Duck Boy

by Bill Bunn

  Steve got his coat and went to meet her in the kitchen, by the back door. It was kind of a long wait. She came back with her hair in a bun, a thick coat of overly red lipstick, and a loud polyester-print dress, apparently pleased with her efforts.

  I’m going to the mall with a cartoon.

  The two headed out into the weak afternoon sun. “It’s warmer than it looks,” Aunt Shannon said, as she opened the garage door.

  Inside was a white monster. Aunt Shannon’s car was old and very large—a 1966 Dodge Monaco convertible. It was in fairly good condition considering its age. Kind of like Aunt Shannon herself.

  “I haven’t started her in a while, so we’ll hope she goes.” She gingerly lowered her bony bottom into the driver’s seat. Steve folded himself to fit the bench seat next to her. Too bad he couldn’t remove his legs and put them in the trunk.

  “How you doing, old girl?” she asked, patting the dashboard. “We need to go to the mall.” She slipped the key into the ignition and turned it. The car talked back to her: “Woah, woah, woah,” it said. She released the key. “I know it’s cold, but you’ll warm up quickly.” She tried the key again, and the dragon rumbled to life.

  “I’d like any old thing you can find me,” Aunt Shannon announced as she backed out of the driveway. She leaned forward in her seat as she drove, so she could see over the dashboard. “It’s been years since I’ve been Christmas shopping.” She glanced quickly at Steve. “Edward and I don’t usually buy one another anything. Do you know what old ladies like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you can buy almost anything that’s chocolate, but I’m sure you know that. You can buy perfume and lipstick and that sort of thing. These are the sorts of items men like to think women want. But they’re really last resorts.” She glanced at him quickly. “If you see something that you think I’d like, and it’s not one of those things, get that.”

  “What about Uncle Edward?” Steve asked.

  “Books, books, books,” she replied quickly.

  “But I don’t know what he’s read,” Steve replied.

  “It doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “I don’t know what he likes.”

  “He reads anything on any topic.”

  “Wow. That’s easy.”

  “Yes. But I wish he’d put those books of his down.”

  “Does he like candy?”

  “Yes. But he’s fussy. The only candy I know he likes are those jellied candies shaped like fruits, like lemons and limes.”

  “That’s what I’ll try to buy him. Sounds like candy might be better for him than another book.”

  “Good thinking.”

  They circled the parking lot for quite a while before they could find a spot. Actually, there were two smaller spots, but the Monaco likely wouldn’t have fit. Aunt Shannon waited for several minutes until a huge pickup truck backed out of its spot, leaving enough room for the white beast. They hurried through the cold parking lot to the mall, but just as they stepped through the doors, she stopped. “Here’s some money,” she said, holding out three twenty-dollar bills.

  “Ah.” Steve felt awkward. “I can get some of my own money, Aunt Shannon. I have enough in my bank account. And I have my bank card with me.”

  “Take this, just in case,” she insisted, holding the money to his nose.

  “OK,” Steve sighed, secretly relieved.

  “Meet you back here in two hours.” The two of them plunged into the Christmas mob and disappeared in the currents.

  Steve found the fruit-shaped candies for Edward right away. An easy score. Aunt Shannon would be more difficult, though, because, for some reason he wanted to find her something special, something that would surprise her. So he spent most of his time browsing the shops, row after row of doodads and geewgaws. Sale this, and percentage off that. One free with purchase. He was about to settle for a season of Gilligan’s Island episodes on DVD, when he found an odd little square case in a suitcase shop. It looked about the same size as the box that contained Richard’s ashes. It was multi-colored, which he knew she’d like. It was extremely square and looked like a purse. It seemed like leather, and had been reduced from $79.99, to $39.99 to $17.49, and sat on a table marked “All items $9.99.” Perfect, he thought. He took it to the till and paid for it.

  He felt surprisingly good and decided to shop for more. Next he bought a little chocolate for Aunt Shannon and a massive photographic book on the Beatles for Uncle Edward—all on sale. Then he went to the bank and tried to withdraw some money. The words “Insufficient Funds” blinked on the computer screen, canceling his transaction automatically.

  “Stupid bank,” he said to the machine.

  He wandered through the mall for the last half hour before closing, buying himself a small drink in the food court and sipping it until it was time to meet up with Aunt Shannon. He wandered to the meeting point just outside the mall entrance and waited until she emerged from the crowd, dazed and laden with bags. Though she looked directly at him, she didn’t seem to recognize him. He sidled up beside her and touched her elbow. “Aunt Shannon.”

  Her head turned to look at him and the confusion slowly melted away. “Let’s go home,” she said. And home they went.

  They came into the kitchen with their bags of things and set them down on the counter. Uncle Edward emerged, suddenly, from the living room, looking sheepish, his eyes rimmed with red, as though he’d been crying. He moved quickly to the kitchen table where his book lay, splayed open, spine up, like a seagull in flight. He snatched it from the table.

  “I’ll be reading in the bedroom,” he announced and disappeared.

  Aunt Shannon made a quick pot of tea for herself, while Steve made himself a hot chocolate in the microwave.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did Richard pass away?” Steve asked, as they drank tea in the kitchen.

  “Oh. I don’t mind. He drowned.” Steve waited a few moments hoping she might explain, but she didn’t.

  “Ah. Oh.” The ice was thin, best to tread lightly. “That must have been difficult.”

  “Yes.” She replied. Silence.

  “Um. How did he drown?”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. Of course.” Aunt Shannon seemed to suddenly wake up to the question he was asking.

  “It was a snorkeling accident. He loved to snorkel, you know. I’m not sure what really happened. Somehow, he ended up in his bedroom drenched, on the floor, wearing snorkeling equipment. The coroner said he’d… um… drowned.” Grief twisted her face. “But… how?” Her lip trembled. “How? His bedroom door was locked.” Her face was torn with emotion, and the tears coursed down her cheeks. “That…” Her chest heaved up and down as she struggled to control herself.

  Steve felt like he should do something, but he wasn’t sure what.

  After a few minutes, she managed to speak a single word, “Tissue.” Steve figured it out and yanked three tissues from a box on top of the fridge, handing them to her. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose with one, then balled the other two and pushed them up her sleeve.

  “Let’s wrap our gifts,” she suggested. She went briefly to her lab and returned with tape, scissors, and several old rolls of wrapping paper. “You first,” she said, leaving the living room to allow Steve to wrap things up. He was quick, and clumsy, but his packages were together and under the tree in a matter of minutes.

  “Aunt Shannon,” he called. “Your turn.”

  Aunt Shannon nearly pranced into the living room. “You can finish up the dishes from tea. They go in the dishwasher.”

  Steve nodded and suppressed a comment, and reported for duty in the kitchen. It didn’t take him long to arrange the cups on the top rack of the crusty old dishwasher. How effective it would be at cleaning them, he couldn’t say.

  “I’m done,” Aunt Shannon bellowed right after, clearly excited. “Just look,” she cried as he entered the room.

  “That’s great,” Steve replied, sticking to what he
knew she wanted to hear. In reality there was a giant, badly decorated toilet brush, with several poorly wrapped, odd-shaped lumps beneath it.

  “Oh, I forgot to wrap one thing. Can you pass me some wrapping paper?”

  Steve grabbed a roll of paper and passed it to her.

  “No, no, dear. That’s completely inappropriate,” she chided, after taking the roll from his hands. “It’s a bit too, um, feminine, really. I’d like something with richer colors.” As she spoke, Steve noticed that her hand gently covered Richard’s remains.

  He sighed quietly, scooped most of the rolls from the floor and placed them beside her as she knelt on the carpet.

  Aunt Shannon deliberated for quite a while, finally choosing a regal-looking, mostly red paper. She carefully cut a square away from the roll and placed Richard’s remains in the center of the paper. Then, slowly, fold by fold, she wrapped him up like a present. “There, Deary, don’t you look festive!” she announced to the box. Out of a large tangle of ribbons and wrapping fragments, she pulled a gold-colored bow.

  “Can you put him under the tree, dear?” she asked.

  Steve, too tired to argue, took Richard to the toilet brush tree and placed him under the branches. Aunt Shannon followed him.

  “I won’t leave you there for long, Son,” she said. “Just a little Christmas fun.”

  With the decoration complete, the trio ate supper. Then Steve retired to his room where, surfing on the Internet through a neighbor’s open network, he watched a couple of his favorite TV shows.

  He emerged sometime later to get a snack before bed and found Aunt Shannon sitting in the dark living room, studying the tree, which blinked and glowed like a disco. She appeared to be in some kind of trance, and didn’t notice as he walked into the kitchen. Uncle Edward was sitting in the kitchen, reading deeply.

  “Why’d you set up that infernal tree?” he asked abruptly.

  “I didn’t—I mean, I did set it up, but not because I wanted to. I was helping Aunt Shannon.”

  “I don’t like it, in case you’re wondering,” he growled.

  “Sorry about that. I guess we could take it down.”

  “Shannon won’t have it, I’m sure.”

  “Well, why don’t you talk to her about it? She’s in the living room right now.”

  “I know.” He got up out of his chair, swatting his book onto the table. “Shannon, we’ve got to talk,” he announced firmly as he walked from the kitchen to the living room.

  “Oh, Edward,” Shannon replied, ignoring his gruff tone. “Come and sit with me.”

  Steve shook his head and began to search the cupboards for a good snack.

  There were muffled tones of discussion from the living room, but he ignored them. He was looking for something: marshmallows, chocolate chips, even raisins—he was that desperate.

  With Uncle Edward out of the way, his search was detailed and undisguised. He found a bag of shredded coconut. He poured a little into his palm and ate it. Rancid. He bent over the sink and spit everything out. Sticking his mouth under the kitchen tap he ran some cold water in, swished it around violently, and spat into the sink.

  He examined the package—Best before October 19, 1984.

  Nice. Antique coconut.

  Steve slammed the package into the garbage.

  He continued his search and found a bag of raisins. He checked the best-before date: two and half years past their expiry. But he tried one just the same.

  “Hmmm.” A little hard and dry, but otherwise tasty.

  He took a small handful and threw them into his mouth. Hard, like gravel. Sweet, like sugar, sort of. His jaw was sore after a few handfuls, and he headed back through the kitchen to go back to his room. As he walked through the living room into the hall he noticed Aunt Shannon and Uncle Edward. They were now both staring at the tree, holding hands. It looked like they were crying together, as the shiny streaks of tears blinked different colors with the Christmas-tree lights.

  “Good night,” Steve called softly, as he made off with the raisins down the hallway. “See you in the morning.”

  There was no reply.

  Steve got up late the following morning. Aunt Shannon was hurrying around the kitchen, but when she saw him, she smiled. Christmas knickknacks flooded the counters: snowman salt and pepper shakers, plastic elves, a sleigh-shaped napkin holder with a full set of reindeer pulling it. A glass crèche illuminated by a colored light.

  Christmas crap is here.

  “Ah, the dead have risen,” she quipped. Steve nodded. “I’ll make you some porridge.”

  “Thank you,” Steve mumbled. His first words of the day. “Please don’t make as much for me this time.”

  “Of course, Deary. Uncle Edward is off this morning. He’ll be back after lunch.”

  After finishing his porridge and placing the bowl in the dishwasher with his spoon and glass, he attempted to leave the kitchen, hoping to hide out with the Internet again.

  “Ahem,” she announced, clearing her throat and blocking Steve’s path.

  “Thank you for breakfast, Aunt Shannon.”

  “You’re welcome.” She didn’t move. “Don’t we have work to do?”

  “Um… I don’t know,” Steve replied.

  Aunt Shannon pointed to a kitchen chair. Steve sat down. Aunt Shannon joined him. She was working on finishing another pot of tea.

  “Don’t we need to find your mom?”

  “I didn’t know she was on my ‘to do’ list.”

  “She is now.”

  “I don’t know what to do. You’re the magic expert.”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” she said, rebuking him. “This is alchemy, a sort of science, not magic. Most people tend to get magic and alchemy mixed up. They’re nothing like one another.”

  “It sounds like magic.”

  “Magic means that a supernatural force changes things. For alchemists, things change because it’s in their natures to do so.”

  “Oh,” Steve replied, working hard to sound like he had understood what she’d just said.

  “As I said to you earlier, I think your mom may have accidentally traveled somewhere.”

  “You mean got sucked into the vortex?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Wouldn’t she be dead then?”

  “I don’t know, dear. I haven’t been able to figure out whether that energy is deadly to humans or not.”

  “So, you think we should try to see if it is?” Steve said incredulously. “Couldn’t that kill someone again?”

  Aunt Shannon pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “No one said that experiments were for cowards.”

  “Well, I don’t have my stone.”

  “We need to help you find it.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you start to experiment, like your mother… like me.”

  “How ’bout I help you experiment?” Steve suggested.

  Shannon looked at the ceiling as she considered his offer. “That’s probably a good way to start. Sure, we could—”

  A heavy knock on the door interrupted them.

  “I wonder who that could be?” Aunt Shannon wondered. She set down her teacup, crossed the hallway, and trundled down the short set of stairs to the front door. Steve stayed in his seat, studying the decorations on the table. The Christmas sleigh filled with napkins was about to hit three child-shaped candles, skating on the table top in front of the sleigh.

  Call the Christmas ambulance.

  Aunt Shannon unlocked the deadbolt, but left the door chain in place. She pulled opened the door and peeked out through the crack.

  “You again!” she said angrily. “I’ve told you. I’m not interested in talking to you. My experiments are my own business.”

  A body slammed against the door, ripping the chain out of the doorframe and whacking the door into Aunt Shannon, knocking her to the floor.

  “Stop!” she yelled at the top of her voice. The commotion drew Steve from the kitchen to the top of the stai
rs leading to the front door. Two men stormed through the door and slammed it closed. A thin weasel of a man stood beside a thicker man, both sporting suits. “You can’t just march into my house. I don’t want you here,” Aunt Shannon shrieked from the floor. She slowly crawled to her knees and climbed unsteadily to her feet.

  “We are not here to harm you.” The thin man smiled sweetly. “Not yet, anyway.” He glanced up the stairs and noticed Steve. “Oh, I see you have a guest. You must be Steve.”

  Steve didn’t respond. An icy feeling froze his feet and began to work its way up his legs, locking him to the ground.

  The thin man paused and inspected Steve carefully. “My name is… well… you can call me Mr. Gold,” he decided, directing his words to Steve.

  The thin man waited for Steve to speak. Steve stood, iced up, not knowing what to do. His own thoughts yelled at him.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  “We are alchemists, too. I want to talk to your great aunt. We want to trade alchemical secrets.” Gold squeezed out another big smile. “All we want to do is talk.”

  “You’re a thief and a scoundrel,” Aunt Shannon said, spitting each word out in a righteous tone. “You coward.”

  Gold pretended to ignore Aunt Shannon’s words and continued speaking. “If we don’t talk in the next few days, you never know…” He grabbed Aunt Shannon’s boney arm and squeezed it viciously in his fist, then pushed her against a wall.

  Steve stood motionless. He wanted to do something—defend his Aunt.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  Mr. Gold held her against the wall for a moment without speaking, as winter air robbed the house of its warmth. “If you don’t cooperate,” he growled through gritted teeth, “something worse might happen.” He released Aunt Shannon’s arm.

  “You bully, picking on an old woman. What kind of man are you?” Aunt Shannon yelled. Gold’s calm exterior shook with rage for a moment. He raised his hand and Aunt Shannon winced as she waited for his hand to connect with her face.

  “You know, Shannon, someone needs to slap you,” Gold said. “If you aren’t careful, it might just be me. And,” he added, “it won’t just be a slap.” He nodded to the other man, and the two wrenched open the door and left.