Mike Meginnis - Fat Man and Little Boy

The vendor musses the little boy’s hair. “Hundred-fifty each,” he says to Fat Man.

“We don’t have that much,” says Little Boy.

The vendor twists up his mouth in the corner: You serious?

“We can do two hundred flat.”

The vendor waits to see if the boy means it. When he’s seen the boy means it, he laughs.

“Fine,” says Fat Man. “One-fifty now, one-fifty when we see the job. Pay the man, Brother.”

Little Boy glares up at him. Fat Man grabs him by his ear and tugs a little. He growls, “I said pay up.”

Little Boy tears up. He thumbs the money bill by bill from his jacket pocket. Fat Man lets go of his ear. Little Boy rubs it, sullen. He curses beneath his breath.

“That’s what I thought,” says the vendor, counting the money. “Nobody goes to France without cash. Gotta buy some paintings, buy some cheese. Now there’s one other thing. I’m gonna need your names. Of course they don’t have to really be yours, so long as you can remember them when you’re asked. If I could do it all again, I think I’d have them call me George. Like a king.”

Little Boy ignores the question; he’s still biting back tears.

“I’m John,” says Fat Man.“This is Matthew. You were right. He’s my little nephew.”

“Course he is,” says the vendor. “But I don’t care.” Later, when it occurs to him they never offered a last name, he will choose one for them. He will wonder why he failed to ask. The forger will provide their heights, the colors of their eyes and hair, their dates and places of birth, and Fat Man’s profession.

“Now let’s take your picture. Then you and the tyke come back and see me in two days.”

The vendor assembles his camera and unfolds his tripod. He mounts the camera on the tripod, makes it spin, flashbulb and all. They’ve never seen a passport, they aren’t sure how to be, so they pose there together, their backs to the trees. Fat Man stands behind Little Boy, places a meaty hand on his shoulder.

In his passport photograph Little Boy will stare at the camera while a soft, faceless behemoth in a blue suit towers behind him.

In his passport photograph, Fat Man will look down at Little Boy with something like warmth and affection. Fat Man’s face will be partly hidden by the brim of his hat, which neither brother has thought to remove.

“Two days,” says the vendor. “Come back then with the rest of my money.”

Little Boy makes Fat Man carry him home. “Put me up on your shoulders,” he insists. They go this way for a while in peace, Fat Man’s knees and spine straining but willing; he feels bad about undermining his brother in front of the vendor. This is meant to be a peace offering.

“Go faster, Uncle ,” says Little Boy.

“No.”

“Go faster,” says Little Boy, using his heels as spurs.

They careen down an empty road. Fat Man’s sides burn; he reaches back and slaps the boy’s face. Little Boy grabs his brother’s ears and pulls with both hands, hard. Fat Man roars, rears back. Now Little Boy hangs from Fat Man’s ears, gripping tight to stay up. Fat Man thrashes. Slaps his brother on the back. Digs his fingers into the little boy’s ribs. Hurls him off, so Little Boy falls to the ground, rolls onto his back. He groans. Fat Man stalks away, off the path into a forest of tall, thin trees. He squats among them, breathes deeply. The sullen slump of his back, the lump of his body, like a mushroom.

Little Boy sits up. To his brother’s back he says, “We agreed I was in charge!”

He says, “We agreed I was your big brother!”

He says, “We never agreed on those names! You did that alone, without my permission!”

He stomps his foot. “You have to listen to me!”

He stomps his foot again. “Do you know how much money we’ve got? What you promised them means either we stow away on the boat or we stop eating immediately.”

He stomps his foot again.

He says, “What do you have to say for yourself, John? ”

Fat Man turns around like an outsize baby who just learned to sit up. He looks his brother dead on, sees the snot that runs from Little Boy’s nose, and the narrow thread of blood therein.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” he says. “Nobody believes it.”

Little Boy asks him who anybody is to tell them who they are. Who that rat bastard GI fraud artist was. Who anyone is to tell them how they should be. “You were no one when I found you,” he says. “You were a coward in a hole. I searched for you and I found you. I’ve taken care of you. Taken care of everything.”

“I’m only saying nobody believes it,” says Fat Man. “You know I’ve tried. But when people say big brother they don’t seem to be thinking of age. They’re talking about size. And anyway, I look older. Do you not like Matthew? We could call you something else. We could go back now and tell him your name is whatever you want it to be. You could be George, like he said.”

“I can see I’ve been too easy on you,” says Little Boy. Unsteadily, he climbs to his feet, and goes into the forest, where he pushes Fat Man by the shoulders. Fat Man, still sitting, rocks a little back, is otherwise unmoved.

“What are you doing?” Fat Man asks.

“Spanking you,” says Little Boy.

Fat Man laughs.

“I’m spanking you,” shrills Little Boy. “Bend over!”

Fat Man bends over. “Go ahead,” he says. “If it makes you feel better you can wail on me all you want.” Their positions suggest a father playing horsey with his son. Little Boy seems about to climb on. However, he inserts his knee beneath his brother’s gut, kneeling a little to achieve the effect, as if he supports the lummox. Little Boy brings down his hand on Fat Man’s left buttock. The sharp sound echoes in the trees. Fat Man feels nothing. Little Boy strikes him again.

Again.

Again.

Fat Man holds in his laughter the best he can.

Little Boy goes frantic. He wails on him with both hands. Each impact produces a satisfying but meaningless sound, no pain, no catharsis.

When he’s done Little Boy says, “There.”

He says, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

He says, “I don’t like doing that. But it’s for the best.”

They walk home together. Fat Man expects Little Boy to demand another ride. But Little Boy knows better.

That night Fat Man counts the money. Makes a budget, accounting for the cost of their tickets to France. Tells Little Boy they’ve got enough money left for the passports, for their journey, for one meal a day.

Nothing more.

“When we get there,” says Fat Man, “we’ll need jobs.”

Little Boy closes the cash case, snapping its ruined hinges into place. “You’ll need a job,” he says. “Little boys don’t work.”

They visit the squealing pigs.

They sleep in the mud.

Little Boy wakes. He sees the farmer’s daughter is stalking toward him and his snoring brother. He raises his hand in an awkward, fearful greeting. She grabs him by the scalp; she breathes words he cannot understand, words he can’t answer. He can’t see her eyes in the darkness. Only the long, sallow shadows cast by her brow, which creep into the gaunt valleys of her cheekbones. He can’t see her teeth or her lips—only the divot underneath her nose like a teardrop, and the hole of her mouth.

He thinks she is asking him questions, that she’s blaming him for something he’s sure he didn’t do, would never do. She holds him by the hair on the back of his head, pulling it harshly. She takes his hand in her hand. Her hateful grasp.

“How can this be?” she says, in Japanese. “I am a virgin.”

She pushes his hand against her stomach as if she means to pull him inside. Their sticky skin is touching, her belly, his fingers. He didn’t think she was naked. Perhaps her robe is open. She says, “What have you done to me? What has America done?”