After the Parade

by Lori Ostlund

  10

  * * *

  On a July morning two years after Aaron and his mother moved to Mortonville, she announced at breakfast, “Today, we’re going on an excursion.” He did not know what to make of this. During these two years, they had traveled no farther than Florence, which was just eleven miles down the road, the place where people went to buy shoes or visit the dentist. “Come on,” his mother said. “I want you ready in one Adam-12.”

  “I know how to tell time,” he said.

  His mother said nothing, so he gave in and asked where they were going.

  “We’re going to visit an old friend of mine. Gloria. I met her years ago, before your father even.”

  “Did my father know her also?” He did not know why this interested him, just that it did.

  “Yes, but they didn’t like each other, and Jerry didn’t want me to be friends with her.” Aaron liked when his mother referred to his father as Jerry, because it usually meant she was going to talk to him as if he were an adult.

  When they were in the car and driving, Aaron asked, “How did you meet Gloria?”

  “I was nineteen. I’d gone down to the Cities to work and I got the job with the electric company. Gloria worked there also, so we ended up getting an apartment together, but when I met your father, he didn’t want me living with Gloria anymore, didn’t even want me around her, so I quit that job and got a live-in situation doing housework and cooking for a family. Mr. and Mrs. Gould. They were Jews.” She paused. “They were nice to me. They insisted I take Sunday mornings off for church, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d left home to escape Sunday mornings. I just thanked them, and every Sunday morning I left the house and went away for two hours.”

  “Where did you go?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I took walks. I went bowling and out to breakfast with your father.”

  “What happened to those people? The Juice?”

  “Not juice. Jews,” his mother said, drawing out the vowel. “Your father made me quit that job also—because they were Jews. At least that’s what he said was the reason, but I’d been there a year already, so I think it was something else.”

  “Like what?”

  His mother turned from the road to smile at him, and he saw that she was wearing lipstick. “I think he just didn’t like how happy I was with the Goulds.”

  A memory came to him, of his father leaning toward him at the Paul Bunyan Park in Bemidji, saying, “Look, son. There go some Jews.”

  “Were there Jews at the Paul Bunyan Park?” he asked.

  His mother looked over at him again. “Sometimes you ask the oddest questions, Aaron. I suppose there were Jews there.” She paused, but he did not realize that she was waiting for him to explain his question. Finally, she went on with her story.

  “The Goulds had big parties, twenty or thirty people, and I did everything—cooked, baked, served—and you know what? I was good at it. All of their friends told them how lucky they were to have me. And when I told them I was leaving, Mrs. Gould cried. Your grandparents didn’t cry when I left home. On my last night, they took me out for supper because they said it wouldn’t be right for me to cook. We had wine, and Mr. Gould made a toast and said they wished me all the best. While we were waiting for our desserts, he pushed an envelope across the table to me. He said it was just a little something to express their gratitude, but I didn’t realize it was money, so I opened it—right there in front of them—and they both looked away. Inside was a brand-new fifty-dollar bill. Fifty dollars for no reason, and I chose your father.”

  His mother was quiet then.

  * * *

  They drove for a long time, hours he thought. Eventually, his mother took a piece of paper from her purse and held it above the steering wheel, studying it as she drove. They passed through a small town, and she glanced at the paper and began counting mailboxes. Just past the sixth one, she turned right onto a narrow gravel road, but after a few minutes it forked in front of them. She stopped the car and tossed the paper onto the seat between them. “Well, what do you think?” she asked Aaron. “Left or right?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She spotted a tractor that had just crawled into view in the field to the left of them. “Stay put,” she said, as if he were a different sort of boy, daring and naughty, and not the boy he was, a boy overwhelmed by open spaces. She climbed down into the grassy ditch beside the road, making her way toward the tractor. When Aaron saw the man driving it lift his hand at her in greeting, he picked up the paper from the seat. Along the bottom was a map, hand-drawn with directions. The short letter on top was written in cursive, which he was just learning.

  Dear Dolores [it read],

  Surely you don’t expect condolences for him from me. Still, I’m glad to hear from you. I’ve been living back on the farm with Clarence, who needs some help. Mother died several years ago. A visit would be [here a word had been scribbled out completely and replaced with another] fine.

  Try to come alone. We have lots of catching up to do.

  Gloria

  When his mother got back in the car, she took the right side of the fork and soon pulled up beside a tilting mailbox. “Does it say Bjorklund?” she asked, and Aaron climbed partway out his open window to get a better look. The letters were faded, but he could make out a capital B.

  “I think so,” he said.

  Before he could pull his head back inside, his mother stepped on the gas. His forehead jolted hard against the window frame, but she seemed not to notice. She turned into the driveway and followed it between a stand of trees, curving past a school bus with missing front tires, weeds growing up around it.

  “Why do they have a bus?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” said his mother.

  “Can I look at it?”

  “No.” She spoke sharply. “Later maybe.”

  They stopped in front of the farmhouse, which was gray and sat on a small incline that sloped up from the driveway. As they got out of the car, five dogs emerged from a barn at the end of the driveway and ran toward them, barking and growling. Aaron started to get back inside the car, but a woman came out onto the porch and yelled at the dogs, and they stopped barking and began to wag their tails. The woman stepped off the porch and stood with her hands on her hips, regarding Aaron and his mother. She was not old, but her hair, clipped in a bowl style, was the same weathered gray as the house. She wore striped overalls with a white tank top cut low under the arms and crusty work boots, and her torso was like a tree trunk, solid with no variation in circumference to mark her hips or waist. Aaron had never seen such muscles on a woman: it was as if someone had slit open her arms and stitched oranges inside.

  “Gloria,” his mother said, holding her purse up in front of her.

  The woman ducked her head. “Dee,” she replied. She did not step closer.

  “This is Aaron,” his mother said.

  The woman ducked her head again, said, “Aaron” and “You’d better come in then,” and they followed her up the porch steps to the door, where his mother gave him a shove so that he entered first, tripping slightly into the room.

  There were doilies everywhere, on the furniture and under knickknacks and even hanging over the couch, that one the size of a car tire and stiff with starch. “I learned to tat a few years ago,” the woman said, sounding apologetic.

  His mother fingered one of the doilies. “You were always good with your hands,” she said.

  A flush spread from Gloria’s neck to her chin and cheeks. She spun and left the room. Aaron’s mother settled on the couch, patting it to indicate that he should join her, but he remained standing. He did not feel at ease in other people’s homes. To demonstrate that she did, his mother lifted a bowl of walnuts from the coffee table and rummaged through it, selecting one, which she fit into the nutcracker. It resembled the vise in his father’s workshop. As his mother turned the handle, a large screw applied pressure to the nut. Aaron drew
closer, waiting for the nut to burst, but when it did, he still jumped, his heart knocking hard in his chest. He looked up, and there was a dwarf. The dwarf sat in a wheelchair, perched atop a cushion. He wore a bright red shirt buttoned to the very top, the deep creases along both sleeves pointing the way to his inordinately large head. His hair was the color of the rust that collected on cars that had faced numerous Minnesota winters, and it clashed—wonderfully!—with his shirt and with the lurid pinks and purples of the afghan wrapped like a skirt around his legs. His feet, clad in black sandals over brown socks, dangled just above the footrests. All of these features Aaron noted only later, for he could not stop staring at the man’s nostrils, from which protruded tusks, slick like melting icicles. The man scowled at Aaron.

  “This is Clarence,” Gloria said. “My brother.” She placed a hand atop the man’s head, and he scowled again.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Clarence,” Aaron’s mother said. She rose and went to shake his hand.

  “Clary has really been looking forward to meeting you,” Gloria said. “Haven’t you, Clary?”

  He grimaced at Aaron a bit longer before turning to Aaron’s mother. “Quite,” he said and took her outstretched hand. “Dolores, Sister has told me a good deal about you. I understand that you are widowed?” His voice was high and nasal, but he had acquired the dual habits of enunciating and speaking slowly, pausing to breathe through his mouth. Aaron’s mother nodded, her hand still gripped by his. “From what Sister has told me of your late husband, it would seem very little grieving is required.” He released her hand. “Hit by a pack of Shriners, Sister claims. Can this be true?”

  He looked coyly up at Aaron’s mother, who nodded uncertainly. Clarence laughed, which triggered a coughing bout.

  “Poor Clary,” Gloria said. “He has such trouble breathing these days.” She patted his head again. “Why don’t you take Aaron to your room and show him your collection?”

  “They are called archives, Sister,” Clarence said. “And I am quite certain that they would be of little interest to a fellow his age.” He glared at Aaron. Gloria bent and whispered in her brother’s ear. “Fine, but will you push me, Sister?” he said in a whining, peevish voice.

  “Aaron can push you,” said Aaron’s mother. “I think he’d enjoy that.” Aaron could think of nothing he would enjoy less, but he knew of no appropriate way to express his reservations, so he positioned himself behind the chair and gripped its handles. It was heavy, but he managed to push it across the room while Clarence gave orders.

  “They want to be alone, you know,” Clarence informed him, but Aaron, who was focused on maneuvering the chair down a narrow hallway, did not reply.

  “Are you afraid of me?” Clarence asked a moment later.

  “Yes,” Aaron replied, truthfully.

  “Because of my tusks, no doubt. I noticed you staring at them. Your mother, on the other hand, feels obligated to avert her eyes. Tell me, young Aaron, at which do you suppose I take more offense—your fascination or your mother’s revulsion?”

  “Are they like elephant tusks?” Aaron asked. He did not fully understand Clarence’s question.

  Clarence snorted. “Elephant tusks are made of ivory, which is quite sought after in most places in the world, while mine are nothing more than adenoids run amok. You may touch one if you like, but only if you are extremely careful.”

  Aaron came from behind the wheelchair and leaned against the left armrest, steadying himself. Clarence’s eyes were closed, but as Aaron placed his index finger against the nearest tusk, Clarence sighed, the air from his nostrils rippling across Aaron’s finger. “Does that hurt?” Aaron asked.

  “On the contrary,” Clarence said. “You have an exceedingly light touch.”

  Aaron stroked the tusk once, then retracted his hand. “Do they grow?” he asked.

  “Indeed they do—and far too fast. I had them removed just a few years ago, but I fear that another operation is imminent.”

  Aaron continued to lean against Clarence’s wheelchair, gazing at the tusks. “I love them,” he said.

  * * *

  The walls of Clarence’s room were covered with books, the spines of which faced inward. “If you turn the books around,” Aaron said, “it will be easier.” He spent a good deal of time in the school library and knew how it was done.

  “What will be easier?” inquired Clarence, who sat where Aaron had parked him, before a large desk.

  “It will be easier to find the book you want.”

  “I want all of these books,” Clarence said. “That is, in fact, why I purchased them. When I wish to read, I simply select one.” He picked a book up from his desk and beckoned Aaron over. On its cover was a black-and-white photograph of two girls: twins. “This book,” he told Aaron, “arrived in the mail several weeks ago. It is a masterpiece by one Diane Arbus. Do you know of her?” Aaron shook his head. “Sister wanted it out of the house immediately. She’s not prudish, but her spirit is a bit”—he paused, thinking—“compromised we shall say, for lack of a more precise word.”

  He opened the book and thumbed through it, Aaron looking over his shoulder. The book, Aaron noted with surprise, consisted entirely of photographs.

  “What is your opinion of this fellow?” Clarence asked, holding up a photograph of a bare-chested man wearing a fedora. A towel was draped over the man’s lap, and a few wisps of hair curled from his underarm. He was small, like Clarence.

  “Who is he?” Aaron asked.

  “According to the caption, he is a Mexican dwarf. Beyond that, I know nothing of him. It is the photographer who has captured my interest. In fact, I have composed a letter to her. Would you care to hear it?”

  Aaron nodded, and Clarence extracted a sheet of onionskin from the top desk drawer and began to read.

  Dear Miss Arbus,

  I am a recent admirer of your work, a book of which was sent me by a friend in Wisconsin, a man of normal stature. I reside on a farm in central Minnesota with my elder sister, Gloria Bjorklund, who, in addition to being a devoted steward of the land, is quite skilled in the art of doily-making.

  My reason for writing is twofold. First, I would like to express my appreciation for your photographs, particularly those featuring nudists. I have long disapproved of nudism, yet found myself oddly moved by these photos.

  I come, now, to my second point—namely, that I am a dwarf. Moreover, I have been endowed with a pair of protuberances—some would call them tusks—that have begun growing in recent years from the vicinity of my nostrils. I should add, for the sake of full disclosure, that I have no formal training in front of the camera. Nonetheless, I would welcome any inquiries on your part.

  Sincerely,

  Clarence A. Bjorklund

  “Did she write back?” Aaron asked.

  “She did not, for I did not mail the letter. You see,” Clarence explained, his voice cracking, “Miss Arbus is no longer.”

  “Is she dead?” Aaron asked.

  “Quite,” Clarence responded. “Barbiturates. Slit wrists. Nothing as grand as a parade float and a pack of Shriners, though equally effective.” He refolded the letter and returned it to the desk drawer.

  “The Shriners didn’t kill my father,” Aaron said. “The doctor said he cracked his skull on the street when he fell off the float.”

  “Ah, but that is really more accuracy than I care to be presented with. Come, let us speak of something else. I understand that these Shriners are involved in the circus business. Certainly a boy of your age must have an interest in circuses.”

  “I’ve never been,” Aaron said. “I’ve been to both Paul Bunyans. In Brainerd he’s sitting down. He talks, but he’s not real. Have you been?”

  “Perish the thought! I abhor giants. They’re so”—Clarence paused to think what charges might be brought against giants—“large.” He laughed delightedly at his own response, and Aaron laughed also. “Well, we mustn’t engage in too much frivolity, or they will hear us and be
come suspicious.”

  He glanced at Aaron. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we spy on them? I’m not as stealthy in this contraption as I would like to be, but you could easily tiptoe down the hallway, listen a bit, and report back. What do you say?”

  Aaron nodded, pleased to be given so much responsibility.

  “Splendid,” said Clarence, bringing his small, plump hands together in a celebratory clap. “I shall await your return with bated breath. Be sure to note all. And be cautious. You know what they do to spies.”

  “What do they do?” Aaron whispered, but Clarence waved him out the door.

  In the living room, his mother and Gloria sat side by side on the couch, a single afghan covering their knees. Aaron heard his mother say, “So, that’s what I told him. It was right after we got back from the vacation, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Gloria said something, breathing the words toward his mother.

  “Well,” his mother said, “he was angry, but I knew he would be. He said, ‘If that’s the game you want to play, fine. But I’ll take Aaron, and you’ll see what I do to him, the mess I’ll make. Just try me.’ ”

  Gloria took two walnuts from the bowl and cupped them in her hands, pressing them against each other until one gave way. She extracted the meat and offered it to Aaron’s mother, who accepted the bits of flesh and sat holding them in her palm.

  “Sometimes,” his mother said, “I can’t help but think it was my fault. That he wasn’t holding on properly because he was distracted by—” She began to cry, but Aaron was relieved that she did not make the low moans he heard coming from her bedroom at night. Gloria tucked the afghan more tightly around his mother’s legs.

  “Well?” Clarence demanded as Aaron crept in and closed the door.

  “They’re eating walnuts,” Aaron said.

  “Where are they sitting?” Clarence asked. “How would you describe their body language?”