Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

“The truth,” Clarence continued, his voice becoming more nasal, “is that Olga wrote to Otto because she was lonely, but they were not of the same ilk, not at all. I received my first letter from her on June sixth, 1962. It was, as I have already noted, a pithy epistle. I wrote back, thanking her for her fine contribution to the archives, and over the years we have become well acquainted.” He cleared his throat again. “In fact, Olga’s is a sad tale. Have you any interest in hearing it?”

“I like sad tales,” said Aaron. “In school we read only happy ones. My mother says I’m too young to be interested in tales of woe. That’s what she calls them.”

“Yes, I suppose you are young, though I have found that there is no better way to forget your own tales of woe than by listening to those of others.”

Clarence’s fingers had crept out from beneath the afghan. They were plump, like breakfast sausages, and Aaron found himself thinking pigs in a blanket, which he had ordered once in a restaurant based solely on the name. He remembered how happy he had been when his breakfast arrived and he discovered that pigs in a blanket were sausages, the beauty of their name matching their tastiness.

“You seem distracted,” Clarence said querulously. “Perhaps we should speak of something other than Olga’s sad story?” A rattling began in his throat, which he tried to clear, but the phlegm seemed to build. “You’ll forgive me for making such a racket,” he gasped. “It has been a difficult week.” He stared straight ahead, his sausage fingers clutching the afghan.

“I believe there has been a settling,” he announced finally. “Sister and I have a little joke that we engage in at such times. She tells me I am sounding phlegmish, and I reply, ‘I should say closer to Dutch, Sister.’ It never fails to amuse her. I must admit I’ve come to find the joke tiresome, but it would disappoint her if I were to stop.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the joke,” Aaron said.

“What is there to understand?” Clarence said. “Surely you’ve heard of Flanders?”

“No,” said Aaron.

“What grade are you in?”

“I’m starting second grade.”

“Second grade?” Clarence cried. “Second grade and you are unfamiliar with Flanders? I am quite sure that by the time I began second grade I was well versed in European geography, inclusive of its subtleties.”

Aaron said nothing. He did not understand how this place called Flanders had even entered the discussion. “What about Olga and the tale of woe?” he asked.

“We shall speak no more of Olga,” said Clarence severely, then, less severely, “Come. Supper awaits us. You shall be my valet.”

Aaron studied the meat on his plate. He had thought that rabbit would be easy to recognize, but without the telltale ears, this was not the case.

“Sister constructed this table,” Clarence announced. “She completed it in a single afternoon.”

“Gloria, you made this table?” said Aaron’s mother.

It was higher than other tables. Aaron had to reach upward for his food.

“For Clary’s wheelchair,” Gloria said. She pulled her head into her hunched shoulders in an unflattering, turtlelike way. “I’ve always been pretty inept with my hands.”

“Inept,” Clarence squealed, and Gloria hunched her shoulders even more.

For several minutes they ate in silence, Gloria occasionally reaching over to Clarence’s plate in order to cut his meat into even smaller pieces or to add green beans to his already large pile. When she plopped a pat of butter onto his potato, he threw down his cutlery. “Sister,” he hissed, “we have agreed, numerous times, that you will not touch my plate unless I ask for your assistance. I have made no such request, as our guests can surely confirm.” He pinched the butter between his fingers and flung it back at her.

Aaron’s mother turned quickly to Aaron. “Gloria has invited us to spend the night,” she said, “since it might not be wise for you to travel after your wasp ordeal.”

Aaron nodded and reached up for his milk. The thought of spending more time with Clarence made him happy, but he did not know how to verbalize his pleasure. They all continued to nibble at the meat that might or might not be rabbit until Clarence sniffed the air as one would a past-due carton of milk and announced, “When I was a bit older than young Aaron, I had a schoolmaster who suffered from an abnormal fear of dwarves. Do you remember, Sister?”

“Mr. Nordstrum,” she said. “There’d been some scandal at his previous school.”

“Ah, yes, Nordstrum,” said Clarence. “He was let go because he’d taken to attaching love notes when he returned homework.”

“How do you know such things, Clary?” Gloria asked.

“Little pitchers have big ears,” he responded with a giggle. “It’s an expression,” he added when he saw Aaron studying his ears. “And I know such things, Sister, because I make it my business to know. He was a ridiculous little man, writing love notes to fifteen-year-old girls who no doubt laughed behind his tonsured little head. He had a penchant for robust farm girls and had become inspired by a particular young Heidi, whom he liked to imagine perched atop a milking stool with her plump hands patiently coaxing milk out of one stubborn udder after another.”

“Clary, our guests,” Gloria said, inclining her head toward Aaron.

“I am merely quoting from his letters, loosely of course.” He addressed Aaron directly now, as though that was what Gloria had intended. “I doubt that our beloved schoolmaster was capable of much eloquence. Eventually, his secret came out.” He looked back at his sister. “As secrets always do.”

“Clary, can we please have a nice evening?” Gloria said. “We so rarely have guests.”

“You mean an evening where nobody says anything interesting and certainly not anything they really mean? Tell me, Sister. What fun is a nice evening?” He turned to Aaron’s mother. “Dolores, were you frightened when you first set eyes on me?”

“Of course not,” said Aaron’s mother, answering quickly, as she did when she was nervous.

“Ah, splendid.” Clarence picked up his fork and dangled it from his fat fingers.

“Clary, stop it,” Gloria said. “Why do you insist on this?” She reached over and began sawing at his meat again.

“What is it that I am insisting on? I am merely chatting with our guest, who has confirmed that she was pleased to meet me.” As he spoke, he brought his fork down on the back of Gloria’s hand, applying pressure. “In fact, I am delighted to hear it since most people, upon making my acquaintance, can think only about what a queer little creature I am — though I prefer that to being mistaken for a child.” He looked down at Gloria’s hand, trapped beneath his fork. “As you can see, Sister, I am quite capable of managing cutlery.”

“I’m sorry, Clary,” said Gloria.

“I know you are, Sister.” Clarence lifted his fork, and Gloria’s hand fluttered up. He smacked his lips. “The hare was superb,” he said.

* * *

At home, Aaron’s nightly chore was to dry the supper dishes, so when his mother called to him from Gloria’s kitchen, he rose — though he would have preferred to stay with Clarence — and stood, a dishtowel in hand, between his mother and Gloria. His mother washed, and Gloria received the dried dishes from him, inspecting each before she put it away.

“How are you feeling then?” Gloria asked.

“Fine,” he said.

“Gloria, show Aaron your trick,” his mother said. She stopped washing, halting the whole chain of labor. When she turned, he could see the strain of the visit on her face.