Free Dance Real Slow by Michael Grant Jaffe

to hold tight while I lift them both to the ground.
    â€œWhere’d he get something like that?” Loy asks, peeling the gloves from his hands and dropping them into the trash.
    â€œMy mother sent it. From Florida.”
    â€œSort of a peculiar gift, don’t you think?”
    â€œYes. I do.”
    Loy nods, knowingly, as he takes out a box of DumDum lollipops. Although Loy is only in his early forties, his hair, cropped short, is completely white. He is tall, healthy, with pink triangle-shaped patches following the bold angles of his cheekbones. Shaking the box, he tells Calvin to ask me if he can have one.
    â€œCan I have a pop?”
    I tell him he can, so he takes brown.
    â€œThat’s root beer, Cal. I think you’d rather have cherry or grape,” I say, reaching into the box and removing one of each. But he clings to the root beer, guarding it close to his breast.
    Loy follows us out, through his empty waiting room and into the hallway, which is dark, drab, papered in green-and-black paisley. He asks me how Calvin and I are getting along, other than the man-o-war. We are fine, I say, bopping Calvin on the head with the pudgy heel of my fist. I thank Loy again, profusely, and apologize for taking up so much of his time, a statement he shrugs off.
    Later, Calvin and I eat spaghetti for dinner. I cut his into inch-long pieces, but he complains, saying he hates it that way, refusing even a forkful. So I switch plates, instead giving him tangly, wig-like strands that whip up and slap sauce onto his cheeks. Our glasses are filled red, mine with inexpensive chianti and his with cranberry juice.
    â€œIt would be nice if you’d draw a thank-you card for Dr. McLure,” I tell Calvin. “Or you could color him one of the pictures in your animal book.”
    â€œI’m keepin’ that book.”
    â€œYou can keep it. But maybe we could give one of the pictures to him. Don’t you think?”
    â€œNo,” he says, adjusting himself on the phone books that allow him to reach the table. Here they are thin, a paucity of names, so he needs three. Two white and a yellow. “ ’Cuz then you’d have to tear it out.”
    â€œYeah, but, Cal, it’s only one page. Didn’t you think it was kind of Dr. McLure to help you out—so we didn’t have to throw away the man-o-war?”
    He does not answer.
    â€œWell, I’m leaving it up to you. But I’m going to be very disappointed if you don’t do something for him.”
    Still, no response. He cocks his head slightly, to the left. I am annoyed because I really don’t think he will do anything for Dr. McLure.
    â€œYou know what? I’m going to take this back to him.” I lift the man-o-war jar from the chair between us, raising it like a trophy above my plate of diced spaghetti. Calvin slides down, running to my side, arms pointed stiffly upwards.
    â€œGimme it.”
    â€œNope. I’m taking this to Dr. McLure and telling him to pour out all the formaldehyde he gave you. That you didn’t appreciate it, anyway.”
    Of course, Calvin cannot reach the jar. He tries to climb onto my lap, but I scissor my legs, knocking him away. He becomes frustrated and panicky and starts crying.
    â€œNow you’re really not getting it.”
    After several more moments of tears, he steps back and then forward again, punching me in the thigh.
    â€œHey, that did it.” I walk over to the door, Calvin now sprawled out on the kitchen floor, chest heaving. He knocks over a chair and then begins to wail uncontrollably.
    â€œOkay, that’s enough.”
    Placing the jar on the counter, near the window, I move back to Calvin. He kicks at me, wildly, and I grab his feet, holding them at arm’s length.
    â€œCalvin,” I say, slowly, in a stern tone. “Stop.”
    He does not. So I yank him to his feet and smack him, solid, on his ass, which, strangely, causes his sobs to halt