Grampa knew one trick, but he had to be drunk to do it. So he drank, starting early, hours before mother dropped us off. The minute she backed out of the driveway, he'd claw the air, grazing our faces. And he'd poke his thumb through each blotchy fist.

Got your nose! Yours too! Ha ha! Oh, what can you do?

He'd move about, twirling, waving both arms, creating a blur of our stolen noses.

See! Look! One of each. Go on, he'd say, try and smell something.

We'd sniff and grab at our real noses, wiggle and stick our fingers. We'd wrinkle, and pick, not quite worried yet.

Oh, you can still feel it, he'd say. But that doesn't mean it's there.

So we'd race to the mirror to chase away our doubt.

Of course, you can still see them, he'd say. But only in your heads, a tired memory that refuses to fade, a cheap image like in the brains of limbless men who come back from war.

Then he'd show us our poor noses, yellow and small, one in each hand.

Hmm, I'm hungry. I think I'll eat these. And always my sister would cry.

She'd start slow, quietly weeping, and then she'd wail: No fun, no fair. I'm telling. Give us back our noses!

He'd say, No way! Now stop. No tears, or next I'll eat your eyes. Pop, pop! One, two!

He'd chase her first, poor thing, every time, because she was tiny, with bones like a bird. He'd lift her with one arm, and tickle until she peed, then make her undress in front of the mirror, and I'd hear the whine of the bedroom door, and then her sobbing.

Sometimes an hour would creep by before I'd hear the lock again, before he came
out, his starched shirt soaked with sweat.

Now you, he'd say, in a breathless voice, raising his pinkies into devilish horns, grinning like death, knowing I wouldn't run.

Because these are the eyes my grandmother gave me, and they could read him like a book.

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Bob Thurber lives a charmed life in Massachusetts. His short fictions have been published all over the Web and are showing up increasingly in print magazines, most recently in Oasis. Earlier this year he was a finalist for Glimmer Train's 2002 Very Short Fiction Award. Read selections of his work and contact Bob at http://bobthurber.net.

Copyright © 2002 Bob Thurber. All rights reserved.

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