Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

He looked coyly up at Aaron’s mother, who nodded uncertainly. Clarence laughed, which triggered a coughing bout.

“Poor Clary,” Gloria said. “He has such trouble breathing these days.” She patted his head again. “Why don’t you take Aaron to your room and show him your collection?”

“They are called archives, Sister,” Clarence said. “And I am quite certain that they would be of little interest to a fellow his age.” He glared at Aaron. Gloria bent and whispered in her brother’s ear. “Fine, but will you push me, Sister?” he said in a whining, peevish voice.

“Aaron can push you,” said Aaron’s mother. “I think he’d enjoy that.” Aaron could think of nothing he would enjoy less, but he knew of no appropriate way to express his reservations, so he positioned himself behind the chair and gripped its handles. It was heavy, but he managed to push it across the room while Clarence gave orders.

“They want to be alone, you know,” Clarence informed him, but Aaron, who was focused on maneuvering the chair down a narrow hallway, did not reply.

“Are you afraid of me?” Clarence asked a moment later.

“Yes,” Aaron replied, truthfully.

“Because of my tusks, no doubt. I noticed you staring at them. Your mother, on the other hand, feels obligated to avert her eyes. Tell me, young Aaron, at which do you suppose I take more offense — your fascination or your mother’s revulsion?”

“Are they like elephant tusks?” Aaron asked. He did not fully understand Clarence’s question.

Clarence snorted. “Elephant tusks are made of ivory, which is quite sought after in most places in the world, while mine are nothing more than adenoids run amok. You may touch one if you like, but only if you are extremely careful.”

Aaron came from behind the wheelchair and leaned against the left armrest, steadying himself. Clarence’s eyes were closed, but as Aaron placed his index finger against the nearest tusk, Clarence sighed, the air from his nostrils rippling across Aaron’s finger. “Does that hurt?” Aaron asked.

“On the contrary,” Clarence said. “You have an exceedingly light touch.”

Aaron stroked the tusk once, then retracted his hand. “Do they grow?” he asked.

“Indeed they do — and far too fast. I had them removed just a few years ago, but I fear that another operation is imminent.”

Aaron continued to lean against Clarence’s wheelchair, gazing at the tusks. “I love them,” he said.

* * *

The walls of Clarence’s room were covered with books, the spines of which faced inward. “If you turn the books around,” Aaron said, “it will be easier.” He spent a good deal of time in the school library and knew how it was done.

“What will be easier?” inquired Clarence, who sat where Aaron had parked him, before a large desk.

“It will be easier to find the book you want.”

“I want all of these books,” Clarence said. “That is, in fact, why I purchased them. When I wish to read, I simply select one.” He picked a book up from his desk and beckoned Aaron over. On its cover was a black-and-white photograph of two girls: twins. “This book,” he told Aaron, “arrived in the mail several weeks ago. It is a masterpiece by one Diane Arbus. Do you know of her?” Aaron shook his head. “Sister wanted it out of the house immediately. She’s not prudish, but her spirit is a bit”—he paused, thinking—“compromised we shall say, for lack of a more precise word.”

He opened the book and thumbed through it, Aaron looking over his shoulder. The book, Aaron noted with surprise, consisted entirely of photographs.

“What is your opinion of this fellow?” Clarence asked, holding up a photograph of a bare-chested man wearing a fedora. A towel was draped over the man’s lap, and a few wisps of hair curled from his underarm. He was small, like Clarence.

“Who is he?” Aaron asked.

“According to the caption, he is a Mexican dwarf. Beyond that, I know nothing of him. It is the photographer who has captured my interest. In fact, I have composed a letter to her. Would you care to hear it?”

Aaron nodded, and Clarence extracted a sheet of onionskin from the top desk drawer and began to read.

Dear Miss Arbus,

I am a recent admirer of your work, a book of which was sent me by a friend in Wisconsin, a man of normal stature. I reside on a farm in central Minnesota with my elder sister, Gloria Bjorklund, who, in addition to being a devoted steward of the land, is quite skilled in the art of doily-making.

My reason for writing is twofold. First, I would like to express my appreciation for your photographs, particularly those featuring nudists. I have long disapproved of nudism, yet found myself oddly moved by these photos.

I come, now, to my second point — namely, that I am a dwarf. Moreover, I have been endowed with a pair of protuberances — some would call them tusks — that have begun growing in recent years from the vicinity of my nostrils. I should add, for the sake of full disclosure, that I have no formal training in front of the camera. Nonetheless, I would welcome any inquiries on your part.

Sincerely,

Clarence A. Bjorklund

“Did she write back?” Aaron asked.

“She did not, for I did not mail the letter. You see,” Clarence explained, his voice cracking, “Miss Arbus is no longer.”

“Is she dead?” Aaron asked.

“Quite,” Clarence responded. “Barbiturates. Slit wrists. Nothing as grand as a parade float and a pack of Shriners, though equally effective.” He refolded the letter and returned it to the desk drawer.

“The Shriners didn’t kill my father,” Aaron said. “The doctor said he cracked his skull on the street when he fell off the float.”

“Ah, but that is really more accuracy than I care to be presented with. Come, let us speak of something else. I understand that these Shriners are involved in the circus business. Certainly a boy of your age must have an interest in circuses.”

“I’ve never been,” Aaron said. “I’ve been to both Paul Bunyans. In Brainerd he’s sitting down. He talks, but he’s not real. Have you been?”

“Perish the thought! I abhor giants. They’re so”—Clarence paused to think what charges might be brought against giants—“large.” He laughed delightedly at his own response, and Aaron laughed also. “Well, we mustn’t engage in too much frivolity, or they will hear us and become suspicious.”

He glanced at Aaron. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we spy on them? I’m not as stealthy in this contraption as I would like to be, but you could easily tiptoe down the hallway, listen a bit, and report back. What do you say?”

Aaron nodded, pleased to be given so much responsibility.

“Splendid,” said Clarence, bringing his small, plump hands together in a celebratory clap. “I shall await your return with bated breath. Be sure to note all. And be cautious. You know what they do to spies.”

“What do they do?” Aaron whispered, but Clarence waved him out the door.

In the living room, his mother and Gloria sat side by side on the couch, a single afghan covering their knees. Aaron heard his mother say, “So, that’s what I told him. It was right after we got back from the vacation, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Gloria said something, breathing the words toward his mother.

“Well,” his mother said, “he was angry, but I knew he would be. He said, ‘If that’s the game you want to play, fine. But I’ll take Aaron, and you’ll see what I do to him, the mess I’ll make. Just try me.’ ”

Gloria took two walnuts from the bowl and cupped them in her hands, pressing them against each other until one gave way. She extracted the meat and offered it to Aaron’s mother, who accepted the bits of flesh and sat holding them in her palm.