CHAINS: Fiction and art by Marc Wilkofsky (1970-2012)

CHAINS By Marc Wilkofsky *Originally run in Scientific Dinosaur in 2005   As she squeezed nine thin, ridged sticks of wax into sugary clouds, Laura Miller's own laugh shocked her. She had just realized that as brave as her recent actions might have been, she lacked the courage to open a simple box in the closet, and it induced a burst of chuckling. A minor explosion she certainly wasn't used to...one she had almost forgotten. The newly short-haired, 29-year-old woman had purposefully bought brand-new candles for the upcoming event, not trusting the assorted personal contents of the cardboard box she impulsively, and oh so silently, grabbed on that fateful night. "The way these past few months have gone," she thought, licking frosting from her almost-as-white skin, "there's no way I'm going to give him trick candles." So she bussed home with a couple of colorless boxes of no-frills party candles (tips were light at Keighties, where she waited tables while wearing a Laura Branigan-like wig over her reddish-blond locks), keeping them hidden from the walking fire extinguisher-to-be, who she loved as much as she feared. The cake was ready. More ready than Laura, but she was pleased that at least this step had gone smoothly, and that the cozy, wood-and-marble-laden kitchen she had slaved in showed no war wounds. Chad--no, Adam--was turning 9, and she would do everything in her power to make sure his day was memorable. And to make absolutely sure he did nothing in his power...the power she was certain he didn't even realize he had. Because preventing explosions of any sort was a task she had become extremely used to, from the moment she had lost her freedom of mind. "Mom, I'm home." The teacher's conference! was a thought that slammed into her like the apartment door. "One sec, sweetie, I'll be right out of the kitchen. Go hang up your jacket in your room, okay? I'll be right out." Scrambling to find the bronze cake holder she discovered at The $1.07 Store ("Just wait till the tax rate changes," she joked to the attractively muscular owner), she mentally kicked herself five times. How could she forget that the Delray Beach Elementary kids were being let out early? That's why today was perfect for the party in the first place! Laura--back when she was Calla--always found it peculiar but heartening to be called "Mom" by Adam...back when he was Chad. It didn't necessarily age her, but it didn't feel right, either. Maybe it was a combination of the fact that she hadn't given birth to Ron's child--the connection literally wasn't there--and the fact that the woman who had brought him into the world left it in an awful, sudden way. Hurriedly placing the surprise in the back of the refrigerator (That's where Ron must have found her devastating note...what exactly was she thinking?), she imagined how Camille felt when she celebrated the child's fourth birthday...and third...and second... Thoughts of what Chad's first birthday might have been like melted into much more painful and real thoughts of Ron and Camille...and then just Ron. Caring, handsome, wonderfully incorrigible Ron Shane. Who now probably hated her for what she did. For what she had to do. For saving his life... "Mom, I got a little..." "How!"--Laura whirled around, shutting the Westinghouse door--"Was your day?" Under a colorful cap with a Marlins logo, a slightly pudgy face at once beamed and darkened. "Cool, but I was gonna say...I was gonna tell you that I got some, like, dirt on my jacket when I was playing Crusades with Thomas." "Oh, sweetie...that's all right," placated Laura as she opened a cupboard door and wondered which exact 12th Century year the dirt might be from. Adam removed his cap, revealing a medium-length mass of reddish-brown curls, and placed it on top of Laura's sky-blue windbreaker, which she had tossed on the counter. "So everybody's coming over at 6 o'clock and Evan and Craig can stay over and we're having cake?" Cake was always part of the plan, but it was also usually store-bought and invariably boring. Laura, her back to Adam and considering how Evan Kowell was sure to make some delighted sound effects while eating it later, rolled her eyes and poured some milk. "Mmm-hmmm....just don't make a wish, OK?" "Clem Elwing says that's not bad luck." "Clem Elwing isn't your mother," replied Laura, hoping Ron's genetic gift of wisdom didn't manifest itself in a retort akin to "Neither are you." She was pleased to only see Adam scamper to the kitchen table, where three butter cookies on a plate and a glass of milk with a large, cartoony pair of red lips pictured on it awaited him. "Thanks, Mom." "You're welcome, Adam. Happy..." "...birthday! I hope you like it." Time had soared by and the pair's modest home was ravaged by six of what had to be Florida's most rambunctious children. Laura was able to unroll her eyes for 90 seconds as she admiringly watched the seventh guest, ever-polite and sedate Chuck Wolfson, help a thrilled Adam remove the rest of the paper covering a sizable sci-fi action figure. Since Chuck's sole drawback was A.D.D., Laura suddenly had another 60 seconds with Adam. She placed her hands on his giddy shoulders as the wide-open eyes under her furrowed brow surveyed the crowd of 8- and 9-year-olds running around the living/dining room's central, royal blue leather futon and other 10%-off-with-your-new-credit-card purchases. A pink-flooded, auburn-haired girl Laura adored was repeatedly performing a fairly simple ballet step for a bemused, football jersey-sporting Clem as he rocked the dark blue suede recliner without sitting in it. Another girl, Karen Towers, was dangling her chain of imitation pearls in front of little undershirt-wearing (but well-groomed) Craig Raskin. Furniture wasn't in danger...yet. "Isn't this greater than great, Mom?" "I would have to say yes, sweetie...as long as you're hap--" She stopped herself. "Adam, hon? What's that bruise on your arm?" Adam tried to cover the reddened area with his new gift, but to no avail. He sighed for just a second and then revealed, "I just got punched by a mean bully"--as if some bullies are kind--"but it wasn't a big, bad deal." Having heard several other parents intone, "Drop the act," and other handed-down phrases to their prevaricating progeny, Laura found bliss in this blunt statement. If there was one aspect Laura appreciated in her stepson, it was his honesty. Thanks, Ron. "So that's why your jacket is so dirty, huh?" was her matter-of-fact return to his serve. Resting her 5'8" frame on its denim-covered knees to be able to peer into Adam's soft sepia eyes, she shoved aside her worry about what happened to his opponent to quietly add, "Why do these older kids bother you?" Staring back at Laura as if she had just asked why all the kids like Mrs. Kudler, Adam choked down a whimper and shot back, "Because I'm small. I'm smaller than they are. They're the big kids, and I'm...I'm not." Did she want to tell him to stand up for himself? No. Suggest that he take each blow as it came? No way. Promise that she would inform his principal of the recess rumbles? Never. Her best answer: "Oh, sweetie, that's...so not fair." Bruised by his surface pain and the hidden anguish no other mother knew, she had missed his most important words. "They're the big kids, and I'm...I'm not." And her minute was absolutely up. As the chain reaction which had begun on the playground blacktop dominoed on...and on. One second after chubbyish Evan, two-thirds of an apple-cinnamon muffin in hand, the rest in mouth, walked over and inquired, "Adam, what are you wishing for?" Laura shot up from her crouched position, placed her hands on Adam's ears and said, "He's not wishing for anything...he has what he needs." Evan would later remember Laura's snacks more than her unsettling words. As Adam pulled away to play with his best and biggest friend, Laura fidgeted with her solid turquoise blouse's scoopneck, warmly smiled and softly sighed.  Half an hour slid by and brought no peculiar events. Helping the temporarily unfrazzled Laura set the oval cherrywood table, Evan's strikingly beautiful, svelte and gorgeously coiffed mother, Jillian, commented, "These plaid-patterned placemats are darling, Laura," as ultrawilling volunteer Rodrigo Ortiz waited--patiently, to both women's grinning astonishment--to turn down the dining/living room lights. Soon all were seated in the dimly lit, narrow room--all but Laura, whose immense pride burned brighter than the top of the luscious-looking cake she carried in. It was Adam's strong sense of smell--thanks, Camille--and his impressive memory that gave away the evening's biggest gift: one of love. "Mom! Mom! Mom! You made that!" "I made it." "You made it." Adam's brief, elated run from the far end of the table to embrace the most important woman in his life was made more brief by a ringing sound from around the corner. "Is that another guest?" he joyfully asked. Laura glanced at Jillian, who had reflexively turned up the lights but seemed to have no idea who could possibly be at the door. As Laura flew into the kitchen and flew back toward the front door while wiping her frosting-besmirched hands with some Brawny, Adam deftly approached the table. And his chair. And the cake. "Make a wish..." whispered Clem from his nearby perch. Of course it was Clem, and of course he whispered it. "But they're bad...they don't happen...I can't speak it out loud...my Mom..." Mom was conversing at the door with Cecilia's father, Matthew Fountain, who made it clear he wasn't pleased about the "emergency" ballet lesson, either. "That's why you think it, not say it," offered Cecilia through her "Precious Pink" lips. "Oh..." Fourteen tiny eyes, and Jillian's terrific ones, were fixed on Adam's firelit face. "OK." The thought only had to swirl around his mind for five seconds--one, two, three, four, five seconds--and it took form, as the words seemingly, strangely, completely engulfed the top half of his head. "I wish...I wish I was a big kid." Something told Laura to immediately turn around. And look at Adam in his chair, leaning over his cake, mouthing some short words and readying his lips. Her eyes widened like never before as if they, too, were filling with air. No. Her arms stretched out as if she actually became the airplane that helped Ron to feed a younger, stubborn Adam. No. Her legs would not move as if they were attempting to stand firm in a foundation of logic and reality. And from her choking throat: "Nooooooo!" Adam's blow of air was on target. Only Laura noticed it...and only Laura experienced it: the flash. No camera had been operated, no in-house fireworks set off. The room-filling flash felt...yes, felt...pure and solid, like a tangible, and quickly intangible, peace. The nine flames she had created were gone. And the one wish he had made granted. Adam was now the big kid. But Adam--wild-minded, 9-year-old Adam--should have listened to his now unbelievably frantic stepmother. For his seven young guests were now his seven considerably younger guests. Rodrigo and Craig, both 8 just half a minute ago, could barely hold their 3-year-old eyes above the table. The two girls' dresses were excellent fits for their 3 1z2-year-old bodies. And the 9-year-old cute countenances of the three remaining youngsters gave way to adorable grins that had taken four years to produce. Laura's mind didn't have time to get its own wish, as its desired collapse was precluded by Matt's hefty but concerned "Laura? You okay?" "Matt...d-do you...I'm sorry, I...Adam didn't...I tried to..." "Laura, dear"--his enormous hands blanketing her quaking shoulders--"what is the matter? I'm sure I can wait 10 minutes while Cecilia enjoys some cake. Don't worry...the kindergarten interview isn't for an hour." The kindergarten interview?!? It couldn't be...but it was, she realized. It so very much was. No one had noticed. Because...because this was what everything became. Adam changed it all. Laura's second sight, after she witnessed Cecilia place both hands around her pigtails, was Jillian playing patty-cake with an enchanted Evan. Craig had managed to climb out of his extremely high seat. And Adam...Adam looked like he was about to burst. To explode. She had to stop his tears...stop all of it. "Change it back," she said as plainly as possible to the mentally shivering boy whose world had suddenly folded like a napkin. "Take...back...the wish." No punishment mentioned, none needed. "Please. Adam. Now." A glance at his mother, another look at his party guests, and a long stare at the cake preceded another flash. Laura was afraid to open her eyes this time, even more than she was at heart afraid to ask Adam to use his power again, and so soon. Was she empowering him or gradually destroying him? Slowly opening one eye, she soon realized she needn't have worried...the kids she knew and cleaned up after were all "normal" again. All of them...Craig, Rodrigo, Karen...all of them...except one. Adam stared at her, smiling in his charming way, but with his eyes more piercing than she had ever seen on a fellow human being. Curly bangs of light brown hair fell over one of the dark brown eyes as the firm, hard-edged jaw beneath it slightly lowered. "How's that, Mom?" questioned a just-as-unfamiliar, lake-deep voice. The voice...of a teenager. 14 candles brought a subtle glow to his face, but Laura didn't see that. Let's just say it was a good thing the apartment came with plush carpeting. And that Matt was a doctor. Welcome to puberty, Adam Miller.