Patterns Papillon on the Wing (Part 9)
It was inevitable. The skies were changing gradually, the sun became less thematic in a day. The talk was of festivals and state fairs ... and discussions concerning the nearing "excitement" of football season seemed everywhere. That summer of mine, that summer of Göran, more accurately. That short jumble of months that seemed to have been the weirdest vacation I might have ever imagined a summer could be, was nearing its end. School would be back in session soon, I would go back to mine and George would go back to his. Funny, that. He did attend school, but never talked about it much - I've no idea what kind of school or what they'd hoped to teach him.. I figured that out, though, as time passed. To me, George seemed quite smart enough - for what he was or for whatever he needed to ever be - in my view. That meant that his educational direction wasn't all that important. For those wee boys such as myself, those of us who wouldn't know which end of a pencil was which were it not for the luxury of points and erasers on either end, directions in life mattered. For guys like him who were already smarter than most thought they'd ever even be able to dream of being? Details mattered less as life progressed.
My mother and Mrs. Thunderhack had been planning a shopping spree (they were quite excited about it, too). The gimmick was to buy clothes and school supplies for their sons - but all WE ever heard them really discuss was catching a matinee at the movies and about having fancy coffee and French pastries at some bistro uptown. At first I was disappointed that I wasn't invited. I was quickly told that "if I picked out my own school attire, I'd end up going to class looking like a particularly needful runaway." Secretly I saw the value in such a prediction, but I acted not only disappointed but then a good bit insulted as well. It worked. I got to stay up until midnight on the night these plans were hatching ... in hopes that I'd not feel "too neglected". Some things, I remember, came so naturally to a 12-year old when it boiled down to family politics.
Another bonus to this looming trip in our mothers' agenda was that George and I were to be trusted to look after one another for a whole morning and most of an afternoon. Clearly, since he was twice my age, his supervisory needs were not an issue. Apparently, the itch came in his potential success (or lack of it) in supervising ME. Yet more insults hurled in my younger-than-dirt direction, I thought. Göran saved that one, though. He mentioned that, when he was alive, spending time with his father was always more about the younger one keeping the older one out of trouble. Despite the wisdom in Mr. Thunderhack's face in that photograph, I'd gotten the distinct impression that (when left to his own devices) he was quite the child-like rascal, especially when with young George. My friend (rather skillfully, actually) convinced our parents that he'd feel very safe and comfortable with me there to keep an eye on him. He knew the "politics" of things, too. Saying that worked nicely. Problem solved. We were flying solo that next Tuesday. Life seemed pretty fun, just then.
The day of the "Mothers Day Off" (as they came to call it) found us all in the Thunderhack kitchen, all of "them" drinking coffee but I with my timeless 'Dad's' Root Beer. George, I thought, seemed especially "chatter-y" that day. Giddy. More squirrelly than I'd ever seen him (but I just attributed it to the excitement of being entrusted with the house AND a minor neighbor kid for most of a whole day). George and I had spent SO much time talking and watching TV unsupervised that I, for one, thought this scenario would be no major difference. Unless we burned down the house, or something equally unfortunate. Clearly, however, Göran was of a different mindset about it.
We watched the car pull out of the driveway and dutifully waved our Moms off. George immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me to the basement steps. Yes, THAT gruesome ghoul-infested place that I had not seen since that day he'd moved in. That crypt full of arachnids, dead peoples' clothing, horrific moldy smells and windows that seved no purpose other than to remind you that you were just short of buried alive. The concept of going down there was bad enough. My friend's excitement about getting there was even worse. He was almost acting eager in a crazy, child-like way. It all seemed so very unusual. And completely unexpected.
"I need to show you something! Hurry up, Ellis!" Oh, I didn't like this at all. Let me tell you. I didn't like the look in his eyes. I didn't like the looks of those half-lit steps leading into the probable bowels of Hell. I didn't like the fact that there were no "normal" adults around to refer to. And, more than anything else (in retrospect), I didn't like that, for the first time in weeks, down here in a frightening basement with George Thunderhack, I had even recognized the word "normal" living in my head. I think, for the first time since June, I'd realized that, like it or not, I was truly a 12-year old child. And, given that frame of reference, my pal had become (first and foremost) an adult retarded MAN that Tuesday. I didn't like the geography my brain was forming. I didn't even think about rivers, or anything else in those horrible few minutes.
As we went down those creaking stairs, my willingness to proceed seemed to diminish with each step as George's increased. And, then, he said the saddest, most UNspecial thing I'd ever heard. The disappointment I felt in seeing his face and in hearing his words was elephantine. The wisdom of Adam Allergy, the forces of the blood in our veins, the simplicity of sunflowers and even those songs that sounded like a solo from a sidestepping angel when he sang them? They seemed like a whisper long gone. I was looking at someone else, someone just "different". And then he said it (and I will confess to you that I nearly cried when the sounds landed):
"I make butterflies, Ellis. Out of my Dad's pajamas. And pipe cleaners. They're so beautiful. Ellis! I wanted to show you first..."
My grief was tangible. My shame was enormous (and my fear - considering that I'd heard what mentally defective adults had been known to do with children - was considerable, too). He led me to a dark corner and flicked on a bare light bulb there, dangling overhead like a foreboding hanged man. It spotlighted a pile of purple and green and red and grey scraps of cloth, odd creations using some of them that kinda looked like butterflies, and a pair of large glistening scissors very nearby.
I didn't know what to do as I was drowning in a sea of every emotion one could imagine. But I did the one thing I'd never thought possible to do with George Thunderhack. I "talked down" to him. And it ached my belly more than it ever had (or ever would) as I did it.
"All right, George. Let's play."
My mother and Mrs. Thunderhack had been planning a shopping spree (they were quite excited about it, too). The gimmick was to buy clothes and school supplies for their sons - but all WE ever heard them really discuss was catching a matinee at the movies and about having fancy coffee and French pastries at some bistro uptown. At first I was disappointed that I wasn't invited. I was quickly told that "if I picked out my own school attire, I'd end up going to class looking like a particularly needful runaway." Secretly I saw the value in such a prediction, but I acted not only disappointed but then a good bit insulted as well. It worked. I got to stay up until midnight on the night these plans were hatching ... in hopes that I'd not feel "too neglected". Some things, I remember, came so naturally to a 12-year old when it boiled down to family politics.
Another bonus to this looming trip in our mothers' agenda was that George and I were to be trusted to look after one another for a whole morning and most of an afternoon. Clearly, since he was twice my age, his supervisory needs were not an issue. Apparently, the itch came in his potential success (or lack of it) in supervising ME. Yet more insults hurled in my younger-than-dirt direction, I thought. Göran saved that one, though. He mentioned that, when he was alive, spending time with his father was always more about the younger one keeping the older one out of trouble. Despite the wisdom in Mr. Thunderhack's face in that photograph, I'd gotten the distinct impression that (when left to his own devices) he was quite the child-like rascal, especially when with young George. My friend (rather skillfully, actually) convinced our parents that he'd feel very safe and comfortable with me there to keep an eye on him. He knew the "politics" of things, too. Saying that worked nicely. Problem solved. We were flying solo that next Tuesday. Life seemed pretty fun, just then.
The day of the "Mothers Day Off" (as they came to call it) found us all in the Thunderhack kitchen, all of "them" drinking coffee but I with my timeless 'Dad's' Root Beer. George, I thought, seemed especially "chatter-y" that day. Giddy. More squirrelly than I'd ever seen him (but I just attributed it to the excitement of being entrusted with the house AND a minor neighbor kid for most of a whole day). George and I had spent SO much time talking and watching TV unsupervised that I, for one, thought this scenario would be no major difference. Unless we burned down the house, or something equally unfortunate. Clearly, however, Göran was of a different mindset about it.
We watched the car pull out of the driveway and dutifully waved our Moms off. George immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me to the basement steps. Yes, THAT gruesome ghoul-infested place that I had not seen since that day he'd moved in. That crypt full of arachnids, dead peoples' clothing, horrific moldy smells and windows that seved no purpose other than to remind you that you were just short of buried alive. The concept of going down there was bad enough. My friend's excitement about getting there was even worse. He was almost acting eager in a crazy, child-like way. It all seemed so very unusual. And completely unexpected.
"I need to show you something! Hurry up, Ellis!" Oh, I didn't like this at all. Let me tell you. I didn't like the look in his eyes. I didn't like the looks of those half-lit steps leading into the probable bowels of Hell. I didn't like the fact that there were no "normal" adults around to refer to. And, more than anything else (in retrospect), I didn't like that, for the first time in weeks, down here in a frightening basement with George Thunderhack, I had even recognized the word "normal" living in my head. I think, for the first time since June, I'd realized that, like it or not, I was truly a 12-year old child. And, given that frame of reference, my pal had become (first and foremost) an adult retarded MAN that Tuesday. I didn't like the geography my brain was forming. I didn't even think about rivers, or anything else in those horrible few minutes.
As we went down those creaking stairs, my willingness to proceed seemed to diminish with each step as George's increased. And, then, he said the saddest, most UNspecial thing I'd ever heard. The disappointment I felt in seeing his face and in hearing his words was elephantine. The wisdom of Adam Allergy, the forces of the blood in our veins, the simplicity of sunflowers and even those songs that sounded like a solo from a sidestepping angel when he sang them? They seemed like a whisper long gone. I was looking at someone else, someone just "different". And then he said it (and I will confess to you that I nearly cried when the sounds landed):
"I make butterflies, Ellis. Out of my Dad's pajamas. And pipe cleaners. They're so beautiful. Ellis! I wanted to show you first..."
My grief was tangible. My shame was enormous (and my fear - considering that I'd heard what mentally defective adults had been known to do with children - was considerable, too). He led me to a dark corner and flicked on a bare light bulb there, dangling overhead like a foreboding hanged man. It spotlighted a pile of purple and green and red and grey scraps of cloth, odd creations using some of them that kinda looked like butterflies, and a pair of large glistening scissors very nearby.
I didn't know what to do as I was drowning in a sea of every emotion one could imagine. But I did the one thing I'd never thought possible to do with George Thunderhack. I "talked down" to him. And it ached my belly more than it ever had (or ever would) as I did it.
"All right, George. Let's play."
2 Comments:
Oh, my God! I actually hold my breath waiting to 'see and hear' what George's basement "secret" was.
You do know how to keep your audience hooked Mr. Gats. Thank you for a great new part of this lovely, lovely story.
By denni19, Feb 17 08 9:51 AM
Another fine chapter. You're so good at putting your reader right in the moment. "Dad's Root Beer", I loved that! I'm enjoying these pieces so much-thank you.
By robbieh, Feb 18 08 9:51 PM