Fat_Interior

It takes them several weeks to find a forger. The way they do it is Little Boy talks to American soldiers about fake passports while behind him Fat Man watches silently. The soldiers assume Fat Man is using Little Boy to make himself look innocent. But Little Boy’s thinking is that this looks the most natural. As the older brother, he should take charge. Fat Man wonders several times why they always seem to talk to him when ostensibly answering Little Boy’s questions. Little Boy says it’s because he’s taller. “They don’t have to crane their necks that way,” he says, his voice thick with disdain: what lazy brutes, these soldiers.

There are also whole days where they talk to no one but each other, where they lie in the dirt and breathe. Fat Man tries to talk about the fire, about birth, about the tree. Little Boy doesn’t want to hear it. He says that’s all over. He says, “Little boys don’t have to think about such things.”

Some days the farmer’s family feeds them salted pork. The farmer’s family never speaks in their presence. The brother bombs whisper when they enter the home. Some days they do not visit the farm to buy food at all, which Fat Man takes to mean the money’s running thin. Most days Fat Man wants to leave.

The police still wake them up sometimes, holding hands. They don’t say anything. Only watch the brothers and after some time leave. They look thinner every day. Little Boy won’t leave the farm, won’t say why. The brothers find new sleeping spots around the property. The policemen find them. One time the brothers found the policemen sifting through the leaves where they had slept the night before. One of them found a small something—the brothers couldn’t see what. He showed it to the other and put it in his breast pocket.

One day Little Boy talks to the right soldier. The soldier whispers into Fat Man’s ear what to do, where to go, who to see.

Their forger is a GI who goes by Ralph. They meet him at his post outside a former munitions plant, which is being repurposed to make washing machines and refrigerators. He wears his helmet at a rakish angle. They know him by the red handkerchief tied around the end of his gun’s barrel. He knows the brothers are coming. When he sees their tentative approach he closes the distance to offer his hand. “Hello,” he laughs. “You the ones want the passports?”

They follow him back to his post, where he stands with another soldier who doesn’t bother pretending to do anything but listen in.

Ralph says, “So?”

“We heard you could help,” Little Boy says. He attempts a commanding tone. It comes out of his mouth slantwise, like it doesn’t want to go. “What’s it going to cost to get documentation that says we’re two American brothers?”

“Not too much,” says Ralph. “Got to wonder why you’d go with such a cockamamie story though.”

“We don’t look American to you?” says Little Boy. “How many Japanese you know his size?” He raps his brother on the gut.

“Looks like a sumo to me,” says Ralph. “But you ought to go as whatever you really are. Father and son, uncle and nephew, two strangers passing in the night. Not that it matters for passport purposes. They don’t exactly come in matching pairs you know.”

Little Boy fumes. “He really is my little brother! Can’t you see it?” He holds Fat Man’s hand to show how close they are.

“I heard you were weird ones,” says Ralph. He slaps his knee but doesn’t laugh. “Listen, if you’ll drop the routine for a minute I can help you, and not just with passports. I can get you American ID if you want it, cheap liquor, American food, Japanese hash.” He puts his hand beside his mouth to shield it from Little Boy, mouths to Fat Man, “Women. Pussy.”

“We only need the passports,” says Little Boy.

Fat Man says, “We’re going to France to start over with a clean slate and forget about everything.”

Little Boy scowls. His brother didn’t have to say that, not any of it.

“All right,” says Ralph. “What we’ll do, I’ll take your picture. Then I’ll give the film to my man and he’ll put it together for us. You pay me half now, the rest while you’re picking your jaw up off the floor from how good he is.”

“You’re not the forger?” says Fat Man.

“I’m the vendor. Forger’s a little yellow craftsman I keep holed up at home all day.”

“How much?” says Little Boy.

The vendor musses the little boy’s hair. “Hundred-fifty each,” he says to Fat Man.

“We don’t have that much,” says Little Boy.

The vendor twists up his mouth in the corner: You serious?

“We can do two hundred flat.”

The vendor waits to see if the boy means it. When he’s seen the boy means it, he laughs.

“Fine,” says Fat Man. “One-fifty now, one-fifty when we see the job. Pay the man, Brother.”

Little Boy glares up at him. Fat Man grabs him by his ear and tugs a little. He growls, “I said pay up.”

Little Boy tears up. He thumbs the money bill by bill from his jacket pocket. Fat Man lets go of his ear. Little Boy rubs it, sullen. He curses beneath his breath.

“That’s what I thought,” says the vendor, counting the money. “Nobody goes to France without cash. Gotta buy some paintings, buy some cheese. Now there’s one other thing. I’m gonna need your names. Of course they don’t have to really be yours, so long as you can remember them when you’re asked. If I could do it all again, I think I’d have them call me George. Like a king.”

Little Boy ignores the question; he’s still biting back tears.

“I’m John,” says Fat Man.“This is Matthew. You were right. He’s my little nephew.”

“Course he is,” says the vendor. “But I don’t care.” Later, when it occurs to him they never offered a last name, he will choose one for them. He will wonder why he failed to ask. The forger will provide their heights, the colors of their eyes and hair, their dates and places of birth, and Fat Man’s profession.

“Now let’s take your picture. Then you and the tyke come back and see me in two days.”

The vendor assembles his camera and unfolds his tripod. He mounts the camera on the tripod, makes it spin, flashbulb and all. They’ve never seen a passport, they aren’t sure how to be, so they pose there together, their backs to the trees. Fat Man stands behind Little Boy, places a meaty hand on his shoulder.

In his passport photograph Little Boy will stare at the camera while a soft, faceless behemoth in a blue suit towers behind him.

In his passport photograph, Fat Man will look down at Little Boy with something like warmth and affection. Fat Man’s face will be partly hidden by the brim of his hat, which neither brother has thought to remove.

“Two days,” says the vendor. “Come back then with the rest of my money.”

Little Boy makes Fat Man carry him home. “Put me up on your shoulders,” he insists. They go this way for a while in peace, Fat Man’s knees and spine straining but willing; he feels bad about undermining his brother in front of the vendor. This is meant to be a peace offering.

“Go faster, Uncle,” says Little Boy.

“No.”

“Go faster,” says Little Boy, using his heels as spurs.

They careen down an empty road. Fat Man’s sides burn; he reaches back and slaps the boy’s face. Little Boy grabs his brother’s ears and pulls with both hands, hard. Fat Man roars, rears back. Now Little Boy hangs from Fat Man’s ears, gripping tight to stay up. Fat Man thrashes. Slaps his brother on the back. Digs his fingers into the little boy’s ribs. Hurls him off, so Little Boy falls to the ground, rolls onto his back. He groans. Fat Man stalks away, off the path into a forest of tall, thin trees. He squats among them, breathes deeply. The sullen slump of his back, the lump of his body, like a mushroom.

Little Boy sits up. To his brother’s back he says, “We agreed I was in charge!”

He says, “We agreed I was your big brother!”

He says, “We never agreed on those names! You did that alone, without my permission!”

He stomps his foot. “You have to listen to me!”

He stomps his foot again. “Do you know how much money we’ve got? What you promised them means either we stow away on the boat or we stop eating immediately.”

He stomps his foot again.

He says, “What do you have to say for yourself, John?”

Fat Man turns around like an outsize baby who just learned to sit up. He looks his brother dead on, sees the snot that runs from Little Boy’s nose, and the narrow thread of blood therein.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” he says. “Nobody believes it.”

Little Boy asks him who anybody is to tell them who they are. Who that rat bastard GI fraud artist was. Who anyone is to tell them how they should be. “You were no one when I found you,” he says. “You were a coward in a hole. I searched for you and I found you. I’ve taken care of you. Taken care of everything.”

“I’m only saying nobody believes it,” says Fat Man. “You know I’ve tried. But when people say big brother they don’t seem to be thinking of age. They’re talking about size. And anyway, I look older. Do you not like Matthew? We could call you something else. We could go back now and tell him your name is whatever you want it to be. You could be George, like he said.”

“I can see I’ve been too easy on you,” says Little Boy. Unsteadily, he climbs to his feet, and goes into the forest, where he pushes Fat Man by the shoulders. Fat Man, still sitting, rocks a little back, is otherwise unmoved.

“What are you doing?” Fat Man asks.

“Spanking you,” says Little Boy.

Fat Man laughs.

“I’m spanking you,” shrills Little Boy. “Bend over!”

Fat Man bends over. “Go ahead,” he says. “If it makes you feel better you can wail on me all you want.” Their positions suggest a father playing horsey with his son. Little Boy seems about to climb on. However, he inserts his knee beneath his brother’s gut, kneeling a little to achieve the effect, as if he supports the lummox. Little Boy brings down his hand on Fat Man’s left buttock. The sharp sound echoes in the trees. Fat Man feels nothing. Little Boy strikes him again.

Again.

Fat Man holds in his laughter the best he can.

Little Boy goes frantic. He wails on him with both hands. Each impact produces a satisfying but meaningless sound, no pain, no catharsis.

When he’s done Little Boy says, “There.”

He says, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

He says, “I don’t like doing that. But it’s for the best.”

They walk home together. Fat Man expects Little Boy to demand another ride. But Little Boy knows better.

That night Fat Man counts the money. Makes a budget, accounting for the cost of their tickets to France. Tells Little Boy they’ve got enough money left for the passports, for their journey, for one meal a day.

Nothing more.

“When we get there,” says Fat Man, “we’ll need jobs.”

Little Boy closes the cash case, snapping its ruined hinges into place. “You’ll need a job,” he says. “Little boys don’t work.”

They visit the squealing pigs.

They sleep in the mud.