Charles Baxter: Gryphon: New and Selected Stories

“Who’s Magda Brodsky?” Burrage asked.

“Somebody,” Gregory said. “She’s in the class.”

“Is she your friend?”

“I guess so.”

“What does she look like?”

“She’s nice.”

“I mean, what does she look like?”

“I told you. She’s nice.”

“Is she your friend?”

“I guess. She doesn’t say a whole lot.”

“When’s her birthday?”

“I asked her. She said the fourth of July.”

“Is she as old as you are?”

“Yeah.”

This time, Burrage did not consult the book, although he pretended to do so whenever Gregory was in the room. He drew the wheel, wrote out the symbols for the signs in the quadrants, and then wrote down Magda Brodsky’s virtues in green and orange crayon. It was like making up a calendar that had no relation to real dates or days of the week. Burrage decided that Magda was courageous, businesslike, and articulate. In addition, she was affectionate, physically agile, sensible, and generous. The adjectives came to him easily. Burrage drew a picture of Saturn at the top of the chart, along with several five-pointed stars. He told Gregory to give the chart to Magda, and he explained what all the words were, and what they meant. Gregory took the chart to school the next day.

In the evening, after dinner, Magda’s mother called him. Being the assistant manager of a branch bank, Burrage had expected this call and thought he knew how to handle it.

“Hello, Mr. Birmingham? This is Amelia Brodsky.” She had a pleasant but resolute voice. “Look, I don’t want to disturb you, but Magda brought this sheet of paper home from school today, which she says she got from your boy. I want you to understand that I’m not objecting to it. In fact, it’s made a distinct difference in her behavior this afternoon. She’s been quite an angel. I just want to know what this thing is. Did you do it? Can you explain it to me?”

“I thought you’d be calling,” Burrage said. “Actually, it’s her horoscope, but it’s not accurate. By that I mean that I made up a horoscope to give my boy some confidence, and he took it to school. When he came home he said his friend Magda wanted one, so I made up that one for her.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Brodsky sounded discreetly taken aback. “You see,” she began, then stopped. She tried again. “You see, it’s not that I think this little game is doing any harm.” She paused. “What do you mean when you say it’s not accurate?”

Burrage smiled and waited a moment. Then he said, “I just drew some symbols on the horoscope and listed a few virtues at the top. It’s not accurate because I didn’t check an ephemeris, where her planetary signs would be listed. I just wrote down some virtues I thought she might like to have. I’ve never met your daughter. My boy asked me to do it as a favor to her. Do you mind?”

“Well, no. That is, I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I’m not a believer in astrology. Not at all. It’s against my discipline. I’m a professional biologist.” She said this last sentence as if it were an astounding revelation, with pauses between the words.

“Well,” Burrage said, “I don’t believe in it either, and I’m a banker.”

“If you don’t believe in it,” she asked, “why did you do it?”

Burrage had had a drink in preparation for this call, which was probably why he said, “I’m trying to learn how to be a parent.”

This statement proved to be too much for Mrs. Brodsky, who rapidly thanked Burrage for explaining the whole matter to her before she hung up.

Later in the week, sitting in the dark of Gregory’s room, with a cigar in his hand and Glenn Miller playing “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” softly beside him, Burrage began a bunny story. “Once upon a time, there was a bunny who lived with his mommy and daddy bunny in the bunny hole at the edge of the great green wood.” All the bunny stories started with that sentence. After it, Burrage was deep in the terror of fictional improvisation. “One day the little bunny went hopping out on the bunny path in the woods when he met his friend the porcupine. The wind was blowing like this.” Burrage made a wind sound, and the cigar smoke blew out of his mouth. “Together the bunny and the porcupine walked down the path, gazing at the branches that waved back and forth, when suddenly the little bunny fell into a hole. It was a deep hole that the little bunny hadn’t seen, because he had been staring at the branches waving in the wind. ‘Help!’ he cried. ‘Help!’ ”

“Uncle Burrage,” Gregory said.

“What?”

“I don’t want to hear any more bunny stories.”

“Any of them? Or just this one?”

“Any of them.” He brought his stuffed dragon closer to his face. “Tell me my horoscope.”

“It will be warm tomorrow,” Burrage said, having seen the weather reports. “It will be a fine spring day. Soon it will be summer, and you’ll be playing outside.” Burrage stopped. “You will learn to swim, and you’ll take boat rides.”

Gregory’s eyes opened. “I want a boat ride.”

“When?”

“Right away.”

“What kind of boat?”

“I don’t care. I want a boat ride. Can Magda come?”

“You want a ride in a rowboat?”

“Sure. Can Magda come?”

“Next Saturday,” Burrage said, “if the weather is good. You’ll have to remember to invite her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gregory said.

Amelia Brodsky delivered Magda promptly at nine o’clock in the morning ten days later. She kept the pleasantries to a minimum. She couldn’t stay to chat, she said, because she was on her way to the farmers’ market, where she would have to battle the crowds. She asked which lake they were going to, and when Burrage said Cloverleaf Lake, Mrs. Brodsky nodded and said there was a rowboat concession there, with life jackets, and with that she kissed Magda good-bye and left in her station wagon. Burrage had been glad to see her go: she was well over six feet tall and wore a button on her blouse with some slogan on it that he had been unable to read.

Magda was looking at him suspiciously. She was a small girl, even for her age, with tightly curled hair and intelligently watchful brown eyes. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweatshirt that said “Say good things about Detroit” on it, the words printed underneath a rainbow. She and Gregory climbed into the backseat, whispering to each other but then falling silent. Burrage looked in at them. “Do we have everything?” he asked, feeling shaky himself. “Jackets, caps, snacks, and shoes?” From his list he realized how nervous he was. “Anybody have to go to the bathroom before we leave?” They both shook their heads. “All right,” he said. “Here goes.” He backed the car out of the driveway into the street, where Mrs. Schultz happened to be standing, a slightly more vacant expression on her face than was usual for her.

“Where are you going?” she asked, through the open window on the driver’s side.

“Boating,” Burrage said.

Mrs. Schultz’s right hand flew to the door handle, clutching it. “Take me along,” she said.

“Take her along.” It was Gregory. Burrage turned around and stared at him.

“Mrs. Schultz? You want Mrs. Schultz along with us on our boat ride?” Both Gregory and Magda nodded together. “I don’t get this,” Burrage said aloud, before turning to Mrs. Schultz. “I suppose if you want to come along, you can. Are you dressed for it? Is your house locked up?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She walked around to the passenger side and got into the front seat, slamming the door fiercely. “Let them steal everything, for all I care. I want to go out in a boat. Let’s get going.”

On the ten-minute drive to the lake, Magda kept silent, though she would nod if either Burrage or Gregory asked her a question. Meanwhile, in the front seat, Mrs. Schultz was watching the landscape with her eyes wide open, as if she had never ridden in an automobile before. She was offering opinions. “I’m glad it’s Saturday,” she said. “If this was during the week, I’d be missing my soap operas.” They passed a water tower. “Never saw one of those before.” Burrage groaned. Mrs. Schultz suddenly turned her gaze on Burrage and asked him, “What does the horoscope say about today, Burrage?”