In the space under the blanket, Mr. Gloworm is the only object. He is the oracle. He is the sun. He is the stars, the moon, the sky, and the ocean. He is the only person alive in all the world. In the space under the blanket, in the tent held up my knees and the top of my head, Mr. Gloworm whispers such beautiful things I have to look away when my eyes water.
He tells me of Little Red Riding Hood, and how she was swallowed whole, only to be cut out of a wolf’s belly with an axe. He tells me of the Three Little Pigs, and how the wisest pig was saved from a wolf by building a house out of brick. He tells me that if I know the lesson in a story, I can be saved from the horror at its end. For this, I love him endlessly.
When my father calls my mother a cunt and asks her if she kissed the man she works with, Mr. Gloworm shines brightly as I hug him against my chest. Mr. Gloworm is the bravest man I have ever met, even if he is just a plastic insect. Even when the shouting is right outside our door, in the small universe under the blanket, Mr. Gloworm’s voice never quavers even when my throat clenches tight in fear. The only time Mr. Gloworm is ever silent is during his supper, when he eats a cassette tape, after which he will speak again as though nothing ever happened. Though he may eat the same cassette tape many times, he never complains.
Mr. Gloworm teaches me many things. The history of muffets and tuffets, of old ladies living in shoes, and of the ubiquitous Jack Horner who lives on whichever corner is handiest. For this reason I carry him with me at all times, with at least one or two meals to feed him should his voice ever grow silent with hunger. My segmented friend has such an awful lot to teach me that it seems a shame to leave him in a box all day.
While Rachel has eyed my friend several times, with eyes as green with jealously as the illuminated plastic face of my comrade, he is the one object my parents seemed disposed to protecting. I believe he costs a good deal of money. This great taboo of cash is a mantle above his head which protects him even if my five year old fists cannot. This elevates him even more in my mind, for this makes him invincible.
I hold him tight against me when my mother tells me she’s dropping me off at the McAllisters. He’s buckled tightly into the seat next to mine, whispering all the way to their house. I have to bend down close to the speaker in his middle, so my mother won’t complain about the noise.
I hate the McAllisters, especially their daughter Erica who insists everyone look at her at all times of the day, even if she’s doing nothing interesting. At five, I can see nothing wrong with being left alone to draw and listen to stories of the magical olden days. But this is not to be. This universe is not as perfect as the one under the blanket.
My mother is talking to Sue McAllister. Snippets invade the whispers of my sage. Oh isn’t is such a lovely day we’re having? Oh yes, and the kids will have all this yard to play in won’t they. I look at Mr. Gloworm and roll my eyes. After I move his head around in a circle, I imagine he rolls his eyes too. The grown ups will never understand. They talk so much and say so little. Even when he is only glowing, Mr. Gloworm conveys volumes of philosophy.
I hold him in my arms like a well-bred Persian cat as my tiny legs navigate the stone walkway one step at a time. Sometimes I have to use a hand to climb. I let out a disgruntled grunt when Mrs. McAllister offers to hold my colleague. I have to hold him out of reach of her arms and cry for a few moments when she takes the initiative. At five, the principle of never leaving your brother is automatic. Mr. Gloworm hadn’t even had to tell it to me.
When we get inside the door stupid old Erica is standing right there, and oh do you see little BC? Erica got her stupid ears pierced. La dee da. What do you think? Can’t you just give me that doll for just one second? No? Okay then, I’ll leave you two alone. I have adult things to do, and stay out of trouble will you? Mr. Gloworm rolls his eyes for me.
“Hey BC,” Erica says, pushing her chest out, pretending she has breasts. Her voice is loud and obnoxious.
I sigh, licking my lips, preparing words that are always difficult to say. Difficult because they seem so reasonable to me, and so absurd to everyone else. “Just leave me alone, Erica. I’ll go and sit in the backyard like last time.”
“Ugh! BC, that is so not fair! The whole reason you’re here is to play with me!” Erica is maneuvering around me like a jackal. I turn as she turns, keeping myself between her and the doll, my eyes always on her hands.
“I don’t want to play with you.” Mr. Gloworm is safe behind my back.
“It’s that stupid doll isn’t it.” As she steps forward, I step backward.
“Just leave me alone. All I want is for you to leave me alone.” I cannot accept that this is anything other than a reasonable request.
“Don’t be a butt-face! Play with me!” Erica is furious, as though by demanding to be by myself, I have taken away a bit of her soul and turned it into rubbish.
“I don’t want to look at you earrings. Just let me go to the backyard. Please!” It is so reasonable. How could anyone not understand? All I want, have ever wanted, is to be left alone.
Erica is ominous and large in the doorway. I cannot get past her. “Please?” I offer again, lowering my arms in a show of peace. Even she must understand. It is so simple. The need to be left alone. Her hands are quick. I’m fumbling after her, fingertips touching only air.
“Give him back!” my voice is hoarse. No childhood bravado here. Only the instinctive need to protect one’s kin. “You give him back to me right now!” The hollow under the blanket without Mr. Gloworm is a callous void where no man be happy. Even thinking of that void makes me cry as she runs up the stairs, up the banister, holding him over her head, “Erica, stop! Give him back to me!”
“Nope! Too late, BC. If I have your stupid doll, you’ll have to pay attention to me!” I cannot scream as she smashes his innocent face against the railing, swinging him like a club. I am frozen with cold dread. Realizing she cannot damage his hard plastic head, she takes aim, and the cassette player cracks. He is dying. He bleeding for all the world to see. I am running into gut-like reels of magnetic tape, and feel as though I am submerged in a pool of my mother’s blood. Worse. It is God’s blood. If I can just hold his body I can have that little left. Something to remember him by. Erica throws the light of the world, the sun, the moon, and the stars… Erica throws him… throws hope, salvation, constancy in the face of chaos… throws him over the banister… and he falls to the oblivion of the floor beneath.
“There, now. I want to play Candy Land.” Erica smiles in satisfaction, arms crossed under those breasts she’s so set on imagining.
I do not know the swears my father shouts at my mother. I do not know the hurtful things she shouts back. But I know the nature of the swears and the hurts. I know them deep down, etched like a witch’s runes into my bones. Because I do not know how to voice what she has done, because I do not know any appropriate holler or war cry, I am silent when I do what I do next. But my mind is shouting the concepts. I am mentally saturating her with the swears and the hurts.
Erica and her stupid smiling face. Erica the murderer. Killer of the light. Whore in the face of the Divine. Unspeaker of stories. Erica and her stupid earrings. I reach out and grab them, and I pull down. Her earlobes split like an adder’s tongue as my bloody fingertips throw the worthless bits of plastic aside.
Her eyes are dumb and unknowing when I plant my foot in her chest. She has not even had time to cry when I kick her down the stairwell. I do not think the dirty words as I watch her fall. They are not stuck in my mind yet. But I think the nature of the dirty words at her. I throw the full inarticulate force of the foul and the profane at her as she runs off to her mother. Murderer. Killer. Unspeaker of stories. Lover of night time.
I cannot hear the adults who yell at me for the next several hours. I cannot hear how they rationalize to themselves it was an accident, because no child would do such a thing over a doll. Indeed, no child could do such a thing. I cannot hear them because my mind’s eye is full and there is no room for anything else. I see a space under the blanket. I see a universe propped up with my knees and head. And I see no light in that universe. I hear no reassuring voice to act against the screams from beyond oblivion. The whole world has gone black. In this hard vacuum the substance of their words has no home.
Mr. Gloworm has died, I think, and I can think no more for a world without such a being is not a world I care to imagine.
