, started the fight in the first place with his big, fat mouth.
At recess, Wagner sought him out for another arm wrestling challenge, this time assuring Bradley Wallace’s acquiescence by surrounding himself with prestigious witnesses, like Jeff Kott, Mike Mohaney, and their friends. Not daring to appear any more chicken than he already did, Bradley Wallace reluctantly accepted.
Wagner leered vilely, exuding an easy confidence that made Bradley Wallace apprehensive. He boasted pridefully that he’d beaten Jeff the previous day, and Bradley Wallace glanced sharply over at Jeff, who nodded in begrudging corroboration.
But he and the other guys voiced their belief that Bradley Wallace could “take Wagner easy,” and urged him on to victory as they made their way into the building and into Sister Margaret Raphael’s deserted classroom.
Bradley Wallace’s palms beaded with nervous sweat, and he considered the possible outcome of this match. No one really liked Wagner, except for Raley and Smith, who hovered around their pal assuring him he’d win easy, and thus the bulk of the observers’ sentiments would be on Bradley Wallace’s side.
However, he knew how fickle these kids were, as evidenced by how quickly they accepted him for one small accomplishment, after having ignored him for years. If he lost today, he knew Wagner wouldn’t be instantly accepted just for winning (basically because Wagner was a jerk), but he also knew he, himself, would drop back to obscurity in a flash.
Wagner took a seat and ceremoniously placed his elbow on the desktop, grinning smugly at Bradley Wallace, whose own facial expression reflected a mixture of worry and loathing. The champ sat in the adjacent desk Jeff had set up and countered Wagner’s move. He was getting to be an old hand at this, he thought with wry amusement. As they gripped hands, Bradley Wallace could feel the electric tension in the room rippling through his taut body. He and Wagner clasped hands tightly, glaring defiantly into each other’s eyes, and on Mohaney’s signal, the contest began. Bradley Wallace could feel instantly that Wagner was strong. Very strong. But somehow, deep down, he knew that he was stronger. His essence simply surpassed that of his opponent, adding fuel to his determination not to be humiliated again.
After a grueling, but confident, five minutes, Bradley Wallace clearly had the advantage, and Wagner’s leer of triumph faded amongst flashes of amazement as his reddened arm struck the wooden desktop with a hollow clunk.
A cheer ripped through the pregnant silence, and Bradley Wallace
was once again the man of the moment. But the bitterness and rancor from his fight with Whilly still festered within him, and he felt no joy in his victory, accepting the claps and congratulations with thinly disguised indifference.
Wagner cast him a final baleful glare from those wolf-grey eyes, and strutted from the room with Smith and Raley in tow.
Bradley Wallace used the excuse of going to the bathroom to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the classroom, and darted out into the hall as though to catch his breath. Wagner was nowhere in sight, but Bradley Wallace couldn’t have cared anyway. He just didn’t care about anything anymore. Except Whilly. Janet passed by on her way in from recess, but he couldn’t even acknowledge her cheerful “Hello” with more than a grunt. He hurried away from her before he could do something really rude. Why did all this have to happen, he wondered bitterly. Life really stunk sometimes.
Detention covered the hour between three and four pm, and consisted basically of sitting in Sister Dana’s outer office doing nothing. Even the school secretary, Mrs. De La Cruz, went home shortly after three, so the boy sat alone and watched the second hand on the wall clock sweep around in endless circles. This was Bradley Wallace’s first real detention, but it had never sounded so bad when others described it. Of course he’d rather do nothing for an hour than do homework, he had said on numerous occasions. Boy was he wrong!
Being forced to sit still, without even the option of doing anything, for an entire hour turned out, in practice, to be much different than it sounded in theory. In fact, as he squirmed and fidgeted in the uncomfortable, hard-backed chair, he concluded it was the worst punishment he’d ever been subjected to. That hour seemed like years. In addition to boredom, he ached inside at having to miss “Dark Shadows,” especially for a whole week! Hatred for that slimy turd Simon welled up in his throat like bile, and he cursed the other boy for getting him into this situation.
Some say the world will end in fire . . .
He glanced over sharply at Sister Dana’s office door, and almost gasped in startled surprise. The towering nun stood there gazing at him intently, her hazel eyes flashing with curiosity and traces of unease. How long had she been standing there? Had he spoken aloud? Is that why she was staring at him so strangely?
Some say in ice . . .
Their eyes locked for a moment, then Bradley Wallace dropped his to the floor. “You can go home now, Bradley Wallace,” she spoke, breaking the oppressive silence in which the boy had been nearly suffocating for the past hour. He mumbled a hurried “Thank you,” and practically ran from the claustrophobic office, inhaling great gulps of fresh air once he got outside. How much had she seen, he wondered. How much had he done?
In addition to missing “Dark Shadows” all week, Bradley Wallace would also miss the bus, and that necessitated his mother picking him up each day, a chore she did not relish, especially under these circumstances.
They rode home that day in awkward, stilted silence. She didn’t seem at ease in his company, as though she wanted to say something to him but couldn’t figure out the right approach. For his part, he simply had nothing to say to her. But then, he seldom did anyway.
When Mr. O’Conner picked him up that afternoon, the boy’s sullen cheerlessness was immediately noted and c
ommented upon. But Bradley Wallace felt so low he didn’t even welcome the old man’s company, and grunted “nothing” to his employer’s questions.
“Well, lad,” the old man persisted, undaunted, “it’s obviously not nothing or you’d be acting like your usual self. And I certainly can’t have an Assistant Good Humor Man who looks like a mortician, now can I? Won’t sell any ice cream that way.”
Despite his dour mood, a faint smile crept across the boy’s lips. He supposed he did look like a mortician or something, but he couldn’t help feeling so miserable.
He longed to be with Whilly again, to stroke that scaly, thickly muscled neck and lose himself in the bottomless vermillion of those brilliantly jeweled eyes.
But he’d also been hurt deeply by the dragon, and he just didn’t feel he could give in.
“Why don’t you tell me what the trouble is?” Mr. O’Conner asked gently, as he guided old Shannon carefully around the boy’s neighborhood.
And quite suddenly, even though he hadn’t intended to, Bradley Wallace found himself telling everything he could, the words spilling out in rapid succession like the staccato burst of machine gun fire.
Someone he thought was his best friend had told him a deliberate, very serious lie, and he felt angry and betrayed, assuring the intently listening Mr. O’Conner that he, himself, had never lied to this friend. He then asked the question that troubled him most deeply - can a friend who’s dishonest toward you still be your friend?
Mr. O’Conner paused a moment before replying, as was his custom, his wizened features creased deeply in thought.
“Well, lad, that there’s a tough one. I don’t know your friend personally, but I’ve learned this much about people - nobody’s perfect. We all make mistakes, and at some point in our lives, we all hurt those we care most about, even when we don’t mean to. It’s human nature.”
But Whilly isn’t human, the boy felt like saying, but knew he couldn’t.
“He knew he was lying, and that I’d be hurt,” he insisted instead.
“What does friendship mean to you, Bradley Wallace?” the old man asked in that tone which told Bradley Wallace he was probably about to learn something. He considered his response carefully, feeling his mentor watching him out of the corner of his pool-blue eyes and knowing a thoughtful answer was required.
“Well, I guess it means doing things together, and for each other.” He hesitated there, uncertain what more he was expected to say.
The old man cast him a quick look before returning his gaze to the road ahead. “It also means accepting each other completely, mistakes and all,” he explained. “That’s what love is all about, lad, and in my book, true friendship like that is the highest form of love.” His eyes seemed to twinkle in the sunlight reflecting off the crystal dangling from the cracked rear view mirror as he fixed his gaze momentarily on the boy’s gradually enlightening features. And in that moment, in those mirrored windows to
the old man’s soul, Bradley Wallace saw the truth.
Suddenly, remorse flooded over him and he felt a burning desire to run to Whilly, throw his arms around the dragon’s neck, and apologize for being such a jerk. Mr. O’Conner was right. Whilly had only kept the truth from him for his own good. That’s what friends were for, he realized. The truth was so simple. Why hadn’t he seen that? He’d completely lost his ability to reason, and that frightened him. No, terrified him. A momentary shudder wracked his body at the memory of his animalistic behavior.
But the old man’s truth buoyed his spirits, and he felt more cheerful than he had in days. He also opened his mind, desperately hoping that Whilly might be there, hoping the dragon hadn’t given up on him and found some other friend. But there was nothing. Not even a tingle. The door to the dragon’s mind remained tightly closed.
Somehow Bradley Wallace managed to finish out his time with Mr. O’Conner without bursting from fear and anticipation. He tried repeatedly to contact Whilly, but his desperate efforts were met with a hollow nothingness, almost as though the dragon had never existed. Suppose something had happened to him, the boy worried. What if someone had caught him? What if he’d been killed?
This last thought churned over and over in his wild imaginings, so much so that the frantic child practically leapt from Shannon before the old truck could lurch to a stop in front of his house. He shouted a hurried goodbye to the startled Mr. O’Conner and sprinted madly up the street. The old man watched him disappear around the corner, a trace of worry creasing his chalky mien. He reached up and absently fingered the dangling chunk of crystal.
“Whilly!” the boy called out as he breathlessly approached the old water tower. “Whilly, it’s me!” he shouted again, stopping at the base of the twisting stairs.
But there was no reply, so sign of the dragon hovering overhead in the darkening sky. The breezy silence rebuffed his shouts, almost mocking in its totality. He dashed crazily up the wobbly stairs to the top and scrambled to the edge of the hole. He stooped down to peer into the blackness below, but could detect no movement or sound. He leapt for the ladder and nearly lost his grip clambering hurriedly down to the inside
floor. He fumbled at the base of the ladder for the Coleman lantern he kept there, and quickly lit it. The lanterns feeble glow (damn, it needed more kerosene!) illuminated very little of the tank’s innards as Bradley Wallace held it out before him. He gasped.
Whilly lay sprawled lengthwise against the far wall, unmoving. Wild with fear, Bradley Wallace bounded to the creature’s side, fumbling around ineffectively for a pulse. Where do you look for a pulse on a dragon? He held his breath as his hands skittered back and forth across the hard, scaly surface of Whilly’s massive chest, his own heart pounding in his ears. With a loud exhalation of relief, his hands located a steady heartbeat, and then moved to the dragon’s head, cradling it in his lap.
“Whilly, I’m here,” he spoke loudly. “It’s all right, now.” There was no response from the seemingly unconscious dragon. The boy’s fear returned. What could be wrong with his friend? “Whilly, please wake up!”
One thick eyelid slipped open, followed shortly by the other, and the dragon stirred. Bradley Wallace gazed anxiously into those bleary red eyes (thinking, he didn’t know why, of all those Visine commercials he’d seen on TV), and suddenly felt the door to Whilly’s mind ease open hesitantly as the dragon turned his head to focus on the frightened child’s face. Dragon and boy became one again.
You’re back, was all Whilly sent by way of specific words.
“I missed you,” the boy countered, a flurry of mixed emotions clogging his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t forgive you. You’re the only friend I have in the world, and I sure don’t want to lose you,”
Whilly raised his head level with the boy’s. Nor I you, Bradley Wallace.
“Hey,” the boy beamed delightedly, “You finally left off the ‘Murphy.”’ But then he frowned with worry as the dragon raised himself stiffly on his haunches, obviously weak and unsteady. “Are you all right?” he queried anxiously. “You looked so sick.”
I was just sleeping, Whilly replied, his mouth stretching open in the dragon equivalent of a yawn.
“Sleeping?” the boy repeated incredulously, feeling piqued at making such a fool of himself by fawning anxiously over the dragon. Sleeping? “But I couldn’t hardly wake you!”
Whilly began his usual ritual of stretching his wings and limbs to work out the drowsiness. I always sleep heavily after a big meal, he answered casually, implying that Bradley Wallace shouldn’t always ask questions to which he already knew the answers. His mother always told him that, too. But for some reason, he liked to give people the impression he knew less than he actually did; of course, this trick didn’t work very well on Whilly.
“And I was worried about you starving while I was gone,” he replied indignantly, unable to quell his rising irritation. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t have missed me that much.” He folded his arms across his chest huffily, and sat ba
ck against the cold metal wall.
Whilly regarded his friend with fascinated interest, probing the boy’s thoughts and emotions carefully. You humans are a curious species, he commented.
Bradley Wallace ignored the comment completely, tired of being under constant scrutiny by the dragon as though he were a bug under a microscope. “What did you eat this time?” he asked cautiously, not completely sure he wanted to know the answer.
Because it so upset you, I have stopped eating cats. Instead I went in search of other food, and found a group of large animals all together in a field. I swooped down and took one of them.
Whilly stopped his verbalized transmissions when he noted the appalled expression on the boy’s face. “Oh, my God,” Bradley Wallace exclaimed fearfully. “No one saw you, did they?”
Whilly flinched back slightly at the boy’s tone, and repeated something Bradley Wallace had said to him on another occasion. I’m not stupid, Bradley Wallace. Now it was the boy’s turn to flinch. Whilly sounded almost . . . indignant. I was very careful.
“I’m sorry,” Bradley Wallace immediately apologized, realizing this was how their other fight started. With most people he just had to learn to keep his mouth shut, and not say what he’s thinking. But with
Whilly, he couldn’t even think it. “I just worry about you, that’s all.” He reached out to caress the dragon’s flank lovingly, relishing this moment of serenity between them. It felt good to be back on speaking terms again. But then another thought interrupted his peaceful musings, a darker, more foreboding thought. Hesitantly, he voiced it.
“What kind of animal did you eat?” he asked, adding as the notion occurred to him, “Not a horse, I hope.”
I don’t know, Whilly replied carefully, but truthfully. I’ve never seen a horse.
“Can you take me there?” the boy persisted. “Where you got it?”
A Boy and His Dragon Page 20
