A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  After all, he’d surely go to Hell for all these sins, and that eventuality chilled his soul. If his were venial sins, he’d probably be okay, because those kinds weren’t supposed to be so bad. But according to his teachers, a serious, willfully committed action of a harmful nature was a mortal sin, and that meant loss of grace and a speedy trip to the fires of Hell. Hadn’t he known just what he’d been doing all along, and chosen to do it anyway? So, he’d committed mortal sins, right? It was all so confusing. And there really wasn’t anyone he could ask about these doubts and fears without jeopardizing Whilly’s safety.

  And protecting his friend’s life was more important, wasn’t it? He felt so, and therein lay the crux of his dilemma - which should take precedence - what you’re taught, or what you feel? He simply didn’t know. But he couldn’t betray or expose Whilly, no matter how many “sins” he committed toward that end. He just couldn’t.

  True to his word, Jack appeared at his son’s door at 9 PM sharp and insisted Bradley Wallace go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Not wanting to make any more trouble, Bradley Wallace readily agreed, asserting in reply to his father’s query about his lack of appetite that he was fine, just had not been very hungry. And no, there weren’t any more problems at school. “Good night,” he concluded, a trifle sharply. Sometimes parents can be so nosy! Always imagining the worst about their children. Apparently, to parental perspective, kids weren’t allowed to be moody like adults; there had to be some specific reason for the slightest change in behavior, and usually that reason, in the parents’ minds, had to be trouble.

  Fortunately, Jack didn’t press the matter any further, and Bradley Wallace sighed with relief as he closed the door. As had been his usual custom of late, he climbed into bed fully clothed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He made certain to set the alarm clock on his nightstand for midnight, and slipped the small, round Timex underneath his pillow. He snapped off the light and his thoughts turned to Whilly again.

  He suddenly realized that, prior to his father’s interruption, he’d already decided the dragon’s friendship meant more to him than his abhorrence for what he had witnessed the night before. The resurgent memory of that eviscerated calf still made him queasy, but Bradley Wallace needed a friend more than some faceless farmer needed a few cows that would be killed for food anyway. He would never like the killing, but he would simply have to learn to accept its necessity.

  Relaxing somewhat as these decisions eased his mind, Bradley Wallace dropped off into a dreamless slumber.

  That night, he went to the water tower and explained all he’d been thinking about to Whilly, and all he’d decided. The dragon appeared visibly relieved; as though he’d been worried Bradley Wallace would leave him for good this time. The boy’s perception of that worry warmed his heart - it felt good to be wanted and needed by someone, even if that someone was a serpentine creature from the distant past. Whilly apologized again for the previous night, but Bradley Wallace dismissed the apology outright.

  “Never apologize for being what you are,” the boy explained, affecting an air of wisdom. “That’s what Mr. O’Conner always says to me.” To assure the dragon there were no hard feelings, Bradley Wallace flashed the brightest, most sincere smile he possessed.

  I’m glad you feel better, Whilly said, visibly relieved. Obviously, the boy’s tenseness had confused and disturbed the dragon, who no doubt experienced first hand some of its effects.

  Bradley Wallace was happy to set things straight with Whilly, but he hadn’t said all he planned to; there was something else, and his smile faded into an embarrassed frown. “I can’t go with you anymore,” he said, his voice tight with contrition and shame. “I just can’t handle it. I’m sorry.”

  That’s all right, the dragon replied immediately and without the slightest trace of recrimination. He gently nuzzled the boy’s face with his own.

  “No, it’s not all right!” Bradley Wallace shot back, his voice filled with self-repudiation. “I should be there to protect you and keep a lookout

  so you don’t get caught. But I can’t. I just can’t.” He couldn’t face the dragon’s eyes, and looked sheepishly away at the lantern light flickering softly off the filigree pattern of Josette’s music box. He was such a coward.

  You’re not a coward, Bradley Wallace, Whilly assured him easily, and I prefer that you don’t come. I would not want your revulsion for my natural instincts to come between us.

  The boy turned now to face his friend, whose logic and genuine sincerity were impossible to ignore. But fear still tugged irritably at his heart. “I still worry about you.”

  I know, but you shouldn’t. Dragons are hunters by nature, and I remain invisible at all times. The most any human might see is a flying cow.

  Whilly made that statement in all seriousness, but to Bradley Wallace, the idea of a flying cow forced a smile to his lips, despite his agitation. It was a funny image. But the smile was only fleeting, for reality soon stole it away. “You can’t keep going to the same ranch, you know,” he instructed the silent dragon carefully. “You have to spread out so no one gets suspicious.”

  Whilly nodded, mentally reassuring his human companion that he would always be careful.

  Then Bradley Wallace finally said what he feared most. “Those farmers have guns.” He couldn’t bring himself to even picture the possibilities, but Whilly understood the warning nonetheless.

  I’ll be careful, he repeated, pushing the thought more strongly this time into the boy’s resisting mind, hoping to somehow force his confidence into Bradley Wallace’s consciousness. His efforts, something he’d never really tried before, seemed to be somewhat successful. He felt the boy relax noticeably, and filed his newfound talent away for possible future use.

  Of course, it could only work on an emotionally unstable human mind, which was weak and susceptible to begin with. Such impressing of thoughts would be ineffective against another dragon. But then, he’d never have to worry about that, would he?

  Would you like to know what happened on “Dark Shadows” today? he asked suddenly, hoping to distract both the boy and himself from their current trains of thought.

  “Oh, yeah!” Bradley Wallace exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead, a gesture he’d picked up from Mr. O’Conner. With all the psychological turmoil he’d been through, he’d completely forgotten about “Dark Shadows.” He must really have been upset to forget his favorite show so easily and completely. That had never happened before. And so, seated Indian style beside a Coleman lantern inside a haunted water tower, a young boy listened, enthralled, as his best friend, a dragon, filled him in on the plot machinations of an afternoon soap opera featuring vampires, werewolves, and witches. No one would have believed it in a million years.

  Having resolved certain moral questions in his own mind, at least for the time being, Bradley Wallace was once more able to concentrate on school and work. John Wagner was conspicuously absent, and Bradley Wallace strove to recall if his enemy had been there the previous day. He, himself, had been so out of it that he just couldn’t remember for certain anything that happened. After his rounds that afternoon with Mr. O’Conner, which were hectic thanks to the warmer weather, and the approaching summer, Bradley Wallace announced as casually as possible to his parents that he’d decided to become a vegetarian.

  At first, his mother thought he was joking, and laughed nervously. But when she realized he was serious, she almost flipped out. His father, outwardly at least, seemed to be taking the matter with much more aplomb, calmly requesting an explanation for this “sudden decision.” But Bradley Wallace had anticipated the third degree, and prepared his answers thoroughly ahead of time. Of course he couldn’t tell them the truth behind his newfound revulsion for meat, so he simply settled on a steadfast resolve not to eat animals anymore because it was wrong to kill them when people could live just as well on vegetables.

  Both adults stared at their son as though he were a stranger, as though he were a m
adman. But Bradley Wallace didn’t care. They’d never understood him anyway, just because he wasn’t like they had been at his age. He’d been told that enough times. As he sat there that evening, unflinching under their flustered and angry gazes, Bradley Wallace finally realized exactly what they wanted from their children, or at least thought they wanted - lumps of play dough which they could mold in their own image, or at least mold as they saw fit without consideration for any natural shape the dough itself might take on.

  The boy had always tried to fit into their mold, but he could see this night in their shocked eyes the realization that their son was beginning to rebel, to fight their molding. They realized they were beginning to lose him.

  For his part, Bradley Wallace recalled to mind Mr. Spock’s philosophy, the Vulcan IDIC - Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations - and lamented the fact that his parents never watched “Star Trek.” He could accept the differences between himself and them, so why couldn’t they?

  Mr. Spock always made it seem so simple, and logical, of course. But, he realized with a silent sigh of regret, parents are seldom logical. These thoughts dissolved as he tuned the harsh reality of his parents back into conscious awareness.

  “Do you mean to say that if we have meat around here for dinner, you won’t eat it?” his father was asking, his consternation and impending anger simmering just beneath the surface calm.

  Bradley Wallace nodded, looking from his father’s mostly bewildered expression to his mother’s obviously angry one, awaiting the explosion. His parents exchanged a look, but no bomb went off. His out-of-the-blue announcement probably blew a few fuses, he thought wryly.

  “Well,” his father cleared his throat, addressing himself to Marge, apparently unable to speak directly to his son, “I think your mother and I will have to talk about this. Why don’t you go back to your room and do some homework or something.”

  The fact that he’d added “or something” meant Bradley Wallace had really thrown him for a loop. Jack Murphy was a stickler for homework first, and any “or something’s” a distant second.

  As the boy hurriedly retreated out of firing range, he, heard his mother go off like a bazooka. “I know why you’re so calm about this!” her voice railed against his father, “You don’t have to cook all the dinners!”

  Bradley Wallace scurried down the hallway out of earshot and ducked into the solitude of his room to escape the battle he knew was imminent. He’d known his declaration would stir up trouble, especially with his mother, but what could he do? Perhaps, in time, he might go back to eating some meat, like in tacos or spaghetti or something similar. But real steak, bloody and stringy and chewy? No, never again. Of that he was certain.

  When Katie heard the latest, she descended on him like a hurricane, how upset Mom was and confused Dad was and didn’t he ever think of anyone but himself, blah, blah, blah. She sounded like the proverbial stuck phonograph record, and Bradley Wallace tuned her out with wild flights of imagination. He was a bloodthirsty vampire bat with sharp, pin pointy fangs swooping down to bite her skinny neck and drink so much blood from her body that she’d shut up permanently. He smiled inwardly at that delightful image, but outwardly gave every sign of listening dutifully and intently to her tirade.

  Dinner that night was about as pleasurable as the time Bradley Wallace had gotten the car door slammed on his hand. His sister glared evilly at him from across the table, and his parents barely acknowledged his presence.

  The silence was thick and oppressive, and Bradley Wallace felt like he was trapped inside a musty old mausoleum with a bunch of living corpses. It was perhaps the worst dinner he’d ever experienced in this house, and there had been some doosies, too. But, true to his word, he did not even touch the pieces of fried chicken spread out on his plate like the ghastly remains of a soldier who’d just stepped on an active land mine. The wings and legs conjured images of freshly killed cats, and dismembered cows, and Bradley Wallace had to forcibly quell these images before his stomach put on an unexpected Technicolor show. He dutifully downed his mashed potatoes, applesauce, and French green beans, double portions of each, actually, and hoped that would, in some small way, make it up to his mother.

  But then, he knew she didn’t take his decision as a personal repudiation of her cooking. She was too smart for that. But she did take it as a repudiation of her motherly control over him, and that was something she might never get over.

  There were probably not more than ten words exchanged during the entire meal - only the necessary “pass the’s” - but the fact that his parents didn’t insist upon his eating the chicken seemed to be a good sign. It meant that, at least for the time being, they went along with his decision. Probably because they don’t know what else to do, he thought, eyeing each of them surreptitiously. They probably were figuring he’d grow out of it, he decided finally. But then, they always figured he’d grow out of everything that didn’t jibe with their preconceived notions of what every boy should be like. Thus, he had learned over the years to be more discreet in their presence. But he seldom grew out of the things they wanted him to. After all, how can you grow out of yourself?

  At last dinner brooded its way to a silent conclusion, but Bradley Wallace could not escape immediately. It was his week to do dishes. He thanked his mother sincerely for a “delicious dinner,” and set about rinsing the plates in the rising Lemon Fresh Joy soapsuds. Unable to mount a suitable reply, Marge stiffly picked up her coffee cup and retired to the haven of her bedroom and no doubt a pack of Benson and Hedges 100’s. Jack eyed Bradley Wallace curiously as the boy scrubbed grease from the chicken pan (his mother must not have used Wesson oil, because there was a lot more in there than one tablespoon), and Bradley Wallace squirmed uneasily under the gaze. He felt like a bug pinned to a board at the zoo, or worse yet, some new, heretofore undiscovered species of fungus. He felt certain his father was sitting there wishing he could have had a normal son instead of this bizarre stranger standing before him with Lemon Fresh Joy foam covering his arms. And, in fact, that’s almost exactly what Jack Murphy was thinking.

  The next few days were relatively quiet, both at home and at school. His mother had taken to serving salad every night with dinner, but had also begun preparing the vegetables she knew Bradley Wallace loathed the most, obviously attempting, not very subtlety at that, to force her son back to “normal” eating habits.

  But even squash and spinach were more palatable to his taste buds than any kind of meat, and Bradley Wallace ate his servings uncomplainingly. He could see the disappointment in his mother’s eyes,

  but neither openly addressed the situation. Theirs would be a silent war, he realized, until she decided to surrender.

  Life with his father continued at its usual uncommunicative level, the boy basically fielding a revolving repertoire of stock questions and suggestions: “How’s school? Any homework you need help with? Why don’t you go out and play baseball down at the schoolyard? (thank God football season was over; baseball was a little better, but Bradley Wallace was no better at it), or “Why don’t we go down there this weekend and hit a few around?” That was about all his father could handle - so-called normalcy. A thirteen-year-old boy shunning meat just wasn’t in his handy guidebook to easy parenting, and thus that particular reality was neatly sidestepped.

  At school, John Wagner continued to be absent, much to Bradley Wallace’s relief. Outwardly, at least. Deep down, he couldn’t help wondering if Wagner was seriously ill, but couldn’t bring himself to lose any sleep over it. On the second day after he’d taken up his vegetarian regimen, Bradley Wallace mentioned it to Mr. O’Conner. The old man was curious as to the boy’s motives, but not the least bit derogatory. Good ole Mr. O’Conner. He also accepted his young assistant’s explanation without challenge or intense scrutiny. To him, there was nothing wrong with vegetarianism. In fact, he pointed out during their rounds, he was a vegetarian himself. Bradley Wallace was startled at this revelation (even after so many years,
he was still learning things about his friend), and then delighted.

  They had stopped on a quiet street near Dominican College in Old San Rafael. As Bradley Wallace observed two satisfied, fudgesicle-wielding toddlers waddle off at their mothers’ sides, he felt really good about what he was doing - this job. Mr. O’Conner was right - making people happy was fun. And now he learned that the old man was a vegetarian, too. They had more in common than he’d ever realized.

  “My parents really think I’m weird, now,” he commented to the old man once they got under way again. “Besides not liking sports and reading a lot, now I won’t eat meat. I’ve heard them talking. They say I’m abnormal.” The eucalyptus trees along the sidewalks cast ominous shadows across the road, like random splashes of spilt oil, and filled the air with their pungent aroma.

  “You’re not abnormal, or weird!” the old man barked sharply, as close to angry as Bradley Wallace had ever seen him.

  “But they are right about me not being like all the other kids,” Bradley Wallace insisted hesitantly, not wishing to further offend his aged employer.

  “You’re different, lad,” Mr. O’Conner went on, more gently this time, “but different isn’t bad, you know. In my book, your kind of different is special, and this world could use a lot more like you.”

  Bradley Wallace felt warm all over, and flushed with embarrassment at the spate of compliments. He didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, Mr. O’Conner wasn’t finished, yet. “If your parents give you a bad time anymore, you tell ‘em to talk to old Mr. O’Conner, hear?”

  The boy nodded, smiling sheepishly.

  “I mean that, lad,” the old man asserted. “And I don’t want you to try and become like those other kids. It’s because you’re different that—“ He stopped abruptly, letting the sentence hang in midair as though he’d almost revealed some secret and halted just in time.