Foliate Oak April 2016

Fiction

Three Chickens by Kristin Ashby
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Zog Zohr Oush by Bruce Costello
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​Lavender Soap by Darla Mottram
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A Spy Game 
By Heather Sager​​

That Sunday, four-year-old Marty Anderson ran toward Ashland Park, zigzagging among the hedges on his way. His round face had an astonished, yet happy look as he descended, and though the day was overcast, the residue of summer made him glow.

Over the hill was Mrs. Liston—taking the street way, while muttering to herself. She had yelled at him to run off; Marty, used to pleasing family, had merely managed to irritate her. She was tired, there was something vexing on her iPhone, and to her annoyance he had only wanted to play (not television, not video games), had wanted her. Her hope was that a trip to the park would distract him. Now invisible to Marty (and likewise he to her), she glanced at her iPhone, not hurrying.

Ashland Park, located in a quiet Chicago suburb, was small—even the playground was. But Marty loved it.

Reaching the park’s solitary edge, Marty gave several loud yelps. Though the place seemed empty, something shook out: a goose, which waddled slowly over. Marty squatted, looked into its eyes, and waved his hand excitedly near the animal’s bill. The goose watched a moment and then wandered off.
Marty persisted amid the park’s quiet. While his peach-colored eyebrows slotted into their zestful angles, his large brown eyes roamed. He wandered about the perimeter and stomped before the retaining wall, glancing into the bushes. Then he rushed onto the playground like a little football back.

He didn’t dwell long on the absent Mrs. Liston, on her disinterest in him. He had had a bad feeling and so he simply ran to shake it off. He was disappointed, though, because he enjoyed having conversations with new people, like Mrs. Liston, and with strangers, too. He liked people. He talked to them when he was out and about; when he felt safe.

Once inside the park’s low, rain-soaked concrete walls, he inhaled. He then cast his great head, which was topped with blond curls, sharply back. “I hope there’s not going to be a tornado!” he shouted, eying a low cloud that dimmed the brightness. His beloved Mama, his usual playmate, had told him about tornadoes. They struck him as terrible and magnificent. He righted himself. He put his hands to his temples, pressing, in a mock gesture of concern—for the entertainment of himself, for no one. Then he ran toward the park’s centrifugal center.

There a series of white voice-amplification tubes rose up from the mulch. Marty skidded up to one, finding that through it, he could hear drips from the faded rainfall. He turned his back to it and pretended to shower, even licking the imaginary downpour. It was this enthusiasm of his, his sentient playfulness, which was a source of constant delight for his parents.

The sun broke from the low cloud, and Marty paraded into its rays. The garden came to life, the blue peonies and yellow azaleas, under the pinkish light. Drying himself with a stutter of his shoulders, he stalked among the flowers. Then he stopped marching and dropped into a crouch. A man, tall and disheveled, walked past him. He seemed not to notice Marty. Then, noisily, a black limousine appeared, but from the opposite direction. It swerved haphazardly up the street, and soon disappeared. Marty swiveled, glanced at his shadow, and frowned. “But…” he started. He turned and studied the horizon. Mrs. Liston materialized, standing across the street. She waved, flashing an awkward smile he could barely make out. Simultaneously, the stranger made a curious sound on the courts, behind the poplars. Remembering his Mama’s rule, never to talk to strangers unless she, Mama, was with him (and he did often talk to strangers when with her, from shopkeepers to other children), Marty turned away.

Heading toward the slide, he picked up his feet like a prancing pony. He halted, turned starkly on one leg, and marched toward the slide’s end—to climb from the bottom. He ascended, humming and straddling the plastic under the waning sun. He was trying to have fun no matter what had happened to him (but Mama…), no matter what was happening. It was a day of poor weather and apparently other children had not come out. However, he played in all weather, even during frigid days when he dragged a sled, helping Mama reach the snow hill. Days when, together, returning home, they’d look back at their paired prints…such a day was unlike this one, he realized. He was alone. 

Like Mama, he inspected plants and flowers. When he finished sliding he picked several long, limber petals. He pretended to enlarge them in a magnifying glass while stretching them across his palms. Then he stuffed them into his pocket and went off. In so doing he grazed a bumblebee, which buzzed and escaped. The bee liked what Marty did: it landed on the rhododendron hedge, which was dripping with yellow flowers. 

If he collected enough petals, Marty wondered, maybe he could study them—their life, their growing—and use their secrets to help big people; like Mama, who back home was wilted-looking and sick. (With his cousin Finnegan, he saw a movie that had similarly inflamed his curiosity about life. In the movie, a boy-scientist reanimated a very sick-looking dog. Afterward, Marty rigged his toy bicycle—which resembled the bike the boy used to generate electricity—to his stuffed animals, trying to enliven them. He imagined them growing like spring petals).

He heard a racket sound. It was the man in the courts, the solitary walker. At last Marty saw him clearly. The man was practicing alone, swatting a green ball; he didn’t seem threatening. A white headband restrained his long brown hair, and his features were startlingly familiar. To Marty, he looked just like the Jesus that hung on a tree at his grandma and grandpa’s church. Branches rustled. The man paused, glancing over his shoulder—looking. Marty, excited, could not tear his face away. He grumbled, suddenly incensed by Mama’s rule about strangers. He cast a furtive look around. The noises on the court resumed.

Something about the Jesus….

Now there was no joy in running and jumping. Marty dumped his flowers out and raked through them with his fingers. The breeze picked up, and they scattered. “My treasures!” he screamed. He jumped and clapped at thin air. His flowers evaded him. Finally the wind blew them above the beds of azaleas, and they vanished.

Marty sighed and sat on a stump. He tried to watch the man, who disappeared behind the trees. Then Marty had an idea. He crept, almost crawling, toward the old bent willow tree at the park’s end, near high ground. He tiptoed, becoming a spy in one of his mother’s looking games. The bent tree created a bridge. Marty had never climbed a tree before; the bark scratched his soft skin. He inched his way until he could see the man practicing, the blue courts. He neared the dizzying summit and pressed down with his mouth.

He watched, waiting for some sense of order to come. Then he slipped and plunged into the unknown.




The Jesus stared down at him. “You’ve had a terrible fall,” Marty heard him distantly say. Marty fidgeted. Everything seemed disconnected; the man seemed to peer down through a tunnel. The man was wincing, and looked concerned. He had tender blue eyes, like the statue. “Are you alright?” he said. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” In actuality, the man—casting a quick glance over the hill—was worried, but not for the same reasons Marty understood. Marty felt his leg wriggle, found he could move it inward, and he rolled up out of the grass.  His everyday sense of things returned.

“I’m alright,” he replied, brushing himself off.

“Good.”

“Phew, that was a close one.”

“I know.” The man squinted. “I saw you watching me, and I saw you take that big drop.”

Marty’s eyes darted up toward the stranger’s. “How could you tell I was watching you?”

The man broke into laughter and slapped his headband, removing the hair from his eyes. “It was kind of obvious. Not many people snoop around as obviously as you do.”

Marty grinned. “So…what were you doing over there?”

“Playing tennis. I used to be good at it. I’m trying to get my mojo back.”

“So…tennis. Alright. Hah! That’s nothing too serious.” Marty paused, his face crinkling. “You’re a stranger. Since you helped me though, I can talk to you, right?”

He shrugged. “I suppose we can at least introduce ourselves.”

They did; the man was called Randall, a fine name, Marty thought. Then Marty saw the black limo again—its tires squealed as it quickly turned the north-side corner. Marty frowned and shivered, then shook his head. “Hey mister? Can I ask you a question? Are you also Jesus like the Jesus I saw at my grandma and grandpa’s church? Because you sure look like him.” When Marty thought grandma and grandpa—this time with greater force—a shadow crossed his face, and he experienced a sudden pang.
Randall grimaced. “No. Not even close. Sorry, little man.” Randall, a reclusive print-shop operator by day, was also a bachelor and a stay-at-home at night; a man of proclaimed self-interest, he was a savior to no one—of this he was certain.

Marty looked off, trying to forget what he was remembering. “Can I ask another question? I don’t mean to be rude, but how come you’re playing tennis if you stopped years and years ago?”

“Years and years ago. I don’t remember saying that. Well, let’s see. Let’s just say I had to stop because something bad happened in my life and tennis reminded me of that. I couldn’t handle playing anymore.”
“Couldn’t handle it?” Marty replied. “I’m sorry,” he added.

“It’s alright. You seem pretty happy playing here, Marty. Is that true?” He waved about. They saw the babysitter; she was steadily crossing the street. She reached the park’s far embankment and stopped, her cellphone attached to her cheek. She nodded vaguely, talking.

Marty shrugged. The raw afternoon weather agitated him, and a bad memory was blackening his mind. “Mostly happy like always, except I keep thinking about my Grandma. When I thought about church I thought about her. She’s dead. She died months ago.” He remembered his grandmother being shut in her casket. It was like a smooth white boat—they rolled her away in it, he recalled. He panicked, missing his Mama’s comforting embrace. He pointed toward the distant woman. “That’s not my Mama. If my Mama were here she’d be with me. I don’t know her. Mama had to go to the doctor’s and so I have her.”
Randall backpedaled, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and glanced sidelong at the boy. Through Marty’s wide saucer-eyes he saw Marty thinking. Randall shuddered. Then it appeared Marty had put two plus two together—his little lip inverted worryingly, and Randall glanced around in vain for help.
Then he thought to distract him. “I’ll tell you what. Do you want to give tennis a try, little man?” He pointed toward the court, his dropped racket. He added, “Your leg’s OK? We’re going right over to the courts, right there.” The limo re-emerged, going south. Its tired driver—with the low baseball cap and red eyes—blurred past them. In the distance, the wheels screeched.

“Ok.” 

Randall handed him the racket. “I suppose you’ll be going home soon.”

“Ha-ha,” Marty replied nervously. “That’s a long story.”

“Alright,” Randall accepted.

Randall threw the ball. Marty missed, picked up the ball, and tossed it back. He stumbled and righted himself. “You’ll make it,” Randall said, wincing. Marty put a strong look on his face. Randall threw. Marty was about to hit the ball when the gloomy arithmetic returned, and he stopped mid-swing. He dropped the racket and burst into tears.

Randall watched helplessly. He lowered his voice, trying to stop him. He said, “If I tell you a story, will you tell me one? I stopped playing because someone I loved ran away. A girl, a friend.”

Marty halted. This word, love, raised his curious eyes. “If you loved her so much,” he gasped, “…why...Where did she go?” he reddened.

“She moved to Paris,” Randall replied.

Marty wiped his face. Disbelief had stopped his tears. “Paris! Paris is very far away. My Mama knows where Paris is. It’s almost as far as China.”

Randall nodded. “So can you tell me what’s on your mind now, Marty?”

Marty paused. He was thinking darkly still, but had mastered his emotions, at least for the moment. “Do you still have a mom?” he said. 

Randall nodded.

Marty’s eyes bulged like a scared chipmunk’s. “Um, when do you think she’ll go to heaven?” he quavered. “My Grandma went to heaven because she was—this old!”—he held out his palms and flashed them repeatedly—“but my Mama’s sick and now I worry maybe sick people go to heaven, too.” His face began to screw up, to turn into that of a wrinkled old man. Randall could see the mother lode of tears was coming, and he was frightened. “Maybe that’s why I got a babysitter,” Marty burst, dissolving into a flurry of sobs.

Randall looked nervously away. Across the street were parked cars, closed-down shops. Evening was falling, dark; the boy’s cries echoed dismally.

Marty stopped and rubbed his eyes. He raised his pained eyes to Randall. “What happens if things go all wrong, that’s what I want to find out. Even if your mama doesn’t go to heaven. What if you go to heaven early? Is your mommy still there with you even if you go?” His eyes squinted, and he began to squeak; he was holding the racket askew. Randall felt ashamed to not have an answer. Randall felt as if the universe were playing a cosmic joke on them.

“I don’t know, kiddo,” he said. “It’s a mystery.”

This word, mystery—as did the word love, before it—appeared to help. They left the court—Marty fell silent. He became solemn and calm. They glared at the distant Mrs. Liston. She was talking on her iPhone. Marty forgave his parents for choosing her; perhaps, because Marty’s dad was traveling and Mama was sick, they’d made a desperate choice.

Randall gave a swift glance about the scene. He was noticing Marty’s flushed face when suddenly an idea came to him. 

“Is your mom really that sick?” he said. He leaned over; he couldn’t help himself about Marty anymore.

“I don’t think so,” Marty squeaked. He managed a smile. “I think she’ll be alright,” he sniffed. “My Dada said she has a real bad cold and that when she gets the right pills she’ll get better.”

“That’s good. So she’s not in the hospital then, is she?” Randall smiled cautiously.

“No. If she’s not in the hospital, that means she’s not going to heaven?”

Randall studied him. “I would listen to what your mom and dad tell you. If they say she’s alright, she is. And if she’s not in the hospital, no matter how bad she is she can’t be that bad. Buck up, kid.” Randall gently touched Marty’s shoulder.

Marty beamed, suddenly remembering a time when Mama had equally comforted him. A storm had surprised them in the garden, and she had drawn near, dried his tears with her finger, and embraced him tightly—so the rain and wind wouldn’t lash him. That day, he felt as if she’d always be holding him; so why shouldn’t she return, as Randall said? Just then Mrs. Liston saw Randall removing his hand from Marty’s shoulder, and she emitted a cry of fear and surprise. She started toward them and yelled “Police!” toward a patrol car that had begun idling at the park’s northwest corner. Randall, in a panic, turned away. He didn’t know why he was running, but he ran. He ran from the boy and into the street, walking straight into the path of the oncoming black limousine.

Heather Sager grew up in rural Minnesota and now lives in Illinois. Her fiction has appeared in the Curbside Splendor e-zine and is forthcoming in NYU’s Minetta Review. 

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