Thwonk

by Joan Bauer

  “Everything,” I screamed, “is all right!”

  My hand clutched the doorknob. I took a massive breath, pushed the door open…

  Stieglitz bolted through it and stopped barking.

  I leaned against the doorway and froze.

  The cupid!

  He was standing there looking at me with fiery black eyes and little rosy cheeks, standing there breathing!

  The cupid shook his legs and arms like an aerobics instructor.

  He fluttered his clear, thin wings.

  He rolled his head back and forth and did a couple of quick karate chops on his muscled legs.

  I looked madly around to see if I was dreaming…

  The cupid put his minuscule hands on his equally teeny waist and peered at me.

  I clutched my throat and sank to my knees.

  “Are you”—I gasped—“are you…real?”

  A slight smile flickered across his face. He lifted two feet in the air, spun like a twirling top, and landed on my still-life pedestal.

  I started hyperventilating.

  “Are you…” I struggled for words. “What are you?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, now,” he said in a full-sized voice, “shall we begin?”

  “You talk!”

  “I do many things.” He brushed off his dinky bow-and-arrow.

  Moments passed.

  Years, maybe.

  The cupid scooped a teeny red apple from his satchel and took a bite.

  I stared at him, awestruck. It was like a million Disney movies rolled into one. I grinned and hugged my knees with delight. I felt five years old.

  I could make him a little bed out of a shoebox.

  I could sew him eensy-weensy clothes and he could go everywhere with me in my pocket!

  I was dying to touch him. I held out my hand. “Come on,” I cooed, “I won’t hurt you.”

  The cupid rose indignantly to his full height, which wasn’t much. “I am,” he informed me, “a master archer! Not a plaything!”

  I yanked my hand back. “I’m…sorry…I…”

  He stared at me defiantly. I looked away. The cupid could be an extraterrestrial!

  He marched up to me and stamped his foot. “I am not,” he insisted, “an extraterrestrial!”

  “Did I say that?” I croaked.

  “You were thinking it.”

  “How do you know what I was thinking?”

  The cupid beamed.

  “What planet are you from?”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You must rid your mind of the dowdy American notion that anything you don’t understand comes from outer space.”

  We stared at each other. I grabbed a pair of scissors from a table. “What kind of trick is this?”

  “I do not perform tricks.” He zoomed off the pedestal and lighted on the rug. “But I do have many talents.”

  “Name one…”

  The cupid pulled back the string of his bow and aimed his arrow at the Granny Smith apple on my still-life pedestal. He concentrated on his target as his left hand rested at eye level and his right hand, which drew the string, bent above his right shoulder. It shot across the room, hit the apple dead center, and reverberated with a little sound:

  Thwonk.

  A satisfied grin swept across his face; he remained in shoot position for a moment, then he flew to retrieve the arrow, which he put in a leather satchel behind his back.

  “I consult,” he said. “Free of charge. This”—he patted the leather case—“is not a satchel, it is a quiver.”

  “Did I say that?”

  He looked at me. I had thought it. I pulled at my nightgown and shivered.

  “There is nothing,” he assured me, “to fear.”

  Right.

  “I am here merely to assist you,” he continued. “No strings attached.” He floated to the ceiling and hovered there.

  I swallowed hard. “What’s the catch?”

  “There is no catch.”

  “There’s always a catch.”

  “No catch,” he insisted. He was giving my studio a good once-over. “Our relationship can only succeed if we build a relationship of trust.”

  “You want me to trust you?”

  He began to sharpen his arrow furiously like he was chalking a pool cue. “Teenage consultations are endlessly troublesome!”

  “What do you know about teenagers?”

  Sadness flickered in his eyes. “I know a great deal about you,” he said finally. “It is my job to know.” The cupid swooped down to my gallery of framed prints. “Your work is very moody. Technically, it is excellent, but if you concentrated on more positive aspects of life, you would see an energy coming from your art.”

  “There’s energy all over my art!”

  “Negative energy,” he said with conviction. “It is a powerful force, but not as strong as positive expression.” He flew over to my east wall and gave my framed prints a once-over. He hovered at my picture of a melting snowman at dusk that spoke volumes about relationships.

  “I would experiment more with early-morning light if I were you,” he said.

  I stepped back. “I know all about light.”

  Stieglitz found his nerve and approached the cupid like he was checking out a squirrel he might want to chase. The cupid, unafraid, stretched out his little hand.

  “Sit,” said the cupid. Stieglitz sat. “Good dog,” said the cupid, rearranging his sash. “You should brush him more,” he continued. “The keeshond breed needs constant attention.”

  “I brush him all the time!”

  The cupid looked right through me. “Lying erodes the fabric of all relationships.”

  “We don’t have a relationship!”

  “We could”—the cupid leaned on my purple Persian floor-pillow—“if you let your defenses down. It’s up to you.”

  I ran out of my studio and down two flights of stairs. I had spent years building up my defenses and I liked them just fine. I yanked the phone off the jack and dialed zero.

  “Operator,” said a terse female voice.

  “Is this Connecticut?” I demanded. “Have we all shifted into another dimension?”

  I heard a click.

  “Operator?”

  I sat in the chair holding the receiver in my hand. I held it so long that the buzzing noise started. A computer voice said I had to hang up. I gripped it.

  The air hung still and weird. My ears strained for the sound of good old reality. A car drove by blaring rock music and threw a beer can onto the driveway.

  I was still in Connecticut.

  I stood on the safe side of my studio door with Stieglitz. All was quiet but I wasn’t fooled. I snapped my fingers and Stieglitz leapt to attention. “I give you permission, Stieglitz, to do whatever is required. Maiming, destroying, terrorizing. You’re in charge.”

  Stieglitz yelped and crashed down the stairs. I glared at him. I was aching to peer inside my studio.

  Was the cupid still there?

  My studio door opened, the cupid fluttered out, and announced, “Come in, for heaven’s sake, we don’t have much time!”

  The cupid flew straight up, then darted in a zigzag. He hovered by the banister, flew backward, and plopped on my shoulder. My throat closed. My palms went gummy.

  “Who,” I whimpered, “are you?”

  “Ah, now, that is an excellent question.” He did an aerial loop off my shoulder.

  I looked at him as much as I dared. “I need to know what’s going on!”

  He hovered by my studio window and gazed at the stars. “What is going on depends upon you,” he said. “You’re in control, Allison Jean McCreary, of what you choose to examine in your life.”

  I gripped the doorknob.

  The cupid’s face darkened. “I’ve always wondered why people are so afraid to trust.”

  I clutched my heart.

  Sadness flashed in his eyes again. “Some things in life can only be learned through trust.” He finge
red his bow slowly.

  A wave of warmth was oozing over me, drawing me to something I didn’t understand.

  “You must listen to the things that you try to ignore,” he commanded.

  The cupid zipped to the window and fluttered his wings. “I see you’re frowning, my friend. For a while I expect you to be most miserable.”

  The cupid hovered over my right knee like Tinkerbell with an attitude. I sat on my shaking hands.

  He raised his teeny bow. “There is no time to dawdle!”

  I watched him, dumbstruck. Then suddenly, magically, I saw the answer to one of my problems. I was inches away from the photograph of the century! I’d call Life, National Geographic, the London Times, People, and Scientific American. I would become famous. I picked up my F2 behind my back and smiled.

  The cupid shook his head. “Only you can see me, my friend. I am not photographable.”

  I held my camera tight. “Let’s just make sure…” I raised the camera to eye level, my keen eye instantly catching the essence of a bona fide, flitting miracle…my finger whooshed across the clicker, which was…

  Stuck.

  Blast!

  I slammed the clicker down again. It was no use.

  “This,” said the cupid, “is an excellent time to inform you of the laws governing the Visitation.” He did an aerial somersault and landed on my bookcase. “First and foremost, only you can see me”—he smiled at Stieglitz—“and your dog, of course.” Stieglitz barked at the word dog and looked confused. “Secondly, you are to tell no one of the Visitation, until such time as you have reached a deeper plane of understanding and can address the experience with maturity and clarity.

  “Thirdly,” the cupid explained, “we must press on or the Visitation will be rendered incomplete; we have a short period in which to accomplish monumental tasks, which will become clear to you in the doing—not until then. And fourthly”—the cupid hovered to the right of my nose—“I have come to assist you, Allison Jean McCreary, not to harm you. The sooner you believe this basic tenet, the quicker we can proceed.”

  I gulped. Earth rules I could handle:

  Smile at someone and they’ll smile at you.

  Take the lens cap off the camera before you take the picture.

  Never date a hockey player.

  But when you’re dealing with the cosmos, all bets are off.

  The cupid rapped his quiver. “You have a photography deadline, I believe? A deadline that has brought you discouragement?”

  I looked away. He had that right.

  “It is possible,” the cupid said, “to reverse discouragement.”

  I positioned myself on my purple Persian pillow with guarded body language.

  “You were trying to please others with this photography assignment on love,” the cupid said, “not yourself.”

  That frosted me! He hadn’t been battling massive unrequitedness. He didn’t have Pearly Shoemaker as a gut-busting editor.

  “You cannot blame others, my friend. You are discouraged because you have not been true to your vision.”

  “I don’t have a vision for love right now! That’s my problem! Would you please stop reading my mind?”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible. It is not within my power to disconnect us. Confusion, when addressed, can bring forth clarity. Find something that reflects how you feel about love and photograph it.”

  “Thanks for that little tip! What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two months—skiing in Aspen? I’ve got massive blisters from trudging around this town trying to find one lousy shot that commemorates teenage love!”

  I stamped my foot, because I’d started to cry. “I’m sorry!” I wailed.

  I buried my head as the cupid sighed impatiently. How was I supposed to express myself as an artist when every time I tried to photograph something about teenage love, I heard this little voice say that I would love Peter Terris until the day I died and he would never even notice me?

  I was crying like a complete dolt, curled up in the fetal position on my purple Persian floor-pillow. The cupid glided over and handed me a tissue. “Blow,” he directed. “You need not fear this photography assignment. Art that reflects the heart and soul will always communicate with others.” He fluttered to the studio door. “You will sleep now, my friend.”

  My heart thumped wildly. “I don’t understand what’s happening!”

  “We can only hope that you will learn before it is too late,” the cupid responded solemnly. “We have been put together for a reason, Allison Jean McCreary. You need what I can teach you, and I”—he looked away sadly—“must right a wrong.”

  My sinuses throbbed.

  “My last Teenage Visitation was not deemed successful,” he continued. “When a cupid errs, he must right the wrong or he will never find peace.”

  I bolted up. “You erred?”

  “It was a combination of my failing and the young lady’s, I assure you.”

  “You’re not good at this?”

  “I much prefer visiting persons in their golden years, persons who have a wealth of life experience from which to—”

  “I got a second-string cupid?”

  He shot straight up, engulfed by fury. “You will sleep!”

  He fluttered his dinky wings.

  My feet started moving against my will; I stumbled downstairs to my bedroom with Stieglitz at my side. I shouted that no one could sleep with this amount of compacted stress in their lives; the teenage mind was not meant to carry such trauma!

  I flopped my head on my pillow and crashed into dreamland; don’t ask me why.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I woke up at 6:33 A.M., not on my own. The cupid opened my blinds and announced, “Get up, my friend. There is much to accomplish.” He zoomed to the foot of my futon and perched there like a bird.

  “What…,” I stammered, “needs accomplishing?”

  He fluttered his wings, and pulled off my plaid quilt. “Get up,” he ordered. “I can only assist you if you get out of bed.”

  I shivered. “What happened with you and that other teenager?”

  The cupid glowed with irritation. “It is a personal issue that does not concern you.”

  “Everything about you concerns me.”

  “We will not speak of this again!” The cupid blew sky-high like a puny cannonball. “Wash, please!” He pushed me toward the bathroom and pulled the door open.

  I stood fast. “I want to know who you are, where you come from, and what’s going on on!”

  “Silence!” The cupid fluttered his tiny wings in irritation.

  I turned on the faucet and started washing my face like a machine that had been plugged in.

  “For some,” the cupid acknowledged, “trusting is a long journey.”

  I washed my face longer than usual, hoping that Neutrogena and water would bring clarity; they didn’t. The cupid handed me a face towel like a butler. “Please be dressed in ten minutes.”

  I clutched the towel.

  “And bring your camera.”

  He fluttered his wings, closed my bathroom door, and left me in the blackness of the final frontier.

  It was 7:13, Sunday morning. Stieglitz, the cupid, and I moved down the sun-soaked, frozen streets of Crestport, Connecticut, just as normal as you please. We turned by the police station and its somber, crime-busting hedges. The cupid did a triple back loop and dive-bombed a patrol car. I clung to a lamppost.

  Help! I wanted to shout.

  “Turn right, please,” said the cupid.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the beach.”

  “Why?”

  “Patience, my friend. You must learn to see with new eyes.”

  I grumbled that if seeing with new eyes meant losing touch with gravity, I was against it. I crabbed that it was unnerving to take orders from a creature that only I could see! I pointed a shaking finger at the cupid and felt a tap on my shoulder.

  I swung around to face a
very large policeman.

  “Everything okay, miss?”

  “Uh…”

  He put his hand on his nightstick. “You want to talk about it, miss?”

  The cupid zipped around the officer’s head and landed on his hat. My mind stretched toward its outer limits. I said I had the lead in the school play and that I was acting out my part, which took place on a bleak, wintry street so that I could sense the cold, numbing futility of my character in her true surroundings. I took a huge breath and prayed.

  “Well, now,” said the officer, “that sounds like some play, little lady.”

  I said believe me, it was the role of a lifetime, and backed away onto Browning Road looking massively dramatic. Trish would have been proud. Stieglitz strained on the leash, his tail dragging.

  “Heel,” the cupid commanded him.

  Stieglitz clipped into a perfect heel. Traitor. The cupid zipped along millimeters from my earlobe.

  I shuddered. “I almost got arrested for being a psycho!”

  The cupid soared upward and swooped down; his wings buzzed faintly. “Turn left, please.”

  “It’s prettier over here—”

  “Left!” he ordered.

  I went left past the huge stone houses set back from the Crestport Beach.

  “A little past these bushes,” he directed. “Let your dog off the leash and open yourself to the experience.”

  I groaned that I’d had enough experiences for one day and released Stieglitz to careen on the snowy sand. The cupid motioned me forward. He soared over the boarded-up Snack Shack. He perched on the lifeguard’s chair. He skimmed the polluted water of Long Island Sound as it splashed against the rocks and went back again in nothing resembling waves.

  “How do you do that?” I whispered.

  The cupid zoomed through the air as the wind whooshed across the sloppy gray lot.

  I kept walking. I loved the beach in winter. It was wild and free without that putrid smell of suntan lotion. I didn’t even mind February because I was partial to black-and-white photography. All that silvery beauty and subtle tonality.

  I pulled up my collar and shoved my hands in my pockets as it started to snow. I lifted my face as the big flakes fell. They glided from heaven and covered the beach.