Short fiction · Previously unpublished
Copyright © Andrew Breslin. All rights reserved.
The little girl beside the well cried, sobbed, blubbered, and wept. She trembled in her misery, taking in breath fitfully, only to let it out again in long and anguished wails. The tears seemed to come from an inexhaustible source, all of Neptune’s oceans behind her blue-green eyes. An observer would suspect she were in danger of dehydration if her melancholy did not soon lift. The salty water welled up briefly in her dimples before pouring down her face in tiny saline rivers. On this perfect June afternoon, the child wailed and wept as if it were the very last day of the world, and raining too.
Evidence of better times in the not-so-distant past surrounded her. Coloring books lay scattered, well worn crayons atop them. From the big box, complete with puce and burnt sienna. But she was not an artist content with a single medium. Many brightly colored pieces of chalk were at the ready, and on the smooth brick of the well, three stick figures were doodled, basking in the rays of a chalky yellow sun. A small menagerie of non-indigenous stuffed animals populated the region, a lion, a giraffe, a zebra and some unidentifiable creature that might have been an ancient ancestor of modern stuffed platypuses. But none of these could ease the child’s broken heart, and every tear that flowed was wetter than the last.
“Now, now dear. Don’t cry,” the man who approached instructed uselessly. “There, there,” he said. A thin man, and tall. Six foot if he were an inch, and he was that. He wore a dilapidated straw hat, a sorry haberdasherial wreckage that had far too many holes to keep out sun or rain. One would guess he’d stolen it from a local scarecrow. He looked as if he might be a local scarecrow, though there was no menace in his manner and only the most cowardly crows would give up a chance at free corn in the face of such an affable bumpkin.
“Now what’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice the quintessence of paternal sympathy.
Her breath escaped in tortured fits and starts. She inhaled deeply, tried to speak, but failed, too overcome with grief. She repeated the attempt, but sobs drowned her speech again. Finally she mustered her courage, took in one deep breath and gasped out, “My dolly fell down the well!”
The kindly man stepped up to her and patted her curly head, trying to soften the blow of this tragedy. “Oh now don’t you go crying, sweetie. You have lots of other toys,” he reasoned.
“But this was Little Miss Molly! She was my favorite!” she protested, the flow of tears unabated.
“I’m sure your Mommy and Daddy will buy you a new doll.”
“B.b.b.but Daddy lost his job when the fak-tree closed down, and he says he can’t buy me any new toys now!” she blubbered.
The man shook his head in sympathy. “Well, that’s just a crying shame, sweetie. I’ll tell you what, my niece left some dollies at my house, and I know she’ll never miss them. I’ll get one and you can have it.”
Amidst ever moister sobs, she sputtered out, “But my Granny gave her to me right before she went to stay with God!”
She lowered her head onto her hands, all hope of happiness utterly destroyed. Her whimpering was muffled now, and the tiny body quaked in misery. A little blonde ball of despair.
The tall man was moved. He found a tear escaping his own eye in the face of this emotional trump card. A child’s weeping is contagious and he knew he’d have to put an end to it right there, lest all the world catch it and fall down wailing. It was far too nice a day for that.
“OK, sweetie, calm down,” he said, patting her head again. “We’ll get Little Miss Molly. My truck’s parked just up yonder and I’ve got some rope.”
The tears relented slightly, the fountain becoming a slight trickle. “Oh, thank you, mister,” she beamed, her dimples glowing, the moisture on her cheeks brilliantly refracting and reflecting the afternoon sun.
He returned with the rope, over 50 feet of sturdy twine, knotted every yard for easy climbing. He looked down into the deep well, but could see little. The sun was low in the sky, throwing all but the highest regions in shadow. He tested the structural integrity of the metal bar that once was used to lower a bucket down into the depths, finding it solid and unyielding, more than sturdy enough to bear his weight.
He removed his cherished hat and laid it on the ground beside the well, revealing a head most of the hair had long since abandoned. He tied the rope to the metal with a careful double knot, giving it a good yank for reassurance. He dropped the other end down the well and prepared to descend.
“Don’t worry dear, we’ll have your dolly back in no time.”
“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!” the little girl said, smiling broadly now. The man’s balding head disappeared as he made his way down the rope.
The little girl reached for her Snow White coloring book, now opened to a picture of Doc, who was colored far outside the lines. She cast the book aside and picked up the serrated knife that lay beneath. She hummed a happy tune as she sawed away at the rope. The knife was sharp, her hand practiced, and in a few moments, the rope broke. A brief but impassioned scream preceded a reverberating splashy thud.
The little girl laughed. She returned the knife to beneath the coloring book, then executed a spinning dance while singing a song she had composed herself.
It’s a sunny sunny day!
Nothing to do but play!!!
It’s a sunny sunny day!
Nothing to do but play!!!
She stopped spinning to pick up a piece of green chalk and with a few deft strokes added a fourth stick figure to accompany the other three on the side of the well.
She sang and danced a little more, then sat back down on the ground and started crying again, as if she’d never stop.
The End