A World of Men

by Alex Atkins

Magic only works if you’re barefoot.

That’s what Roger told me, as he swung his tackle box in one hand and propped his handmade fishing rod on his shoulder with the other. I clutched my tin lunch pail - stuffed with extra snacks for Roger - and tried to match his stride. He was bigger, older than me, and I struggled to keep up. My calves burned.

“How come you have no shoes?” I asked him. Him and his brothers came to school barefoot, the soles of their feet like leather and their clothes covered in patches from constant mending.

“It’s a secret,” he said.

“A secret?”

He nodded, face serious.

“A secret.”

I gripped the handle of my lunch pail tighter. “I can keep a secret, you know...”

He shook his head and pursed his lips. “I don’t know Daisy. If you tell anyone, it’ll break the spell.”

My heart sped up, skin tingling with excitement. Roger was tall, tan, his golden hair damp at the nape of his neck which was poking out from his wide brimmed straw hat. All the older girls at school said he had a dimple but I didn’t know what that was. They’d giggle when he walked by.

“He’s a total dish!” Martha said.

Cynthia scoffed. “But he doesn’t even have shoes.”

“Who’s looking at his feet? He’s such a dreamboat!”

I hid behind my book for the rest of lunch, afraid they’d see me scowling. But they didn’t see me; nobody ever did. Until Roger found me behind the school, up to my knees in grass catching bullfrogs and eating wild chives.

They’d all be seething with jealousy if they knew. And now he’s going to tell me a secret.

“I won’t break the spell,” I said solemnly. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He paused, the wind rustling in the trees behind him, and beckoned me close. I leaned in, cheeks flushed, and breathed in his scent. He smelled like clean sweat, and freshly cut hay, and boy.

“Magic only works if you’re barefoot,” he whispered.

He had fine wisps of blonde hair on his upper lip, beads of sweat catching in it and shining in the sun.

“Magic?” I breathed.

“River magic,” he said, straightening up with a nod. He started to walk again, a bounce in his step, his lanky legs eating up so much of the dirt road that I was practically jogging to keep up.

“What’s river magic?”

He just smiled. “You’ll see.”

He whistled a jaunty, tuneless tune the rest of the walk.

It was quiet by the river. He helped me down the bank, held out his hand, callused and rough from his family farm. My palm tingled against his, so much bigger than mine, so much darker, brown from the sun.

He let go once I had eased down the hill before squatting down to roll up the hems of his patched pants. I copied him, kicked off my shoes and socks and tossed them aside, squatted down and rolled up my pants, too.

They were my brother’s, the pants. He hadn’t taken them with him when he left; all he’d needed was his uniforms.

No need for slacks in the jungle, he’d said, ruffling my hair.

My mother hated when I wore his clothes, shrieked and yelled about it, threw things sometimes. But I wore them anyway. The other girls at school didn’t talk to me; made fun of my baggy pants folded over at the waist and held up by a belt as they smoothed their skirts and sweaters and pressed their hair every night. But I’d been wearing a pair of Johnny’s slacks and his plaid button-down when Roger found me. None of those girls would have dared go frog catching. That’s why none of them would have been invited fishing with Roger.

He lost a brother in Nam, too.

Lost. Like a set of keys.

I tied my unruly blonde hair back with a leather strap and tucked it into my pageboy cap. Roger grinned at me.

“You look like a newsie,” he said, eyes twinkling.

I grinned back.

He helped me find a stick long enough to fish with, pulled out a switchblade and smoothed it down, stripped it of any lumps or twigs. He showed me how to attach a string so it wouldn’t come off, how to properly tie a hook, how to bait it.

“Some folks have reels, right here,” he said, pointing to the spot on the stick just below my hand. “They can cast their rod and reel it back in, lure the fish with movement.”

“How come you don’t have one?” I asked.

He looked at me. “The magic won’t come for that. It has to be handmade, crafted with love.”

“And you have to be barefoot.”

He nodded. “And you have to be barefoot.”

We stood in the river, hems rolled up, toes wiggling in the sand and amongst the river rocks, summoning river magic with our handmade fishing rods.

Bugs skated across the surface, gaping fish mouths appearing with a glug to swallow them whole, casting ripples that sparkled in the afternoon light. Cicadas buzzed, and birds chirped, and for the first time since that man in the military uniform had shown up on our door with his hat in his hand, I felt the pit in my stomach ease.

I imagined Johnny standing beside us, green eyes twinkling. It felt like casting more than bait: it felt like casting a spell. I could see him so clearly, a little older than when he’d left, his crooked smile and overlapping teeth as bright as the sun.

“You feel it?” Roger asked quietly.

I nodded.

“I knew you would.”

We cast our spells with our river wands until the sun was low in the sky. I caught nothing, but Roger had strung together half a dozen fish to take home, had made a circle of rocks and kept them alive in the river so they didn’t go bad in the scorching heat. He had so many brothers, and I wondered if it would be enough to feed them all. He had devoured his bread and cheese in a matter of minutes, and I wished that I could catch some too and give them to him.

“You will,” Roger said. “You’re using all your magic on Johnny, right now.”

I eyed him warily. “Do you see him, too?”

Roger laughed. “No, but that’s all I thought about for... well, a long time, after. But one day you won’t; one day you’ll just be thinking about birds, or clouds, or trees, and then you’ll feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“Healing magic.”

“What does healing magic feel like?”

“It feels like a tug on your rod, Daisy. It feels like catching a fish.”

“Roger?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for bringing me.”

He said nothing but I could see the curve of his smile, a little dot in the corner of his cheek that only appeared when he was really happy. Maybe that’s what a dimple is.

My heart thumped unevenly.

“Well, well, well...” came a voice. “What do we have here?”

I jumped and dropped my rod, the picture of Johnny dissolving from my mind and carried away by the current just like my fishing pole.

Roger frowned, brows pulling together as he watched it float away.

“What do you want, Billy?” Roger asked. He sounded tired, all of a sudden. I didn’t like it.

Billy was unnaturally tall, too tall, with big shoulders and no neck and fists the size of pork roasts.

Roger took a step towards me and put his hand on my shoulder.

Billy squatted down by Roger’s makeshift river barricade full of fish.

“Is this your supper?” he asked, voice lilting with mock innocence, eyes glinting up at Roger. Billy picked up the biggest rock and threw it at Roger’s feet, the fish swimming frantically out into the river and disappearing.

“We’re leaving,” Roger said. His voice sounded hard. Cold. “Come on Daisy.”

Billy’s hand snapped out and grabbed my upper arm. A prickly feeling crept up the back of my neck. I shifted my weight, legs tingling, and tried to ignore the urge to back away.

“What’s the hurry, Daisy?” he said, leaning in close. His breath smelled like wet dog food and I wrinkled my nose, pulse pounding so hard I thought my veins might pop.

Roger grabbed Billy’s wrist and yanked it off me.

“Get your stuff,” Roger said to me without taking his eyes off Billy.

Billy stepped right up to Roger, puffed out his chest and narrowed his eyes, his giant fists flexing at his sides. Energy crackled between the two of them, as if they were yelling - screaming at each other like my parents had every day since Johnny died - only they weren’t saying anything out loud. Their lips were still, no sounds but the rushing river and occasional splash of a fish. But my ears rang as if they’d hollered and I wondered if it was the river magic. If it had stolen all the bad words so they wouldn’t say them.

My parents said them. Our house was full of bad words.

“Come on Roger,” Billy said, his voice low. “You ain’t a chicken heart, are ya?”

Roger laughed and stepped away shaking his head, gripped my elbow and guided me towards the riverbank.

“I knew you were all hat and no cattle!” Billy yelled. “It’s no wonder you ain’t joined the army yet! You are a chicken heart!”

Roger froze, his cheeks turning a funny purple hue.

“I’ll bet you dressed this little girl up like a boy to take your place, you draft dodger! Roger the Dodger!”

Before Roger could say a word - before he could move - I launched myself at Billy.

“AARGH!” I yelled, a war cry, hitting him with both fists square in the chest. Billy was so shocked that he stumbled backwards and tumbled right onto his keester.

“You little -”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence: he had landed on a nest of ground wasps who poured out of their hive like smoke, swarmed him in a well-coordinated attack, soldiers on a mission.

Roger snorted as he pulled me backward and away from the swarm. We watched Billy scramble up the hill, waving his arms frantically, pulling his shirt up over his head where at least a dozen wasps had flown in and covered his back in welts.

Roger chuffed my jaw. “We should just send you to the jungle. Those viet cong wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.”

My cheeks burned and I stared at the ground. “I’d go, if I was allowed,” I said quietly. “If they’re still fighting when I’m grown up, I’ll go.”

He gripped my chin and tilted my head upwards.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

His eyes burned with ice cold fire. “God spared you from the world of men,” he said. “He made it so that you don’t have to do what we have to do. Don’t take this gift for granted, Daisy. Because it is. A gift.”

“God didn’t give me shit,” I spat, and Roger raised his brows in surprise. “All God does is take.”

I sniffed, and Roger squeezed my chin a little harder.

“God asks us for a lot,” he whispered. “But he gave us river magic to make up for it.”

He stared at me, gaze shifting from one eye to the other. I forgot how to breathe - forgot how to think - but he was already stepping away.

He pulled off his straw hat and plopped it on my head, and then handed me his rod.

“Don’t lose this one, okay?”

I let out a long, slow breath and nodded.

“Okay.”

We walked home as the sun set, Roger carrying his tackle box and my lunch pail, me carrying his fishing pole and my shoes. I winced, my feet unused to the rocks and twigs, but I didn’t complain.

I spent the rest of the summer barefoot, toughening the soles of my feet on the long walk to the river, wading into the water and fishing for hours, using the river magic to conjure up images of Johnny. Sometimes Roger would find me and walk with me; sometimes he was already there with a pile of fish for his family and a sunburn on his bare back. Sometimes he didn’t come at all, too busy on the farm or - sometimes - taking a girl into town. I wouldn’t go to the river for days after he’d been on a date.

“You know you’re my best girl,” he’d say to me, tipping my hat (his hat, which I’d kept) upwards so he could see my face.

I crossed my arms. He never kissed me, not really. Sometimes he’d kiss my cheek or the back of my hand. But he didn’t kiss me the way I’d seen him kiss Chrissy Wilkes behind the bleachers at the football game. He didn’t kiss me the way I wanted him to kiss me. By the end of the summer, I found myself spending a lot less time thinking about Johnny and a lot more time thinking about kissing.

That’s when I caught my first fish.

“What a beauty!” Roger said as he slipped his blade into its gills. “This is your healing fish.”

“I don’t want a healing fish. I want a kiss,” I blurted.

“Daisy, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll break the spell.”

I didn’t go back to the river after that. The days grew short and the wind cold, and I missed our quiet afternoons. I missed the strange writhing of worms. I missed the silky feeling of wet silt up to my ankles. I missed the trickle of sweat down my spine followed by rivulets of cool river water as I scooped it up and cupped the back of my neck. But more than anything else, I missed Roger. I missed watching him wade out into the water, the cuffs of his pants darkening around his knees from sloshing water. I missed his laugh. I missed the way the river shaped itself around him, like a tree that had sprung up in the middle of the current.

I didn’t care about river magic anymore: I cared about Roger magic.

It was a cold, wet, dreary afternoon when Cathy McKnabb from down the street showed up with a basket of Mary Kay. Said mom needed a reminder that she’s a total dish. I hovered outside the kitchen, eavesdropping while they chain smoked at the kitchen table and complained about dad. Cathy always showed up on train day with something to keep mom occupied, keep her from lying on the floor, saying Johnny’s name over and over whenever she saw the boys outside in their uniforms heading to the train depot.

“Did you hear the oldest Hartley boy enlisted?”

I stilled, my blood clumping like cottage cheese and catching in all the corners of my veins. “One of his younger brothers volunteered. Not even eighteen yet. He went and signed up the next day - said he couldn’t have another brother over there without him.”

I didn’t hear what mom said after that. I was out the door and off like a shot, bare feet kicking up muddy spray from the puddles pooling along the street. I ran until my chest was on fire and my ears rang.

I blew past the ticket booth and picked him out of the sea of green: the crowd moved around him just like the river did. I launched myself into his arms and he stumbled backwards with a chuckle, before I pulled back and flushed.

“I got you muddy,” I mumbled. Johnny’s pants were muddy to my knees, my shirt drenched.

“Doesn’t matter kid,” he said, his lips against my ear.

The train whistled twice and he tensed. “I gotta go.”

“You can’t go,” I plead. “You’ll break the spell.”

Roger smirked and gestured to my bare feet.

“The magic is all yours now, Daisy. Keep it safe for me. Until I get back.”

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, but it felt different. Longer. He lingered, both of us reluctant to move, something foreign and bittersweet seeping out of him and into my bones.

He pulled away as the train whistled again, and he picked up the bag at his feet and slung it over his shoulder.

“You’re still my best girl,” he said, before he was swallowed up by the crowd and herded onto the train.

The church donated shoes for all of his brothers that Christmas. They wore them to the funeral.

It was hotter than hell the following July. Ironic for church. Or maybe just a cruel joke. I’d spent a lot of time there since God had taken my Roger magic. Thought maybe he’d give me another kind. Give me something back.

He didn’t, but I kept going anyway.

God asks us for a lot.

The pastor droned on about peace to a bunch of women so full of silent violence it was almost funny, and I picked at the frayed edges of the hole in the knee of Johnny’s pants.

I heard a squeak beside me and stiffened. It was a wheelchair - a sound I was too familiar with, now. I turned to look and balked in surprise.

“Billy?”

His sleeves were pushed up, arms bare and covered in scars from the stings he almost hadn’t survived, before he knew what an allergy was.

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember.

“Daisy.”

I nodded.

We sat in silence for the rest of the sermon, Billy’s eyes closed. I wasn’t sure if he was listening or sleeping, but it didn’t really matter. His legs were missing, just below the knee, his pants tied off neatly, the footrests of the wheelchair clean and unused.

I took Billy’s hand and kicked off my shoes, put my bare feet flat on the gritty floor and tried to pretend it was river sand.

Magic only works if you’re barefoot.