Bedfellow

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  Kennedy points a mechanical pencil in his direction. “What’s with the flaming skull thing on your shirt? Is that some sort of like celestial symbol?”

  “Nah,” Fantastico says, running his palm down the face of the skull. “This outfit’s inspired by that greaser guy from The Garbage Pail Kids Movie. Your dad’s Marvin is wearing an approximation of Howard the Duck’s outfit in that scene where he plays the electric guitar. There’s no real rhyme or reason to any of our outfits, I guess. Your Uncle Marv thought it would be fun.”

  “I think you look really cool.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fantastico lies back on the coaster and stares up at the ceiling. After a while, he holds his hands out in front of his face and looks at them. Kennedy wonders what a set of goals manifested into the physical realm thinks about when he daydreams.

  Looking down at her notebook, Kennedy dreads the hours of busywork ahead of her, and all four of her limbs ache with the thought that Alejandra might not text her back all evening. But later tonight, maybe she’ll have time to ask Fantastico some more questions and possibly unlock some mysteries of the universe. At least then her Monday won’t be a total waste.

  Imani

  Having a celestial being in her purse is even better than a phone, because all she has to do is ask how everyone is doing, and the being will say, “Hendrick’s good. He’s watching Goodfellas with the main Marv. Marv isn’t a big crime film guy, but he’s enjoying himself all right. Let’s see. Kennedy’s working on some essay about the industrial revolution. It seems well written, as far as I can tell, though academic writing isn’t my thing. Hmm. Tomas is drawing a two-headed tortoise with missile launchers attached to his shell. Everyone’s giving off a nice, blue aura, so no one’s getting sick or anything. That’s about it, I guess.”

  At any point throughout the day, Imani can go into the bathroom at work and ask for updates like this. She still feels somewhat anxious every time she hears the helper speaking to her, but she expects she’ll get used to everything soon. As Marv always says, “There’s a very fine line between being awestruck and frightened.”

  Five minutes from home, Imani says, “Can you have the other helpers tell the kids to come downstairs? I need help with these groceries.”

  From inside her open purse, the helper says, “Well, I can’t exactly contact the other helpers directly. Since we’re, you know, spiritual beings, we all have certain mental defenses. I can relay the message directly to the kids, though.”

  “I see.” The hairs on Imani’s arms rise. “So, you can speak directly into their minds?”

  “In a way.”

  For a moment, Imani feels like reaching into her purse and crushing the helper in her hand. The feeling quickly passes, however. Like Marv told her, her mind will want to reject this new way of existence, the same way the Luddites of the nineteenth century feared and destroyed weaving machinery. The same way some older people refuse to use the internet. But she has nothing whatsoever to fear in these helpers. For years, she’s been preparing for their arrival, both mentally and spiritually. She’s ready.

  Once she parks her SUV in the driveway, her children come out of the house and help with the grocery bags.

  “Sweetie,” Imani says, touching her son’s shoulder. “How are you? Are you okay with the helpers being here?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “He can make my drawings 3-D.”

  Inside the house, she finds Marv and her husband side-by-side on the couch, both dressed in Star Trek shirts and sweatpants, looking as twin-like as ever. The big difference between them is that Hendrick seems enraptured by the movie they’re watching, and Marv’s slouched back with his eyes closed.

  “I left you something in the bedroom,” Hendrick says.

  “What is it?” Imani says.

  “You’ll see.”

  After putting away most of the groceries, Imani carries the remaining bag with her upstairs. Inside her own bedroom, she finds a peanut bobblehead waiting for her, in the spot where the grinning porcelain peanut used to stand. She smiles, and a mild warmth diffuses throughout her chest, and then she worries that Hendrick’s only doing this because he feels guilty about something.

  “Stop it,” she says.

  In Marv’s room, she empties the fabric bag of Gatorade bottles onto his bed and begins lining them up on the windowsill, the way that he likes. Apparently, as a child, Marv would carry bottles and cans into his bedroom and stack them into pyramids. He’s never stopped wanting his bottles close.

  While she’s reaching for another Gatorade, she notices a crinkled piece of paper on the bed, and she recognizes Hendrick’s handwriting. She knows she shouldn’t read the note, whatever it is, but she spots her name written in sharp, slapdash letters. She flattens out the note, but she doesn’t actually remove the paper from off the bed.

  The note is a bulleted list that says:

  17 years ago. The first time I kissed Imani. We were standing outside that Mexican food stand with the pineapple drink she likes. She said the cold air was making her say burrrrrr . . . ito. When I realized she was actually cold, I gave her my jacket, and she kissed me.

  16 and a half years ago, perhaps? We were at the beach, walking on these smooth, black rocks, and Imani kept answering my questions with one-word responses. Back then she would talk my damn ear off any chance she got, so I was surprised she was so quiet. I asked her what was wrong, and then she cried. I’d seen her cry before, but not like this. Usually, I feel a bit uncomfortable around people when they cry, but I felt this strong impulse to protect her from whatever it was that was making her so sad. I felt protective in a way that I didn’t even know existed before that day.

  About 15 years ago, I believe. We were still living in the apartment at this point, and Kennedy wasn’t born yet. I rarely ever get ill, but I was sick as all hell. Germs freak her out, but she still came into the bedroom and picked up my used Kleenex like they were nothing. Whenever she came into the bedroom, she would make these silly faces at me that

  Imani assumes there’s more writing on the back of the paper, but she doesn’t flip the sheet over to find out. She stares at the note for a while longer, not reading any of the words. Years and years ago, Hendrick would write silly poems for her and leave them inside her purse or a pocket for her to find. Is this note a skeleton of a new stupid poem? Is the note on Marv’s bed because Hendrick wants his brother’s advice?

  Maybe the peanut bobblehead and the poem are a good sign. Maybe Hendrick’s sensed the rift between Imani and himself, and he simply wants to try harder. Imani doesn’t know if the helpers are responsible for Hendrick’s sudden interest in romance, or if her husband’s leading the charge himself. Ultimately, she doesn’t really care either way.

  When she goes downstairs, she makes a silly face at Hendrick from across the living room. He doesn’t laugh at her, or grin, or throw a pillow. But he does smile at her a little before turning to the TV again. That’s something, though, isn’t it? Maybe, for now, that’s enough.

  TUESDAY

  Tomas

  Everest doesn’t bother Tomas at all during first recess, but during second recess, the bully balances on the cement ring and flicks Tomas three times on the top of the head. He says, “Hey, Spot,” after each attack. And then, after he’s done, Everest says, “Mark says your mom drinks pee and that’s why you have weird marks. Your mom probably drinks pee every night.”

  “She doesn’t,” Tomas whispers.

  “Yeah, she does.” He flicks his head one more time and then hops off the cement.

  After Everest’s long gone, Little Uncle Marv says, “Can I have some more of that Slim Jim?”

  “We’re not supposed to eat at recess,” Tomas says.

  “Please. I’m starving.”

  Tomas sets his pencil down and transfers a chunk of Slim Jim from the big part of his backpack to the small pocket in front. While the helper chomps noisily at the meat, the boy continues working on the demonic elephant with a
fiery serpent for a trunk. He touches his mechanical pencil to the paper, but he can’t see the elephant’s face in his mind anymore. He can only see Everest, and his spiky blond hair, and his cornflower-blue eyes.

  Tomas closes his eyes then so he can take himself to that first time he visited his Uncle Marv’s studio. For a while, he can see the papier-mâché T. rex and the taxidermied crow with the googly eyes and the sea serpent wrapped around a child’s leg. But then he’s thinking about Everest again. He’s thinking about the first time Everest flicked him during class, when Mrs. Williams wasn’t looking. Tomas’s body froze in place, and his whole face heated up. Everest whispered something behind him, but Tomas couldn’t hear the words. Right then, Mrs. Williams asked for the answer, and everyone in the class said, “Seven,” except for Tomas.

  Tomas opens his eyes again when Little Uncle Marv says, “That Everest kid really is a piece of work. I’ve probed his mind a bit, and he has all the makings of a cold-blooded dictator. I’m not kidding. But like I said before, all he needs is a little enlightenment. Invite him to our house, and your uncle can make him stop picking on you.”

  Tomas looks again at his half-finished elephant, but his mind goes to another time in the classroom, when Everest managed to flick his stomach with two fingers. He remembers a time in the hallway when Everest said, “You shitter,” and squeezed his nose, hard. The memories burst inside him faster. He can smell the citrine-colored pizza in the cafeteria and he can hear the girl vomiting on the handball court and he can feel Everest flicking his neck in the hallway.

  “Don’t you want him to stop?” Little Uncle Marv says, in the here and now. And suddenly, Tomas feels himself planted deep inside the present again.

  “Yeah,” Tomas says, looking at the white space where his elephant’s head should be.

  “Good.” Little Uncle Marv chews loudly on the Slim Jim for a few seconds. “Then I need you to man up, like your dad always says. Man up, and march over there, and ask that little douchebag to your house. I’ll be there with you the whole time. If he tries anything, I’ll let him have it.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to come to the house?”

  “Well, try anyway. Let’s get the thought planted in his head and work our way from there.”

  After putting away his drawing notebook, Tomas considers abandoning the plan and playing some handball instead. But as soon as he looks at the handball court, his memories explode inside him again, faster than before. He smells the vomit and hears the vomiting and feels the flicks on his ears and his throat and his eyelid.

  Tomas walks toward the soccer field, staring at the blacktop, holding his breath.

  “You’ll be fine,” Little Uncle Marv says, from inside the backpack. “I’ll protect you.”

  Everest and Mark both stand up as soon as Tomas reaches his destination. They’re each holding small sticks, about the size of a pencil.

  Tomas releases his breath finally and says, “Do you want to play at my house?”

  “He wants you to play at his pee house,” Mark says, tapping his stick against his crotch.

  “I don’t go to pee houses,” Everest says. “Your mom would probably want to drink all my pee.”

  “It’s not a pee house,” Tomas says, because he’s not sure what else to say at this point. He doesn’t know how to convince a boy like Everest to go anywhere, or to do anything. Boys like Everest remind Tomas of the time he tumbled over and over under a wave. No matter what Tomas did, the wave wouldn’t stop.

  Everest reaches out to flick Tomas again, only this time his hand stops partway, and the boy collapses to the grass, screaming. The bully covers his face with his hands. Tomas can see a patch of urine spreading across the boy’s jeans.

  Tomas expects Mark to say something or do something, but he only stands there in silence, staring down at his friend. At the sight of a yard duty running in their direction, Tomas walks away, back toward his tree.

  “Was that your powers?” Tomas says.

  “Yeah,” Little Uncle Marv says. “I made him remember this duck that . . . well, let’s just say he’s had a taste of how powerful we are. I know it seems like he’d be too afraid to come over to your house now, but that’s because you’re looking at all this from your own viewpoint. You don’t understand boys like Everest. I do. He’s almost at the point now where he’ll say yes.”

  Tomas doesn’t understand any of that, but he nods anyway.

  Back in the classroom, the school day goes on as usual until Little Uncle Marv speaks up during silent reading time. “Put me on your desk,” he says. “Hurry.”

  “This is quiet time,” Mrs. Williams says from behind her desk.

  “Put me on your desk,” Little Marv says again. “If we don’t do this now, Everest will torment you forever.”

  At the mention of Everest’s name, Tomas feels the memories bombarding him again. Pizza, vomit, flick, flick, flick. He jumps from memory to memory, all over the school, feeling the sharp jabs of pain.

  Quickly, Tomas unzips his backpack and places Little Marv on his desk.

  “Hey, look at me!” Little Marv says, performing an awkward jig on the desk. “I’m a weird little creature! Look over here!”

  “Look!” Amanda says, pointing.

  A few of his classmates scream, with either delight or fear; Tomas isn’t sure which.

  “What is that?” Pablo says.

  “I’m a weird little guy!” Little Uncle Marv says, doing the dance Pee-wee Herman does in the movie.

  Tomas notices Mrs. Williams standing nearby now, with her hand over her mouth. The boy wants to explain to her that Little Marv is a helper sent here from another dimension, but before he can even attempt that, Mrs. Williams falls forward, hitting her head on Amanda’s desk on the way down. Amanda screams. Tomas screams with her. All around him, the boy’s classmates faint, slapping their heads on their desks. Pablo, who stood moments ago, crumples to the grayish-blue carpet.

  Tomas opens his mouth to speak, but no words want to come out.

  “Don’t worry,” Little Uncle Marv says, no longer dancing. “They’re all fine. Mrs. Williams might need to ice her head for a while, but it’s not a concussion.”

  Tomas looks around the classroom and notices the only other person who didn’t faint.

  “Hey, Everest,” Little Uncle Marv says. “If you come to play, Tomas will give you a creature just like me. All you have to do is accept the invitation.”

  Everest doesn’t respond. He only sits there, staring at Little Uncle Marv, with his head tilted to the side.

  “Okay, put me back,” the helper says.

  After Tomas zips up his backpack again, Mrs. Williams and the other kids wake up, and they don’t say anything about Little Uncle Marv or his little dance. Mrs. Williams says she slipped. She apologizes for scaring everyone.

  Tomas doesn’t believe for a minute that Everest will come to his house to play after everything that happened. But then, after the final bell rings, the bully walks over and hands Tomas a piece of paper.

  “That’s my phone number,” Everest says. “I’ll come over, if I can really have one.”

  “You can,” Little Marv says, from inside the backpack.

  Everest walks away then without flicking Tomas even once. As Tomas heads for the bus, he does feel a little safer and a little stronger. But, in spite of this, the boy doesn’t want to team up with the helper anymore. He can’t stop thinking about the thunk of Mrs. Williams’s head hitting the desk and the image of Pablo collapsing to the carpet like a dropped marionette. Tomas doesn’t want Everest to come over, but he doesn’t tell Little Uncle Marv that. He’s sure that the helper would only tell him to man up and fight his fears again. So, Tomas continues his work on the demonic elephant, and he tries unsuccessfully to push Everest and all the Uncle Marvs out of his mind. He wonders what will happen tonight. He’s not sure what Little Uncle Marv meant by enlightenment, but whatever it is, he hopes it won’t make Everest scream and pee his pants aga
in.

  Hendrick

  As the monster promised, Hendrick feels hardly any apprehension today, calling up Cupcake and Kandi and Ambyr and another Cupcake. Apparently, the imp can’t change a woman’s voice the way he can change her appearance, so Hendrick decides to keep calling up escorts until he finds one with an appropriately raspy voice. In the end, he decides on the second Cupcake even though her voice isn’t quite as deep as Morgaine’s.

  After the call, Hendrick spends a few minutes throwing away Brett’s water bottles and granola wrappers and moldy baby carrots. There’s little he despises more than picking up after another person, but then again, he doesn’t want his experience today to be marred by the sight and smell of trash.

  “Do you have any food in here?” the creature says, standing and stretching on the pool table. “I’m dying.”

  Hendrick uses a tissue to drop a half-eaten hard-boiled egg into the trash. “There’s some Peanut Butter Apocalypse in the freezer.”

  “Nah, I told you already, Hen. I need meat.” He kicks at the eight ball. “And keep in mind, if I’m starving, I won’t be able to concentrate on the glamour.”

  Hendrick sighs and finds some slightly expired slices of organic turkey bologna in the fridge. While the imp dives into the meat, Hendrick plays a little more of the new video game he bought at the murder mall. In the game, he visits alien planets and hunts giant aliens with gnarled tusks and luminescent hides. After finishing one off, he can take a picture with his kill and transmit the photo back home to Earth. The rhinoceros-like creature he’s electrocuting ends up crushing his skull with a cloven foot.

  With his mouth full, the imp says, “You know, this turkey bologna tastes just like regular bologna. I’m impressed. Not that I’ve actually eaten regular bologna, I guess, but I can still access your brother’s memory of eating bologna. There’s no real difference, really.”