The Return
Maggie Mud-and-Snails put her luggage down and looked at the house with
suspicion, hands on hips. It certainly looked like the old place
deep down in its bones, but there was a certain air about it, a sort of
superficial jauntiness, that told her that her own people were long
gone. She checked the address on the grubby piece of paper in her
hand. Yes, it was the same: 558 Loop Drive. She decided to
have a look around the grounds, for old times' sake, to see what she
could see.
She
wasn't worried that any new owner would notice her. Maggie was
part of that particular piece of reality called Imaginary, and as such
was used to most folks not paying her any mind. If anyone could
have seen her on that late October afternoon, they would have observed a
small person about three feet high, wearing a green dress that on closer
examination was made of long stems of grass. On even closer
examination they would see that the grass was growing right out of her
body, which was dark gray mud, flecked with pebbles and the fragments of
snail shells. Her hair, which from a distance might be taken for beaded
cornrows, was a cluster of snail shells, point up, thrust into the mud
of her head.
If
the hypothetical observer had stuck around this long and been bold
enough to get a little closer, they would have seen that this uncanny
little girl was squinting her shiny black eyes and settling her molded
mouth in tight judgement. And now they would have certainly fled
in anticipation of trouble as Maggie began a determined march of
inspection across the front yard.
She
noted sadly that the sheltering ash trees were gone, although the pecan
trees had grown statelier and were finally producing nuts. She
reached down and picked up a partly decayed pecan, the inside black and
wormy and withered. She looked at it a moment, and then popped it
in her mouth and crunched it up, shell and all.
A
burst of flavor, long untasted but never forgotten, filled her cheeks:
the unmistakable tang of the homesoil, drawn up through the roots of the
tree and partially released into the earth again. This abided;
this was flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone, still. Her
expression softened a little, and there was a bit more shine in her eyes
as she went on, cautiously, attentively, slowly tuning herself to the
subtler vibrations of memory and time.
The
half-rectangle sidewalk that connected the front porch to the back was
another loop of time, a hoop of turning energy that flowed like a
concrete stream at Maggie's feet. She stepped onto it, and, though
it was solid to the touch, she felt something like a great wind pushing
at her back, trying to hurry her along. The little mud girl felt
that if she let go, she might tumble along that stream forever.
She fought it. Planting herself firmly, she took one slow
deliberate step after another, looking attentively side to side.
Maggie paused when she came to the crook in the pavement just where it
turned at the garage. Off to the left there was a pale, silvery
light hovering over a patch of ground. She stared at it, then
reached out her palm tentatively to feel. A wave of sorrow, anger,
resignation, love, and--was it astonishment?--radiated toward her
hand.
Something important had happened here, and the emotions lingered, but
she could make nothing of it. All she could tell was that it had
mattered hugely to her people, and not to anyone else who had come
after. Maggie bowed her head, then in tribute she broke off her
little finger and crumbled it to dust and tossed it toward the
light. The specks circled the glimmer as if caught in a whirlwind,
turning to shimmering motes like a dust of diamonds, and were
gone. She moved on.
Notes
Maggie was, of course, my 'imaginary friend' from childhood, named (if I'm remembering correctly) after my Mom's friend who came over to play Chinese checkers with her, but otherwise sharing no other elements. I seem to remember quite consciously making her up, never really 'believing' in her as such, but somehow thinking it would be nice to have an imaginary friend (such things featured quite a lot in popular culture, especially in family comedies in those days, like My Three Sons or Family Affair). Another element (unconscious) was that it would be something to make me stand out from the herd of brothers. Maggie might have even been the childhood equivalent of the Anima I have mentioned here before. Anyway, she has worked her way into several of my short stories (like Come Together and Friend You Haven't Met). Mud-and-Snails was a name I only added much later. There is also this poem:
Maggie Was
Maggie was
Mud and snails one day
And beautiful the next.
Maggie had
A birthday every day
And grass for lunch.
Maggie lived
Behind the mysterious door
With the water heater.
Maggie's friends
Were innumerable invisible mice
and Ghosty Ghost.
Maggie spoke
Only to me
And I told her tales to my brothers.
Maggie's still
A part of me
And never really left.
October 21, 02015
John reminds me that it was Wahoo that they played, a game involving the same type of board and marbles, and including dice. Also he says the friend's name was Agnes; though Maggie might well have been her nickname. Their board (which was a big heavy ring of wood) was kept tucked between the sink and the refrigerator.
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