He also felt extremely depressed that so many bad things seemed
to be happening to him. He’d always thought that good people were rewarded by good things happening to them and bad people were punished by bad things. Did this mean he was truly a bad person after all, despite what Mr. O’Conner told him that day? Were all his lies coming back to haunt him at last? But then his other confusing question again reared its head - would God punish a person for helping someone in need?
One afternoon the following week, after brooding over these matters so much that even Wagner’s continued boasting didn’t faze him (though he had noted happily that most of the kids were finding other topics of interest), Bradley Wallace felt compelled again to speak of the subject to Mr. O’Conner. The old man had been shocked the previous week at the boy’s battered appearance, but seemed to accept the fight story without question. But then, Bradley Wallace was often unsure just what his employer was really thinking and that time was no exception. At least his bruises had begun to heal by this week, so he wouldn’t look so much like “Mutant Man from Mars” and scare away all the little kids who came to buy ice cream.
“Mr. O’Conner,” he began as he sat beside the old man in Shannon’s front seat rattling and backfiring along a darkened, leaf-strewn street, “Do you really think I’m a good person?”
The white-haired old man turned his wrinkled face toward the boy, squinting his eyes into question marks. “I think you’re the best person I know. I told you that before. Why the repeat?”
“Because if I’m such a good person, why do so many bad things happen to me?”
“What bad things?” The old man’s voice took on an oddly sharp note but Bradley Wallace was too disturbed to notice.
“Oh, Wagner hating me when I never did anything to him, and beating me up and, oh and just everything.” He trailed off lamely, unable to go into more detail and afraid the old man wouldn’t understand without hearing everything. But apparently Mr. O’Conner did understand after all, for he smiled slightly and nodded.
“Lad, what you just asked is one of the eternal questions.”
“Huh?” the boy grunted, confused.
“That’s what I call all the questions I don’t know the answers too,” Mr. O’Conner replied with a wink. “Actually, the question of why bad things happen to good people like you really has no answer, only a lot of speculations.”
Bradley Wallace had to mull this over a moment.
He’d never really considered the possibility of unanswerable questions. He had always thought everything had a counterpart, like up and down, right and left, fat and thin, question and answer. “I thought every question had an answer,” he spoke his thoughts aloud almost without meaning to.
“Not necessarily,” replied Mr. O’Conner, concentrating on the slick road ahead. It had been raining quite a lot since the night of the big storm. “Some just don’t, like what is God or why is there evil in the world? There are no answers, because every answer just raises more questions.”
Now Bradley Wallace was really confused, and it must have showed on his face because the old man laughed. “What I’m tryin’ to say, lad, in an old man’s roundabout sort a’ way is, I can give you my opinion on your question, but that’s not the same as an answer.”
“To me it is,” the boy replied sincerely.
“That’s kind of you to say, lad,” the old man replied in obvious surprise, beaming with pleasure.
“Now me personally, I don’t believe any of that balderdash about bad things happening because you or me did something bad and we’re being punished for it. That’s too simple.”
He glanced down to make sure the boy was still following his train of thought, almost laughing again at the child’s dead serious look of total absorption.
“But at the risk of confusing you again,” the old man went on slowly, “I do believe that while it may seem as though bad things are happening to you right now, eventually you’ll be rewarded, because you have a good heart, my boy.”
It was evident from the boy’s furrowed brows that he’d lost him.
“That doesn’t really make sense,” Bradley Wallace stated flatly.
“Neither does life, my boy. See, I think Fate jumps into the fracas of our lives all the time and tosses us some bad magic. And that’s something nobody can avoid, not even the best person in the whole world. Not even you.”
Bradley Wallace sighed and turned to gaze thoughtfully out his window at the debris-filled gutter where receding flood waters had deposited everything from bottles and cans to a ladies’ bra. It’d been some storm.
“I still don’t understand,” he announced finally after a few moments of consideration.
“Neither does anyone else, lad,” Mr. O’Conner remarked with a heavy sigh, and they continued on to their next stop in thoughtful silence.
By the end of that week, school at least became tolerable again. All the kids were pretty sick of Wagner’s blustering - after all, there’d been plenty of fights there before.
And there were other subjects were taking precedence, like who was going to whose Halloween parties, or the reasons why Jeff Kott broke up with Leslie Bernardino.
Even though he was no longer the center stage attraction, John Wagner’s humiliation of Bradley Wallace had been complete and glorious, and he felt inordinately pleased with himself. He was in control of things again, superior to Murphy in the eyes of his peers.
For much too long those weird dreams and strange feelings had haunted him to the point of near insanity, and he still didn’t know why or from where they originated. And intellectual musings, even on such important questions as those, were simply not his forte. If something wasn’t readily obvious, he usually just forgot about it and moved on to something else. That’s why he hated school and school hated him - they always wanted him to figure things out, stuff he didn’t see any need for.
He didn’t like not knowing things, didn’t like asking questions. He liked being in control. And now he had Murphy exactly where he wanted him. Controlled.
For Bradley Wallace, life at school returned to what it had been before his all-too-brief sojourn as arm wrestling champ. It wasn’t that he still couldn’t beat every guy who challenged him; it was just that no one challenged anymore. His “loss” to Wagner took away what little peer respect and status he’d managed to build up. Which was what Wagner had wanted, he realized - to destroy him by making him a nothing all over again. And Wagner had done it. Bradley Wallace was nothing again; Wagner had won. Hopefully, Bradley Wallace thought, Wagner’s sense of triumph would be long lasting and the bully would leave him alone for a while.
He and Whilly had not discussed Wagner since that afternoon nearly two weeks before, and Bradley Wallace hadn’t thought much on the dragon’s observations about the other boy. There was just no way he could feel sorry for someone so bad, who did so many bad things to him. No way.
As he dwelt on the months ahead, he figured eventually some of the guys would get around to challenging him at arm wrestling again (after all, they were all getting bigger and might want to try their luck again), and if he still won, he could regain some of their respect. He also knew that if he did win, he’d regain Wagner’s direct enmity, and another confrontation would be inevitable. But as long as Wagner thought he had the upper hand, things would be quiet around St. Raphael’s. And at the moment, that was just fine with Bradley Wallace.
With school back to some semblance of routine, Bradley Wallace turned his mind toward what he’d wear for Halloween, which was a scant two weeks away. His parents asked him one night if he planned to go trick or treating this year, and he’d said sure, why wouldn’t he, and Katie acerbically pointed out that trick or treat was for kids and he wasn’t supposed to be a kid anymore. (She still hadn’t gotten over losing him the night of the “fight.”) Naturally, his mother “sort of” agreed with Katie that he “was getting awfully big for that sort of thing,” to which he responded, “Size has nothing to d
o with it.” His mother frowned and repeated her oft-heard comment, “You know what I mean.” He’d only been joking, for cripes’ sake.
His father, thankfully, didn’t seem to have an opinion one way or the other - he seemed to know instinctively when to keep his mouth shut,
the boy noted, especially during certain dinner conversations. Bradley Wallace merely shrugged at the women’s comments and finished eating. He loved dressing up in costumes, becoming all the things he dreamed about, but never could actually be except on nights like Halloween. They weren’t going to take that away from him just because they thought he was too old. No, sir.
Last year he’d gone out as Superman, and he still had the costume, but repetition was so boring and unimaginative.
He really wanted to go as Barnabas Collins, but that would mean finding a cane and cloak, which were the vampire’s accoutrements (he liked that word; he’d picked it up from a “Star Trek” episode). The cane - actually it was more of a walking stick - he was able to borrow from Mr. O’Conner one day after he explained what he needed it for. It even had a silver handle, but was shaped not as a wolf’s head like that of Barnabas, but rather as a panther head. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” the old man told him, warning the boy to be careful with his “shillelagh,” as he called the cane, and Bradley Wallace promised.
Seeking a reasonably authentic cloak (it wasn’t a cape, but more of a coat), he pedaled downtown on his bicycle the following Saturday and rummaged through old clothes at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. To his delight he found a ratty old tweed semi-overcoat that actually fit him reasonably well (he was big for his age, at least, he’d been told so), but it had no over flap around the shoulders like Barnabas’s. He dug and sifted through an enormous pile of old fabric pieces until he found a large section of tweed material that looked very similar to the coat. He could sew it up himself, he decided, and promptly bought both items. He stopped at Thrifty Drug Store on the way home for a pair of plastic vampire teeth. Now he was all set.
I don’t understand this “Halloween,” Whilly told him later that night as he keenly observed Bradley Wallace struggling with the needle and thread he’d borrowed from his mother’s sewing basket. The flickering lantern light cast dancing shadows on the circular walls surrounding them, causing Bradley Wallace to miss the fabric with the needle and prick his finger instead.
This happened more than once, causing the boy to note wryly that
this costume would definitely have authentic blood on it. He resumed the painstaking work while trying to come up with a reasonable way of explaining Halloween to a dragon.
“It’s a kid’s holiday,” be began, struggling for the right words. How do you explain something to someone who has no real ability to relate to it? “I don’t know exactly when or where it started or any of that stuff, but kids dress up in costumes and go from house to house ringing door bells. When the door opens, you yell “trick or treat,” and grownups give you candy. It’s great.”
The uncomprehending dragon shook his head. But what is the purpose?
“To have fun!” Bradley Wallace declared with a smile, pricking his index finger again. “Ouch!” he cried out, anger welling up inside of him. He almost felt ready to abandon the whole project.
Going from structure to structure begging for candy sounds very strange, Bradley Wallace, and not that much fun, Whilly continued, obviously not satisfied with the child’s simplistic answer.
“That’s because you don’t like candy,” Bradley Wallace shot back, anger adding a sharpness to his tone he hadn’t intended. “I’m sorry, Whilly,” he apologized at once, not wanting to start a fight, “I didn’t mean to sound mad. I’ve just stuck myself so many times I’m gonna need a blood transfusion.” He smiled sardonically.
Whilly brushed the apology aside, still fascinated by Halloween. You humans have very strange customs, he finally decided, unable to come to terms with the whole idea.
Bradley Wallace paused a moment to consider that. “Yeah,” he agreed after a moment, “I guess we do. But we’re so used to ‘em we don’t notice.” He considered another few moments, to collect his feelings into a cohesive format so he could effectively verbalize them without sounding dumb. “For me, Halloween has always been a day when I could dress up and pretend, when I could be somebody else other than me. That’s why I like it so much.” Sadness in his voice hung in the air like a light mist.
But what’s wrong with just being you? Whilly asked.
The boy shrugged. “I’m boring, Whilly. I’m awkward and not too smart and lousy at everything and apart from everybody else. I just don’t fit in, as me. But in my imagination I can be someone special, someone talented and popular who does great things. I can be someone people like and want to have around.” He trailed off, smiling ruefully, a melancholic mood settling over him.
I like you just as you are, Whilly assured him spontaneously, and Bradley Wallace suddenly realized that was the first time the dragon had ever actually said he liked him. It felt good to hear.
“I know you do,” he agreed, sadness creeping into his voice, his face clouding with regret. “But you’re different. You’re . . . “ He let the thought go unfinished. “Forget it.”
A dragon, Whilly finished for him. That’s what you were going to say. It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
Bradley Wallace nodded slowly, unable to look his friend in the eye.
You wish someone of your own kind would accept you as I have. Is that right? This was a question, for the dragon still did not comprehend many facets of human nature.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” the boy conceded reluctantly, fearful of hurting Whilly’s feelings.
I don’t have any feelings to hurt, the dragon reassured him quickly, but sometimes Bradley Wallace wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t conceive of any creature not feeling anything, especially one linked heart and soul to a human. *I do wish sometimes, though,* Whilly added impulsively.
“What do you wish?” Bradley Wallace asked, unable to hide his surprise. He never even considered that dragons could dream, or wish.
I sometimes wish I wasn’t the only dragon in the world, Whilly commented, and Bradley Wallace instantly felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Poor Whilly, he was so alone, just one of a kind. That must be awful, the boy realized, and he hadn’t really considered it much before. He’d been too busy worrying about himself, about his own problems to give much thought to Whilly’s.
“I’m sorry,” was all the boy could think of to say, knowing full well that it was terribly inadequate and also knowing the dragon expected a better response, much as Bradley Wallace always expected Mr. O’Conner to have all the answers. But Mr. O’Conner didn’t have all the answers, and neither did he. He felt like a failure.
The dragon quietly urged him to finish his cloak or it would not be ready for your begging night, and Bradley Wallace cast him a brief smile. Whilly’s eyes were hidden by shadows, but the boy felt certain if they had been visible he would have detected regret in those twirling pools of scarlet. His heart suddenly felt heavy, and a deep sense of foreboding enveloped his mind, intimations of ill things to come. As he thrust the needle through the fabric, he pierced his finger once again. “Ouch!” he shouted painfully. That one had really hurt. Whilly threw back his head in apparent delight, and Bradley Wallace felt certain the dragon was laughing. He laughed, too.
Halloween that year fell on a Friday night so going out was no problem. Despite his parents’ reservations about Bradley Wallace’s participation, they did not forbid him to go, and his mother even praised the effort he’d put into his costume. Wearing his black oxfords, navy blue slacks, the doctored old coat, and the fangs, and with his hair slicked down across his forehead, he gripped the walking stick tightly and looked very much like the character he was portraying. Even his father agreed, at least from what he remembered from the movie.
Admonishing him to be careful and with strict instructions not to eat any apples or open candy (sh
e still treated him like a kid), his mother sent him off with explicit instructions to be back by 9:00 “or else.” Armed with a plastic, bright orange “Trick or Treat” bag, “Barnabas” slipped out the front door into the chill darkness.
The sky was clear that night, twinkling stars surrounding a brilliant full moon. It’s displaced illumination created vivid patterns of light and shadow along the dimly lit streets and between the houses, most of which blazed brightly from within, spilling rectangles of luminescence onto well-manicured front lawns. Flickering jack-o-lanterns adorned nearly every visible porch or front window, and Bradley Wallace’s blood tingled with excitement.
Tonight, he was Barnabas Collins, 175-year-old vampire, and could mercifully forget all about Bradley Wallace Murphy.
Whilly had insisted on accompanying the boy, to see this strange custom first hand, and Bradley Wallace did not protest. He did not like to go trick or treating alone, and welcomed the dragon’s invisible company. They rendezvoused down the street a ways, out of sight of his house and possible spying parents or sister. Observing him talking to himself (what else could they think?) would not help his goal of remaining inconspicuous.
“Now just stick close to me,” the boy whispered to his invisible friend as they marched toward the first of a long row of brightly lit houses. He didn’t feel like communicating telepathically with the dragon; it took too much effort and usually gave him a headache. He suspected he hadn’t yet perfected the technique. “And whatever you do,” he added quickly, “don’t bump into anybody!”
A group of small children scampered away from the front door as Bradley Wallace approached and he smiled at their squealing delight, thinking back to the days he used to go out with his mother. It seemed so long ago now, so far away.
He sucked in a momentary fearful breath as they passed by him dangerously close to where he thought Whilly was standing. But they moved past unobstructed and headed for a couple of grownups standing a short distance away, chattering with excitement about the goodies they received. Bradley Wallace let out his breath.
A Boy and His Dragon Page 40