Here is the full version of Hannah Simon’s story “Tickles,” part of which was published in this quarter’s issue.
Tickles
A Story by Hannah Simon
The Tickles were very small people – not midgets, not elves – just little. Mr. Tickle, a plain-speaking banker, who had trouble making eye contact with his customers over the banking counter, topped at 4’9. Mr. Tickle did have a rather portly belly which helped anchor him, especially when he sailed (his favorite pastime). Unlike Mr. Tickle, Mrs. Tickle, who was only 4’5,” weighed 59 and 1/2 pounds and had a very unfortunate experience due to a lack of anchoring. On one very windy day in Los Angeles, Mrs. Tickle, a very good scientist who worked at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, was taken from the ground and carried up across the street to the parallel sidewalk. It was quite lucky for Mrs. Tickle, as she had already planned to cross the street to buy coffee, but she did not enjoy the snickering from her heavier and stronger co-workers.
Otherwise, the Tickles got along just fine in the world. Mrs. Tickle had bought Mr. Tickle a children’s stool, meant to help children with tooth brushing at the sink, for his work so he could make eye contact with customers – he did have such pretty blue eyes. And Mr. Tickle had suggested that Mrs. Tickle carry some of his 5 pound dumbbells in her brief case on windier days. The Tickles were quite happy with their one story home (painted mint green), their cat Rudolf (the only cat they knew who smiled), and their garden gnome collection (their attempt at humor about their size).
It was one day in October when Mrs. Tickle felt somewhat dissatisfied. Mrs. Tickle sat in her sitting room, on her Pepto Bismal pink couch, and watched the neighbor children play Red Rover. The time had come to have a baby. Mrs. Tickle discussed it with Mr. Tickle, and he agreed. So, the Tickles made love – love that was strong and tall, heavier than either one of them. The Tickles made love after work, after breakfast, and before dessert. One afternoon, as Mrs. Tickle took a bite of her of Huckleberry pie, she smiled, berry dribbling down her little chin, “I’m pregnant.” So the Tickles waited, they waited for their baby to grow – to get hair and feet and nails and toes and knuckles. The Tickles felt Mrs. Tickle’s tummy, pressing on the swollen bit under her chest. They picked out names and paint colors, but the time had come when the baby stopped growing, stopped kicking, stopped breathing. Mrs. Tickle was too small, the baby was too big. Mr. Tickle had suggested that they get another cat, but Mrs. Tickle refused to replace her baby with a cat. Mrs. Tickle carried the baby till the end, till the doctors let it out. They held a funeral for the little pink lump. The Tickles got a little coffin and little bows – they tied them neatly around the wood and said goodbye.
Mr. Tickle grew a mustache and Mrs. Tickle painted her nails, but that previously swollen bit was now empty, emptier than before – the love was gone, all gone. Mrs. Tickle had taken off work and spent much of her time on her pink couch listening to opera. One Wednesday afternoon in November, Mrs. Tickle had proved herself exceedingly mournful by wearing the dress she had worn to her mother’s funeral – a sorrowful black lace piece with no shape. Rudolf, a sensitive cat, met Mrs. Tickle in the sitting room, climbed up onto her empty lap, and purred. Mrs. Tickle scratched under Rudolf’s orange ears, and he smiled graciously. Mr. Tickle, hoping the cat would provide his wife tender companionship, went out to mow the lawn just before the doorbell rang. Mrs. Tickle set the cat on the floor and walked over to the front window. There was a tall man standing at the door with a dark green brief case – he looked very tan. Mrs. Tickle did not find the man’s appearance to be particularly threatening and felt that it would do no harm to hear what he wanted. When Mrs. Tickle opened the door, the man smiled like he knew her. Mrs. Tickle felt very strongly that this man knew of her sorrows, her emptiness, that he knew of the cryings she practiced nightly sitting in the shower with the tub faucet on, water burning her knees, the tiny coffin wrapped with little blue bows.
“Hello Mrs. Tickle, I am Jack.”
Jack was quite tall and unworldly. His tan skin radiated pink light, his blue eyes sunk deeply in his head, giving him a sympathetic quality. His three piece suit was grey, but purple when Mrs. Tickle studied it. His hair, blonde, was side-swept and stiff, yet soft and malleable. Mrs. Tickle, still concerned by the man’s peculiar appearance, failed to respond.
“Hello, Mrs. Tickle. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” With a few minutes of staring, Mrs. Tickle collected herself, and said hello.
“If you please, I am here to offer you something you will not want to miss.”
“My husband is out back. Mowing.” Mrs. Tickle, now feeling vulnerable, wished to make it clear a man was present, one that was operating heavy machinery.
“Yes, your Mr. Tickle, he may want to hear this too.”
“What will you offer me? Are you selling soap? I have just bought some lavender milk soap.” Mrs. Tickle was too kind to shut the door in the man’s face, even though she now wanted him gone.
“No, my occupation is not selling, but… borrowing.”
“Borrowing?” The buzz of the lawnmower now gone, Mr. Tickle stepped behind his wife.
“Yes, borrowing. Hello there Mr. Tickle.”
“This man says he wants to borrow something from us.”
“We are out of sugar.” Mr. Tickle tried to get the tall man to go away.
“No, Mr. Tickle. You, borrow from me. Children.”
Mrs. Tickle, felt the previously swollen bit of her stomach pull, puff up and fall, form a knot and twist. She let out an audible measure of discomfort. Mr. Tickle, now holding her hand, started to close the door, “Quack,” he said.
“No! Let him inside.” Mrs. Tickle gently released Mr. Tickle’s grip on the door. “Please, Mr. Jack, tell me about this child borrowing.”
After everyone was seated in the sitting room. Mr. Tickle spoke firmly, “Now, what is this business? You rent out children?”
Jack, now more comfortable, crossed his hands on his lap and said, “Well, plainly speaking, yes.”
“And this is all legal, and, and… and ethical?”
“Yes, perfectly so.”
Mr. Tickle, as little as he was, was an assertive man. “Now, if you are trying something on me and my wife…”
“Please.” Mrs. Tickle interrupted her husband, she trusted Jack, the depth of his eyes.
“You see.” Jack started. “It is genetically impossible to choose anything about the qualities, the features, or talents about your biological child. Adopting is another gamble, it is so final, not much room for a warranty. We think this borrowing is better for the child and the prospective parent. After adopting a child… what if you hate him? You can’t take a kid back. They want them gone anyways, they don’t care who with– they are pounds really.”
Mrs. Tickle, enchanted by Jack, nodded. Mr. Tickle, hesitated, he thought this man was a kook, comparing children to abandoned pets. Jack tried to ease Mr. Tickle into his spiel.
“Mr. Tickle, do you like sports?”
“Yes. I enjoy water-polo and sailing.”
“A water-polo man. Now, say your biological son hates water, allergic, can’t stand the stuff.”
“Well I guess I would let him try football.”
“But you see, you don’t have to adjust, you can simply find a son with your same interests, talents – the son you have always wanted.”
“Well, I guess that would be nice.”
“You guess? We can book you your own dream child right now.”
“Our dream kid, eh?”
“Yes, to a T.” Jack pulled out a very stuffed binder with laminated pictures of children with profiles about them on the opposing pages written in perfect cursive. Mr. Tickle, now torn between ethics, his dream son and the happiness of his wife, asked to speak with his wife alone. Jack, nodded, and slipped out onto the porch with his fat binder.
“Darling, I want a child.” Mrs. Tickle was determined.
“But, he’s practically dealing them like narcotics.”
“How could you say such a thing?”
“My dear Mrs. Tickle, I am only thinking of you.”
“I want a child.”
“Fine. Okay. Let’s look.” Mr. Tickle took a large breath and let go of his wife’s hand, and called for Jack. When Jack came back inside, he already had a page marked with an index card.
“Are you ready Tickles?”
“Yes, Jack. We are.” Mr. Tickle loved his wife, and if renting a child would secure her happiness, then rent a child they would.
“Now you see… Number 38 is, what I believe, the perfect son for you.”
“Number 38?” Mr. Tickle, did not like the idea of children being numbered like parking spaces.
“Yes, he is a very strong boy, eight years old, excellent at math, and a duck to water, a real duck Mr. Tickle. You see? This boy was born to play water-polo, he is already a size 16 in shoes. Feet like flippers, with a future in accounting… banking even. Strong jaw, green eyes, you will like him Mrs. Tickle, a very handsome boy.”
“Size 16 eh?” Mr. Tickle doubted Jack.
“Yes, Mr. Tickle 16.” Jack handed Mrs. Tickle the binder.
“Oh… he is a handsome boy, such a nice profile. Is… is he tall? You see, we have not had that fortune. It’s not been the easiest to be…” she stopped herself, “it might be nice to have someone to reach the sugar without a stool.”
“I understand you perfectly. He is 5 feet and 5 inches, Mrs. Tickle.”
“5’5”? And eight years old?” Mr, Tickle continued to mutter doubtful things under his breath.
“I assure you Mrs. Tickle, this boy will be able to reach your ceiling in good time. Should I book you an appointment? We allow you to keep him up to two weeks.”
“Well…well,” Mr. Tickle stuttered, “what would we call this boy, number 39?”
“It’s 38 darling.”
“Well Mr. Tickle, you may call him what you like… son, champ? buddy? You may even give him a nice Christian name if you wish, he will respond… Just don’t call him late for dinner!”
“Ahhhh, haha, oh Jack.” Mrs. Tickle was smitten, and Mr. Tickle didn’t like it.
“I can have him arrive as soon as tomorrow morning.”
“Oh yes, Jack, please do.”
“Uh dear, shouldn’t we talk more about this number 38? I have a dentist appointment tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, hush, you can cancel that. You can have a son, dear, a son of our very own.”
“A borrowed son.” Mr. Tickle continued to mutter.
“Honey… please.”
“Uh, Mr. Jack, I would like another moment with my wife.”
“Take all the time you need.” Jack was back on the porch, Mr. Tickle liked him there.
“What is the problem dear? It’s just a trial.”
“I, I… just think its too strange… how does he know we lost… we want a child?… it’s just so…”
“I know. But, sweetheart. You know how we have struggled… our size. Everything is so hard, do you want that for your child? This way we can chose. Its like we have our very own child catalogue. You know you are a terrible swimmer… this boy could be a star, and we can watch him grow healthy and strong. He can be as smart and as tall as we want him to be. I want this.”
“I guess it would be nice to pick what we want. Get our money’s worth…”
“Now, will you please do this with me? Please.”
“Fine… it’s just a trial.”
Jack waited for a pause and opened the door, “We will arrive at 9 A.M. sharp?”
“Yes, Jack, we want him. Should I make the boy breakfast?”
“I am sure that would be lovely.” Jack made his way to the door. “I will bill you. Good day, Tickles.”
“Bill us already?” Mr. Tickle didn’t get up.
“Goodbye Jack, take care… see you tomorrow.” A waving Mrs. Tickle glared back at her husband as she shut the door.
“You cannot expect this to be free, can you? Now, I am going to get some fresh sheets from the closet, then to the store, we need flour for pancakes!”
Mr. Tickle, still unsure, was happy to see his wife active and not moping with Rudolf. He did like pancakes for breakfast – he would see this out.
The boy arrived 9 A.M. sharp. The Tickles had never in there life seen an 8 year old boy with such sculpted biceps. Number 38 was very tall and his feet were the size of baby dolphins – his description was quite accurate. 38 brought a red duffel bag packed with tee shirts and swim trunks. The Tickles did not have a pool, but number 38 had been told that there was a community center with an Olympic sized pool that Mr. Tickle would be glad to take him to. Mrs. Tickle welcomed the boy in and helped him place his things in the guest room. Number 38 knocked over several framed photographs off of the Tickle’s walls with his broad shoulders on his way down the hallway, breaking the glass off of three of them. The Tickles made 38 a very nice bed out of their futon and dressed it with soft blue sheets and blankets. 38 was not very talkative, and the Tickles left him to his own silence. At breakfast 38 put away 7 pancakes very quickly, yet complained they were too dry. Number 38 was not very polite and neglected to say please and thank you when he was served. Mrs. Tickle was disappointed, she had always imagined she would mother a polite child, one who wore glasses. While Mrs. Tickle cleared the table and swept the hallway, Mr. Tickle suggested he and the boy walk to the pool.
At the pool 38 was very much like a duck to water, he swam around and kicked athletically. Mr. Tickle remained in the shallow end. He had never actually played water-polo. 38 secured a ball from the community pool bin and began tossing it around in the water. “Hey Mr. Tickle, play catch with me.” 38 swam further to the deep end to get a good distance, he tossed the ball to Mr. Tickle. Mr. Tickle, who had not yet agreed to play, watched the ball travel through the air, preparing to catch it. The ball was hurled with great strength, and Mr. Tickle was not equipped to catch it – he took it in the mouth. A swelling of blood collected above his mustache and flowed to his lips. The cut was very deep and the blood very thick. Mr. Tickle’s surrounding water, now very pink, drew attention to the little man. Mr. Tickle held his face, trying to plug the wound, and got out.
“Aw, wow, what a hit!” Number 38 bragged more than apologized.
“Oh, I’ll be fine… it was just an accident.”
Mr. Tickle did not like the burning sensation, he wished they had never gone to the pool.
When they got back, Mrs. Tickle dressed Mr. Tickle’s wound the best she could. “If you didn’t have that silly mustache I could clean it up better,” Mrs. Tickle who had never spoken ill of the mustache before, hated it from the start. “You will get an infection, I am sure of it.” When Mr. Tickle disappeared into their bedroom, still holding his face, Mrs. Tickle could see that 38 was dripping chlorinated water all over her newly polished hardware floor. “Well dear, why don’t you go rinse off and get some dry clothes.”
When 38 left for his room, Mrs. Tickle found more broken things. Her favorite porcelain deer, smashed to crumbs on the floor. The piece was so delicate she didn’t even hear it break.
“Oh dear, my deer,” she said. The deer had been a gift from her mother. Mrs. Tickle felt the knot build in her stomach again, the place where the baby lived tightened. After Mr. Tickle came out, they decided that once 38 was clean and dry they would drive him back to Jack, such a boy could never become a Tickle.
The very next day, Jack brought over number 93, a 7 year old Swedish boy – an exceptional reader with a large appetite. Jack had assured the Tickles that 93 was more careful in hallways and tested at college level in reading – “An absolute wunderkind Tickles, likely to study English at Princeton before he’s 16.” The boy said less than 38, and was very fat for such a young person – he wanted 12 pancakes. 93 kept to himself as he read Mr. Tickle’s copy of Moby Dick. When 93 did speak his words were very large and insulting towards the Tickles. He claimed their cat Rudolf was a nuisance to society, because cats were the reason for the Aids epidemic. The Tickle’s could hardly afford to feed such a fat boy, especially one who was so abrasive. He too was returned.
In addition to 93, the Tickles borrowed numbers 12, 102, and 26. 12, the opera prodigy, sang too much, 102, the sailing novice, swore too much, and 26, “the scientist,” cried for his real mother, whom he had claimed was still around somewhere, perhaps lost at a shopping mall. The Tickles were quite discouraged, these children had hardly the “bells and whistles” they had been promised to have, and even if they did, they were exceedingly unpleasant.
“Are we being too picky my dear?” Mrs. Tickle’s knot had grown substantially throughout the borrowing process and pressed severely on the empty patch of her stomach.
“I don’t know my dear, maybe we aren’t cut out to be parents.”
“That is nonsense, you have such kind eyes. Kind-eyed men always make good fathers.”
The Tickles were through with borrowing, it had taken too much out of them – their nerves and their little home. Mrs. Tickle went back to JPL and Mr. Tickle went back to his banking stool. Months had passed before they received another visit from Jack. It was a sunny Saturday in March and the Tickles had planned a beach day, Jack was the last person they wanted at their door. Jack was, however, not alone. A small girl, the size of a toddler, yet with the features of a first grader stood behind him. Mrs. Tickle was going to throw Jack out, but the little girl was too darling and fragile to turn away.
“Hello Mrs. Tickle, I know we have had bad luck, but I know now what you need.”
“Who is this little girl?” Mrs. Tickle admired the child’s large blue eyes, bright like her husband’s.
“Tickles, this is Lily… she is 6 and 1/2.” Jack didn’t need to say anything more. The Tickles were in love, and Lily they would keep. Lily proved to be a wonderful Tickle, she liked to smile with Rudolf, sail with her father, and listen to opera with her mother while lying, belly down, on their Pepto Bismol couch. The Tickles were careful to put dumbbells in Lily’s backpack on windy days at school and provide stools for her in every room in their house. Lily had no great talents. She was dyslexic, tone deaf, afraid of chemicals, and too small to swim, but she was warm when Mrs. Tickle held her and knew to gently kiss her father’s mustache scar when he was sad. When Lily rested her little head on Mrs. Tickle’s stomach, Mrs. Tickle felt safe – the knot had finally untied.
© 2011 Hannah Simon
