(no subject)
The Krelborns are big-hearted people with a lot of kids. Different shades, different colours, even one or two different accents (Li, from China, and Emmaline from Jamaica).
They live in Rosemead, California, within spitting distance of the San Bernardino Freeway where the bums wander and the migrant workers wait for their trucks. Wanda and Horace struggle as best they can; Horace drives a bus, Wanda works as a clerk at Walmart. The government pitches in, because they are part of L.A.’s childcare system. The synagogue pitches in, because they’re proud of this humble family for giving so much for the glory of the kingdom. Their house is too small, and always messy - but by God, they get to school only five minutes after class starts and to temple (mostly) on time.
Seymour remembers the Krelborns fondly. He was given to them as a baby. He grew up with them, with kids that came and went. They gave him their name, their religion, congratulations when he brought home his first (and only, it turned out) B, a shoulder to cry on when he came home with broken glasses, a toy every Hanukkah.
Like all families, they have their little rules. You don’t bother Horace during a baseball game. You cover your ears if Horace starts swearing after the game. You walk on eggshells a few days after that, because Horace will snarl at any mistake and Wanda will be wrapped up in her protective cocoon, only giving a “That’s nice,” or “Mmhmm,” to anything you say. If you wake up in the night with a wet bed as Seymour often did, you have to listen at the door to the master bedroom for any moans and whimpers (which means Mommy and Daddy love each other. Seymour remembers thinking dubiously that when he whimpers, it means he’s getting tripped or punched.)
If Seymour is overlooked from time to time, well, they are a big family. Some kids (Li, Westley, Eriqua) act out for attention. Other kids (Rita, Jesse, Colt) excel for attention. Then there were those who were neither troubled nor gifted, and one of those is Seymour Krelborn.
When they’re alone, Seymour is ‘son’. The Krelborns are very careful about using first names the rest of the time, but there are one or two beautiful, stolen moments of aloneness between the Krelborns. The real Krelborns.
One of the times he was called son was when, at age nine, he was adopted.
Wanda Krelborn is large woman. She walks Seymour to the Rosemead’s CFS centre in sweatpants and a T-shirt that billowed out like a white sail, flesh sliding and jiggling underneath it. They sit in the comfy chairs in the hallway. Wanda keeps smoothing down his hair. Seymour can see Mr. Mushnik talking to the director.
Wanda and Horace brought him into the living room last night. Wanda started crying - which she’d been doing nonstop all day; when she served blueberry buttermilk pancakes (Seymour’s favourite), when she helped him pack, when his foster-siblings revealed their ‘We’ll Miss You, Seymour!’ banner (decorated with sad and frowning faces and people crying).
Horace was sitting beside her, stroking her shoulder. He patted his lap. Seymour hopped up, even though he was too old for that now. His feet could almost touch the floor.
Horace put his arm around Seymour. Wanda reached and put and arm around him. Seymour wanted to hug them both, but his arms weren’t big enough, though he did try and very valiantly too. He could have hugged them both at different times, but he didn’t know which one to hug first.
“Seymour, if ever you need anything, you call us, son.” Horace ruffled Seymour’s hair. Horace and Wanda’s hair is black (with some grey). Seymour never could have passed as theirs.
“I will, Daddy. Dad,” Seymour said quickly.
Wanda sniffled, tugged at his shoulder. “Now listen to me, Seymour. Are you listening?” She always says that when people aren’t looking at her, so Seymour did. “Bubbela, I’m gonna tell you one thing. You know what I did yesterday? I went to see my granny.”
Everyone in the family knows about Granny Finder. She always knows when you’re dropping by. She can find something you lost just by glancing at a room. She won the lottery twice - fifteen dollars one time and a hundred the next. Granny Finder has ‘the sight’.
“I came to her yesterday and I told her about you. My special little guy. My baby, my sweet little baby-doll….” Wanda dissolved again, her round face wrinkling like she was Granny Finder herself. She remembered there was a box of Kleenex nearby only when Horace nudged it closer.
The sight of her made him tear up. He was trying to be strong, trying to be a man, but his nose and throat felt like he had a cold and his vision was blurring.
“Tomorrow is a big day, Seymour,” Horace told him softly. “It’s okay to cry.”
Seymour did, his sobs thin and high. He buried his head against his father’s shirt, feeling the smooth fabric against his cheek. Horace handed tissues to both of them - using them himself beforehand.
“Granny told me,” Wanda managed, “she told me that she had a dream of you last night. She dreamed you’d grown up to be a good man, and happy, so happy, because you had a daddy that loved you and could give you all the attention a beautiful little guy like you deserves.”
Seymour considered this. “Did…did I stop wetting the bed when I was a man?”
She gave a choked, bleary laugh. “Yes, yes, yes, my baby, you stopped wetting the bed.”
“I like your attention,” Seymour said, looking between the two of them, suddenly desperate that they understand. “I’m sorry I never told you before. But I like it. It’s fine. It’s enough.”
He hoped those words would keep him with them. He hoped it so badly it ached, a hunger in his heart instead of his tummy.
“Seymour, we’ve talked about this,” Horace said gently. Wanda stroked the side of his face. “Mr. Mushnik can give you more than we ever could. He’s a successful man, and he’s been looking for a little boy like you all his life. You like him, remember?”
Of course, Seymour liked Mr. Mushnik. He has a funny accent and eyes so brown they’re almost black. They met at a playground, Seymour and his prospective father. Seymour tried to make a good impression, but everything came out of his mouth either prefaced by “Um,” or muttered. Mr. Mushnik hadn’t seem very at ease either, always clearing his throat and sipping from a bottle of water “for my diabetes,” he’d explained. There were long silences between them, during which they looked out at the playground, at Wanda and Horace and his foster-siblings.
Mr. Mushnik asked what his favourite part of the playground was. Seymour had no idea what to say to that. “The swings? I guess. I dunno.” He wished he’d done something interesting. Won the science fair, was on a sports team, done anything at all.
Then Mr. Mushnik had got to talking about his business; he was a florist. He talked about all the weddings he’d worked on (which Seymour didn’t care about), and all the flowers he had (which Seymour drank up). Seymour started talking about plants, about how he’d had a little garden in his room before Westley wrecked it. He outlined the garden he’d love to have someday (begonias and violents and jonquil and lilac). He knew he wasn’t supposed to talk about things like that - the kids at school would laugh at him. Horace, in fact, had told him privately to talk about sports and books and not get into “the flower thing.” But, since Mr. Mushnik sold flowers, Seymour figured he was okay.
Mushnik had looked surprised, then amused, and finally he laughed. “You’d join a long line of florists. My uncle, he designed for Frank Sinatra’s wedding!”
Seymour did like Mr. Mushnik. But he’d have liked him better as a grandfather instead of a father.
And….
He looked into Wanda’s eyes. “I like you guys more.”
She started crying again.
“Seymour,” Horace said - his voice was still soft but now it held something deeper, stronger, something called disappointment. “I know, moving to a new town is scary. But you need to give yourself time to know Mr. Mushnik. Is it fair to him to call everything off?”
“N-no. It’s not.” He wished he hadn’t said anything. Because he realized he was being unfair. He was being inconsiderate of other people’s feelings, which were the words Wanda told Westley or Li when they’d done something mean.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’ll go with Mr. Mushnik.”
“Good boy, Seymour,” Horace said, nodding, smacking his shoulder in approval.
Wanda was too busy crying to say anything.
As Mr. Mushnik finishes up with the foster-care administrator, Wanda murmurs, “Remember what my granny said? You leave here with a happy heart, Seymour.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
Wanda shakes her head sadly, and Seymour remembers what he forgot.
“Yes, Wanda.”
“Oh, my baby.”
She’s allowed to call him her baby, but he can’t call her Mommy. Seymour thinks that isn’t entirely fair, but like most things involving adults, he doesn’t question it.
When Mr. Mushnik comes out, Seymour picks up his suitcase. Wanda tugs it out of his hand, whispering, “Give your father a hug.”
Seymour remembers being a pine tree - he held branches and stood very still - during the school Christmas play. He’d had to sing “I’m an evergreen / and I like to be seen / at Christmas.” He’d completely forgotten his lines. But Wanda had started singing in the crowd. She sang when she didn’t have to. His voice leapt out of him, squeaky and quavery, but there. He’d sung the Christmas tree song because of her.
He puts his suitcase down and gives Mr. Mushnik a hug.