Chapter 10
10
PINOCCHIO
I t’s a gray-sky afternoon, perfectly appropriate considering what Lampwick just told me. I follow my buddy to the graveyard outside of town. There’s a long fence, a tiny gate, and, of course, rows and rows of tombstones. We enter the public grave keeper’s cottage, the office for organizing the cemetery. Admittedly, I’ve never been here, since we buried our pets in the backyard. This is a cemetery for people after all.
At the front desk lies a book, and my friend opens it, revealing a chart.
“What are we doing here?”
“I need you, Pinocchio.” He looks so serious, and I could gaze into his green eyes for hours. Has he always been this handsome? The fact that he called me by my real name makes me shake my head. This must be important. “I can’t read, but you can.”
I gulp and nod. I have some inkling as to what he wants to do here, but I need him to say it. “What…does this have to do with your list?” I ask, my voice wavering in this somber environment.
After a weighted pause, Lampwick quietly says, “The list is about all I need to do in town. For this, I need…closure. While I attended my mom’s funeral as a kid, I never got to say goodbye to my dad.”
“Really?” My heart clenches in sympathy. The mere thought of losing Papa has my eyes burning.
“Yes.” He taps my shoulder. “Please, Pinocchio. Find him.”
I nod and look down at the map. I knew Lampwick’s parents were a sore subject, but now he needs my help to confront this part of his past. When he tells me his papa’s name, I run my fingers along the list of deceased buried here.
My memory takes me back to being a little kid and learning about Lampwick’s past. On one of our many days at the Land of Toys, Lampwick and I were lying against our favorite tree, staring at the stars and out at the other kids. We were tired from a whole day of rides and games, and stuffed with pie and chocolates. Looking back, the diet was terrible, all a trap to make us give in to our vices.
In the distance, I spied another boy smash a cuckoo clock with a baseball bat, and it reminded me of home. I had only been sentient for a few months, but I knew I loved Papa.
“What’s wrong, Sticks?”
That one simple question made my emotional kid brain churn with sorrow. “It’s not important.”
“Sure it is. You can tell me anything,” he added, his voice softer.
“I just…I kind of miss my papa.”
Lampwick snickered. “Why?”
I shrugged and stared at the grass between my feet. “He’s my papa,” I replied, dolefully.
“Just because he’s your dad doesn’t mean you owe him anything.”
“Doesn’t it though?” I looked at him, skepticism likely all over my wooden face.
“Of course not.” Lampwick looked out at the wonderful, kid-fueled chaos of the park. “Why should we owe our dads anything? They’re always bossing us around, and they don’t give us food we like.”
“But I think it’s so we can be healthy,” I replied.
“Some days they don’t give us food at all,” my friend said, ignoring me.
“What?” No food? That’s neglect, something Papa would never do.
Lampwick frowned and picked stray pebbles off his clothes. “They get mad at us when we don’t work hard enough. They hit us when we tell them secrets. They always say they wish we were never born. They—”
“Woah, Lampwick, what?!” I yelped.
He froze, still not looking at me. “Dads…don’t do that,” I said.
He scoffed. “You think I did this to myself?” He lifted part of his red hair to reveal a scar on his temple.
“Huh?” I whispered, leaning forward.
His face fell and he took a long, drawn-out breath. “He told me…he told me not to tell anyone, not that the police would believe a bad kid like me. He told me to say it was an accident.” I could hear his voice breaking.
“Lampwick…you should tell someone about that.”
“None of that matters. We’re here in the most amazing park, ever. We get to have fun, be ourselves, and no terrible dads can hurt us anymore.”
“Dads don’t…hurt their kids. They’re not supposed to. My papa would never —”
“Well then you’re the lucky one, Pinocchio!” He barked his words with venom, looking at me with anguish.
My eyes stung; if I had tear ducts I probably would have cried. Without thinking it over, I pulled him in and held him tight. Boys didn’t give hugs to other boys, but I liked it when Papa did that for me. So, I did that for the only other person I cared about. I held Lampwick tight under the tree, and the world disappeared around us. I patted him on the back and let him cry.
“I wish I had a Papa like yours,” he whispered with a broken voice.
“It’s okay. Shh...no one will hurt you.” I rubbed his back up and down, wanting so badly to take his pain away. I vowed in that moment to never bring up Lampwick’s family again. More than that, I swore I would do whatever it took to make my best friend feel safe.
Not long after that, we would be ripped apart from each other when he would be turned into a donkey. But despite my continued journey battling a sea monster and finding Papa, I made it a priority to search for my best friend again. We forged a connection, an invisible string that could never be cut.
* * *
No one is around when we make it to the grave. We spot the humble tombstone in a far corner, with no extra carvings or anything ostentatious. It’s situated less than four feet away on all sides from other graves. I say a silent prayer to all the departed souls around me —nothing is more humbling than being around memoirs of the dead.
“This is him alright,” Lampwick mutters. My friend crouches and touches the tombstone. It’s quiet, and the cloudy autumn sky makes for an appropriately somber atmosphere.
“I’ll…give you a moment,” I say, stepping back a few feet.
“No need, I’ll be quick,” he says. Where I expected tears or any emotion at all, my friend sounds sterile, like he’s going through the motions.
“Dearest Father. I’m back. I returned to see you. You were one of the last things on my list to close this chapter of my life.” He clears his throat and stands up. He takes two steps backward until he’s almost next to me, never taking his eyes off the grave. The gravity of this moment is so heavy it makes my pulse pound in my ears.
He takes a deep breath and then sighs. My fingers ache to reach out to hold his hand, but I refrain. Like an unspoken rule between us, I know Lampwick needs to get this off his chest.
“I loved you, Dad. But I also hated you for hurting me.” He touches his temple. “Every time I see my own face, I see the scar you gave me. You inflicted pain on me because I think you were unhappy with your life. A life without Mamma, and all you had to show for it was me, your troublemaking son who couldn’t read and who didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”
I glance at my friend, unsure of how cathartic this conversation is. I expected more love, but as my buddy made it clear years ago, his relationship with his father was much different than mine with Papa.
“So, goodbye, Papa. You were awful, and I hope to be a better man than you ever were.”
My jaw drops. Before I can suggest Lampwick say something else, he’s gone, trouncing past the other graves. I have no choice but to chase after him, but not before silently apologizing to his father’s grave.
Later that night, I watch as my friend crawls into his little floor bed. I adore having him here, and most nights I read something to him. So, I place a book about sea monsters on my lap, underneath the candlelight.
To my dismay, my friend doesn’t even acknowledge me. He turns over in bed, his back towards me. I gulp. “Um…do you want me to read something?”
“No,” he replies quietly. I imagine he’s emotionally drained. Out of all the people he’s had to make amends for in town, the one who’s exhausted him the most is the man who’s not even alive.
“Okay. Goodnight, Lampo,” I say. I snuff out the candle and curl into bed. After a minute, I can tell my friend isn’t sleeping. I’ve memorized the sounds of his calm, slumbering breathing, and his wakefulness; best friends just know that about each other.
“Pinocchio, can I ask you a question?” His voice is almost trembling.
“Of course,” I reply quietly. I lean over the bed and gaze at him in the dark.
“Would you…ever physically hurt your son?”
“No,” I reply without hesitation. I think I know where he’s going with this, but I need to hear him say the words.
“Not even if he wasn’t what you expected?”
Lampwick sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. “What…what did your papa do to you?”
“He…he hurt me. Beat me with a shovel when I was seven.”
Fear fills my heart, but I persist and ask, “Why?”
“Because…I kissed a boy. The neighbor kid and I kissed. I had a crush on him.”
My brain freezes at his confession. He had feelings for a boy ? I don’t have time to unravel that, because my best friend is breaking down two feet away from me.
“Lampwick…”
“He told me everything I am is wrong. All because I liked one boy. That was the moment he stopped wanting to be close to me.” My friend sniffs and my heart breaks even further.
Without thinking, I’m down on the ground. Lampwick sits up, and I hold him tight. He cries and cries, the tears I expected at the graveyard earlier.
“Pinocchio,” he says, his voice a raspy, broken tone by my ear. “You won’t hurt me or leave me, will you?”
“No, never,” I reply. I sniff as tears fall down my face. Carding my hands through his hair, I embrace him closer and breathe him in. “I would never do anything like that. You have me, Lampwick. You’re safe with me forever.”
“Okay.” He nods and sobs, and my soul aches. “I…I hate my father so much. I know you don’t think I should, but I do,” he whispers.
“It’s okay.” I pat his head.
“Please don’t see me the way he did,” he rasps.
My heart shatters, but I hold him tighter, quietly vowing to never let him hurt again. “I couldn’t, I won’t,” I whisper. “You’re so much more than what he said. With me, you’re safe, Lampwick.”
After a minute of quiet sobbing, we shift so that we’re both lying on the floor on our sides. In the darkness, lit only by the moonlight, I hold my best friend close to me. I kiss the back of his head just to comfort him, and eventually his shivering subsides. When he stops crying, his breathing slows, and gradually, sleep overtakes us both.