Mike Meginnis - Fat Man and Little Boy

Baker says, “I think you need a consultation.”

“Madame Masumi?” says Fat Man, incredulous. “She’s a hack. She’s a man , for God’s sake. She hasn’t had her powers for years.”

“Don’t worry,” says Able. “We’ll cover her fee.”

Little Boy finds Keiko drinking wine alone in her room. There is a bed, a desk, a small bookshelf. Keiko’s dress is draped over the chair that sits at the desk. She’s wearing a plush gray robe. She lays on her stomach on the bed, looking at but not reading an open book, the wine glass set down on the floor when it is not in use. She kicks her feet behind her slowly, as if swimming. Little Boy watches her a little while. He appreciates her quiet.

“Hello Matthew,” she says, without looking up. “I guess I should have known to lock my door.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just a little boy.”

“What about your condition?”

“That is my condition.” He closes the door behind him. “Have I told you that you’re pretty?”

She takes a swallow of the wine. Stops kicking her feet.

Little Boy says, approaching the bed, “Have I told you how you look like a nurse?”

“Will you leave me alone?”

“I’m afraid. My brother slapped me,” he says, showing her the red palm mark on his face. “Sometimes he just explodes. Will you hold me?”

“I thought he was your uncle.”

“Sometimes I get confused.”

They set up in the dining room. Madame Masumi lays down three tarot cards. The first is the tower. The second is justice. The third is the hanged man.

The tower is a tall white tower, more an obelisk, struck by lightning, a golden dome or crown knocked from its top. Its windows lit with flame. A man and woman fall to the crags below the tower.

Justice is a blond man with a golden crown sitting on a golden throne enrobed in golden robes, framed by two stone pillars with a golden shroud hung between them. A golden scale in his left hand. A sword with golden hilt in his right.

The hanged man is a man hanged by his right foot. He has a golden shine around his head. He is hanged from a cross made of two trees. His hands are bound behind his back or held there. He is calm or he is dead.

Fat Man’s eyes boggle at the clear message of the cards. “Doom, doom, doom. No great surprise there. How soon will they be here for me? Did you call them?” Whether he believes she called the cops or only wishes, he would like it over. It feels very late. His body’s exhausted. His eyes are all bleary. Masumi’s long, purple candles are producing an excess of smoke, though little light.

“John, the news is not so grim. This is why it takes training to read the cards. The death card, for instance, means change. The tower card represents the end of a false belief or institution. Your relationship will be tested. Something you believe about yourself or your loved one will be revealed as false.”

“Why are we talking about my marriage?” asks Fat Man. “My marriage is fine. What we’re supposed to be talking about, what you used to always want to talk about, is the fact I’m a bomb.”

Madame Masumi places her index finger on the justice card. The long nail is painted eggshell white. “This card tells us that your life and priorities are out of balance. You need to see your loved one for who she is, anew, as if for the first time, and approach her with a fair mind and a cool heart.”

“Look,” says Fat Man. “I’ve got your gun.” He pulls it out from underneath his shirt and jacket. Its weight is like a small rock in his hand. He nudges it toward Masumi, across the tabletop. “Go on. Threaten me like the old days.”

“Calm down,” says Able.

“Be cool,” says Baker.

They both say, “Breathe.”

“The hanged man,” says Masumi, “is amplifying the justice card. It means you need to meditate, to look at life from a new perspective, a state of calm and contemplation. Only then can you know the right approach to your romantic conundrum.”

“I’m giving you permission to shoot me before the cops come,” says Fat Man. “You can tell them I gave you permission.”

He reaches for Masumi, who flinches. Fat Man lifts her face by the chin; he looks her in the eyes. She’s wearing eyelash extensions. Her eyebrows are plucked to arch wisps. Her makeup applied so thickly as to smooth her face away to nothing. She has no lines, no pores. He studies her eyes.

“Go on. For your brother,” says Fat Man. “Don’t let me explode.”

Masumi pushes the gun back across the table.

“This is yours, not mine,” she says. “I am a new person. So are you.”

She lowers her face and kisses his hand, leaving a red blossom on his knuckle.

She snuffs the candles with her fingers and shuffles all her cards together.

The brothers pay her fee.

She leaves.

The gun is in Fat Man’s hands.

“We forgive you,” says Able.

“We forgive you,” says Baker.

“She forgives you,” says Able.

“Forgive yourself,” says Baker.

“We’ll go to our island tomorrow,” says Able.

“You can explode,” says Baker.

“Imagine that weight coming up off your chest.”

Fat Man tucks the gun in his waistband. His shirttails are out now, the shirt itself rumpled, the suit’s pits stained through. His soda is empty.

He says, “There’s nothing else to me but weight. No joy or beauty. No real feeling. Only weight.”

He says, “I’m taking my family. We’re leaving. Thank you for dinner.”

Rosie’s been searching for Maggie twenty minutes now. There have been no clues. No snorts, no giggles, no breathing, no scurries of small feet. The mounting terror is now only terror. All the hallways look the same. Either she’s walking in circles or there are several copies of the same painting hung on several different walls. She calls for Maggie. “It’s not a game. I’m not playing!”

Instead John finds Rosie. He looks an awful mess, like some stumbling drunk. She asks him what’s happened.

“We’re leaving.”

“Did they upset you?”

He won’t answer.

“Were they strange? I think they’re very strange. I think their home is strange.”

“Where’s Maggie?”

“She’s hiding. We were playing. But now I can’t find her.”

Rosie sees Masumi’s lipstick on his hand. He sees her see the lipstick. He wipes it on his shirt. This only leaves a vivid mark like a trail of blood down the left side of his gut.

“Please help me,” she says.

They look for Maggie. They open every door. Sometimes finding a room, sometimes a closet, sometimes a bathroom. Always one where there should be another. Where common sense demands an office there is a coat closet hung thickly with coats, but no little girl between them. Some of the coats belong to women. Some belong to very small people, or children.

“Where’s Maggie?” says Rosie. “Where’s Maggie?”

They come back to the master bedroom. There is a large window overlooking the backyard, which has a swimming pool in the shape of a star. Rosie looks out the window to see if Maggie’s crouching somewhere out there, among the flowers and the palm trees and everything else overgrown. She hears the nearest bed sigh behind her as John sits down on it.

“Get back up. Help me find our daughter.”

“Rosie? When I ask if you’re happy?”

“Our daughter,” she reminds him, still searching the yard.

“Why don’t you ever ask me if I’m happy?”

She turns to look at him. As he slumps on the bed’s end, which sags deeply beneath him, he seems to project the mushroom cloud on the wall from his back as if he were its source.

“Everyone knows you’re unhappy, John.”