The Boy, The Bear, The Man

When the missiles stopped raining on the grounds of Livernois, this house was the last to stand. When The Others hit The Shell gas station, it took out the whole strip. And when the shops were crumbled rocks on an unleveled ground, they took the houses, and the school, and the park. Laura says the people get off the main road, to walk the disheveled streets, and see it in all its glory, the old house standing tall, alone. She says if the boy wasn’t going to live there, then the city would take it, and make it some sort of landmark. Something about hope in a poorly place.

It’s louder here than it was in Istanbul, the thudding that sounds ‘cross the walls. The floorboards scream beneath the weight of his boots, his boots heavy banging like the heavy thudding in the air of the old house, one bang, two, three. The floorboards scream beneath his weight, like banshees howling in the wind as proud wolves call each other in the night. Horror devoted to the mud-prints he leaves with every forward march, or devastation bestowed upon the weight he’d gained since he’d last traveled them, the boy was unsure. It was loud like Istanbul. And the air was cold, like Amsterdam. It was summer outside only moments ago, but in the house it was cold, frigid like the ice in the winds of Amsterdam, frozen to the touch. He’d been to Amsterdam before, he remembered, and he’d be back there now if it weren’t for the glint of the gold-photo-frame, keeping his mind in check. Aunt Mary’s picture still lived on the bookcases, and Uncle Devlin still above the fireplace; he could see where the cinders and the old dust spilled, as though the building choked and scattered its remains across the wooden floor. The stairs cried so woefully as he climbed, he feared his legs would plummet through them, as they caved, belly-in. Still he traveled both the cases, to get to the old attic. 

The stars were still planted in the slanted wood slacks of the attic walls. He rolled his fingers against them, and the jelly that bound their star bodies was cold like the ice that grew in the gut of the freezer when the power worked, before. He wondered if the window day-light weren’t so bright, they’d still glow like they used to. The memory came then, of him being smaller, smiling with Mom, as they lied on the floor and stared up at them, pointing to the ones they liked the most, as if one were more distinguished than the other. And then he is back when his head hits the ceiling. He didn’t remember it being so short; or perhaps he is bigger now?

The air was colder here in the attic, than in Amsterdam. His sharp fingers, stale white before, run paler now, and sharp to the touch as though ice crystals were beginning to grow within the lines of his fingerprints. He holds them close together, his fingers to his palms, tucking them into the pockets of his starched summer shorts. . . When he took another step his foot kicked the lopsided box of cardboard, and the pink and red ball with stars on it, rolled to the edge of the golden-framed mirror. When he looked into the glass the boy could see the child he’d always been reflecting back at him. Blonde angel hairs poking out from his brown cap, which matched his brown button shirt, which matched his brown summer-shorts, each so brown as paper lunch-bags. Scabby red knees poking out of the front, holding steady his pale thin legs. He remembered getting older, he thought. He wondered where time lived, when it traveled behind us.

“My my,” came a voice, behind the boy. He neither twisted nor turned in search of it. Instead, he watched the mirror glass. “Why,” came the voice again. “How you have grown.”

There it was, just behind him. Waiting there, in the box. 

The old sprawly bear sat with his legs spread wide, and his arm rested limp against his plump belly. It seemed he never moved, nor breathed, and yet the boy was sure of it. He’d recognize that old voice anywhere. And soon when he looked again, the bear was waiting there, at the old checkered table that they’d use to play chess, sat in the child’s seat that’d grown far too little. When the boy sat across him, his knees kissed the mounds of his chest. Why, said the bear. How you’ve grown.

“Hello, Eddie,” remarked the boy.

His legs were longer than Eddie remembered, oceans of white that could reach from here, to the land where The Others lived, The Others, who made the attic shake, and covered the windows in thick smog. Why he was just as tall as the men who’d walked into this house before him, and sat at his mother’s table, and slept in his father’s bed, when the Greasleys fled to Fleming. His chin was sharper now than before, and his eyes appeared different. They were the same eyes of grey-blues with speckled hints of green, and they were round just the same, and tucked between the dark hairs that held them. But they were different now, nonetheless. When Eddie’s eyes befell the boy, he appeared a child he’d never before seen. And when the boy glanced back to the mirror glass, he was surprised, to see the man.

“Did you see the world?” Eddie asked, stealing the boy’s eyes from the mirror. The floorboards shook beneath them, victim to the thudding, the thudding louder than Istanbul, that came from the room below. “Did you see everything?” Eddie asked, as if the thudding were nonexistent. “We always promised we’d go to France!”

No, the boy thought. I’ve been nearly everywhere, by now. But I did not see the world.

“Yes,” he answered, instead. “The women in France were beautiful. But as we suspected, the dining was no match, to a hamburger and fries, from Dale’s. . . The world is a very big place, old friend, and there is much you get to learn. . . I would’ve brought you, if I’d. . .”

“Remembered?”

“Been able,” the boy corrects. “I’ve never forgotten you, Eddie.”

“I’ve never forgotten you, too,” Eddie remarked. And then, “Women?” Eddie asked. “Do we like girls these days?”

The boy smiled to think of Laura, but he tucked it into his mouth, and then his chin into his chest. He imagined the way she looked in Paris, holding the camera close to her eye, as if there were such beauty to behold, within decimated grounds and the bones of starving children. He thought of the way her dark hair flooded her bare shoulders, as she pointed the lens at him before she’d even known his name, and introduced herself as working for the paper. He asked her the sanity, being a journalist, traveling the world, and going to that place, all for the sake of a picture. She told him she liked living where the action did, but she’s followed him most, ever since.

“We will never like disgusting girls,” the boy said, through grinning lips. “Never.”

“That’s a relief,” Eddie said. “Do you still play the game we used to play? Red light, yellow, green?”

The boy felt the air catch in his throat, stiff and stuck like hard molasses clogging the spout. Memories of the red lights flashing, glimmering, then the green. But he swallowed the lump for Eddie. “How could I play our old games without you?” the boy asked, rolling Eddie’s head in his larger palm. 

“Did you see the war?” Eddie asked. “Were we heroes like we planned it?”

When the boy thought of war, he imagined himself young again, in a saddle-brown cap, which matched his brown button shirt, which matched his brown shorts, so brown as paper lunch-bags. He imagined he and Eddie firing bullets from their fingertips, taking down the invisible Others, one flick of an invisible hand grenade at a time. 

“War is not a game, Eddie,” the boy said, plainly. “And the world is not the place we imagined.”

“You used to believe the world was wonderful,” Eddie said. 

“I used to believe in everything,” said the boy. “But boys aren’t boys forever, in the way that toys stay toys.”

“I don’t understand,” said Eddie.

“You mustn’t,” said the boy.

When he rose from his chair, the boy, this man, the person, he let the air guide it, traveling far beyond the table, and even further from the rattling of the floorboards, from the thudding down below, thunderous and louder than the sounds in Istanbul, where he lied with his piece held close to his chest, tasting the muddy rains in the trench they’d dug to rest in. And he climbed the screeching stairs, only the first set down this time, and he Eddie followed as they traveled to the room they’d once known so well, painted in chipping hues of the sky, muddied by the boots of the men who took the house, and drank as they laid in his star sheets, shaking from the roaring bangs, louder than Istanbul, grown loudest now that he’d pulled the door open and stood inside. It’s from the closet, he knows it. That old place always came alive, at night.

“Do you remember how we beat him?” Eddie asked, standing tall before the boy, holding his arm out across his legs, to keep him back, at bay. “You hold on tight. Close your eyes. And we count to ten. I’ll be here with you, always.”

“The monsters don’t disappear, when we say goodnight, old friend,” said the boy. With his legs ever gently, he pushed the old bear, and with a forward stride he braced himself, holding his shoulders to his ears, holding his fists to his sides, rolling his thumbs over his knuckles, as he approached the doors who banged, louder than Istanbul, and when he made it he stood there looking, and waiting, and with a breath he grabbed the knobs and he pulled it open to see the beast as his father’d always described it—

“Humph,” breathed the boy, to the sight of the empty room.

“Another war, won, old pal!” cheered Eddie. 

The boy, shook his head. “War isn’t so easy, as we believed.”

“I don’t understand,” Eddie admitted, once more.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said the boy. “When the war was ours, old bear, we played by different rules. Because the missiles stopped when mother called for dinner, and the guns were laid when father called for school. And I didn’t have to sacrifice, I didn’t have to lose, because even if you were an other, you were still my friend. . . And when you were mine, with me, I didn’t have to lose you, in a forward march to win. . . I believe I deeply loved you, Eddie, and to love you kept me safe. . . Then I grew up.”

Eddie shrugged, his sprawly shoulders. “What’s growing up, anyway? What’s it even mean?” 

“It means I left you in this place,” says the boy, staring into the darkness of the empty closet room. “It means that I am older now, and the world wasn’t as we’d dreamed. You promised it’d be good out there, and that we’d see it all. But it was mean, and I was scared. And I blamed you. . . Then I remember, it isn’t your fault. A toy will always be a toy, but boys we must grow up. But even though I knew that then, I hated you like Hell a sinner.”

When the boy turned round to face him, he realized himself to’ve never moved at all. Stood tall he was, still in the attic before the mirror frame; the sprawly bear unmoved, lying in the box. With a long reach of his shaky hands, he grabbed the old toy from its cardboard living, and held it close to his chest. 

“Even so, I wished for you, more than anything,” he whispered, to the ears of his old friend.

When the boy looked into the mirror glass, the child he’d always been reflected back at him. Blonde angel hairs poking out from his brown cap, which matched his brown button shirt, which matched his brown shorts, each so brown as paper lunch-bags. He remembered getting older, he thought. Then suddenly, there was the man.