(Governor Tom's Note: This is a short story I wrote in the spring of 1998, during my final semester at Temple U. It was for an English lit survey class, wherein we read all kinds of stuff, from excerpts of Gulliver's Travels (which became one of my favorite novels and inspired the title of this blog) to short fiction by folks like Caroline M. Kirkland, Katherine Anne Porter, and Katherine Mansfield. During my Temple years I was living with my dad and stepmom in a suburban subdivision in South Jersey. That neighborhood inspired the setting for this piece. Enjoy!)
________________
Ryan Peers was going to turn five that July. It made him giddy just thinking about it.
But then he would remember it was only June. One whole month was forever, like those seemingly endless expanses of fields he’d see at the end of the fairy tale cartoons when the hero horseman gallops into that infinity, becoming a little dot, getting farther away but still not very close to his destination. Ryan had asked his parents to get him the action figure of that horseman for his birthday, as well as his arch-enemy, the silver-winged dragon. His father was at work a lot, and whenever he’d remind his mother of his wish, he was answered with an unenthusiastic "Maybe."
Like now, for instance. Ryan sat at the kitchen table, swinging his legs in the air, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His hair was sandy blond and unkempt. He wore an orange T-shirt and olive green shorts, his feet bare and brown with floor dust. The table was made mostly of white-painted wood, the corners and parts of the legs maple brown. The chairs were white with maple bottoms. The sun beamed through the sky lights directly above, adding a glistening sparkle to the strawberry jelly dangling from the half-eaten sandwich in Ryan’s hand. The yellow chips on his plate glowed gold, his milk gleaming holy white. His mother was tidying up, running back and forth between the sink, white-top counters and island, and the refrigerator, the front of which was decorated by vacation photographs and some of Ryan’s colorings from his coloring book, in this case a purple parrot with a pink beak and a yellow monkey hanging from a red-violet tree. His mother’s shoulder-length auburn hair was tied back in a bun. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts and a two-day-old white T-shirt with dishwashing stains on it. She always did the house chores in her bare feet, the bottoms of which would be coated brown by the end of the day, the stiff yellow corns of wear-and-tear blemishing a couple of the toes. Her feet thumped along the salmon pink tiles, vibrating the table and the vase in the middle as Ryan ate. The single yellow rose drooped from neglect.
Ryan snatched one of his golden chips and bit off half of it. "Mommy?" he said with his mouth full of sandwich and chip.
"Hmm?" she said on her way to put a tub of butter in its compartment in the refrigerator.
"I want the horseman figure for my birthday."
"Maybe, Ryan."
She went on to say something about their "financial situation," but Ryan wasn’t paying attention. From behind a small bag of potatoes next to the refrigerator emerged a fly. Ryan couldn’t hear it at first, but he noticed the little black dot shoot out as if ejected by the bag of potatoes, describing zig-zag patterns in the air before landing against the window over the sink. "Damn," said the mother, looking around the kitchen for something with which she could swat the fly. There weren’t any magazines or newspapers within eyesight, so she settled on a roll of paper towels standing on the island. The roll was like the sword awaiting her hand, thought Ryan as he watched her grab it with one hand and swing terribly aimed misses at the fly buzzing against the sun-baked glass. She knocked over a small pot of flowers on the sill, catching it before it fell into the sink. "Damn it." The fly continued its deranged course toward Ryan’s end of the kitchen, smacking its little black body against the glass cupboard which housed the cups and wine glasses. She swung and missed it there too. Then its path skewed abruptly. It disappeared into the adjoining dining room. "I’ll worry about it later," she sighed, putting the now mashed roll of paper towels on the island. She looked at Ryan through the strands of hair glued to her sweaty forehead, wisping in front of her eyes. "When you’re done with that, can you take it up to the sink by yourself?"
"Yes, Mommy."
"Come upstairs when you’re finished."
She thumped out of the kitchen, not noticing the glob of jelly that splatted high up on Ryan’s left breast. He continued chewing slowly and without purpose, occasionally wiping at the persistent itch just under his nose with his free index. Soon the fly came back in. He never took his eyes off it. It zigged-zagged its way to the sliding glass door which led to the backyard. The door was just a couple of feet from the kitchen table so it was close enough for Ryan to hear the thumping and buzzing of the bug as it tried in vain to penetrate the invisible wall. It wanted to get at the quarter acre of perfectly trimmed grass dotted with hints of yellow death, the baby pine trees decorating the fringes of the lawn, and the adjacent lawns with their similar plushness and blemishes.
Ryan got up and walked to the glass door. The fly was buzzing against the glass near the top. He watched it blindly work its way to the top right corner where it came to a rest. The noise of a little girl shouting came from somewhere nearby. He saw in the backyard connected to his by the northeast corner a little girl about his age being swung in a swing by her father. He was making her go progressively higher. In the backyard connected to the northwestern corner of Ryan’s lawn he saw a woman whose hips were swollen and puffy with her hand above her eyes, watching the father and daughter play. Through the sliding glass door of the house directly opposite came another woman out onto her dark brown wooden deck, about the same age as the first woman but much smaller and thinner and pale, her black hair tied into a long pony tail resting on her back. She was bringing out some large toys, her small child following her out and howling at her for her to stop. The man at the swing with his daughter was watching the little scene, as was the woman who had previously been watching the father. The woman with the child looked up and noticed the father watching her. As she turned to scold her child, she noticed the other woman watching as well, who then went back to looking at the father. The girl on the swing was hollering for her father to make her go higher. The woman by herself went back into her house and slid the door shut. Ryan could still see her peeking through the sliding door blinds at the mother wrestling with her child’s temper and the father struggling to satiate his daughter’s wishes to go higher.
The fly started buzzing across the top of the sliding door, still looking for a hole.
"Ryan, are you finished yet?" came his mother’s voice from above.
"Yes, Mommy."
"Take your plate and glass up and come upstairs for your nap."
When he got to his bedroom, his mother was peeking through the blinds at the woman with her son and the father with his daughter. Ryan got into bed. She shut the door and went into her bedroom where the television was on. The voices emanating from it faded as Ryan heard her close her door. He dozed off listening to the faint weeps of the son and the whoops of the daughter.
The father came home from work just as the mother was finished making dinner. His blond hair, which was combed and slicked back to perfection every morning before he left, was now dried and disheveled. His burgundy tie decorated with steel diamonds was partly loosened on his white shirt, his dark grey coat folded under the same arm which held his worn black briefcase. Ryan was sitting at the table waiting, looking up at the fly slamming its little body against the glass shield behind which glowed two long fluorescent bulbs.
"What’d you do today, little guy?" the father said to Ryan as he took the fast food trash out of his briefcase and stuffed it into the waste basket.
"Nothing."
"Colored today, huh?" he said, closing his briefcase and kissing his wife on the back of her neck. She cringed and blushed and told him to stop. "I’m going to go change."
The fly landed on top of the paper towel which covered the salad. The mother noticed it as she set the bowls down beside it. "Damn it."
"What’s wrong?" asked the father.
"It’s this damn fly again. It’s been a nuisance all day."
"I’ll be right down," the father said on his way out.
Some time after dinner, when Ryan was supposed to be getting ready for his bath, he wandered into his father’s study. His father was now wearing his turquoise golf shirt and khaki shorts, his bare feet crossed. No lights were on. He was sitting at his computer, the monitor glowing white on his face. His mouse was in one hand, the clicks of his finger on the buttons intermittent and random. Behind him the sun was a blood-red ball threatening to disappear for the night. He turned briefly in acknowledgment of his son’s presence but just as quickly turned back to the screen. "Hi, Ryan. Aren’t you supposed to be taking a bath?"
"Daddy, what are you doing?"
"This is called the Internet. Remember when I told you about the Internet? You can do a lot of neat things on it." The fly was in the room. Ryan couldn’t see it but could very easily hear it. Its buzzing was at first distant but grew louder until it sounded like it was right next to his ear. It landed on the monitor screen. The father swatted at it, but it always came back. "Get the hell out of here!" the father shouted.
"Ryan, come take your bath," his mother called from the bathroom.
"Ryan, listen to your mother," the father said, waving his hand through the air while trying to click with the other.
"Daddy, I want the horseman figure for my birthday. And the silver-winged dragon."
"Maybe."
"Ryan, come on," said the mother. "Quit bothering your father."
As Ryan left the room, the sounds of kids shouting came from outside. The father turned to look through the blinds at the front of the house. On the sidewalk three girls rode by on bikes, none older than ten, one of them with training wheels and going much slower. The father watched them ride by and saw the man across the street watering his lawn with a glass of brandy in his hand, who was also watching the three girls. The father grabbed the hexagonal rod and twisted it to close the blinds. He turned back to the Internet and started clicking with renewed passion. "Close the door behind you, Ryan."
After his bath, his mother put him to bed. Ryan always liked to sleep with the nightlight on. It was a figurine shaped like the horseman which plugged into his wall socket, gilding the room with a soft golden glow. "Sweet dreams," his mother said before closing the door gently, leaving it a hair’s width open.
"Night night, Mommy." Soon after she left, the fly buzzed through the crack of his door and zigged-zagged its way to the nightlight. He sat up to watch it. The fly landed on the glowing horseman and was still for a few moments. Then it took off and batted itself against the wall which was giving off the same glow it received from the horseman. It worked its way along the wall until reaching the window right above Ryan’s headboard. He watched and listened to the frantic buzzing, reminded of when it was looking for a way through the sliding glass door. Across the hall his father was telling his mother to shut the door to his study. Suddenly afraid his mother was going to come back in and try to hurt the fly, he got up on his knees and, as quietly as he could, slid open the window as well as the screen behind it. It took a few moments for the fly to discover it, methodically working its way along the cool pane, but it finally found its freedom. It disappeared into the gloom outside, its body and its buzzing soon beyond his range of perceptions.
Ryan closed the window and lay down, a slight smile cracking his face. He looked at the horseman glowing against his wall and was glad that at least the fly was free.
