“Thanks for your thoughtfulness, Bradey,” she said, resuming her chopping. “But next time leave a note, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed immediately, amazed to be off the hook so easily. He moved past the kitchen table and around the chest-high counter to where his mother was working.
“Can I help?” he offered on impulse as he watched her pound and chop vigorously at onions (he’d been right) in a large, wooden bowl. The tears streamed down her face and her nose was crinkled in a funny way, like a rabbit.
“Yes, please,” she nearly gasped with relief. “You’re a big, strong boy, you chop for awhile.”
Almost joyfully, he accepted the curved, wood handled chopping blade she handed him. It had been so long, he realized, since he’d done anything much with his mother. Even chopping onions was something.
“How small do you want ‘em?” he asked, catching a whiff of the pungent onions and feeling his eyes begin to tear.
“Very small,” his mother told him as she began washing lettuce in the sink.
He pounded away at the wooden bowl, watching the onions within get smaller and smaller. If he kept chopping, he wondered, would they eventually get so small he couldn’t see them? He thought it possible, but decided it would probably take forever.
“Mom,” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence between them, “How did you first meet Mr. O’Conner?” Despite his best efforts to contain them, images of those thirteen pictures kept flashing through his head.
“Oh, it was even before you were born, honey,” his mother began, her back to him as she ripped the head of lettuce into small chunks and set them to dry on laid-out sheets of paper towel. The ripping sound reminded him of tearing flesh, and he shuddered. “As a matter of fact,” she recalled, pausing a moment to remember exactly, “The first day I met him was the day your father and I began talking about wanting a second child, a boy this time.”
“Really?” Now his interest was really aroused.
“Yeah. Your father and I were strolling through Gerstle Park one Saturday morning - that’s the place you children always called Girdle Park, remember?”
He did, and smiled at how silly that sounded now, almost embarrassing. “Yeah. But what about Mr. O’Conner?”
“Well, Your dad and I were discussing having another child and he was telling me everything he’d like to do if it was a boy. I guess Mr. O’Conner must’ve been nearby and overheard us because the next thing I knew he was beside me offering a Good Humor bar and his opinion that we were a lovely couple and would raise a remarkable son. I remember being a little surprised, but he was so nice I didn’t feel in any way threatened, you know?”
He nodded. Mr. O’Conner definitely had that effect on people.
“And then, from that day on,” his mother continued, “I always seemed to run into him, even at the hospital. By the time you came into our lives, he was practically a grandfather to you. He even came to your
christening.” She paused a moment, and Bradley Wallace had the idea she was hiding something from him. But what could she be hiding? “I always liked that old man,” she continued, while Bradley Wallace mulled over what she might not be telling him. “You’re lucky to have him, Bradey, especially since you never knew your real grandparents.”
She continued cleaning the lettuce and Bradley Wallace resumed his chopping, which, he realized, he’d stopped while listening to his mother. He wondered why she’d never told him that story before, and could not shake the feeling there was more to it. But there was another, more important, question he needed answered.
“Mom, did you ever give Mr. O’Conner pictures of me, you know, as a baby and stuff?”
“Oh, sure, lots of times,” she answered. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Just wondering,” he shot back quickly, knowing he’d better quit while he was ahead. But he was sure she hadn’t given the old man a picture of him this year, and there was definitely one there.
Thirteen photos, one for every year of his life. Why? And why were they tacked to a wall in that strange hidden room? “Are these small enough?” he asked, holding the bowl out with one hand and swiping tears away with the other.
His mother turned and scrutinized the contents carefully, stirring the minced onion with a fork as though looking for bugs or something. “That’s perfect,” she declared and took the bowl from him. His questions about Mr. O’Conner were curious, she thought, wondering at the reason behind them. Then an idea occurred to her. “Bradey, have you been going to visit Mr. O’Conner after school lately? I noticed you haven’t been home a lot.”
He suddenly realized how strange his frequent absences (due to his rescuing business) must look to his mother, and also realized he’d never thought to prepare a suitable lie to explain them. Fortunately, his mother just provided him with one. “Yeah,” he said, so used to lying now that it didn’t faze him much. “I kinda miss not seeing him around like before.” That part, at least, was true.
Her eyes narrowed as she regarded her son carefully. He was so much in his own world that she really didn’t know much about him, not as much as she felt a mother should know. But he was so different from other boys she’d known or grown up with. Could it be because. . . No. Not worth thinking about. “You know, your father thinks you’ve been out playing ball after school. He’s been very pleased about it.”
Bradley Wallace immediately felt guilty. “I never told him that. And besides, he hasn’t said anything to me.”
“I thought it best not to press the issue, and asked him not to mention it.” She looked thoughtful.
“Are you going to tell him the truth?” the boy asked hesitantly. After all, the truth was a lie, too. This was getting confusing.
His mother gave him a rueful smile. “No, honey, I won’t tell him.“
He felt a surge of relief and a rush of affection for this woman who sometimes came so close to understanding him. This was one of those times. “Thanks, Mom.” And then, on impulse, he hugged her tightly, noting with embarrassment that he was taller than she. He pulled away and turned to leave the kitchen.
“Bradey,” his mother called, and he turned back, eyebrows raised inquiringly. “Don’t bother Mr. O’Conner too much. This is his vacation, after all, and I’m sure he likes to rest.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, trying to disguise the hurt he felt at her words, “I don’t bother him. He likes having me around.” She caught the undercurrent of his statement, but he didn’t give her a chance to reply. He hurried from the kitchen back to his bedroom, where he shut the door and locked it. He needed time to think. Fortunately, his father wouldn’t be home from playing golf till later, so hopefully he wouldn’t be disturbed.
Bradley Wallace stretched out on his bed and carefully considered the day’s events. Mr. O’Conner’s warning about people sometimes taking on more than they could handle still didn’t worry him too much. He trusted Whilly’s keen sense of judgment, and felt certain the dragon would continue to protect him from his admittedly impulsive nature.
The matter of the pictures could not be so easily dismissed. As he’d noted in the kitchen, he had never once seen Mr. O’Conner take any of those photos of him beside the ice cream truck. He certainly would’ve remembered last year, anyway. Besides, it didn’t seem likely the old man even owned a camera, what with the dearth of modern gadgets in his house. It was all so strange, especially the secret room part. That was really weird.
The most troubling question of all centered on the curious, but distinct, feeling he’d had in Mr. O’Conner’s living room that the old man actually wanted him to ask about the room and the pictures. It was as if Mr. O’Conner wanted to explain certain things to him, important things that would fundamentally alter Bradley Wallace’s life, and the boy had been afraid. He feared those changes, and thus had chickened out of posing that one single question. He felt the answer would force him to give up far more than he was willing to at this time.
Maybe someday . . .<
br />
During that night, the wind kicked up again, howling fiercely. It rattled the house so severely that Bradley Wallace woke several times fearing the structure would be viciously torn from its foundation and whisked high above a writhing funnel of spinning air, just like Dorothy’s house in “The Wizard of Oz.” The Murphy home, however, remained earthbound.
By morning, the street outside looked as though a battle had been raging all night long.
Broken, splintered tree limbs, and several of the uprooted trees from which they came, were scattered sadly to and fro across the pavement looking lost and forlorn. Plants of every description had been torn from the ground, fences ripped from their foundations, garbage cans rolled and clattered up and down the street, and thousands of leaves blew in every direction, whipping constantly off the asphalt into mini-tornadoes. And the wind continued unabated. If anything, it increased in sheer force, and Bradley Wallace found it difficult even to walk outside - it felt like he was trudging through three feet of snow during a raging blizzard. But there was a good side to this weather, he noted to himself - it wasn’t raining.
The tempest continued to grow in strength throughout the
afternoon, with winds being clocked at over one hundred miles per hour, and threatened to rip the mighty Golden Gate Bridge from its moorings. The TV news had live cameras at the sight, and Bradley Wallace gazed in fearful awe at the swaying span, which looked no more solid than a hammock in a blustery summer breeze. The wind was reportedly getting stronger, the newscaster said, adding that bridge officials feared this could mark the end of the world-famous landmark.
Katie desperately wanted someone to drive her out to the bridge just so she could watch it fall and then call all her friends to tell them about it. But neither parent would consent to go with her, as it was too dangerous and too crowded. The TV newscasters kept telling people to stay away. Angrily, Katie stalked off to her room to sulk, muttering about what she’d do when she was old enough to drive on her own. Jack finally changed the channel to the golf tournament, and Marge went back to her room to read a book. All of which left Bradley Wallace on his own with nothing to do except homework, and he just didn’t feel in the mood. Not with all that was happening at the bridge and everything.
On impulse, the boy donned his heaviest jacket and gloves and dashed out the front door into the street. The wind nearly knocked him down, and he could barely open his eyes against its force. He summoned Whilly, and the two rendezvoused deep within the Gully. The aged warehouse in which he’d first found the dragon stood naked and exposed against a stark background of weeds and dirt, and the old, familiar rope swing twisted frantically in the wind like a snake in its death throes.
I want to go look at the Golden Gate Bridge, he said telepathically once the dragon had landed beside him. It was much too windy to talk out loud without shouting.
Do you think it will fall? Whilly asked, reading the thought behind the boy’s request.
I don’t know, Bradley Wallace answered truthfully. But he knew he didn’t want it to fall. Let’s go see.
When they arrived on the scene, all roads onto the bridge from both directions were closed off and barricades had been set up along the perimeters to keep the hundreds of milling spectators back away from the danger zone. The bridge creaked and groaned in pain as it was stretched
and buffeted about like an old piece of string. One of man’s greatest engineering achievements was clearly no match for the awesome power of Mother Nature, and looked close to collapsing at any moment.
Whilly set down atop a ragged bluff overlooking both the highway and the dying bridge, and instantly made himself invisible so no one below might look up and spot him. Bradley Wallace slipped down to the rocky surface of the precipice and gazed in amazement at the sight before him. He couldn’t believe that mere wind, something he couldn’t even see, had the power to sway such a massive steel structure with so much ease. The grating and twisting sounds of struggling metal rose to his ears, and a wave of sadness came with them. The bridge had existed long before he was born, and should remain long after he died. It was special, almost a living being unto itself, and he didn’t want to see it die.
Whilly hesitated before delivering his next thought. Even though he’d been told it was now Bradley Wallace’s time, still he hesitated. He knew the boy had to find out, but was this the right moment? Would Bradley Wallace be able to handle such a revelation, or would it destroy his rather fragile mind? He knew the boy better than anyone else, and even he didn’t know the answer to that question. But then, he believed in this child, didn’t he? Yes, he decided, he did.
You can save it, Bradley Wallace, he finally said, hoping his judgment was correct.
Bradley Wallace gave him a sharp look. “Don’t kid around, Whilly,” he chastised out loud. “This isn’t funny.”
I’m not joking, Bradley Wallace, the dragon assured him seriously. You have the power to save that bridge if you choose to use it.
A sudden chill, like the realization of impending death, curled slowly around the boy’s heart, and he felt exactly the same as he had with Mr. O’Conner and the unspoken matter of the pictures - afraid. “What are you talking about?” he asked uncertainly.
If you concentrate hard enough, and I help, you can stop that bridge from swaying, Whilly explained simply, carefully.
“You’re crazy!” the boy scoffed, unable to hide the quiver in his voice. “No one can control the wind.”
Not the wind, Bradley Wallace, the bridge. You can create a force equal and opposite to that of the wind with your mind, a force that will cancel out the effects of the wind. And the bridge will stop swinging.
“That’s impossible!” Bradley Wallace insisted, refusing to meet the dragon’s probing eyes. He gaped instead at the Golden Gate below.
It is possible, Bradley Wallace. And if you don’t do it, the bridge will be destroyed. It’s your choice.
Bradley Wallace was silent. He knew Whilly well enough to know the dragon didn’t joke, but he also knew that what his friend suggested was simply impossible for any human to accomplish. Especially him. And yet, that little subconscious voice tickled at the back of his mind, assuring him he could do it.
Another wailing banshee-like shriek from the tortured bridge painfully pierced his eardrums, like fingernails scratching across a blackboard, and he knew he just couldn’t stand there and watch the Golden Gate plunge into the ocean.
Just concentrate, Bradley Wallace, Whilly told him quickly, while the boy’s feelings of compassion were strongest.
Focus every part of your mind on the image of that bridge as it should be, stationary and unmoving. Your will must be unbending, Bradley Wallace. You must want it from the heart before it will come from the mind.
Almost robotically, Bradley Wallace obeyed. He concentrated, emptying his mind of all images save that of the bridge as he’d always known it - solid and eternal, untouchable by wind or rain, a lasting tribute to man’s ingenuity, strength, and artistry. But the image wasn’t pure. Something crept in, traces of fear, droplets of doubt telling him what he was attempting was impossible and foolish.
Whilly knew he had to awaken pleasurable memories the boy associated with this structure, for Bradley Wallace’s mind was fighting him, setting up barriers that only strong emotions could break down. He searched back into Bradley Wallace’s past, and plucked out an incident that might serve his purpose. *Remember, Bradley Wallace, the time you
and Mr. O’Conner walked across this bridge? It was a bright summer day and you were six years old. You carried an ice cream cone, and you were so excited about being up so high that you threw the cone off the bridge into the water below. Remember how much you laughed at that?*
Bradley Wallace smiled. He did remember, and with the memory came the feelings of joy associated with that day so many years ago, feelings that unlocked the power within him.
Without warning, the roaring floodwaters that signaled its release pounded through hi
s head like a whirlwind, and he felt himself in touch with everything around him - the water, air, plants, rock, everything. It felt as if all those things were part of him, and he them, and the power was his to command. His eyes blazed bright red, and his body coruscated with pulsating energy, the energy of the earth itself. He felt ablaze with power, and locked his eyes and heart on the swaying Golden Gate Bridge below. And he commanded it to stop moving.
With groans of protest, the span slowly, but perceptibly, fought the unabating wind, and began to sway less wildly. There were startled gasps of astonishment from the crowd behind the barricade, and the newscasters and cameramen balked at the seemingly impossible event they were capturing on videotape. A hushed silence descended over the awed assemblage as the massive steel suspension bridge, one of the largest in the world, slowly and inexorably ground its way to a complete standstill against the gale-force winds! At that moment, many of those people thought they’d witnessed their first miracle.
But then Bradley Wallace went one step further. He did something even Whilly didn’t foresee.
He ordered the wind to stop blowing. And the wind obeyed.
The dragon’s own concentration broke completely at witnessing such a feat. This boy was even more powerful than anyone suspected! Whilly glanced down at the humans gathered so far below, and shared their astonishment as the over one hundred mile per hour winds simply melted away, leaving behind an almost pervasive stillness. One woman near the barricade screamed and fainted. Those around her were too stunned to notice. This was more than a miracle. It was impossible. Yet the boy had done it.
As the wind died, so did the power blazing in Bradley Wallace’s head. The roaring subsided, and the power snuffed out like a candle. The semi-conscious boy dropped to his knees at the very edge of the cliff, teetering on the brink of plummeting onto the jagged rocks below. But Whilly reacted quickly, snatching the boy back from the ledge with a sweep of his massive tail. Bradley Wallace crashed to the craggy surface of the bluff and lay stunned for several minutes. When he finally opened his eyes, they were glazed and distant. But the look on his face was what concerned Whilly, for it was a look of total despair.
A Boy and His Dragon Page 48
