Smile

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Of all the things he dreamed of every night, the only one he clearly remembered after he woke up was a smiling face – unknown, painted in white, like a mime. He knew dreams were generated by a specific part of the brain during sleep and assumed his brain, young it may be at nine, was particularly efficient in it because he did dream a lot, of all sorts of things. Somehow, among all those often-weird visuals this one mysterious, painted face kept on popping up in his dreams. And, however strange it might sound, he and that painted smiling face were becoming familiar to each other, as if they were together on a journey, advancing toward a common destination through their meetings every night.   When the school bus dropped him along with half a dozen kids near his home, he felt a great sense of relief seeing everything look the same, just the way he had left them. Smiling to himself, just happy to be back, to his familiar road, to the familiar neighborhood, he lazily strolled toward his house, a tiny old one but still he loved it so much. On the porch, beyond a pile of old bricks, a bird was incubating her eggs. Overprotective and belligerent, it once came pretty close to attacking him, drawing a pitiful smile from him. You are so tiny little birdie! What can you really do to me? In the morning, when mom was running late for work and bolted to her car, he followed her and tried to bring her attention to the bird, but she didn’t seem to care. She jumped into her old rusty car, brought the engine to life, backed up quickly as the car screeched, and then was gone. He really wanted her to turn her head and wave at him, better a smile – something, anything. He remembered vaguely of some good times in the past, not sure how past – a couple of years? Three? There was joy, laughter, and life in this house. When his dad was around, things were merrier. The bird peeked out from her nest and didn’t make much of a fuss at his sight. She must know him already. He smiled at her. Can I keep one of your babies? I’ll be nice to it. Very nice. She scowled at him. Beat it, buddy! He unlocked the door and stepped inside the house. Uh! The familiar smell of the house. Then, he went ballistic. The door slammed closed and locked, shoes flew in the air, backpack dove on the floor, and he, upon a sudden transition to some kind of superhuman, went on in a frenzied journey across the universe called Zanzinga – chairs were felled, tables shaken, stuff displaced, until he was too tired to go on when he gleefully collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily, smiling at the rough, blackened ceiling. Mom told him to eat the leftover pasta from last night. She didn’t cook much. She actually didn’t do much of anything anymore besides going to work, in two or three places, and drinking lots of cheap wines when at home. She was not well. Since his father left – things had suddenly gone from happy and hilarious to sad and cringeworthy. She was angry, mad, and self-loathing. He feared someday she might go out and never come back, just the way her smiles never returned.   He heated up the pasta and savored it sitting before the television set, watching Sponge Bob, the smile never disappearing from his lips. The goofy Sponge Bob! His cell phone rang an alarm. It was Mom’s old phone. Had no service but would still work for 911. They were pressed for money. Everything was the bare minimum. Even with Dad around things were tight. Mom alone was trying to prop this family up, couldn’t be easy, he realized. She worked long hours, mostly in bad jobs, and hated each moment. Young and pretty, she was all alone, stuck with him. Though, willingly pulled away from friends and family to cocoon herself she showed little interest in men anymore. She was punishing herself. If dad left for another woman why would she be miserable? He didn’t know. He quietened the alarm. Then dug out a small jewelry box from his backpack, a pale smile captured his anxious face as he stared at it. Quite innocuous, it took him a bit of an effort to get the little wonder. Helping his inattentive classmates with maths and language for loonies and toonies slowly but steadily built up his savings, enough to put his eyes on something so precious. During the lunch break, he had slipped out of school and walked a while to the nearest strip mall, where a small antic store had this to offer him for all his 26 dollars and some changes. Next to his little room was mom’s – with a queen-sized bed and a small side table on which she put her cell phone before crashing on the bed, often too tired to get up for dinner. On that table was a small photo frame with a stand that embodied the frozen time of an affectionate father gifting a beautiful green ring to a preteen girl. Just months later Grandpa died in a road accident. He took out a small ring with a rusty green stone from the small box and placed it in front of the picture. Then crashed on the bed on his back and muttered Go to hell, James. She returned late. The darkness sent a chill up her spine. The boy? Panicked she found him on her bed, in a deep sleep, with a fuzzy smile, must be dreaming something good. Then her eyes found the ring and the note Love you Mom! Smile! She cried and cried. When she had no more tears, she smiled scornfully, lay down next to the boy, and muttered Go to hell, James.