by John Marco
Because Ron was a freelance commercial artist who worked out of his home, it fell to him to care for Lily while her mother was at work. Normally, it wasn’t much of a problem. Sure, his productivity had suffered to a degree, but he loved spending time alone with his daughter. Doing design work for ads, pamphlets, and brochures might’ve paid the bills, but for years he’d dreamed of illustrating children’s books. And now that it looked like that dream might be coming true at last, he’d had no choice but to bring Lily with him. They had no friends who were home during the day who could watch her, and Lily was too young to stay home by herself, even if only for an hour or two. Ron had tried calling Growing Minds Discovery Garden (evidently daycare was too déclassé a term for them), where they sometimes left Lily. But Lily had a slight cold and was running a low fever, so they wouldn’t take her. Ron had told the director of Growing Minds about his meeting with Armstrong and that other than a bit of a runny nose, Lily was acting perfectly fine. The woman had said that while she sympathized with Ron’s situation, rules were rules, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Frustrated, he’d called Julia at work and asked her to tell her bosses that she was sick so she could come home and watch Lily for him. That had been a mistake. They’d nearly gotten into a fight over the phone. Julie had only recently returned to work as a paralegal, and she didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize her job. She worked for Sloan and Sloan, husband and wife lawyers who shared a practice. While Mr. Sloan was easygoing enough, his wife was a real hard-ass. No way did Julia want to risk the woman’s wrath by lying to her so she could skip out of work. Couldn’t he call the publisher and reschedule?
No, he couldn’t, he told her. That would be unprofessional.
He could almost hear her shrug over the phone. “Then you’ll just have to take her along, I guess.”
He expected Lily to protest his excuses for not stopping to pick up the stuffed dog, but she said nothing. He thought maybe she was pouting, so—judging they were far enough away from the spot where Lily had spotted the stuffed St. Bernard—he readjusted his rearview mirror so he could see her. But when he saw her reflection, he experienced a shock that was equal parts surprise and stunned recognition. The image in the mirror was Lily, all right, but not the seven-year-old girl with bright eyes, round face, button nose, and curly strawberry-blonde hair. It was Lily as a baby, not quite a year old. Strapped snugly into her carseat, wearing a one-piece outfit that left her chubby pink arms and legs bare, fine curly wisps of hair on her head, nothing like the thick, rich locks she was destined to have. Lily’s pudgy face was red, eyes squeezed close, mouth open wide. She looked as if she was crying, but Ron heard no sound.
He blinked, and Lily was suddenly seven again, sitting on her booster seat and looking at him expectantly.
“Didn’t you hear what I said, Daddy? I said maybe we could pick up the doggie on the way back.”
Feeling disoriented and a trifle dizzy, Ron said, “We’ll see.”
He was nervous about meeting with Mr. Armstrong, that was all. Coupled with his artistic imagination, his anxiety had caused him to momentarily “see” a memory. Weird, maybe, but nothing to be worried about.
He faced forward again and concentrated on his driving, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard a baby crying.
Ron was too young when he got Biff to remember the first time he saw the toy that, in many ways, was to become the best friend he’d ever had. But his mother had told the story to him often enough over the years that he felt he could recall every detail.
It had been his first birthday, and his parents had done all the usual things. They’d put him in his high chair, turned off the kitchen light, and brought out a cake with a single thick candle shaped like a numeral one on top. The candle was lit, and Ronnie’s eyes widened as his mother set the cake down on the table in front of him—but not too close. Wouldn’t want Baby getting burned. His parents sang “Happy Birthday” to him, and he smiled at the tune, though he couldn’t quite understand the words. Then both his Mommy and Daddy blew out the candle flame. Ronnie liked looking at the flickering warm glow, and he was sad to see it go bye-bye.
Mommy cut the cake while Daddy took pictures. Mommy put Ronnie’s slice on a tiny paper plate and set it on his highchair tray. He squooshed the cake with his tiny fingers, getting more of it on his bib, face, and in his hair than in his mouth. Mommy spooned a bit of ice cream into his mouth, and he dutifully swallowed it, only to make a horrified face at the unfamiliar sensation of cold in his mouth, followed instantly by tears. Mommy washed his hands, then Daddy took him out of the high chair and carried him into the living room. A half dozen objects were stacked on the coffee table, all wrapped in brightly colored paper. But Ronnie barely glanced at them. His gaze was drawn to the large brown-and-white thing sitting on the floor next to the coffee table.
Daddy put him down on the floor, and Ronnie took several unsteady steps toward the big fuzzy thing before giving up and falling to his hands and knees so he could make better speed. He swiftly crawled over to the fascinating object, reached out, and grabbed a handful of brown-and-white fur. It was so soft . . . he buried his face in its fur and grabbed hold of it, squeezing as hard as he could. It was soft like Mommy, big like Daddy, and warm, too. But it didn’t pull away when he squeezed it, didn’t say, “Ouch, that’s too hard, sweetie!” Ronnie instinctively understood that whatever this furry thing was, it was his, and it would accept whatever he did without question, complaint, or reprimand.
From that moment on, Ronnie cried whenever anyone tried to separate him from his new friend. It was an “Oggy” he eventually learned, and he wanted his Oggy to go wherever he went, wanted it in the crib with him when he slept, despite how much room it took up, to protect him from the things that moved sinuous and silent in the dark. Wanted it sitting on one of the kitchen chairs when he ate, sitting by his side as they watched cartoons, looking on with its black plastic eyes while he got a bath. If he went outside, Oggy had to go outside. When Ronnie had to come back in, so did Oggy. This meant a lot of extra work for his parents, as Ronnie was too small to carry Oggy around by himself. But eventually Ronnie grew, and he was able to drag Oggy along with him, giving his Mommy and Daddy a bit of badly needed relief. But Ronnie didn’t notice or care about his parents’ reaction. All he cared about was spending time with Oggy.
Ron glanced at the digital clock on the van’s dashboard and gritted his teeth. 11:47. There’d been a wreck on Everson Road, not much more than a fender bender, really—but he’d had to wait in a mini traffic jam until a state trooper and a tow truck had cleared the vehicles involved from the street. He judged he could still make his appointment with Mr. Armstrong, but his margin for error was decidedly thinner than it had been.
“Daddy? I don’t feel so good.”
Those were the last words Ron wanted to hear. He felt like groaning, but he didn’t want to hurt his daughter’s feelings, so he worked on keeping his voice calm as he asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”
“My tummy feels all shivery.”
Ron bit back a curse. Lily had a tendency to get carsick, but usually only on long trips. He’d taken precautions, though. It was hot out today, but he had the minivan’s air conditioning on, and though he’d been hurrying to make up the time lost to the accident delay, he’d tried to avoid accelerating or braking too rapidly and cutting corners too sharply when he turned. Still, it looked as if his precautions had failed.
Of course they did, he thought. That’s how the universe works, right? The more you needed to avoid something, the more likely it was to happen.
He checked the time again. 11:50. He couldn’t afford to stop, but how could he keep going, knowing Lily was in discomfort? And—to be cold-bloodedly practical about it—how could he continue on to his meeting with Armstrong if Lily threw up all over herself? He’d have to take her home for sure then.
He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Lily’s pale, frightened face l
ooking back at him.
And even if he was cruel enough to make her sit in her own sick while he kept his appointment, the vomit-stench would attach itself to him. He could just imagine introducing himself to Armstrong and trying to explain why he stank of his daughter’s puke.
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll find somewhere to pull over.”
He saw a Hamburger Haven coming up on his right. He signaled, eased up on the gas, then gently pressed down on the brake. He turned into the restaurant’s parking lot so slowly that the person behind him blasted his horn. Ron was tempted to give the sonofabitch the finger, but Lily was with him, and he didn’t want to be a poor role model, so he resisted. There was a parking space near the entrance, and Ron eased the minivan into it and cut the engine. Trying not to think about the time, he got out of the van and hurried around to the side and slid open the side door. He hoped the absence of motion combined with exposure to fresh air would settle Lily’s stomach, but it was so damned hot out, he wondered if he should’ve left the door closed and the AC running. He’d only been outside for a few seconds, and already beads of sweat were forming on his skin. He was wearing a nice shirt, tie, slacks, and dress shoes for his interview with Armstrong, and he worried about getting sweat stains on his clothes. Not much he could do about it, he supposed.
“How are you doing, honey?”
Lily was still pale and her breathing was coming in ragged pants. She kept swallowing, too, fighting to keep her stomach from emptying its contents.
“I . . . I’ll be okay, Daddy.” She attempted a smile, but it came out as a grimace.
Ron was overwhelmed by a sudden swell of both pride and guilt. His little girl was doing her best to be brave because she knew how important his meeting with Armstrong was for her daddy. He was proud of her for trying to act so grown-up, but he felt guilty that he’d been more concerned about wasting time stopping than about his little girl’s physical condition.
He unbuckled her seatbelt. “C’mon, let’s go inside where it’s cool.”
Lily was beginning to sweat now too, and she gave him a weak but grateful smile as she climbed out of the van. He took her elbow to steady her, slid the door closed, then locked the van using his keychain remote. Then together they entered the restaurant.
A blast of cold air hit them as soon as they walked in. Too cold, Ron thought. His own stomach lurched at the sudden extreme shift in temperature, and he doubted the transition made Lily feel any better. Worse yet was the smell inside the restaurant—hot grease, smoke, and frying meat. Lily’s face went chalk white. Without saying anything, she turned and fled toward the women’s restroom. Ron felt equal amounts of concern and frustration, the latter making him feel even more guilty than he had before.
This Hamburger Haven was set up like all the others Ron had even been in. A front counter where apathetic teenagers and bored retirees took and filled orders, tables and chairs where customers could sit while they gobbled down the muck the place passed off as food, and a play area outside with more seats and a configuration of plastic tunnels for small children to crawl around inside like hamsters. Ron disliked fast food in general—it always upset his stomach—but he had fond memories of bringing Lily here when she was little, of taking her to the play area and letting her explore the tubes. Not too far in, though, for she wasn’t even a year yet and just starting to learn to walk.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He turned toward the voice, startled out of his memories. A stout matronly women in her fifties wearing a blue Hamburger Haven uniform stood before him. Her nametag said Gloria and beneath that Manager.
Ron was puzzled by the woman coming up to speak to him. Since when did Hamburger Haven get so pro-active about customer service? Gloria stared at him as if there was something wrong with the way he looked. Her nose wrinkled, and she turned her head slightly aside, as if he had offensive body odor. But he was wearing clean clothes, and he’d showered this morning and put on deodorant. Sure, he’d started sweating outside, but not that much.
“I’m just waiting for my daughter,” he said. “She’s in the restroom.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, and Ron understood why she had come out from behind the counter to check on him. The way Lily had run from him must’ve looked as if she were trying to escape a captor.
He gave Gloria what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “She gets a little carsick sometimes.”
She frowned. “I didn’t see you come in with anyone.”
“Maybe you weren’t looking. There’s a lot of people lined up at the counter.” Which was true. It was the lunch rush, after all.
Gloria’s frowned deepened into a scowl. “Unless you’re going to buy something, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Ron was starting to get angry. This woman was acting like he was some kind of dangerous nut instead of a father doing his best to take care of his child.
“As soon as my daughter’s okay, we’ll get out of here. All right?”
The woman looked as if she were going to say something further, but then she glanced at all the customers waiting to place orders, and she turned away and headed back to the counter.
Ron was glad to see her go, and he’d be even more glad to get the hell out of here, after—
The women’s restroom door opened and Lily came out. She was still pale, though not nearly as white as when she’d gone in. Her face was wet, and at first he thought she was dripping with sweat, but then he realized she’d splashed water on her face.
“How are you feeling, sweetie?”
“Better.” Her voice was shaky, but not as weak as it had been. “I think I’m okay to go now.”
He felt a surge of hope, and he immediately squashed it. Lily was infinitely more important than any illustrating gig he might get.
“Why don’t we sit down for a little bit until you feel all the way better? I can get you something to drink, maybe some Sprite to settle your stomach.”
“Really, Daddy, I’m okay. Let’s—”
“I asked you to leave.” It was Gloria again, only this time she wasn’t alone. She’d brought a tall, beefy teenaged boy with her.
Ron’s anger rose, and it was all he could do to keep from shouting at the woman. “I’m not sure my daughter is feeling well enough yet.”
The teenaged boy—whom Gloria had doubtless brought along for whatever muscle he could provide— gave his manager a confused, questioning look.
Gloria didn’t glance back at the boy. She kept her gaze focused on Ron. “I don’t want any trouble. Just go. Now.” She didn’t sound mad. She sounded scared, and Ron couldn’t figure out why.
Lily tugged at his arm. “Let’s go, Daddy? Please?”
Now Lily sounded scared, and though Ron wanted to tear into the manager and give her hell for treating him this way, he didn’t want to subject his daughter to any more of the woman’s weirdness.
He gave Gloria a parting glare. “Fine. Whatever. But see if we ever come back here again.”
As Ron and Lily headed for the door, he heard the teenager say, “We?” but he didn’t turn back. They exited into a thick, syrupy heat that made Ron feel queasy. He looked to Lily to check how she was handling the abrupt temperature shift and was surprised to see a big grin on her face.
“Look, Daddy!” She pointed toward the van.
Sitting on the sidewalk in front of the vehicle, facing toward them, was Biff.
Ronnie was nine. He sat in his driveway, legs crossed, hands resting limply in his lap, ever-faithful St. Bernard sitting next to him. His Oggy was somewhat worse for the wear after eight years of accompanying Ronnie on his adventures. His colors had faded, and there were bare patches in his fur. A number of his seams had split over the years and had been sewn back up by Ronnie’s mother, leaving bits of thread here and there. The plastic eyes had been scratched from too much hard play, giving them a somewhat milky cast, like an old person’s cataracts.
He sat there, doing nothing, thinking n
othing. Eventually Jerry Klauser came riding by on his new ten-speed. Jerry lived down the block, the youngest of seven kids, though he was a year older than Ronnie. For reasons that Ronnie had never been able to fathom, Jerry thought he was real hot stuff and teased Ronnie whenever he got the chance.
Ronnie hoped Jerry would ride on past, but he knew he wouldn’t.
Jerry rolled up to the end of Ronnie’s driveway and put his feet down to stop.
“Hey, it’s Ronnie and his Oggy-Woggy!”
Ronnie didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, especially Jerry Klauser, but he knew the taunts would only continue and get worse if he didn’t respond.
“His name’s Biff.”
As Ronnie had gotten older, he’d come to realize what a babyish name Oggy was. He’d tried out other names: Champ, Killer, and—least imaginatively of all—Bernard. But one day his parents had left him with a babysitter while they went out to the movies. He watched TV while she did homework, and he noticed she’d used an eraser to remove parts of the cover, creating white lines like writing. The lines said SUZE AND BROOKE: BFF.
“What’s Biff mean?” he’d asked.
Suze had been puzzled for a moment, but when she figured out what he meant, she laughed. “It’s B-F-F. It stands for Best Friends Forever.”
Ronnie thought that was a great way to describe him and his St. Bernard and so that day Oggy became Biff.
“Biff is a stiff!” Jerry said in a singsong voice. “I’d like to throw him off a cliff!”
Ronnie’s jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists. “Shut up and leave me alone, Jerry.”
“What’s wrong? The baby can’t take a joke? Are you gonna start to cry? Maybe Oggy will give you a kiss and make it all better.”
Ronnie rose to his feet. “I told you his name is Biff.” He could feel the pressure of tears behind his eyes, and he fought to hold them in. He didn’t want to give Jerry the satisfaction of seeing him cry.