He slunk away from the table shortly after that and ensconced himself in his room, deciding to again wait till everyone had gone to bed before bringing Whilly leftovers from dinner. Conveying this message to the somnolent dragon, Bradley Wallace attacked his homework with renewed vigor. If he was to keep his newly acquired job (and he had to), he’d best make certain his grades didn’t slip one single notch. All he needed to hear was another “I told you so” from his mother to his father.
The night was black and moonless as Bradley Wallace tramped through the deathly quiet Gully, arms laden with as much food from the fridge as he dared abscond with, and passed through the entry slit into the pitch dark warehouse. He fumblingly aimed his flashlight at Whilly’s usual corner near the fallen rafter, but the dragon wasn’t there. And yet, the boy could feel the creature’s presence. The dragon was here, somewhere.
Directing the narrow beam in a wide, circular arc around the familiar clutter, the boy spotted Whilly hunched intently over one side of the Masher, dexterous forepaws scratching at the rusted, unmovable parts, red eyes alive with curiosity.
Bradley Wallace clambered over fallen debris to the dragon’s side and dropped his paper bag to the ground beside the mesmerized creature,
who remained petrified, as though oblivious to the boy’s presence.
“Uh, hello?” the youth began hesitantly, uncertain how the dragon would react to the interruption. “Are you all right?”’ Despite Whilly’s gentleness the other night, Bradley Wallace still felt an intractable reluctance to touch the apparently friendly beast.
There was no response.
The boy gazed at the fascinated dragon and contemplated his next move. Then it hit him - a very logical idea. “Hey, Whilly,” he went on temptingly, his voice like fish bait, “I brought food.”
At that the dragon instantly snapped out of his self-imposed hypnosis and fixed his glimmering red eyes on the boy excitedly. What is this, Bradley Wallace Murphy? he transmitted, touching the Masher carefully with his elongated muzzle.
The boy was astonished. He goes to all this trouble to get food for his so-called friend, and then the stupid dragon ignores his efforts to ask dumb questions about a rusty old machine! He’d never understand grown ups, girls, or dragons.
“It’s what we call a machine,” he tried to explain patiently. “This one’s nickname is The Masher, but I don’t know what it was used for. It’s been broken for a long time.”
The dragon nodded, as though carefully absorbing and assimilating each of the boy’s words, then returned his captivated gaze to the superannuated machine. To coin a phrase, “fascinating”, Whilly commented, then added in confusion, Where did I get that expression? Bradley Wallace laughed, his annoyance of a few moments ago shifting effortlessly into amusement. “You’ve been picking my brain again. That’s a line from ‘Star Trek.’ It’s a TV show.”
The dragon appeared to mull this over. TV. I have seen it in your mind, but you must let me see it for real. Back in my own time there were no such things as machines.
Bradley Wallace nodded agreement, silently acknowledging the truth of his friend’s “words.” As he stooped to retrieve the fallen bag of food, realization suddenly struck him like a bludgeon.
“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed, standing quickly upright again. “How do you know that when you were born just a couple of days ago?”
Now it was the dragon’s turn to look perplexed.
He cocked his head from side to side, as though striving to dislodge the elusive answer from his ears. I do not know. Perhaps it has something to do with being a dragon I have not learned yet. He paused a moment, red eyes splintering with looked like tiny traces of sadness. My mother could tell me, if I had one.
Though Bradley Wallace didn’t actually feel any woeful emotion from the dragon, he, himself, became melancholy at the enormity of his friend’s situation. Whilly was literally the only one of his kind in the whole world, and the boy couldn’t conceive of that much loneliness. He wondered if dragons could even feel lonely or unhappy.
I do not have feelings such as you, Bradley Wallace Murphy. Whilly had been reading his mind again, the boy realized as the thought projection entered his consciousness. I can feel physical pain, but not what you humans call “emotions.”
Bradley Wallace sat down on a twisted “arm” jutting out from the Masher and thoughtfully considered this latest revelation, which seemed to be a paradox (another recent word he’d learned). “But if you are now part of me,” he countered, “then wouldn’t you feel what I feel?”
The dragon reacted as though this notion had never occurred to him, as indeed, it hadn’t. I do not know, he admitted truthfully. There is much I have to learn yet.
“You and me both,” Bradley Wallace agreed readily, jumping off the Masher and fumbling in the dark for his bag of food. If he was going to keep up these night visits, he’d have to get a lantern that would generate more than a narrow beam of light, or else risk stumbling in the dark and breaking his neck. He finally located the sack after a brief scan of the area with his flashlight, and rummaged inside for the various Murphy delicacies he’d managed to procure.
No longer enamored of the machine, nor weighed down by philosophical considerations, Whilly let his hunger take over. He set upon the proffered food and sucked it up like a vacuum cleaner.
In less than three minutes, there was nothing left but the paper bag (and that only because Bradley Wallace had been fast enough to snatch it
away). Man, this thing could eat!
As Whilly licked his chops in satisfaction (he liked Mrs. Murphy’s cooking, obviously), Bradley Wallace directed the flashlight beam over the large, leathery wings folded like unopened parachutes against the dragon’s sides, studying them in as much detail as the meager light allowed.
“Can you fly yet, Whilly?” he asked curiously, adding lamely, “I mean, well, you do have wings and all.”
The dragon retracted his sinuous tongue and regarded the boy keenly. I do not think I know how.
“How can you have wings and not know how to use them?” the boy questioned, sounding a trifle condescending and very much like Katie.
The dragon ruffled his wings and arched his back indignantly. It is something my mother would have taught me, just as yours taught you how to use what you call the toilet.
Bradley Wallace turned red with embarrassment. Having someone inside your head reading all your thoughts and memories and feelings might not be so hot after all, he decided. Even his most humiliating moments, many of which not even his parents knew, would be known to this mysterious dragon. “Okay, okay, you don’t have to get personal,” he apologized. “I didn’t know dragons had to be taught stuff like that.”
Whilly slurped at the boy’s face appeasingly with his thick tongue, then began to clean his forepaws feline style, taking care to get between each “finger.” Bradley Wallace returned to his perch atop the Masher’s arm and regarded the dragon carefully. They were very much alike, weren’t they? He’d always felt different from everyone else, apart from the mainstream of life, almost as though he’d been born into the wrong world or the wrong time. He might have been better back in Huck Finn’s time, or perhaps even Whilly’s. He was just a misfit, plain and simple. And now he’d met another misfit, one to whom his “different-ness” was not only acceptable, but actually welcomed. At last he had someone to share with, someone who might understand how he felt. It was almost too good to be true.
Then he suddenly thought of a great idea. “Say, Whilly,” he announced excitedly, “why don’t I teach you how to fly?”
The dragon paused in his cleansing to squint uncertainly at the exuberant child. Do you know how to fly?
Bradley Wallace laughed bemusedly. Actually, his greatest wish had always been to fly, not in an airplane, but like a bird. “No, humans can’t fly,” he explained regretfully. “But I’m sure I can help you learn. It can’t be too hard. You do have wings, after all.”
He shr
ugged and smiled so ingratiatingly that Whilly felt better for the boy’s youthful ebullience, and settled down in a comfortable position, tail wrapped nearly around his entire body, to contentedly sleep off his satiating meal.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” Bradley Wallace informed his indolent companion, and then remembered. “Oh, wait, I’ve gotta work with Mr. O’Conner tomorrow. He’s gonna teach me how to be an Assistant Good Humor Man.”
I know, came the soporific response.
Of course, the boy realized, Whilly would already know about his job, having access to his mind and all.
That was a weird notion Bradley Wallace was going to have to adjust to. “Well, don’t worry. Saturday is only two days away, and we’ll have all kinds of time. We can go up into the hills and practice where no one’ll see us. Okay?”
Okay.
He realized the dragon was very nearly asleep, and quietly dropped to the ground to whisper goodnight to his friend.
There was no response save a raspy, rhythmic breathing. Now he knew something else about dragons – they snore.
Snuggling comfortably under the bedcovers that night, Bradley Wallace sunk deliciously into the soft down of his pillow and contemplated all he would have to do to protect his friend from the harshness and fear of the world. But despite the difficulties he knew lay before him, the boy
nonetheless dropped off to sleep enveloped in a shroud of contentment, because he finally felt something for the first time in his life, and that something was wonderful. He felt needed.
That same night, as Bradley Wallace slumbered complacently, John Wagner thrashed wildly about, caught in the maelstrom of hideous nightmares that viciously assaulted his subconscious mind in wave after wave of vile imagery. Blood. Claws raking at flesh. Bits of fur being flung about haphazardly. Unearthly screams of dying animals.
And through it all, tormenting him all the more, the grinning face of Bradley Wallace Murphy drifted in and out like wispy white clouds on a breezy summer day. Each time he awoke, drenched in sticky sweat, clutching madly at his mangled sheets, the boy had to fight down the shriek lodged in his throat. And no matter how long he fought sleep, it eventually overtook him. Then dream images returned, each more ghastly than the last. Maybe Murphy had put a curse on him after all.
CHAPTER 4
“Assistant Good Humor Man”
School the following day was routine, and Bradley Wallace managed to get through it all unscathed. Aside from one brief encounter at morning recess, Wagner steadfastly avoided him to such an extent that Bradley Wallace worried over what dirty trick his nemesis was plotting now. As Bradley Wallace followed his scrambling classmates toward the playground, Wagner suddenly appeared alongside and grabbed him by the shirtfront. Bradley Wallace was startled, and nearly gagged from Wagner’s fetid breath.
“You got lucky in P.E. yesterday, Murphy,” Wagner whispered hoarsely, sounding a lot like that movie actor, Oliver Reed. “I didn’t get you in just the right place. But next time, man . . . “
He let the threat trail off with a vile sneer, and released Bradley Wallace’s rumpled shirt. Bradley Wallace stared back defiantly, affecting more courage than he actually felt, and fought to conceal the shaking of his knees.
Wagner turned and strode away haughtily. But then he stopped suddenly and turned back, gazing long and appraisingly at Bradley Wallace. His piercing grey eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell Old Skin Head that I plugged you?”
“What for?” Bradley Wallace countered calmly, hoping the quavering of his voice wasn’t obvious. “This is between you and me.”
Their eyes locked for a moment, each trying to stare the other down. What Bradley Wallace saw in Wagner’s gaze he couldn’t quite define, and then it was gone as Wagner turned to strut toward the play yard. It was almost as though Wagner interpreted Bradley Wallace’s words as some kind of threat. At least, that’s what Wagner’s eyes seemed to indicate.
But why would he ever think I was threatening him, the boy wondered curiously. He shook his head in disgust. Wagner was such a prick!
But, at least Wagner stuck close to Raley and Smith the rest of the day and left Bradley Wallace alone, much to the latter’s relief. Upon arriving home, Bradley Wallace again biked to Rakestraw’s and bought some meat for Whilly, which the hungry dragon was only too happy to receive.
Feeling satisfied, belly bulging with food, the dragon slumped heavily to the ground and prepared to sleep. Young dragons must require as much sleep as they do food, the boy decided as he settled to the ground beside his somnolent friend. Reaching out hesitantly, Bradley Wallace touched the shiny, smooth scales of the dragon’s muscular back, as though he expected to receive an electric shock. The scales were hard and plate-like to the touch. Then the boy gingerly moved his probing fingers to the creature’s folded wings, which looked leathery, but felt more like Saran Wrap, sort of sticky and plasticky. Very weird. Just before settling into a deep slumber, Whilly sent this curious question to a startled Bradley Wallace: Why do you hate John Wagner? Surprised though he was, the boy knew it was no use trying to wake the sleeping dragon to pursue the subject. Unfortunately, it would have to wait till another time. But why would Whilly ask about John Wagner?
The curious youth left his napping friend quietly, and hurried home in time for “Dark Shadows.” Since both his mother and Katie were lurking around the house, Bradley Wallace had to be on the extreme alert during that half-hour. Up to now, he’d only had video images for friends - Barnabas, Quentin, Josette, and the other characters. But now he had a real friend, one he could actually touch, one to whom he could talk and receive an answer.
He’d have to introduce Whilly to “Dark Shadows,” he decided happily. That was something they could share. The little TV in front of him had a battery pack stashed somewhere in his father’s office, he knew, and if he could get hold of it, they could watch in the old warehouse. He smiled a secret smile of anticipation, while gazing intently at the tiny screen on which a big, burly executioner prepared to behead Quentin Collins for allegedly practicing the witchcraft actually perpetrated by warlock Judah Zachary (in the guise of Gerard Stiles). At last he had someone with whom he could share and discuss “Dark Shadows.” All right!
Bidding his mother a loud, but multi-tonal goodbye (his changing voice was a real drag), Bradley Wallace shot out the front door like a human cannonball. He didn’t want to be even one second late for his first day as official Assistant Good Humor Man. He rather liked that title. It was different, at least. But with a name like that, he’d have to come up with a big repertoire of jokes. He smiled at the thought. At precisely 4:35, the old ice cream sundae truck clamored and sputtered into view (actually, he heard it several minutes before he saw it). Bradley Wallace didn’t know how many Assistant Good Humor Men there were in the world, but he would definitely be the best. This determination firmly resolved, the boy scampered down the stone steps to join his new employer.
During the course of their travels that day, Mr. O’Conner, as always, kept the boy enthralled with tall tales of the old country and its fascinating legends. Some were magical and some were barbaric, but all were exciting. What set Mr. O’Conner apart from the other old people Bradley Wallace knew was that he never ever repeated the same story twice. His tales reeked of romanticism and heroism, and were always different.
The boy was in imagination heaven.
He also discovered that there was more to selling ice cream than met the eye. He had to be patient with indecisive children and dribbling babies, and even more tolerant of the supercilious punks who had to show everyone around the “cool” way to buy ice cream (that seemed to translate into smart remarks).
The worst was having to be respectful to pushy, obnoxious parents. And all this in one afternoon. Boy, this wasn’t easy! But he did his job without complaint, and actually enjoyed most of it, even though his hands turned numb from the penetrating cold of the freezer and he feared the onslaught of frostbite. Mr. O’Conner had given hi
m an old pair of gloves, but the frosty air still got through.
The old man laughed off the boy’s fear of frostbite, telling him if he thinks that’s cold, he should survive a snowy winter in the old country, or even in the eastern states of this one. Californians just didn’t understand what cold really was, he commented with a shake of his head.
At every street corner they stopped, Mr. O’Conner proudly introduced Bradley Wallace as his new Assistant Good Humor man - always employing the official title so that by the end of that first workday (which only totaled an hour and fifteen minutes) Bradley Wallace was well-known along much of the old man’s route, and felt suitably important. Just before dropping the boy off at home, Mr. O’Conner assured him that selling ice cream was an honorable profession, and if any kids gave him a bad time about it to inform them that he was performing an important service for others. When Bradley Wallace asked what that service was, the old man smiled and replied, “Making them happy, lad.” The boy grinned proudly. That was awfully important, wasn’t it?
That night at dinner he chattered incessantly about his new job, even out-talking champion motor mouth Katie for once. His mother frowned unpleasantly during most of his discourse and merely admonished him to “tackle” his homework immediately after dinner. At the word “tackle,” his father brought up the subject of football, and Bradley Wallace groaned inwardly. Had the boy tried out his new football, his father wanted to know, and Bradley Wallace’s enthusiasm over his job burst like a balloon. He shook his head, feeling slightly guilty. He hadn’t had a chance yet, he explained.
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