Fiction
The Donkeyman
I. HARDING
Katherine (nee Riedt), age 41, on June 14, 1952, wife of loving husband Stuart Harding Sr. Mother of one. Sister of Jay and Reggie. Viewing at May Funeral Homes. 4th and Walnut Streets, Camden, NJ, Friday, June 30th at 1:30 P.M. followed by Mass at 3 P.M. at St. Joseph’s Pro-Cathedral, 2907 Federal Street, Camden, NJ.
Come on, boy, give momma a kiss goodbye.
The boy twists away from the box, knowing she never smells like white flowers, her cheeks blooming, but now she’s wrapped in them, like pictures of flowers, red like her favorite dress. Not this dress.
He stares at black shoes. Moonlight water. Feet rustle the white skirt around the box. Golden honey hair sweet — beehive alive. Laughing faces, laughing at my drawing.
She don’t smell right.
That’s as right as right gets, the man replies, holding the boy with hands veined with ink. Such breath — the yellow of cornflower pipe tobacco.
Now don’t you go hurting my back! I’ll whip ya! Now lean over. Say goodbye. Don’t you love your momma?
Why she smilin’?
Because she’s free! The angels have taken her to a better place.
The angels — what does she look like there? Does laughter live there? But he stiffens with pain of being alone — here. White walls tighten around him. The room — hot. He touches her forehead, wanting openblue eyes, but yanks fingers away. It don’t feel like momma anymore.
He hopes to smell her real again. Her pillow in the morning sun. Sweat drips onto her cheek. He seals his eyes. Sucks lower lip, and kisses her cheek, thinking redwarm, and whispers, Don’t leave me here, please.
II. Dear Mom,
I’m bored in Atlantic City. I met this kid named Stuart Harding who just lost his mom. His aunt is taking care of him. He believes anything I tell him. Poor kid.
III. No Free Rides
Johnnie says under the boardwalk they can hear the Donkeyman. But they need to stay quiet — as quiet as the dead. Or you’d get stuffed in his sack! What’s his name? Already told him, a hundred times. The Donkeyman.
He doesn’t need any other name.
Like God.
Now you sound like your Aunt Flo.
You want to ride with the Donkeyman?
That’s for little kids like you.
Bet you scared he’d take you —
I’d rip open his sack and run so fast! Now lay flat! I’ll cover you so he won’t smell you.
What about you?
Don’t worry about me!
Sand catches in his mouth. Stares through the cracks. Breath. Held. Shadows pass through — rays through the seams of the boardwalk. The clang clang clang of the cowbell. What does he look like? Smell like?
Johnnie runs back. They climb through the rails and stare at the Donkeyman who carries a rounded-bottom sack, strapped over his left shoulder. In his other hand, a long stick. A short rope dangles from his wrist that loops up to the apple-red collar. A brown burlap bag, tied around his waist, swings against his leg.
Where does Donkeyman live?
Donkeyman — an old pirate who lives on the ship of the moon. At dawn, he anchors his ship. Down the gangplank — he walks. Looks for buried treasure. Young boys to kidnap. At twilight, he walks back. A bag full of screams. A boy or two. A good haul. Then disappears.
With a new moon, he sails away — away —
There’s water in the sky?
There’s water here, why not there? Sometimes water looks black. Sometimes bluewhite. Water falls from the sky. Water gets there somehow. In your mom’s belly, you were floating. We were all once fish with gills. We got sick of the ocean. Started walking on the beach.
Really?
Sure as anything in any old book.
How does he get up there?
He’s not like us. He can do anything.
Is he an angel?
No pirate wants to be an angel!
Angels take people up.
Johnnie shakes his head.
Angels take people down too. Pop says that when I’m bad. Aunt Flo says be a good boy for Jesus. And pray to Verge and Mary every night.
Jesus ain’t nothing but a middleman.
Can I ride on the donkey?
You’d better get a nickel from Aunt Flo. No ride is free.
IV. To the Donkee Man:
I now you r a pirite. My name is Stu Barbing. I dru this fer you. I dru 1 fer me mom, 2, but they laffed at me. Donut laugh please. I ned helq.
The boy plays alone in his bedroom. On the top of the bunk beds. He hears the television in the next room. Can Aunt Flo take me to the Donkeyman? Wind blows the curtains like sails. Wind chimes twinkle. In waves the blue rug moves. He tosses a blanket warm from the sun over the side of his bed. Tucks the blanket underneath the mattress, making the bottom a dark galley, ready for treasure.
He smiles.
Drawing on whitepaper over a hardback book of fairy tales, the boy says he’s easy to draw. A short body. Trunktree legs in brown baggypants. Like a shopping bag. Flaps-like two flags on windydays. A shirt, all whitetorn. A forest of hair white on chest. White like thin, whitetrees. A red scarf ‘round his neck. Hair — wildgray. Whiskers sharp. Whiskeybreath. Sharp like Johnnie’s knife. Eyes like blue marbles in a glasswater. Eyes blue — on the oceanblue underneath that bluesky. Write my name slow, so he can read it. So he knows it’s me. Not some other boy. To take me away.
The boy tucks the paper under his shirt. Pokes his head through the bedroom door. He hears Pop. Steps back not to get popped. But it’s not him. Just the TV. Aunt Flo’s head, all curly and high and yellow looking — yellow like a lemon. Aunt Flo’s butt has slipped behind the cushions.
Her purple, spiderlegs stick out. The sofa, eating her, but stops. On the side table, white ring-stains like a Slinky sits her drink. Her drink, a vapory light gold in icemelting. A gray pyramid in the ashtray. Use lipstick-ringed butts to make mountain passes in the ash. Why did momma hate when I played with ashes? How can she be dirty now? Ashes to ashes, says Aunt Flo.
Aunt Flo? Aunt Flo? Are you sleeping?
I was in the middle of a good dream.
Didn’t know you were dreaming, Aunt Flo.
It’s all I got.
Thought you were hard praying.
I pray that God gives me more time to dream. She reaches for her cigarettes, lighter. Her face, red and bright for a second. You know, I wish God would help those who can’t help themselves. Now I guess you woke me so I — could take you to the beach. If I was a little girl, that’s what I’d want. Will that boy be there?
Don’t know, ma’am.
What’s his name again?
Johnnie.
Bet he laughs at me.
He shakes his head.
Now don’t you lie to your Aunt Flo. Ev’ry time he laughs at me, he laughs at God. I’m created in my Maker’s image, so we all can have a chuckle at the universe. She sets down her cigarette. Now don’t you go alooking so sad. Give me a kiss. It’s been hard on you, Stuart, with your momma. I worry about you with Johnnie. When’s he leaving?
The boy shrugs his shoulders.
Well, then, we better get dressed.
Can Johnnie come?
Only if he tells me his jokes.
Can he have a nickel, too?
Now haven’t you stolen enough nickels?
V. Donkey Rides: 5 cents
Are you for real?
Is this your ball, young man?
My friend Johnnie, he threw it over. Thinks I’m scared. The blueball, nestled in a hoof print in the sand. Johnnie’s really smart, and he knows lots of stuff about the world cause he says he listens when he ain’t supposed to, as that’s when to listen the hardest, and he has this really sharp knife, and he tells lots of stories about you.
Where’s your mate?
He ran off.
ls that your mother up there?
No, my mom’s dead. That’s my Aunt Flo. She’s okay. He whispers, She loves God.
The Donkeyman hands the ball back to the boy. I’m sorry. What’s your name, son?
Stuart Harding. Why do you need nickels?
It’s my job.
Don’t you have enough treasure?
The Donkeyman laughs. I’m just an old man trying to earn a living. He picks up the boy and places him on the donkey. The boy senses a new wonder at such a height and grabs tight the reins and stares at the funny long ears of the donkey, like corn-on-the-cob ears. The donkey is warm.
You’re very brave, Stuart. He leads him around on the donkey, circling in the sand.
I have a nickel.
Thank you. He takes the nickel, drops it in his brown bag, and jingles the bag. Stuart reaches for the smooth, grayfur, keeping his head down, rubbing circles on her belly. She likes the way you pet her. You are very gentle. Not all boys are so gentle. The old man says it was nice to meet him and he looks forward to seeing him again. He winks at the boy, and the boy knows what he means.
I have this. It ain’t another nickel. The boy hands Donkeyman the picture, and before Donkeyman can look, Stuart retreats underneath the boardwalk, hoping Donkeyman can read his name. He wants to wait for sunset, for Donkeyman to disappear, but the aunt calls, knowing Pop will be mad if dinner is late. I’m not hungry now.
Remaining with the litter swirling in the shadows of the boardwalk, he whispers, He is a pirate. A good pirate. He’ll take me away — away —
VI. POLICE REPORT:
A six-year-old boy was found alone on Ventor Avenue beach this morning with a bag of clothes. He was brought home to the custody of his aunt, Florence Watkins
The boy greets the dawn with newborn eyes, gazing at the breath mark of the moon. The sea circles and buries his feet. The hem of his brown, baggy pants sloshes in the foam. Rubbing two nickels, he expects to see the Donkeyman again. Johnnie says he was just lying about the Donkeyman, but could be lying about that, too? Since Johnnie’s gone, be won’t need the extra nickel. I can ride twice.
What you doing out there, pal? A uniformed man in a hat walks towards him. Where’s your family? Mother?
The boy wants to run, trying to lift his feet. She’s dead, sir.
The officer blocks his escape.
Then who’s taken care of you?
My pop’s sister.
I thought you were something washed up on the beach.
I’m waiting for someone.
A date with a mermaid? Smiling, the officer tries to put his arm around the boy, but the boy steps back. I thought you were a piece of driftwood. Do you have a name?
Stuart Harding.
Let me take you home, pal. What’s your aunt’s name?
Flo. Aunt Flo. The boy reaches into his pocket. I can come tomorrow. He’ll be here tomorrow. He swings the bag of clothes over his shoulder. Here, my friend’s not coming.
The officer takes the nickel. Thank you, pal, but why are you giving me this?
Maybe the donkeyman will take you, too.
Now who is this donkeyman?
The boy tells him the story and the officer laughs and said that boy Johnnie is just pulling his leg. He fools you with made up stories, pal. The boy senses what he means, and the laugh is anchor enough.
The boy collapses, and the officer feels the dead weight.
