What Willie Did

BY ROBIN POSTELL

Rubbing his hands together in front of the fire, Willie fought off going back to bed, the only warm place in the little drafty shack. Feet was still tucked in tight beneath sheets and blankets, all different colors, some of them his granny gave him years back, others he’d gotten from the Potter’s House for a quarter each. There were half a dozen pillows – most of them as old as Willy. Willy remembered dragging them around when he was just Feet’s age, the same way Feet did now. Old feather ones with stained and yellow ticking that smelled like him, his life, Willy had hung onto those old things easier than he had money or a wife or a job. Some things were easier than others to keep.

When Feet heard him coughing and rubbing his rough hands he woke up like he always did. Willy listened, heard Feet rustling around, his little grunts and grumbles he made when sleep kicked him out of his dreams and back into the real world. His little feet hit the floor and if Willy didn’t know what to listen for he wouldn’t have heard that soft thud and the little thuds as he trotted out of the bedroom to find his daddy.

Feet carried one of the pillows, his favorite one with a thin, soft, dirty case on that once was white but had turned grayish no matter how many times it was washed and bleached. Feet drug the pillow around with him like a teddy bear in the morning, holding onto it and sucking the thumb of his left hand, eyes still almost shut.

Willy winced. He hurt clean through when he saw his boy, a kind of hurt he hoped his boy never would see or feel. He hurt the way hearts hurt when they get broken, only this kind of hurt never left but only grew as Feet grew. Willy knew it wasn’t the kind of hurt that subsided. He understood how his mama felt now that he had Feet and that made him hurt even more.

“Come here, boy, you better come yo’ little ass here with yo’ daddy, get you some this fire, boy,” Willy said, wheezing whenever he drew a breath. Feet suck-suck-sucked, cheeks moving the way new things do, before they rust, wear out, get tired. Feet wedged himself between Willy’s thighs and buried his nose in his chest and Willy could hear the motor inside his boy, going good and strong. This made Willy happy but made him hurt, too, always that hurt.

“Say, boy what that thumb taste like,” Willy asked him, pulling him back and cocking his head sideways. “What that thumb taste like, boy, it gotta be some good eatin because you tearin it up, you ain’t gone need no breakfas’,” Willy said but Feet was groggy and not in a kidding way quite yet, but Feet pulled his thumb out of the wet bed of his mouth and held it out to Willy and said, “Here, daddy, taste it, daddy, it good, daddy.”

Willy laughed and put it in his mouth and Feet giggled watching daddy suck his thumb waiting patiently to see what daddy thought about it. Willy nodded his head, raised his brows, “Mmmm, mm, mm-hmm, oh yeh, that sho’ is, you right, boy, mmmmmm, mmmm, it is a good thumb, Feet.”

Feet pumped his head up and down, “I know, I know, I tole you, daddy,” and Willy said, “Yeh, that is, it sho is….the best one I ever had, boy.”

Feet took his thumb back and smiled up at Willy. Willy waited, knowing Feet had it on his mind, hadn’t forgotten. He’d seen the Christmas trees up around town and in people’s front windows, seen the lights strung all over, heard music about Santa and Christmas and Willy knew that even though Feet was not much more than four he’d lived long enough to know what it all meant. Willy thought it was magic, how Feet knew.

“What Santa gone bring me, Daddy,” he said to Willy and Willy grinned down into the face no bigger than his palm and didn’t know what was coming out of his mouth next. Feet hopped on small socked feet, dirty little socks, with a single hole. One golden nut-sized toe stuck out of it and wiggled as he danced about, now wide awake, all afire with the promise of Santa and all the dreams that came with him.

“Santa? Who Santa?” Willy asked coyly, and Feet giggled, and Willy said, I don’t know no Santa, Santa Who?” Then Feet said, Daddy…Daddy you tole me ‘bout Santa, you jus’ tole me last night.”

“What? I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout, boy,” Willy said, looking at Feet quizzically.

“He gone bring me a bike, daddy? Like I ast him the other day, Daddy,?” and Willy smiled and shook his head and pretended like he didn’t know what Feet was talking about, he didn’t know no Santa, Santa Who?, till Feet was nearly buckling at the knees from frustration and certainty, even though he knew Daddy was playing.

Nothing in the three-room house had Christmas on it. No lights, no tree, no stars, no music. Feet’s eyes were lighted up like bulbs, they were wet and the orange tongues of the fire licked at them and they flashed better than all the lights in town put together. It was all the decorations Willy needed but he knew that wouldn’t do for Feet. Feet was Christmas for Willy but Willy was just Daddy to Feet.

“Reckon you been a good boy this year, Feet?” Willy asked, narrowing his eyes, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “You reckon you ain’t done nuttin ole Santa gone be holding you to?”

Feet said, “I been good, ain’t I, Daddy? I been good,” and his lower lip trembled and the lights went out in his eyes, dimmer than Willy’s, for a split second, and Willy saw the man Feet would be and it scared him. Willy remembered lights going out along the way in his life, one by one, and sadness didn’t describe the terror Willy felt, angry at himself for seeing it. Angry he recognized it and deep-down expected it because Willy knew lights eventually burnt out, even stars did. Lights went out, things got dark, shadows got bigger than sunshine and could block every bit of it out except for its hellfire heat.

Willy’s head was tangled up in these anxious thoughts even as he smiled and nodded and slapped his knee and told Feet, “Aw yeh, Feet, yeh, I reckon you been a good boy,” and Feet got brighter, every switch in him was flipped and he blazed.

“Daddy, I have been, ain’t I?” Feet pleaded, the tears in his eyes that had begun to gather pooled against the lower rims of his eyes. “Santa gone come this year, ain’t he?”

“Aw yeh,” Willy sighed dramatically, wanting Feet to stay this bright forever because when he was this bright the hurt in Willy would calm down almost to nothing. Feet could make the hurt go away. Willy needed him for that, felt desperate without it now. Feet made Willy believe in good, even when feeling good was hard when he felt bad. There were dark places in Willy that Feet couldn’t get to, but those places weren’t places Willy wanted him anywhere near. Willy sometimes felt selfish for using his boy’s shine and sometimes he wondered whether if he got greedy and didn’t realize it he might use it up and Feet wouldn’t have anymore, and then what would Willy do? He hurt again, his heart thumping and diving down into his guts until Feet made it bounce back up.

“Santa Claus, he done tole me he got big plans, big plans for you, baby boy,” Willy nodded, putting a hand on each of Feet’s tiny little heaving ribs and Feet’s eyes got big, wide, he made a sound, ohhhhh, ohhhhhh.

“He did, Daddy? You seen Santa, Daddy?” Feet’s little heart galloped as his eyes dried up and glittered like the tinsel on the big tree downtown in front of the courthouse. “Where you see him at, Daddy?” Feet’s life changed in an instant, he had proof.

“I sho did, Feet,” Willy said, sitting up straight and believing his own lies for now.

“He did? You saw him, Daddy, where you see him?” and Feet was moving so fast now he didn’t hold onto the pillow anymore and didn’t need the fire to warm him. Feet bounced and Willy felt like a king, had never felt better. Feet was a spring, popping back into shape no matter what he did. Willy wondered how much longer he would spring back. Willy’s spring had sprung a long time ago. He’d give anything to feel the way Feet felt but he felt good being next to him, the next best thing.

“Oh yeh, Feet,” Willy began, “Me and Santa, we go way back, way back, hear? We was in Nam together, back long time ago. Willy reflected on his tale, rubbing his chin, then adding, “Yassar, boy, way back. He come by jus the other night, right after you done fell off to sleep, and shoot, we sat in here and ate drank some beer and Santa took off his ole boots and his feet, ooh, they stunk up the whole place, I was scared you was gone wake up, they was that ripe, Feet, Lord, Lord, they was ripe,” and Feet squealed and asked, “Where, daddy, where he sat?”

Willy said, “Right cheer, right where you sittin, right there on that there stool, Feet,” and Feet jumped up and looked at the stool and then back at Willy, shaking his head in wonder. “Oh yeh, yeh, what was it he say the other night,” Willy began, thinking of things to say, and Feet gasped, fell silent and got stiff, to hear better.

“He say, Willy, I telling you what, your boy, that Feet, he something else,” Willy said. “He done been such a good boy, I gone have to do something extra nice for him this year. I been watching him, he say to me, I been watchin him real, real close.” Willy drug it out, emphasizing and elaborating until Feet, barely breathing, looked like a statue.

Willy went out to provide all the details of Santa’s visit, how all his reindeer had been stomping up on the roof and messin’ up the shingles and how Willy kept telling Santa, he was going to wake up everybody, gone get me throwed outa here, and how Santa told Willy nobody, nobody, messed with him. Willy said, Feet, like I tole you, Santa and me, we been tight, like brothas, for near bout all my life, you know, and I done see him come and go and now and then he’d talk about other chilluns, seem to take a shine to one or two, but I ain’t never seen him act this a way. He done got it in his head you real special, said he been spending almost half his time watching you and talking to all them elves of his and trying to figure out the best presents to get you, talkin you up, Willy said and Feet was so bright now even the bright part was starting to hurt Willy.

You know what I gone do, Santa tole me, I gone see to it he get that Black Ryder bike they got at Wal-Mart he been lookin at, Willy said and Feet whooped and by now Willy couldn’t stop. He say, I gone throw in a few more treats, too, jus to show him how much me and all my elves ‘preciate his goodness. That what he say, Feet, and then, you know what he did? He winked at me, and I started up laughin cause I done been knowin Santa long enough to know what that wink mean. Willy pulled Feet up on his knee. He didn’t weigh enough to make Willy’s bad shoulder burn. Wasn’t much to him but what there was of him was enough to keep Willy going a little bit longer.

What that wink mean, daddy? Feet’s mouth was a tight, squeezed raisin, wet as a kiss, and Willy wondered how something so little and with no more than four years of living in him make somebody who’d felt dead half his life and as heavy as lead feel brand new, even for a few seconds.

He wink, how he wink? Feet asked, and Willy demonstrated, turning his face sideways, cocking his chin up and blinking an eye

Willie sat by the fire, a little one, had to get close up to it and lean towards it, the cold nudged and bullied at his back, his feet. Waking up was a job he didn’t much like because it took effort no matter how many times he did it. Cold winter this year, but he reckoned they all were once they came on. He always thought whichever winter he was having was the worst one yet. Maybe they were always like this. Willie would forget the bitter freezes about the time summer beat hell out of him. Time was measured by these rapid changes His hands were thick and dry as firewood and always torn up and raw from picking up steel beams or raking yards or washing dishes. He remembered once a girl he met when he was younger, a pretty thing, real dark-skinned and proud and sweet, had rubbed lotion on his hands for near about an hour and didn’t give him a kiss or a promise of something more and he hadn’t minded. That hour she’d loved his hands had almost been better than anything he’d ever had – stolen, earned or God-given. That kind of girl was a princess that always said she had to go, no matter how sweet she said it, and leave a man like Willie aching and hoping for things and knowing somehow he’d gotten lucky, a winning hand at the poker table, picking all the right numbers on the lotto. Didn’t happen, usually, and didn’t happen again if it did