BY DAVID LIGHTFOOT
Copyright is held by the author.
THIS IS the quietest Friday I’ve ever seen, mid-July. My parents and I have a ground-floor apartment and I’m lounging on the balcony. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s getting on mid-afternoon, probably. I want to lie back and stare into the sun, but the high-pitched squeal from one of the kids, Dylan Jakes, is distracting me. I don’t mind, though; I actually find this a bit entertaining. Dylan’s life purpose is to be entertaining, I think.
He’s laughing and moving around like he’s imitating a scary monster. I sit up and examine the length of his shadow; it looks like it’s taking up a quarter of the sidewalk on Parlour Avenue. He looks to be ten feet away from the closest street, Downton Street.
“Ooga booga, ooga booga, ooga booga!” Dylan almost screams, and I’m trying not to laugh at his gorilla imitations.
“Hey, Dylan, are you pretending to be a mutant gorilla?” I ask.
“Tommy!” he calls back to me. “Come stand beside me and pretend you’re running. There are no cars here yet. We can take a picture of you being chased by my monster!”
I laugh and call back, “I think my shadow would be bigger than yours. I would try to scare your monster away.” Actually, at the age of fifteen, my parents tell me I’m too old to be Dylan’s playmate. But we’re so friendly with his family, so we don’t tell him that.
He shrugs and starts walking down the sidewalk, walking towards Manchester Street, on the other side of the building and past two more. It’s a seven-minute walk according to the transit websites. Sometimes, he looks like he’s dancing as he skips over to avoid stepping on the cracks. It’s a game he plays with the other kids sometimes, and I get up and look around wondering when they will come out. I look in the direction Dylan’s going, leaning out past the railing. He reaches Manchester, then starts turning around (as his parents always tell him to), again skipping over the cracks. So far, he hasn’t stepped on any, but when he would play this game with the
other kids, and they stepped on a crack, intentionally or otherwise, he’d point out and yell, “Oh no, you broke your mother’s back! You better kneel and pray to God and ask her for forgiveness.”
I think about this and look around the other apartments, wondering where the other kids are. I think it may be time to play with them. He’s always asking me to play with him whenever he’s outside and bored. I turn around and look at the floor above me, since Dylan lives on that floor.
I don’t notice that Dylan’s returned, but I jump when he calls my name.
He has the goofiest grin on his face, but it goes natural in seconds. “Tommy, tell me all your thoughts on God,” he says.
I go silent, trying to think of what to say. Instead of speaking, however, I stare at his bald head, once full of golden blond hair. He was diagnosed with cancer four years ago, the treatments never working for him. Dylan’s parents talk to mine sometimes; they’ve been saying lately that he could go any day now. Most children would be crying, asking why this would happen to them, saying they don’t want to die, but not Dylan; his smile never wavers. He reminds me of Simon Birch in that movie in that way.
Mom steps out to join me just in time, handing me a glass of lemonade. She smiles at Dylan and says, “Why, hello, Dylan. What are you doing playing out here by yourself? Do you want me to call your parents and have them bring out some of the other kids for you?”
“Aw, I’ve seen Cameron and Emily and Greg on the swings over there,” Dylan says, pointing in the direction of Manchester Street, “and I asked if they wanted to play with me, and they said later. I don’t think they’re going to play with me today, though.” He smiles sweetly at her. “Mrs. Weatherdon, tell me all your thoughts on God.”
I look up at Mom, and she has the same startled look as me, trying to think of what to tell him. I think she wants to say this family isn’t religious. I don’t think Dylan’s parents attend church regularly, either, even though there is one down on Manchester, the Enriched Earth Christian Church. I think of how Dylan would always come to my parents and me with lots of questions, the same questions children often ask. But on this day, he has only this question. I think it’s because he knows he’s dying and he wants to know what God and Heaven are like. Otherwise, Mom would say that he’s too young to fully understand relationships with God, or something like that.
Finally, she comes up with something, “Well, I’m pretty sure God is just as loving as your parents love you, and each other,” she begins.
“Because I’m on my way to see her someday,” he says.
Mom’s look turns to disapproval in seconds. “Now, Dylan, I’m sure we’ve had this talk before, and your parents have also talked to you about this,” she says. “God is not a female. I know you like to imagine God as a woman and even a gigantic monster and other things like that, but mind you don’t go around telling the other kids that. Some of them go to church, and you’ll put confusing and rather untrue things in their heads. That’s how their parents get mad at your parents. Didn’t Tommy or I tell you what happened to Mrs. Purvis from the third floor?”
This comes back to me in sheer moments. Elaine Purvis would be the same age as Mom. She was very Christian, always going around spreading the gospel and the good news about Jesus, often leaving the city on “mission” trips with her church group. She was a lot more active with the Enriched Earth Church. Also very feminist; though she always claimed that Jesus routinely approved of these views. She wrote books that remind Mom and my aunts and all their friends of the Bible mixing in with The Feminine Mystique, or anything Gloria Steinem wrote. She published this book called If God Were a Woman two years ago, where she suggested that God might actually be female, and if this were the case, then a husband can and should obey his wife according to the Lord’s teachings. The gender of the Lord is rarely brought up in society, but Mrs. Purvis was somewhat passionate about this. I think it’s supposed to make the church rethink how men treat women, that they’re more than just chattel. The Enriched Earth said nothing, and some of the women in our building even supported her in secret. But Mrs. Purvis came to my parents with some of the “hate mail” she received from other parts of the country, perhaps even the world. We told her not to think anything of it, but when she’d been promoting her book for a year, they started mailing her baby dolls with knives in them. She and her husband moved out –disappeared, rather, like in a dystopian story – after six months. Mom still has her copy of the book, and we think of Mrs. Purvis sometimes. But nobody brought up this subject ever again.
Mom touches my shoulder gently and says, “Come inside, Tommy. You have chores you need to do before your father gets home. Let’s leave the door open so fresh air can get in.”
It takes me two hours to finish everything, the vacuuming, the dusting. My last chore is sweeping the balcony, and it’s past four, late afternoon. By this time, Dylan is already playing with the other kids from the building, never leaving that sidewalk. I see rush hour traffic driving down Manchester and Parlour, a black car driving westbound, followed by a grey car. When I’m halfway through sweeping, I hear Dylan and several other boys yell out, “Six!” Moments later, he points down Manchester, and I turn as he yells out, “Seven!” He’s counting the blue cars going past our building. Then he calls out, “Eight!” and another blue car driving in the opposite direction.
At the same time, they’re playing that “step on a crack” game on the sidewalk. As I step back inside and dump all the contents in the trash, I can hear Dylan calling out to children when they’re caught. “Uh-oh, you just stepped on a crack!” Then the other children are laughing and chanting along with him, “Emily broke her mother’s back! Emily broke her mother’s back!”
I am a bit distracted by the chanting, but I know what happens next will be interesting. Dylan always does this when he plays this game. Outside the window, he approaches this Emily as he skips over the cracks. I come back out just as he tells her to kneel before him. She obeys, playing along.
“Now, Emily,” he says, “tell God you’re sorry for breaking your mother’s back.”
“God, I am sorry for stepping on that crack and breaking my mother’s back,” Emily says. She repeats this three times more at Dylan’s instruction.
“Now, ask God for her forgiveness,” he instructs.
She looks up at him, looking a bit confused. “What?”
“You heard me. Pray to God and ask her for her forgiveness.”
“Her forgiveness?” she repeats. “God isn’t a woman, silly. Otherwise, he would be called Goddess.”
His head is already up, staring down at Manchester Street. I look in that direction to see a blue Lexus turning onto Parlour. Dylan points it out and calls, “Nine!”
“Look,” Emily says, “I’ll pray to him for his forgiveness for breaking Mom’s back, but no way will I ask if he’s a man or a woman.” She’s trying not to laugh.
I think about Mrs. Purvis again. She was known for entertaining the children with stories about God being a woman. Dylan was the only one who fully believed them. “Such a lively imagination,” I say softly to myself. Maybe that’s what keeps him so happy and alive, keeps him from being scared about death.
Just as Emily is wrapping up her prayer, a blue Honda turns off Downton and whizzes past the children. When Dylan sees this, he calls out, “Ten!”
Emily notices this, too, and gives Dylan and the other boys a strange look. “You’re so weird!” she calls at him. “Why do you count only blue cars?”
“Because blue cars are the best looking,” another boy replies (is that Cameron or Greg?) “They’re the coolest colour of car.”
“Just like you like to count all the red cars,” Dylan adds.
“Not all the time, like you do, Dylan,” Emily replies. “I’ll say it again – you’re so weird.” Then she leaves, probably to recruit other girls to play with.
I look at all the other cars going down Manchester, turning onto Parlour, even leaving the parking space of the strip mall. Nothing in blue, but I see various other colours: red, black, white, tan, grey, even a purple Volkswagen. My parents’ car is a royal blue shade, and Dad won’t be home for another thirty to forty-five minutes. Will Dylan see him turning into the parking garage off Downton? I wonder what number Dad will be.
***
Dylan passes away the following Sunday evening. His parents and a visiting aunt and uncle come by our apartment to tell us. The cancer had gotten steadily worse, and he hadn’t gone outside to play since late Saturday morning, is what I hear.
“He wanted to die at home,” Mrs. Jakes says, then pauses, looking shrewd. “We wanted him to die at home. All of us, plus his grandmother and siblings – Mom’s watching the rest of them right now – were all standing around his bed.” She pauses again, fighting an overwhelming urge to cry, and her husband holds her.
“He wouldn’t stop talking about what Heaven would be like, and how beautiful he expected it to look,” Mr. Jakes adds. “He said some things about colourful flowers and grassy fields everywhere, with pink and purple stripes in the sky. The way he was describing it, you’d think he was talking about Easter.”
“Did you talk to him about God?” Mom asks. “Did you ask if he was prepared?”
“He said he was,” Mrs. Jakes replies. “Then he got into his usual monologue about how God is a woman, telling us childlike versions of those stories Elaine told him, remember?” She starts to laugh, but not too loudly, reminding herself she’s still in mourning, and my parents just chuckle.
“I think Dylan’s going to be in for a shock,” my mother says.
Ten minutes pass as everyone just looks at each other, not saying anything. It looks rather awkward. I break the silence by asking, “Was he looking out the window and counting the blue cars?”
Mr. and Mrs. Jakes remember this and smile. “He was,” Mrs. Jakes answers. “He was sitting up and looking out the window when we weren’t in there. We heard him calling out numbers from his bed, and we knew he was counting the blue cars he saw going by. Blue was always his favourite colour, you know.”
Then Mrs. Jakes takes Mom’s hand. “Listen, I know that Tommy was a bit old to be close friends with Dylan,” she says, “but… do you think maybe you can take care of the funeral arrangements?” Maybe the Enriched Earth Christian Church down on Manchester. Others here tell us it’s very nice. And maybe the Rochester Hotel on Gracey Avenue close by for an after-service luncheon, maybe an early dinner? They have a nice buffet. We can rent out two conference rooms; we anticipate about fifty people. We’ll call everyone to tell them about Dylan.
“We’ll give you the details just as we confirm them,” Mom says.
The funeral is held that Saturday, at one o’clock in the afternoon. It’s a decent walking distance to the church, but we drive anyway because of the feast we arranged for afterwards. The service starts in thirty minutes, but the parking lot is almost full. We find a spot closest to the church. Inside, we find our shoes are making hard noises on the floor. Mom looks down and notices the wood is rather old, almost creaking. I picture people with the wrong size feet falling through.
“Good heavens, when are they going to renovate?” Mom wonders. “There are too many people here. This creaking is going to grate on my nerves before we even get to the cemetery.”
I should be surprised by the light, colourful clothes, but the day is rather hot. Either Mr. and Mrs. Jakes want this to be a celebration of life, or they’re worried about everyone collapsing from heatstroke at the gravesite service.
Inside the service area, I see the pews almost full, but there should be room for Mom, Dad and me. Ahead, there’s a four-foot-long coffin, the lid open. I approach it and stare down at Dylan looking so peaceful and quiet. Next to it is a picture of him encased in a holly wreath; it looks like it’s from his final Christmas. I look back at Dylan’s parents, wondering who arranged this. I’m afraid people might laugh at the wreath.
I study all the mourners. I can’t tell what they’re thinking, but they all look so cross-eyed. They probably look very mean. I don’t know if they’re looking at my parents or Dylan’s. Probably Dylan’s parents. Likely, they’re thinking about Mrs. Purvis and her crazy feminist claims, claims I don’t dare mention in this house. They’re probably wondering why Mr. and Mrs. Jakes never bothered to correct Dylan, tell him that God is a male. A man, according to the more fervent, God-fearing ones. This is why my parents don’t go to church in the first place, except for weddings and funerals: all the people who act so freakish about it. I join my parents, not saying anything. All of a sudden, I take my phone from my pants pocket. I rise and start my way out of the church.
“Tommy!” Mom calls. “Tommy, where are you going? The service is about to start any minute.”
I hurry back for only a few moments. “It’s something I should do for Dylan, while everyone’s still here,” I say. “I know he’ll love it.”
I step out into the parking lot, turn on the camera function and make my way up and down, taking pictures of all the blue cars I see, including my parents’. Dad and all his brothers are taking me and my cousins on a father-son camping trip for the August long weekend. I’m planning to save all the pictures I take and print them in colour just before I leave. When we have our first campfire, I’ll burn them all in anticipation that Dylan will receive them. Then he’ll have something to share and count along with God. She would like that.
***
David Lightfoot identifies as a writer with a disability (cerebral palsy) and chose a writing career while in junior high school. He studied creative writing through correspondence from institutions in both Canada and the United States. Along with self-publishing a novel on human rights violations for the disabled, Broken Family Portrait, his fiction publication credits include Medicine and Meaning Journal, Men Matters Online Journal, October Hill Magazine, Lit Shark Magazine, Chewers by Masticadores and others. David lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada and is an advocate for educational literacy.
