Too excited to sleep, Scotty dropped feet first to the floor. He put on socks that he found in the top drawer of his dresser. “Hope they match,” he said to himself as he opened the door and crept down the hall. He pushed open his parents’ door. The only light came from the glow of the Judge’s alarm clock. Scotty practically leapt over the lump under the sheets that was his father. He came down on the other side; he came between his parents and he landed as inconspicuously as any seven-year-old boy could. He waited for the mattress to go still from the aftershocks. He rolled away from his father toward his mother when he found that side of the bed to be empty, the pillow fresh. He felt for her; he peered over the side to see if she’d rolled onto the floor. He checked under the bed. He slid open the closet door.
“Dad,” he finally said, poking the Judge gently in the back. “Dad.”
“Hmmmm,” said the Judge, more asleep than not.
“Where’s Mom?” Scotty whispered.
In a voice too loud, the Judge replied, “She doesn’t want to live here anymore.”
Scotty did not breathe. He felt no noticeable pain. He rolled off the bed and walked quietly back to his room. He climbed in his bed, determined to not seem surprised.
He didn’t move for a long time.
As he lay there, it was as if a vacuum hose had been inserted down his throat, for he could not speak, and everything vital, everything pure, got sucked out, everything sucked out until finally only his heart remained; its veins and ventricles and arteries clung to his ribs. He imagined the high-pitched sound a vacuum makes when a piece of plastic or a baby sock clogs the passageway. Then something shifted, the whine of the vacuum kicked to a higher pitch, the heart began to stretch, to be pulled, and finally it was ripped out and went screaming down the tube, gone.
(3)
In the morning, after a breakfast of coffee cake, the Judge and his children opened their remaining presents. Maggie was the last to notice Scotty’s lack of enthusiasm, the way he slowly opened gifts. “You’ve lost the Christmas spirit,” she said, as she emptied her Christmas stocking on the living room carpet. Inside she found Barbie’s Accessory Pak and the Barbie Hair Fair, which included one Barbie head with short hair, a wiglet, ringlets, ponytail, and extra wig.
She sighed and said, “No more Barbie! Please!”
Then Claire carefully removed the wrapping off a book. It was a biography on Thomas Jefferson, whom both the Judge and Claire admired. By coincidence, Jefferson’s daughter had taken over the running of Jefferson’s house after his wife had died. The Judge apologized for the inference. But Claire said, “There are many differences between Patsy Jefferson and me. The most obvious is that they had slaves.”
Over the coming weeks, and always after Claire had ordered Maggie and Scotty to shovel the driveway or take out the trash, Maggie would say, “Yes, master.”
Claire got upset at the insinuation. She was no slave driver: She was doing the best she could.
The Judge insisted Maggie stop it. So Maggie substituted Mother for master, which Scotty began to imitate. “Yes, Mother. Okay, Mother.” Occasionally this would make Claire cry, but mainly she ignored them, clearing her throat in an intentional manner, and assigned them more chores.
***
As the Judge prepared to open his gift, Claire said, “Explain it, Scotty.”
Scotty said nothing.
“It was your idea,” Claire reminded him.
The commercial had been Scotty’s favorite during the holiday season. Santa Claus riding the Norelco Tripleheader shaver as if it were a sled down a snowy mountain. Santa delivering toys to all the good boys and girls on a razor. Every time the commercial played, Scotty lunged toward the TV and followed the razor with his finger as Santa rode it through the snow.
When he and his sisters had been dropped at Kmart to do their shopping, Scotty announced his idea. Anything to soften the Judge’s face had been Scotty’s thinking. A simple hug felt like a bed of nails being pressed to his face. It seemed like the perfect gift.
“It’s rechargeable, Daddy,” Maggie said.
The Judge seemed pleased.
Scotty started to open his gift after his sisters insisted.
“It’s what you asked for,” the Judge said.
Scotty couldn’t remember having asked for anything. He was in a fog. Everything felt as if it were covered in maple syrup. Was he the only one upset?
“Did you hear Dad, Scotty?” Claire asked. “He said it’s what you asked for.”
That meant Scotty better like it.
“Hurry up.”
Scotty finished tearing off the wrapping paper. The gift was an official NFL boy’s Minnesota Vikings uniform. In a few weeks the Vikings and the Kansas City Chiefs would play in Super Bowl IV.
Inside the box were a helmet, shoulder pads, padded pants, and a purple and white jersey. Included were two sets of iron-on numbers.
“Gee, I wonder what number Scotty will want,” Maggie said.
Not only had his predictability become a source of comfort to his family; it was becoming a source of ridicule. They knew what he’d eat; they knew his favorite colors, his favorite TV shows, the commercials he perked up for, his routine. He could be anticipated, countered. He didn’t understand that he was being taken for granted, but he sensed that something must change.
“Say thank you,” Claire urged, but the Judge gestured for her to be silent.
“I saw that,” Scotty wanted to say. “I see everything.” He lifted the helmet and unwrapped the plastic that surrounded it. His fingers traced the white horns. The brightness of the Minnesota Vikings purple was as brilliant as a grape gum ball—he pulled the helmet over his head. The gray plastic face guard had two bars, like a quarterback’s helmet. Protection and visibility were both important. Two plastic holes muffled the sound.
“Can you hear us?” Claire asked.
Yes, I can hear you, Scotty thought. But he said nothing.
“I think he likes it, Dad,” Maggie said.
The Judge smiled and said, “Well, it’s what he wanted.”
***
Tom Conway knocked on the door around ten that morning, out of breath with the news that they’d been given a collie puppy.
Before Scotty showed Tom what he got, he put on the helmet. Only then did Scotty begin to show his other toys. “This is Fort Cheyenne. Indians and Cowboys fight their fights. The river divides them.” They assembled his new Hot Wheels track. Long orange plastic strips held together by purple connectors. Scotty had two loop-the-loops and he and Tom stretched track all over the living room, and played until Tom got bored.
After Tom Conway left, Scotty continued to wear the helmet. He even ate with it on. Maggie complained that the Christmas meal should be eaten in the best conditions. “Scotty’s helmet makes it impossible for me to take this meal seriously.”
Claire spoke gently. “You’re getting gravy on the face mask part.”
Scotty did not care. He wanted to wear it.
The Judge, hating the bickering, said in a resolute voice, the same voice he used when sentencing a criminal, “It’s a great day to wear a helmet.”
Victory. The helmet remained on and Scotty continued eating, occasionally leaving traces of food on the face guard. The chin strap made chewing difficult. He unsnapped it but the helmet began slipping all about so he snapped it back on. It made a loud click sound when he fastened it. No one looked at him, though. No one watched how he struggled: his bottom jaw unable to move, the top jaw and the head above it rising up and down. But it was good. Scotty was safe, the Minnesota Vikings helmet on his head, shoulder pads tied tightly, prepared in case. In case the roof caved in. In case a scout drove by and the team needed another player. In case a bullet from Vietnam came shooting through the back door. Scotty was prepared.
And so he waited.
It would be a week before school resumed.
By the third day after Christmas, all interest in the new toys had been exhausted. Tel
evision took up most of Scotty’s time. He watched his favorite shows—Bonanza, My Three Sons, Family Affair. The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.
New and Improved Tide laundry detergent was being advertised. New and Improved toilet paper. New and Improved soap.
Scotty stared blankly at the TV. He never told his dad or his sisters or even Tom Conway the whereabouts of his heart. He knew it was gone.
But he had his brain and that was what really mattered. With his brain he would outsmart his heart.
OTHER MOTHERS
(1)
Bev Fowler held her new Betsy Wetsy in one hand and the Betsy Wetsy tote bag in the other. Pushing up her black horn-rimmed glasses, Bev said, “I like that she drinks, cries real tears, and wets her diaper.” She lifted up Betsy Wetsy for everyone to see.
“Make her cry,” Scotty called out.
Bev inserted a pink baby bottle filled with water into the doll’s rubber mouth.
“Thank you, Bev,” Mrs. Boyden said.
“Make her cry!”
“That’s enough, Scotty.” Then turning to Bev, Mrs. Boyden said, “Only a good girl would get such a nice gift. Have a seat.”
“But in a minute she’ll wet her pants….”
“Very good, Bev. You’ll make a wonderful mother one day. Next.”
Bev reluctantly moved to her desk, where later, unnoticed, she would change Betsy’s diaper.
“Who wants to go next?”
Hands shot above heads—fingers stretching—class members eager to show and tell. Scotty waited quietly with his arms folded. He wanted to go last.
Other boys couldn’t wait. Richard Hibbs showed his new underwater G.I. Joe; Dan Burkhett the G.I. Joe motorcycle with sidecar, and Chip Fisher the G.I. Joe jeep and trailer with lighted searchlight.
“Good boys, all of you,” Mrs. Boyden said. “And once again G.I. Joe seems to be very popular.”
Shari Tussey showed a blue saucer sled with yellow plastic handgrips. Ruth Rethman got a Kenner Easy Bake oven, which was too big for show-and-tell, so she held the torn page from the Sears catalog. She told how she’d already made brownies and devil’s food cake. Jimmy Lamson got Feeley-Meeley and the Game of Life; he couldn’t decide which to show, so he brought both.
“I’m lucky to have so many good students. Yes, I’m lucky.”
Throughout the classroom, those who hadn’t been called on switched arms, and continued to wave and stretch, eager for their turn.
Brian and Harry Hammer, the twins, went next. They each held a walkie-talkie. They pulled out the antennas, which extended almost two feet. “These are deluxe ones,” Brian said.
For their demonstration, Brian remained standing in front of the class while Harry went out into the hall.
“Can you read me?” Brian said. “Over.”
Harry’s voice came back with static. “I can read you. Over.”
“Where are you? Over.”
“I’m in the hallway. Over.”
“Uhm. Can you still read me? Over.”
“I can still read you. Over.”
Mrs. Boyden told Brian to call Harry back.
“Mrs. Boyden said for you to come back.”
Harry returned and some of the kids clapped.
“You must have been very good,” Mrs. Boyden said. And the Hammer twins smiled and took their seats.
Then Mrs. Boyden called on Scotty.
“I’m not ready,” he said.
“Well, it’s your turn.”
“No.”
“I hope we don’t run out of time.”
Time.
Scotty glanced at the clock on the wall, the red arm circling the clock face. He looked at his watch with the glow-in-the-dark hands. His classmates were waiting, and Scotty worried as he watched the second hand tick. If he didn’t show his favorite gift now, he might not get to show at all. So he grabbed the grocery sack at his feet and sped down the aisle. In front of the class he lifted the Minnesota Vikings helmet out of the grocery sack. He put it on his head and snapped the chin strap. He pointed to the helmet. He smacked at it with an open hand. Carole Staley giggled. Her father had been a football player in college, and she liked football. Then Scotty held the jersey over his head. He lifted up the plastic shoulder pads and the football pants with padding sewn into the knees.
“You must’ve been good, too,” Mrs. Boyden said.
Scotty leaned over the nearest desk, as if inviting Craig Hunt to pound the helmet. Craig took a whap and Mrs. Boyden said, “Now boys.”
Scotty turned and ran, his head down, and thumped into the concrete brick wall. He looked up, dazed slightly from the collision, and did a dramatic drop to the floor where he lay motionless. He squeezed his eyes shut and strained to listen for any reaction he was getting. But the helmet’s small ear holes made it difficult to hear. So Scotty stood, only to discover the class had gone on. Christine Bettis was standing in front of the class demonstrating her Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car. With the touch of the brake lever, the colorful red and yellow wings flicked out. Some kids went “Oooo.”
Scotty made it back to his seat where he continued to wear his helmet in protest.
The rest of the children showed their favorite toys. Leann Callahan held up her Peggy Fleming ice skates. Tom Conway told about the collie puppy their father got them. The Conways named their puppy Lassie. “Because she looks just like Lassie,” Tom said. Craig Hunt, who went with his family to California for the holidays, told about his trip to Disneyland. He passed around pictures of the Disney castle and of Craig standing with Mickey Mouse in front of the Matterhorn.
As Craig was finishing, a knock came on the classroom door. Mrs. Boyden opened the door and said to the unseen person, “We’ve been waiting for you.” Tim Myerly’s mother, dressed in a pink parka, entered the room holding up a cage wrapped with an insulated blanket.
Tim Myerly stood and moved to the front of the class. His mother leaned over and whispered in his ear. Tim told the class to close their eyes. Scotty pretended to but squinted. He saw Tim’s mother unwrap the blanket.
“Okay, open.”
When the others opened their eyes, they saw what Scotty had already seen—in the cage sat a green and yellow bird with a black beak the size of a grown man’s thumb.
“Does it talk?” was the first question.
“No—but it sings.”
“And it likes TV,” the mother added.
While the other kids looked at the bird, Scotty studied the mother. She wore a pink ribbon in her hair and her lips were made up to match. She was short, with black hair, wavy like cake frosting, ivory skin, and large, brown, Bambi-like eyes. She was the prettiest mother he had ever seen.
Scotty blurted out the first question that came to him. “Does the bird get lonely?”
Mrs. Boyden glared at Scotty. Not only did he not raise his hand, but he was still wearing his helmet.
Tim and his mother looked around for the person who had spoken.
Scotty said it again: “Does the bird get lonely?”
Tim Myerly stood motionless. He was stumped by Scotty’s question. He knew his bird’s age, its natural habitat, and favorite foods. He knew every fact imaginable, for his father had drilled him on the facts. But he knew nothing of feelings. Feelings were never considered, and the longer Tim stood unable to speak, the more Scotty wanted to look at Tim’s mother. Tim turned to her. She turned to Scotty and, without acknowledging the helmet, said something.
The helmet muffled her voice. Scotty stopped breathing in an attempt to hear better, but he didn’t catch a word.
“We try to give Tim’s bird the best home imaginable” was what she said.
Scotty nodded. Whatever she said must be right.
Then Mrs. Boyden allowed the students in small groups to approach the cage and get a closer look. Scotty stayed seated. Mrs. Myerly sweetly answered the students’ questions. He studied how her mouth moved, and when it was his turn, he felt too shy to move toward her.
***
At noon Leann Callahan’s new lunch pail provided the boys with conversation material. Dome shaped, the pail was painted to look like a loaf of bread. The thermos was a replica of a Campbell’s tomato soup can. No one had ever seen a lunch pail quite like it before.
“Stupid,” Dan Burkhett said. “A loaf of bread. What a stupid thing.”
While the other boys laughed, Scotty (with his helmet still strapped to his head) sat across from Tim Myerly. In the weeks since Tim had moved to Iowa, the two of them had never really talked. And now Scotty didn’t know how to start. He looked to see what was packed in Tim’s Snoopy lunch pail: Snack Pack pudding, a bag of Fritos, a banana with the blue and white Chiquita sticker still on, a bologna sandwich, and a Twinkie. Tim’s thermos was filled with chicken noodle soup. He also had a milk card, which got him a small square carton each lunch. That day Tim had chosen chocolate milk, which he sipped through a white plastic straw.
Scotty broke off bite-size portions of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and fed himself through his face mask. He had his usual bare-bones lunch. The daily peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Wonder bread, a Baggie full of Highland potato chips, a small, bruised apple, and a handful of butterscotch candies.
Not knowing what to say exactly, Scotty proposed a trade.
“My butterscotch candies for your Twinkie.”
“No,” Tim Myerly said.
“Okay,” Scotty said. “My potato chips for your pudding.”
“No way,” Tim Myerly said.
“Your sticker for my candy?” Scotty asked.
But Tim took the Chiquita sticker, peeled it off his banana, and stuck it smack in the middle of his forehead.
It became clear—Tim Myerly didn’t want to trade.
***
Later, while holding up flash cards and reviewing subtraction, Mrs. Boyden asked Scotty for a third time to remove his helmet. When he didn’t, Mrs. Boyden moved quickly to the back where Scotty was sitting. Scotty watched as she headed toward him, but since he hadn’t heard her, he wasn’t prepared. She grabbed at his helmet, pulled it off with such force that it hurt his ears. “See me after class,” she snapped. She took the helmet to the front of the room, placed it under her desk, and continued with her lesson plan.