A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  During those same two weeks, John Wagner tended to avoid Bradley Wallace altogether.

  The bully had taken to harassing a new boy named Robert Malkey who, as a target for heckling, possessed many prime qualifications - he was gangly, skinny, awkward, with sharp, angular features, a pointed beak for a nose, dark crew cut hair, shirt tail always tucked in neatly, and, the worst sin of all, he wore glasses.

  Naturally, that age-old epithet “four-eyes” was instantly slapped on the newcomer by the cruel, ceaselessly tormenting Wagner. Malkey attained something of a reputation around St. Raphael’s as the local “Fizzie” distributor.

  His pockets always seemed to be bulging to the bursting point with the Alka-Seltzer-like tablets, which fizzed and frothed excitedly when placed on the wet tongue, and which came in a wide variety of flavors. He’d sell them to the other kids for a nickel apiece, much to the chagrin of the teachers and recess monitors who (for reasons only grown ups could fathom) thought the effervescent tablets harmful to the children’s’ oral health. Malkey also had another major strike against him - he performed well, and generally with winsome courtesy, in all his classes. Nothing irked Wagner more than a “kiss-ass egghead.”

  So, due to his apparent obsession with Malkey, Wagner left

  Bradley Wallace completely alone. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to ignore his formerly favorite dartboard. While this development appeared perfect on the surface, deep down, the implications festered in Bradley Wallace’s subconscious. He also felt extremely empathetic toward Malkey’s situation, and made a concerted effort to extend kindness and support to the new boy, who, he noted one day in science class, had the biggest mole Bradley Wallace had ever seen, right on the back of his neck, dead center.

  He found Malkey to be affable enough, but not prone to deep friendships, probably due to the fact (which Bradley Wallace discovered) that Robert’s family moved to a different city (and usually state) every couple of years (due to his father’s work, which Robert never spoke of, leading Bradley Wallace to imagine all manner of fascinating professions, maybe even a spy), all of which meant that Robert attended so many different schools and made different friends that, apparently, he never got too close to anyone in particular. But he and Bradley Wallace struck up a passing acquaintanceship, allied in their mutual loathing for John Wagner.

  Bradley Wallace noticed during this time that Wagner would never harass Malkey when they were together, as if the mere presence of Bradley Wallace was anathema to Wagner’s existence. The bully also seemed so unnaturally tired and drawn, as though he wasn’t sleeping well at night. Wagner’s wan appearance and uncharacteristic behavior piqued Bradley Wallace’s insatiable curiosity, but with Whilly growing and learning so rapidly, his afternoon job with Mr. O’Conner, and his usual load of school work, the boy was simply too busy to give much consideration to someone who would love to beat the crap out of him.

  More was happening in John Wagner’s tormented mind than he dared to admit. The dreams persisted night after night now, and he had taken to snatching his mother’s sleeping pills as a futile attempt at shutting them off. But, like the raging floodwaters of a demolished dam, the nightmarish images pierced even the muted fog of drug-induced sleep.

  The most persistent, frustrating element was Murphy, never fighting back, always returning Wagner’s vitriolic hatred with kindness. And there seemed to be something else, too, something John could never quite see or even guess at.

  He could feel it, strongly, penetratingly, like a biting cold wind on

  a blustery winter afternoon, and yet its physicality frustratingly eluded him. What was happening to him? He’d ask himself that question so often he felt like a stupid parrot he’d once seen down at Fur, Feathers, and Fins Pet Shop that sat dumbly in its cage repeating “Would you believe?” until you wanted to throttle the idiot creature. Despite his failure to learn much about witchcraft, he still wasn’t certain Murphy hadn’t really put some kind of curse on him.

  Raley and that moron Smith badgered him of late to teach “that little faggot” a lesson. But he threatened to pound on them if they didn’t lay off him. He’d take care of Murphy in his own way and in his own time. But would he? Could he? If the creep was invoking the powers of darkness to torture him, what defense could he offer? The more the dreams, and these ominous thoughts, persisted, the more uncomfortable Wagner felt even in the general vicinity of Bradley Wallace Murphy. And sometimes, just sometimes, mind you, he was even a little afraid. Just a little.

  Unbeknownst to Bradley Wallace, whose day-to-day existence with Whilly had taken on a satisfying sheen of contentment, the neighborhood surrounding him seethed with growing unrest. Like a time bomb nearing its appointed destiny, an explosive force was building all around the child, who, unfortunately for him, remained too busy to notice. For over the past three weeks, no less than thirty cats simply vanished off the face of the earth as though they had never existed. And their owners were about to detonate.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Our First Fight”

  The final week in April heralded the onset of Daylight Savings Time, and restless anticipation on the part of Bradley Wallace and his peers for the school-less freedom of summer vacation. Today was Friday, and there was another boring assembly at 2:10 p.m. The boys were all gathered in Mr. Baldie’s room since they normally they had extra P.E. in the gym at that time. But today, the assembly had usurped their terrain and so there would be no rec time. Actually, this time was officially set aside for “Art,” but since that usually consisted of coloring in mimeographed pictures of vases and trees, Mr. Baldie happily skipped it. He believed the boys were far better served exercising their bodies instead of their crayons. He figured it’d save mimeograph paper, too.

  While everyone milled aimlessly about the classroom, waiting for the general call to Assembly, several of the boys began arm wrestling to pass the time. The undisputed champ was Jeff Kott, who, it had always been generally assumed without question, was the strongest guy in the class. An ever-increasing number began gathering around to watch him take on any challengers, brave individuals who hesitantly peeled off from the main group to take on the champ. Even Mr. Baldie stood idly by, watching the adolescent contest of strength with amusement and fond remembrance. But Jeff remained undefeated.

  Bradley Wallace stood apart and alone from the others, gazing intently out the dirty windows at nothing in particular, his mind adrift with thoughts of Whilly, and the dragon’s troubled perceptions of mankind’s more violent tendencies.

  A rousing cheer behind him caused the boy to cease his ruminations and turn to observe the crowd with curiosity. Moving to the group, he pressed his way through just in time to see Jeff defeat Dave Rupiper, another Joe Athlete-type, and was fascinated. He’d never before seen anyone arm wrestling, and found it most intriguing. The technique seemed simple enough, he noted. All it took was strength of arm and strength of will.

  Jeff somewhat smugly called out his oft-repeated challenge, but no one deigned to accept. Until Bradley Wallace impulsively stepped forward and placed himself in the opposite desk, which butted head-to-head against the one in which the reigning champ was ensconced. Jeff smiled amiably, the sure smile born of confidence, the smile of one certain of victory. Bradley Wallace nervously rubbed his sweating palms against his salt and pepper pants, and suddenly realized with paralytic fear that he’d placed himself in the limelight.

  Everyone encircling the two boys eyed him with amused disdain. He could see it clearly in their laughing eyes - they expected him to lose. Well, he decided firmly as he raised his tension-strung arm (which was easily as big as that of his opponent), and planted the elbow securely against the worn, burnished wood of the desk top, he would simply have to win.

  He and Jeff gripped hands tightly, their bodies already rigid with tautness. Bradley Wallace at first cursed his stupidity for placing himself in a position to even further lower his reputation in the eyes of his classmates. There was no way he could
beat Jeff. No way. And yet, determination welled up in his heart and filled every muscle of his body. He might lose in the end, but Jeff would earn that victory like he’d earned no other. Squeezing his opponent’s rock-hardened hand tentatively, Bradley Wallace acknowledged the other’s tacit invitation to begin with a stiff, measured nod.

  With a mighty upsurge of strength from both boys simultaneously, the contest began. The combatants strained heavily against one another, the muscles and sinews of their arms bulging and rippling with tension, knuckles turning bone white, faces reddening from the onrush of pulsing, racing blood. But neither arm went down. In fact, neither could even gain a slight advantage.

  The onlooking crowd held its collective breath as the rigidly upright arms remained unmoving, taut as two overly tightened guitar strings, ready to snap at any moment. Sooner or later, Bradley Wallace told himself, one of them would have to weaken, and it wasn’t going to be him. He felt strong, confident that he could win. He just had to hold out longer.

  The surprise in Jeff’s face only mirrored that of every spectator

  present. Except Mr. Baldie, who raised one greying eyebrow and nodded secretly to himself, as though something he’d always suspected was being proved at this moment. Bradley Wallace concentrated harder than he ever had before, willed his opponent to weaken, and called up reserves of strength heretofore untapped.

  It was almost as if the very life force of these two boys was being channeled up through their rigid bodies and meeting head-on in the paralyzed stasis of their locked, upright arms. Bradley Wallace could feel that life force, that power, and it renewed his courage, strengthened his resolve. He suddenly realized through his peripheral awareness that the tide of his classmates’ sentiments had begun to turn in his favor, now that it appeared he might be the one to dethrone the reigning champ. Jeff, too, felt this palpable change, and the smugness had long receded from his ocean-blue eyes.

  The onlookers now verbally urged Bradley Wallace to victory, and the air encircling the combatants crackled with electrified excitement.

  Deep down, somewhere in his sentient consciousness, Bradley Wallace realized that for whatever unknown reason, people liked to see the undefeated get defeated, a champion unseated, the perfect fall from perfection.

  He didn’t know why this was so, but recognized it as a secret, petty, unmentionable, and yet fundamental part of human nature. He also didn’t like it. But he wasn’t about to disappoint his newfound fans, or himself, and pressed harder, pushing powerfully against Jeff’s equally resistant arm, the veins in his neck bulging like thickened fire hoses.

  And then, through the sheer single-mindedness of his resolve, Bradley Wallace heard Mr. Baldie’s voice announcing that they had to “break it up for now and report to the Assembly.” Groans of protest arose from the wildly excited observers, but the old man croaked loudly and with authority, that everyone had to go “now!” Bradley Wallace thought he caught a glimpse of relief flash across Jeff’s face at the order, and the two competitors disengaged their firmly locked grip, and lightly shook their arms to restore some measure of circulation. Bradley Wallace’s right arm felt numb and useless, and dangled limply at his side. But his gaze remained firm, never leaving that of the obviously surprised, and genuinely impressed, athlete. Jeff flashed a quick smile of admiration. “We’ll have to finish some other time,” he suggested, without the slightest trace of condescension, and Bradley Wallace nodded.

  “Sure,” was all he could utter, so overwhelmed was he by the entire incident. He was simply too amazed to be very coherent.

  Mr. Baldie clapped him hard on the back as the two boys followed the other students out into the hallway, and complimented him on “bein’ real tough back there,” in his usual gravelly voice. Bradley Wallace, tired, his arm feeling like it’d been shot full of Novocain, grinned broadly.

  That afternoon, atop the hilly expanse surrounding the haunted water tower, Bradley Wallace effervesced with ecstasy in detailing his near-triumph to a somewhat confused, but curious, Whilly. He’d decided not to tell his parents, fearing they would misunderstand and probably just accuse him of bragging. Katie certainly would. So, it was Whilly who received the earful, and he failed to understand the boy’s excitement.

  It is only a simple test of physical strength, the dragon commented blithely.

  But Bradley Wallace’s fire would not be doused. “Don’t you see,” he explained exuberantly, “If I can beat Jeff Kott, the strongest guy in the whole class, that means I’ll be the strongest, and the other kids’ll pay attention to me. For once I can finally fit in.”

  The dragon shifted his ponderous bulk and cocked his head to one side inquisitively, a gesture the boy had come to associate with the human raising of eyebrows. Is fitting in so important to you? Whilly asked innocently, but with sincerity.

  Bradley Wallace’s lowered his gaze to the sun-browned grass and shrugged his husky shoulders. His right arm still throbbed with a creeping stiffness like rigor mortis. “Sometimes,” he admitted truthfully. “Sometimes I just wanna be like the other guys, you know?”

  The dragon nodded, understanding the child’s feelings because he, too, experienced something like them – the not fitting in part, but the feelings confused him. To both dragon and human, the symbiotic connection often became confusing and disconcerting. To feel that which you never experienced as though you actually did experience it was, to both parties, distracting and ineffable. For Bradley Wallace, the sensation was not dissimilar to that he sometimes encountered when struggling to dissociate a dream event from its real-life counterpart because specific details in the dream world rang so true and vivid. For Whilly, who did not even have that small experience to draw upon, such feelings only induced frustration and disorientation.

  Despite his reluctance to divulge his semi-accomplishment to his parents, Bradley Wallace had no qualms whatever about telling Mr. O’Conner, which he did the following day. Excited though he remained in the telling and retelling of his story, the boy’s wave of delirium receded somewhat under the old man’s steady gaze and the same question, verbatim, posed the previous day by Whilly.

  “Is fitting in so important to you?” Mr. O’Conner inquired without the slightest hint of prejudgment in his crackly voice.

  Something about the old man’s tone, the inflections he placed on each word, said more to Bradley Wallace than a two-hour lecture could come close to revealing.

  Suddenly he realized that, in all his excitement, he’d forgotten what Mr. O’Conner had advised him so many times before - “be yourself at all times and if the rest don’t like it, that’s their problem.” Perhaps being one of the crowd wasn’t so important after all, he considered, and admitted as much to Mr. O’Conner. The old man smiled approvingly and complimented the boy on “a very grown up way of thinking.” Bradley Wallace openly basked under the old man’s praise, and deep down relished Mr. O’Conner’s tutelage. But secretly, somewhere within the innermost reaches of his heart, Bradley Wallace was happy to be finally a little more acceptable to the guys. Even a little was better than none.

  On Monday, the promised “some other time” to test his mettle against Jeff surfaced, but at a most inopportune moment - during study hall. Busily reading a story for Sister Mary’s class (which was next period), Bradley Wallace received a tap on the shoulder from behind and turned in silent surprise to the girl seated directly in back of him. She indicated the rear of the classroom, and then resumed her own reading.

  Looking over his shoulder, Bradley Wallace saw Jeff and several of his buddies seated in the very back seats, gesturing for him to join them.

  He mouthed “What for?” and Jeff pantomimed arm wrestling posture, grinning daringly. Panic washed over Bradley Wallace in a wave of tingling nervousness. He certainly didn’t want to appear chicken, and his arm had somewhat recovered its former flexibility, but neither did he desire trouble with the new study hall moderator, Mrs. Quigley (she replaced the Milquetoast Sister Madeline, who, it was r
umored, cracked up and had to leave - chalk up another victim to John Wagner), who sat up in front apparently grading papers.

  Mrs. Quigley must’ve been at least thirty, but Bradley Wallace didn’t seem to mind how old she was; she was certainly younger than the majority of his teachers, and prettier, too. With her pastel blue eyes, flowing blond hair, and witty sense of humor, she had captured the boy’s heart over a year ago, when Bradley Wallace had her for religion. Because of his crush, and her reputation for being tough on incorrigibles (her favorite punishment was to make the troublesome individual copy the Declaration of Independence three times), Bradley Wallace hesitated. He glanced back at the hurriedly gesturing Jeff, who was at least six desks away down a very open aisle - a long way to sneak without being spotted. All Mrs. Quigley had to do was glance up from her papers for an instant, and he’d be spending his evening with Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin instead of Whilly.

  He stole another chary look in her direction, but she appeared intent on her own work, her lovely features contorted in a grimace of dismay. At least it couldn’t be his paper she was snarling at, he thought, since he didn’t have her for any classes this year.

  Realizing he must be crazy to take such a risk, but determined not to sacrifice one iota of his newfound, and probably short-lived acceptability, Bradley Wallace slipped silently from his seat and scrunched down below desk level.

  He scurried down the aisle, naturally attracting the attention of every student he passed. Many turned their heads to observe the reason, and saw the challenged boy ease into the desk directly in front of Jeff’s.

  He started to mouth “Are you crazy?” but was unceremoniously shushed by Jeff’s best friend, Mike Mohaney, another hard guy and jock, but infinitely less impressive than Jeff on all counts.