Magpie Boy

By Beka Gremikova

Go see a show, Lindsey. Get out of the house for one evening.

My neighbors like to give advice—some of it better than others.

How can I see a musical without Amaliah? That’s like betraying her memory. My fingers clench around Tico’s leash, and he looks up from sniffing a sunshine-colored fire hydrant, whining. Ahead, the community theater’s cheery yellow bricks blaze like a torch. Posters for their upcoming shows plaster the walls. Crinkled golden leaves flutter against the rain-soaked pavement.

I’m not going in. I’m just walking by.

A bicycle bell echoes across the street, shooting shivers down my spine.

Magpie Boy.

He rides up next to me, knobby-kneed with a thin, wasted face. “Hey there, lady!” He stands on the pedals, leaning over to look me in the eyes.

I shrink back. “Hi.” Maybe one-word answers will discourage him.

“Want to see what I found?” Magpie Boy nods to the basket, stuffed with trash from the street and dangling from the handlebars. He picks at his frayed yellow shirt and doesn’t even shiver when the autumn wind blasts us.

My neighbors warned me about Magpie Boy. Say yes when he asks you to look at his collection.

“Yes.” I fiddle with my lemon-patterned scarf as he rummages in the basket. Tico paws at a patch of grass, but I tug him toward the theater. Maybe the ticket seller’s presence will discourage Magpie Boy from talking to me.

“Look!” Magpie Boy raises his hand.

My stomach drops.

He holds a dead goldfinch, its wings curved into its stiff body. I think of myself, curled up all those nights on my bed, as still as this tiny creature, dead inside.

Magpie Boy studies the bird with his lips pursed before tossing it back in the basket. “I collect things. Do you collect things?” he asks with the casual brazenness of a child who fears nothing.

Say yes when he asks if you collect things.

“Yes,” I whisper. It’s not a lie. I stuff my hands in my coat pockets, fingers tangling in balls of lint, car keys, candy wrappers, and unused tissues. A tiny, yellow chew toy that Tico adores, even though I hate its squeak.

“Do you like gifts?” Magpie Boy grins at me and offers two pieces of thin, yellowed cardboard.

And if he offers you something, take it.

He holds two Broadway tickets, stamped for an evening showing of Wicked.

My mouth goes dry.

Amaliah’s last musical. Our last happy memory before months of puke-yellow hospital halls, flashing lights on monitors, and finally, the doctor bowing his head as he murmurs, “She’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

I burned those tickets two years ago, hoping the pain would burn away with them. I guess even objects can become ghosts.

He holds them out to me expectantly.

Take them! my mind screams. Don’t upset the neighborhood ghost!

But what if I touch those ghostly cards and the grief revives? Fresh and ferocious, shutting down my body, shriveling my soul until it’s as withered as the yellow leaves on the pavement…

I can’t move.

Magpie Boy stops pedaling, and the tickets vanish from his hand. “You don’t like my gift?” he asks in a high, crackling voice, close to a screech. My ears ring.

Tico snarls, his golden fur bristling along his ruff.

My fingers lock around his leash. “I didn’t mean to offend you!”

My neighbors’ warning flashes through my mind: And if you anger him, he’ll take your joy for himself.

He grins at me. “It’s okay. I won’t be upset if you give me something. Happy memories are my favorite.”

My brain feels like it’s being sucked with a vacuum, memories rising to the surface and melting outward through the walls of my skin.

Bright autumn days.

Cozy evenings snuggled with Tico on the couch under a warm blanket.

The ring of the telephone as a friend checks in…

Magpie Boy hums to himself, smiling widely.

He’s stealing the few joys I have left. Joys that soften the long nights of grief and loneliness.

Amaliah singing along to musical soundtracks as we do dishes after dinner…

No. He can’t have these. I’ll give Magpie Boy something to collect, but it won’t be my happiness.

“Stop!” I yank my crumpled scarf over my head. “I’ll give you something else!”

He stares at me. “Something else?”

Shaking, I hand him the scarf. “Someone I love gave me this. I want you to add it to your treasures.”

Eyes wide, he runs his fingers along the soft material. “No one’s ever given me… anything.” He wraps it around his neck. When the wind blasts us again, he shivers with me and laughs. Like it’s fun to pretend he’s actually alive. Like it’s funny that someone cared enough about him to give rather than take.

“Would you like some more?” I empty my pockets, tossing candy wrappers, tissues, everything I can find into his hands.

He cradles it all tenderly, singing to himself. Tico stops growling, ears tipped forward at the boy’s soft, sweet tone.

Magpie Boy would appreciate a musical. I start walking again, and he places his things in his basket and peddles alongside me until we reach the community theater. They’re performing The Wizard of Oz tonight. It’s not Broadway. I can’t quite deal with that yet. But I think I’m ready for some baby steps. And maybe Magpie Boy will want a ticket of his own.

“Want to see a show?” I point to a poster depicting a red-ribboned Dorothy chatting gaily with a scarecrow, a lion, and a tin man while Toto dances around their heels.

Magpie Boy stares slack-jawed at the poster. “I’ve never been to a musical.”

“It’s never too late to start.” I purchase two tickets for the evening show. He sets his ticket right on top of his basket, the place of honor.

Tonight, I may attend a show with a ghost by my side, but I’m no longer haunted.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beka Gremikova hails from the Ottawa Valley, Ontario, Canada. She loves wolves, travelling, and exploring new cultures and cuisines. Her obsession with folklore and myth often weaves itself into her stories, multiple of which are published with Havok. Her writing has been included in Bingeworthy, A Kind of Death from Uncommon Universes Press and the Faces to the Sun collection edited by S.J. Blasko. She dreams of attending ComicCon in Princess Zelda cosplay.

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