melancholy

And Straight on Till Morning

Artwork by Bo Bosk via AXS Art

I saw his shadow before the rest of him came into sight, blooming from the pavement and framed by the setting sun. Edgar’s schoolbag hung from one shoulder and his hands were balled into fists at his sides. He looked up at me. 

“Again?” I asked. He nodded and wordlessly pulled out a worn book. I cleared a space and unfolded a second plastic chair. 

“Reading today. Ms. Jen assigned another chapter.” He pouted, letting out a gust of air that stirred the uncut mane that obscured much of his face.

“Where did we leave off?”

“Peter’s going to the nursery, about to take Wendy to Neverland,” he said listlessly. 

“I see. You read ahead, didn’t you? How did that go?”

“Okay, I guess. I didn’t understand some of it, but I couldn’t come see you. Mom wouldn’t let me out of the house, not even when I said I just wanted to go for a walk down the street.”

“Well, I’m here now. Why don’t you read out loud and stop me if you need help?” 

He nodded, and began in a voice that shook and quivered, pausing to mold each word with care. “There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.” 

As he read, I closed up my shop. Business hours were almost over, and regardless, if a customer came by now I would send them away. Someone needed to put Edgar first.

“What does ‘ecstasies’ mean?” he asked. 

“It’s similar to joy, or excitement.” He watched me lock the last display case and sink back down on the adjacent folding chair. 

“Oh. Jeremy from school said it was a drug,” he said. “But he makes a lot of stuff up.”

“Well, it is a drug too.” A slew of disjointed images rushed through my head, and that familiar ache passed through me. “But that’s not important. Keep going, I’ll be right back.” I jogged up the creaky steps and unlocked my door. The kid definitely hadn’t had dinner yet, so I threw together some toast with bologna, cheese, and ketchup. I grabbed a glass of milk and a beer for myself before rejoining him downstairs.

“Where’d you get to?” I asked, sliding him the plate. He dog-earred his page and grabbed the sandwich. Through a stuffed mouth, he summarized what I had missed. 

“Have you read this book before, Mr. Turin?” he said, swallowing. “Whenever I ride by on my bike, I always see you reading, at least when you’re not helping customers.”

“I have. I read it when I was your age, Ed. I thought it was a fantastic adventure. So much bravery, and magic…” I trailed off.

“I hate it,” he said. “I don’t believe in Neverland, or anything like it, and I think not wanting to grow up is just stupid. Who wouldn’t want to grow up?”

“Why do you want to grow up so fast?” I asked. But even as he responded, I knew. 

“So I can leave my Mom and Dad. I want to get my own house far from South Dakota. Maybe I’ll go to Kansas, or New Mexico. Or even Egypt, I don’t care. Just not here. And not Neverland,” he said. While he spoke, he absentmindedly grasped his discolored forearm. 

“Why not Neverland? The second star to the right and straight on ’til morning seems pretty damn far from here.”

“Because it’s too…real. Everything’s hunting something else, like it said in the beginning of the book. The red skins hunting the monsters, the monsters hunting the pirates, the pirates hunting the Lost Boys. And they’re stuck that way, fighting and hunting and being hunted. Ms. Jen said Neverland was supposed to be some kind of kid’s paradise, but I don’t know what kind of messed up kid would want that.”

“Most kids don’t know what you know and haven’t experienced what you have.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” he asked, his eyes flashing. His fingers tightened over his own bruised wrist. 

“Eat your sandwich,” I said. 

He tore into it silently and then finished the chapter with minimal interference on my part. He really was a bright kid, if only someone took the time to engage with him. In the few months since he had begun dropping by here, it had become clear to me that Edgar was holding back—or, more accurately, being held back—and that all he needed was someone to push him. 

At eight, Edgar carefully stowed Peter Pan in his book bag and pulled on an oversized jacket. He reached for the worn, brass doorknob and the old wind chimes rattled. 

“Thank you for your help, Sir.” I raised my hand to pat him on the shoulder, and he flinched. My hand dropped to my side.

“You don’t need to thank me. You come back soon, okay?”

He nodded and stepped into the night air. 

“And Ed?”

“Yeah?”

“All children, except one, grow up.” The corner of his mouth rose as he turned onto the sidewalk. I could have sworn I saw him pause and glance up at the night sky, searching for that second star.

—

Francesca von Krauland is a Miami-born Cuban and Austrian writer in her final year of pursuing a degree in English and International Studies at Boston College. She is a lover of cappuccinos, cats, and conversations that go on for hours.

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