Last Playground

by Geoff North

  Oscar laughed. “Bertha?”

  The woman growled. “You have a problem with my name?”

  “It was from a movie I saw when I was a little kid,” Brinn said. She hiked a thumb in Bertha’s direction. “It’s supposed to be Bhurda, as in Bhurda the Barbarian Woman, but I was only five or six and that’s how I pronounced it. Kinda stuck ever since.”

  Brinn looked at Selma. The girl was still frozen in place, her mouth still agape and unspeaking.

  “You okay?” Brinn asked. Selma nodded quickly.

  Brinn placed a hand on her shoulder. “Did you ever see that movie?” Selma shook her head.

  “You sure you’re alright?”

  “I…I never saw the movie… My…my mom said we couldn’t afford to go to the movies.”

  Brinn had never seen the girl so shocked, so unsure of herself. But then again, Brinn had never conjured up any of her imaginary friends in front of her real friends before.

  “I was created by a nine-year-old boy,” Oscar cut in. “Believe me, if I could’ve chosen a name other than Oscar, I would have.”

  Bertha leaned forward and grabbed Oscar by the wrist. She studied the tear in his artificial skin and after a moment dropped his hand away like it was something dead. “You’re not human. What kind of dark sorcery is this?”

  Brinn rolled her eyes. “It’s science, Bertha, not sorcery.” She grinned at Oscar for the first time. “Conjuring up imaginary friends isn’t the hard part. Controlling them afterwards is.”

  Selma was on her hands and knees, rooting through the grass and weeds.

  Oscar nodded. “Bertha’s as real as I am. You can’t control someone with a mind of their own…imaginary or not.”

  “Are you saying I don’t exist, metal man?”

  “No, of course not, miss.”

  Brinn held an arm up between the two. “You’re both as real as I am.” Selma was still down in the grass.

  “So you finally believe I’m telling the truth?” Oscar asked.

  He winked at her and smiled. It was a look that told Brinn he’d known all along she hadn’t believed a word of his story. He knew she was playing for time, ready to bolt when she had the chance. And he wouldn’t have stopped her. All of that in a smile and a wink. Oscar Williams had started to grow on her.

  “I believe you think you’re telling the truth, but how can that be? Uncle Neal died over thirty years ago. How could a character he imagined still exist? I stopped…playing…just a few years ago. Are you trying to tell me all the people I brought into the world are still out there somewhere?” Selma bumped into Brinn’s leg with a shoulder, forcing Brinn to step over.

  “It’s been a long time since you last thought of me,” Bertha said. There was scorn in her eyes, a hurt tone in her voice. “Not since you started with that fairy boyfriend of yours.”

  “Paris wasn’t my boyfriend, and he was a wizard—not a fairy. Be careful how you word things.” Selma bumped into her again from below. Brinn stepped away. “What the hell are you doing down there?”

  “Looking for that half joint. If I’m not stoned now, something tells me I should be.”

  Brinn helped the girl back to her feet. “You don’t need it, Selma. Neither one of us do.”

  Oscar was still rubbing the back of his head. The hit had left a small dent in the titanium casing of his skull. “So will you help me, Brinn? Will you travel back into the dying world your uncle created and help us fix things?” He pointed to the house.

  That’s where it all started and that’s where it would all end.

  Brinn hadn’t wanted anything to do with him five minutes ago. But now, with Bertha at her side, she felt much braver. The woman brought that old adventurous side back out in Brinn. And then there was her mother to consider. Somehow she was tied up in all of this. If people from a dead boy’s imagination could still exist, was there a chance Brinn could find her as well? Would she finally be able to say goodbye? She nodded quickly and turned to Selma. She would feel even safer if her best friend traveled with her. “What do you say? Feel up for a real adventure?”

  Selma shrugged her shoulders. There was fear in the girl’s eyes but she tried her best not to let it show. “Why not? Beats hanging around Hamden all weekend.”

  They started up the veranda steps and Oscar pulled Brinn back onto the grass. “Wait a minute. I want you to take a good look at things before we go inside.”

  Bertha ignored him and kicked the weathered door in.

  “For God’s sake!” Brinn snapped. “Quit hitting people and breaking things.”

  The woman ignored her and slipped into the darkness. Selma followed moments later.

  “Look up there, Brinn.”

  She gave Oscar a questioning look. “Where?”

  “That bedroom window on the northeast corner—the one that’s open.”

  “Someone broke in. Why?”

  “I’m afraid that was me. And it wasn’t an easy job. It was boarded up on the outside with a sheet of plywood. The inside was covered with two-by-fours and five-inch spikes.”

  Brinn recalled the inhuman strength of Oscar’s mechanical grip. It probably wasn’t as difficult as he let on. She took a closer look and saw the half sheet of plywood lying flat on the veranda roof. “Why would that room be sealed up more than all the rest?”

  “It was Neal’s room,” Oscar answered, as if that explained everything. It sent a small shiver up Brinn’s spine. What kind of little boy had her uncle been?

  “I thought you were taking me to the world he created… Isn’t that where you came from? What do you expect to find in the house?”

  Oscar turned around and surveyed the fields and forest beyond the farmyard. “I want you to take a good look out here before we go in. What do you see?”

  Brinn turned as Oscar had and took it all in. “Fields with crops in them. Wheat, canola—I’m not sure which. I grew up in town, never took much interest in that kinda stuff.”

  “What else?”

  “Trees, the old barn out back…clouds and blue sky. Just your typical prairie setting, I guess. What does it matter? Shouldn’t we be going to the old pond where Uncle Neal…had his accident?”

  “It matters because once we go inside things won’t seem quite the same.”

  They started back towards the veranda. A click sounded from behind them—the sound a rifle makes being cocked.

  “Not one more step,” a female voice warned.

  Brinn turned. “Gramma?”

  “Who are all your friends, Brinnie?” The rifle was pointed at Oscar’s chest.

  “Put the gun down, Gramma. Let’s talk.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Stauch,” Selma offered. She was standing back in the doorway with Bertha.

  The barrel lowered fractionally and Erin backed away from the house. “Out here, Brinnie. Away from the others.”

  Brinn hadn’t seen the woman in years, but she remembered the nickname well enough. When her mother had been alive, it had been the only thing Gramma Erin and Grampa Herb ever called her.

  She followed her into the weeds of the backyard. Erin kept the gun trained on Oscar until she backed into an old swing set Brinn hadn’t noticed before. The woman sat down in the worn canvas of one and motioned her granddaughter to sit in the one next to it.

  Brinn sat down carefully. The chains were coated with rust. An old memory resurfaced—another time, another swing set—it made her feel sad.

  “Who’s the man?” her grandmother asked, laying the rifle down in the grass.

  Brinn wondered why she wasn’t more concerned by the woman strapped in chainmail and toting a five-foot sword. “His name’s Oscar…he’s a secret agent.”

  The woman nodded, as if secret agents visited on a regular basis. “I’m not surprised. I’ve seen stranger types around here.” She looked into her granddaughter’s eyes. “But it’s been so long, and I sure wasn’t expecting to see you hanging around any.”

  “Any what? Secret agents?”

  �
��Secret agents, cowboys, spacemen…all those kinds. I’ve seen the man you’re with before. I’m almost certain.”

  “Well maybe you have.” Brinn hesitated for a moment. The desperation on the woman’s face made her continue. “He was one of Uncle Neal’s creations. He said he was there the day…”

  “The day what, Brinnie?”

  It rushed out of her. “The day Uncle Neal died. He drowned in the pond out back. It was an accident and Oscar tried to save him… I’m so sorry, Gramma.”

  Erin’s hands sank to her lap and she stared at some distant spot in the weeds. “Your grandfather said he was taken by a stranger on the highway between here and town. That’s what the police believed—it’s what we told your mother when she was old enough. But I always knew something else happened…deep down.”

  “I…I don’t understand.”

  Tears were spilling from her eyes as she looked back up. “Herb had seen the strange people too, I’m sure of it. He refused to talk about it, told me I was crazy for even mentioning such nonsense.”

  “You weren’t crazy. You did see them.”

  “Good to hear someone say that after all this time. But still, I had no proof, and since Herb wouldn’t even consider it…we had to go with the most likely story.”

  “We? So Grampa believed it, too?”

  The old woman’s bottom lip quivered. “You get to know what someone thinks after being married to them for a few years. You can see it in their eyes, the way they set their mouth, how their jaw clenches—men especially. Love someone long enough and you’ll learn more from what they don’t say.”

  Brinn had a sudden strong urge to hug her grandmother and tell her how sorry she was. She wanted to tell her everything—about Bertha, about Paris and all the others. This poor woman had suffered in silence for so long. And where had Brinnie been? She reached out and took her hands instead. “The man on the veranda can show me where Neal was taken.”

  “Oscar.” It was barely more than a whisper.

  “Yes, Oscar. Neal created him…just like I created Bertha.”

  Erin stared at the android. There was no malice in her eyes, only a look of long-lived sorrow and newfound relief. “He was good to my boy? Tried to save him?”

  “Yes, Gramma. I’m sure of it.” And Brinn was now certain of that. Bertha would have done the same for her. All of her make-believe friends would have sacrificed themselves for her safety. That’s just how it was. It would’ve been no different for Uncle Neal and his creations. That was what she’d found so comforting and truthful in Oscar’s eyes when she first met him. There was a bond, an unshakeable loyalty between children and their imaginary friends. It was a true, unconditional love.

  Erin stood up and walked through the weeds. She stared out across the yard and the forests beyond the house. “Where, Brinnie? Where are you going? Isn’t this all there is?”

  “Inside the farmhouse, if that’s okay with you. I’m not sure why, but Oscar says that’s where this all started. He says the world Uncle Neal left behind is falling apart. I’m going…we’re going to find a way to make things right.”

  There was a half minute of silence. Erin Stauch finally came to her granddaughter and kissed her forehead. She wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “If I was smart, I’d forbid it. Then I would call your father and make him drag you back home.”

  Tears were spilling down Brinn’s face as well. “I have to do this, Gramma. I know it all sounds so crazy, but I have to try.” And I have to find Mom.

  “I said if I was smart I would forbid it. But maybe being smart doesn’t always get you what you want. Maybe sometimes you just have to believe in others…and yourself.”

  She picked the rifle up and headed for the trail in the lilacs. Brinn followed. Erin looked back to the veranda and watched the man—the last person on Earth to ever see her son alive. He stood there in front of the broken windows, rubbing the back of his head, ten feet away from the strange woman. Selma stood between them, her hands shoved in jean pockets, looking impatient. “Are you going to be alright with those…people?”

  “Yeah, they’re okay.”

  “He was wearing a red tee-shirt and jeans. And a Toronto Blue Jays ball cap his father gave him.”

  “Gramma?”

  “It’s what Neal was wearing that day. I’ll never forget. He was so beautiful.”

  Erin Stauch started slowly back to her trailer.

  “I’ll be careful,” Brinn called to her.

  “You better be. And make sure you bring that Oscar back with you. I want to have a nice long talk with him about my son.”

  Brinn and Oscar followed the other two back inside the house. There was rubble everywhere. They chose their steps carefully as they went into the living room. Selma made her way to a fireplace along one wall that had seen brighter days and warmer evenings. “Your grandparents must have been in a big hurry to leave the place.” Everywhere she looked there were discarded magazines and newspapers. The ceiling had partially collapsed, littering the floor with more debris—moldy insulation, crumbling jip rock, and swollen ceiling tiles—piled half a foot deep in some places. There were bird and mouse droppings covering everything.

  “Gross,” Brinn answered with a disgusted twist of her face.

  “The building wasn’t that well sealed,” Bertha pointed out. “Once the elements get in to an old place like this…” She dropped a moisture-rippled issue of Time magazine onto the floor and wiped her hand across the chainmail covering her chest.

  “This way,” Oscar said, leaving the living room and working his way into an even messier kitchen. Little light filtered through the gaps between the plywood covering the windows, but it was enough for Brinn to see the broken stove with more bird droppings stuck to its elements. A refrigerator, one of those old behemoths with the rounded corners, had been pulled away from the wall, leaning to one side with its door stuck half open.

  “Don’t tell me that’s a doorway into another dimension,” Selma mocked. “Those old fridges are deathtraps. Someone should haul it to the dump and take it apart.”

  “No doorways into other dimensions,” Oscar said, and continued on. They left the kitchen and started down a dark, musty-smelling hallway. The old green carpet had been eaten away, revealing cracked tile beneath. Brinn skirted around a broken floorboard rising up in the middle, and her shoulder brushed against the cool wall. She felt the dry paint crack and chip down her arm. “Correction—someone should move this whole place to the dump.”

  They stepped around a toilet lying on its side, the tank stuck out in the hall, its business half still in the washroom. Bertha tapped it with the edge of her sword. “What is that thing?”

  “Not now, Bertha.” Brinn bumped into Oscar. He had stopped in front of a staircase landing. “Please don’t tell me we’re going up there. The ground floor is creepy enough.”

  Selma poked her head out from behind Brinn. “Yeah, can’t we stay down here?”

  “Neal’s bedroom is up there. We have to.” He saw the apprehension on their faces and smiled. “I was up there already, ladies. It isn’t that scary.”

  “That coming from a robot,” Selma added.

  His grin vanished. “I’m an android—it’s all human up here.” He pointed to the side of his head.

  They were halfway up, Oscar in the lead, Brinn and Selma behind him, and Bertha last— still brandishing her sword—when something small and gray scurried down the steps at them. Bertha flung the girls to one side and lunged at the shape, jabbing repeatedly. The steps gave way beneath her and she fell through. Oscar moved even faster, grabbing onto her free arm. Bertha’s fall ended immediately. Her legs had disappeared, but she was safe. The android pulled her back up effortlessly.

  The girls had made it to the top of the stairs. “What the hell was that?” Brinn asked.

  Bertha spat into the darkness of the opening. “A rat.”

  Selma didn’t appear bothered. “Did you kill it?”

 
Bertha looked at the end of her sword. “No.”

  “Try and be a bit more careful,” Oscar added. “Unless there are raccoons living up here, you won’t find any bigger creatures than that.” He joined Brinn and Selma on the second floor landing and they waited as Bertha tiptoed up the stair edges in her scuffed leather boots.

  There were four bedrooms in total; two on the east side, two facing west. Oscar pointed to the eastern room on their right. “That was your mom’s room when she was a kid.”

  There was less clutter up here. Brinn pushed the door in and it creaked on dry hinges. There was nothing in the small room. No rickety, rusted bed frame, no bookshelves or broken- down clothes drawers or vanities. There was no trace left showing a little girl had ever lived there. A beam of sunlight spread across one wall where a crack in the plywood covered the window. The pink paint was peeling and chipping away like all the other walls in the house.

  Oscar spoke in a soft voice behind her. “Your mom hadn’t been in here very long before Neal died, maybe a month or two. She was only five or six at the time. I think she’d just moved up from the room next to her parents’ downstairs.”

  “How would you know that? How could you know so much about my mom?”

  “Neal told me.”

  Brinn tried to imagine a little boy and this man sitting together in the backyard, staring up at the bedroom windows. The man asking questions—the boy providing answers. Don’t think those things, Brinn. He’s not like that.

  “It’s too damn dark and cold in here,” Bertha said, reaching the sealed-up window in two easy strides. She banged on an upper corner of the plywood with a fist and it popped out, flooding the room with more light. She did the same at the other corner and the wood fell outwards a foot. Bertha leaned down and gave the bottom half a solid crack with her elbow. Long nails screeched in protest as the entire sheet fell away onto the veranda roof.

  “Nice job, Bertha. You saved me the trouble,” Oscar said. He leaned against the window ledge and stuck his head outside.

  Selma stood behind him, shaking her head. “You guys gotta stop tearing the place apart. Brinn’s gramma has a gun, remember?”

  Oscar stepped aside so the teens could get a better look. “What do you see now?”