The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (23 page)

“The Human Cannonball,
”
Bagg said.

“The one and only,
”
Lightning Man said. “May he rest in peace.
”

“So
,
I let her pull me over to where
’
bout forty people were standing to watch. Now, these were mostly people I knew and did business for. They were my neighbors and folks who owned the stores I shopped in every day. Some were saying
‘
Hey, Skip
’
and whatnot, but only half of me was recognizing them, while the other half was thinking they
might
just as well have been flesh eating zombies about to jump on me.
”

“F
lesh eating zombies.
”
Lightning Man repeated
the phrase
, nodding his head,
apparently
appreciating this part of the story.

“Yeah, so I’m all surrounded by these killer-monster deli and doughnut shop owners, with my heart slamming up against the inside of my ribcage at a million miles a minute, and my Anne Marie
is
all goofy and happy about a human cannonball act about to go off. Then the countdown begins, and I get it in my head that my heart is really going to blow up when the barker reaches zero.
”

“But it didn’t.
”
Lightning Man
shook his head
.

“By that time, all my zombie friends and neighbors
are
counting down, too. And everybody is yelling out zero and the cannon
goes
‘kaboom!’ and I hit the ground.
”

“Hasn’t been up since,
”
Lightning Man
added sympathetically.

“Didn’t so
meone call an ambulance?
”
Bagg
asked. “What did your wife do?
”

“She was mortified,
”
Lightning Man answered for him.
“She just walked away and left him there.
”

“Wait a minute.
You’re telling me she left you there in a field being used by a
traveling
circus?
”

“A marriage not meant to be,
”
Lightning Man said, and Bagg, the ever diligent reporter, recognized he
was probably
be
ing
had. But these friendly, burned and broken men were as nice as could be, completely genuine or not.

“You got a wife, Bagg?
”
Kitt asked.

“No, but I have a litt
le girl someplace.
”
Bagg wasn’t in the mood
to go into details. He had several different versions of the same story, ranging from a quick mention of having a daughter all the way to the one he told when he was drunk. The one fueled by alcohol was much longer, especially drawn out because it was accompanied by shoulder-racking sobs, with the worst details repeated several times to hammer home how unfair life was.

Bagg always felt shame the next morning after confessing the entire story in such a
manner
. He was ashamed for losing control of his emotions, as well as losing control of his life after his daughter was stolen. It seemed as though he’d asked favors from every reporter he’d ever worked with. He
had
begged the cops, and he
’
d
even tried begging his congressman. Everyone
had seemed
sympathetic, and even energetic at first. But
,
after all,
Bagg had once been arrested for threatening to kill his wife. Maybe it
hadn’t been
such a bad thing for the lady to vamoose with the girl.

T
he cops had dismissed his initial complaint by telling him to just give it a few days, that these things always turned out fine
. But they
changed their tune when other reporters started calling and asking questions
on his behalf
. Some actual police work
was
done on the Bagg girl’s disappearance when it was pointed out to the police chief
that
his officers had purposely buried the father’s initial report. That no follow
-
up had been done even after the ex-wife’s car had been located at the Philly airport. Details like those made for bad press, especially in an election year.

And along the same lines of how the cops brought the hammer down on anyone even thought to have committed any sort of act against a brother in blue, newspapers had their own sense of protective justice. The chief of police had enough skeletons in his private closet to
guard
;
he
finally relented and
managed to assign two detectives to track down the Bagg lady and
the
missing kid.
It might have all made a good story, a solid expos
é
mixing unfairness and wrongdoing with a hint of corruption, but even though the newspaper had the goods, Bagg’s managing editor didn’t want to rock the boat quite that hard. Plus, with the girl still gone, there was no happy ending to neatly wrap things up.

D
espite all the canvassing phone calls by the reporters and all the begrudging footwork by the cops, the trail simply went ice cold. Jennifer’s friends
claimed they
didn’t know a thing but wished they could be more helpful.

Weeks turned into months, and then
one afternoon
it was as if something began to die inside Bagg, as he sat in the newsroom in front of his blank computer screen.

“Hey, Bagg, you realize what today is?
”
one of the sportswriters, who Bagg sometimes hit a tennis ball around with,
had
asked while glancing up from his keyboard.

“What’s today?
”

“It was a year ago t
oday your daughter went missing.
”

Bagg
had
closed his eyes, feeling the death going on inside.

An odd thing began to happen when it came to the measurement of time for Lennon Bagg. It sped up. He’d drag himself into the paper on a Monday morning, prepared for a long week of boring, routine interviews, only to hear people excited about the weekend. Milk seemed to go bad the moment he placed it in the refrigerator, and crazy amounts of mail would threaten to overflow his
box. One day was often really three or four.

Sometimes entire weeks flashed by when he drifted off during a television commercial. Once, he found himself dreading the Christmas holidays, frightened by the depression surely to overcome him amidst everyone else’s joy. But it was suddenly far too warm for December. The trees had grown dark, midsummer leaves overnight.

Some kind of insanity had settled over Bagg, but he had no will to fight. Perhaps the frenzied passing of time was a blessing, meant to bring a quicker end to his daily misery.

S
o
mewhere out there in this world
was a little stolen girl who was about to enter
kindergarten
, but had suddenly turned
ten.
Bagg wondered what his daughter looked like.

Katherine Hepburn died, the Globe Theatre burned to the ground, the first appendectomy was performed, and Marvin Pipkin filed for a patent for the frosted electric light bulb. Yet an even more important event falling on a June twenty-ninth was the bell signaling the end of the school year and the emancipation of Morgan Freeman from Primary Four, at Sandys Primary School.

Most children transformed into screaming banshees, funneling from the whitewashed front archway, but Morgan only slumped forward at her homeroom desk, the overwhelming emotion
,
one of relief. Abatement from the deific clocks
,
a reprieve from the cold Pop
-T
arts
,
final absolution for those contraband rolled sleeves
,
and, thank God, amnesty until September’s
heinous
return.

Once Morgan
sensed
the building had regurgitated the last of her schoolmates, she sat back and carefully removed an ancient cigar box from her lift-top desk. She set the
object
on the desk she’d carved dozens of bird figures into with the sharp end of a protractor. One last furtive glance at the open door, and Morgan lifted the box lid just enough to confirm
that
the contents
were
still intact. Satisfied, she zipped it safely inside her backpack.

Morgan had loved Mrs. Jones during the first weeks of school. Maybe it was the kind smile and soft voice so unlike her mother’s. Morgan stayed after school to talk to Mrs. Jones back
then, so very long
ago. Mrs. Jones confided in Morgan how she
,
too
,
had come from far away, another island called Australia. Mrs. Jones said she knew Morgan’s father had passed away from a sudden illness, as had her own father. And Morgan bought right into it. She was the first person who might have understood Morgan’s search for her father. The funny, strong, handsome man who had thrown her up into the air a thousand giggling times and told h
er the
bear
becoming a magic butterfly bedtime story
every time she’d asked. Morgan shared and shared, telling every memory she had coveted for such a
long
part of her short years.

“I’m trying to find him,
”
Morgan told Mrs. Jones.

“What do you mean
?
”

Morgan’s voice
was
low, sharing her secret for the f
irst time. “My father
’
s a bird
and I’ve been trying to find him.
”

“You mean a bird that flies?
”

“Yes!
”
Morgan
had
nearly shouted. Of course this gentle teacher could understand. The kids had teased her for talking to the birds, had ostracized her so boldly it had come to the faculty’s attention early on. Birdbrain, Daffy Duck, and Looney Bird were just a few of the nicknames she’d accumulated.

But Morgan experienced her first bitter taste of genuine betrayal late that afternoon. She had hugged Mrs. Jones and nearly skipped all the way home, planning to spend time in her room with her drawings, rather than deal with the kids on the beach. Morgan’s mood was too good to have it spoiled by the nasty kids who taunted her mercilessly while she bobbed beyond the small breakers, out by the various ducks and gulls. Out by the birds who either left her alone, or took time to listen if she needed to talk.

The phone
had rung
near dinnertime and she
had
crept to the door crack to listen.

“Hello, Mrs. Jones,
”
her mother said in her most pretend-nice voice, reserved for people who her mom either wanted to impress
or wanted something from.
“She told you what?
”

And Morgan’s heart broke again.

“I see.
Yes, I understand
…
right
…
I
completely
agree.
”

No
,
she
had not seen
and she
had
not
understood
! Mrs. Jones had listened and understood!
How could she do this to me
?

Morgan
r
a
n
to her covers and buried herself, wishing she was dead and that she could fly away from
that
place where grownups were liars, only pretending to like you in order to hurt you. She expected her door to open, the springs of her bed creaking as her mother came to sit with her. The phone conversation
was over
, but Morgan heard nothing. No squeak of her door, no footsteps,
only
the tick of the clock on her bed stand and an occasional slow
-
moving car
passing
her window.

It
was
hot under the blankets, but Morgan held her ground, waiting for whatever trouble she was in to come to her. She
was
uncomfortable in the tangle of her school uniform, the navy blue skirt and blouse with the stiff collar
that
always poked her neck. The passing minutes turned into an hour, and Morgan heard the click of the living room television and then bits and pieces of a newscast.

Night eventually
arrived outside of her pile of blankets, and at some point her mother
popped
her head into her room. “Brush your teeth,
”
Morgan’s mom said and left just as quickly. There was no, “I’m disgusted by this obsession.
”
Not this time.

“Therapy
”
was another word Morgan’s mom had floated out there, but Morgan
kn
e
w
it was an empty threat.
No way would her mother risk having anyone finding out her child was in therapy.
Talk about crazy.
People might look at Jennifer Freeman as if she were the cause of her daughter’s problems.

The next morning
, Morgan
saw
Mrs. Jones in a whole
new light, and e
verything
was
different. She had obviously mistaken her kind smile, since it now didn’t look the least bit welcoming, more like a grimace. And there
was
something sour about her voice. Something to make you cringe,
like
watching someone bite into a lemon.

Morgan cringed when he
r teacher said, “Good morning, d
ear.
”

“How could you?
”
Morgan wanted to say.

And Mrs. Jones smiled that same smile each time she c
a
me by Morgan’s desk to snatch away the small pencil
-
on
-
paper drawings she’d worked on so diligently. They were drawings of gadwalls, grebes, herons, kites, sandpipers, and egrets; drawings of kestrels and a Bald Eagle. Maybe even a drawing of her father.

The drawings
were
relinquished back to Morgan on the final day of school, and she secreted them away in the special cigar box. The box had once resided on her father’s dresser before their home
was
br
oken. It
was
in
the
background
of photos, somehow left behind by him, and then packed away and shipped on to Bermuda.
If her mom had recognized it as her father’s she would have stomped
on
it, or burned it in the fireplace like so many of the pictures Morgan had wanted to keep.
It was
the
box
where
she kept a pink flamingo feather she’d disc
overed along the road to school and hoped
to someday transform into a quill pen. Th
e box was a piece of her father, even though she couldn’t imagine him ever smoking a cigar.
Was he a secret cigar smoker? Had he found the box? Had it been his father’s? Morgan cherished every possibility, made up stories for each.

June twenty-ninth was a hot day, and her backpack was heavy with spiral notebooks and art class drawings she rescued before the janitors came through to scrub the school clean of any remnants of the year. She made her way down busy Broome Street, to Long Bay, and then cut through backyards to No Name Lane. She unclipped the front door key to their little blue bungalow from the main zipper on her backpack. Her mother wouldn’t be home for at least an hour, and this was Morgan’s time to pour a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, pee, and then throw on her one-piece swimsuit.

Energized by the sugar and thoughts of no school for two entire months, Morgan grabbed a towel, her swim fins
,
and
her
boogie board
. S
ticking the house key in her sneaker
,
she
slammed out the back door. The best waves were over at Dunkley’s and Hungry Bay
and
on down to the south shore beaches, but Morgan didn’t really care if there were waves or not. If the swells kicked up over on the East Coast, the boys who usually hung out at Margaret’s Bay would climb on the bus and leave her with rolling swells that gently splashed the pink sand. Morgan also love
d
the times that
the low pressure systems steamed by off the western horizon, close enough to churn up waist-high or better waves, but far enough out that the wind didn’t chop the waves apart. Riding big waves was like flying
and it was good practice for later on
.

The storms would also
populate
the b
ay with every bird imaginable
. Although they had found
refuge,
they were also
nervous and short-tempered
from being
in a stran
ge environment.
Morgan was entertained by the birds
’ interactions; they were
territorial and oddly aggressive. Various species,
un
used to such close proximity, were just like people from different countries who suddenly found themselves huddled
together
during
a
disaster.

The water was dead calm this hot June day, and only a small group of kids huddled in a shady spot at the very north end of the beach. M
organ could smell the cigarette
and marijuana smoke as it drifted ever so slowly down on the light breeze. She buried her house key as usual, putting her
towel over the spot, and weigh
ed it down with her sneakers. There was nothing worse than when one of the old farts with a metal detector came by and scooped up your house key, which they were known to regularly do.

Grabbing her boogie board and fins, she padded down to the center of the long beach, wading into the warm water while tightening her board’s wrist strap. Twenty yards out, she rinsed the sand from her fins, slipped them onto her feet, and
re
mounted her board. Morgan rested on her elbows, holding the board tightly, slowly kicking her way due west.

The first fifty yards was shallow water over sand, and then she reached the coral reef
that
ran parallel to this section of Sandys Island. She kicked her way through a line of gulls who begrudgingly made way for the little girl on the boogie board.

“Are you being rude or are
just
too lazy to move?
”
she asked them, and one answered in its seagull language. “Thank you,
”
Morgan said, as the gulls closed ranks after letting her pass.

She kept kicking
, despite
entering a place much
f
a
rthe
r
out
than
her mom
would have
ever
permitted.
The water deepened beyond the reef, with fast
-
moving boats and possibly some large biting fish. Morgan’s destination was a circular reef, thirty yards in diameter, about five
hundred yards from the beach. From back on land, it would seem
as if
the little girl had disappeared among the light chop stirred by
the
steadier breeze that
blew this
far
from shore
. As if she’d vanished into thin air.

Morgan kicked and kicked, finally reaching the distant reef and finding the friend she knew liked to hang out here. The brown pelican bobbed in the shallow water over the center of the reef, cocking its head to eye the girl.