by Marc Simon
“But wuh…what about Heaven?” Benjamin said. “Do we guh…go to Heaven? Ma said when Frisky died, Frisky went to Heaven.”
“Well, see? Like I always say, listen to your mother.”
Arthur sneered. “Ma said that just to make you stop crying, Benjamin. Frisky was a hamster. Hamsters don’t go to Heaven. You only go to Heaven if you’re a human being and you’re good, but if you’re not, you go to Hell.”
Alex said, “Go to Hell.”
“Now you watch your mouth, buster. You see what you boys are teaching him?”
“But it’s true, dad. When you’re bad you go down below, the Devil sticks his pitchfork in you to torture you and then you burn in a fire, but you don’t really burn up, you just keep burning.”
Benjamin was on the edge of tears. “I don’t want to burn.”
Abe thought about his own flesh rotting in the grave, worms crawling through his eyeballs. He wondered if it was painful, or slimy—just how would it feel? And the cold, and the darkness, and the silence. He shivered. “Yeah, well then, you better be good boys so you don’t end up there, so you go up to Heaven and meet up with God.”
When he heard the word God, Alex remembered a page in his Life of Christ book and said, “And sit at God’s right hand.” He made the sign of the cross in the air.
“Alex? Arthur, what’s he doing?”
Alex said, “There’s a picture in the book.”
“What book?” Abe said.
Alex held up his Child’s Life of Christ.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“Grandma gave it to me.”
*
On the third day of her illness, Irene hovered between bad and worse. Around nine in the morning, after Abe had left for work and the older boys were off to school, she thought she might go downstairs and make herself a cup of tea, but she was so wobbly on her feet she tripped over the belt of her bathrobe. She lay on the floor for what seemed like an hour to her, until her head cleared enough for her to get back into bed. She managed a few swallows of tepid water and some oyster crackers, which stuck halfway down her red, raw throat. A plate of eggs and potatoes sat on her night table, the breakfast Abe had left for her, but the thought of eating it made acid rise in her throat. He’d told her that her mother would be watching Alex, but in her fevered state she couldn’t be sure if he said her mother was coming or was already here. She noticed a stale smell, then realized it was coming from her and remembered that she hadn’t so much as washed her face for what was it, two days or three? Her flannel gown was damp around the neck. She longed for something to read, a mystery, a romance, a cookbook, a Sears catalog, the Bible, even, just something to pass the dizzy monotony of time.
A noise came from downstairs. It sounded like her mother’s voice, saying something to Alex. She loved him so much, more than the other boys, she had to admit to herself. Who else did she love? Her bigger boys, yes, in a fundamental way, but they didn’t clutch her heart like Alex did. Abe? Maybe at one time there was something close to love, but even that glimmer had faded years ago. Her mother? Did her mother ever love her? Not like she loved her boys. Her mother wasn’t capable.
She pulled the blanket up to her chin. It would be warm out soon, wouldn’t it, warm enough to turn the soil in the garden plot? She resolved to plant more flowers this year. She would give Alex his own section of dirt. Oh, she couldn’t wait to tell him, to see his little features light up. He could wear his Rough Riders cowboy hat to keep the sun off his face. Beans. He could plant beans and it would be like Jack and the Bean Stalk and he could climb up and find the treasure.
But some day, not so far away, she would have to send her fairy tale boy off to school, but then, how could she? Even though he was smart as a whip, she knew all about the mean things boys could and would do to someone so little, and his big brothers wouldn’t always be there to protect him.
A fly landed on her water glass. She coughed, and one cough led to another, and it was several seconds before she caught her breath. Her lungs ached so much her eyes teared over.
She heard Alex say, “Don’t cry, Momma.”
Although her eyes were filmy, she could see that he was sitting on the floor next to the foot of the bed. She wanted to grab him and hug him tight to her chest, but she knew that she couldn’t, that he shouldn’t even be in the room with her, and how in God’s name had he gotten in? Where was her mother, who was supposed to be taking care of him? She picked up the little bell from night table and rang it as hard as she could, hoping desperately her mother would hear. In between rings, she said, “Alex, you have to stay away from Momma, sweetheart.”
“Can I read you a story?”
Read me a story? Since when could he read? Had she taught him? In her feverish state of mind, she couldn’t remember. He knew his letters, but reading, it didn’t seem likely, yet with The Dip swimming in head, she couldn’t be sure one way or the other, maybe her mother had taught him, or his brothers, so maybe he really could read. “Yes. Read me a story, Alex.”
From A Child’s Life of Christ, Alex read, “‘Very far from our own country lies the land where Jesus Christ was born.’ And there’s a picture, Momma. Want to see?”
Before she lost awareness, Irene had an image of a bright and sunny garden, with roses and tulips wet with dewdrops, and Alex standing in the center, straight and seven feet tall, in a white robe with a chain of flowers around his neck.
Chapter 8
His long arms easily reached the top of the bed, even though he was a head short of the mattress. Mommy didn’t smell like Mommy, he thought, not like her usual vanilla and soap smell. It was a smell he didn’t like, and though he knew something was wrong he had to be with her just the same.
He’d worked his way to the front of the bed when Ida lifted him away by the armpits. “Alex, come away from there. Good Lord.”
He began to cry, why wouldn’t she let him be with Mommy? “Let me go, I want Momma.”
“You can’t, not now, sweetheart. You don’t want to catch The Dip, do you? Plus, can’t you see your momma is sleeping?”
As she came down the stairs with Alex in one arm, she traced her hand over the banister, noting with disdain how dusty it was, it probably bred diseases, but then, how much cleaning could she expect from her daughter, who was, after all, flat on her back, and her slob of a husband, he wouldn’t lift a finger to do any housework on a bet. No, he left the mess to his mother-in-law.
She put Alex on the kitchen floor with his book and crayons and a sugar cookie. Before too long, Arthur and Benjamin would burst in the door, clamoring for lunch. She tied one of Irene’s aprons around her back. It had been a long time since she’d prepared meals for anyone but herself, and her needs were simple. She ate much the same thing every day—a poached egg and toast for breakfast, with tea; a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch, with relish and canned fruit; and a pork roast or a roast chicken for dinner, always with potatoes, or leftovers from the day before, and invariably fish on Fridays. If she felt like it, she’d make a pie or a cake or some soda bread. It was boring and predictable, just the way she liked it.
Hands on hips, she surveyed the mess in the kitchen. If the Lord could create an orderly world, The Light from the Darkness on Day One, The Firmament between Heaven and Earth on Day Two, and so on, then she could surely create order from this kitchen chaos. God wanted us to have order in our lives, she was certain, and she was about to give it to this family. But first she had to check on Alex. She pulled his pants out from the waist and sniffed. Well, she wouldn’t have to change him, at least not for the time being. She’d have to ask Irene if he were potty-trained. She hoped to God he was.
She had just finished alphabetizing Irene’s spices when the kettle hissed. A cup of tea with a bite of old Bushmills would hit the spot. But maybe she’d hold off until after lunch, when Alex took his nap and the boys went back to school. She rummaged around the icebox for cheese and bread.
“Grandma?”
He held up his book. “What’s loaves and fishes?”
*
Half an hour later, as Ida was putting a cold washrag on Irene’s forehead, she heard Arthur and Benjamin pounding up the stairs.
“Ma!”
“Shh!” she hissed.
Arthur looked past his grandmother. “She ain’t dead, is she?”
“Arthur!”
“But she’s just lying there.”
“She’s sleeping.”
Benjamin moved to his mother’s side. “Buh…but she’s not dead, right?”
“I already told you. Now, you two be quiet and go back downstairs. Your lunch is on the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They devoured two sandwiches each, six pickles, a bowl of baked beans, four cookies and four glasses of milk. Like a plague of locusts, Ida thought.
Arthur rinsed his plate in the sink. “Grandma?”
“What is it now?”
He placed his plate in the sink. “There’s a school fair this afternoon. Me and Benjamin, we saved up allowance for the games and everything so we don’t need no money.”
“You don’t need any money.”
“No, ma’am.”
“And we promised Alex we would tuh…take him.”
“Now, just a minute.”
“Mom said we could, didn’t she, Benjamin?”
Even though their mother had said no such thing, Benjamin knew better than to disagree with his older brother. He nodded.
“Well, I don’t know, it’s too far for him to walk. You’ll have to use the stroller.”
“No, see, we’ll take him in the wagon. He likes to ride in the wagon, don’t you, Alex?” said Arthur, ever the consensus builder.
Alex relished the opportunity to go anywhere with his brothers. “I want to ride in the wagon.”
It was hard to resist the notion of having a quiet afternoon, with maybe a chance to take off her shoes and enjoy her regular nap before getting dinner ready. She knew she should check with her daughter first to corroborate the boys’ story—they were little schemers with their blank expressions, those two—but then again, what harm could come of going to a school fair, it wasn’t as if they were off to play cards or dice in some back alley. She looked at her watch. “You be home by three or there’ll be hell to pay. You two understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. Come on, Alex.”
*
A persistent cold rain had driven the school fair from the playground to the gym. Benjamin and Arthur carried the wagon with Alex inside, down the steps, with Alex straddling the length of the wagon, his arms balancing on either side. As soon as they put him down, a group of little girls rushed up to them, shrieking, begging to see their baby brother, he’s so cute, he’s so cute, can we pick him up? He was a bigger attraction than a box of puppies. Alex smiled benignly, as if he were royalty indulging his loyal subjects. He liked the attention, and he liked how the little girls smelled, so much better than his brothers, so he let himself be picked up and hugged, over and over.
A variety of games and booths had been set up throughout the gym. Mothers and grandmothers sold cookies, brownies, turnovers, nuts, jawbreakers, licorice, popcorn, taffy apples, crackerjack and cups of apple cider. There were the obligatory games of chance: a small roulette wheel, a knock-down-the-milk-bottle booth, pin the tail on the donkey for the younger children. The races were to begin at one o’clock—the balloon race, the sack race, the three-legged race and the human wheelbarrow. Arthur and Benjamin had practiced hard for that one. Benjamin had deep scrapes on his fingertips and the heels of his hands.
Mrs. Colter, the science and math teacher, had brought in a cage of guinea pigs, which the children poked at with their fingers and the straws from their drinks. In a glass aquarium next to the guinea pigs was a two-foot green garter snake coiled up in the corner. Arthur tapped on the glass to see if he could get the snake to move until Mrs. Colter pulled his hand away.
The star of the fair was Coco, a capuchin monkey. Attached by a leather strap that stretched from her harness to the wrist of her owner, Carmine Tucci, Coco wasn’t just cute. She was a working pet. When she wasn’t picking at her anus she snatched hats, balloons and anything else she could get her paws on, including Mrs. Colter’s glasses, which she jerked right off her nose and wouldn’t give back until Carmine gave her a hunk of banana. Benjamin said that he thought it was mean to keep Coco tied up. Alex watched Coco intently, mimicking her motions with his long arms.
They had what they considered a king’s ransom between them—fifty-seven cents. It was the money they’d saved from their infrequent allowances and odd jobs around the neighborhood, and they weren’t about to let a fortune like that sit around in their pockets collecting lint. Leaving Alex to his new coterie of big sisters, they jostled each other for a chance to step right up and place their bets on the roulette wheel. After losing half their fortune in five minutes, Benjamin took a nickel and bought five peanut butter cookies while Arthur decided enough with roulette, it was time to knock down the milk bottles. There were valuable prizes to be had, including a genuine scout compass and a bag of marbles. Arthur was about to toss his third baseball when screams came from the general direction where they’d left Alex. Benjamin said, “Oh, no.”
They rushed across the gym only to find that things were just fine. Mary Louise Calkins went up to Arthur and said, “Your little brother is so smart. He just recited the alphabet and then he did it backward. Isn’t he the berries?”
“I taught him how,” Arthur lied, hoping his brother’s talent would improve his social status with Mary, the prettiest, most popular girl in his class.
“Say now, what’s all the ruckus about over here in these here parts?” It was Principal Darwimple, a.k.a. “Farmer Dar,” as he had named himself for the day.
For reasons known only to himself, Principal Frederick Darwimple, a fastidious bachelor in his mid-30s, had abandoned his customary dark three-piece suit, white shirt and bow tie and had dressed for the day as a farmer, or what he imagined was a farmer, with a round straw hat, denim overalls and a plaid shirt. The corncob pipe he clenched between his teeth lent a final touch of pseudo authenticity. The children were much more accepting of his get-up than the grown-ups, where the whispered consensus among parents and faculty was that he looked like a fool.
“Land sakes alive, what do we have here,” he said, pointing his pipe toward Alex, who stood in the center of his adoring circle.
“Nothing, sir,” Arthur said. “It’s just my little brother Alex. He wasn’t doing anything.”
Principal Darwimple took off his straw hat with an exaggerated swoop intended to produce giggles—it did—and wiped his forehead with his checkered handkerchief. “Tarnation,” he said, trying to affect what he believed to be a southern/country accent, even though he’d never been farther south than Wheeling, West Virginia, “if he ain’t the gol-dangest little feller I ever laid eyes on. Well, howdy do, buckaroo.”
Alex said, “Howdy do.”
Over the children’s laughter, Darwimple said, “Well now, ain’t he just the cat’s pajamas. And how old are you, Alex?”
“Three quarters.”
“Come again, son.”
Benjamin said, “He was born on Leap Year day. That’s why he says it like that, sir. He’s really three.”
“Clever little buckaroo, aren’t you, Mr. Alex? Maybe Farmer Dar will be seeing our young cowpoke here at our fine school in a few years. Would you like that, Alex?”
Alex liked Farmer Dar, and he liked the idea of being in school with all the children. “If my momma lets me.” The children laughed again.
“Alex, I think you’ll find that Fulton Elementary is the finest school in these here parts. Isn’t that right, children?”
In a desultory chorus, the children replied, “Yes, Principal Darwimple.”
“Well, all righty then.”
“Principal…er, Farmer Dar?” It was Mrs. Stanczak, the principal’s
secretary. “We need you over here.”
“Hold your horses, woman, I’m a coming.” He turned his back and waved at a group of children and adults standing at the starting line across the gym. “Boys and girls, I have to leave you now. It’s time ol’ Farmer Dar commenced to getting this here show on the road.”
A whistle blared on the other side of the gym. Everyone looked that way except Alex. Faster than you could say monkey see, monkey do, he reached out with his left arm and snatched Darwimple’s wallet from his back pocket. Only Benjamin saw it.
The kids ran off to watch the sack race, led by the Walsh brothers. Benjamin held Arthur back by the elbow.
“What?”
“Alex.”
“What about him? He’s okey dokey here for a minute…” It certainly looked as if Alex were fine, standing in the wagon, brownie icing smeared on his cheek.
“Arthur, Alex…he…he stole.”
Arthur put his hand over his brother’s mouth. He looked at Alex, who was holding the brownie with two hands. “What are you talking about?”
“He stole Principal Darwimple’s wallet.” He explained Alex’s cobra-quick pilfering.
“Where is it?”
Benjamin looked down. “In the wagon. See?” He pointed to a dark leather wallet lying on top of Alex’s blanket.
“We gotta get out of here.” He grabbed the front of the wagon. “Hold on, Alex. Benjamin, pick up the back.”
*
It was a little after two when the boys got back. They slipped past their sleeping grandmother and up to their room. Arthur sat Alex on the top bunk and ordered Benjamin to jam a sweater into the open space at the bottom of the door so they couldn’t be surprised.
He opened Principal Darwimple’s wallet. He counted out three one-dollar bills and eighty-seven cents in the change compartment. The miniscule fortune made his head swim. It was more money in his hand than he’d ever held before. He fingered the bills over and over, magic treasures.