Benny: A Tale of a Christmas Toy (5 page)

"What if I said please?"

"That would be nice.  But I'd still say
no."

"Pretty please?"

"No."

Sam tugged on the hem of Carol's dress, and
she looked down at him.  His blond hair nearly covered his
eyes.  In his faded denim jacket and pants, he looked like a
young James Dean.  His only negative was that he looked like
Alex.  Of course, she would never hold that against
him. 

Even though Alex was a prick, he
had
been a good looking prick, and he had passed those good looks on to
Sam.  If Carol ever saw her ex-husband again, she'd have to
thank him for that.  She doubted she would see him again,
though.  The last she'd heard, Alex was smoking pot on a
reservation in Nevada with a Navaho girl whose named rhymed with
ho.  Spring Row?  Water Flow?  She could never
remember exactly, but it had definitely rhymed with ho. 

"I don't mind paint smell, Mrs. Jorgan," Sam
said.  "It kinda smells nice.  And I can help.  I
like painting.  I pro'ly have my own paint brush in my
bag.  I have lots of stuff in my bag."

He slipped off his blue backpack, which
looked about to burst, and set it on the concrete stoop. 
Carol had been trying to get Sam to thin out the contents of his
bag for months, with no luck.  He insisted he wanted
everything with him in case they had to move again, which was one
of those things she wished she'd never heard him say because she
stayed up nights thinking about it.

"That's all right," Mrs. Jorgan
said. 

"But he doesn't mind the smell of paint,"
Carol said.  She realized this made her sound insane, but she
was desperate.  She had to make that interview.  Sam's
future college education depended on it.  "Pleeeeease, Mrs.
Jorgan?"

And now she sounded like a five-year
old.  How low would she go?  Grovel, Carol,
grovel. 

"No."

"Pretty, pretty, pretty, please?"

"I'm sorry."

"I'll pay double."

Mrs. Jorgan laughed.  By the glint in
her eyes, Carol could see that she was amused.  "It really
doesn't matter.  There's no place for him."

"Wash your car?"

Mrs. Jorgan shook her head.

"Clean your toilets?"

"Goodbye, Carol.  See you next time,
Sam."

"Bye, Mrs. Jorgan," Sam said.  "I like
paint."

"Massage your feet?" Carol said.

The door closed.  Carol wondered if
there was something else she could come up with that would sway
Mrs. Jorgan, but she couldn't think of anything.  She could
offer to pay something insane like a thousand dollars, but then, if
she had a thousand dollars, she wouldn't be working at Martco as a
Customer Service Supervisor.  She would have been at home with
Sam.  That's what she did when Alex was still a gainfully
employed college professor at Willamette State College, before he
decided to stick his totem pole in Dances with Hos and find out
what all the fuss was about peyote and peace pipes.

She took Sam's hand.  "Come on. 
We'll think of something."

She popped open her umbrella and led him
back to her white Tercel.  Getting into the car, she caught
her leg on a tear in the vinyl seat and heard her nylon rip. 
"Figures," she said.

"Do I get to come to work with you today,
Mommy?"

"No, Mommy has an important interview. 
We'll figure out something."

The inside of her car still smelled like the
Chinese takeout from the previous night.  As they headed home,
she racked her brain for a solution, but nothing came to her. 
Her drive side windshield wiper barely worked, leaving the glass on
her side blurry. Through the gaps in the pines off to her right,
she saw the Willamette river surging high and gray on the muddy
banks.  When she first moved, she thought Sam might go
swimming there, but after she found out how dirty it was—it only
escaped being labeled a Superfund site by a technicality—she would
never let him. 

It made her sad, thinking about this, and
she felt like crying again.  What was it with her today? 
Her period was weeks away.  The interview.  She was
getting all worked up about a damn Martco interview.  She had
a degree in Psychology and she was getting worked up about
this.  She would not cry.  She would
not.

"Are you crying, Mommy?" Sam asked.

"No," Carol said, sniffling.

"Don't be sad.  I love you, Mommy."

"Oh, I love you, too, sweetie.  We just
need to find somebody to watch you."

"Um . . . I could watch myself."

That got her to laugh.  "I don't think
you're quite old enough for that yet."

"But I'd be good!  I'd—I'd just stay
inside and play with my Gameboy and read books and maybe do some
drawing.  I . . . I wouldn't even have any ice cream or
cookies!"

"I know you wouldn't, honey.  It's just
that if Mommy left you alone, and other people found out about it,
some nice people would come and take you away from me."

"Oh," he said, and fell silent.

A few blocks later, she reached her
apartment complex, a drab two-story building the color of lima
beans.  It sat up on a little bluff, sheltered from the wind
by dense arborvitae and towering pines.  Driving up the steep
road, her tires squealing on wet asphalt, she realized she hadn't
tried Dora.  Dora, sweet old Dora with the trembling hands,
who wasn't working today.  After she parked, she pulled out
her cell phone and dialed Dora's number.   

"Hello?" Dora answered.  Her voice was
hoarse. Not a good sign.

"Hi, it's Carol."

"Oh, Carol dear, how are you?" Under the
best of circumstances, Dora was hard to hear, but now Carol really
had to strain to understand her.

"How am I?  How are
you?
 
You sound terrible."

She coughed. "Oh, just a little flu. 
Nothing to worry about."

Carol's heart sank.  "I'm sorry to
bother you."

"Oh, don't be.  I'd invite you over for
tea and biscuits, but I certainly don't want you to get what I
have."

"Well, I was just calling to say
hello.  Get better soon, okay?"

"Of course, dearie.  I have to work
tomorrow."

"Don't worry about that.  I'll schedule
you for extra hours if you need to make up for it.  Just take
care of yourself."

"Yes, dearie.  Of course." 

Carol knew that despite how badly Dora felt,
and no matter how often Carol would tell her to stay home, Dora
would still be there tomorrow.  When you were living off your
dead husband's measly pension and a couple hundred dollars from
Social Security, you didn't have a lot of choice.  Feeling
even more miserable, Carol clicked off the phone and watched rain
dribbling down her front window.

"Am I gonna go to the nice old lady who
smells like candy, Mommy?" Sam asked.

"No, dear."

"Then where?"

"I'm not sure."

"Are we going to stay in the car?"

"No, dear."  But she actually
considered it.  They could just sit there until the interview
was long gone, until the next day came and she had to start her
shift, until she was fired, until her rent was due and she was
eventually kicked out of the apartment, and then they'd be living
out of the car.  So they wouldn't have far to go. "I just need
to think, dear."

"Okay," Sam said.  He was silent for a
moment.  "Um . . . can I go inside and watch cartoons? 
You can stay here."

She sighed.  They got out of the car
and headed up the stone steps.  She didn't even bother opening
the umbrella.  What was the point?  The alcove at the top
had two doors, and hers was on the left.  The green and yellow
cardboard "Home Sweetss Home" sign, a Sam Kinnington original, was
tacked to the door.  Putting the key in her lock, she tried to
think of somebody she could trust.  Nancy was sure to be
working at the hospital.  David would be awkward.  If she
hadn't slept with him, maybe she could do it, but ever since that
stupid night their friendship had gone all weird.  She knew
she was playing with fire, not having better backup
daycare. 

The other apartment door swung open, making
her jump. 

"Heya Carol!"

She turned, putting on a fake smile. 
Her young muscle-head neighbor, Tony, had a black plastic trash bag
slung over his shoulder.  Tony spent his free time in two
ways:  lifting weights in his apartment, and getting in as
many free sessions as he could at the tanning salon where he
worked.  When he first moved in late last year, Tony was tan
but a normal tan, as if he had just gotten back from a two-week
trip to the Bahamas.  Now his skin was the color of
caramel. 

Lately he had bulked up even more than when
she first met him, and he had also taken to wearing T-shirts and
stretch pants way too tight.  His muscles stretched against
his thin white T-shirt, a shirt inscribed with the slogan "Lift or
Die."  The worst part were his black nylon stretch
pants.  She could practically make out ever bump and wrinkle
in his package.  Every time she saw him in those, she had to
stifle the urge to say, "So, hang to the left, huh?" 

She also had her suspicions that his
increased obsession with tanning and muscles was a direct result of
her calling a quick end to their dating.  It had lasted a
grand total of one night.  In a moment of weakness, she had
agreed to go to dinner with him.  She had known he was too
young, but she hadn't known by how much.  She had hoped he was
a baby faced twenty-five, but no, he was a baby faced nineteen, and
that was too damn young when Carol was closing in on thirty. 
Thank god she hadn't slept with him. 

"Going out?" he said.

"No, Tony, coming in.  That's why our
clothes are wet."

"Oh, right.  Well, I'm just taking out
the trash."  He closed the door but didn't go anywhere. 
"Doing a little lifting today."

"Yeah, I can tell."  Now why did she
say that?  She didn't need to encourage him.

He perked up.  "Really?  Well,
I've been working on my gluts.  What do you think?"  He
turned around and showed her his backside, flexing the muscles
there.  It was a nice ass, Carol had to admit—nice in a
circus, freak show sort of way.  "Twenty minutes a day for
three months and you can have an ass just like this, Carol."

"Really?  Wow, that's something. 
I have to go."

"Wait, before you do . . ."

Here it comes, Carol thought. 

"I was thinking," he said, shifting the
trash to the other shoulder.  The distinct smell of garlic was
coming from the bag, and there was another smell in the air,
too.  Suntan lotion.  She had to keep looking at his eyes
so he wouldn't think she was looking at his package.  "I mean,
if you don't have any plans, I make a mean lasagna.  I think
you remember.  I'd be happy to show you how to do those glut
exercises.  We could make it a date.  Say this
Friday?"

Carol smiled.  Now the hard part. 
"I'm afraid I have other plans."

"Oh really?  With who?"

"Well, not that it's really your business,
but with David."  Behind her back, she crossed her
fingers.  It was a silly thing to do, but you just couldn't
get ten years of Catholic school out of your system very
easily.

"I thought you guys broke up."

"We got back together."

"Mommy told David that they can't be friends
and sleeping partners," Sam said.

Carol laughed and looked down, realized she
was looking in the direction of Tony's package, then looked up
again.  "Kids," she said, shrugging.  "Breakups, makeups,
it all sounds the same."

"Okay," Tony said, his enthusiasm only
slightly dimmed.  "Well, if your plans change . . ."

"Sure," Carol said.

He started down the stairs.  She turned
to the lock and was hit with a wave of despair.  Now she had
to go inside and call her boss.  Then another idea came to
her.  She was crazy to even think it, but she was out of
options.  And Tony really was a nice guy.  Weird, but
nice. 

"Oh, Tony," she called after him.

He had been walking awfully slowly, his butt
muscles flexing just a bit too much.  He turned, triceps
flexing, face expectant.  "Yes?"

"Are you doing anything right now?" 
After the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to kick
herself.

He swallowed.  "Well, no . . ."

"Because I desperately need to make an
interview that's supposed to happen in about ten minutes—"
"An interview?  Really?  For what?"

"For a job.  At Martco."

"But you already work at Martco."

"A different job.  A better job. 
Look, I really have to go.  Could you do me a favor? 
Just hang around until I get back.  It shouldn't be more than
an hour."

He thought about it for about two seconds
before replying with, "I'll do it if you agree to go on a date with
me on Friday."

"Tony . . ."

"Okay, okay, a guy has to try.  An
hour, huh?  Will I need to change any diapers?"

"Diapers!" Sam cried indignantly, crossing
his arms and looking up at them with a huffy expression.  "I
don't wear diapers!"

"No," Carol said, "you won't have to change
any diapers.  You just have to hang out in our
apartment.  I'll leave my cell number if you have any
problems."

Tony nodded.  Carol caught some
movement below, and she had to look.  Did she just see his
package flex?  No, it couldn't have been. She had second
thoughts.  He had always seemed harmless, but what if he was
doing steroids?  Those things did wacky things to your
brain.  And your package.

"Well," Tony said, "I was in the middle of a
workout, but I guess I could come over for a while."  He
grinned at Sam.  "We could do some push-ups together,
buddy."

"Really?" Sam said.

"Oh, that's all right," Carol said
quickly.  "Maybe you guys could just watch some cartoons."

Three minutes later she was on her way down
the steps, back into the gray, rainy weather.
 
She had
exactly seven minutes to get to the store.  She was going to
be late, there was no doubt it.  But not that late. 
Almost on time really.  And when your life was as crazy as
hers,
almost
on time was pretty much the same thing as
exactly.