Edgar and Lucy

by Victor Lodato

  Once, at VanDervoort Park, he’d asked his mother if they could go into the rose garden. They were all in bloom, and Edgar had said how nice it would be to smell them. But his mother had said no—and when Edgar had asked why not, she’d replied, “Because I already know what they smell like.”

  Which Edgar had thought a funny thing to say. Of course a person knew what roses smelled like. Knowing was the exact reason a person would want to do it again. But, instead, his mother had pulled him over to a bench and told him to sit still while she made some phone calls. This was long before Mr. S, the butcher, but Edgar knew she was talking to one of her initials, the way she whispered and giggled while sipping the beer she’d smuggled into the park in a paper bag.

  Edgar wiped his eyes and turned back to the hairy cupcakes. People were coming close again—including the fat woman in stretchy shorts. With her thick North Jersey accent and her whipped hair and yellow-daisy decals on pink fingernails, she was particularly bothersome, reminding Edgar of another life. Plus, it was hard to ignore Conrad’s hands—going a mile a minute as if a bomb were about to explode.

  “Billings! Party of two!” someone shouted.

  Edgar felt dizzy.

  * * *

  The day before, the boy had been sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, bathed in pink light. He often sat there in the afternoon when the sun came through the little rose-glass window.

  The boy’s eyes had been closed, and Conrad had watched him—the shaft of sunlight illuminating countless mites of dust, brilliant sparkles that might have been stars, the little boy a giant among them. To Conrad the boy had seemed like the Creator Himself—imagining the pink light, imagining Conrad, who was feeling thin, not quite real. He was at wit’s end, without strategy. He wanted to end things; start again. He wanted Edgar to open his eyes and stop dreaming.

  Suddenly he’d laughed, feeling drunk.

  Maybe he was drunk. On the last shopping trip, he’d bought a couple of liters. It had been nearly two years since he’d taken a sip. He’d gone cold turkey right after Kevin.

  When he joined Edgar in the pink light, the boy made no comment about Conrad’s laughter—saying only, “I can smell you.” After Conrad curled up on the floor, Edgar stood and walked away. A moment later, he was back with a blanket.

  Conrad said he wasn’t cold, but Edgar covered him anyway, suggested a nap.

  “Do I need one?”

  “Yes,” said Edgar.

  Like a distractible child, Conrad sat up. “Do you still want to go to Shamong?”

  The boy didn’t answer. He stood there like a statue, inscrutable—and when Conrad said, “Would you rather I tie you up?” Edgar’s lips began to quiver.

  “Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?” asked Conrad.

  Edgar shook his head; said he was going outside with Jack.

  “Just sit with me a minute,” said Conrad.

  The boy hesitated. He had a pine needle in the cuff of his jeans, and Conrad reached out to remove it.

  “They always get in there,” said Edgar, moving away, promising he wouldn’t be long.

  “We’ll go tomorrow,” Conrad called out. “For real. Okay?”

  “I didn’t ask to go,” Edgar shouted back, as the screen door slammed.

  The next morning, though, when Edgar came into the living room dressed like a Mormon (white shirt, blue pants, a backpack slung over his shoulders), Conrad’s heart had lurched.

  “You’re wearing your new outfit?” He’d bought it for the boy a few weeks before in Hammonton.

  Edgar asked if the shirt was too big, and Conrad said it looked pretty good.

  “What’s the backpack for?” It was the same one the boy had arrived with.

  “I always take it when I go out.”

  When Conrad asked what was inside, the boy said there was a book and a sketch pad, some pencils. “So I can keep myself busy if you need to do things.”

  Conrad felt confused as to what the boy meant. An unpleasant thought came to mind, but was interrupted by the cuckoo clock. Both he and the boy turned to it, watched the bird squeal and the woodchopper chop—the little figures putting on the same show they’d been doing since Conrad was a child, assuring him that certain things were eternal. “Let me get my coat,” he said.

  “You won’t need a coat,” the boy replied. “It’s only cold in here. It’s warm outside.”

  “Right. Plus, we’re not going far.” Conrad clenched his fists. Why did he keep saying this?—that the café wasn’t far, that they’d be back in a few hours. It was true, of course, but the boy was smart and might think it wasn’t.

  Outside, Jack was whining at her post. The boy petted her and told her not to bark.

  She did, of course—and as they drove away they could hear her, it seemed, for miles.

  * * *

  “Welcome to Mighty Joe’s,” the waitress said, handing them the menus.

  They were in a corner booth by a window, from which Edgar could see a chicken coop, as well as a bit of the gorilla’s left arm.

  “Coffee?” asked the waitress.

  Conrad nodded.

  “And for you, young man?”

  Edgar swallowed, tried to say milk.

  “What’s that?”

  “He’ll have some milk,” said Conrad.

  “You want chocolate milk, babe?” For the first time, Edgar looked up at her. She had bushy black hair with white stripes running through it. She looked like a zebra. Around her eyes were starbursts of wrinkles. She smelled soapy, but also like she had a body. She was smiling.

  “Yes, please,” said Edgar.

  When she walked away he stared after her until he realized Conrad was saying something.

  “I just need to use the restroom.” Conrad looked pale. He scooted out of the booth.

  Edgar stood. “I’ll—”

  “No, you wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Edgar watched the man enter the bathroom, and felt a twinge when he heard the bolt turn. Sitting down, he pushed his backpack closer to the wall, patted his pockets: in one was his fold-up knife; in the other the diamond ring. He’d wanted to take the Virgin’s head as well, but it would have been noticeable in his pocket. Also, if he’d brought three things for luck, it would have made him worry even more that something bad was going to happen. Taking two things seemed almost normal.

  “What’ll you have, babe?” The waitress was back, setting down the drinks.

  “He—he’s in the bathroom,” sputtered Edgar. “But…”

  The Zebra smiled, patient.

  “I—I think I know what we’ll have.” He’d known for weeks. “Blueberry pie, please.”

  “Oh, sorry, not yet,” said the Zebra. “It’s a little early. We’ve got a nice cherry, though—or I can do you a piece of strawberry-rhubarb.”

  Edgar wasn’t ready for the change of plans. He looked up toward the overhead lamp—the light reflecting beautifully on his face. It was then that the waitress noticed something familiar about him.

  “I wanted blueberry,” he said quietly—seemed to be saying it to the light above him.

  “I tell you what,” the waitress said. “Come back in two weeks and I’ll cut you an extra-big slice.”

  Edgar pressed down on the diamond in his pocket to keep himself from crying.

  “I’ll have cherry,” he said.

  “Good choice. And for the old man?”

  “The same,” said Edgar. He looked again toward the ceiling.

  “Been in here before, babe?”

  When Edgar said, “No,” she wondered if maybe she’d seen him on television.

  “You’re not an actor, are you?”

  Edgar turned to her, confused. “I’m not lying.”

  “No no no,” she said. “I’m only saying you’ve got a nice face.”

  Edgar blushed, and the Zebra winked, wrinkling her eyes even more.

  Star of Bethlehem, he thought. All he said, th
ough—and very quietly—was “Thank you.”

  * * *

  When Conrad came out of the bathroom, he noticed the waitress chatting with a man behind a counter, both of them looking over at Edgar.

  Conrad intruded with a tight smile. “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” said the waitress. “Just getting your pie.”

  “We didn’t order yet.”

  “Your boy did. Cherry okay?”

  “His name is Edgar,” Conrad said boldly.

  The waitress nodded, unsure why the man was telling her this. “Can I get you something else? Oh, there he goes.”

  Conrad turned just as Edgar slipped out the door.

  The waitress laughed at the man’s startled face. “It’s okay. He’s probably just going out to see Mighty Joe.”

  “Fuck,” hissed Conrad—apologizing immediately. “I just—I should check on him.” He tried to walk slowly as he crossed the room, uncertain now why he’d brought the boy here. Was it this—what was happening now? Exposure. Loss. To let the world steal back what he’d refused to relinquish.

  Or was this supposed to be the beginning? Day One. Father and son at a café, eating pie, immune to doubt. Your boy, the waitress had said.

  Conrad proceeded cautiously, but as he neared the door he began to run, shoving aside an old man.

  “Watch out,” someone scolded.

  Outside there was a crowd. Conrad tried not to push, but he did. “Have you seen a little boy?” he asked. His tone was sharp, though, so no one answered. When he was in the clear, he stopped.

  There was Edgar. Not gone, not running. He was standing by the white fence, looking up at the gorilla. Conrad laughed, turned to the crowd and offered a belated “Excuse me.” They stared at him. The waitress he’d been chatting with had stepped outside, too. “Everything okay?”

  Conrad nodded. As he moved toward the boy, he noticed the fresh paint on the statue. Someone had touched it up since the last time he’d been here. The lips too red; the teeth too bright. Edgar was perfectly still, looking up at the sculpture. Conrad didn’t wish to disturb him yet. He was no doubt reading the sign on the gorilla’s chest.

  Hello, my name is Mighty Joe.

  The simian had once stood on the boardwalk at Wildwood. The family who owned the café had bought the monster at auction, put it up as a memorial to their son. Conrad was pleased by Edgar’s interest.

  Joe was the boy’s name. A boxer. Who now lives in the kingdom of heaven, the sign read. Or something to that effect. Conrad moved closer.

  Joe was not only mighty in his appearance, but also in his courage. He is truly missed by his family and friends. He is always in our thoughts and prayers. My job is to look up to heaven from time to time and say, “Hey, Joe, we will always love you!”

  Vulgar, Conrad had always thought—death by Walt Disney, working-class horseshit—and yet, walking toward the ape grave, he felt deeply moved. He knew that Edgar would feel the same. Together they would stand in silence, seal their vows. Conrad stepped into the shadow of the ape and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Edgar spun around—his eyes aflame.

  “Terrible,” Conrad tried to say, but before the word was halfway out, Edgar was upon him, knocking his tiny fists against Conrad’s stomach and ribs. Screaming, too—a horrendous bird screech, not unlike the sound he’d made the first few weeks when he’d been locked inside Kevin’s bedroom. The memory paralyzed Conrad. For several seconds he let the boy strike, even though the blows were painful.

  Conrad sensed the crowd watching. He grabbed Edgar’s arms. “Enough!”

  The boy swung his legs, kicking. Whatever words were coming from Edgar’s mouth Conrad chose not to understand. After such generosity on both their parts, it was impossible that the boy could be saying, I hate you. I hate you!

  “Are you all right, son?” someone said, coming close.

  “I’m not your son!” Edgar shouted viciously.

  “Apologize to the man,” ordered Conrad—and when Edgar’s only response was a prolonged howl, Conrad slapped him. The boy stumbled and fell.

  Then there was silence everywhere—in the crowd, but most profoundly from Edgar. Conrad turned to the onlookers, assured them that everything was okay.

  He turned back to the boy—who wasn’t moving. “Edgar? Stop playing.” He touched the boy with his foot, and only then saw the stone near the child’s head.

  “It’s fine,” Conrad said to no one. “It’s fine.” This was nothing like what had happened before, he told himself. There was no blood. “Edgar?” He knelt down and picked up the boy, whose face had drained of color.

  Muttering intruders gathered round. “He’s fine,” said Conrad, moving toward the truck—and though the ground was level, he had a sense of falling. A falling that, if he were lucky, might go on forever—no bottom, no crash. The body still warm in his arms.

  “Stop pretending,” he said to a limp Edgar. And then to the crowd: “He’s just kidding. He does that. Edgar!”

  The waitress with the black-and-white hair was there—her hands glued to her face.

  “His stuff!” she said, dashing back into the café. But, by the time she’d made it outside again, it was too late. The truck was pulling away, trailed by a ghost of exhaust.

  She unzipped the backpack, pulled out the sunscreen, the Jane Austen, the sketch pad. Her hands shook as she rustled through the pages.

  Sara Billings was written on the inside of the paperback—and, in the sketch pad, below a drawing of an orange moon and a scattering of red stars: This book is the property of Edgar Allan Fini.

  “Holy shit,” said the Zebra, fumbling for her phone.

  66

  Keep It Clean

  The room was too bright, the dim Victorian lamps pointless below ceiling panels of lightning-strike fluorescence.

  Lucy tried the lid, but it was locked. Not that she wanted to see his face; she just wanted to be sure he was in there.

  “Of course he’s in there,” said Ron. “Sit down.”

  He’d made her come to the wake in a wheelchair.

  “I have an appointment with Anita,” she said, confused.

  “That was yesterday,” said Ron.

  Lucy tried the lid again. It was absurdly large. Why did he need such an enormous casket? The last time she’d seen him he’d been so small. It seemed a waste to put him inside a giant refrigerator. She wondered if someone had at least combed his hair. Slicked it back with grease. Her father had always used a goop that smelled like cinnamon and motor oil. Sometimes, when he’d come too close, the grease had smeared against her cheek.

  Her father, she had to keep reminding herself. It was her father inside the box.

  She sat in the chair and glanced behind her, scratching a weary eye across the room. Hardly anyone had shown up to bid the old man goodbye. A few withered truckers from the union; none of their wives. Some neighbors from West Mill—a handful of which Lucy remembered from her childhood. She nodded, kept her distance.

  “What do you have there?” asked Ron.

  “Nothing,” said Lucy, not recalling why she’d brought the little rubber alien. “I just need a few minutes alone—okay?”

  Ron let go of the chair, and Lucy wheeled herself closer to the casket. Some other Lucy might have spit on it. Even the lilies were screaming, sticking out their tongues. Lucy’s fire was gone, though. She was a dead star, a giant piece of lint.

  In some ways it was a relief. It had been a long fight, a long fucking fight. The great resistance. Everything, always, a battle, her whole life. It had started here, with him. He’d given her her rage. Rage that had somehow found its way to forgiveness—but too late.

  You’re a good girl, her mother used to say afterwards. It’s not your fault.

  Lucy reached out a hand to wipe a smudge off the silver casket, but only made it worse—leaving a smear of sweaty fingerprints.

  Why did the same things keep happening? You loved people and they went away. She
wasn’t thinking of her father—whom she couldn’t claim to love, even now. Neither was she thinking of Edgar. She was thinking of her mother, Elena, who’d made, on her deathbed, a single request: that Lucy visit her grave and keep it clean.

  “Yes,” Lucy had said. “I promise.”

  Not once, though, since her mother’s burial, had she gone to the cemetery. She’d been a child when she’d made that promise. What had she known then about loyalty or time?

  The butcher stepped forward, held her arm while she wept.

  Her parents were gone. It hurt more than she would have expected—and then it really hurt. A painful contraction that made her jackknife forward. “Ahhh.”

  “Is it? Are you?” babbled Ron. “Is it the baby?”

  “Motherfucker!” cried Lucy, holding her belly.

  Some old neighbors from West Mill shook their heads, remembering the foul-mouthed girl running from Walter and Elena’s house. It seemed, to them, that nothing had changed. This girl, that girl: one and the same.

  “Motherfucker!” she cries again, as Ron wheels her out the door.

  67

  Seven Bridges

  Conrad drove north, toward Tabernacle. He knew of a small shop there called the Black Bear, run by a slack-jawed geezer who never got up from his chair, pointed at things, only accepted cash. The road was clear of traffic, and Conrad took his liberty, hard-pedaling the gas until the old engine sounded like a helicopter. A rising wind tattered the clouds. Shadows jumped, and little gray birds burst in and out of the light like buckshot.

  “Shhh,” Conrad said to the boy, though the boy had said nothing. He was lying peacefully across the seat, jostled now and then by ruts in the road. Conrad turned left at the old wooden sign nailed to a creosote-drenched telephone pole: SODA AND SUNDRIES. He’d buy a blanket, some snacks, a few bottles of water. Sunscreen, maybe a tarp. He had plenty of gas.

  “Fuck,” he said as he came to a stop—the panic flashing hot and white like a migraine. He bit the insides of his cheeks and stepped out of the truck. “Right back,” he said, gently closing the door.

  * * *

  After Tabernacle, he drove east, and then dipped into the Wharton Forest—but not toward the cabin. The boy was covered with one of the blankets. Conrad had always wanted to show him the Mullica, that great snake of a river. Had imagined a day trip on a canoe, all the way down to where the Ice Age waters emptied into the Great Bay.