Mysfits, Page 3

  "Give me a break, will ya?" Avery rubbed his temples. "I'm going to bed."

  "I won't keep you," the Closet God said. "Just promise you won't agree to anything she suggests until you run it past me. Okay?"

  "I suppose."

  "Good. Drat--time's up. Gotta go." The Closet God waddled out of the kitchen. Avery watched him round the corner to the bedroom.

  "Is he finally gone?" the Safety Goddess asked as she slipped out from behind the refrigerator and pulled dust bunnies from the Scotch tape at her shoulders. "I thought the old blowhard would never leave."

  Avery rested his elbows on the table and cradled his face in his palms. "Don't start, please?"

  "If you ask me, I think he's still upset there's no yard to putter around in. Most of his tools wouldn't even fit in that closet. If you really cared, you wouldn't have moved into an apartment."

  Avery groaned.

  The Safety Goddess extracted a wad of tissue from a pocket of her ancient, flowered housecoat, and blew her nose in it. "So, what's your problem?"

  "You're my problem!"

  "Me?"

  "All of you! I can't get any work done. I can't get any rest. I can't entertain. I can't even have a pet."

  "That's ridiculous," she said. "Get a fish."

  "I hate fish, that's why I got a cat."

  "I didn't have a problem with the cat. You'll have to take that up with the Closet God."

  "But you were the one who said I had to lock it up at night. I didn't know cats gave him the hives. He kept trying to bury it with my clothes. No wonder it ran away."

  The Safety Goddess crossed her arms and sighed. "Must we go through this again? You'll make yourself sick dwelling on it."

  "I'm not dwelling on it. I'm mad about it!"

  "Call it what you will."

  "Jail! That's what I call it. I'm the prisoner--you're the guards. You even work in shifts!"

  "That's only temporary," said the Safety Goddess, "until you-know-who comes to his senses. Shouldn't effect you at all."

  "No effect? Then how come the Phone God cuts my calls short and never takes messages? Why does the Television Goddess have to approve my choices? Who put the Fashion God in charge of my wardrobe?" He stared at her. "Don't you see? I have no life. I can't even leave the apartment for fear the Furnishing God will replace everything I own!"

  The Safety Goddess put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "I can't believe you'd say that after everything we've done for you."

  Avery snorted. "Name one thing you've done that I should be grateful for."

  "Oh, that's easy--your car."

  "It hasn't worked since I parked it!"

  "Well, there you are, compliments of the Machine God. He saved your life. If you can't drive, chances are you won't be in any car wrecks."

  "Now, that's ridiculous," Avery said.

  The Safety Goddess frowned. "A little gratitude wouldn't hurt, y'know."

  "I should be grateful you've made me a prisoner?"

  "Don't be silly," she said. "We're the ones who're stuck here. You can leave whenever you like."

  "Like yesterday?"

  "A rare exception." The Safety Goddess shook her head slightly as she re-rolled a curler and secured it with a bobby pin directly above her forehead. "The elevator was scheduled to break down. If we had let you out, you might have been injured."

  "I could have taken the stairs."

  "Down, maybe. But would you have climbed six flights when you returned? I don't think so."

  "I can take care of myself!"

  "Of course you can--if you're willing to put up with mismatched socks, sorry nutrition, and a bedroom that's only fit for pigs. I don't know what they taught you in that college fraternity, but they certainly didn't prepare you for the real world. You think you can manage on your own? Ha! If it weren't for the Calorie Goddess, you'd be too big to squeeze through the door."

  Avery slammed his fist on the table. "I've had it!" He stomped to the bedroom and stopped in front of the closet. Gripping the handles of the double doors, he took a deep breath, then opened them. The Closet God sat on the hanger bar directly in front of him.

  "What's this, a surprise visit?" asked the diminutive deity.

  Avery ignored him and reached for his suitcase on the top shelf. Pulling it free, he set off a small avalanche of empty boxes, seldom-used camping gear, and a few men's magazines.

  "Nice move," said the Closet God as he surveyed the mess. He pointed at the magazines. "Don't let her see those."

  Avery glared at him but said nothing. Instead, he opened his suitcase on the bed and began to fill it with clothing, books and memorabilia, everything but the photos. Those he'd leave right where they were--over the washing machine, on the toolbox, in the cupboard--wherever his mother had put them. He threw anything else that mattered to him into the suitcase. There would be no return visit.

  "Where ya headed?" asked the Closet God, still perched on the clothes bar. "Y'know, you'd get more in there if you folded it neatly. Want some help?"

  Avery jammed the suitcase shut with his knee and struggled to force the latch closed. The Safety Goddess watched from the doorway. "This isn't really a good day to travel," she said.

  "Sure it is," Avery said as the latch finally clicked. "I'm outta here!" He wrestled the suitcase to the floor and tilted it up on its built-in wheels. "Don't wait up."

  "When will you be back?" the Closet God asked.

  Avery ignored him. He turned the knob, but the door wouldn't open.

  "Well?" The Safety Goddess's voice harbored a note of irritation.

  "I dunno," Avery said. "Maybe never."

  The door swung open. "It's your choice," the Safety Goddess said. "Don't say we didn't warn you."

  Avery nodded and dragged his suitcase into the hall. The two gods leaned against opposite sides of the doorway watching him. One of the suitcase wheels had a bad bearing which caused it to squeal and pull to the side.

  "I can fix that," the Closet God said.

  Avery let the suitcase veer into the wall. He pulled it along, ignoring the mark it scribed in the plaster as he hurried to reach the elevator.

  "He's always in such a rush," the Safety Goddess said.

  ~*~

  Avery flopped backwards on the bed, his arms outspread. The last few days had been exhilarating, but demanding. He'd almost forgotten what life on his own was like. Though his escape suffered a rocky start, including a dispute with an over-charging cabby who didn't speak English, a lost bus ticket, and a decision to walk under a bridge loaded with pigeons, it had ended well. Thanks to the intervention of an old fraternity brother, he'd even landed a job with the National Weather Service.

  He smiled as he recalled how the gods had opposed his joining that fraternity. Sure, it cost a lot, but the contacts were worth it. Without them, he'd never have landed his new job.

  ~*~

  Mail and supplies were dropped by parachute every other week into the string of Antarctic weather stations to which Avery had been assigned. He'd spent six weeks in training at the main base before boarding the cargo plane which took him to his outpost.

  "Boy, am I glad to see you," said the bearded and bundled meteorologist Avery was replacing. "Six months out here is about all a man can stand."

  "I don't know," Avery said. "I've been looking forward to the peace and quiet."

  "You'll get plenty of that." The man extended a mittened hand. "Good luck," he said, then climbed into the belly of the transport and closed the door.

  Avery watched as the ski-equipped craft raced over the ice and became airborne. He turned and entered the building which would be his home for the next six months. After passing through a weather lock, he stamped the snow from his boots and hung his parka on a peg near the door.

  The one-room building had a few creature comforts including a well-stocked bookshelf, a huge collection of videos, and most important of all, indoor plumbing. It also had a number of photographs taped to the walls. A
very swallowed hard as he gazed at the familiar faces.

  "Surprise!" said a voice behind him. "You know, maybe we were wrong about your fraternity. If it weren't for them, we'd never have found you."

  ~End~

  "If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else

  you do well matters very much." --Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

  "Bring her in here." The emergency room intern held open the door to a brightly lit examining bay as a stern-faced attendant in hospital whites wheeled Margo in. The bed was still rolling as a contraction wracked her, and she became only dimly aware she was the subject of their conversation.

  "It's crowning already," the attendant said, pursing his lips. "Just what the world needs: another welfare brat."

  "We'll take it from here," said a red-haired nurse as she hustled the attendant out the door. "What a jerk." She and the intern worked hurriedly to prepare for the delivery.

  Pain obliterated all Margo's other concerns. She clenched her jaws, squeezed her eyes shut, and pushed. A last sharp stab forced a groan from her bloodless lips as the baby gushed from her body. Margo fell back against the mattress, spent.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, the intern grimaced and shook his head.

  "What is it?" Margo croaked, too weak to move. "What's wrong?" She struggled to see her baby, but a surgical drape over her knees blocked the view. The intern stood motionless, and the baby had yet to cry.

  Why isn't it crying? They're supposed to cry! "Will you please tell me what's going on!"

  The intern coughed. "I-- It's just...."

  "He can't breathe," the nurse said.

  "What's wrong with him?" Margo asked.

  The nurse poked the intern's shoulder. "Doctor!"

  "Trach," he said, as if coming out of a trance. "Trach kit. Stat!"

  Margo strained forward but the intern pressed her back down. The nurse gripped Margo's hand. "The doctor's going to make an incision in the baby's windpipe so he can breathe."

  Barely breathing herself, Margo stared into the woman's pale blue eyes.

  "Your baby has some problems," the nurse said. "His face...."

  "What about his face?" Margo whispered.

  A tear rolled from the nurse's eye and soaked into the top of her surgical mask. "He doesn't have one."

  ~*~

  Margo had the baby in her arms when the social worker arrived. "I'm Elizabeth Dayne," the woman said. Her hair, pulled close to her head and bound at the back, made her angular features appear gaunt. "We need to talk."

  Margo nodded.

  "You gave birth in the emergency room?"

  Margo nodded again. "He came early."

  "And the father is...."

  "Unimportant," Margo said, hoping for a smile.

  Dayne's dark, humorless eyes locked onto hers. "You're not married?"

  "No."

  "But you know who the father is?"

  "Of course." Unsatisfying though it was, Margo couldn't forget the only sexual encounter she'd ever had.

  "Will he support you?"

  "I don't expect him to."

  "Do you have family you can turn to?"

  Margo shook her head from side to side.

  Dayne flipped through some papers on a clipboard then unfolded a legal-sized sheet and ran her finger down its length. "You're unmarried, uninsured, and unemployed." She looked up. "And you've just given birth to a severely deformed infant. You have more problems than options."

  Margo wrapped her arms around the baby. "I love him. We'll manage, somehow."

  "You've got to be realistic," Dayne said. "He needed surgery just to breathe. Have you any idea what it's going to cost to give him a nose and mouth?"

  "They said his skull is almost normal. They think he has everything he needs, it's just... covered up." She lifted the baby's head and gently passed her thumb over his brow, a smooth ridge above the empty plane where his face belonged. She moved her fingers down his cheek and touched the soft pale button of his chin.

  "The cost will be horrendous," Dayne said. "He might have eyes in there somewhere, but he'll never be able to see, and he's probably retarded."

  "You don't know that!"

  "True. Look, I'm not trying to be unkind, it's just that I've worked with many women who've had to face similar difficult choices. You can't afford to let your emotions overshadow your judgment at a time like this."

  Margo stared at the woman. "What are you suggesting?"

  "That you may not be able to give this child the care he needs."

  Margo felt as if she'd been punched by a prizefighter. She tightened her hold on the baby. "I love him," she said.

  "That's not the issue. We have to be concerned with what's best for him."

  "Don't you think I know?"

  Dayne looked surprised. "No. I don't believe you do."

  "Leave me alone," Margo said.

  "You're upset. I'll come back when you've had a chance to calm down."

  Margo glared at the woman as she gathered her things and walked out. The door didn't close completely, and Margo heard the social worker's voice from the hall. "This one's going to be rough."

  Though she strained to hear the other voice.

  "I don't know," Dayne said. "Maybe it'd be better to just withhold food and water. It wouldn't take long. On the other hand--"

  Someone pulled the door shut.

  ~*~

  While sitting in her rocker, Margo pressed the warm, tiny bundle to her breast. She wanted desperately to nurse the little boy she'd named Paul, though she knew it was impossible. The specialists said her milk could be saved and given to him through his feeding tube. They assured her it was the best thing for him, though it did nothing for her. Still, she followed instructions and used the little pump they'd given her. Paul always had enough.

  As she had every day in the five months since his birth, Margo wept. Paul's head rested near her heart as she rocked. The rhythm soothed them both. Finally, she closed her eyes and let her thoughts float away. There was no need to cry when she and Paul could go exploring.

  "Would you like that?" she asked him. "We'll find wonderful sounds for you to hear, and marvelous things to touch." She gave him a gentle hug.

  As she continued to rock, she felt a tiny pressure at her temple. Startled, she opened her eyes, expecting to find someone standing beside her, but she and Paul were alone, and the pressure--soft as an angel's kiss--continued.

  She brushed a few thin strands of blond hair from Paul's forehead and kissed the spot she'd uncovered. The pressure at her temple changed to a sensation of warmth which slowly faded.

  "I love you," she said.

  Briefly, the spot of warmth returned.

  ~*~

  "I don't usually suggest such procedures for patients so young. Of course, Paul's case is different." The surgeon glanced at some papers in the file. "How did you ever convince the Medical College to accept his case?"

  Margo shook her head. "I didn't. Miss Dayne--"

  "Oh, yes," he said. "The woman from the county office. You're lucky to have her on your side."

  "Sometimes I wonder."

  "As I was saying, Paul's skull and jaw development are reasonably normal. The prognosis is excellent." Jerrod Fowler was well-known for his work in reconstructive surgery. He faced Margo across a wide, wooden desk that mirrored the Danish modern decor of his office. "Ensuring a normal appearance and proper function will require several procedures, but in his case, I believe it's worth it."

  "He's only three," Margo said. "And he seems happy enough as he is. Isn't surgery risky?"

  Fowler nodded. "Surgery always entails risk, but it can also promise reward."

  Need to. The words floated into Margo's mind like notes from a familiar melody.

  "Okay, honey," she said.

  Fowler gave her a quizzical look.

  "Where's your restroom? Paul needs to go."

  "First door on the right," he said.

  Margo guide
d Paul to the lavatory and made sure he was aimed in the proper direction. "Good boy," she said when he finished.

  Go home now?

  "Not yet, sweetheart. Be patient." She squeezed his hand. He returned the pressure, to her fingers and her temples. She smiled. He could always make her smile.

  From the first day she felt his voice inside her head, she experienced a peaceful innocence she'd never known before. His communication consisted of emotion as much as words, but she was the only one who heard him, and she had to be careful in case the social worker, or anyone else, thought her overly peculiar.

  "We'll leave soon, I promise." She reached into her handbag and retrieved a small water balloon which she pressed into his hands. He clutched it eagerly and rubbed it against his cheek.

  Soft. Happy!

  She guided him back to the office.

  "So," Fowler said, "I urge you to consider it. Just think, for the first time in his life, Paul will be able to really eat--and actually taste something!"

  Margo agreed. As they traveled home, she tried to explain it to him. "There's more to food than just having a full tummy."

  Potty.

  "Do you need to go? Now?"

  No--after food!

  Margo laughed. Paul was bright, and had a sense of humor beyond his years. "I hadn't thought of that. But I'm talking about 'eating.' It's like feeling, sort of, only better."

  Okay, Mommy.

  ~*~

  Two months before his fourth birthday, the doctors gave Paul a mouth. In surgery for hours, he stayed in the recovery room even longer. Eventually he was wheeled to his room, and Margo stayed with him during his two days of observation.

  He slept almost continuously the first day while Margo waited. She would doze from time to time, snapping awake in embarrassment as if Paul had called to her and she had ignored him, though such was never the case. When his call finally came, it felt weak and tentative.

  "Paul? Are you awake?"

  Hurt.

  "I know, sweetie, but it'll be better soon, I promise, and there will be wonderful new things for you to experience."

  Paul didn't respond.

  "I wish it didn't have to be this way," she said. "If I could go through the pain for you, I would."

  He still didn't answer.

  "I love you, Paul."

  Margo smiled as a faint spot of warmth caressed her temple.

  ~*~