CARROWAY SEED TO MARS
Barry Eysman
They would believe him, he was sure of it; with enough perseverance. All right, he was ten. But tall for his age. Though his voice was still admittedly a bit reedy, it was becoming quite commanding to his stick out only a little too far ears.
On the other hand, what did it matter what they thought. Well, it mattered a great deal, other wise he would not be sitting in his church suit in this red plastic chair that was beside other plastic chairs all round the silver and chrome glass windows brown paneled room with dark carpeting, and not un-coincidentally the stern faced woman in the brown slacks, running shoes and soft yellow summer blouse sitting in chair of red plastic, who was his mother who was enthralled with an old PEOPLE with some woman beaming impossibly pure white teeth, seemingly to the boy’s horrified perusal, three rows of them that for some reason made him shiver.
Till he looked away at the woman behind one of the glass panels in silent film vacuum peck away on a computer, state of the art like everything in here, her sweater round her shoulders, and well she might, for the a.c. did everything but dump snow and Santa and a Christmas..oh forgot, new school rules…Xmas.. boy were people het up about that. Which made the boy with the adult expression on his face for far too often, smile a little, and then the familiar guilt began to work and in the background of the waiting room a whisper of public music the boy hoped would stay a whisper please or go altogether.
Which was what they, mother, father, great-aunt Gertie, and probably the family dog, Noble, were he able to voice an opinion from his slobbering tongue and groveling demeanor, would doggie say ditto. Clem Kadiddlehopper must go. Gee, thought the boy, Robert, who did have a name, he reminded himself, and his friend was Clement. Not Clem Kapoodlehopper or whatever.
They thought it hysterical and it was the reason Clement was not seen, not even by proper name of Robert, not futzy name of Bobby which he hated with all his being. And this doctor, psychologist, would call him Bobby, Robert just knew he would, to pretend getting chummy with the boy, but all the while, as Robert lay mute on the Bob Newhart couch, the doctor would be writing down the body language, whatever that was, even though Robert lay still as a rock.
At least, the dude ultra hip attire was not impressing Robert, but the tall gray haired old man had banished mother, after a few well placed questions in the form of chit chat. The doctor helped her unclench her son’s now aching red marked palm.
As he smoothly finessed this one out the door. Watch it, Robert, this is one cool cookie or something like that. Clement lived in France. He was a nice man with a wife he adored. He wrote children’s books.
One of which Robert, though too old for them, but it had been misplaced in Robert’s adventure section, and as he put back TARZAN AND THE MOLE MEN, an ancient tattered Ace paperback, which was so torn and pulled apart, even his caring, steady hands would damage it beyond repair. There was a brand new re-printing of it on the other side, hardcover, looked glorious.
But it would have shamed him to pick that one. As he placed it perfectly on the wood shelf, a slim obviously children’s book fell out. Robert picked it up. The title in bright tin foil silver read A CARROWAY SEED TO MARS, against a back ground of velvet stared outer spaced. Riding the seed bravely, in order of front to back:
The disheveled frizzy haired crackpot scientist, who had created this miracle, he so dotty and crumbly, Robert almost knew he had old pipe tobacco clots in the pockets of his old tattered waist jacket, but he proudly, pink parasol unfurled, to protect him and his equally clichéd charges, bravely behind him, pigtailed Jane and equally fresh faced eating an apple, a boy, who were really fictionally named Sparky and Sandy, though equally as silly.
Robert held the book and sat at his favorite table, alone as usual, to read it. He finished it in 15 minutes. He put it face down on the desk. It was horrible. It was just as gaudy and silly as the cover picture. He went over it in his mind and tried to find something good about it. But he couldn’t. The doctor looked at him.
The boy named Robert opened his eyes. The doctor smiled. He knelt way down to the boy and said “I don’t know the particulars. But your friend is not imaginary. Maybe you saw him one time on a bus. Or maybe you never saw him at all. Robert, you’re perfectly normal. Do you know his name?” Robert nodded.
“He’s very lucky. Does he know?” Robert nodded again. “We’ll get this thing settled with your Mother now. OK?” Robert smiled and said something in his mind. And somewhere in Paris, Clement, working late into the night on another failed children’s book, felt his wife’s hands on his shoulders. “I did it,” he said. “I touched a human heart somewhere out there.” He turned to her. “His name is Robert, I’m almost sure.”
She looked at him and said it’s time to come to bed, for it was late. She led him from his work table, just as a tall, gray haired man led Robert from the office. And in all that distance, two human minds touched again, and promised never to forget or let go.
