by Marc Simon
His mind buzzed with the things Benjamin had told him about kindergarten—singing songs, playing games, snack time, coloring. He stood on the stepstool to get to the breadbox on the kitchen counter when he heard the front door swing open. He ran into the foyer, and standing there in full uniform was a soldier.
“Private first class Arthur C. Miller reporting for duty, Mr. Alex.” Arthur held his right hand to his temple, waiting to salute.
Alex was so shocked all he could do was salute back.
“At ease, troop.” Arthur scooped Alex up in his forearm. “How you doing, Stretch?”
“Arthur, you got real big.” He rubbed his hand against Arthur’s cheek. “You’re a man now.”
Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “It’s good to be home, Alex.”
Abe’s shout from upstairs filled the room. “Is that Arthur? Hold on, son, I’m coming!” His footsteps pounded down the stairs. He practically crushed Alex hugging his older son.
Benjamin joined the three of them, and for a long moment they stood as one. Finally, Arthur said, “Don’t you little clowns have to go to school?”
Abe kissed Alex on the forehead. “You be a good boy today, you hear me, Alex? Stick with Benjamin until you have to go to your room. And listen to your teacher, all right? Give me another kiss.”
Alex pulled away. “O.K., Dad, I’m not a baby.”
*
On the morning of Alex’s first day at school, without so much as a goodbye and good luck to anyone, Delia packed a bag, withdrew the remaining $28.50 from her bank account and returned by train to her native Youngstown, Ohio, to live with her Aunt Tilda, a frugal, religious woman who introduced her to the Reverend Johnston. In turn, the Reverend introduced her to his only son, thirty-year-old Jonah, who’d been a missionary in Guatemala and celibate for three years.
Johnston the younger introduced Delia to the New Testament, and in turn Delia introduced him to the miracle of Old Overholt Rye. Delia joked that she always had a whale of a time with Mr. Jonah, as she called him, even though she found him bland as paint compared to Abe. After eight months of hugging, teasing and eventual bedding, she hinted to Jonah that she might be pregnant—she wasn’t—which precipitated an on-the-spot proposal and even hastier marriage, and, although she didn’t love him, having a house and a maid and spending money sure beat working for a living.
In three years, she gave him the son and daughter he’d always wanted, and he gave her the freedom of live-in help, which in turn provided her with ample opportunities to begin an on-again, off-again affair with Sanford Goldman, owner of the largest furniture store in Youngstown, who swore up and down he would leave his wife and three daughters for her if she just said the word, which of course she didn’t. It wasn’t that Goldman was particularly handsome or funny or good in bed, but he did give her great deals on home furnishings. And, as she confided in a long letter to her old friend Lotte Henderson, who’d left the circus and joined a convent in Pittsburgh, for some reason she’d always had a thing for Jewish men.
She also took up painting and found that she had a long-latent talent for watercolor. In a local art show, she exhibited a series of twelve canvases. Each of them had as its central figure a cute little boy with very long arms, wearing an orange hat. When she was approached with a lucrative offer for the series, she told the buyer they weren’t for sale.
*
The boys sat around the table at dinner and ate fish sandwiches and fried potatoes as Alex recounted his first day at school. The girls had wanted to play with him, he said, but they were all stupid except for Alice Stanton. Then he had a fight with George because George had called him a baby shrimp and stuck his tongue out, so he threw an eraser at him and hit him in the face, and then George cried, and Mrs. Davidson made him sit in the corner.
Arthur and Benjamin were hysterical, but Abe said, “Alex, don’t throw no erasers no more, you hear me?” Despite the admonition, however, Abe thought, damn if he isn’t a Miller through and through.
Arthur said, “Then how’d you get the gold star?”
Alex touched the sticker on his forehead. “I forget.”
The four of them talked into the evening, with Alex doing most of the narrative, especially regarding his adventure with Hannah and his day at the circus. Abe then laid out the thin family album: He and Irene on their wedding day, Arthur and Benjamin as toddlers, the three brothers posed with their mother. Abe looked at his boys laughing and hugging. He swallowed. At least he had them.
Arthur excused himself. Upstairs in their bedroom, he opened his copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. His Honus Wagner baseball card—his good luck charm—was right where he’d left it. He tucked it into his breast pocket.
When he came back to the kitchen, Alex was asleep in his chair and Benjamin was reading. “Dad.”
Abe had just lit a cigar. “Yes, son?”
“I have to leave tomorrow.”
Abe’s face fell. “Already? But you just got home.”
Arthur shook his head. “Special training.”
Abe pursed his lips. He wondered if he’d ever see him again. “Well, listen. Benjamin is here with Alex. You want to come to The Wheel with me? The boys would love to see you.”
“If it’s all right, I’d rather be home.”
Abe patted his shoulder. “Sure. Sure, son. I won’t be long. I just want to stop by and say hi to Delia Novak.”
After Abe left, Arthur carried his sleep drunk little brother up to the bedroom. Back downstairs, he and Benjamin shared laughs and one of their father’s lagers.
Alex woke up two hours later to the sound of his brothers and father talking and laughing. Not wanting to miss a good time, he pulled on his pants. The cuffs reached only to the middle of his calves. In the brief time he’d been asleep, his legs had grown four inches. They hurt to the touch.
So did his head.
About the Author
Marc Simon has been an English teacher, advertising copywriter, and comedy writer/performer. His short fiction has appeared in several literary magazines, including The Wilderness House Review (where he won the annual Chekhov Prize for best story of the year), Flashquake, Poetica Magazine and The Writing Disorder, among others. The Leap Year Boy is his first novel. Marc resides in Naples, Florida.