Love Letters Written on the Back of a Star Chart

by Dawn Stripes

The Boy and the Filly

Mr. Coxcomb came home from a long day at work and dropped his briefcase on the mudroom mat. It landed in precisely the same spot as always. Because his routine was precisely the same as always. He shut the door while his battered briefcase squeaked a sigh.

Normally he would have done all this without even noticing it, much less thinking on it. But tonight—perhaps it was because he’d skipped lunch and a bit of hunger sharpened his awareness. Or maybe there was something in the air. He watched himself coming in as though he was using a stranger’s spectacles, and he marveled to see what a cliché little routine he was carrying out. Loosening his tie. Striding into the kitchen and kissing his wife. She was working on her laptop as dinner stewed in the oven. Weren’t they the typical American family? One kid, two cars, a mortgage. Hah! Right out of a Normal Rockwell.

Who wouldn’t laugh, in his place? He knew the life that he and his wife and been through to get here, and typical? He’d call it anything but. But then again—as he hung up his coat, it occurred to him that maybe all families were this way. Every house looked normal on the outside. Everyone was normal on parent-teacher conference day. It was only digging underneath the veneer of banality that you could see the struggles and dysfunction that made every family unique.

But then again—as he changed out of a dress shirt, Mr. Coxcomb had yet another thought. Maybe they weren’t so different after all. For all he knew, everyone went through the same struggles and just avoided mentioning them to one another.

But the kitchen was warm and smelled of roast beef. What could he complain of? ‘Normal’ was a good place to raise a kid. Mr. Coxcomb would gladly be a cliché if it meant his boy didn’t have anything worse to worry about than the school dance.

“Where is the little scamp?” he asked, idly pretending to browse through the evening news over his wife’s shoulder.

“He brought a friend home.” Mrs. Coxcomb reached back and found his fingers to lace with. “I think they’re in the basement.”

“Billy again?”

“No.” Wrapping the other arm through her husband’s shoulder, she flipped the laptop shut and sat a minute, listening to the oven bubble. “Someone new.”

“Well, that’s good. Always nice to see him making friends at school.”

She tapped his cheek. “Ah, actually…not from school.”

“Oh? Where’d he meet his new friend?”

“It’s one of those aliens, Rob—one of those ponies.”

At this, Mr. Coxcomb looked into the black mouth of stairs leading to the basement. “How curious.”

His wife nodded. “Her name’s Strawblossom, and she told me her parents came to stay in the—what’s that building they’re putting up downtown?—embassy. That’s it. They’re coming to work at the embassy, so she had to move with them. She hadn’t made any friends here yet. And she’s just about Zander’s age—at least in pony years. That’s how Zander explained it to me.”

She turned in his embrace, rubbing the dry skin on the back of his hand. “Do you think it’s normal for a boy to be so interested in something like that?”

Mr. Coxcomb couldn’t help a grin. “Darling, the only thing that gets along better than a little girl and ponies is a thirteen-year old boy and aliens. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows everything about them. You know what? I think I’ll go say hi.”

He descended the stairwell by dry creaks and bounds. As the dark plunged over him, he felt himself enveloped in the cozy warmth of heaters turned up against the fading chill of winter. Somewhere nearby was the sound of smacking lips. Mr. Coxcomb flipped on a light so he wouldn’t trip and turned the corner.

Zander was sitting on the couch only inches away from a genuine Equestrian pony. The both of them were sitting a little stiffly, and staring resolutely at the TV. Their faces were flushed, and their limbs straight like bars against the couch cushions.

She certainly was a girl—she was such a bright pink! But Mr. Coxcomb stopped to wonder. What was to keep a boy pony from being born with a pink coat? It might be rude to ask. But Zander would probably know. He could ask the boy about it later.

Mr. Coxcomb spun to look at the TV. NASCAR drivers hurtled down a track with engines roaring. So the kissing scene must have ended and cut to a race in the time it had taken him to round the corner. He shook his head. Television these days could go from zero to sixty in seconds flat. He worried sometimes about what Zander would see on this thing. But what was he to do about it? He tried to console himself with the thought that his parents had worried just as much about what he would see in the wide world, and he’d turned alright. Besides, Zander was a good kid. He could figure things out for himself.

“Hiya, Zander.” Mr. Coxcomb leaned against the TV set. “Bidding welcome to our new alien overlords?”

Oddly enough, Zander merely nodded. So Mr. Coxcomb took it upon himself to extend his hand towards the pony. “Nice to meet you, Strawblossom. I’m Zander’s father.”

“I’m so happy to meet you!” With a sunny smile, she lifted one leg and placed a hoof on Mr. Coxcomb’s open hand. It didn’t make for much of a handshake. After a second he realized she was making the effort and politely withdrew his appendage.

“Well, you’re very welcome here. Any friend of Zander’s is a friend of mine. And your English is even better than I expected aliens to have. If you want snacks or anything like that, just let us know. Mom’s cooking dinner upstairs and you’re more than welcome to join us—hmm.”
Mr. Coxcomb paused, scratched his five o’clock shadow. “What do you eat? Maybe not roast beef, huh? Being a little horse and all.” He chuckled.

“No, dad.” Zander rolled his eyes, beginning to relax against the couch back.

“Alright, alright.” Mr. Coxcomb held up his hands, though he was still grinning. “I’m an old man behind the times. Tell me something I don’t know.”

He turned to leave them be. But Zander followed him up the creaking stairs, and discreetly tugged his elbow when they were on the halfway landing. It looked like Mr. Coxcomb was about to find out why Zander wasn’t bubbling over with talk as usual.

“Dad?” Zander’s face was still flush. It was also taut, which caused Mr. Coxcomb to put his hands in his pockets and look down. He used the same motion when listening to something important, sitting at a board meeting, or reading a tragic news story.

“Actually, you shouldn’t joke about that meat thing. It really bothers her.”

Mr. Coxcomb covered half his mouth. “Oh, shoot. Sorry, Zan. Didn’t know she’d be sensitive about being vegetarian.”

Zander’s head spun, golden hair flying out like the spokes of a star. “No, dad! She’s not a vegetarian. She’s an herbivore. Like…” He leaned in closer. “She can smell our meat from down there, and it really bothers her.”

“Double shoot. Dinner’s a problem?”

“A real problem.”

Mr. Coxcomb’s frown deepened. Zander appeared to be worried that he wasn’t going to care whether his roast beef caused anyone distress. But Mr. Coxcomb lived according to a straightforward set of values, and they had no room in them for aliens. As far as he was concerned, there was a guest in his home with a special concern. And he’d be darned if his home didn’t stand by its most considerate.

Still, what to do? “Gee, Zander. I don’t think I can ask your mother to throw out dinner…”

“Oh no no no!” Zander swept his hands into his dad’s face. “You don’t have to do that! She understands. I mean, she gets it. But she totally won’t want to sit with us during dinner.”

“I suppose you’re right about that. Bit of a shame.”

“Well—it’s not so bad.” Zander shrugged, almost guiltily, towards the edge of the stairwell. “She, uh, ate before she came. And Mom made her carrot sticks too, so she’s not that hungry.”

“Ah. Good for your mother.”

“But I better stay with her so she doesn’t have to sit alone while we all eat.”

Mr. Coxcomb cupped his son’s head and gave that fine-grained hair a rustle. “You’re right, Zander. That’s awfully nice of you. You’re a swell host!”

He ascended the stairs with an amiable feathery sensation to his step, more than a bit pleased with himself for having raised a thoughtful boy. Before he left the basement, he passed the light switch panel and absently smashed his hand against it, flinging the rest of the bulbs on. It was so dark down here. Maybe the kids would appreciate a little light.

Right as he closed the door, he heard smacking lips and a high-pitched giggle. Kissing scene must have come back on.

Zander’s plan worked out pretty well. Dinner didn’t even suffer for it—Mr. Coxcomb enjoyed a quiet meal with his wife, the kind they hadn’t had in years. The table felt a touch empty without anyone reaching over its whole length for the gravy, but as a change of pace, it was nice.

“So,” he said as he was cutting them each a new serving of roast. “Looks like Zander’s caught alien fever.”

His wife smiled and rolled her hazel eyes. “You know how it is, Rob. But I think in the long run they still won’t be able to compete with dinosaurs for him. Dinosaurs existed too, you know.”

They shared a laugh. ‘Alien fever’ was their own little word. The world since these past few months was gasping and making great noises, as if in an uproar awaiting everything being turned on its head. News channels were running everything they could about ponies, true or false—some days you couldn’t say if they were any better than tabloids anymore. Supermarkets were changing their layouts, hotels were changing their rooms, and corporations were changing their mission statements. Everyone thought they had to do something differently now, no matter if it made sense.

But from where the Coxcombs sat enjoying their dinner, what was going to change? The world still needed web designers and middle managers. The price of gas was still too high. Housing anywhere near New York, still ridiculous. The high school was still three blocks down and their neighbors all still here. It was like a wink and a nudge, a secret between the two of them, that life would carry on as usual.

Dinner was particularly leisurely that night. Mr. Coxcomb helped to wash the dishes and put leftovers away in Tupperware. So once all was said and done and he noted the clock, it was getting on towards nine. A little late. Probably time to send Zander’s friend home. He didn’t know if she had made arrangements, so he decided to head downstairs and ask if she needed to call her parents. Mrs. Coxcomb whispered after him, making sure he offered to drive her home.

All the basement lights were off again. Mr. Coxcomb descended on tiptoe; he couldn’t entirely say why. Maybe he didn’t want to interrupt the movie. The pony seemed like such a sweet little creature. It was said they didn’t have color TV where she came from. And although he had some awareness of his own pretensions, he liked to think that he was a ‘cool’ dad.

The TV was off. Because Mr. Coxcomb was quiet, and because the boy and the filly were so absorbed that they didn’t notice him, he had as long as five whole seconds to observe the scene playing out on the couch. It was a ratty old thing, that couch, with a backing so thick and wrinkled you could have hidden within it. He had made love to his wife on this very sofa many times in the early days of their marriage.

The filly was lying on her back, with her hair spilling over the cushions and her head crunched up against the armrest. Zander was sitting on her tail—it was caught under his left leg, which he had folded into the corners of the sofa so that he could sit facing her. They were staring into each other’s eyes with an earnest, wide-eyed intensity, as if discovering a dangerous continent step by step.

Strawblossom's limbs splayed helplessly in the air. Her hind legs were spread open, and they shifted—wider, narrower, wider—with each of her slow, deep breaths. One of Zander’s hands was on the tuft of pink hair just past the hoof—the ankle? Fetlock? As Mr. Coxcomb watched, it slid, his son’s fingers dripping gently down the inside edge of the filly’s leg.

“ZANDER!”

The silence broke into red-hot pieces. The pair broke apart like cindered popcorn, falling off the couch in panic and terror.

Mr. Coxcomb stormed about the basement, throwing lights on here, there, everywhere. Let it all come to light! When he finally turned his face back to the duo, it was twisted murderously, with his nose crinkled into a white ball over rollercoaster lips. Both his son and the pony—the girl—winced in abject horror. He loomed over them like a colossus and opened his mouth wide.

He was going to yell more, of course. Because he had plenty to say. Plenty of things he had never said before. But he stuttered when he looked at the two of them. He couldn’t get any words out.

They were still there, curling their limbs up on the floor. Neither met his eyes. Zander’s knees were tucked under his hands, and he was flinching almost as if expecting to be hit. That probably would have been preferable to the tirade Mr. Coxcomb had in mind.

But—no words came out. Mr. Coxcomb was so lost that he didn’t even know what to yell. He had to retreat before his limbs started to quiver. Tripping once, he walked in reverse, falling upstairs backwards to escape his son.

Before he fled the basement entirely, he did hear the filly say something.

“Shit. We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

Mr. Coxcomb’s wife spent an hour rubbing his shoulders while he sat in front of the phone.

His son. His son, his son, his only son, his Zander, his boy. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Mrs. Coxcomb found another knot in his collar, and after a jolt of pain he relaxed for a second. His head lifted from the kitchen table so that bleary red eyes could focus on nothing in particular.

He’d already placed a call to the embassy. In response to his incoherency, they promised to send two of her parents over shortly. He’d hung up before really listening to what they said.

Two parents. Two out of what? Households with only one parent were troublesome enough, hard for a child to make do with, but what could be the meaning of more than two? Since turning to Zander for an explanation was out of the question, he’d had to call up a friend who might know, and everything he heard was even more a terror. Ponies were polygamists? What was this?

No jokes about alien fever now. The world was about as solid as jello.

Mr. Coxcomb started to think—what if Strawblossom’s parents didn’t see the problem with what had happened? He himself was ready to admit he’d been a fool. At first he’d readied himself to eat crow. But if something worse happened, and they told him not to worry? There was no telling how they thought, these extra-dimensional creatures. No telling how they even perceived the world. And so what would Mr. Coxcomb tell his son? How could he raise any children at all? What would Zander do if he figured out he could sneak off to some other house and lead who knew what kind of life—a house of three, five, twenty-five parents?

The number grew each time he dared think of it. Before long it was making a run on the triple digits. Mrs. Coxcomb kept on whispering sweet reassurances, but she whispered into deaf ears. Nothing could console him while he couldn’t burn that image from his eyes. His son’s fingers tracing her leg. A horse leg. Yet so tender and curious. She was still in the basement, and Zander was locked in his room now. But Mr. Coxcomb still hadn’t said anything to the boy. Why not? He had to say something.

Yes, maybe that was it. It was better than staying collapsed on this kitchen table, that was for sure. Mr. Coxcomb stood tall, letting his wife’s massaging hands fall away like water. He made no secret of his footfalls reaching to the bedroom hall.

Zander’s door was covered in old stickers. Several dinosaurs and a radiation warning. Mr. Coxcomb tried to ease it open, in a non-threatening manner, but as so often happened the attempt to open a door slowly only cause it to protest more loudly.

The boy was on his bed, facing away, pitter-pattering something into a phone. A clear break in the clicks signaled that he knew his father was standing behind them, but he made no other sign, forcing Mr. Coxcomb to walk around the bed and take a seat on the coverlet.

He licked his lips. “Zander. I’d like to talk.”
Zander stuffed his phone under the covers while looking away. “Yeah, whatever.”
Mr. Coxcomb gripped the bedpost for support. “Do you want to say anything?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

He waited a moment, swaying back and forth. Then he took a deep breath. “Zander, you can’t do that with her.”

Zander spun, breathing hard. “Oh yeah? Why not?”

His lips were curled, baring his teeth but nearly in a smile. Zander lifted his chin upon his words. They were hoisted with all the vigor of a polished scepter, thrown down with all the bravery of an absolute trump card.

Mr. Coxcomb stared and stared. Zander was right. He didn't understand. But he would have given anything to know what was happening inside Zander's budding heart.

He backed away with ears alert for anything Zander might call after him as he left. Nothing was said. But Mr. Coxcomb left the door open. He returned downstairs to a wife who looked none too proud.

A car idled up to the house. When genteel hoofbeats clipped along the drive, Mr. Coxcomb’s muscles seized up. It might as well have been the claw-click of monsters stalking the castle gates.

Thankfully, Mrs. Coxcomb answered the door. It opened. A blue pony with angel wings stepped through. He was wearing a brown suit, not entirely unlike Mr. Coxcomb’s, and a short black tie that tucked in near the curve of his belly. Following him was a pale-grey pegasus wearing a simple green dress.

Mr. Coxcomb made himself stand. The man—the stallion—must have been ‘Soarin’. The one they said would come.

He had to deal with this. These were parents and they deserved an explanation, one way or another—no beating around the bush this time. So he cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry—”

“No.” Soarin’ didn’t even let Mr. Coxcomb get started before he interrupted. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“But I shouldn’t—”

“You didn’t do anything. Strawblossom’s never been to Earth before. I didn’t even think to find out how she felt about humans. I never should have sent her off to someone’s house without asking—”

“No, I should have been watching them. I didn’t even—”

“We should have sat down with her and had the talk about different—”

“Well, this has never happened before—”

“Not to Strawblossom either!”

“We never thought he—”

“But she shouldn’t have—”

“Neither should Zander!”

After they had stammered on like this for the better part of five minutes, their wives nudged them in the sides, causing them to trail off.

Their own flushed faces and deep sighs released into the pallid room, forcing its drained color to take on a closer semblance of domesticity.

After a silence, Soarin’ pawed the linoleum. “Teenagers, huh? Nothing so terrifying.”

At this, Mr. Coxcomb let out a short, uncontrollable laugh.

It was like being in the frigid depths of space and suddenly spotting a familiar lifeline drift by. He seized it. As he leapt forward, seizing the pony’s hoof and shaking it with a euphoric vigor. “Yes,” he said a little too loudly. “Yes! Hah! Hello! And nice to meet you! And, oh, certainly how true! Thank God. Thank God for you, Mr. Soarin!”

Comments

[Frazzled Pony]

Ha, that was at once heartbreaking and really funny. Still, light at the end of the tunnel, apparently. Hopefully.