by Clay Chapman
I bike to school. No car for me. I let my license lapse at some point a while back and still haven’t renewed it. There’s a well-furrowed bike path that cuts through the surrounding woods behind the building, allowing kids who live on the south side to Schwinn their way to school. They just have to cut through the soccer field to get here. I can bike to work in ten minutes flat.
This morning was no different. Not until I noticed that patch of white.
Braking, I turned to take in the glistening spectacle. My first thought was the groundskeeper must’ve run the rabbit over with his lawnmower without realizing it. An accident. But the longer I looked, taking in the fastidiousness of the display, the devout attention to detail, the more I saw it as sculpture. A work of art.
I couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that, whoever did this, they’d made it just for me.
It’s all for you, Richard, I heard the rabbit whisper. All for you.
There was a birthday card tucked in his guts. The corners of the cardboard stock were softening with blood, held upright within the ribs’ grip.
Nobody knows it’s my birthday. I choose not to celebrate it, haven’t celebrated it, not even with Tamara, for years. I figured the day had faded by now. Nobody knows. And yet, this sacrificed rabbit felt like a gift. A present someone went ahead and unwrapped without me.
I carefully plucked the card out from Professor Howdy’s rib cage, making sure not to touch any of the blood. It was an old card, printed years ago, yellowing around the edges.
The picture on the front was of a dimple-cheeked baby emerging from a head of lettuce. Leaves unfurled around his pudgy body, this plump infant sprouting out from the soil itself.
A Cabbage Patch Kid.
I haven’t seen one of them in years. These dolls were all the rage when I was a kid. They flew right off the shelves every Christmas. Children were given an adoption certificate with each doll. You had to take an oath to raise them. Kids were instructed to hold up their right hand in front of an adult and pledge, I promise to love my Cabbage Patch Kid with all my heart.
I remember these dolls kicking up some dust in my hometown. Boys and girls suddenly weren’t allowed to bring their Cabbage Patch Dolls to school anymore because some fundamentalist mother on the school board believed they were possessed. By signing that contract and taking that oath, children were bringing the devil into their homes. It seems so silly now—but back then, people believed, actually believed these toys were vessels for the devil.
Can you imagine? The local church even hosted a Cabbage Patch burning. They tossed dozens of dolls into a pile and lit them up, the flames swallowing that patch whole.
Just some stupid-looking dolls. Dimples and blank eyes, bovine smiles. That’s all they were.
So why were my wrists shaking?
I opened the card. In red crayon, the letters loose and crooked, as if a child had scribbled it, it read—
DAMNED IF YOU DO
SEAN: 1982
Sean couldn’t believe his ears. Had Mom just ordered two Happy Meals? He swore he heard her say two! Just like the Doublemint jingle sang—Double your pleasure, double your fun—all Sean could think about was who would be getting that second toy.
“What would you like to drink with that, ma’am?” said the crackling voice from the drive-through speaker.
“Orange soda and—” Mom turned back to face Sean in his booster seat. “What’re you thirsty for?”
Sean took in the monolithic menu looming just outside his window. It towered over his head, an ancient pillar etched in fast-food hieroglyphics. He had to lean back to take in the mysterious alphabet he couldn’t quite decipher. Even though he still wasn’t quite old enough to read, Sean was positive there were many yummy foods to choose from. He knew the options: Big Mac, Chicken McNuggets, French fries, Filet-O-Fish swaddled in its special blue paper wrapper.
Eating at McDonald’s was a treat. Mom only brought him here if there was something worth celebrating. This had to be one of those moments, even if he had no idea what he and his mother were commemorating. He certainly wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t want to ruin the surprise.
When Sean and Mom had said goodbye to their old home and driven the endless stretch of interstate to reach their new—and smaller—house, he assumed he’d never eat at McDonald’s again. But now he was elated to learn that Ronald McDonald had followed them all the way to Greenfield, Virginia.
How had Ronald found him?
Maybe the move wouldn’t be so bad after all. If he could still eat Happy Meals, just like he had back home, perhaps life wouldn’t be that much different here after all.
“Sean?” Mom’s voice snapped him back to the car. “Earth to Sean. What do you want to drink, hon?”
Sean pressed his luck. “Can I have a…a vanilla milkshake?”
The corner of Mom’s eyes pinched just a bit. “How ’bout a Hi-C? You like the orange drink, right?”
“Okay.” Sean nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. He knew milkshakes cost twenty-five cents extra but he tried anyway. All these changes. This fresh start Mom kept mentioning. Who knows? Maybe drinking milkshakes could be a part of this fresh start, too?
Mom leaned out from their Mercury Colony Park wagon with simulated wood siding. “Make that two Hi-Cs.”
“Will that be all today?”
“That’s it.” Mom’s left arm rested along the rolled-down window, her head leaning against the door. A wisp of her hair caught the wind and drifted across Sean’s window. He watched it whip about on the other side of the glass, a string on a lost balloon lifting into the sky.
“Two cheeseburger Happy Meals with Hi-C,” the menu crackled. “Drive up to the first window, please.” This last part sounded like cry up to thirsty no knees to Sean.
Mom turned to face Sean again, bringing her finger to her grinning lips. “If the cashier asks,” she whispered, “just tell them the Happy Meal’s for your sick sister back at home.”
Why was she whispering? Was the voice still listening to them? Were there people eavesdropping? What would happen to Sean if the voice found out he didn’t have a sister?
Sean knew Mom was ordering herself a Happy Meal because it was cheaper than the regular adult meal and instantly felt a twinge of guilt.
“You can have my toy.” Mom arched an eyebrow, giving him a mischievous wink.
Sean’s face brightened. Of course he’d play along with Mom’s game for two toys! Ever since they began the Big Move, this fresh start, he felt like he’d become Mom’s sidekick. The two were on the lam now, making their big escape. The rear of the station wagon was filled with cardboard boxes, each labeled clothes. toys. kitchen.
Mom had kept the radio on for most of the ride, cranking up the volume until they were drowning in sound, the station wagon filled with music. “Come on, Sean,” she’d cajoled him, leaning forward just enough to find his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Sing with me!”
Sean had shouted, “I don’t know the words!”
“The real words don’t matter!” she’d said. “Make up your own!”
To prove her point, she’d crooned through her own rendition of whatever tune was playing on the radio. Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” became something entirely different: Take my nose, before you blow-blow…Don’t sneeze before you bring a tissue up and flow-flow. Take a breath, before you blow-blow…I don’t want your snot on me toniiight…
Sean couldn’t help but laugh as Mom murdered the lyrics. She knew they were wrong but Mom put her all into her mangled version. She hit the high notes right alongside George Michael, bobbing her head to the beat, dancing in her seat and drumming her palms against the steering wheel. She’d smack the horn at the end of each verse, just to get the station wagon in on the fun, too. He imagined her dancing along with Mr. Michael, wearing a white sweatshirt with go-go prin
ted in black block letters across her chest.
Mom was doing everything in her power to make this fresh start feel like fun. Like an adventure.
Just you and me, she always said. Nothing else matters.
When they pulled up to the first window, Mom had to count out exact change, taking her time to pick through the pennies until she got the right amount.
“You said two Happy Meals, right?” It was the voice Sean had heard through the drive-through speaker. A bored high schooler eyed Sean’s mom, still holding both cardboard boxes in his hands, the handles of the Happy Meals shaped like golden arches. He was hesitating.
“It’s for my sister,” Sean spoke up from the back, leaning forward in his seat to speak through his mother’s rolled-down window. “She’s back at home. She’s really sick.”
The cashier sniffed before handing over their Happy Meals. “Sure. Have a nice day.”
“You, too,” Mom said.
The toy inside both Happy Meals was a cloth doll of Ronald McDonald. What a rip-off! Sean had his heart set on adding another Hot Wheels to his collection. There were fourteen in all, while supplies lasted. That was way too many visits to McDonald’s. More than Mom would ever allow. He only had three cars, so collecting the whole set was practically impossible now.
Today’s take was an utter bust. Lousy twin clowns. There wasn’t much Sean could do with a pair of dumb dolls. They were like puppets without any place to put your hands. Both Ronalds simply grinned back at him. Each had a loop of red thread attached to the top of its head, for slipping on the Christmas tree, even if Christmas was still months and months away.
The two ate their Happy Meals in the parking lot in silence. Mom let Sean crawl up into the front with her so they could dine together, using the dashboard as their dinner table.
Mom pulled down her sun visor and checked her makeup in the mirror. Sean hadn’t realized she’d been wearing makeup until she reached over to the glove compartment and pulled out a tube of mascara and eyeshadow, touching up the charcoal accents along her eyelids. Seeing her perform this ritual in the mirror brought her face into sharper focus for Sean.
“We’ve got to hurry. Mom’s got a job interview in…” She glanced at the radio’s clock. “Oh, jeez, thirty minutes! Think you can finish that cheeseburger, Big Man?”
“Will you pick out my pickles?”
“What’re you talking about?” she said in mock horror, even though Sean always requested that she perform this culinary exorcism. “The pickles are the best part!”
“Pleeeease.”
“Tell you what—I’ll eat your pickles if you finish my Hi-C for me.”
“Deal.” The two pinkie-swore, making the transaction official.
Mom peeled back the bun on his cheeseburger, as if skinning some small woodland creature. A rabbit flashed through his mind. He could hear the tacky sound of ketchup unsticking the bread from the patty. She plucked out the pair of pickles between her fingers and plopped them in her mouth.
“Onions,” Sean reminded her.
Mom swiped her pinkie across the patty, the same pinkie she used to swear by, now sweeping away the diced onions. She brought her finger up to her mouth and sucked the onions away. All that was left was a scab of melted cheddar. “I can eat the rest if you want…”
“Nooo!” Sean reached for his cheeseburger, still in Mom’s hands.
“You sure?” She reeled back, holding the burger just out of his grip.
“Give it to me!”
“You’re probably not hungry anymore…”
“Give it back, give it back!”
Eating in the car was one of their little rituals. Watching the world outside the window as if it were a movie. Life’s own drive-in theater.
Sean knew not to ask about the ball pit. He glanced out the rearview mirror, spotting the Play Land inside the restaurant. It was so close. All he had to do was step out of the car, cross the parking lot, and dive in. But Mom had sworn off McDonald’s Play Land on account of sanitary reasons. There’s germs all over those balls, she’d said. That place could make you sick.
There had been that one time when Sean got to go to Play Land, tumbling through the ball pit with a bunch of other children. Somebody else’s kid got sick and vomited all over everything. Mom had to fish him out before he touched those wet orbs. No more Play Land.
She must’ve sensed what was on Sean’s mind. Mom lined up a row of French fries along the dash, just above the glove compartment. As soon as Sean took one to eat, she would lay down another. Then another. A greasy line of train tracks leading directly into Sean’s tummy.
“I know this is a lot of change,” she eventually said. “It’s going to be hard at first. But it’s for the best, Sean. Trust me. For both of us. We get to start over again. Start clean.”
Clean. Sean wanted to be clean.
Greenfield was supposed to be the answer to all their problems. Whatever their problems were. Sean wasn’t sure he knew, not exactly, but it felt like the move was only making things worse. Greenfield felt smaller. Their new home, smaller. Everything was small now. She swore his new school would be special, calling it something different. A private school. Sean imagined a building filled with secret rooms and hidden corridors. A labyrinth of classes. You’ve got a real opportunity here, hon, she’d said. A chance I never had when I was your age. Even he knew they couldn’t afford a school like Greenfield Academy, but Mom had bandied about a new word—scholarship—to anyone willing to listen. Scholarship. The answer to all their problems. Scholarship. The magic password into the secret chambers of this private school.
“Wait here,” Mom said. An idea had taken root in her head. Whatever it was, she couldn’t shake it. “Keep the doors locked until I get back. Don’t open them for anyone else.”
And just like that, Mom slipped out the car. She closed the door behind her, knocking on the window to get Sean’s attention. She pointed to the lock on the driver’s side door. Sean had to crawl over the center armrest to reach the lock, poking it with his index finger until it sunk into its secured position. Now nobody could get in.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Sean’s elbow hit the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn. Whoops. Mom laughed as she spun around. Where was she going?
Sean watched her slip through a crowd of adults standing in the parking lot, disappearing among them. Moms and dads, or so he assumed. They held signs made of posterboard with scribbled pictures and bold words, angry words, written all over them. Some were even underlined. Even though Sean couldn’t read what they said, he understood the pictures. He saw the devil, only it wasn’t quite the devil. Sean recognized the Sharpied fangs and horns, but this devil had puffy red hair. A red button nose. Wide-arcing eyebrows and bone-white skin.
This devil looked more like a clown than an outright demon.
Like Ronald McDonald.
Why were these moms and dads waving their signs? What were they so mad about that they had to shout? He couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Sean glanced at the stuffed Ronalds still in his hands. They had the same smile as the devils on those handmade posterboard signs. His twin clowns didn’t have horns or fangs, but the resemblance was there. Their plush bodies suddenly felt hot in his hands.
Sean rolled down the passenger side window. Just a crack. Just wide enough for him to slip his right hand out, still clutching one of the Ronalds, and drop it into the parking lot.
The doll fell out of view, landing somewhere below.
Sean took the other Ronald and released the clown into the wild along with his twin. Once both diabolical brothers were out of the car, Sean quickly rolled up his window and sank into his seat. The leatherette squealed beneath his body as he slid beneath the horizon of the dashboard. He sat there, submerged from view, wondering if any of the protesting parents had n
oticed. Had they seen what he’d just done? Would they come after him now?
Sean crawled up in his seat. Just a bit. Just to peer between the headrest and the shoulder of his seat. Where was Mom? What was taking her so long? Why had she left—
Mom emerged from the crowd, pushing her way through with her elbows. She was holding a clear plastic container. A sundae just for him. Mom held it up to the window with both hands as an offering. The tip of vanilla curled over at the end.
“Found this just lying around. You don’t know anyone who’d want it, do you?”
Sean nodded vigorously. Me, me, me mememememeeeeeeeee! He unlocked the station wagon door.
“All yours,” Mom said as she slipped back inside. “Happy birthday, baby.”
“It’s already my birthday?” Sean was surprised it had crept up on him like that.
“Close enough. Now that it’s just you and me, we can celebrate whenever we want.” She leaned over and whispered, “And I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.”
The world was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay. No matter what came their way, Sean knew his mother would always be there for him. Just you and me, like she said.
Mom never asked about the dolls. She probably forgot. Sean never mentioned them, but as she turned the ignition and backed the station wagon up, forcing the protesting parents to part, he could’ve sworn he felt the passenger-side tire running both Ronalds over.
DAMNED IF YOU DON’T
RICHARD: 2013
“Hear that?” Tamara asks. “Please tell me I’m not imagining it.”
“Trust me, I’m hearing it, too.”
Angels singing.
The grating strains of Enya’s “Orinoco Flow” drift across the plucking strings of a harp. You would’ve thought the pearly gates had opened up in the gym. The song is practically flooding into the hall. The music only grows louder as we walk. “Guess we’ve all died and gone to heaven,” I say.
