A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  He fought to control his rising temper. “If you can read my mind like you say you can,” he said tightly, “then you know I don’t have anymore. That was all the money I had.”

  The dragon suddenly shook his head and began wildly flapping his leathery brown wings, sweeping up a mushroom cloud of dust that sent Bradley Wallace into violent hacking fits.

  “Hey,” the coughing boy exclaimed, choking and spitting dust from his mouth. “Watch it, will ya?”

  Whilly ceased his tempestuous gesticulations and settled into a stony silence, gazing long and hard at the human child. I may have to hunt again tonight, he announced flatly.

  Bradley Wallace groaned fretfully. “You’re going to get caught, you know. We both are.”

  I am a dragon. I must have food.

  “You keep saying that!” the boy snapped in frustration. Exhausted and afraid, Bradley Wallace felt an overpowering helplessness and futility engulf him. If he were a grownup everything would be so easy. He’d know exactly what to do and have the freedom to do it. But he was just a stupid little kid who’d painted himself into a corner. At least, it seemed that way to him at this moment.

  “Just don’t do anything till after I talk to Mr. O’Conner,” he begged, his eyes pleading, his voice desperately imploring. “Please?”

  I will wait, the dragon acquiesced, settling down into a comfortable waiting posture.

  Bradley Wallace scrambled to his feet, admonished the already dozing dragon to be on the lookout for any exploring kids, and hurried from the warehouse, promising to return right after dinner.

  Once back home, the boy managed to sneak unobserved into his room for his surreptitious daily dose of “Dark Shadows.” But he was too tense and anxious to even give his favorite show more than perfunctory attention. At 4:30, he packed up his earplug and presented himself to his mother, who was in the kitchen preparing tuna casserole for dinner, as though he’d been outside playing, announcing his intention to go out front and wait for Mr. O’Conner.

  As usual, his mother cautioned him against bothering poor Mr. O’Conner and Bradley Wallace, as usual, assured her that Mr. O’Conner didn’t consider it “bein’ bothered.” Then he was out the front door before she could “recommend” he put on a sweater.

  At precisely 4:40 pm (Bradley Wallace remembered to wear his watch), Mr. O’Conner’s familiar ice cream sundae truck clanged and sputtered up Manderly and rounded the corner with several loud creaks and groans, shuddering to a stop before the waving boy, misfiring and spewing a cloud of noxious fumes into the chilling afternoon air.

  Bradley Wallace coughed and crinkled his nose distastefully.

  He didn’t know anything about cars, but he suspected ole Shannon needed some work.

  “That’s gross!” he reproved the disembarking old man good-naturedly, pointing to the dissipating carbon monoxide and grimacing.

  “Aye, lad, I gotta get ole Shannon fixed, that I do,” Mr. O’Conner agreed with a sigh, ambling around the front of the truck to face the boy. “We never had this problem back in the old country. Course, back then we used horses.” He chuckled and Bradley Wallace grinned delightedly. Leave it to Mr. O’Conner to make him smile, even when he was as deeply troubled as today. Because he was so nervous and worried, Bradley Wallace forgot his customary ritual of wishing on the broken piece of crystal, which he usually did first thing. Mr. O’Conner’s eyes narrowed curiously as he regarded the thoughtful, unmoving boy.

  “Have all your dreams come true, lad?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the crystal dangling from Shannon’s rear view mirror. “Or is there maybe somethin’ troublin’ you?” His perceptiveness was uncanny.

  Realizing his error, Bradley Wallace stammered, “I forgot” and hurried around to the running board, climbing up into the driver’s seat. Clutching the prism-like crystal (which seemed oddly warm today) in his right hand, he closed his eyes and thought momentarily on what he should wish for. After a brief consideration, he mumbled, “I wish I could be smarter than I am,” and released the multifaceted gem. He caught a brief mind glimpse of Whilly, slumbering contentedly under the silent shadows of the warehouse. Somehow, he had to help this special creature survive. He had to.

  As he climbed down from the front seat, Bradley Wallace faced Mr. O’Conner, for the first time unable to say what was on his mind. The perceptive old man obviously sensed this, for he put a hand to the boy’s shoulder and forced eye contact between them. “You’re plenty smart right now, lad, and don’t you forget it,” he insisted sincerely. But Bradley Wallace still remained silent, averting his gaze from the old man’s penetrating azure eyes, struggling over his doubts and fears. Mr. O’Conner gently squeezed the boy’s shoulder, silently urging him to speak. “What’s on your mind, boy? You know you can tell me anything.”

  Finally Bradley Wallace spoke, acknowledging both to the old man and himself what was really troubling him. “I know that, Mr. O’Conner,” he began stumblingly. “It’s just that I’m afraid if you can’t help me, no one can.” Then what would he do?

  “Now don’t you worry none about that, laddy,” he replied, sitting the boy down beside him on the curb. “Back in the old country, my Grand pap used to say, ‘the answer is only as good as the question.’ So, what’s your question?”

  “How can I make money real fast?” the boy blurted out suddenly. The old man’s eyes danced with amusement, and he began laughing. “What’s so funny, Mr. O’Conner?” Bradley Wallace was a bit peeved that his friend seemed to be making fun of him, but struggled not to show it. He hated being laughed at.

  As though reading his thoughts, the old man clapped him on the back and assured the irritated boy he hadn’t been laughing at him. “It’s just that, for a moment or two there when you were so quiet, I thought you might be in real important trouble.”

  “But this is important!” Bradley Wallace insisted. “See, a friend of mine is sort of in trouble, and I need to help him out by making some money. But I don’t know how.”

  He trailed off sheepishly, unable to look Mr. O’Conner in the face after lying through his teeth like that. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t really lied, but rather, withheld certain pertinent information. However, in any case, he wasn’t being honest with the one person he felt had always been straight with him. He felt like a heel.

  The old man seemed not to notice his shamefaced expression, merely pausing to consider the boy’s dilemma. He absently rubbed his fingers over the grizzly five o’clock shadow enveloping his chin which, being essentially white, hardly resembled a shadow at all. Bradley Wallace tried to hide his shame by idly kicking at the tiny pebbles dotting the street around his sneakers and wondering what Mr. O’Conner would look like with a beard.

  “Well,” the old man finally broke the awkward silence, “it might help my answer if you told me the whole story. You’re holdin’ something back on old Mr. O’Conner, aren’t you?”

  The boy nodded, eyes still glued to those stupid pebbles.

  “I thought we were friends,” the old man prodded.

  Bradley Wallace jerked his head up quickly, fixing his emerald eyes on the old man’s wrinkled countenance, his expression pained. “Oh, but we are,” he agreed readily. “It’s just that, well, if I could tell anyone it would be you, Mr. O’Conner. Honest. But I just can’t tell.”

  Mr. O’Conner nodded, but the disappointment he felt was evident in the open sadness of his eyes. Bradley Wallace saw that disappointment and had to look away. How could he make the old man understand without alienating him? “Didn’t you ever have a secret when you were my age?” he suggested hopefully. “Something you couldn’t tell anyone in the whole world?”

  He watched anxiously as the old man cocked his head to one side, as though striving to remember that far back. Then a knowing smile of understanding crept slowly across his chalk-white lips, and he nodded.

  “Aye, lad, that I did.” He clapped the boy across the shoulders, and Bradley Wallace knew all was sti
ll well between them. He broke into a grin of relief.

  “You know,” Mr. O’Conner went on, squinting down at the boy in the fading amber sunlight, his voice once more airy and ingratiating, “I do believe you’re getting bigger. There seem to be more shoulders here to slap.” He grinned, and the boy felt instantly better. “So you need to make money, eh?”

  Bradley Wallace nodded expectantly.

  “Well,” the old man continued, “The best way I know to make money is to work for it.”

  “You mean a job?” the boy exclaimed in consternation. “But I’m just a kid. Nobody’d hire me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, lad,” Mr. O’Conner chided sternly. “You’ve a good head on those broad shoulders and don’t you forget it.”

  Bradley Wallace flushed red at the compliment, almost compelled by the old man’s conviction to believe it was true. “But I really don’t know how to do anything,” he lamented, “and I’ve gotta earn some money real fast.”

  “Real fast, eh?” The old man closed his eyes and rubbed his chin again, apparently deep in thought. For a fearful moment, Bradley Wallace thought he might have dozed off.

  “No, lad, I didn’t doze off,” Mr. O’Conner spoke the startled boy’s thoughts aloud, opening his eyes and fixing them on his young friend. “And it just so happens that I’m in the market for an assistant.”

  “An assistant?” Bradley Wallace repeated stupidly, his face cloudy with confusion.

  “I’m not getting any younger, lad,” Mr. O’Conner explained. “And it’s not so easy for me to be reachin’ into that icebox so much. I could use an able-bodied young assistant to help me out.”

  The boy couldn’t believe his good fortune. “You mean I could help you sell ice cream?” he blurted excitedly. The old man nodded. “That’d be great, Mr. O’Conner!”

  “I said sell it, lad, not eat it,” the old man laughed, and Bradley Wallace grinned unabashedly. He almost felt weak with relief.

  Mr. O’Conner had made it all seem so simple, the solution to his dilemma, and the boy decided there were certain advantages to being grown up after all.

  “There’s just one more thing, lad,” Mr. O’Conner went on musingly. “We’ve gotta think up a title for you, eh? Let me see . . . “ He paused a moment in consideration. “All the kids call me the Good Humor Man, that right?”

  Bradley Wallace smiled and nodded.

  Mr. O’Conner’s face suddenly lit up and he slapped his knee in excitement. “I’ve got it.” He rose creakily to his feet and gestured for the curious boy to stand before him. Then the old man reached into the pocket of his sheet-white shirt and pulled out a clean, wooden Popsicle stick, holding it out over the boy’s head.

  “Get down on one knee, boy,” he commanded regally, and Bradley Wallace immediately complied. He and the old man often engaged in such role-playing, usually with Mr. O’Conner as the king and Bradley Wallace as the knight. He bowed his head deferentially as the old man tapped each shoulder dramatically with the Popsicle stick.

  “I hereby dub thee ‘Assistant Good Humor Man.’” He pulled the stick away and stepped back. “How’s that for a title, eh?”

  Bradley Wallace looked up into the aging countenance and slapped his knee in perfect imitation of the old man’s gesture. “Tis great, lad!” he replied with a wink, and Mr. O’Conner burst into gales of raspy laughter.

  Bradley Wallace suddenly realized how lucky he was to have this man for a friend. But then a frown shadowed his youthful features as a new fear assailed him. What would he do for money until he got paid? How would he feed Whilly?

  As though reading his mind again, Mr. O’Conner reached into the front pocket of his spotless white trousers and extracted his beat-up brown wallet (which he always kept in the front rather than back pocket to frustrate pickpockets; a habit Bradley Wallace had adopted as well, much to the chagrin of his father). The old man removed thirty dollars and handed the crackling bills to the wide-eyed, slack-jawed youngster, who stood and reached for the money hesitantly.

  “Now here’s an advance for ya, a week’s worth, give or take. I expect your friend might need something to tide ‘im over.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” the grateful boy stammered uneasily, gazing at the money in his hand like it was manna from Heaven.

  Mr. O’Conner merely smiled. “Sometimes, lad, you just have to learn to say ‘thank you.”’

  Bradley Wallace nodded. “Thank you,” he replied, the words nearly becoming entangled in his emotion clogged throat. He never really knew for sure when and what were the right times to express his feelings, mainly because it wasn’t cool for boys to get too gushy. So he restrained himself from hugging Mr. O’Conner, instead announcing excitedly his intention to tell his parents about the new job. Mr. O’Conner advised him to ask, rather than tell, them about his employment. And then, if all was acceptable to both parents, the boy was to report “here, to this very corner, tomorrow at 4:35 pm sharp!”

  Bradley Wallace nodded excitedly and assured the old ice cream man that he would “definitely” be there, and promised to be “the best Assistant Good Humor Man in the whole world!”

  Mr. O’Conner laughed. “Aye, lad, that you will be,” adding, “Of course, you might just be the only Assistant Good Humor Man in the world.” He chuckled and the boy laughed.

  Excited and anxious to tell his mother about his new job, Bradley Wallace said goodbye to the old man and raced up the front steps, past the overgrown juniper bushes, toward the front door. He turned on the cobblestone stoop and waved as Mr. O’Conner scrambled up behind the wheel, then burst wildly into the house.

  As he might have expected had he given the matter some thought, his mother was not keen on the idea of her thirteen-year-old son working, not even with Mr. O’Conner. In fact, she was dead set against it, popping the boy’s bubble of enthusiasm with the hatpin of her motherly protectiveness. He was too young, she explained, and he had school to think about.

  The furious Bradley Wallace stewed over his mother’s decision until his father returned home, and then practically threw himself at the man when he walked in, quickly explaining the situation before Jack could hear it from Marge. To the boy’s amazement, and delight, his father agreed with him immediately, contending that working would be good experience for the boy, so long as it didn’t interfere with school, of course.

  Naturally, Marge was furious at having her decision countermanded, and Jack tried to mollify her with the assurance that Bradley Wallace could only continue working as long as his grades stayed up. But Marge didn’t like being overruled, and set dinner on the table in a stony silence.

  Incredibly, even Katie agreed that Bradley Wallace working was a “good, solid idea. It might help him grow up a little.” Why was it that even when she was on his side, she still treated him disparagingly, the boy wondered silently. With a friend like her, he didn’t need any enemies. (“Disparaging” was today’s word - he was trying to learn a new one every day.) Realizing the issue was apparently settled to everyone else’s satisfaction, Marge settled into a “mood,” making only polite responses when the others attempted to draw her into the conversation. The atmosphere was strained, to say the least.

  Bradley Wallace tried to lighten the unpleasant aura with the story of his big P.E. victory at school. Jack Murphy was genuinely heartfelt in his congratulations, more than he’d ever displayed toward his son, and Bradley Wallace felt proud for a change.

  Katie, too, put in her two bits which started out complimentarily, but which ended with her admonition not to let it “go to his head.” Good ole Katie! His mother added her cursory congratulations, and the gloomy pall settled over the group once more.

  Finally, in an attempt to keep her frothing anger from spilling out onto the table, Marge commented matter-of-factly that she had bumped into Sally Noble in the market that day. Bradley Wallace was completely caught unawares taking a swig of milk. He choked and coughed violently, very nearly spewing the white liqu
id onto his plate, and alarming both parents. His father began whacking the boy’s back repeatedly.

  “Are you all right, son?” Jack asked anxiously, his brown eyes clouded with worry.

  The frightened boy nodded, his voice strained. “It just went down the wrong way.”

  His father nodded, and addressed himself good-naturedly to Marge. “So,” he began, scooping up a forkful of Betty Crocker Instant Mashed Potatoes, “What did Sally have to say?” He obviously wasn’t the least bit interested, but Bradley Wallace sure was - acutely. Still, so as not to draw attention to himself, the boy feigned interest in his food.

  “She said something got her cat last night,” Marge replied stiffly. She knew Jack wasn’t interested, and that irked her, too.

  “What do you mean ‘something’ got her cat?” Jack retorted skeptically.

  “Don’t jump on me,” Marge snapped. “I’m just telling you what she told me.” Her fan belt is beginning to slip, Bradley Wallace thought worriedly. “She said she heard her cat scream bloody murder about 12:45 this morning and when she went outside to look around, the cat was gone.” Her face was tight, the look at his father one of daring - daring him to contradict or condescend. Tonight’s fight will be a beauty, the boy thought, and he was the cause again.

  As though tempting fate, Jack openly scoffed. “I’m sure the cat just

  ran off after a mouse or something. It’ll be back.” He shoveled in a mouthful of corn.

  Marge’s look was downright icy. “It hadn’t come back by this afternoon,” was her terse reply before she, too, pointedly took a mouthful of food.

  Bradley Wallace breathed an almost audible sigh of relief. The conversation was over and never once had his mother even glanced in his direction. Mrs. Noble must’ve kept her promise. Thank God!

  The remainder of the meal passed under a cloud of percolating tension, during which time his parents found every way possible to avoid looking at one another. The only other near disaster occurred when ever-helpful Katie commented on how good the dinner was, but what happened to the promised chicken? Marge absently answered that she thought there was chicken in the freezer, but had been mistaken. They’d have the roast chicken tomorrow. Bradley Wallace very nearly gagged on that one, too, but fortunately no one noticed.