Mysfits Page 4

  Elizabeth Dayne sat in the room's only armchair. Margo's apartment was labeled an "efficiency" because its designer had managed to cram all the required functionality into a single room. A second arm chair would have seemed extravagant.

  "You're still feeding him through the tube," Dayne said. Her tone and expression were accusatory, as they usually were during her periodic visits. It was the price Margo paid to retain her eligibility for public assistance.

  "Mostly, he feeds himself."

  "Why can't you prepare foods that must be chewed? He'll never learn if you don't stop babying him."

  "He doesn't like to chew--he doesn't like to use his mouth at all." Though true, there was more to the story, but Margo was afraid to tell it. When Paul used his mouth, whether to eat or breathe, his ability to reach her with his mind diminished.

  "Has he tried to talk?" Dayne asked. She rarely looked at Margo during her visits. Her attention remained focused on Paul.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Margo suppressed a desire to scream. "Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he has nothing important to say."

  "Maybe he hasn't been given any encouragement," Dayne said. "He should be in a speech school where competent professionals can help him. He's young. Maybe it's not too late."

  "I can't afford it," Margo said. "I barely have enough for food and rent."

  Dayne stared at her for a moment. "I think I can work something out. And, it would give you a chance to find a job. Then maybe...."

  "No! It's too soon. We've never been separated. No one knows how to take care of him like I do. No one--"

  "Nonsense," Dayne said. "The professionals I know work with handicapped children all the time. Paul's no different."

  "But he is!" Margo stood and began pacing.

  "Really? How is he different from any other blind child? Or any other child who can't, or won't, speak?"

  "Because he's the only one who's mine," Margo said.

  Dayne made a snorting sound then walked to the door and stopped. "I'll call you when I've made the arrangements."

  ~*~

  Margo waited for the special bus that brought Paul home from the speech school every day. After two years of therapy he was finally able to communicate verbally, though he rarely chose to do it. He much preferred flashing messages to his mother, though she had to be close for his thoughts to come in clearly.

  She reached for his hand as he stepped from the bus. "How was school today?"

  Okay.

  Margo frowned. Paul was almost always cheerful. "You don't sound okay. What's the matter?"

  Nothing.

  She put her arm around him and hugged.

  Mom, is it bad to be ugly?

  "What?" Margo stalled, unsure of how to respond or what had prompted the question. "It's not good or bad. It just... is."

  Then, what does it mean?

  "I guess it means something unpleasant."

  Like a bad noise?

  "Yeah. Or maybe like something prickly and hard."

  Oh.

  "What's this all about? Did someone say something to make you feel bad."

  Sort of.

  Though Margo's anger flared, she was careful not to overreact. She didn't want Paul to know she was upset. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Paul remained silent as they walked up the stairs to the apartment. When they were safely inside, he leaned against her.

  How can I tell if I'm ugly?

  ~*~

  "No," Margo said. "He's not going back."

  Elizabeth Dayne had called to find out why Paul had missed so much school. "What did you expect? Did you think the other children were going to be caring and sensitive? It's going to be like this for years, probably the rest of his life."

  Margo had to concentrate in order to relax her jaws. "You love this, don't you?"

  "What on Earth are you talking about?"

  "You never thought I'd be able to raise him on my own, but I've been doing it. We're surviving."

  "You've gotten a lot of help."

  "I don't recall asking for it," Margo said. She'd wanted to say something like that for years.

  Dayne sighed into the phone. "Okay, let's think about this for a moment. People, children especially, are going to tease Paul as long as he looks different. That's just a fact of life."

  Margo grudgingly agreed.

  "So that leaves two options. Either Paul stays home and never associates with other children, or we do whatever is needed to make him look normal."

  "More surgery?"

  "Dr. Fowler says he can give him a nose. That, and dark glasses, ought to do the trick."

  "I don't know," Margo said. "The last time was, well, difficult."

  "Maybe if he could smell things, he'd be more inclined to taste them," Dayne said. "This would be a great time to get rid of that horrid feeding tube, too."

  ~*~

  Paul had just turned eight when the bruises from his last nose surgery finally faded. Margo had saved enough to buy him a birthday cake, but he wouldn't eat it--or much of anything else. Though never a big child, he'd lost weight steadily since they removed his feeding tube.

  "Please, Paul, you've got to eat something," Margo said.

  Instead of answering, the boy pushed his plate away.

  Margo pressed her cheek against his, hoping he'd speak directly to her mind. Instead, he left the table.

  Margo felt tears on her face. "I love you, Paul. I swear, I'm only trying to do what's best. You've got to believe me."

  His response was a warm and gentle pressure on her temple. It was enough.

  ~*~

  Margo turned on the radio, a gift from the red-haired nurse at the hospital years ago. Paul could experience music at no cost, and she provided it in as much variety as possible. They would often just sit and listen for an hour or two. On Paul's ninth birthday, Margo found a symphony. They were celebrating by listening to it when Miss Dayne arrived.

  "Can you turn that down?" she asked.

  Resigned, Margo reached past Paul for the dial. He touched her arm lightly, as if to deflect it. Margo paused, toying with the idea of refusing Dayne's request, but gave in knowing it wouldn't pay to antagonize her.

  "Thank you," Dayne said. "Now I can hear myself think."

  Margo and Paul smiled at the irony. Though his ability to touch Margo's thoughts had been drastically reduced, he could still get through if he placed his cheek next to hers.

  "We aren't very pleased with Paul's progress," Dayne said. "I wonder if he's applying himself. Of course, it might be just a lack of support and encouragement from home."

  Margo shrugged. Over the years she'd learned to dismiss Dayne's barbs. Arguing was futile. "I do my best," she said.

  "I've discussed Paul's case with specialists on staff and at the Medical College, and we've come to the conclusion that he needs more sensory stimulation." She looked around the cramped apartment. "You've got to admit, this environment leaves a little something to be desired."

  "It's clean and safe. What do you expect from me?"

  "I expect your cooperation. Paul's blindness is keeping him from reaching his full potential."

  Margo shuddered. She knew what would come next.

  "His condition is considered unique enough that the Medical College has agreed to take him on as a special teaching case. They believe his eyes may be functional."

  "But--"

  "They want to begin testing and evaluation next week."

  Margo sat motionless, trying to make sense of her own feelings. She knew Paul hated the surgery, feared the pain, and had little use for the resulting senses. She needed to look no further than his reaction to the surgery which gave him a mouth. By limiting himself to soft, bland food, he'd reduced the process of eating to the act of swallowing.

  "It's not-- It shouldn't be entirely up to me," Margo said.

  Dayne brightened. "Well, for once, we agree. I think--"

  "I want to discuss it with Paul
."

  "Oh." The social worker exhaled through tight lips. "I suppose. So, Paul, how--"

  "Alone," Margo said. "We'll discuss it in private."

  Frowning, Dayne walked to the door. "You'll call me?"

  Margo nodded.

  "Today?"

  "I don't know."

  "The timing is critical...."

  "Good bye," Margo said as she closed the door.

  She put her arm around Paul's thin shoulders and guided him to the armchair. Once seated, she pulled him into her lap. Their heads touched.

  "I don't know where to begin, or how to explain it, because you can't understand what it's like to be able to see. Taste and smell are so plain... Can you imagine tasting a symphony? No, that's silly--it's much more than that. Imagine a symphony so full and rich that you'd need extra ears to hear it all. It's a whole different way to experience the world. It's--" She stopped, defeated.

  "I should be dancing around the room. I should be bouncing up and down for you. I should be feeling nothing but joy." She pushed her fingers through his hair. "Instead, I'm scared. I don't want to lose your sweet voice in my head. I couldn't bear it. I know I'm just being selfish--I have been all along."

  Paul sat so quietly Margo wondered if he'd fallen asleep and missed everything she'd said. She smiled when he patted her arm.

  "I want so many things for you," she said, "but most of all, I want you to be happy. Do you understand?"

  She closed her eyes and felt a broad spot of warmth at her temple. It came from Paul's hand.

  "I think I'd like to see you," he said.

  ~End~

  "Unhappy is the land that needs heroes."

  --Bertold Brecht

  The county called it a rest home, but it seemed more like a rest stop on a back road to oblivion. The doors were open to anyone old, and feeble, and broke. It had nothing to do with who you once were, or what you once did. In the end, the testimonials, medals, and certificates of appreciation counted for nothing. Such was the fate of the Night Warrior, a man who saved too many to count and lost but one.

  I hadn't come to gloat, nor did I believe anything had changed. I came for the ring.

  Little remained of the man I remembered from my youth. Sitting in his wheelchair, head tilted to one side, a tiny saliva bubble expanding and contracting at the corner of his mouth, he no longer retained a shred of the presence that once struck fear in what passed for hearts in the ranks of his adversaries. Yet, none of that rabble could claim victory over the Night Warrior. Time alone had brought the super hero down--had made soft all the hard edges, and made rough all the smooth lines. He sat quiescent. That little which moved, trembled.

  The rock-like jaw, having deflected a thousand glancing blows now sported a five-day stubble and mustard stains. The raven locks lay limp, gray, and stringy, and the eyes, once glacial blue and piercing as a pike, squinted out from watery frames of viscous pink.

  I observed him from a distance, unwilling to believe the stark truth arrayed in front of me, unwilling to cut the last thread binding me to the fantasy I had nurtured for so long. Did he still have the ring? If so, it hadn't done much for him lately. Is that what I truly wanted for myself? I suddenly doubted it. But just as I turned to leave, he saw me.

  "Leonard?" he croaked.

  I wanted to run, to excuse myself, to plead ignorance of the hated name which first brought me to him over forty years ago. Instead, I stood my ground. It was the first lesson he ever taught me. "Yeah, Boss. It's me."

  He raised his hand from the shabby upholstered armrest, the motion confined to his wrist, then signaled to me with a sweep of his fingers.

  I had no desire to go near him, no desire to smell him, no desire to further impress his ruin upon my memory. I stared at him instead, trying to find the strong confident face that changed my life so long ago.

  He cleared his throat, rattling like an old engine. "Leonard."

  That voice! The Night Warrior survived, if only in his voice. Though little more than a whisper, it still compeled me. I floated toward him, unable to resist, and came to a stop at his side. He wasn't wearing the ring. No matter, I told myself, then knelt beside him and put my hand on his, willing myself not to pull away from the dry parchment covering his bony knuckles.

  "Beware," he said.

  I looked around slowly, taking in the drab walls and worn furniture of the rest home. Threadbare carpet housed mysterious stains, the flotsam of passing guests, and insect treasures. The staff consisted of two spindly matrons in flowered scrubs and rubber-soled, pastel flats. The only thing which threatened was the cloying odors of soiled linen and food prepared for people without teeth.

  "Beware of what?" I asked.

  "Trust me, Leonard, they're everywhere."

  "What're--"

  "Shh!" He trapped my hand between his--leathery leaves grasping, pressing, insistent.

  I lowered my voice. "What the hell is it?"

  He leaned toward me and whispered, "Sometimes I see them out of the corner of my eyes."

  "Who?" I straightened and freed my hand.

  "Keep your voice down!"

  "Right," I said. Then, upon reflection, added, "Why?"

  He shook his head, but the motion failed to dislodge a single gray hair plastered to the pale flesh above his eyes. "The dead ones. They'll hear you."

  I stood up and glanced at my watch. "Yeah, well, hey, it's been fun--"

  "Don't be a fool," he said. "Stand tall."

  With my eyes closed it felt just like the old days when the Night Warrior--clad in black and gray Spandex and daring the world to laugh--stood beside me, his faithful prot?g?.

  "I used to see them only in my dreams," he said. "All the ones I--no, all the ones we--defeated. They're all dead now."

  I chuckled. "Listen, Boss, I'll admit there are a lot of people in here who look dead. I mean, you don't look so good yourself. But you can't--"

  "I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about the Jester, the Pale Rider, and the Shrew. People we cancelled--bad guys. They've come back from the dead. They think they can take me now."

  His eyes grew wider while he talked, and he managed to control some of the palsy I'd observed earlier. He even straightened up in his wheelchair and forced his shoulders back in a parody of a hero's pose. How many times had I stood in the shadow of that pose while some rescued damsel or elected official fawned over him. Where were they now?

  "You've still got the ring, haven't you?" I asked.

  "The bastards. They think that just because I'm old, I'm vulnerable."

  "What about the ring? The ring of invincibility?" I almost said, "My ring."

  He stared up at me with his rheumy eyes and didn't say anything for the longest time. "You're still mad about that, aren't you?"

  "Me? Nah. Why would I be mad about it? You only dangled it in front of me all my life."

  "I never said I'd give it to you."

  "You never said you wouldn't."

  "I couldn't give it to you, Len. You couldn't become me. There could only ever be one Night Warrior."

  "I guess we'll never know," I said, slipping my hands in my pockets. It was an old truth, one I'd resigned myself to years ago. And I'd left the next day. Broke the partnership. The Night Warrior worked alone for a few years, his exploits against the villains of the world receiving less and less attention in the press. I half expected him to show up at super market openings or charity golf tourneys. He didn't, thank God.

  "I've missed you," he said. The palsy returned.

  I shrugged. "Who did you give it to? I don't remember hearing about any other sidekicks. My guess is you couldn't find anyone with sufficiently low self-esteem. Am I right?"

  With what must have been a supreme effort of will, the once great Night Warrior raised his head and focused those cold-fire eyes at me. "I encased it in a brick of Lucite and gave it to the Super Hero Museum. It was the right thing to do. Len, I once held the trust of a thousand cities, the faith of a million belie
vers. I--"

  "Broke the heart of the only one who ever really cared about you." I would've said more but was distracted by the slightest bit of motion I detected out of the corner of my eye. I nodded in that direction, and he turned his head slowly, all the while shrinking as if deflated.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure exactly," I said, "but it could've been either the Pale Rider or the Shrew."

  He took a short, sharp breath.

  "Not that I care," I said and walked away.

  ~End~

  "If we did the things we are capable of,

  we would astound ourselves." --Thomas Alva Edison

  On the day after his thirty-third birthday, J. Darwin Pinckney made two decisions that would alter his life forever.

  The guys in the stock room had given him hell since the day he started at Lemhoffer's department store. Ten years of abuse had culminated in the previous night's debacle. Though he couldn't even remember how he got home, he discovered a lasting souvenir under a bandage on his forearm. Bastards.

  He pulled off the bandage and looked at the dots of dried blood partially obscuring the fresh tattoo. He scraped some away to reveal the image of a pansy with pink and purple petals and a dark green stem. Decision Number One: "Never again," he whispered, then downed the last of his Alka Seltzer and feebly placed the plastic cup in the sink.

  Pinckney moved as carefully as a cat on Quaaludes to an over-stuffed chair, where he curled up and waited for dark. When it came, his condition had improved to a sickly malaise. He made decision Number Two while sitting at the kitchen table, chin on palms, looking at his junk mail.

  An odd pamphlet topped the pile. The dark green cover seemed more like leather than paper. He examined it more closely and discovered it bore tiny hairs.

  Not leather.

  Skin.

  Gagging, Pinckney tossed the circular aside. He tried to ignore it, even forced himself to read a book club offer and a sweepstakes promo, but the thin, dark brochure tantalized him.

  He gave in and stared at it, transfixed by the single word, Katalegein, embossed in gold on the leaf-colored cover. He touched the lettering, which was cold, and the cover, which was warm. While he watched, the pamphlet rippled slightly, as if it sheathed muscle.

  Cripes--it's alive! It-- Nah. That's impossible.

  He turned it over and saw his name and address in gold script. A thin, wax seal kept it closed but crumbled at his touch. The brochure reacted with stiffened hairs and goose bumps.