by Clay Chapman
In the bathroom cabinet.
In the broom closet, amongst all the things he wasn’t supposed to touch.
In the garage.
The sticker was a warning: Don’t ever drink me. Don’t ever touch me. Don’t ever let me inside. I can kill you, if you ingest me…
Whatever was brewing inside those bottles, those plastic containers with complicated names, was never, ever to be ingested. The creamy pink and blue and green liquids were toxic.
So what did that mean for this puppet? Was it harboring noxious toxins inside its plush body? Was its blood poisonous like the sticker said? What kind of thoughts did Mr. Yucky have?
What were his secrets?
Sean couldn’t help but dwell on the broken thread inside its left eye. What if he plucked it? Would the artery untangle itself? How far did the vein go? How long would it take for Sean to pull on that string before that button eyeball popped out from its socket?
The puppet was supposed to be a boy, just like Sean, but calling him a “he” didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel real, no matter how much Miss Kinderman insisted Sean should consider this lifeless object was just like him. He’s just like you, she had said. You two could go to the same school. He could even be in your class! I bet you have a lot in common. Why don’t you say hello?
Miss Kinderman used her fingers to comb its tangerine-colored hair. It wore a pair of overalls that tapered off at its torso. It had no legs. Everything below the waist was gone. Its arms flopped limp at its sides.
He, Sean reminded himself. It’s supposed to be a he. Not an it. He.
A boy, just like him.
Was Mr. Yucky waiting for Sean to say something? To break the silence? The office was so quiet. Full of dolls. Puppets of all kinds, suspended from the walls. Doctor puppets. Mommy and daddy puppets. Police puppets. All of those open mouths. Silently gaping. A muted chorus.
Some dolls looked more lifelike than others. Anatomically correct was how Miss Kinderman described them. Those puppets had no clothes on at all. Their boy parts and girly parts were completely exposed. Sean couldn’t help but blush. His cheeks felt hot from just glancing at them. He knew he shouldn’t look, turning away, still aware of their presence.
Sean scanned the office while Miss Kinderman busied herself with her notepad, scribbling something. She was always taking notes. He would say something and she would nod, looking very, very interested, like he had just said the most interesting thing in the whole wide world. So interesting, in fact, that she wanted to make note of it. Write it down.
Was Sean really that interesting? Were the things he said actually that special? Miss Kinderman always made him feel special. The things he said were noteworthy, she explained.
He liked feeling special. He wanted to make Miss Kinderman think he was important. If he could just keep saying interesting things, noteworthy things, he might feel special forever.
Sean had something to say. Something noteworthy.
Now people wanted to hear.
Listen to him.
First, he’d told his mom. Then she made him tell the police. Then another type of police officer who didn’t have to wear a blue uniform. He still had a police badge, but he kept his in his pocket, hidden away from everyone. That officer had a lot of questions for Sean.
The more people Sean talked to, repeating what he’d said to his mother—or what he thought he remembered saying, it was getting harder to recollect exactly what he’d told her—the more other people wanted to hear him say it. Repeat it. Tell us again what happened…
These adults made Sean feel like he had something special to share. Just like the teachings of Jesus, Miss Betty had said. When he spoke, the world stopped. Everybody listened.
This was the first time Sean had ever been listened to. Truly listened to. Before, nobody other than his mother and Mr. Woodhouse really cared about what he had to say. Now adults were asking him to tell them more. Now they were all ears. He’d never felt that kind of power before.
I haaaave the pooooower…
Sean just had to remember what to say.
Keep his story straight.
Now it was Miss Kinderman’s turn to listen. She was nice enough. She reminded Sean of his mom, only…sunnier. More smiles. He felt bad for thinking it, but it was true. His mom couldn’t keep still. Her eyes were looking more red. Bloodshot, that’s what it was. Her hair was a bit frizzier. The things that made his mother so beautiful, so special, were chipping away.
Not Miss Kinderman. Her hair curled into golden waves. It reminded Sean of a poster in his classroom at school. It was a photograph of a surfer barreling through a clear blue tunnel of water. At the bottom, it read hang one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…ten! The poster was a counting game. A play on words.
Sean liked to play word games. Maybe that’s what this was all about. Just another game.
Looking at the waves that cascaded across Miss Kinderman’s temples, he couldn’t help but count to ten to himself. It was a force of habit. Whenever he saw waves, he automatically started ticking off in his head—One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Miss Kinderman looked like she could’ve been the same age as Mom, but all adults looked old to him. Miss Kinderman wore makeup, though, in a way that made him realize she wanted people to know she was wearing makeup. Her skin shined. Glimmered, almost.
Their first interview had been a downright disaster. Even Sean knew that. It only lasted a few minutes before he broke down crying. Miss Kinderman had dressed up like a scarecrow. “I thought you might need a friend,” she’d said in this nasal, high-pitched voice. It didn’t sound real at all to him. “Everybody likes Cabbage Patch Kids…Do you like Cabbage Patch Kids?”
Sean didn’t know what to say. He only stared at this grown woman wearing a Halloween costume. Overalls and a wig made out of yarn. Talking in a funny voice. “Think of me as a pal!”
Miss Kinderman might have wanted to look like a Cabbage Patch Kid, but the dimples and stitchwork resembled a scarecrow. The expanded smile, her lips painted beyond their normal proportions, stretched across her cheeks, all the way to her ears. Sean had slipped into a crying fit that promptly ended their first session before it even started. No interview that day.
Miss Kinderman didn’t have to dress up in a costume to make Sean feel safe. All he needed was someone to listen. Miss Kinderman was always excited to hear what he had to say.
So why was Mr. Yucky here?
There was a large mirror that took up nearly the entire length of Miss Kinderman’s office. Sean gazed into his own reflection. He spotted the reflection of the puppets behind him.
Over his shoulder. Staring at him.
The room was beginning to make him feel scared.
Miss Kinderman slid her fingers into Mr. Yucky. Suddenly he gasped to life and smacked his lips, opening and closing his mouth until finally finding his voice. “Heya, Sean!” Mr. Yucky beamed. He sounded like Mickey Mouse with a head cold. “Whatcha thinking about?”
Miss Kinderman receded into the shadows. She wasn’t there anymore. Just Mr. Yucky now.
A boy. Sean could see him.
Sean and Mr. Yucky could tell each other anything. Everything, just like Miss Kinderman had suggested. But Mr. Yucky had no ears. How could he really listen to Sean? Mr. Yucky had the same funny way of always asking the same exact thing, just like the adults did, only in different ways, changing the words a little bit to make it sound new. But it wasn’t.
Tell me about Mr. Woodhouse…What was it like in Mr. Woodhouse’s class? What did Mr. Woodhouse do during naptime? What did Mr. Woodhouse say to you when he took you to the supply closet? Did Mr. Woodhouse bring any other teachers into class?
Woodhouse, Woodhouse, Woodhouse! How many ways could Sean answer the same thing? Bread crumb questions—that’s all this was. A game
. Maybe Mr. Yucky and Sean were playing the same game he had played with his mother. If Mr. Yucky asked the same question, over and over again, that meant Sean had to figure out the right answer. Until he answered correctly, he’d be stuck in the same spot, unable to move on to the next round.
He just had to listen closely. Listen to the clues. The answers were there, somewhere, embedded within Mr. Yucky’s questions. It wasn’t easy. Sometimes the questions led to a dead end and Mr. Yucky would give up and move onto a different riddle. Sean always felt like he was letting him down in those moments. Like he’d failed. He didn’t like that feeling. Failing. Losing.
So he tried harder. Harder. As hard as he could. Winning was the best feeling. Mr. Yucky’s voice would lift even higher, saying, Great job, Sean! You’re doing great! So brave!
He did feel brave. Powerful. Mom would be so proud of him.
Just a game. A puzzle. It was all a matter of listening for the clues, the hidden meaning within the words, and answering back. Echoing. Hear whatever Mr. Yucky wanted Sean to say.
The game may have started with Sean and his mother, but now they were inviting others to join in on the fun. How many other people could he get to play along? A hundred?
A thousand?
A million?!
He suddenly thought of a song, that song from the commercial, singing it to himself—I’d like to teach the world to sing…in perfect harmony…I’d like to buy the world a Coke…and keep it company…
DAMNED IF YOU DON’T
RICHARD: 2013
What do you think? she asked when I first moved in.
It’s great, I managed.
The standalone garage was built to look like a barn. Its wood-paneled sidewalls faded into elephant skin. The rolling door no longer rolled, its runners rusted in their tracks, so we entered through the side door. The air was heavy with mildew, waiting for release.
You can use it as a studio, she said. Your own workspace.
The garage was stacked with boxes four or five high, full of artifacts from her and Eli’s life before me. Out of sight, out of mind.
You’re just giving me the garage? No strings attached?
Why not? Not like anybody else is using it. My wedding gift to you.
All these boxes, just for me? Aw, honey…You shouldn’t have.
We could bring out a space heater when it gets colder. Maybe we could even winterize it. Some insulation and I bet…Tamara stopped when she realized I was staring at her. What?
I appreciate the push, but…
This was all a not-so-subtle way of suggesting I should get out of my head and back to doing something, anything, vaguely creative. Just the gentlest of nudges.
Am I pushing?
Not at all. But she was. A cattle prod to my ass. Sometimes I just have to stay stuck, you know? I’ll crawl out of my skull when I’m ready.
I want the house to feel like it’s yours, too. I thought having your own studio might help.
I love it, I said, hooking one arm around her neck and drawing her near, kissing her on the side of her head. It’s perfect. You’re the best. Thank you.
Now you’re just patronizing me.
No—I’m serious. Having a studio is just the kinda kick in the pants I need.
I’m just relieved you’re not demanding a man-cave…
That was an option? I take it back.
Not happening, sorry. Tamara peeled back the lid on one of the cardboard boxes and peered in. You can get back to your work whenever you feel up to it. No pressure.
No pressure, I echoed.
I can’t remember when I gave up on my art. It didn’t happen overnight. It was by degrees, over the course of years, with a series of the simplest sacrifices—do I stay in and sketch or do I go out to the bar—until eventually, there wasn’t any inclination to draw left.
My last exhibit—if you could even call it an exhibit—was some god-awful group show in Richmond. A friend was the manager at World Cup, and she wanted to fill their evenings with poetry readings and God knows whatever else, so she hatched the bright idea to have monthly art exhibits. I hung a couple self-portraits up in the back, just next to the bathroom. I was, what, twenty-eight at the time? Christ, twenty-nine? Was this what my art career had amounted to? A gallery in some tucked-away corner, the sound of flushing toilets providing some on-the-nose atmosphere? (Literally. You could smell emanations of Lysol.)
I didn’t consciously give up art. My ambition just faded away. How long had I been telling people I was an artist, even when I hadn’t picked up a stick of charcoal for months? It was how I had identified myself at dinner parties. It was what I told Tamara when we first met.
Now I had inherited her garage. Partially to make her happy, partially to try to rekindle that spark. First things first, though—I had to clean it out. Purging their past became my summer project. Which soon became my fall project. Which was increasingly inching toward becoming my winter project. Somebody had to empty all the boxes. The landfill of their family. Nobody had set foot amid the clutter of cardboard and cobwebs. I felt like Tamara had lived twice the number of lifetimes I’ve lived.
I spotted a TV/VCR combo in the far corner. I wondered if it still worked. Maybe there was a box of dusty workout VHS tapes out here, as well. My reflection stretched across its obsidian screen, almost as if I were dancing. I noticed, just above the television set, a paper wasp’s nest where the wall met the ceiling.
I chipped away at the garage on weekends. I would drag out one box at a time, open it, and assess the value of the belongings inside. After a few hours of cleaning, I was coated in a dusty layer of sweat and cobwebs. But I could finally spot the back wall of the garage. I couldn’t stop now.
What to toss? What to keep? All the Halloween decorations, the knots of Christmas lights. There were no instructions from Tamara on any of this. She probably would’ve been happy for me to throw it all away. That way, she wouldn’t have to know what I’d gotten rid of.
Skrch.
A box shifted on its own. In the rear. I swore I heard it.
Skrchskrch.
From the corner of my eye, I thought I spotted a box move. I stopped and turned, staring at the skyline of cardboard and waiting for whatever it was to move again.
I wasn’t going to play this game. I wasn’t going to let my imagination get the best of me.
Skrch.
I saw it shift this time. The bones in my body locked. All I could do was watch the box jostle on its haunches. Something was inside, scraping against the cardboard. I forced myself, willed myself, to hold out my hand. Reaching for the flap, I flipped the lid back and—
A pile of possums was nestled inside.
There had to be about a half dozen newborn possums huddled together, writhing about in the box. Pink, hairless bodies. They hadn’t opened their eyes yet, craning their necks toward the shift in light. Mewling at me with thin voices, as if I were their mother. Where’s Mom?
I left the box outside. Let nature take its course.
I uncovered an unmarked box buried deeper in the cobwebbed stacks. Peeling the flaps open, I was met with the musty smell of mildewed clothes. Men’s sweaters. I pulled one out and held it up. Motes of dust swirled out from its sleeves, spiraling in tight rings through the sunlight reaching into the garage. It had a home-stitched essence to it. Certainly not something bought at the J. Crew down the street. Someone sewed this. Tamara, no doubt. Moths had made a meal of this moss green turtleneck, a few stray veins of yarn unraveling at the cuffs.
Eli’s father.
What was left of him. This must have been Hank’s box. All the artifacts that had been left behind had made their way here, buried among the plastic pumpkins and Santa hats.
I dug in, hoping to learn a little bit more about this man. I’d only heard stories. Tales from Tamara of the Man Before
. Maybe there was something else to glean from him in here.
What was Hank like? I’d ask.
Believe me, she’d always say, the less you know about him, the better. She never wanted to talk about him. If he ever came up, she’d steer the conversation as far away as possible. Almost like she didn’t want him to exist. Certainly not in Elijah’s life.
Tamara and I never dug into each other’s past. I didn’t ask her about her childhood and she didn’t ask me about mine. There was an unspoken agreement between us about the lives we had led before we found each other. Who we were before we met, our ups and downs, were behind us. All we had were our scars—some more visible than others—and that was enough to tell the story. Our past didn’t need to define our day-to-day, as long as we were honest about who we are now.
So why had she kept all of her ex-husband’s crap? How could she not have thrown his things away? I wasn’t about to get jealous over some box, but it was strange to me, meeting this man this way, learning about him through his discarded belongings. A lost and found for one.
I kept Hank’s box. What if he came back for it one day? I’d have to explain that I’d been the one who tossed him out, which wasn’t something I felt ready to do. The others ended up by the curb on trash collection day, while his box stayed in the corner, under the wasp’s nest.
Next step was to set up my studio.
Before school started, I had cleared the floor and put up some shelving units. Tamara was pleasantly pleased with herself for assigning me a house project, which, in all honesty, I had begun to suspect was some sort of pretense for me to clean out their goddamn garage.
No matter. The space was mine now.
After the whole papier-mâché incident, I told Tamara I was going out to the studio for a bit before dinner. Just to wash the day away. Class left me a little rattled.
I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t stop thinking about—
Mr. Yucky
—that papier-mâché puppet. Who could’ve made it? I decide to get my mind off things and finally christen my new workspace with a charcoal sketch. Just a little drawing to limber up the ol’ imagination. See if I still have it in me. Tamara would complain about how everything I touched had blackened fingerprints all over it if I ever sketched, but that’s the price of inspiration. Secretly, I think she liked it. It’s her way of keeping tabs on me. She’ll know I’ve been working.
