Some Kind of Magic

by Adrian Fogelin

  Cass twists the front of her shirt. “Sorry. I sewed them.”

  “On that old machine?” Now the uncle steps inside—and he takes a sharp breath. “Oh, no…no.” Suddenly all shaky, he walks over to the chair Cass always sits in to sew. He lifts the dress that hangs over the back. Holding it at arm’s length, he bites his lower lip. Suddenly, he crushes the fabric against his face like he’s trying to suffocate himself.

  “What’re you doing?” Cody’s voice is all funny and high.

  Uncle Paul’s arms drop. Hanging from one hand, the dress drags on the floor. “There was this perfume she always wore…Stupid of me to think I could still smell it after all these years.”

  Cass hugs herself and twines one skinny leg around the other. “You mean Lucy?”

  He nods and swallows hard. “She was sewing this to wear to a dance with me.”

  “It was a long time ago.” Jemmie takes the dress out of his fist and hangs it on the back of the chair again. She runs a finger along a seam. “See how Cass sewed the sleeves on?”

  He stares at his empty hand for a few seconds, then pivots and crosses the room, like it takes a massive effort just to lift his feet.

  Cody cuts in front of him. “No, don’t!”

  Uncle Paul is headed for the dresser where Jemmie and I found the fireworks.

  He grabs his nephew gently by the shoulders. “Step aside, Cody Paul. It is what it is.” When Cody doesn’t move, his uncle walks around him.

  For a second, Uncle Paul rests his palms on the top of the old chest of drawers, his eyes closed. “You can do this,” he says softly. White knees poke through the tears in his jeans as he squats. He grabs the handles and pulls, but the drawer doesn’t budge. I could lend him my weight, but I don’t want him to open that drawer.

  “It’s kinda hard,” Cody says. “Why don’t you just—?” But his uncle gives the drawer a savage jerk. It grinds open with a loud squeal, and the bag of fireworks is there, right on top.

  “No…” Uncle Paul’s forehead thunks the edge of the chest of drawers like he can’t even hold his head up.

  Cody rushes over to him. “Uncle Paul? You okay?”

  His uncle’s shoulders shake.

  Cody puts a hand on his back. “You didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”

  Uncle Paul shudders. Cody pats.

  The girls and I trade looks, unsure what to do.

  “It’s okay,” says Cody. “It’s now, not then.” He reaches around and grabs the bag of fireworks out of the drawer. “We’re getting rid of these.”

  Uncle Paul wipes his eyes on the shoulder of his shirt. “How?”

  I can tell that Cody hasn’t thought about that. “We can’t burn ’em, that’s for sure.” He looks around. The red shovel that always leans against the wall by the door stands in a beam of light, which in Cody’s world is the same as getting a message from some higher power. “I know! We’ll bury ’em.”

  Uncle Paul pushes himself to his feet, then hitches his pants. “Yeah, okay.” He wraps his fist around the shovel handle. “But if we’re gonna give the past a proper burial, the hole has to be big.”

  Cody glances down at the bag of fireworks in his hand. I can almost see the question marks floating above his head. The bag is dinky—why dig a big hole?

  But I get it. There is more than a bag of spinners that needs burying. “I’ll help you,” I say.

  “Me too!” says Cody. “I’ve been digging in the backyard finding dinosaurs. We’ll take turns.”

  Soon as we step outside, Cody stomps a spot near the door. “How about right here?”

  But Uncle Paul walks over to the foundation of the burned-down house. He stands for a long minute, staring at the monument. “Here.” He grinds the shovel blade into the dirt in front of the slab with a hard kick, then throws the dirt over his shoulder.

  It’s like the guy has a fever, like he can’t dig fast enough. He jams the shovel into the ground over and over. Dirt flies, but in no time he’s breathing hard.

  Cody insists on taking a turn. He tries to throw dirt like his uncle did, and he sprays it out good, but lots of it falls right back in the hole.

  After a minute he complains that the shovel is hurting his foot.

  Then he lifts an arm to his nose and takes a whiff. “Hey! I can smell my own chlorine!”

  Which is better than I’ll smell after I take my turn, but I reach for the shovel. Like carrying Ben out of here, this is a job that has to get done. I can tell, looking at Ben and Cody’s scrawny uncle, he can’t do it alone.

  I’m dripping sweat when Uncle Paul reaches for the shovel. I hand it off and climb out of the hole. “How deep are we going?” I ask.

  Uncle Paul stares up into the trees, considering. “Center of the earth.”

  Good thing the soil on this side of town is mostly sand. It digs easy.

  “Keep an eye out for dinosaurs,” Cody says, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the hole.

  Jemmie digs next. Then Cass.

  I’m digging when Uncle Paul steps up onto the slab and stands next to the monument. Without touching a thing he circles it slowly, then collapses into a squat, his head resting on his knees.

  Even Cody pretends he doesn’t notice Uncle Paul is crying, and I keep on tossing dirt out of the chest-deep hole—in the last two days I’ve done more physical activity than in my entire previous thirteen years.

  I’m pretty sure I’m about to die when Jemmie jumps down into the hole and reaches for the shovel. But instead of taking a turn, she holds the shovel still, both hands clenched on the handle. “We’ve reached the center of the earth—or close enough.”

  I crawl out of the hole. Jemmie hands up the shovel and boosts herself out too. Cody swings his dangling legs over the edge. “Uncle Paul? It’s done.”

  Finally, Uncle Paul lifts his head. “Deep as a grave,” he says. “And that’s deep enough.” He stands and jumps down into the hole.

  Cody passes him the dinky bag of fireworks.

  His uncle takes it and sets it down at the bottom of the hole. Even before he points at the monument, I know what’s coming. “Everything,” he says. “We’ll bury it all.”

  “Not everything. Not Sparky’s dish!” Cody whines.

  “Everything,” his uncle repeats.

  Piece by piece, we hand Cody’s monument down to Uncle Paul.

  “Goodbye, scary doll.” Cody passes his uncle a burned plastic doll head. The dog dish comes next. “Goodbye, Sparky.”

  Uncle Paul arranges everything carefully, then climbs out.

  The last things from the monument to go into the hole are the two wrought-iron pieces.

  Cody and his uncle lower one. Jemmie and I lower the other.

  Lying on top of everything, they look almost like a gate. “Guess we put the dirt back now,” Cody says.

  “Gotta get one more thing,” says Uncle Paul, going back inside.

  I hear Cass take a deep breath when Uncle Paul comes out with Lucy’s dress draped over his arms. He shakes it out, the way Ben’s mother flings out a tablecloth she’s trying to spread. The wind catches it and the dress dances.

  Tears drip off Uncle Paul’s chin. Cody holds up an edge of the dress so his uncle can wipe the tears away, but Cass shakes her head and Cody lets go.

  Bare knees on the ground, Uncle Paul lays the dress over the curlicues of wrought iron, hiding all the things the fire destroyed. He straightens the sleeves. Then he crosses his arms. “That’s all my bogeymen,” he says. “Every last one.” He squints up at Cody. “Time to get rid of yours.” Uncle Paul points, then clicks his fingers. “The hat.”

  Cody slaps both hands over the hat. “No, it’s magic! You can’t bury it. And remember? You gave it to me!”

  “I did, but it’s no good for you, Cody. It takes you funny places and tells you weird stuff. It’s time to think for yourself.” He peered into the hole. “If I can put all this to rest, you can do it too. It’s time to let the magic hat go.”
/>   Cody takes the hat off and holds it in both hands. “But it’s my hat.…” His eyes are shiny.

  “How about if you give it to Lucy?” Uncle Paul leans into the hole and puts a hand on the shiny satin. “The hat can keep her company.”

  This is all getting a little weird, like the dress and the hat are alive.

  Hugging the hat, Cody stares into the hole.

  “Let her have it,” says Cass. “The dress does look lonely.”

  Cody heaves a sigh and sets the hat down right where Lucy’s heart would be if she were wearing the dress. “Goodbye, Lucy, goodbye, hat. Goodbye.” He looks around at the rest of us, like he expects something.

  So, one after another, we say goodbye to Lucy, goodbye to the hat.

  Everyone is too tired to stand, let alone use the shovel, so we push the dirt in with our hands, covering the dress and the hat and everything else. Cody stamps it down.

  “Guess that’s it,” says Uncle Paul.

  “No it’s not!” Jemmie snatches Uncle Paul’s hand, then grabs one of mine. “We have to say a prayer.”

  We all take hands, forming a small circle.

  Holding Jemmie’s cool hand in my sweaty one, I’m distracted, but I try to concentrate on the list of things she says God has to do for Uncle Paul and Lucy and even the dead dog—stuff like take care of them and hold them in His light. I hope God doesn’t mind being bossed around.

  I see Uncle Paul let out a long, slow breath. When Jemmie reaches the “Amen,” he repeats it as loud as anyone. Prayer over, we let go and Uncle Paul drapes an arm around Cody’s shoulders.

  “Come on, Cody Paul. Let’s go get us some cake and ice cream.”

  Ben

  I left the hospital with Mom about eleven, my leg bandaged, a fold-up walker in the trunk. I sat in the car while she ran into Publix to get my medicine and the big white box with Cody’s cake inside.

  I knew Uncle Paul was at the house—Dad had called Mom at the hospital. I smiled thinking about it as I sat in the car on the way home—he’d made it back after all.

  I felt like an old guy limping up the driveway with the walker. I was watching the ground to be sure I didn’t set a walker leg down in a hole when a voice from the porch shouted, “Hey, Shotgun!” I looked up.

  He must’ve been fresh out of the shower. His long hair was wet, plastered to his skinny neck. When he smiled, I saw that one of his front teeth was half-gone. Instead of the cool uncle who took off three years ago, he was like one of the guys who hang out on Tennessee Street waiting for The Shelter to open.

  He sat with me the rest of the day. Between blowing up balloons for Mom, who was going crazy with the birthday-decorating thing, and watching Cody buzz around standing on chairs and taping streamers to the walls, Uncle Paul and I got in a lot of talking. Sitting in Mom’s rolling desk chair, I was fairly mobile, so he and I moved to wherever they weren’t while he told me his story.

  I knew he’d been in Seattle because of the postcard, but after Seattle—which he said was too rainy—he’d gone down the West Coast washing dishes, picking fruit. He was in Mexico for a while. “Best way to learn a new language,” he said. He’d camped out in the Sierra Madres for a couple of months, until it got too cold.

  In the last three years Uncle Paul had been everywhere—and nowhere—and now he was back.

  Kind of embarrassed, he told me about burying everything near the burned-out house. “Took care of a lot of old business,” he said. “Maybe now I can get some rest.”

  “Wish I’d been there to throw in Dad’s chainsaw.”

  He nodded once. “I hear ya.”

  I took a deep breath and talked soft, even though the birthday tornado raging in the kitchen was loud. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but did you start that fire?”

  He patted the pocket with cigarettes in it, then looked around like he’d just remembered where he was. Instead of lighting up, he scrubbed his hands back and forth on the knees of his jeans. “Yeah, I started it.”

  Then he told me about the fire. The hat hadn’t lied—it was his fault and it was an accident.

  “I guess things’ll get better now,” he said. But even though he’d “buried the past,” he still looked twitchy.

  “What happened to Cole?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t know. I never saw him again after he went to live with his grandparents in Arkansas.”

  “Do you want to find out?”

  He shook his head. “Might be best to let that sleeping dog lie.” Then he swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I never saw him after the night of the fire. Bet he blames me for what happened. And what if he’s dead too?”

  “What if he isn’t? You don’t need to talk to him or anything, but don’t you want to know?” I rolled the desk chair over to Mom’s computer and turned it on. I thought he’d tell me not to search for Cole, but when he didn’t, I typed “Coleman Branson” into Google. I figured the name was unusual enough that we’d get just one or two hits, but we got half a dozen.

  “Holy crap,” he muttered when he saw that the first one had a death date on it that was two years old.

  “Can’t be that guy,” I said. “He was born in 1942.”

  “Gotta be this one,” he said, pointing to “Coleman Branson, formerly of Tallahassee.”

  I clicked and…we’d found him.

  Uncle Paul leaned so close to the screen it lit his face with an eerie bluish light. “I don’t believe it.” Then he laughed and fell back in his chair. “Cole’s a podiatrist, a foot doctor! And I thought I messed up!”

  Even if he spent his time checking out stinky feet, Cole was a doctor, but I didn’t point out that. It cracked my uncle up so bad he went limp in his chair. I don’t think he’d laughed like that in a long, long time.

  That night, Cody was a basket case. “Is it time to open presents yet?” he asked every five minutes.

  “Wait for the others to get here,” said Mom.

  G-mom, G-dad, and Uncle Paul sat at the dining room table where we’d do the usual singing and Cody would spit the candle flames out.

  I sat on Mom’s rolling chair, my foot propped up on a stool—Mom insisted I keep it elevated. Cody was about to lose it when the doorbell did its usual thunk-clunk.

  “I got it!” Cody dashed out of the room.

  “Hey, birthday boy!” Cass’s voice. Bet she was giving my “little bother” a hug.

  Jemmie and Jus came in and wished him a happy birthday too.

  Come on, Cass.…I really wanted to see her, but the birthday boy was slowing her down. I stared toward the other room and waited. The last time I’d seen her I was lying in the weeds at the side of the road with my head in her lap. I knew she was crying because I felt tears falling on my face. At least I thought I did. The next time I opened my eyes, the road was rushing away real fast outside the little rectangular window in the back door of the ambulance.

  Cass came in ahead of the other two. She stood for a second in the doorway, then ran over and hugged me. She stepped back quick, though. Hugging in front of everyone was weird. But things were okay between us again, so I guess something good came out of slashing my leg and losing half my blood.

  The bad side was, my leg hurt. A lot. Plus, I was under permanent house arrest and Nowhere was off-limits for the rest of my life.

  In a few minutes the other three came in too, Cody prancing ahead, his arms full of presents. I picked out Jus’s gift right away. It was the one wrapped in an Ace Hardware bag stapled shut.

  Good thing Leroy wasn’t there. Jemmie and Justin were standing real close together, looking stupid. I bet watching Jus muscle me out of the woods on his shoulders showed her another side of him even I, his best friend, never suspected. Justin the superhero. Now they kept trading stupid looks—another benefit of me almost cutting off my leg.

  I was as surprised as Jemmie that he’d done it—especially since I’d told him not to. Justin not listening to me was a first. And it saved my life
.

  Mom passed out pointy birthday hats with elastic bands we were supposed to put under our chins.

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Uncle Paul, staring at the stupid hat.

  “Just put it on, Paulie.” Dad knuckled his brother’s shoulder. “Sometimes it’s easier to go along.”

  “If you say so.” He snapped the hat on.

  “Darn it,” said Mom. “I don’t think I have any matches.”

  “Helps to know a smoker,” said Uncle Paul, tossing her his lighter.

  We were all in the dining room with the lights out, waiting for Mom to carry the flaming hat cake in from the kitchen when we heard her say, “I can’t believe it!”

  “Can’t believe what?” Cody yelled. He was sitting on a cushy hassock rolled in from the den, his pointy hat way back on his head.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t look at the cake when I picked it up!”

  “Did you accidentally order whole wheat with spinach icing?” I asked.

  Cody gave me a worried glance.

  “I was kidding,” I told him.

  “Oh well. I guess it’ll have to do.” Mom was still in the kitchen when she launched the song. “Happy birthday to you…”

  We all sang, Cody the loudest: “Happy birthday to ME, happy birthday to ME!” The candle flames wavered as Mom carried the cake out on a tray.

  When she set it on the coffee table, Dad guffawed. “Looks like they misread the writing on the order!”

  Sure did. The icing was gray—but that was all they got right.

  “I guess it’s my fault,” said Mom. “My H must have looked like a C.”

  “It’s okay.” Cody leaned over the cake, the candles lighting up his chin. “I like cats.”

  Before I could tell him to wish for no disasters, he blew out all the candles in one spitty puff.

  Mom rested her hands on her thighs, leaned down, and kissed him on the forehead. “Good wish?”

  “Supergood wish with cherries on top.”

  At seven, Cody was as goofy as ever; the pointy paper hat suited him better than the fedora.

  I glanced at Dad and his own “little bother,” sitting side by side. Maybe warding off disasters is the responsibility of the older brother. Looking at Uncle Paul, I figured out that the job could go on for quite a while—maybe forever. Dad hadn’t been there for the really big disaster, but I knew he’d keep on trying.