Imaginary Friends

by John Marco

  Jerry’s eyes hardened. “You wanna make something of it, Baby?” His words seemed false somehow, as if he were repeating something he’d heard on TV. Jerry had never tried to pick a fight before, but he sounded serious. Ronnie had never been in a fight, but the way he felt now, he’d almost welcome it. He took a step toward Jerry but then thought better of it.

  “Just go away. My grandma died this morning.”

  Though all Ronnie had done was talk, Jerry reacted as if he’d punched him in the stomach. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open.

  “No shit?”

  Ronnie had never used a swear word before, but it seemed only appropriate now.

  “No shit.”

  “Aw, geez. I’m . . . sorry.”

  Jerry looked at him a moment longer, as if he were trying to think of something else to say but couldn’t. Finally he put his feet back on his bike pedals and rode off down the sidewalk.

  Ronnie’s mom was inside the house, lying on her bed, crying. She’d been there all day, ever since Aunt Karen had called with the news of Grandma’s death. Dad was still at work, and though he’d told Mom he’d try to come home early, he didn’t know if his boss would let him. So Ronnie had been left alone with his grief all morning.

  No, not alone. Never. Not so long as he had Biff. Ronnie sat back down next to his friend—the only real friend he’d ever had. He grabbed Biff and held him tight as the tears he could no longer hold back flooded forth.

  “It was the same dog, Daddy! He followed us!”

  Ron drove five miles over the speed limit. It was 11:57, three minutes before he was scheduled to meet with Mr. Armstrong, and he still had several miles to go to reach Coleman Publishing. He was going to be late, there was no helping that now, but maybe he wouldn’t be too late.

  “It couldn’t be the same one, and it sure as hell couldn’t have followed us. It’s stuffed for Christ’s sake!” He instantly regretted using such harsh language when speaking to his daughter, but he was so goddamned pissed off. Over Lily’s protests, he’d taken the St. Bernard—which was not Biff, he kept telling himself—into the Hamburger Haven to tell the manager that someone had abandoned the toy outside her restaurant. The woman had vehemently refused to take the dog from him and had shouted for him to get the fuck out before she called the cops. Everyone in the restaurant—employees and customers alike— had looked at him as if he were insane, and so he’d plopped the stuffed dog that was not Biff down on the counter and left.

  “I tell you what, honey. If you really want a stuffed dog, I’ll take you to the toy store after my meeting and you can pick out whichever one you want, no matter how big. How does that sound?”

  “But I don’t want any old dog,” she whined. “I want that one!”

  Ron gritted his teeth and held his tongue. At least her carsickness had passed, he told himself. He thought he heard the sound of a baby crying softly then, but it seemed so faint and far away that it had to be his imagination. The sound soon faded away, as if the child had tired itself out and fallen asleep. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Lily sat looking out her window, lower lip pushed out in a little girl pout. If she’d heard the baby crying, she didn’t show it. At least she wasn’t crying. That was something to be thankful for. It had been a hard morning for her as well. He understood that and vowed to do his best to make it up to her—after his meeting.

  They drove on in silence for the next few minutes, and Ron tried to remain calm as the digital clock moved from 11:57 to 58, 59, and then to noon. He was now officially late.

  But there, coming up on the right, was the entrance to Coleman Publishing. He remembered the blue sign standing up in the grass out front, remembered the white letters that spelled out the company’s name, including—in smaller letters below—est. 1967. The colors were a bit faded now, but—

  He frowned. What was he thinking? He’d never been here before, had mailed his art samples to Mr. Armstrong. He’d probably driven past on occasion, but he’d never really noticed the place, certainly not to the point where he’d recognize changes in the sign’s colors. He was probably remembering a different sign, a different company, getting the memories mixed up. Yeah, that was it. Had to be.

  He slowed, signaled, and turned into the entrance. “Looks like we made it, kiddo!” He felt suddenly light, cheerful, all anxiety drained away. The clock said 12:02. Late, but only a little. Mr. Armstrong probably wouldn’t even notice. He glanced up at the rearview mirror to see how Lily was doing. She stared straight ahead, eyes widening with horror.

  “Daddy, look out!”

  He lowered his gaze, and through the windshield he saw a large brown-and-white shape dash across the driveway right in front of their van. Felt the heavy thump more than he heard it. He slammed on the brakes, squealing tires blending with Lily’s screams.

  Ron stood in his bedroom, looking at the two suitcases and bulging duffle bag sitting on his bed. For the dozenth time he took a mental inventory of everything he’d packed, and for the dozenth time he decided he hadn’t forgotten anything. He knew he was stalling and that his mom and dad knew it too, but neither of them had come in to tell him it was getting late and they should get on the road. He appreciated that.

  He was excited about leaving for college, was looking forward to moving into the dorm, starting his art classes, getting a chance to see what it was like to live on his own. Finally starting his adult life. He knew he wasn’t leaving home for good, not really. He’d be back for holidays and summers. But this was the last time this would he his room, the place where he lived. From now on he’d only be visiting.

  He hadn’t thought it would be so hard to say goodbye to a place, to let go of all the memories that filled the room like light and air. But it was. And there was one memory that was hardest of all to let go of.

  Biff sat on the floor next to his dresser, a fine coating of dust on his fur. The stuffed dog leaned sideways, head flopped over at an angle, its stuffing having clumped up and settled in odd places over the years. Biff had been sitting in this position since Ron started junior high, and he hadn’t touched it since. He’d outgrown the need for make-believe friends. But then again, he hadn’t stuck Biff in the closet with all the other toys he never played with anymore. And whenever his mom made noises about giving Biff to Goodwill or worse, just throwing him out, Ron wouldn’t hear of it. Maybe Ron hadn’t needed Biff the same way as when he’d been little, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need him at all.

  Ron went over to the dresser and crouched down in front of Biff, just as though he were a real dog. Feeling only a little foolish, but still glad no one was here to see him, he reached out and scratched the top of Biff’s head.

  “I guess this is it, old buddy. I won’t see you again until Thanksgiving. I . . . want to thank you. You’ve been a good friend to me.” He smiled. “Tell you what. I ever have a kid, I’ll give you to him or her, and you can be their friend. What do you think of that?”

  Biff didn’t respond. He never had. After all, he was just a stuffed animal. But if Biff had been alive, Ron liked to think his old friend would’ve been pleased.

  Ron stood in front of the van, telling himself that he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing. Lily knelt on the ground, holding the crimson-splattered body of Biff to her chest, tears streaming from her eyes, her small body wracked by sobs. The animal that had run in front of the van had been a living dog, a real dog, Ron was certain of that. But the tattered wet thing his daughter held was the stuffed St. Bernard from his childhood. The impact had split open the seam that ran from Biff’s neck, down his chest, and across his belly. Wads of gray stuffing that looked too much like internal organs protruded from the wound, along with thick red fluid that looked like blood but couldn’t possibly be.

  “You killed him!” Lily wailed.

  Ron struggled to find words to comfort his daughter, but his thoughts were sluggish, and he felt a throbbing pain at the base of his skull. Still, he had to say something.
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br />   “He can’t be dead, honey. He was never alive. You can’t kill something that never lived . . .”

  Lily kept on sobbing, and Ron doubted she’d heard him. His entire head was pounding now, and a wave of vertigo washed over him, causing his gut to twist with nausea. Something was seriously wrong here, and he instinctively understood that he had to get Lily away from this place before—

  “Mr. Garber!”

  Ron turned to see a bald man with a salt-and-pepper goatee hurrying toward them down the driveway, coming from the direction of the Coleman Publishing building. The man was tall, thin, and wore wire-framed glasses. He had on a gray suit and a tie that— even from this distance—Ron could see sported a design of tiny interlocking paint palettes. Ron had never seen the man before . . . had he? But he recognized the voice. It belonged to Mr. Armstrong.

  Ron felt a surge of panic. He couldn’t let Mr. Armstrong see him like this! How could he ever explain? Sorry, sir, but I seem to have run over and killed a stuffed animal from my childhood. Most embarrassing.

  He put his hand on Lily’s shoulder and gently squeezed.

  “C’mon, honey. We have to go. We can’t—”

  “Mr. Garber!” Armstrong called again. He was much closer now, and Ron’s panic gave way to fatalism. It was too late . . . in so many ways. He gave Lily a last squeeze before turning to meet Armstrong.

  As the man reached them, sweat running down the sides of his face, breath coming hard from half-running the whole way, Ron said, “I know this looks bad, Mr. Armstrong, but I can—”

  “Mr. Garber, when you called this morning, I told you not to come. You know I have nothing but the utmost sympathy for your situation, but you cannot keep doing this. I don’t want to call the police again, but I will if I have to.”

  The man sounded at once sympathetic and exasperated, and Ron had no idea what he was talking about.

  “What happened was a terrible thing, Mr. Garber, but it was six years ago. I’m not going to be insensitive and tell you to get over it. I can’t begin to imagine the pain you’ve experienced. But you’ve got to come to grips with what happened. Can’t you see that?”

  Ron felt pressure building inside his head, so intense that he feared it might explode any moment. “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  And then the pressure, the pain, the confusion vanished, and Ron remembered.

  Remembered driving to his appointment with Mr. Armstrong six years ago, on a day even hotter than this one. Lily in the back, not quite a year old, sitting in her car seat, Biff next to her. His childhood friend, now his daughter’s companion, confidant, and guardian. Lily with her fever and without a babysitter, crying all the way to Coleman Publishing, falling asleep at last as he pulled into the parking lot. Ron trying to decide what to do: bring Lily inside and risk her waking up and squalling in the middle of his interview with Armstrong? He told himself she needed the sleep, that he wouldn’t be long, that he’d leave the windows cracked, that she would be all right. After all, Biff was there to watch over her, wasn’t he?

  The meeting went well, and Ron got the job. But when he returned to the van, Lily wasn’t all right. She was never going to be all right again.

  Armstrong found him screaming his grief as he tore Biff apart with his bare hands. After all these years, his whole fucking life, his best friend had let him down when he’d needed him most. It was Biff’s fault, not his. Never his.

  Ron realized he couldn’t hear Lily crying anymore. He turned to look at her and saw exactly what he feared he would. Nothing. No Lily, no Biff. No stuffing, no blood. Just empty, clear asphalt in front of the van’s tires. The van, which looked older, scratched, dented, and badly in need of a wash. Ron looked down at his clothes and saw they were filthy as well, wrinkled and stained. He examined his hands. His nails were long, cracked, discolored. He reached up to his face, felt his unkempt beard, his long scraggly hair. He inhaled and smelled his own foulness. Now he knew why the people in the Hamburger Haven had reacted to him the way they had. He’d gone in alone, looking like this, talking to a daughter who had died long ago.

  He ran his fingers over his sweat-slick face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Armstrong.”

  The profound pity in the other man’s gaze was far worse than anger or revulsion. Ron shuffled back toward the van’s open driver’s door, climbed in, and shut it behind him. Mr. Armstrong stood and watched as Ron put the vehicle in reverse and began to back up.

  Ron sat at a picnic table in the park, art portfolio on the seat next to him, sketch paper open on the table. As he drew, he thought. In a way, Biff had tried to protect him by preventing him from keeping his appointment with Mr. Armstrong—and from having to remember. Sure, Biff had been a hallucination, just like seven-year-old Lily, the age she would’ve been if she’d lived. But maybe Biff was the part of his mind that wanted to get better, to break the cycle he was trapped in. Maybe he was ready to go back to therapy, maybe he’d even call his ex-wife. He and Julia had barely spoken since Lily’s death. Maybe it was time they did.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the deep, sonorous bark of a large dog.

  “Daddy, look! I taught Biff a new trick!”

  Ron looked up. Lily pointed her index finger at the St. Bernard and said, “Bang!”

  Biff fell onto his side and rolled over, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. Lily giggled in delight and ran over and gave her friend a hug. Biff’s tail thumped happily on the grass.

  Ron smiled and looked back down at the picture he’d been sketching: a little girl playing with a St. Bernard in the park on a bright summer day. It was just a sketch now, but he thought it was good enough to finish. It might even turn out to be good enough to put in his portfolio. He hoped so. It would be nice to have something new to show Mr. Armstrong at their next meeting.

  GREG AND ELI

  Paul Genesse

  “AD, the light’s red!” Greg’s fingers dug into the armrest, and he ducked below the dashboard as his father stomped on the gas pedal. Their van streaked across the dark intersection, while the headlights glaring through the passenger window made shadow monsters on the dusty upholstery. His father would normally have cursed at the honking cars, but he remained silent as he guided the car faster than Greg could ever remember. Dad hadn’t said a word since Vegas Valley Hospital had called. Greg had answered the phone, and when the doctor started talking, he thought the day had finally come; but his excitement about the birth of his little brother, Joe, had been replaced by teeth-clenching fear.

  Dad pulled a hard left turn. Greg lurched against the door as their van bounced into a parking lot. They stopped with a screech in front of a tall white building with mostly dark windows. Greg ran after his father, and they passed a creepy old man in a wheelchair smoking a cigarette.

  The desk lady in the emergency room said Mom was now in the “I See You” on the sixth floor. The sign at the elevator said: Labor & Delivery, Fourth Floor. “Dad, isn’t Mom there? We took the tour there. Remember?”

  The muscles in his father’s jaw stood out as he poked the sixth floor button as if he were playing a video game and shooting space aliens rapid fire. When the elevator ride was over, Greg had to jog to keep up. The air in the “I See You” smelled wrong, as if someone had forgotten to clean up dog pee, then tried to hide it with orange-scented air freshener.

  Dad talked to a man in a white coat while Greg took in all the strange beeps and bongs, trying to figure out where they were coming from.

  “Hi, honey, I’m Megan.” A freckled woman with short red hair wearing blue pajama pants smiled at him. “You sure are cute with those puppy dog eyes. How old are you, sweetie?”

  “I’m six.” Greg just wanted to find Mom and see his new brother. “Where’s the glass wall to see the babies? This is the ‘I See You,’ right?”

  She stifled a smile, and two more ladies in pajamas joined her. Dad went into a room with the tall man in the white coat, and Megan tried to distract him. “What grade are you in?”
r />   “First.” He shifted uncomfortably as they stared at him. “Where’s my mom?”

  Megan tried to keep her smile, but her eyes flashed with worry. She peeked into the room where Dad had gone, then slipped past the curtain. A moment later, Megan came out and knelt down, her brown eyes at his level. “Sweetie, your dad wants me to bring you to your mom’s room. She was in a car accident tonight. She’s hurt, but she’s going to be okay.”

  “No,” he shook his head in disbelief, “she’s here to have a baby, my little brother.” Greg felt his face squinching together. Megan was nice, and her freckles were cool, but she had to be wrong. Still, he let her take his hand and lead him past the curtain. Dad sat in a chair beside a tall bed with plastic railings all around it. Bags of water and what had to be blood hung from the ceiling. TVs with weird wavy-lined channels and flashing numbers were everywhere. He couldn’t believe how many buttons and wires there were.

  The pale-faced person in the bed didn’t look like Mom at first; then Greg noticed her straight black hair, slightly matted and messy in the back. Her face was bruised, and her left cheek had swollen to the size of a baseball.

  “Mom?” Greg’s voice came out so high pitched he wondered if she would recognize it.

  His father waved him forward, and Greg touched Mom’s hand, which clutched her gold crucifix necklace. Her eyes opened, and she smiled at him.

  “Hi, Greggy.” Mom sounded tired, and on the verge of tears.

  Greg’s whole body started to shake. “Mommy, are you okay?”

  “Yes, honey. Don’t worry. Mommy’s fine.” Her smile looked weird because of her swollen face. He could tell she was just pretending. He could always tell.

  “She’ll be here for a few days, then she’s going home.” The man in the white coat gave him a reassuring look.

  “Doctor Reed.” Megan stepped behind Greg, her gentle hands resting on his shoulders. “There’s a Doctor McNeil with OB on the phone for you, and Mrs. Lloyd’s hematocrit is back; it’s twenty-two.”