The Bear in a Muddy Tutu

by Cole Alpaugh

  “The magician’s assistant was really, really nice and had even made Sadie a pink tutu to wear when she was dancing.”

  “They were friends,” Dupont said.

  “Yes, they were very good friends. So, one night, when the magician and the mean trainer were off in town, Sadie went to the magician’s assistant and asked for a favor.”

  “To be turned into a dove?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But after saying the magic words, Sadie just disappeared under the big sheet and there was no dove.”

  “It didn’t work? What happened to Sadie?”

  “Well, after a minute, two little antenna poked out from under the edge of the sheet,” Morgan said. “And then two bright orange wings appeared.”

  “Sadie was turned into a butterfly?” Dupont asked the little girl.

  “Yes, a beautiful butterfly that was free to dance in the fields of flowers for ever and ever.”

  “That’s a happy story,” Dupont told the girl.

  “I miss my dad so much.”

  “Since you trusted me with such a lovely story, can I trust you with something that’s very important to me?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have any paper in your backpack?” he asked, and Morgan rummaged for a dry sheet from the middle of the stack and handed it to him. It was an older drawing of a cahow peeking out from a burrow Morgan had made in math class.

  Dupont pulled an expensive Montblanc pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, tiny gold-leafed birds sketched into the deep black metal skin, and began writing on the back of the picture.

  “I’m not sure how much this will really mean to you right now,” Dupont finished his note with the great flourish of a fancy signature and then handed the paper back to Morgan. “But maybe someday.”

  Morgan read the words and indeed they seemed like a riddle to the little girl. But she loved the man’s signature, which she saw included the tiny spread wings of a bird over the letter “i,” where a dot should have been. It seemed like something a kid would do, and Morgan made a mental note to try and work such a thing into her own signature, especially by the time school came back in session. If she ever went back to school.

  “Keep it safe, okay?”

  “I promise.” Morgan rolled the document carefully and stowed it in the large compartment of her backpack.

  “The rain’s getting harder,” Dupont said, and the two sat listening to the constant beat of the downpour, the wind whipping damp sheets of mist across the inside of the gazebo.

  They sat for a while, not talking, both looking off to the northeast sky, up toward where the lightning was playing tag among the clouds.

  Chapter 51

  Bagg was upset his forward motion had been so rudely interrupted; his entire body had slipped into autopilot for the last couple of hours, just kicking and kicking. The nearly drowned former newspaper reporter swore at the object in his path, tried to kick his way around it, but then a voice from above caught his attention. Was it God? Was it another wise-cracking pelican?

  Just as Bagg resumed his kicking, all five volunteer firemen jumped in to save him and promptly swamped his seat cushion. Bagg sank toward the bottom of the dredged cove in a slow-motion free fall. Underwater, there was no wind or stinging rain and Bagg was relaxed by the sudden quiet, willing to embrace the womb-like calm. His eyes were open to enjoy the beauty of the moment, the dancing bubbles in this fuzzy green and blue world.

  Bagg tried to shrug away the hand that had attached itself to his right elbow. He knew the hand wanted him to go back up there, where life was crude and spiteful and windy as hell. It was hopeless up there and this place seemed perfect for him. He’d swim with the fish, maybe find a friend among the mermaids and sea turtles. This was a better place. Sure, you might have to avoid the occasional shark, but life on the surface was chock full of much worse things than circling predators with lots of teeth. Bagg wouldn’t mind dropping a wrung or two on the food chain in exchange for the serenity that had enveloped him.

  “Let me go!” Bagg tried to shout, but he hadn’t even begun to master the art of talking underwater. His divine harmony was cut short, snatched away. The searing pain of his lungs filling with salt water sent his body into agonizing spasms. He turned his fate over to whatever bastard had him by the arm. For Christ’s sake, if you want me that bad, then go ahead. I’m done fighting.

  Bagg’s limp body was whisked back to the surface and roughly shoved on board, where he threw up only a small portion of the salt water he’d inhaled while trying to complain.

  “You’re gonna be okay, buddy.” And Bagg would have laughed at the idea of being okay had his lungs not been filled with what felt like needles and coarse sand. Yeah, thanks, buddy, Bagg thought. I was doing just fine underwater.

  There were crackling voices on a radio and more hands all over Bagg’s body. Someone shielded his face from the rain with a flapping piece of orange plastic, and Bagg appreciated the gesture. Any remnants of anger over being rescued were forgotten. A brace was wound around his neck, and he was tilted and scooped onto a stretcher for the ambulance ride to the hospital.

  There was an upside to falling out of a stormy sky in a large jetliner, left to kick and paddle across an angry ocean, bumping headfirst into a rescue boat still safely docked. Aches and pains aside, his room was filled to the brim with cheerful flowers and cards propped open, signed with lovely little well wishes from people he couldn’t possibly know. Nice. Very nice.

  Bagg lay on his back, wires and tubes attached to him here and there, as he craned his neck to admire all of his pretty flowers. It was his first foray into consciousness in the two days since his arrival, and every muscle in his body was stiff and aching.

  Above the colorful display were other more curious items, which Bagg endeavored to comprehend through his fog. Taped to the soft blue walls were drawings of birds. Some were in crayon, done by the hand of a young child. Others were in pen or pencil, with much more intricate detail. But as little as Bagg knew of birds and art, he got the sense that the same child had drawn them all. Perhaps it was something about the sweeping, rounded shapes of their heads, or maybe it was the uniform tilt of the beaks.

  And for just a moment, Bagg thought the little contortionist Amira had slipped into the hospital bed with him. In his right palm was a small hand, about the size and feel of his friend’s. Bagg lifted the hand he was cradling and realized it probably belonged to a child. It was incredibly soft, with tiny fingernails bitten and as crooked as his own.

  Bagg peered down at the top of the sleeping child’s head and found his next breath almost impossible, because he’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe. His chest froze at the sight of her crooked part and the sound of her own raspy breathing, almost a little girl-snore. Her hair was bleached from the sun, and what skin he could see on her forehead was more tan than he’d ever imagined it could be.

  But as with most dreams of Morgan, Bagg allowed himself to enjoy a little of the illusion before getting pulled or slammed back to reality. Like being lost in the desert, maybe it kept your sanity around a little longer if you allowed the mirage to linger for a moment, before trudging forward in desperation. Perhaps a quick taste of sweet water before it disappeared back to that place Amira had called thin air.

  Bagg let himself smile at his little mirage, who had grown so much since he’d last seen her. When he dared to gently squeeze her hand, Morgan turned toward him, her own dream interrupted. Her eyes fluttered open like butterfly wings, as she tilted her face up to her father’s.

  Those perfect round eyes filled with all the hope in the world. They were the most beautiful image Bagg had ever seen in his life. And his heart ached. His lost little girl smiled, then closed her eyes again and snuggled close, a slight crackling noise coming from a sheet of once-folded paper trapped between them. With his left hand, Bagg slowly pulled it free, its edges torn and the entire sheet dappled from water damage.

  On one side was a picture of a bir
d, probably drawn by the same hand as those taped to the walls. It looked like a seagull peeking out from a hole in the ground. Did seagulls live in holes? Bagg turned the picture over and was surprised that the writing was entirely done by a heavy, sweeping grown-up’s hand, all except for the letter “i” in the signature. Instead of a dot over the letter, there appeared to be the tiny spread wings of a bird. Even more surprising was that the signature had been made by the man Bagg had come to see, to plead the case for a group of people pushed right up against the edge of dry ground, unwanted and undesirable, required to remain invisible until it was time for the calliope to be switched on. Bagg read the letter from the twenty-nine-year-old multimillionaire named Michael Dupont, which gave Miss Morgan Freeman ownership of a little plot of land, a speck of mud and marsh, really, known as Fish Head Island.

  The one clause added at the bottom, just under his signature, must have been very important to Mr. Dupont, since he’d written it in all capitol letters:

  “TO BE KEPT AS A PLACE FOR DANCING BEARS, BUTTERFLIES, AND MAGIC.”

  THE END