BRINGIN’ UP MAGGIE

…And now for the rest of the story…. from BRINGIN’ UP MAGGIE

      © Copyright 2017 by Jayne M. Adams

The fall Maggie turned three, our old hand-me-down crib was dismantled and her new junior bed was installed in its place. She’d been baby-talking for awhile, but grasping her fresh status, she began to do some real talking. She demanded to become part of my outside discovery forays. I could not deny her–– she had been groomed for the moment. But I needed to find an experience worthy of her maiden expedition. After several tours around the neighborhood, I believed I’d found it––and explained that I had to pick just the right time.

The “right time” presented itself before long––in the form of a particularly inattentive babysitter. I coached Maggie to ask the woman to take us out to the project yard to play. Once there, we knew we could count on her to tire of us quickly, plop herself on one of the benches, and nod off in the warm afternoon sun. That would be our signal.

It was a clean getaway. I slipped the gate latch and showed Maggie how to leave the yard, all the while yammering on about the clown I was taking her to see. Maggie’s face beamed with giddy anticipation as we ran uphill towards a busy intersection.

And there he was, as promised, just where I had found him the day before and looking exactly like the circus posters we’d seen––was it Emmett Kelly? He had a big red nose, sad and droopy eyes, several days’ growth of beard, hair sticking out from under his felt hat every which way, a rumpled suit, and scuffed shoes whose soles flapped when he walked. He regarded us through half-closed eyes for a moment, then leaned on the corner building and tried to light his cigar.

I had noticed in the building’s largest window a sign showing a team of huge horses pulling a decorated carriage. They had large, furry feet––not like other horses I’d seen in pictures. There were more signs decorating the other windows, too, ones that blinked on and off in bright colors. These observations confirmed my belief that I had indeed tapped into some sort of magical circus place.

The building’s front door slammed open and more men tumbled out onto the sidewalk, laughing and yelling. I took Maggie’s hand and drew her closer to my new friend.

“Hey, Mister! Remember me from the other day? I brought my sister back to see you! Could you do that clown trick for her?”

He waved a loose-limbed hello and obliged my request, shuffling over to the street sign. He bent over to place his cigar on the ground, then made several attempts to shinny up the pole, ending each try with an unceremonious flop onto the sidewalk while looking out at us from under his hat with a sheepish, gap-toothed grin. He tried again and again, finally managing to hold himself near the top of the pole for a few moments before dropping to the ground. He clambered to his feet, indicating the finale with a dramatic flourish of his arms.

“TA-DA-A-A-A-A-A-A!” He jammed the soggy cigar back in his mouth, held the pose, and awaited our applause. I had appreciated his performance so much I was the first one to clap. The other men on the sidewalk began to clap their hands, too. They hooted and whistled and laughed till tears came, then they pulled out hankies to wipe their eyes. Our clown took several deep bows.

I turned to Maggie, awaiting her usual display of delight for the day’s discovery. She wasn’t clapping or laughing, and her small face registered raw disappointment. My heart chugged to a stop when she looked up at me and said simply, “He smells.”

I shushed her, but she stood on her toes and insisted in an audible whisper, “He’s . . . not a clown, and he smells.” I looked at him again, at the building, at all the men standing around. She was right. In fact, they all smelled.

“We-e-ell, um, maybe he isn’t a clown,” I hedged, seeing him––for the first time––through her eyes. Trying desperately to rescue the magic of the moment, I added, “But wasn’t he funny?”

Maggie finally rewarded me with one of her sweet smiles, then curled her small fingers in mine and pulled me in the direction of the project. “Let’s go home,” she urged.

We held hands all the way back to the yard, as the sun sank behind the buildings of the city. An unsettling feeling grew in my chest that something had changed forever. By the time we reached home, I knew it was true: Maggie wouldn’t require my educational services much longer. Shivering a bit, I watched her find the cyclone fence of our courtyard, navigate the latch and push the gate open, holding it for me. The afternoon had grown chilly and windy, sand and leaves whipped our faces, and the angled sunset cast long shadows across our playground.

We reached the bench where our snoring babysitter slept and shook her awake. Startled, she called out a loud curse, slapped our hands away and yawned, then fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, lit one and blew a thick stream of smoke down on us. “Come on, you two. Party’s over. Get inside.”

* * *

The world had seemed a happy place before sundown that fall day, a universe pausing its dance for a moment while we stood center stage among its wonders. Then it twirled away from us in staccato time. Decades have slipped by since then. We have seven grandchildren between us now, all sleeping in brand-new beds of their own, plastic ones shaped like sports cars and princess coaches.

When I try to recapture the joy of childhood, it’s not our children or even their children who come to mind. Instead, I see Maggie’s sweet three-year-old face, bright with anticipation. I picture her there in our hand-me-down crib, the pockmarks of both our teeth imprinted down the length of its lead-painted rails, her huge brown eyes smiling at me through the bars as she awaits our next adventure.

Back when I thought I would bring her the world.

And she still believed that I could.