‘Don’t you mind?’
‘Mind?’ I laughed. ‘Jakey, I’m not that complicated. I get plenty of easy, joyful sex with pretty women. What’s to mind?’
He looked at me, those big blue eyes looking right into my soul. Weird to be on the receiving end.
‘Argh, don’t do that. You’re right, okay? It gets old. There, you made me say it. Happy now?’ Jakey grinned. ‘Don’t look so smug. I think you’ll find you got the same problem . . . .what? We’re both freaks. You’re freakishly beautiful, and me . . .’ I shrugged. ‘So it goes. Pass the coffee.’
We sat in silence for a while.
‘So is it true?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Is what true?’
‘What the girls all —’
I looked at him in disbelief.
‘Did you just ask to see my cock?’ Jakey blushed crimson. I laughed. ‘Get outta here.’
Time passes. Jakey’s sweet, a pleasure to have about the place, but I can tell he ain’t really healing. A few weeks later and I just — get that feeling. He’s got this look, and I know, I freakin’ know, he’s called her again, begged for a meeting. And she agreed, sweet as honey, because why not? What’s she got to lose?
Twenty-four hours later, I’m tailing him to a chic little restaurant in downtown Manhattan. She’s waiting, scarlet nails tapping, wearing sunglasses inside, like a film star, which is exactly what she looks like. I take a table behind a pot plant, order a coffee, watch how it plays.
This time it’s a different approach. Body language more urgent, less loving. This is killing your father, she’s telling him. And Jakey trying to stand up to her: I want to make him happy, but I can’t change who I —
Wicked Stepmother isn’t having it. She’s jabbing at the air again, jab jab jab jab jab, those nails like weapons. Jakey flinches, and who can blame him? Choose this life and you’re dead to both of us. He wants you to be a man, Jacob, to follow him into the business. Jakey fighting back: If he wants me to join the company I will, but who I fall in love with is — Wicked Stepmother forces a few tears. If it wasn’t for Jakey, I’d laugh. But he’s got twenty years less experience than me; all he sees is the woman his father loves, crying.
She takes out a compact, dabs at her nose. Then a heavy, metal comb, tidying a stray strand.
You have to try, she tells him. How you could do this to the memory of your mother —
And finally she’s gone too far, even for Jakey; he gets his rag out at last. A universal lull in the conversation, and I don’t have to fill in the blanks, because we all hear him say it: ‘My mother wouldn’t have cared that I’m gay.’
Everyone stares, and not in the way she likes. She’s furious, humiliated, caught out. She’s holding that comb. I see it coming, but I can’t stop it. One flick of the wrist and it’s buried in Jakey’s scalp, blood everywhere, and she’s storming out of the restaurant.
A trip to the ER, then back to the kitchen, scene of all life’s deepest conversations. I was getting ready for work, stitching on fresh sequins. Jakey took over the sewing so I could iron a shirt.
‘Why do you do it, Rafael?’ he asked.
I laughed.
‘Tell him why we do it, Joe,’ I called over my shoulder.
Joe ambled in, sombrero perched on the back of his head.
‘Because it’s fun,’ he said, big shit-eating grin, and ambled out again.
Jakey looked at me and shook his head.
‘Oh, what? You think it ain’t a scream up on that stage, hearing them gasp and cheer?’
Jakey kept looking at me. I gestured around the apartment.
‘Look around,’ I said. ‘We tour Vegas every summer. Christ, that place is a gold mine — we could make it on what we get just in those six weeks if we had to, the rest of the year’s gravy. We’re high demand, a novelty act that never gets old — I’ve been doing this nearly twenty years, they still scream to see us go all the way down.’
‘Don’t you mind?’ he said, still sewing on sequins.
‘Mind what?’
‘Being treated like a freak?’
So I gave him the whole spiel, the one I give everybody. You work with what the Man Upstairs gives you; I got just this one thing; people stare anyway; blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Bada-bing. Ten thousand times I musta made that speech; never had anyone argue, even when they still felt it was wrong. Jakey’s the one in ten thousand who had an answer.
‘Why do you think being a dwarf is the only thing that makes you special?’ he asked.
Well, that shut me up. I stared. Nearly burnt the shirt. Took the iron off just in time.
‘You’re amazing,’ he said. ‘You help everyone. You fix people. You took me in. You got Joe on the wagon and his life back on track —’
‘Joe was just ready to stop drinking,’ I interrupted. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘— and you convinced Finlay life was worth living. Don’t look at me like that, Rafael, please — Andreas told me about the overdose.’
‘All I did was —’
‘And that girl, what was her name, Ellie, Molly, you know who I mean —’
‘—’
‘You got her into treatment. Now she’s at college. How tall you are — that’s nothing, compared to what you do for people in trouble. You’re a life-saver.’
‘So let me save you,’ I said, stung. ‘Don’t let that bitter, spiteful, prejudiced witch screw you over. Drop her, Jakey. Drop her and live your life and move on.’
‘I can’t,’ said Jakey, despairing. ‘I can’t — they’re all I’ve got —’
We looked at each other in silence. Then Jakey handed over the sequinned pants.
‘You could be more than this,’ he said sadly.
‘So could you,’ I said.
Another long silence.
‘Couple of screw-ups,’ I said cheerfully, and got dressed.
Time passes; I can see Jakey ain’t getting better. He’s lost his home, his parents, his school friends, his lover and his future, and he’s living with seven exotic performers and helping out around the house in exchange for board and lodging. Enough to blow anyone’s circuits, no? He’s stuck, he can’t move on, and try as I might, I can’t get him past it. He was set on seeing her again, to try the impossible, convince her to talk to his father, beg her if necessary, promise anything she wanted — anything except the one thing she’d asked him for, to change his essential nature. I knew it was coming, couldn’t stop it. Wanted to. Couldn’t. Told him not to. Told him to leave it. Yelled a bit. Quite a lot, actually. Had a bad feeling, like the time Joe relapsed; you see it coming, you’re still powerless. Life in slow motion.
Followed him again, one last time. By now I don’t think she even cares about the outcome. She’s just loving that she’s got power over this boy who looks like her dead rival, who’ll never get old because she died before it could happen. While Wicked Stepmother gets older every day, seeing the truth in the mirror, and who knows what Marcus is up to on those little jaunts to Europe? All she’s got left is power; power, and the thrill of using it.
I watched as they rehashed the same tired old ground. She had her claws in him good; knew just where to hurt him and how. Burned me up to see the pain on his face, the pleasure on hers.
And then —
Ah, still makes me sick to think about it. Gimme a minute, would you . . . ?
Okay. So. They were outside by this time, the anger too big for the restaurant. Right by them’s a street vendor selling fruit — pears, peaches, strawberries, apples. God, the apples.
Still don’t know if she meant it.
Jakey turned away, started to cross the street.
She called his name. Tossed him an apple. Peace offering? Parting gesture? Who knows? He stopped on a reflex, caught it.
Taxi tried to swerve. Could
n’t. Mowed him down.
Still don’t know if she meant it.
Off the street and straight into a nightmare. Jakey in the ICU, hooked up to wires, machines, drips. Joe said the oxygen tent reminded him of a Perspex coffin. I told him what I thought about that and he never said it again, but the image was planted. The doctors reckoned he was in there somewhere, but Jakey wasn’t giving any sign.
Some or other of us visited every day, all seven of us sometimes; made the nurses’ day every time. Jakey never moved, never spoke. Shaved head, bruises, still beautiful.
Wicked Stepmother never showed.
You’re wondering where his father was, aren’t you?
See, here’s the thing. Ain’t nobody on this earth who’s one hundred per cent anything. We’re all a mass of contradictions. I contain multitudes, as they say. Off-stage comedians are shy. Grey-suit accountants dig bunkers and hoard bottled water and beans. And captains of industry — so I’ve been told by women who, forgive me, are in a position to know — are very often pussy-whipped.
Makes a weird sense, I guess. You spend all day being a ball-breaking SOB, when you go home, you’ve had enough.
Consequence of that; division of power. You rule the world. She rules the roost.
Plus, there’s the fact that Jakey looked just like her, like Anya. Anya died for Jakey. Her life for his; any mother would make that trade in a heartbeat. But from Marcus White’s perspective — the love of his life for an aching heart, an empty bed, and a baby he was only luke-warm for in the first place? You’ll remember he sent Jakey to boarding school as soon as he could.
Does that explain it?
No, you’re right. Nothing does; nothing in this world. His son — his blood and bone — lying in that hospital bed. Still, he didn’t show.
Knowing that, I understood at last what sent Anya — Mrs White by then — to a strip club she used to work in, and then a stranger’s arms in the dressing room afterwards, all those years ago.
Weeks pass. Violet called from the hostel; kid on the run, hostel full, any chance . . . ? I knew the second I met him I couldn’t help much; some damage goes too deep. He stayed three nights, then left. Hurt like hell; was I losing my touch? Couldn’t save Jakey either.
Still went to the hospital, every day, clockwork. Don’t really pray as a rule, but I prayed then. Wanted so much to fix him, never wanted anything so much in my life. Jakey and Anya; that same unforgettable face, beautiful to the bone. Nothing I could do.
‘Christ, Jakey,’ I said one afternoon, perched uncomfortably on the visitor’s chair. ‘What’s it gonna take to get you out of this?’
Nothing, of course. Just machine noises, the hiss of the ventilator.
‘I wanted to help you,’ I told him. ‘I wanted to help you!’
Silence.
‘What do you want from me?’ I yelled. ‘What do I have to do? Come on, Jakey, help me out here! Gimme a God-damn sign!’
Silence.
I slid off the chair, went to the door. Reached for the door handle. Couldn’t quite get the bastard. Hate it when that happens. I kicked the door in frustration, got it open, went outside. Kicked the wall for good measure, then a trolley. A bunch of papers fall off a notice board, a bunch of folders fall off the trolley.
And then I’m staring at three pieces of paper at my feet.
First, a vile motivational poster: kitten asleep in a wastepaper basket with a picture of a tiger, and the caption When you dream, dream BIG.
Second, a brochure on hospital psychiatric services. Last little paragraph on the back’s entitled Ever Thought About Becoming A Counsellor?
Third, some sucker’s medical notes. No-one I knew, nothing I understood; all that mattered was the signature. Dr Paul Hunter.
Look me in the eye and tell me that wasn’t a sign.
I called home, told Leroy Small and Mighty would be down one man that night. Then I started combing the hospital for Paul. Took me hours; I couldn’t remember what he’d specialised in. Turned out to be Emergency. He looked shattered, so I forgave him for nearly falling over me.
‘What the —’ He looked down, exasperated, then amazed. ‘Rafael!’
I took him to ICU, seven floors up, filled him in on the way. By the time the lift gets there, he’s pacing the floor. Outside Jakey’s door, I stopped him.
‘You better be sure,’ I said. ‘Jakey’s been through enough. You man enough for this, Paul? You gonna run out on him again?’
‘I was scared, I —’
‘If nothing’s changed, don’t go in. Leave him in peace.’
‘She could have ended my career.’
‘Then walk away.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I love him.’
‘Love?’ I laughed. ‘You were together for what, six hours?’
‘Sometimes that’s all you need.’
‘You walked out on him once,’ I reminded him. ‘Left him with me instead.’
‘Please.’
I glared at him.
‘You give me your word?’
He nodded. I stepped aside. Paul stumbled to his knees by the bed. I heard him sob, and kiss Jakey on the mouth.
You tune the monitors out, after a while. Only notice when the sound changes. Suddenly I’m hearing machine noises again, and it’s better than Elvis, better than Waits, better than Bach, better than your mother singing you to sleep on a cold night, and I turn and leave the room, my heart too big for my chest, filling all the emptiness inside me and forcing tears out over my cheeks, because Jakey’s woken up at last, and I’ve done my job, and my part in their love story’s over.
One last thing. I wanted to fix Jakey, the way I always want to. He was the first one wanted to fix me in return.
Small and Mighty still tours every summer in Vegas, but I’m not with them any more. I rang that number on the back of the brochure, signed up for the course. Now I’m fixing people on a full-time basis, getting paid and everything. I’m a counsellor with dwarfism. On an exceptional day, I’m just a counsellor.
Oh, and a husband. I met Rosalie the first day of the training. We hit it off just right. After years of casual sex, I wasn’t sure I had the stamina for more than a week, plus I wanted to be sure she wasn’t just one more girl with a dwarf-curious itch to scratch, so we took our time. Worth the wait. Jakey and Paul were witnesses at the wedding.
For the record, she’s five eight, and beautiful. Talk about Beauty and the Beast . . .
. . . but, of course, that’s a whole other fairy tale.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the editors of Legend Press where ‘Interview #17’ previously appeared in the short story anthology Ten Journeys, May 2010.
I’d also like to say a huge thank you to the following people:
Thank you to Jen Hamilton-Emery at Salt, for taking a chance on a new writer and publishing New World Fairy Tales.
Thank you to my lovely American friends for teaching me to talk properly, and for patiently answering my endless questions about turnpikes, stoops, sweaters, stoves, rugs and frantic 3 a.m. emails along the lines of ‘So, could you talk to me about High School?’ or ‘What’s a really boring handgun?’. You’ve been the best writer’s group anyone could ask for and your turn is surely coming soon.
Thank you to my friends and family, who have all been patiently telling me for years, ‘You know, you should really try and be a writer. No, really, you should’ and never once getting irritated with me when I completely failed to pay attention. Sorry it took me so long to start listening. A special thank you to Rebecca and Ben, for never once doubting — not even for a moment.
Thank you most of all to my husband Tony. As for all the other important times, you’ve been my rock and this would never have happened without you.
Fina
lly, I’d like to acknowledge the debt I owe to Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, on whose mighty shoulders I have had the temerity to stand.
New World Fairy Tales Page 14