A qwazy, qwazy world!

THE SECRET

 

It's magical, really magical. Mr. Callahan, my best friend's father,  walks into their house, waves his arms and the lights go on. He has no wand, touches nothing, says nothing. As he leaves the room, snaps his fingers, the lights go off. I am positive I've seen him walk across the room without his feet touching the floor. My buddy, Patrick, insists my imagination is running wild. His dad is not a wizard, can't do prestidigitation. He's a simple, normal, hard working man who runs a tight ship, makes a good living. I've asked Patrick several times just what his father does, but he has yet to give me an answer, other than he really doesn't know. My dad has told me not to ask any more as it is none of my business.

 

Of course, my mind comes up with silly, dumb, even scary ideas. 'Patrick, does your dad work for the CIA, the FBI? Is he on the Supreme Court? Is he a bank robber?' My friend takes action, pretends he is going to kick me in my jewels, and I jump back like a frightened rabbit. He laughs at me and calls me a sissy.

 

Mrs. Callahan is not a friend of my mother or is she an enemy. I'm not sure they've ever met although we have only one house between ours. But she knows me, likes me, and has had me over for dinner two or three times. My mom gives me a box of bon bons or a coffee cake to take when I go. This coming Friday's invitation has me worked up. I need to know something about Mr. Callahan's job and the magical things I've seen him do. While the men are watching the t.v., discussing politics, news, Mrs. Callahan is overseeing the kitchen. For sure the rich smell of a lasagna baking reaches my nose. Then it suddenly changes to something I don't recognize.

 

The maid in a clean white apron, a small headband holding back her long hair, motions to Mrs. Callahan that dinner is ready. So am I.
We cross from the foyer to the still unlit dining room. Barely inside, the large centerpiece, a silver candelabra, lights by itself. All of the candles burn brightly. No one touched them. There was no mechanical click. I took particular notice of Patrick who didn't seem surprised at all. There is no lasagna. I am served a large bowl of bad smelling soup. Mrs. Callahan smiles and tells me to eat up. She made Mulligan stew especially for me to try. I didn't like it but stuffed my mouth with soft white bread and eventually got it down. The rest of dinner was more to my liking, especially the ice cream flambe'.

 

After dinner, Patrick and I went to his room to play Dragons And Dungeons. I could not hold back any longer. 'Patrick, how did the candles light themselves, go out themselves? The maid was in the kitchen and she didn't do it, you and I weren't excused from the table until your parents said we could go. You had better tell me soon if your dad is a magician or some kind of freak. As usual, he ignores me, says nothing.

 

The next night I watch out of my window for Patrick to come over so we can do our homework together. I open the door before he knocks. 'Hey,' I say. 'How come your father's car is parked at the curb? Your lawn mower is just sitting in the middle of the driveway, must be in trouble. Mr. Callahan walks past the mower and goes into his house. I let out a yell. 'Patrick, the mower is moving itself off the driveway.' His reply is, 'So what?' 'So what? Your father is in the house, that's what. Does he have a gadget to do that?' 'Of course not. I'm going to let you see something special, Harvey. Watch our car!' I watch. I see. I hear the motor purr. The car backs up with nobody driving it. The steering wheel turns itself and the car pulls into the driveway, into the garage.

 

Patrick realizes he may have gone too far. 'Harv, keep staring at the empty driveway, you just might be able to see something you aren't supposed to see. I stare, blink, focus and refocus my eyes. 'What's that? Who's that?' I whisper. 'Pay attention. If you tell anybody, you'll regret it. I'll regret it. That thing is my dad's personal leprechaun. His great-grandfather passed the him to my grandfather and my grandfather passed him to me. Everybody but me was born in Belfast. The little green man has been with us too long to trace. If you tell a living soul, honest, he will die. So stop asking questions.' I stop, hurry home and tell my dad what a dumb story Patrick told me. He thinks its stupid, too.

 

In the morning I bring in the Star Trumpet for my dad to read before he goes to work. It looks strange. When I pull it out of its plastic bag, the paper is not black and white. It is damp and is light green with forest green print.

 

Mr. Callahan is fooling with his car, trying to get it started.