Hobart

Hobbie came to see me again a few months back. It was on a Friday, right after a late supper in early June. Don’t ask me why, I just turned the lights off and he was there. Random visits I never mind at all, really, but he wasn’t at his talkative best that night. In fact, he seemed inconsolably sad. I couldn’t imagine locking him out, particularly not then. Can’t exactly slam the door in the face of someone like that. Truth be told, I thought at the time he was bordering on suicidal.

I would say that’s a pretty tough burden to place on anyone’s shoulders, especially me. You’re not looking at a weakling in body or spirit, so that’s not what I meant by that last crack. At the time I was eighteen, just under six foot tall, playing a winning season of varsity football in high school, and a decent chess player. Never been in trouble with family or the law, so not a hoodlum by any means. I had a checkered past to a degree, but the past is in the past where it belongs. In high school, I was a pretty reliable guy to friends who’d come together at least once a week to study for exams. In fact, finals for my sophomore year were set for the following week. If you’d asked anyone who’d known me over the last dozen years or so, it’s a safe bet they’d rate me as a standup guy, not one afraid to take on any challenges.

This task, however, was one I didn’t relish. Hobbie had been my friend forever. Seriously, we’d known one another for much longer than any of my memories. To the best of abilities, his first of many appearances is near to a mystery. His earliest arrival that comes to mind is somewhere around fourth grade.

Yeah, that’s what it was, come to think of it. Mom was calling out “Dinner’s ready,” so these two feet took three steps at a time down to the kitchen. The smell had just hit my nose when she called. Sloppy Joe’s is for some reason a favorite meal, always has been. Coupled with some potato chips, any flavor, and these ears are yours for the bending, so long’s a sandwich is available for me.

That’s also the first time I can recall Dad not being home for dinner. Mom sat across the table from me, making sure prayers were said prior to hands reaching food or drink. “Lord, thank you for blessing us with these, your gifts. May it make our bodies and minds serve you better. Amen.” Solemn and measured, her invocation brought to mind church services, those mentally challenged educators hiding behind scripture and their penguin style habits, and the lessons calmly taught by Dad’s righteous anger.

I whispered “Amen,” barely loud enough for her to acknowledge it being said, and then looked around the table. Where was Dad? Normally, meals were a group effort, all three of us engaging in lively discussions. Sometimes they would humor me by listening to my thoughts on current events, allowing me to weigh in with my immature take and limited understanding. On other occasions, they would use the family hour to update me on plans of future vacations, get a feel for what excursion would most benefit the family unit, which usually boiled down to the better educational value for their one and only. Dad always had breakfast with us before catching the six fifty shuttle to work, and scheduling allowed another similar lively discussion hour following evening meals as well.

True, Mom complained occasionally about his late shift, but justly enjoyed the wake up hugs following his return. She would always give me a happier “Good morning, Steven,” after one of their sessions behind closed doors. Going to school seemed a natural extension of her smile on those days, just as having family dinner was a perfect precursor to evening studies.

That particular night’s meal was different, and not just because my tenth birthday was fast approaching. There was a certain unfathomable air about it, it was more subdued than usual. Mom looked to be on the verge of weeping, bravely holding a face over what brewed beneath. There was no talk during the meal, and that above all else is what makes the memory stick out so clearly. After being excused from the meal, stairs were ascended slowly, in hopes she would lift the facade for a moment, sob a little, maybe ask me to join her for a few words. It didn’t happen, so when my bedroom was reached, its door was closed more quietly than ever. It didn’t feel like breaking that stone silence would do any good.

Something else was different that night, too. I’d usually bound up the stairs, plop onto the bed with headphones attached to drown the sound of her humming, (which honestly never bothered me.) She’d do the dishes and then relax on the couch watching evening news seated next to Dad, one leaning on the other’s shoulder. They would turn the TV volume up loud in an effort to cover romantic giggles. On this particular night, downstairs was dead silent. Our house is only twenty years old, so it shouldn’t have that many creaks, but I could tell where my parents were by listening to floorboard chirps. Not a peep from them that night; I remember intently listening to the outside cricket chorale. From the living room, Mom could be heard bawling, and I had no clue why. In the same vein, I can’t tell you why I started to as well. Maybe it’s because I missed that duet for three, the bedtime tune my parents would sing when I was little. In my toddler years, up to Pre-K, every weekend’s bedtime began with them singing while having a secret cuddle I wasn’t supposed to notice. Oh, it hadn’t happened for a very long time, but it was sorely needed that night. Before crying myself to sleep, there was a simple knock at my bedroom door.

Tap! A small wind up monkey’s cymbal had fallen from an upper shelf, or an errant owl had misguidedly flown into house siding. Dreams were beckoning, tears beginning to dry. No time to ask who it was, no desire to share tissues with Mom, when the unnerving sound repeated. Tap! Tap! Meaty little fists cleared streams from my face as I rolled upright to ask who it was. There it stood, inside the room, on this side of the door, staring directly at me.

Had it entered without the door opening? No, I realized then that its rapping was only to announce a need for attention. That creature had been here all along, ever since…who knows? Fear, shock, embarrassment, all spun together in an effort to produce a scream. My mouth couldn’t or wouldn’t open and it had something to do with the unexpected visitor’s stance.

Pointing at me, the deformed leprechaun’s face was imitating what he’d seen mine do moments before. Though body parts widely mismatched his proportions, he still maintained human semblance. Instantly, impulse urged me to lunge forward, grab him in a comforting hug and tell him not to be scared. Instinct took a back seat to his, should I say, powers? One arm held up what resembled a hand, clearly implying “Stop,” which I did. There was no effort expended in compliance. What he wished was done without a word spoken. Calm stillness ruled the room as he slowly advanced, allowing clouded moonlight to illuminate his wonky, mucus covered frame.

“Is it only you, or are there others?” Somewhere between a stalled car refusing to turn over and an injured dog’s whimper, the syllables were pronounced with awkward gravity.

How could I answer? What was I to say? I wasn’t sure what he was asking or why. Lips trembling, legs shaking seismic waves into bedcovers, all that was uttered must have sounded like a tortured hamster.

Interpreting my fear quickly, prior to the first sound squeaking from my mouth, he again issued that command to cease. The same obedience was returned. “I mean to pick your brain for a bit and be gone. I be a gentle surgeon in that respect.” Somehow he found the comment amusing, which explains the bent folds of skin that moved in synch with his grotesque hiccups of hilarity. I wouldn’t call them lips, because they looked more like poorly carved Thanksgiving roast. In fact, his whole face looked like roadkill. Although the sight was churning my stomach, something intangible kept soundless attention glued as more speech issued. “I’ll be back soon enough, but for now, just tell me how many others live in this small enclosure.”

Out of nowhere, strength pushed some words forth. “Just Mom and I. Not sure where my Dad is…” I was tempted to repeat back to him his original query, because his stature was so minimal. What I mean to say is, besides the startling appearance, he did not pose any threat whatsoever.

“Hush! Think more quietly. What was the last thing your Mother said to you?”

“Downstairs at…”

“Aha!” His eyes darted about, seeking a secreted door or something. “Does the stair of down hide behind this?” He pointed at the doorknob.

“No. At dinner, she said grace, like always.” It clicked that his initial knock was an accident caused by exploration.

“I need the words.” Impatience made him inflate during vocalizing. As he deflated, it looked like an inch was added to his height.

“To open it,” I said, almost blurting it out behind a mocking laugh.

“The words she used praying. Insults are hazardous.”

My laughter ceased before his statement. “She said, ‘Lord, thank you for blessing us with these, your gifts. May it make our bodies and minds serve you better...’”

I did not speak the last word of her prayer when both of his shoulder’s extensions flew to covering his face. “Oh crap…”

“Excuse me? Mom doesn’t like that language…”

“Silence cretin!” That shout shook my room, imploding the air within, forcing its dimensions to feel much thinner. “Words, you humans never consider what words you use.” His one undamaged eye looked about, as if a secret had been loosed, and hoping no one had noticed. “Oh, sorry, I don’t do that often.”

“It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t. Lose temper, lose a bit of power. Must keep control, you know?”

“Sure. No, wait, what do you mean?”

“Explanation later. Look to me, I was not here, understand?”

My gravelly voiced visitor rapidly sprinted about the room, checking every unoccupied spot, all of the spaces where anything smaller than a baseball could be hidden, and then vanished behind a thin puff of smoke. Looking at my night stand’s alarm clock, it was a quick and surprising calculation that the entire consultation lasted less than a full minute. How could this be?

I reached over to set the alarm for the next day, and could not reach it. My arms extended fully, yet it was too far away, and below. When looking about, it turned out my back was against the ceiling. Instead of succumbing to fright, the floating sensation was embraced. By a mere twist of shoulder, my body dipped downward, whereas a wrist flick caused lateral movement. Until Mom went to bed for the night, no, even after, flight lessons were indulged.

Sometime before the sun came up, sleep happened. Covers warmly greeted a rested body and an annoying alarm vocalized the day’s weather forecast. Oh, well, it was a nice dream. Downstairs I went, eager to hear Mom whisper a happy “Good morning, little man.”

Nearing the meal bench, ready to have a wake up hug from Mom and a conversation with Dad resulted in a surprise clanging too hollow. In lieu of embraces or words, I saw Mom dragging ass into the kitchen, her dark hair disheveled, and her night clothes in worse condition. It looked as if she might have slept in the backyard, except there were no dirt or grass stains. Her pace was crippled by a limp that only comes from exhaustion. Her slow funeral march into view was accompanied by words mumbled from Liar’s Dance, a sad tune on one of her record albums she’d play at times when Dad was gone at work. With him gone for good, the musical selection was recited through dazed heaving of shoulders. When she turned to advance towards the table was the first time I realized she usually wore make up. There was none of that this morning either. She’s beautiful in every respect, but no effort was spent hiding novice crow feet or cheeks burned by sorrow’s rivers.

In my young mind, no words could be found for consolation, so I settled for walking over to where she sat staring between face clutching hands and gave her my softest squeeze. Instead of the normal bout of current events updates, we spent most of that period crying on each other. I did because she did, and wasn’t sure why until we were both bone dry.

“It’s your father.” That’s all she said, and then the cascade restarted that introduced what would become our theme for weeks to come. She sang the first verse and shared the chorus. Our caterwauling lasted until it was too late for me to get on the school bus. That was the first day she drove me to school that year, but not the last. It also wasn’t the last time we sang together. I wanted to tell her I could have flown to school, but didn’t think she would understand.

Day after day, alone at the edge of wooded mountains, she and I spent countless hours revising the spoken introduction. Invariably, a simple memory crept in, the familiar tune was invoked and the common verses repeated.

A few days later, we watched Dad get lowered into the ground. Mom and I sang a trio for two most of that day as well.