I’m eleven. Kneeling beside my bed, hands clasped.
“Uncle Brendan? Are you up there? Sister Claire says now that you’re in heaven you can be my guardian angel.”
I’m pretty sure it was drunk driving that sent Uncle Brendan to heaven, but I did not tell Sister Claire that part.
I go, “Sister Claire says you can look down and see all.”
Which I think about every time I go to the bathroom.
“I have a birthday coming up. I’ve been pretty good lately. You may have noticed last Christmas I let the poor kids have the toys I didn’t want anymore.”
I unclasp my hands. I get up off my knees. I suspect the angels, drunk or otherwise, never hear the likes of me.
I yell downstairs, “Pop! Pop! For my birthday…? Do you think I’ll get a new G.I. Joe? With lifelike fuzzy hair?”
Pop yells upstairs, “It’s nice to want things. Now go to bed, Bobby.”
It’s nice to want things?
***
For my birthday, I get, a slinky. A spaldeen. A board game called Diplomacy. Diplomacy? You know what I think? I think we should give this crap to the poor kids.
Ma and Pop study my face. For reasons I cannot fathom, they did not expect me to be disappointed.
I say, “But what about the new G.I. Joe? With lifelike fuzzy hair…? and a beard…? and kung fu grip?”
Ma says, “G.I. Joe glorifies war.”
“But on the box at Roy’s Toyland, it says G.I. Joe can go on scuba missions, jungle missions, he can climb the mountains of Nepal.” I pronounce it Nepple.” “It also says only four dollars and ninety-nine cents.”
Pop says, “If you really, really want one…”
If?
“… you can earn it.”
Earn it? I know what that means…
***
Scrubbing the toilet. Ma hands me a big fuzzy brush.
I’m scrubbing that toilet bowl good when my little sister Maggie sticks her head into the bathroom.
She goes, “I wanna help!”
“Scrubbing the toilet is for smart people!”
“I’m smart!”
“Scrubbing the toilet is for big people!”
“I‘m big!”
“No, you are not! I will always be bigger than you and you will never be a man!”
***
Two weeks later. I got a pocketful of quarters. Roy’s Toyland opens at 9. G.I. Joe waits on the shelf.
Lifelike fuzzy hair. And a beard. So he cannot possibly be mistaken for Ken.
I grab the box and float up the aisle to the register, Roy accepts my pile of quarters, and I float back home, the boy who invented the world.
That morning is a blur of scuba missions, jungle missions… kung fu grip…
A quick break for Fluffernutters…
But after Fluffernutters… I look for G.I. Joe. He’s not on top of my dresser, he’s not anywhere in my room, he’s not anywhere upstairs, he’s not anywhere downstairs…
“Maggie! Maggie!”
She hollers, “I’m doing my chore!”
“Where?”
“The bathroom!”
I walk down the stairs and down the hall and the closer I get to the bathroom…
I hear scrubbing.
I hear Maggie singing, “He’s got the whole world in his hands…”
She’s on her knees in front of that filthy toilet.
“He’s got the whole world in his hands…”
She’s scrubbing.
“He’s got the whole world…”
She’s clutching G.I. Joe by his legs, scrubbing the toilet bowl with G.I. Joe’s lifelike fuzzy hair.
I reach for G.I. Joe. and I guess I scream because now I’m being restrained and Ma tries to pry G.I. Joe out of my kung fu grip and then I’m writhing on the bathroom floor watching Ma deposit my beautiful brand-new hard-earned shit-covered G.I. Joe into the garbage.
I go, “Ma? I think I’m having a nightmare. Like that time I dreamed my dead turtle rose from the grave and tried to bite off my tinkle?”
Maggie stands there looking down at me.
I go, “Maggie? I want you to know something. My life was much better before you were born. Every Saturday morning Pop used to walk me to the bakery to buy crumb buns. The day you entered this world, the crumb bun buying came to an end.”
It crosses my mind that Uncle Brendan may be seeing all. But if Uncle Brendan has the power to intervene in human affairs, he’s clearly chosen not to.
I open the garbage can, and take one last look. The lid slams shut.
***
Ma says, “Bobby? We have a surprise for you!”
“A surprise?”
“Your godmother is here to sit for you. You always have fun with fun Cousin Mamie.”
My godmother is anywheres between thirty-five and sixty. Fun?
I go, “I thought Cousin Mamie got married.”
Ma says, “Hush now, Bobby.”
“I thought Cousin Mamie sailed to Ireland.”
“Hush now.”
“I saw Cousin Mamie get on a ship and sail away. We waved goodbye to her.”
“We don’t talk about that.”
Now my godmother appears. She bellows, “Raaaaaahbit…” Don’t ask me why but that’s how she pronounces Robert. “Remember me? Fun Cousin Mamie?”
We especially don’t talk about the fact that ever since fun Cousin Mamie sailed back from Ireland, her head tilts all the way to one side.
She says, “Your mommy says you lost your wee dollie.”
I go, “He was more of an action figure…”
“Well, you are lucky your godmother is here.” She’s got a big bag slung over her shoulder. She slaps that bag. “We are going to make a wee dollie.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
But now Cousin Mamie is sitting cross legged on the living room carpet, unpacking her bag. What can I do? I join her.
Yarn.
“Cousin Mamie, did you happen to bring this yarn back from Ireland?”
“Who says I’ve been to Ireland?”
“Nobody. Actually everybody.
Scissors.
“Cousin Mamie, did you get married?
“Who’d marry me?”
Thread.
“What happened to your neck?”
“Never mind my neck. My neck’s always been like this.”
“No it has not. Why would you even say that?”
Scraps of cloth.
After a while, she says, “Now I have a question for you. Do you know how to handle a bully?”
“Do I know how to handle a bully?”
“I’ll tell you how to handle a bully.”
Stuffing.
“How do you handle a bully?
“Kick him in the hiney.”
“Kick him in the hiney?”
“In the hiney. Fast. And hard. They never see it coming. And it can do a great deal of damage. Never forget that.”
I will never forget that.
Between the two of us, me being eleven and Cousin Mamie with her crooked neck, it’s a miracle my rag doll looks anything remotely like a human being.
Buttons for eyes.
Paint.
Cousin Mamie paints my rag doll a little smile.
She paints a heart on his chest.
She says, “When you see that rag doll heart, you’ll always think of your godmother. And you’ll always remember the best day.”
The best day?
She says, “Bobby? What shall we call him?”
“Whatever.”
She raises the rag doll’s arm, like he’s saluting. She says, “G.I. Patrick, reporting for duty.”
***
I take the ugly thing outside. And God forbid any boy in the neighborhood walks by our front yard to witness this.
G.I. Patrick. Climbing the mountains of Nepal on the front stoop.
After a while, Cousin Mamie calls, “Raaaaaahbit…? Soda bread fresh out of the oven!”
I bolt up the stoop to the kitchen and demolish a plate of warm buttered soda bread that Cousin Mamie may have learned to bake from the family of her apparently vicious ex-husband in Ireland but that’s pure conjecture.
But when I get back outside, here comes this older boy up the block. He’s got a long, pointy stick. He gets to our mailbox and smacks it a good one, then he stops. He spies G.I. Patrick lying in the front yard. Then he does something so strange that I still think about it. He takes that stick and stabs G.I. Patrick through his heart. He picks up G.I. Patrick and parades up the block, my rag doll on the end of a stick.
When I’m pretty sure he’s out of earshot, I holler, “You’re a rat!”
Cousin Mamie steps out on the stoop. “Robert, what are you screaming about?”
“An older boy stoled my rag doll and he stabbed him through the heart with a stick and walked away with him and he is a rat!”
“An older boy? Who was it?”
I think about that.
“Raahbit? Who was it?”
“I think it was…”
“Who?”
“I think it was Jimmy Gannon.”
Cousin Mamie whistles like Pop whistles when I tell him the Mets are down ten to nothing in the bottom of the ninth. “Jimmy Gannon? Of the thick-headed omadhaun Gannons up the block? Robert, are you sure?”
Am I sure?
Word around the neighborhood is don’t mess with Jimmy Gannon.
I go, “Yes.”
Now Cousin Mamie is strutting up the block. Apparently she’s gonna mess with Jimmy Gannon.
***
By the time I reach Jimmy Gannon’s house, Cousin Mamie is having a little chat with Mr. Gannon.
Mr. Gannon goes, “You mean to say…”
Cousin Mamie goes, “I don’t mean to say. I’m telling you what your Jimmy did.”
“Jimmy don’t steal little boys’ dollies. Your little boy’s got a sweet little imagination.”
Cousin Mamie is waving a fist in Mr. Gannon’s face. “I’ll show you a sweet little imagination.”
“It’s threats, is it?”
“It’s promises.”
Mr. Gannon hollers, “Jimmy! Get over here!”
Jimmy Gannon appears out of nowhere. Jimmy goes, “Yo, what’s up?”
Mr. Gannon says, “Lemme ask you something. What did you do with this little boy’s dollie?”
Jimmy’s looking at me. He goes, “Bobby’s dollie?”
I go, “It was my sister’s doll, Jimmy. It was my sister’s doll.”
Jimmy goes, “Bobby, what are you talking about?”
Cousin Mamie is waving that fist again. “What did you do with the wee dollie, you thick-headed omadhaun?”
Jimmy’s all cool. “I didn’t do nothing. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Now Mr. Gannon is waving a fist. “Jimmy, if you’re lying…”
“Why would I lie about something so stupid? Word around the neighborhood is don’t mess with me. I don’t need to steal little girls’ dollies.”
I go, “Jimmy, you know what you did.”
“I don’t know what I did. I swear to God, Bobby. I didn’t do nothing.”
“You’ll go to hell for this.” I wish my voice wasn’t trembling.
Mr. Gannon comes for me with that fist in the air. “Don’t be prancing around my house saying my Jimmy is gonna go to… Uuuuuuuugh.”
Mr. Gannon drops to the sidewalk.
Apparently Cousin Mamie kicked Mr. Gannon in the hiney.
He’s lying on the pavement.
“Uuuuuuuugh.”
Mr. Gannon stands up, slow, Jimmy hauling on his arm, Mr. Gannon all hunched over.
He limps up the front stoop into the house.
“Uuuuuuuugh.”
Jimmy gives me a look.
The walk back to my house is ridiculous. I look for my rag doll on the sidewalk, in the gutters, in everybody’s front yards, I open garbage cans. He isn’t anywhere.
Cousin Mamie says, “Raahbit, are you sure it was Jimmy Gannon?”
Then I’m not sure. I see the older boy’s face and it isn’t Jimmy. It’s some other boy stabbing my rag doll.
***
That night. Kneeling beside my bed, hands clasped.
“Uncle Brendan? Are you still drunk driving up there?”
I climb into bed, close my eyes. But all night long, rag doll commandos invade my room — they pour through the window, march across my floor, scale the side of my bed, whisper in my ear, “It was my sister’s doll, Jimmy. It was my sister’s doll.”
***
Morning. I know what I have to do. Even if it means getting punched in the face, which it probably will.
I walk to Jimmy Gannon’s house. Here’s Jimmy sitting on the front stoop, like he’s waiting for me. But when I get closer, I see Jimmy’s cheeks are wet.
He goes, “I’m gonna kill you!”
“Jimmy, what’s the matter?”
“My mommy and daddy just left in an ambulance. It’s my daddy’s hiney. He can’t stand up straight.”
Jimmy reaches into his pocket. Now he’s got something in his hand.
“Jimmy, where’d you get a switchblade?”
“What? Why wouldn’t I have a switchblade? You think I don’t know switchblade people?”
“I was just making polite conversation.”
“‘Jimmy, where’d you get a switchblade?’ is polite conversation? You think I’m a thick-headed omadhaun?”
The blade flicks open.
“No, Jimmy. Only an omadhaun would be a big enough omadhaun to call another omadhaun an omadhaun.”
“That sentence had the word omadhaun in it like five times.”
“Actually, I think it was more like four.”
“That lady who kicked my daddy in the hiney called me a thick-headed omadhaun.”
“Jimmy, that’s actually why I’m here. I want to apologize. For three things. And number three is the most important.”
“Okay. Number one?”
“Number one. I’m sorry I accused you of stealing. I know you didn’t take the doll.”
“Thank you, Bobby. I swear to God I didn’t. Number two?”
“Number two. Who would’ve thought somebody as little as Cousin Mamie could kick somebody as big as your daddy in the hiney so hard he’d have to go to the hospital?”
“Is that an apology?”
“Yes. People can’t be going around kicking other people in their hineys.”
“Thank you, Bobby.”
“No problem.” I start backing away. “Yo, Jimmy, I’ll say a novena for your daddy.”
“You said there were three things.”
“No, just two.”
“You said number three was the most important.”
“Well. If you must know. Number three. It wasn’t Maggie’s rag doll. It was…” I sniff the air. “Jimmy, do you smell something?”
“I don’t smell anything. What’s number three?”
“Number three. It wasn’t Maggie‘s rag doll. It was…” I sniff. I sniff again. By“Jimmy, are you sure you don’t smell something?”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“I think I smell smoke. I think I smell smoke coming from your backyard.”
We run around back, and here’s the Gannon family’s rusty old barbecue.
My rag doll lying on the grill.
Smoke.
Flames.
“Jimmy. What. The…”
He goes, “I want my daddy back!”
That switchblade glistening in the morning sun.
He goes, “I want my daddy back!”
Our eyes meet. We stand there.
I go, “Jimmy, sometimes, when I’m having a bad day, I remember something Pop once said to me. It’s nice to want things.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“I said, sometimes, when I’m having a bad day—”
“No! Not that part. I heard that part. The part at the end.”
“It’s nice to want things, Jimmy. It’s nice to want things.”
We stand there. Jimmy wipes a tear from his cheek.
“Thank you, Bobby. It is nice to want things, isn’t it?”
Jimmy flicks his switchblade shut.
“Yes, Jimmy. It is nice to want things.”
We stand there for a long time watching the smoldering remains of G.I. Patrick. Button eyes. Painted smile. Rag doll heart.
Smoke curls up, up, up into the morning sky.
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