The Cartoonist

[fiction]

Somewhere on the genome was a gene for cowlick, and that would be her first choice for gene therapy, just edit it out. Marcy sketched a double helix next to the cartoon she was working on and expanded it into a pouty face with the helix for a nose and the words gene and therapy as loopy earrings. She added a cowlick and was drawing an eye when she snapped the lead off her pencil. “Oh shit.”

“Swear jar.” Her son, Bruce, didn’t look up from playing with her calculator.

“Should we order takeout? It’s almost time to go,” she asked, but he didn’t answer.

If I lived alone, Marcy thought, I could eat and sleep and wake and work and never have to worry about anyone else. “What do you think?” She held up the face for him to see.

He glanced at it. “You didn’t put words.”

“And there should always be words?”

“Hunh.” He hunched back over the calculator with his hand hovering over the buttons and his index finger extended. He was whispering. His forehead was furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue protruded from his lips. He selected the button for square roots and giggled in delight as simple numbers transmogrified into chains of complexity.

Yes, there should always be words. Marcy nodded and began to erase.

The paper roughened and flaked but she could still see the helix. Her excitement about the face was gone, deflated and replaced by anxiety; one slip in erasing and she would need to start the cartoon again. The magic was in the unbridling—an idea quickening out of nothing and emerging in strokes on the page—helix, face, expression—but the rest was work, with fog and doubts and the ever-present feeling like flipping the cards of a lost solitaire deck too many times before throwing it in—just an appearance of motion.

Bruce squirmed and kicked, and Marcy shifted to avoid being kicked. He seemed oblivious to the sequence. And the genes for parenting, she thought. Kids were supposed to be animated and whole with a clean embrace of the world, but everything seemed harder than that for Bruce. How much of it was really mutable, and how much was fixed by the code?

A ghost impression of the face was still visible—light, evocative lines that made the cartoon look turgid by comparison. Marcy began to crosshatch over it. It was good though, she thought as she watched the face disappear, what I could do if I would stop settling. She was also remembering that she’d had an idea that would improve the cartoon just before she’d raised her head and locked eyes with the ghost dance of genetics. But the idea was gone now, crowded into the cul-de-sac of interruptions with everything else—her fretting about Bruce and his lack of response, the stabbing familiarity in the arch of his forehead and the poke of his cowlick, the clenched-up feeling that she was staring through the ass end of a telescope at a miniature of Winston, her ex-husband.

“It’s time to go,” Marcy said.

“No!”

If I lived alone, she thought, no contest of wills, no kabuki of wants. “I don’t like it when you talk back.” Marcy forced a smile. “Just five more minutes, your Dad doesn’t like to wait.” Bruce might have narrowed his eyes in response but maybe not.

Had it just been five days? Marcy felt drained. She’d already missed one deadline for Haskel, her syndicated comic, and her apartment was slumping toward unrecognizable. But the catch-up five were coming, as soon as Bruce was swapped back to Winston’s. She returned her attention to the unfinished cartoon on her sketchpad.

The ongoing success of Haskel still felt like a richly miscalculated reward for her years of frustration. What had evolved into Haskel began as caricatures that Marcy drew while she worked to support Winston’s MBA and fledgling corporate career—proto-Haskels that were witness to the succession of under-decorated apartments and toe-hold promotions—to the years when Winston and Marcy moved so often that the individual moves blurred into one long, floating exile—zen and the art of the corporate family. And by the time it was clear that only Winston was tethered to the markers and Marcy was just crew, Haskel had become a record of discord—a recounting of unsettled days and acrimonious weeks that bled out in angry seasons.

Haskel first appeared in print the same month that Marcy and Winston finalized their divorce. Haskel debuted in a women’s monthly and then moved to an arts and music weekly. By the year’s end, the local paper had contracted for a daily strip, and in another year, Haskel was in syndication.

Book-length collections of Haskels had followed and an animated film. Marcy settled into a life of minor celebrity, and Haskel matured into a harpooning of terminal guyness that drew and quartered well beyond her specific experiences. She came to partner with Haskel as fully as she ever had with Winston, the acolyte to Haskel’s dreams and the mouthpiece to Haskel’s ethos.

Marcy lifted her pencil; the cartoon was finished! Her hands had continued working even while her thoughts had wandered. Marcy added her initials and crosshatched again where the face had been.

In the first panel of the cartoon, Haskel stood with his hands in his pockets and a text bubble read: After a second divorce and a king’s ransom in therapy, Haskel could describe an ideal partner.

In panel two Haskel gestured: Strawberry blond, fond of hiking and fishing, patient and uncritical.

The final panel showed Haskel with a golden retriever.

“Are you ready?” Marcy asked.

“Look! Look what five turns into.”

“What? Turn it this way so I can see—oh nice! Try sixteen.”

“Sixteen. Clear, one, six—” Bruce wrinkled his nose, “That’s a four.”

“Four, that’s right. Are you packed?”

“I’m hungry. I want lunch.”

“You had lunch! What was the peanut butter and banana I made?”

“That was breakfast.”

Marcy flinched. Bruce had been watching television when she got up. There were cereal boxes and a half-eaten apple on the counter, but she didn’t think to ask if he’d eaten. “Bruce, there isn’t time, we’ll pick up something on the way. Your Dad gets upset if he has to wait.”

“’Donald’s is on the way.”

“Real food for dinner, no McDonald’s; we have an agreement about that.”

“Dad buys me ’Donald’s for dinner.”

“I’m sure he does, but the answer is no. Do you have everything you want in your bag?”

“You should cook like Dad does. He makes mac and cheese.”

Marcy laughed despite herself, macaroni and cheese would be a step up from the Cup O’Noodles Winston would make when they were first together. “Go find clean pants and a clean shirt. Maybe you should just take a bath.”

“Better baths at Dad’s, remember? In the ’cuzzi!”

Right, Marcy thought, the annoyance sliding easily back over her amusement. “Let’s go.”

*     *     *

Marcy had parked and was locking the car when there was a text from Winston. Still in a meeting. Bruce was skipping up the path toward the playground. He’d dislodged the toy from his Happy Meal on the drive, but Marcy had insisted he wait until the playground to eat. French fries trailed Bruce up the asphalt. Sorry appeared as a separate text a minute later. Marcy dialed Winston’s number, but he didn’t pick up. K, she texted back. She hadn’t gotten food for herself and didn’t know if she had time to do that now. She’d planned to have dinner after the handoff, wine with antipasto, then half an entree with the other half in a container for her breakfast. And asking Bruce to leave again would probably mean a scene.

By the time Marcy got to the playground, the Happy Meal was on a bench and Bruce was skimming his toy across a climber. Motor noises accompanied the skimming. She moved the Happy Meal to a picnic table and set her sketchpad and Bruce’s bag next to it.

“Bruce, I thought you were hungry.”

The volume of the motor noises increased, and Bruce moved to the far side of the climber. A boy who was playing nearby glanced at Bruce and then at Marcy. A heavyset man in a pink polo who was sitting with his wife glanced at them as well.

Marcy removed the apple slices from the Happy Meal and began to eat. She unzipped Bruce’s bag. Inside, he’d packed only three pairs of underpants and Olly, his stuffed elephant. Cinched by a belt against Olly’s belly was a carrot. Marcy took the bag of cookies from the Happy Meal and slid it under the belt next to the carrot.

The man in the polo stood and said something to his wife. He gestured at Marcy then walked in her direction. “I’m glad I’m not the only one,” he called. His polo was damp with sweat, and his lank blond hair hung over the ring of fat that girdled his neck. His voice was nasal. He pointed to the Happy Meal. “I end up with those too.” He twisted and gave a thumbs-up to his wife. Her mouth pinched up in a smile, and she returned a wave. “I didn’t want to intrude,” the man said, “but when I saw that, I couldn’t help but—am I right? We are—Compatriots!” He tapped his chest and completed the gesture with a flapping motion. He lifted his face like a herald who’d completed a proclamation. “Es buon appetito!” he trumpeted, then turned and loped back toward his bench. He was humming something that Marcy didn’t recognize.

Another family had arrived, and the mother was helping her daughter onto a rocking horse. The girl was blond like her mother, but in the set of her eyes and the shape of her nose she resembled her father. The father settled himself on a bench and took out his phone. The girl was a serial chatterer, and the sound of her prattling could be heard above the noise of the playground. She slid off the rocking horse and pointed at Bruce.

“What is that? Hey-o you?! Is that a rhi-noc-ser-sauce?” She swayed against the rocking horse. Bruce ignored her and continued to navigate his toy.

“Jackie, be careful,” her mother said.

“What is that?” The girl pivoted. “Is that? Does he have? He won’t answer.”

“It’s a toy, sweetie. Are you all done riding?”

Bruce continued to focus on his toy, but he was frowning.

“Hey-o?! What is—your name? Your name! He still doesn’t answer. That’s not polite.”

“It’s not,” her mother agreed. “But it’s because you’re a girl.”

“Way-o why? Why because I’m a girl?”

“Girls have cooties, I thought you knew that.”

“Have the cooties! No, no, no, I don’t, do you? You’re a girl.”

The mother laughed, “I did have cooties but they’re all gone. They go away when you grow up.”

“Hey-o cooties! Shoo! Go away! I don’t see any cooties.”

“Don’t be filling her head with nonsense.” The father looked up from his phone.

“Non-ser-sauce! Your name?! Is rhi–noc-ser-sauce! He still won’t answer.”

“You’re not asking the right things, honey. Boys like trucks and baseball and frogs. Try asking about those.”

“Boys like? The frogs! Hey-o! You! Your name—shoo cooties!”

“Ask who won the game today.”

“Do you like frogs? Who won the baseball?”

“The Braves,” Bruce mumbled, and Marcy turned to look at him. Bruce continued to run his toy across the climber, and he still wasn’t looking at the girl.

“Did he say? You? Like the frogs?”

“It was about baseball, Jackie. Ask again about baseball.”

“Do you like baseball?”

“Bruce, your Dad’s going to be late. We have time to go somewhere else if you want,” Marcy said.

“Who, who, who do you-hey? Like frogs?!”

Marcy stood. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but your friend will be leaving soon.”

“Good morning, good night,” the girl responded. “She talked to me.”

“She did, wasn’t that nice? But I think the boy is leaving, Jackie. Should we go and slide?”

“Good night! Good night! Rhi-noc-ster-sauce!”

Bruce plopped down at the picnic table. “I’m hungry.” He set the toy on the table and opened the Happy Meal.

“Bruce, how did you know who won the game today?” Marcy asked. Bruce frowned and seemed to be studying her. The feeling was familiar—the gesture of a chimera in the image of a pixie-ish Winston and a way of knowing things.

“You ought to be ashamed.” The heavyset man was behind Marcy.

“Excuse me?” Marcy asked.

“That little girl was trying to make a friend, and you just let your boy ignore her.”

“That little girl was being as rude as you, but at least she has an excuse.”

“Ernie,” the man’s wife put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off.

“Now isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? Missy, you should know.” His face was flushed and his voice had gotten louder.

“Ernie. Please, that’s Marcia—”

“I know who it is,” he spluttered. “And isn’t that the cheese? Big shot artist paints Haskel as insufferable, then the first thing she teaches her boy is that it’s ok.”

Marcy turned away.

“Oh cripes, ignore me too! That’s perfect. I’ll bet that’s your answer for everything. No wonder Haskel dumped you!”

Marcy spun. In her mind’s eye she saw her hand loop out and slap his face. She felt the sting on her palm and saw the welts lifting on his cheek. She saw him flinch and recoil and his mouth jerking open in a spray of spittle.

“I’m so sorry.” The man’s wife took his arm again.

Marcy exhaled. The blood was rushing to her face, and her breathing was choppy, but she hadn’t done it. There’d been no slap and no sodden, mute rejoinder. The man continued barking about her, but he’d allowed himself to be turned, and then he and his wife were walking away, and the sound of his complaint receded.

Marcy opened her sketchbook. She drew his calamarata-shaped ears and the concha lined with owlish tufts of hair, the bristle-comb of his eyebrows and the slack, mirrored curve of his mouth. Wings, she thought as her hand arced across the page, tiny stunted wings. Clem, she jotted the name next to his shoulder. She sketched suspenders and high-top sneakers, and a wheezing, rusty Ford, redolent of stale gasoline. Fireworks, barbecue, a universe of fire, and a chum for Haskel, accompanied by a plaintive, insistent soundtrack: “Haskel! Hey Haskel! Haskel, would you look at this!”

“Dad!” Bruce slid to his feet and was running up the path to meet Winston. Winston unknotted his tie and stooped to give Bruce a hug.

“Bruce!” Marcy lifted Bruce’s bag. Winston pointed and Bruce ran back for the bag. “Give me a kiss,” she said.

“The same time on Wednesday? And here again?” Winston asked and Marcy nodded, “That’s fine.”

Winston took Bruce’s bag in one hand and Bruce’s hand in his other, and Marcy watched until they’d walked out of sight. Then she resumed her drawing. She shaded dampness onto Clem’s polo and exaggerated his out-toed shoes and plump, overeager mouth. She sketched him in a variety of poses, sitting, standing, walking, then began a cartoon with the title: The Tailgate Torino. Marcy drew Clem’s Ford from the back. The trunk was open and an edge-to-edge grill had been installed. She was planning to add flames leaping from the grill and brats sputtering and Clem hovering in a toque and an apron that read: Do Brat Stuff! Clem would be grinning his lopsided grin and brandishing a barbecue fork, and, of course, calling insistently, “Haskel! Hey Haskel! Haskel, would you get a load of this?!”