South of Main Street

by Robert Gately

  The flakes vanished in mid-flight as soon as Danny and Dixie touched them. They reached for another, and then another, and each time the flakes disappeared like magic. They marveled in silence at the spectacle.

  They continued walking. “Do you know the number seven in Seven-Up was selected because the original containers were seven ounces and ‘Up’ suggested the direction of the bubbles?”

  “Oh, no. Here we go again. Trivia.” Danny cried out.

  “I like playing trivia,” Dixie said. “Like knowing that two-thirds of the world’s eggplant is grown in New Jersey.”

  “Exactly,” Henry said. “Helps fill the time while we walk to the park. Don’t you know any useless information, Danny boy?”

  “What good is it memorizing useless crap if it’s useless?” Danny asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What good is it?” Henry cried out. “Why, it’s fun to learn things you didn’t know. It’s like learning things for the first time. It’s like that word ‘crap’ you just said.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Dixie said. “You’re not allowed to use bad words, Danny.”

  “The word ‘crap’,” Henry continued, “comes from a man’s name, Thomas Crapper, who most believe invented the flush toilet, but he didn’t really.”

  “Ooo. That was a good one,” Dixie said.

  “Okay, then. I got one,” Danny said. “All of the clocks in the movie Pulp Fiction are stuck on four-twenty.”

  Henry thought for a few beats. “That counts. That’s good.”

  Danny’s countenance suddenly changed. His chest jutted out a few inches as he swung his fist at a snowflake knocking it to smithereens. “Yes!”

  “The city of Portland,” Dixie piped in, “The one in Oregon, was named after a coin toss in 1844. Heads for Portland and tails for Boston.”

  “So what.” Danny said. “That’s not interesting.”

  Dixie bent down, packed some snow and threw it at Danny. The snow broke up and scattered in a thousand directions.

  “Okay. Here’s one,” Danny said. “Did you ever hear someone say ‘the whole nine yards’?”

  “Sure,” Henry replied.

  “Well, the machine guns in a World War Two fighter plane had these ammo belts which measured exactly twenty-seven feet.” Danny turned to Dixie. “That’s nine yards.”

  “Duh,” Dixie said, at the same time she pushed Danny into Henry.

  “Well,” Danny continued undeterred, “if a pilot fired all his ammo at once at a target, the target got ‘the whole nine yards’. And that’s where it came from.”

  Henry clapped. “That’s a good one. That’s the best one so far.”

  “No good. Too long,” Dixie yelled. “It’s gotta be short and quick. Like, ‘Thirty-five percent of the people who use personal ads for dating are already married.’”

  “It takes 3,000 cows to make all the footballs for the NFL in one year.” Danny bowed, but he was the only one clapping.

  “Okay ... okay. I got a winning entry here,” Henry interjected. “Now, you gotta listen up for this one, Danny, because this one will help you understand women better. Here’s a sample of a woman’s English. When they say ‘yes’, they really mean ‘no’. When they say ‘no’, they mean ‘yes’. ‘Maybe’ means ‘no’. ‘I’m sorry’ really means ‘you’ll be sorry’. And ‘we need’ means ‘I want’.

  Dixie jumped on Henry’s back. “That’s terrible. You’re a chauvinist.”

  “Danny, help me!” Dixie yelled. Her grip was slipping but Danny tackled Henry by the legs and Henry fell to the ground while he yelled, “T-I-M-B-E-R”.

  In a moment of frenzied snow throwing, they all began laughing hysterically. There was an endless supply of ammo and they scooped it up and threw it wildly and indiscriminately. The snow scattered in all directions, and the more they threw, the more they laughed. They continued to laugh until they couldn’t throw anymore.

  * * *

  HENRY WALKED past the bridge ahead of his two young friends. A melancholy spirit temporarily engulfed him while he debated whether to look down the embankment to see how his homeless friends were doing. They were probably okay, huddled together out of sight beneath the bridge under a dozen donated jackets and blankets.

  Dixie caught up to Henry and used him as a shield against the onslaught of Danny’s snowballs. Danny belted Henry with a flurry of harmless snow from behind. Before Henry knew it, he was in a battle once again where the ammunition was a boundless supply of gobs and chunks of the white stuff, and where alliances were set only temporarily. It was kill whoever was in attacking range.

  The three of them interchanged their allegiances as quickly as they could pack a new snowball. As Henry ducked and fled from the line-of-fire, he scurried down the hill on Delancy Street into the north side of the park. Dixie and Danny were in hot pursuit.

  Henry laughed over the fact they we all covered with snow from head to toe. “Okay. Time out ... time out,” Henry kept on yelling at his youthful companions, trying to establish a peace. But they continued their war and Henry had to grab his chest, mocking a heart attack, to remind his youthful friends that he was in a different age group and he was not filled with their limitless energy and that at any moment, indeed any second, he could keel over and die.

  Henry walked over to a bench, brushed off the snow and sat down. He felt exhausted.

  “Are you all right, Henry?” Dixie asked.

  Henry nodded because it was easier than shaking his head. They all sat on the bench at the edge of the park and quietly watched the flakes stream down from the sky.

  After a few moments of reflection, Henry repeated the poem he had recited at the funeral.

  “That’s so nice, Henry,” Dixie declared.

  “That’s boring crap,” Danny said.

  Henry dogged Danny with a long, hard stare.

  “What? … What?” Danny responded innocently.

  “Wouldn’t you like to rephrase that?”

  “Rephrase what?” Danny didn’t seem to have a clue what Henry meant.

  “That’s boring stuff, or that’s a boring poem, don’t you mean to say?”

  “Don’t use bad language in front of Henry,” Dixie told Danny with a sarcastic tone. “And for your information, it was a very nice poem.”

  “Okay. Sorry,” Danny said. “Ooooo.”

  Henry got up and started walking. As Dixie and Danny followed him deeper into the park, Henry had Danny memorizing the poem, a form of punishment for his foul mouth. By the time they reached the center of the park, Dixie and Danny were alternately repeating the lines.

  “Sing like nobody’s listening,” Danny recited.

  “And live like it’s Heaven on Earth,” Dixie finished the poem. “Cool crap,” she added as an epitaph.

  Henry’s mouth dropped and he cast Dixie a chilly gaze. Then Danny shouted out, “Look at these flakes. They’re bigger than my balls.”

  Dixie chuckled, but Henry was not amused by either of them. He glared at both of them, alternately.

  “Baseballs,” Danny said. “I meant baseballs.”

  “I don’t believe you two,” Henry said. “Your mouths should be washed out with soap. Your language sucks.”

  Suddenly, his head snapped forward and he felt a sting from a sharp pelt of a snowball. He turned and saw Danny laughing and waving his gloves in the air as if to see, ‘catch me if you can.’ Then Henry took another hit in the head, this time from Dixie. The mighty battle was about to resume.

  * * *

  HENRY APPROACHED the center of the park straggling behind Dixie and Danny. His coat and pants showed signs that he had taken the worst of the fight. The snow was still coming down heavily, and the landscape was completely white. Groups of children were already playing in the open space while their mothers were by the swings, a sizeable distance away, watching them.

  Henry rested on a fence and watched the children play. He saw a mother escorting a boy to a group of children who were already playing.
She pointed to the swings where the other mothers were, then kissed the boy. While she drudged her way over to the swing area, the older children pummeled the abandoned boy with a series of snowballs.

  Henry wondered for a moment why this seemed to be a ubiquitous trait of human nature, the stronger bullying the weaker, like there were emotional pleasures gained from dominating the defenseless.

  “Who’s that boy getting picked on?” Henry asked Danny.

  “You mean, the kid who’s getting killed?” Danny asked. “He’s that new boy. Tommy Milkshake, or something.”

  “Tommy Maltin, you knucklehead.” Dixie chimed in. “He’s new to the neighborhood. He moved here a couple of months ago.”

  “I’ve seen him around,” Henry pondered. “His father died recently, didn’t he?”

  “Divorced,” Dixie said, and then cringed at the sight of Tommy getting hit in the head.

  “Oh. Divorced. Hmm.” Henry waited a couple of seconds, then highbrowed Danny and Dixie. “Well, don’t you think Tommy-boy is a little outnumbered?”

  “Yes. I do.” Dixie responded immediately.

  Henry stood up tall, brushed off his clothes, re-energized by the thought of coming to the aide of the defenseless. A call-to-arms had been issued. The three of them marched to territory occupied by Tommy. In an instant, they were in the middle of a battle.

  “Mr. Maltin,” Henry said when they arrived to his side. “It appears you need help.” Henry smiled at the Maltin boy and he could see the child change from a timid soul, afraid to pack a snowball, to a brave military soldier who had just received word that an infantry division had come to his position to give him support. The Maltin boy instantly showed his courage to Henry, the commander of this outfit, by packing a snowball and throwing it recklessly in the direction of the enemy. It dissolved and became dust in the wind before reaching its target.

  For several minutes, the four of them were in full military operation on the south side of an imaginary front line of a battle zone. Henry instructed his team on a maneuver, then flung snowballs high in the air, one after the other, towards the enemy. The opposition forces watched the incoming artillery to avoid getting bopped on the head. While they were distracted by this rocket-like launch, Dixie, Danny and Tommy threw snowballs straight as arrows, chest-level snowballs that found their targets and neutralized the enemy’s assault. Victory was imminent.

  * * *

  MRS. MALTIN SETTLED next to Mrs. Hodges, a woman with bulging eyes. “Hi, my name is Dorothy. Dorothy Maltin. I’m new to the area.”

  Mrs. Hodges introduced herself, and before long they were talking as if they had known each other for ages. Mrs. Hodges queried Mrs. Maltin with a series of get-to-know-you kind of questions.

  “I’m a writer,” Mrs. Maltin said, with a degree of pride. “And I’m a mother, of course.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. We have a writer in town.”

  “I haven’t written anything in a long time. But I had a series of children’s books that were somewhat popular a decade ago.”

  Mrs. Hodges seemed very impressed, but it was hard for Mrs. Maltin to tell since Mrs. Hodges’ eyes always bulged from her head.

  “The sad truth is,” Mrs. Maltin said, “I haven’t written a story in thirteen years. The city life … so stifling. Terrible crime, you know. So, I moved here at the end of the summer in hopes that Tommy would have a safer place to live and I might get some inspiration and start writing again. Hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the suburbs of Philadelphia are exactly what you need to clear the cobwebs.” Mrs. Hodges laughed.

  They both spotted Henry who was engaging the children.

  “Isn’t that the man whose wife just died,” Mrs. Maltin inquired.

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Hodges confirmed. “Mary Wolff … poor soul. That’s Henry.”

  “I feel bad about that. I heard about Mary Wolff at a town hall meeting. But … I heard that he … I mean, Henry … he’s not all there, if you know what I mean.” Mrs. Maltin pointed to her head and twirled her finger a couple of times. “There’re rumors about him. I don’t know what to believe. I mean, look at him.”

  They watched Henry and it was hard for Mrs. Maltin to tell who the adult was. Mrs. Maltin observed Henry getting hit with a snowball, as he spun, tilted, clutched his chest and, with much drama, collapsed to the ground.

  “Oh, he’s harmless,” Mrs. Hodges said, her eyes swimming in a pool of water. “Your son’s fine.”

  Mrs. Maltin continued to monitor her son’s play. She saw Henry zooming around and in between the children like an airplane. “What’s the matter with him, anyway?” Mrs. Maltin asked.

  Mrs. Hodges explained to Tommy’s mother about what Mary had told her ages ago, which was basically what Mary told everyone. Henry came out of the Granada shell-shocked. Mrs. Hodges twisted an imaginary key by her head, close to her temple, suggesting Henry’s mind was shut off.

  “There were rumors he was a prisoner of war and made a daring escape on a motorcycle,” Mrs. Hodges said. “But Mary told me that was a rumor Henry had started. The sad thing was …,” Mrs. Hodges leaned in, about to tell a secret, “… what happened to their infant son. Crib death! Some people said that was too much for Mr. Wolff. The war syndrome, and the kid’s death … all too much for him.” She broke an imaginary twig with her hands. “He just snapped. Acts like a kid now. Been that way for thirty years.”

  “That’s so sad,” Mrs. Maltin sighed. “But are you sure he can be trusted?”

  “Sure. I think so.”

  “You think so? That doesn’t sound all that confident,” Mrs. Maltin said a little startled. She watched Henry very carefully now, and saw that his antics were as free and expressive as the children’s. “In all these years, he hasn’t gotten any better?”

  “Maybe a little. But … not much.”

  “What about the older girl with him. Who’s she?”

  “Oh, her,” Mrs. Hodges said, one eyebrow rose higher than the other. “That’s Dixie. Not a good breed at all. She lives on the south side of Main Street, if you know what I mean. Drugs. Now, I don’t want to be accused of gossip. But …”

  “Oh, no. Please. Say what needs to be said. She’s playing with my son. God forbid, I don’t want him associating with a bad influence. You can understand that?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Well, tell me more about her then.”

  “Yes, well some people say that she’s very free with her affections with the wrong kind of people, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. That’s terrible.”

  “And, as God is my witness, I don’t like to gossip, but some even say that she gets her drugs … you know ... by selling her affections.”

  “Oh, goodness, no. That’s worse.”

  * * *

  HENRY SURVEYED the battlefield in one glance. Two groups had formed their camps: Henry and his staff of three were the forces of good; the main group of children was, for a brief moment, the forces of evil. The forces of good had pushed the evildoers further north where they were no longer a threat. The center of the park was, suddenly, a demilitarized zone.

  Danny and Tommy huddled close together and cheered Henry, who stood on the bench with his arms extended out like airplane wings. Dixie slowly snuck behind Henry without being noticed.

  “I can fly. Do you believe I can fly?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, yes. I believe you can fly,” Tommy yelled.

  Henry crouched low getting ready to spring off the bench, but Dixie came out from nowhere, pushed Henry off the bench and he fell head first into the snow.

  * * *

  DIXIE NOTICED the mothers while Henry lay in the snow faking his death. The old bags were looking at them … at her, in particular. They were not all that far away and she could tell by the looks on their faces that they were not talking about happy business. Dixie had a lot of experience deciphering body language and facial expressions, and she knew when people
were talking about her in a not-so-pleasant way. The shakes of the head, the side glances and the frowns were an all too familiar way of being told she was bad news. A loser.

  She turned to Henry and tried to push those thoughts from her mind. “Fly, my ass,” she said to Henry. “If you can fly, then I’m Miss America.”

  Henry raised his hands to the sky and sung, “I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky.”

  “I know that song,” Tommy shouted, and jumped in, harmonized with Henry. “Think about it every night and day. Spread my wings and fly away. I believe I can soar.”

  Dixie took another look at the aging gabbers and didn’t like their long-distance expressions at all. She turned her back to them, a conscious gesture to block them from her mind.

  “Why are you teaching these kids they can fly?” Dixie reproached Henry. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Henry. Their parents …”

  “Mr. Wolff can fly if he wants to,” Tommy yelled. “Right, Mr. Wolff?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fly. Fly.” Tommy repeated several times, like in the song, and as if he actually expected Henry to fly.

  Dixie tried to hold Henry back, but she couldn’t stop him. She noticed the excitement in everyone’s face, the anticipation of the moment of truth when Henry would spring off the bench and either soar like an eagle or flop into the snow once again. She found herself drawn into the drama of the moment and became open to the tiny possibility that he could actually fly. “Okay, you fool. Let’s see you soar.”

  Dixie shot a look at the mothers again. Ignore them, she thought. It had been a long time since Dixie hung out like this and acted so carefree. It felt good. She wouldn’t let them take that feeling away. She wouldn’t let them steal her energy. She shook her head to rid herself of those … rumor mongers.

  But something inside her actually felt a little melancholy. She had always felt cheated not having a father while growing up. She didn’t have an image of a dad playing with her, no memories of running to meet him after a hard day’s work. No goodnight kisses and no fairy tales before going to bed. Her childhood was void of any consistent male figures, except for Gramps who visited occasionally. Plenty of transient men, though. Most of the faces were vague blurs. One night stands, maybe two. There were a few who lasted longer. She remembered some piggyback rides and checkers games with a bearded man. She remembered a foot she sat on once and a leg she clutched. In her mind it was the leg of a faceless man. But maybe that leg belonged to her uncle. Or maybe it was a memory of her grandfather.