KUKLA 
Rudy knew what Fran was, anyway. She was a lady, a human lady. And he liked her. He liked how pretty she was and how nice, and the way she sang in her pretty voice.
He wasn’t so sure about Ollie, though, what he was. He thought maybe a crocodile, but his mom watched the show a lot—it was on at night—and said he was a dragon. A nice one, though, with sad, friendly eyes and only one big overhanging tooth in front that made him look a little goofy and stupid, which he was a little, also funny, the way he liked himself so much, admired himself, which was maybe like a dragon, how they were, except there was no such thing as dragons, or puppets either, actually. Well, there were puppets but they weren’t alive: someone had to make them move and say things. So maybe Ollie wasn’t a dragon or a crocodile, just a puppet with long jaws and sad eyes and a big front tooth.
When he asked his mom about Kukla, she wasn’t sure: “A little clown?”
He did have a big ball for a nose like a clown, along with two big spots of rouge on his cheeks. He also had surprised-looking eyebrows and a little circle for his mouth so he looked like he was always saying “Oh no!”
“Or a little boy?” his mom said.
Except, he was bald, on top anyway, with hair along the sides like Uncle Seymour had. And anyway, if he was supposed to be a little bald-headed boy he didn’t sound like one—he sounded like a girl, and acted like one, fussy about stuff, like a fussy girl. Sometimes he even scolded Ollie for not being fussy enough, for being a little thick, which Ollie was, but at least he wasn’t like Kukla—he wasn’t scary. Kukla reminded Rudy of Jerome Sawyer in his class, who acted like a girl the way he swung his arms when he walked and the way his hands got fluttery when he talked and the high, tinkly way he laughed, pressing his hand to his chest like an actress.
But Rudy didn’t hate Jerome, like some of the others did, some of the other boys. They hated him and beat him up a lot. And the way Jerome would cry! So loud. Not even caring he was crying like that, like a girl would cry, which made them even madder, so they beat him up some more, making him cry even worse.
Rudy was more scared of Jerome than mad at him. Which he didn’t understand, because how could he be scared of someone who was like a girl? Why would he be scared of a girl? But he was scared of Jerome the same way he was kind of scared of Kukla, who wasn’t even real, who was just a puppet who was like a little fussy boy with a girl’s voice wearing makeup and little white mittens.
Sometimes Rudy wanted to see Ollie go after Kukla, knock him down when Kukla started carrying on in that voice, make him stop being like that. Which was how he always felt when they beat up Jerome. He felt sorry for him but also glad because maybe it would help him be less girly, less scary. That’s what they were trying to do, the other boys, trying to beat the girl out of him.
But Rudy had to admit: he liked to watch Jerome on the ice.
Everyone else at the pond just skated around or played crack-the-whip or else played hockey over on the hockey side, but Jerome would figure skate. It shocked Rudy how good he was. Sometimes people would stand around in a wide circle watching him do figure eights and jump in the air and whirl around and land on one skate and sail backward with his arms out like wings and a faraway look on his face. People said if he kept on like this he was going to be in the Olympics someday.
One night Rudy had a dream that Jerome was at the pond doing his usual tricks, but he was also Kukla, with white mittens, rouge, and high eyebrows, his little round lipsticked mouth whistling a tune he skated to, the “Here We Are Again” song they always played at the start of the show, flipping his hips like a show-offy girl. Then the hockey players broke into the circle of watchers and were at him, beating him with their sticks, Jerome screaming “Nooooo” through his Kukla mouth, going down gracefully, like a ballerina, and lying there while they kept on beating him, swinging their sticks like chopping wood, till Jerome started coughing up strands of grey puppet-stuffing, then twitched all over, and was dead. Then everyone could relax.
When Rudy saw Jerome at school the next day he wanted to warn him not to go skating, or anyway figure skating. But no boy ever spoke to Jerome, otherwise people would think you didn’t mind the way he was, or that you even liked the way he was, secretly being that way yourself.
There was one thing Rudy would like to ask Jerome: Did he watch Kukla, Fran and Ollie, and if he did, who was his favorite, Kukla?
Dear Kukla,
You are just a puppet but I wish you were my friend.
Love,
Jerome Sawyer
Rudy wouldn’t mind writing to Fran:
Dear Fran,
You are very nice, also very pretty, especially when you sing.
Sincerely,
Rudy Petrovitch
But she would probably write back:
Dear Rudy,
Glad you enjoy the show.
Best wishes,
Fran Allison
Actually, his mom enjoyed the show more than he did. Sitting behind him on the couch she would give out little laughs at the three of them and say how “clever” they were, and he would feel proud. She never watched any of his other puppet shows, though. She never watched Howdy Doody, for example. She didn’t think Howdy or Buffalo Bob or Clarabell were clever. Rudy thought they were very clever, especially Clarabell when he ran around squirting everyone with water. That was clever. But Kukla, Fran, and Ollie never got like that, rowdy and fun like that. But he still liked to watch them, hearing his mom laugh at something clever they said, and he liked Fran an awful lot, and Ollie with his one big goofy tooth.
But Kukla.
One evening during a commercial he asked his mom on the couch behind him what she thought of Kukla, how she felt about him, if she liked him.
“Well . . . he’s a puppet, hon.”
“I know, but do you like him?”
“Sure. He seems nice.”
“Would you ever want to hit him?”
“Hit him?”
“Would you?”
“Why would I want to hit him?”
“Or see Ollie hit him? Or Fran? Or somebody?”
“No, I wouldn’t. Why? Would you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Rudy?”
“What.”
“Would you like to hit Kukla?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why? Does he bother you?”
“Sometimes.”
“He’s just a little puppet, hon.”
“I know but why does he have to act like that?”
“Like a girl.”
After a second or two she said, “Like a sissy, you mean.”
He nodded.
“Well . . . maybe he is a sissy,” she said.
He turned around and looked at her.
She shrugged.
The show came back. Kukla started carrying on in a high, excited voice about a birthday party he was planning for Beulah the witch, bringing his little white mittens together at how nice it was going to be. And instead of hitting him, Ollie and Fran agreed it was going to be nice, in fact a wonderful party.