Littlethumb Sneezed

Part I

1

The recently present, told in the slightly past tense. I remember an unusually temperate Fourth of July weekend. Global warming jokes flew about as busily as the endless supply of summer mosquitoes. The jokes could sting as well, and depending on the social circles in which they were let loose would open the door for more serious conversations about the state of the world’s environment, politics, and of course, what we would do with all the old folks once Florida finally sunk.

A young girl, probably eight, nine, or ten years old, walked along the boardwalk of Coney Island. She was eight. That’s right. She was with her governess. The girl’s name was Isabel. Isabel was a plump little spirit in a red and white polka dot dress. She had on red shoes and a little white hat with a single red rose pinned to the side.

She wasn’t fat, mind you. I said plump. She had the roundness of a child who will stretch out on her own with time. Her head was covered in strawberry blond hair and her face with freckles, and to be honest, she already put off a bit of a bitchy vibe. This wasn’t her fault. She was the product of an angry conception.

I kid. Beware of wandering non-sequiturs. The child was a little darling.

Isabel started the day wearing a pair of white gloves but quickly realized they impeded her ability to navigate the touchscreen of her stupid smart device. She held her phone out in front of her, thumbing away at the controls with impressive speed and accuracy. Around her right wrist was a leash.

Isabel’s governess was named Maria. Maria was tall, darkly tanned with even darker long hair, and despite no specific ethnicity I was aware of, she emitted the allure of foreign culture. You would expect her to speak with an accent, and your mind would naturally assume every word from her mouth to be sensual in its delivery. Not in some cheap, unimaginative sexual way. She was stunningly lovely. Dare I say, angelic?

The child and her au pair held a special bond with one another. In an earlier era, they most likely would have held hands, swinging their arms back and forth together as their heels gently tapped along the boardwalk. That day, they were connected at the wrist with Velcro straps and a stretchy cable to ensure they couldn’t be separated. Children on leashes. Not such a bad idea but still seemed odd to me, though I’m glad all those old phone-cord manufacturers found a way to rebrand their product after communication went wireless.

Maria had a mobile phone in her hand as well. She read as Isabel sent her text message after text message. The child’s thumbs were much faster than Maria’s, so the conversation was fairly one-sided. Besides, Isabel was a child and not one who asked a lot of questions. Most of her conversations were one-sided. Maria either nodded in agreement, smiled, or shook her head no to keep up her end of the tête-à-tête. Isabel had learned to communicate with Maria in a manner that almost always made one of those three responses the one she was looking for.

As they made their way, enjoying the sights and sounds of the boardwalk on a holiday weekend, they happened across one of the last bastions of artistic dissidence: a caricature artist. Isabel had made a beeline for cotton candy. She wove her way through the crowd, cutting a path through the main flow of human traffic, pulling Maria behind her. Once they popped out on the other side of all the people in their way, Maria and Isabel discovered the caricature artist set up next to the cotton candy stand.

The cotton candy purveyor was yammering on to the artist, while the man with the brush in his hand quietly put paint to paper. His little easel was turned at the necessary angle so no one could see what he was working on, unless they were able to sneak up on him from behind, which would have been difficult as his back was to a fence running along the elevated boardwalk, separating the thoroughfare from the beach and ocean below.

The artist had an empty chair for his customers to sit in, a little wooden folding TV dinner table to hold his paints and brushes, and the short easel. A stack of about twenty thin canvas boards of various sizes leaned next to the table’s leg. If you looked closely, you would notice the paint brushes all looked like they were made by hand. The bristles were secured to the handles with hot glue and duct tape, and the handles were made of decoratively carved wood.

The artist looked up to see Isabel staring at him. He smiled hello and studied her from head to toe. The leash coming from Isabel’s wrist caught his eye. He followed the cord over to Maria’s wrist and traced the path of her arm upwards, taking in the rest of her figure.

Maria was staring off at some unknown thing. Her head was turned sideways, hair blowing in the breeze, producing one of those quintessential beautiful woman moments often captured on film. The artist dropped his paintbrush. He scrambled to retrieve the brush, over-correcting his body and bumping into the table of paints.

All of the canvases fell over and the man was barely able to keep his table of paints from following suit. Still, he managed to save the paints and a touch of his dignity. He restacked his canvases against the railing behind him and straightened himself in his chair, aiming a tight-lipped smile of humility at the younger lady.

Graceful as she was, Maria did not let on she noticed the artist’s brief discombobulation. She had though, and the man, despite his vagabondian (My name is Bond, Vaga Bond) appearance, was attractive enough and exuded such a comfortable energy she took his cupid-inspired buffoonery as a genuine compliment. After allowing him to regain his composure, she turned to face him and smiled warmly. Not too much though. She didn’t want him to be too encouraged. Just enough to put the artist at ease. She had been putting men at ease with this particular smile since she discovered its capabilities in the eleventh grade.

The artist vacantly stared at Maria. Who knows the portrait he was painting of her in his mind’s eye? Whatever it was, he finally moved his mouth, which had fallen slightly open, into a welcoming smile. He turned his easel around so Isabel and Maria could see the canvas. Surprisingly, though the artist seemed to paint with broad strokes only moments before, all that appeared on the canvas were the words Portraits, Ten Dollars. Isabel didn’t have to text Maria for permission. She looked at her nanny with a smile and raised her eyebrows. Maria nodded her head yes.

Isabel took a seat as Maria handed the artist a ten-dollar bill. The man waved the cotton candy dude over, who complied, bringing a cardboard cone of his finest spun sugar with him. The artist gave a dollar to his friend in exchange for the cotton candy, then handed the wispy pink goodness over to Isabel.

Do I have to wait to eat it?

The artist shook his head with a smile.

Maria noticed he smiled with his mouth closed, however, she thought she had seen a hole where a tooth should have been in the brief moment he’d stared at her with his mouth hanging open. He wore a plain white T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He was barefoot, but there was a pair of empty sneakers next to his chair. They were low-top Converse Chuck Taylors, old-fashioned white. Part of what looked like a lanyard circled his neck, the rest hiding under his shirt. He wore a flimsy, round beach hat. The hat was navy blue, with enough brim to shadow the top of his tanned face while he worked. Maria noticed the extremely dark hair sneaking out from under his hat. Okay. Despite the potential missing teeth, she admitted to herself this vagabond was very attractive.

The portrait took longer than necessary. The artist worked slowly, basking in Maria’s angelic presence, peeking up at her from his work as often as possible. The cotton candy had been a stroke of genius, as it kept Isabel quiet and enjoying her role as a model for longer than the average child her age could typically sit, even when they’re being immortalized on canvas.

Eventually, the artist came to terms with reality. He could not keep Maria there forever. He finished his portrait of Isabel, then turned the easel around for Isabel and Maria to witness his finished work. What they saw was no goofy, over-sized headed cartoon of a young girl sitting with cotton candy. In fact, he hadn’t included the candy in the portrait at all.

Although in my mind a laudable life station, this man was no simple caricature artist. No, it was immediately clear to Maria this man had a gift. Isabel wouldn’t quite understand the significance of what she was witnessing until years later, with a little more life under her belt.

The portrait illustrated Isabel as the child she was this day, turning her head to see the woman she would become, with shadows of the physical and mental transitions that would take her from child to adult, pulling the two versions of Isabel together. Smith’s painting somehow portrayed the good and evil inside Isabel, and the hope her goodness would guide her through life. The representation was more honest than a photograph.

Isabel absolutely loved it. She was giddy, especially with the artist’s portrayal of her as an adult. Her face was ablaze. Fire burned in her eyes as she bit her bottom lip while studying who she might be someday. Without looking up she held the picture out for Maria to take. When she felt its weight leave her hand she stepped forward and hugged the artist around his neck.

Thank you, she said. What’s your name?

The artist reached into his shirt and pulled the rest of the lanyard into view. A plastic sleeve hung on the end with a white piece of paper inside. One word was written on the paper. Isabel reached forward and held the lanyard up, reading the word aloud.

Smith. That’s your name?

Smith nodded.

You don’t talk much, do you?

Smith shook his head.

Neither does she. Isabel tossed a thumb in Maria’s direction. Her name’s Maria. She can’t talk. Can you?

Smith nodded his head again.

You’re funny, Isabel said. She stepped back and turned to Maria, holding her hand out. Maria returned the picture. Isabella soaked it in again with a fierce smile on her face. Thank you, Smith. I love it.

The artist smiled and tipped his hat to the little girl. He looked up at the woman, who was watching the exchange with obvious joy. She smiled warmly at the artist again, this time a little differently than before. This smile coyly stated, maybe in another time, in another place, just maybe. The artist held his hand up in an obvious request for Maria not to leave yet.

He took up another small canvas and a brush and quickly went to work. In a few moments he was finished. In an act of shyness, he handed the canvas to Maria face-down. She flipped the canvas over to reveal the drawing of two stick figures. A man and woman were holding hands. She knew the couple was a man and woman because the woman had long hair and ample round bosoms as only a boy could perfectly draw on a stick figure lady. The male stick figure in the picture wore a large smile. Exercising good taste, Smith had not drawn a representation of any other specific anatomy on the man.

2

Past. It feels like yesterday. It isn’t. Littlethumb woke up in his own bed for the first time in what felt like forever. Part of him wanted to get up immediately and run around the house, checking to see if his world had returned to order. Another part of him, in this instance the stronger part, decided to stay in bed and see if a sign the Occurrence was over would reveal itself. Also, maybe he would snooze awhile. The long journey home had exhausted Littlethumb, both mentally and physically. Falling asleep in his own bed had felt luxurious.

He propped his head with his pillows and pulled his covers up tightly under his chin. His eyes wandered his room looking for anything in motion. There was nothing at first, and the early tinges of fear crept to the front of his mind. Before his fear could plant roots, Littlethumb thought he heard a noise. Fear transitioned to hope. Was that a noise?

There it was again. This time he recognized the sound as the slight knock the building’s furnace made before coming to life. He could hear the sound traveling through the air ducts and a smile opened up across his face. What time was it?

He rose from the covers and went to his bedroom door. He put his ear against it to check for sound outside, hearing nothing. He opened the door, a tiny gap between door and frame, and held his ear to the crack. The sound of light-footed movement echoed through the hallway. Those were his mom’s footsteps.

Littlethumb’s mind brightened with thoughts of his mother’s tenderness. Waiting to give her a giant hug would be painful. He wanted to run to her, but none of his family knew anything had happened. If he made a commotion he would have to explain himself, and he wasn’t ready to discuss his journey yet. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be interested in talking about what happened to him.

If Littlethumb had been born with a mind for science, he might have tried to figure out how the Occurrence . . . occurred. How had he sneezed with his eyes open? Wasn’t that impossible? And his eyes were just fine. They had definitely not popped out of their sockets. Also, he was in the bathroom when the Occurrence began. How come the whole ordeal came to an end with him asleep in his bed? Perhaps he may understand someday. He figured it was more likely he would not, as Littlethumb had not been born with a mind for science. Littlethumb was born with art in his blood.

The bathroom was a quick sneak across the hall. Once inside he positioned himself exactly as he stood before the fateful sneeze. He turned the sink’s hot water handle and joyfully watched the water run into the basin. With back-to-normal verification step one accomplished, he left the bathroom and retraced his steps from a morning that felt so long ago, although it was, in fact, this very same morning, the exact same day as this day.

His brother and sister were found in the same places he’d seen them before, seemingly in their exact instant of motion as before the Occurrence. Only they weren’t frozen. This time, their movement continued as they dealt with their morning business. His sister Heather’s morning business was followed by a soundtrack of bad pop music coming from her room. She was still a new teenager, fourteen years old, and a pretty consistent example of what you might expect from a fourteen-year-old girl of her generation. She liked bright colors, desperately pined over the current teen heartthrobs whose posters adorned her bedroom walls, and absolutely needed to do anything and everything her friends were doing. Littlethumb did not care for her taste in music.

His brother Freddy’s morning routine consisted of a lot of standing, staring, head-scratching, butt scratching, crotch scratching, and the releasing of noxious gasses. Freddy was a bit of a knucklehead. Super moody as well. He was highly intelligent and athletic, yet somehow managed to make bad grades and refused to participate in sports or almost any other group-oriented activities. Freddy liked to stare at birds and build birdhouses. Their building’s roof was littered with them.

Despite feeling like a complete loner, as many boys his age do, Freddy had a small, close-knit circle of friends who each felt just as isolated as he did. Before the Occurrence, Littlethumb had worried he might wind up like Freddy when the hair started to show under his own armpits.

Anyway, Littlethumb loved his siblings with a boundless enthusiasm. Of course they did not always get along, but he sure was glad to have them back. By the way, time displacement aside, Littlethumb was a brand new ten years old, having celebrated a birthday shortly before the Occurrence. Heather had turned fourteen a few months back, and Freddy would turn thirteen in about five months.

After checking on his brother and sister, Littlethumb continued retracing his steps, leading him to his parents’ bedroom. He peeked in the doorway and saw his father in front of the mirror, putting together his necktie. Littlethumb’s father was a fastidious man. His hands moved sharply, creating the knot in his tie and tightening it around his neck.

Walter Brooks was by most accounts living the American dream. He was a successful and respected financial consultant with a home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, New York. Granted, their building was on the cusp of being too far north to be considered fashionable or safe by the standards of certain snooty jerks, but he did have three kids. Walter and Elisabeth thought each of the children having their own bedroom was important for the development of their identities as individuals. Four-bedroom apartments in Manhattan were not cheap, so the apartment was a little too far north to be considered chic. This did not affect the straightness of Walter Brooks’ spine. Walter’s wife was beautiful. His children were handsome and adored him. Even the family cats paid him his due respect. Walter was also a full-blooded Wampanoag Indian.

We will get back to the family heritage in a moment. First, let’s go meet Littlethumb’s mother. He found her in the kitchen, as he knew she would be, floating about the room while simultaneously preparing breakfasts and lunches for her brood. If being alive was an art form in and of itself, she was a virtuoso. This nature was gifted to her youngest son as well, and dominated Littlethumb’s personality.

Besides being a wonderful mother, Elisabeth was also a music teacher. Like Walter, she was a full-blooded Wampanoag. Despite the direct lineage to ancestral bloodlines, this generation of the Brooks family was what I would describe as fully assimilated to the progressive, industrialized, free-marketed, capitalistic, technologically driven culture of the modern United States of America. Which is not to say they were shallow people, rather they weren’t living some sort of antiquated, Hollywoodized notion of a traditional Native American’s life. To be fair, I have no idea what any modern Native American’s notion of what life is supposed to be is either.

When the Americas were discovered, the Wampanoag people were a Native American tribe mostly located in what would become Massachusetts. Walter Brooks’ lineage traced back to the Wampanoag tribe of the Island of Nantucket. Walter’s ancestors, along with several other Wampanoag families, decided to leave the island for a different way of life.

Apparently, Walter’s forefather had been a bit of a charismatic rebel. He wanted to see what city life was all about. Everyone in the tribe thought he was super cool, so a number of the members decided to tag along. As the story goes, the small group of about twenty Wampanoag took boats from Nantucket to Montauk and migrated the rest of the way into Manhattan.

Despite this small clan’s progressive mentality, many of the families continued to marry among themselves, maintaining a pure Wampanoag bloodline. I admit I find the dichotomy of these progressively minded folk simultaneously spurning the old ways of their people while attempting to maintain a pure lineage personally interesting. The ideas seem conflicting, which I suppose made the group about as modern American as can be. Perhaps ahead of their time.

Littlethumb’s father and mother met while in college. Walter Brooks had no intentions, cares, or concerns for marrying within Wampanoag genealogy. He was, however, an avid historian, having minored in history in college while working towards his finance degree. He met the beautiful Elisabeth in a Native American history class. Although taking a Wampanoag bride had never concerned him before, he considered it kismet when he discovered she too was full-blooded Wampanoag from Chappaquiddick. Chemistry changes everything. Despite the fact neither of them thought they would wind up marrying within the tribe, they fell instantly in love.

The Occurrence and Littlethumb’s subsequent return happened during a somber time in the Brooks household. Grandpa Kicking Rocks had recently passed away and a palpable emptiness loomed in the apartment. The funeral had been two days prior to Littlethumb’s journey. The eldest Brooks had been living with his younger family for the past year or so. His death had left everyone grief-stricken, but perhaps none more so than Littlethumb.

Grandpa Kicking Rocks had given Littlethumb his tribal name. Everyone else in the family had one as well. The Brooks clan had chosen to maintain tribal names despite their move to the city. The eldest family members were responsible for providing these names to new members when they were born, but Littlethumb was the only one of his immediate family who chose to use his tribal name daily. His brother and sister would call him LT for short, as did his parents much of the time, though his mother would often ask where her little thumb was. To the rest of the world, if asked his name and he was in the mood to answer, the boy would reply, Littlethumb.

Although he was extremely loving towards all members of his family, Littlethumb had been tagged by his clan as his granddaddy’s boy. He was a naturally quiet child, instinctually choosing observation and movement over the spoken word, and his grandfather had always been the most enthusiastic member of the family for this behavior. Kicking Rocks would impart his wisdom of life to Littlethumb and teach him how to do things while the boy listened in silence. A decidedly suitable arrangement for an old man and his grandson.

Littlethumb quietly took a seat at the kitchen table to eat his breakfast. His mother took note of his entrance and offered him a warm smile. Next to Kicking Rocks, she was assuredly the most comfortable with the boy’s quiet nature.

The rest of the family made their way to the table for breakfast. This was a different era. Although not too far in our past, we still weren’t in quite as big of a hurry back then as we are nowadays. Family breakfast was still a common concept, though the custom was in transition. Both Freddy and Heather were consistently late to the table and often were forced to stuff whatever they could into their mouths, book bags, or pockets on the way out the door.

This day was a little different, however. Everyone gathered and a prayer was given. They ate mostly without speaking. Everyone was still heavy at heart with the