‘Come out and play!’
They watched and waited. Nothing happened. No blue and white ball, no laughter, no boy. Martin was seriously beginning to believe that this was all a hallucination.
‘Maybe he doesn’t feel like playing anymore,’ Martin suggested.
‘He does, too!’ Emilio protested. ‘He said he
always
wants to play. The trouble is, they make him work, even when he’s tired, and they always make him wear clothes he doesn’t like, and he has to sing when he doesn’t want to and dance when he doesn’t want to.’
‘Did he tell you what his name was?’ asked Martin.
Emilio said nothing.
‘Emilio, listen to me, this is important, did he tell you what his name was? He didn’t call himself Boofuls, did he? Or Walter maybe? Or just Walt?’
Emilio shook his head.
‘Well, what did he do? Did he play ball? Did he dance? Did he sing?’
Emilio stared at Martin but remained silent.
‘Listen,’ said Martin, turning back toward the mirror, ‘maybe he doesn’t want to play right now. Maybe it’s – I don’t know, bathtime or something. Even boys who live in mirrors have to take baths, right? Why don’t you come back tomorrow and we’ll try again?’
Emilio banged both hands on the mirror. ‘Boy!’ he shouted, his voice more high-pitched and panicky. ‘Boy! Come out and play!’
Martin hunkered down beside him. ‘I really don’t think he wants to come out, Emilio. Come back tomorrow morning, okay, and we’ll call him again.’
Emilio suddenly turned on him. His voice was a sharp little bark. ‘You don’t
want
me to see him, do you? You don’t want me to play with him! You think he belongs to you! It’s not your mirror! It’s not your mirror! It’s
his
mirror! He lives in it! And you can’t tell him what to do, so there!’
Martin had never heard Emilio screaming like this before, and he was mildly shocked. He took hold of Emilio’s shoulder and said, ‘Listen … this may be a story that you’ve made up to impress me, and on the other hand it may not. But either way, I’m on your side. If there is a boy in that mirror, I want to find him.’
‘And let him out?’ asked Emilio.
Martin made a face. ‘I don’t know. Maybe there just isn’t any way of
getting
him out.’
‘There’s a way,’ Emilio told him quite firmly.
‘Well, how do you know?’
‘Because the boy told me, there’s a way.’
‘All right, as long as it doesn’t involve breaking the mirror – I just paid seven hundred fifty dollars for that thing.’
‘We won’t break the mirror,’ Emilio assured him with unsettling maturity.
Martin leaned back against the peach-painted landing wall and looked down at this self-confident little child with his chocolate-brown eyes and his tousled hair and the catsup stains on his T-shirt, and he didn’t know whether to feel amused or frightened.
After all, the likelihood was that this was the biggest leg-pull ever. Either that, or Emilio was simply making it all up. After all, there were pictures of Boofuls all over Martin’s apartment. If he was going to pretend that he had played with an imaginary boy there, what could be more natural than pretending he looked like him?
He closed the apartment door and walked back into his bedroom. The soulful eyes of little Boofuls stared at him from the
Whistlin’ Dixie
poster. He reached up and touched with his fingertips the golden curls, the pale, heart-shaped face.
‘You don’t scare me, little boy,’ he said out loud. ‘You don’t scare me at all.’
But he gave the poster a quick backward look as he left the room, and went back to work on the
A-Team
.
He awoke abruptly at three o’clock in the morning, his eyes wide, his ears singing with alertness. He hesitated for a moment, then he sat up in his futon so that he could hear better. He was quite sure that he could hear somebody crying, a child.
The sound was muffled by the rattling of the yuccas in the street outside, and by the steady warbling of the
They watched and waited. Nothing happened. No blue and white ball, no laughter, no boy. Martin was seriously beginning to believe that this was all a hallucination.
‘Maybe he doesn’t feel like playing anymore,’ Martin suggested.
‘He does, too!’ Emilio protested. ‘He said he
always
wants to play. The trouble is, they make him work, even when he’s tired, and they always make him wear clothes he doesn’t like, and he has to sing when he doesn’t want to and dance when he doesn’t want to.’
‘Did he tell you what his name was?’ asked Martin.
Emilio said nothing.
‘Emilio, listen to me, this is important, did he tell you what his name was? He didn’t call himself Boofuls, did he? Or Walter maybe? Or just Walt?’
Emilio shook his head.
‘Well, what did he do? Did he play ball? Did he dance? Did he sing?’
Emilio stared at Martin but remained silent.
‘Listen,’ said Martin, turning back toward the mirror, ‘maybe he doesn’t want to play right now. Maybe it’s – I don’t know, bathtime or something. Even boys who live in mirrors have to take baths, right? Why don’t you come back tomorrow and we’ll try again?’
Emilio banged both hands on the mirror. ‘Boy!’ he shouted, his voice more high-pitched and panicky. ‘Boy! Come out and play!’
Martin hunkered down beside him. ‘I really don’t think he wants to come out, Emilio. Come back tomorrow morning, okay, and we’ll call him again.’
Emilio suddenly turned on him. His voice was a sharp little bark. ‘You don’t
want
me to see him, do you? You don’t want me to play with him! You think he belongs to you! It’s not your mirror! It’s not your mirror! It’s
his
mirror! He lives in it! And you can’t tell him what to do, so there!’
Martin had never heard Emilio screaming like this before, and he was mildly shocked. He took hold of Emilio’s shoulder and said, ‘Listen … this may be a story that you’ve made up to impress me, and on the other hand it may not. But either way, I’m on your side. If there is a boy in that mirror, I want to find him.’
‘And let him out?’ asked Emilio.
Martin made a face. ‘I don’t know. Maybe there just isn’t any way of
getting
him out.’
‘There’s a way,’ Emilio told him quite firmly.
‘Well, how do you know?’
‘Because the boy told me, there’s a way.’
‘All right, as long as it doesn’t involve breaking the mirror – I just paid seven hundred fifty dollars for that thing.’
‘We won’t break the mirror,’ Emilio assured him with unsettling maturity.
Martin leaned back against the peach-painted landing wall and looked down at this self-confident little child with his chocolate-brown eyes and his tousled hair and the catsup stains on his T-shirt, and he didn’t know whether to feel amused or frightened.
After all, the likelihood was that this was the biggest leg-pull ever. Either that, or Emilio was simply making it all up. After all, there were pictures of Boofuls all over Martin’s apartment. If he was going to pretend that he had played with an imaginary boy there, what could be more natural than pretending he looked like him?
He closed the apartment door and walked back into his bedroom. The soulful eyes of little Boofuls stared at him from the
Whistlin’ Dixie
poster. He reached up and touched with his fingertips the golden curls, the pale, heart-shaped face.
‘You don’t scare me, little boy,’ he said out loud. ‘You don’t scare me at all.’
But he gave the poster a quick backward look as he left the room, and went back to work on the
A-Team
.
He awoke abruptly at three o’clock in the morning, his eyes wide, his ears singing with alertness. He hesitated for a moment, then he sat up in his futon so that he could hear better. He was quite sure that he could hear somebody crying, a child.
The sound was muffled by the rattling of the yuccas in the street outside, and by the steady warbling of the
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