Action Figures

This piece was originally published in Connotation Press in 2011.

Anthony’s house is larger than mine. It has bushes in the back and undead grass and a backhouse. The backhouse is a small room with a kitchen and glass sliding doors. I don’t have a room in my house, so when he wants me to come over, he whistles, a high note then a low then another high, into my brother’s room and hopes that I hear him. Today, I did, and I ran to the room and smashed my nose against the browned window screen. Now we’re below the bushes behind his house, the ones lined perfectly against his wooden fence.

I’m learning sex from action figures. One with a yellow jumpsuit, flowered red hair, and white boots. I found her last week behind a fleet of villains and b-characters, and I yelled out to mom, “I found April!” and mom sighed when she saw me with one arm burdened with unwanted packages, the other pointing to something she knew she’d have to buy me.

The other is Leo. All beefed up, veins risen from his arms, blue bandana around his eyes, and a belt, big L in its center, wrapped snugly around his waist. They’re lying vertically in the dirt beneath the bushes, clothes on because they don’t come off, and I’m making the noises I’m thinking I’m supposed to make in this situation. OOOs and AHHs and whispers of names. I’m holding Leo above April, and Anthony is attending to our other set-up.

There, we have a makeshift contraption made of leaves and sticks and paper scraps from inside the house. There’s a medium-sized rock inside of it. This is a crib and inside is a baby. A little rock baby. Anthony is a bit older than me but seems a lot older than me. He’s three or four inches taller, and the books he brings home from school don’t make sense to me. His hair is combed back in rows, tiny columns of follicles that go up and curve just slightly, held there by mousse or hair gel. His skin is one or two shades darker than mine. I’ll grow up with him without ever knowing that much about him. But he’ll teach me to ride a bike and how to start a clubhouse, one that excludes my cousin unless he agrees to eat ants.

Interrupting one of my OOOs, Anthony makes a muffled but shrieking crying noise, which is my cue for one of my figures to come over. I choose Leo. Leaving April on her back in the dirt, I hold the plastic turtle in my right hand and hobble it over to the crib set-up. I use my left hand to move Leo’s arm vertically, up and down, joints stiff and fist slightly clenched. I hover him over the crib, his feet off the ground but his face facing the rock, and calm the little grey child.

Hey, hey, I say, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay. Daddy’s right here. The baby’s name is Johnny. Little Johnny. Daddy’s got you, I say. And here, Leo should be holding the rock but he can’t because his arms don’t allow it, restricted only to vertical movements, stuck to his side with no elbow mechanisms. Just five pieces of plastic attached at the shoulders, neck, and leg sockets. Anthony is still shrieking, and I’m trying to calm him. Or Johnny. To rub the rock softly, I have to move Leo entirely, slowly and carefully. I choose which side of the baby is his head and slide Leo’s curved fingers across it.

Everything is working here. Anthony’s squeal begins to fade when either he thinks I’ve done a sufficient job or when his lungs get tired or when he’s ready to play something else. I stay there sitting with my legs crossed around each other and look at Johnny for a second. He’s okay now, so I go back to April and lay Leo on his back in the dirt beside her. Is everything okay, I say, in a slightly high-pitched voice. Yeah, I say. He’s fine now. Okay, good. I pick up April and float her above the dirt and hold her perpendicular to Leo. I touch her face against his. The tiny pebbles and soil that were stuck to her back are grinding between her body and my hand. It’s in my nails too, my long nails. With my clean hand, I touch my palm against my left eye and rub it sideways.

Then mom is calling.

“Timothy!”

And then I’m taking my toys and leaving Johnny in the dirt with Anthony, who is saying bye and saying that maybe we can play tomorrow and saying that he’ll whistle into my brother’s window when he gets back home from school. I’m in the morning class and always get home what seems like forever before him. And then I’m running down his driveway and my mom is complaining about the dirt on my hands and then we’re eating dinner. Meat and shells and tomato sauce. My brother. My sister. My mom. Me. Dad is with Uncle Jimmy, mom says.

Mom’s never told me to wash my hands before dinner, so I’m scraping the dirt from beneath my nails while I eat and hiding my hand under the chair when I flick the soil onto the carpet.