Short Stories

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"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the policeman at the door, cap in hand.

That was how eight-year-old Timmy Parker and his mother learned that Jimmy Parker, father and husband, had been killed in a highway traffic accident that morning. He had been on his usual sales run for the Widget Company on Highway 401 east of Toronto when an eighteen-wheeler had cut in front of him too fast. He had swerved, gone off the road and into a ditch at one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour.

They sat down on the couch after the policeman had left, and she held Timmy close to her as she grieved. Death didn't mean much to him yet, just that Daddy wouldn't be coming home any more.

When they were at the grave site a few days later, Timmy held his mother's hand and watched as a large, shiny, wooden box was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. That didn't mean much either, but something else did. When they got home, all he could think about were cartoons he had seen of zombies digging themselves out of their graves and searching hungrily for human flesh. He slept in his mother's bed that night.

Days stretched into weeks, and Timmy enjoyed being his mother's 'little man.' They would talk about all sorts of things, like what he did at school, frogs and things that they saw when they went on walks together, or the TV shows they watched together. There were no financial cares for a while, since Jimmy's life insurance had paid off the mortgage and left a tidy sum for them to get by on.

Timmy was very happy, and, one day after school, he decided to go and visit his father's grave to tell him all about it. It was kind of a long way, but he didn't mind. As he walked, he wished with all his heart that his life could go on like this forever. He could not imagine a better fate, him and Mommy, for always.

"Ah, hi kid." A very peculiar man appeared above Jimmy Parker's grave, smoking a huge cigar as he floated behind a desk.

Timmy stepped back a pace as he took in this apparition. The man was quite plump, dressed in a dark red jacket, and had untidy, long, black hair. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Me?" The man placed his free hand on his chest. "My name," he announced, "is Not Important." He leaned forward confidentially. "But you can call me Nimp for short."

Timmy waved the stench of cigar smoke away from his face. It made him cough. "Nimp," he spluttered. "That's weird."

"Isn't it, though?" Nimp leaned back, drew on his stogie, then blew out a cloud of smoke. "Now, I hear tell that you wished a wish back there."

"A wish?"

He put his hand to his ear. "Is there an echo around here?" He turned back to Timmy. "Yeah, that's what I heard. Did you or didn't you?"

Warnings about talking to strangers came rushing into Timmy's mind. "Maybe. What's it to you?"

Nimp chuckled. "I know, you don't trust me. Hey, I don't trust me." He laughed out loud. "Anyhow, what's your name? Fair's fair, you know. I told you mine."

Timmy figured that was safe enough. "Timmy Parker."

"Alright, Timmy, here's the deal." He parked his elbows on the desk. "You want to stay a kid for the rest of your life, right?" He pointed the cigar at him, and he nodded. "Good. I can fix it for you if you like, no strings attached."

"You mean you can do that? Make me be a kid for always?"

"Hey, whoa!" He put his hands up in front of him. 'Always' is an awful long time, kid. I just said for the rest of your life." He looked hopefully at Timmy. "But that should be good enough, right?"

Timmy considered the offer. "Yeah, that's good enough."

"So, do we have a done deal or not?"

"Uh-huh, a done deal."

Not Important stood up from his chair. Waving his cigar, he said, "Abracadabra," and looked at Timmy. "You feel anything?" Timmy checked and shook his head. "Oh, what a relief! I thought I might have gotten some cigar ash on you." He wheezed a laugh and sat down again. "Well, that's it. Deal's closed and I gotta be on my way. More customers waiting, you understand." He vanished in a swirl of foul cigar smoke.

#

Timmy wondered for a long time whether Nimp had actually done anything, but, a couple of years later, when he started grade five, he found out.

"Yo, Tiny Tim!"

"Hey, short stuff!"

"Come on, pipsqueak, you're falling behind!"

When the teasing had started, he had run home to Mommy and cried his heart out. He had felt so ashamed, but he got over it. He had her after all.

However, his mother decided to do something about it, and he soon discovered that, unlike school sports, medical examinations and tests were boring.

"Mrs. Parker," said their family doctor finally, "the specialists cannot find anything wrong with him, so there's nothing that we can do. He has simply stopped growing and maturing. It's almost as if his body clock were stuck at eight years old."

His mother got a job once the insurance money ran out, which meant that she often wasn't there when he got back from school. He didn't like it, but she softened the blow by giving him some chores to do just for her before she got home. He did them willingly, and it made her life a little easier. She still called him her 'little man' as well, but he started to notice that some other things were changing. She spent more time looking after herself, and she didn't take quite as much interest in his day.

One Monday after school, Timmy's happiness died. He found two drinking glasses on the coffee table in the den. She didn't work on Mondays.

He ate his supper that night in sullen silence. She asked him questions a couple of times, but he wouldn't answer.

Lying on his bed in his room that evening, he plotted what his next move would be. By the time his mother came to tuck him in and turn out the light, he had a plan.

The next Monday, he snuck away from school during lunch and headed home. He wasn't surprised when he saw an unfamiliar car in the driveway. His shoes came off once he was inside the house, and he was able to get to the door of the den without giving himself away.

He held his breath, trying to calm his nerves as the blood thundered in his ears.

The conversation cut off as he stepped into the room.

"Timmy? What are you doing home?"

"Timmy? So that's you. Hi, sport. I'm Jack."

Timmy didn't answer. He turned and went back to school. That afternoon, he came back determined to have 'a talk.' He found his mother sitting in the livingroom, reading a magazine.

"What's the big idea?" he asked, standing in the doorway, hands on hips, struggling to hold back the tears.
She put the magazine down. "Aren't I allowed to have a boyfriend?"

"What do you need him for? You got me!"

She stifled a smile, which annoyed him. "I can't explain it to you right now, but I need him. Until you've grown up and experienced some things, you won't be able to understand."

He winced as if splashed by cold water; his wish had been flung back at him. He trembled with fear as he realized that, if he couldn't grow up, he would never be able to understand something important about his mother. Tears started to trickle down his cheeks. "I need you," he whimpered.

She stood up and approached, crouching in front of him and taking his hands. "I know you need me, and I do love you, but I'm no goddess who can magically give you whatever you want."

Timmy's head jerked up. Her comment reminded him of Nimp and his power.

She continued. "I'm just a woman, your mother, who'll give you as much as I can, but you aren't supposed to be the centre of my universe. Nobody can be. It's impossible." She touched his cheek. "Grow up. Learn. When you're an adult, you'll get it."

His head hurt. I can't grow up, he wanted to scream. What was he going to do? What could he do? His head spinning in confusion, he ran to his room, where he hid in his bed and cried until suppertime.
The next day, on his way home from school, he detoured around to his father's grave, and stood at what he figured was a safe distance from the grave, in case a zombie tried to rise up and get him. "Nimp," he called. "Are you here?"

A middle-aged woman appeared above the grave. She was dressed in an awful outfit decorated in flowers whose colours all clashed with each other, and her hair was pink and frizzy. She stared across her desk at him. "Can I help you, young man?" Her voice was harsh and grating.

Timmy stood for a moment, his mouth hanging open, before he could collect his thoughts. "Um, yeah. Is Nimp around?"

"Sorry, he's on another call. I'm his secretary. Can I help you with anything?"

"Well, I wanted to ask him if he could make me so I could grow up again."

"No refunds," she snapped, and vanished.

Timmy's heart sank. Was there no going back? He kneeled down. "Dad? If you can hear me, can you help me?" There was no answer, but after a while he did get an idea. If Nimp worked from this grave, maybe there was somebody else who would help him who worked from one of the others.

He looked around and found a good starting point at one corner of the cemetery. He would go to each grave in turn and ask for help. If he didn't find any here, there was a couple of other cemeteries in the city.

#

Two weeks later, 'the boy who talks to graves,' as he had become known, was near despair. He had just about finished this the last cemetery in the city--so many graves, so much silence--and Jack, the competition for his mother's attention, had taken to visiting his home regularly, trying to make friends with him, of all things.

A man stepped from behind a monument a couple of graves from where Timmy was standing. "Hi kid," he said. "My name's Johnnie. I'm the groundskeeper here, and I've been watching you for the last few days. What are you doing this for, going from grave to grave?"

Timmy stared at the grave in front of him. "I gotta grow up."

"I don't get what you mean."

He sighed. "When my dad died a couple of years ago, a weird guy named Nimp appeared over his grave and granted me a wish."

"Which was ...?"

"To stay the same and not grow up."

"I see." He sat down on the grass. "Why'd you ask for that, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It's okay. I loved my mom and wanted everything to stay the same, just her and me. It was so good."
"What does coming to these graves have to do with that wish?"

"My mom's gonna marry a new guy, and Nimp won't let me take my wish back. I was hoping ..." A tear ran down his cheek.

"Somebody else would come and let you take it back?" Johnnie finished. When Timmy nodded, he stood up. "You aren't going to find who you need out here among the dead, kid. Come on, I'll show you the best place I can think of where you can go." He reached out his hand and Timmy took it.

They walked over to a small stone chapel in the centre of the cemetery. Johnnie unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Go on in," he said.

Timmy peered inside, then entered. He found himself looking at a plain, stone altar with several pews in front of it. He sat down in a pew on the left side at the front.

Johnnie said, "I'll come back later and lock up when you're done, okay?"

"Okay," replied Timmy, and Johnnie closed the door.

He looked around nervously. He was alone. He cleared his throat. "Is there anybody here? Can you help me grow up?" His voice seemed to echo from the cold, stone walls.

"There's no way you're going to get that wish, if I have anything to say about it!" A black-robed man appeared before him, seated at a judge's bench. He was quite plump, and was wearing an outrageous white wig. He sort of reminded Timmy of Nimp.

When Timmy could find his voice, he asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm Da Judge, kid, and you broke Da Commandments!" He picked up an ancient-looking, leather-bound book. "And for that you must die!" He leaned forward on one elbow, squinting at Timmy, and pointed his gavel at him. "Aye, guilty, guilty, guilty!"

Timmy went pale and sank down in the pew. "Die? How come?"

"Like I said, you broke Da Commandments, numbers one and two to be precise." He popped the book open and pointed.

"What are they?"

"I'm glad you asked. Let me see now." He peered at the book. "Yeah, right here. And I quote: 'You're not to have any god but the real God.' That's one. Two says, 'You're not to worship anything as god besides the real God.' Ohhh, you're guilty alright."

"I didn't do any of those things!"

"Didn't you now?" Da Judge grinned. "Who was it you chose to be the one to make you happy all your life, hmm? Was it God?"

"No." Timmy hung his head. "It was my mom."

"Bingo!" Da Judge was triumphant. "You made her your goddess. You blew it. You die."

Timmy gasped, then cried out, "Isn't there anything I can do to make up for it?"

"No," thundered a voice that seemed to come from everywhere. "There is not."

"Oh man," said Da Judge, slapping his forehead. "Always when I'm going good."

Timmy quailed, ready to run and hide, as an archway appeared in the wall to his right. Two men dressed in white robes entered, carrying an ornate chair, which looked like it was made of gold, intricately worked, with gems of many colours inlaid in its surface. They placed it on the floor by the altar, and stood at attention on either side as a man entered, also wearing a white robe, but having a long, purple cape trimmed in white trailing behind. On his head was a silver band which had a jewel inset at the front that shone brightly of itself. He sat down, and the two attendants helped arrange the long cape. They then bowed and withdrew through the arch.

The kingly man looked at Timmy. "Speak," his voice rumbled.

Timmy half stood, still poised to flee, but he gulped a couple of times, then asked, "Who are you?" in a quavering voice.

"I am God, and I wrote the Commandments."

"Oh." Timmy slumped down onto the pew. "I'm doomed."

"He's doomed, he's doomed," chanted Da Judge happily.

Timmy snapped. Terrified as he was by God's presence, he had now had enough of this guy, and desperation made him brave. "Shut up!" he screamed, standing erect and clenching his fists. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Da Judge's mouth clapped closed. Timmy, stunned and breathless, stared at him, waiting, but Da Judge was unable to say another word.

Timmy glanced at God, and giggled nervously as he sat back down, wondering if he was going to get blasted or something for yelling at Da Judge.

"Thank you for silencing him," God said, his voice having lost its rumble.

"Couldn't you do it?" Timmy asked.

"No, I didn't have the right; he came with you."

His tummy didn't feel well. "I don't get it."

"You let him into your life with that business deal you made with him, and only you have the right to push him back out. You also gave him the right to kill you for breaking the Commandments."

"No I didn't!" He knew he hadn't agreed to anything like that at all.

"He didn't tell you that part." God glared at the helpless Nimp. "My adversary never does." Nimp withered and vanished under his gaze.

"Oh." Timmy rubbed his hands on his pants. "Now what do I do?"

Unclasping his cape, God stood up. "Explain to me why you are here."

Timmy squirmed, relaxing just a little, since God hadn't yelled at him yet. "Um, I made a mistake, I guess. I wanted Mommy to look after me and make me happy all my life, so I wished not to grow up." He looked at the floor. "Am I gonna die now?"

"Death is indeed the penalty for breaking my Commandments." Tears welled up in Timmy's eyes. "Do you wish for me to correct your mistake?"

"Huh?" It took a moment for him to pick up on what God had said. "You mean you're not mad at me?"
"No, I'm not. After all, I made all boys to want to love their mothers. Your mistake was in thinking that staying her 'little man' all your life would make you happy."

Timmy sighed. "And it didn't, did it?"

"No."

"But I don't have to die for it?"

"That's up to you. Shall I correct your mistake?"

"How can you do that?"

"I can die in your place."

"But ... but you're a king, and I'm just ... me." This had to be a trick. It was too much to believe.
"'Just' you?" His eyes flared. "'Just' you?" His voice thundered again. "I made you to be all that you are, to one day rule with me." The thunder faded. "I made you to be my child. That is how important you are to me. I would much rather you grow up than die now. Will you let me take your place?"

Timmy could hardly breathe. "I ... I ..." He took a deep breath. "I'd like that a whole lot." Then a horrible thought hit him. "But what if I break another Commandment? You'd be gone."

God crouched down and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I am both man and God. As a man, I did die long ago, but, as God, I made that death to be for everyone for all time. I offer it to you now so that you don't have to die, ever."

Timmy started to cry. "I don't wanna die. I wanna grow up." Ashamed of the tears, he wiped them away with the palms of his hands, then dried his hands on his pants. Looking up at God, he sighed, then said, "Please, let me grow up."

"So be it." God stood and held out his hand, and, as Timmy got up and took it, he said, "Thank you for accepting; it means so much to me." They walked to the door, and he said, "I love you forever; don't forget that." He released Timmy's hand, strode back down the aisle, and glanced back at him with a smile as he re-entered the archway.

Timmy stepped out into the sunshine, took a deep breath as he gazed at the trees and flowers all around him, and started down the path to the street.

"You all done in there?" asked Johnnie, straightening up from a grave where he had been weeding.

"Yeah."

"Find what you were looking for?"

"Yeah, I think so. Thanks."

"Hey, no problem." He strode toward the chapel as he dug out a ring of keys. "I'll see you around."

"Yeah, see you."

Three weeks later, Timmy found out that his wish had really been taken back.

"Timmy?" His mother stared at his legs, then came over to take a closer look. She straightened his pants. "I don't believe it. Your socks are showing. Do you know what that means?" Timmy shook his head and checked for himself. "It means you've started to grow again. I guess I'm going to have to buy you some new clothes, aren't I?"

"I suppose."

By the time he entered sixth grade that fall, he was completely caught up.

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