The Peculiar Arthur McLongbody

The marks on the door frame, inked so carefully by two delightfully doting parents, inched up from the time he learned to stand to the time he officially became a man. The marks on the door went up, and up, and up because he became a very tall man. He was left-handed, something the townspeople blamed for his eccentricities, because it was widely known that very tall, left-handed men were the strangest in the bunch. You see, the boy called Little Artie grew up and up and up to be the superstitiously quiet, emphatically eremitic marionettist, Arthur McLongbody, a name had never so fittingly fit anyone before. Not in that town, or any of its surrounding municipalities.

Every Wednesday, and only on Wednesdays, Arthur McLongbody would be seen strolling down side streets, an unmeasured bounce in his step, a red top hat placed precariously upon his head, unruly, tangled, brown hair sticking out every which way beneath it. He would gaze down his long nose at passersby but never uttered a word except to Greta, or Daniel, or Hans, the marionettes that bounced along beside him. After his walk every Wednesday he would return to his tarpaper shack to drink a cup of tea with his pet goldfish, Gerhard.

Every Monday, and only on Mondays Arthur McLongbody would be found sitting in the gazebo at the center of town watching the sunrise, gaze tipped upward, red top hat on the bench beside him, lanky arms bare, elbows jutting out every which way. He would nod subtly at passersby, but not with his own head, he would nod with Greta, or Daniel, or Hans, the marionettes that sat beside him. He would take his breakfast there in the gazebo, dark rye toast smeared with butter and homemade blue-blackberry jam.

Every other Friday, and please do not miss the utterance of the ‘other’ between ‘every’ and ‘friday’ as this was the only activity he did not do weekly, Arthur McLongbody would stand at the edge of town staring out over the horizon, long fingers entwined together behind his back, not blinking, not moving, for hours the only sign that he had not turned to stone was the scarcely detectable rise and fall of his shoulders as he inhaled and exhaled. Speculation trickled from mouth to ear of each townsperson. What was he looking at, they wondered, what was he waiting for, they asked. The mailperson perhaps, a delivery of sorts, testing his eyesight conceivably, his parents perchance. Ahh yes, his parents. No one could recall ever seeing Arthur’s parents, not even the 102-year-old Lamina Regina, though her memory should not be relied on as most of it was sloshing about at the bottom of a well of spirits.

Of course there were rumors about him, like he was magic and had turned his parents into Greta and Daniel, though that rumor did not explain Hans, but rumors are not foolproof or plotholeless. So many rumors swirled around Arthur but they never settled inside his long, thin ears, they did not tickle his disposition at all. If anything could absolutely be said, for sure, without hesitation, about Arthur McLongbody, it was that he was a creature simultaneously stimulated and restrained by routine. Though everything about him was unusual nothing he did was unexpected. If you asked any townsperson, young or old, or anywhere in between, Arthur’s moments went by in exactly the same way week after week, except of course for those fridays.

Imagine the wide eyed surprise on the faces of his neighbors when Arthur emerged from his home on Thursday evening carrying a neatly folded handkerchief with a small bump in the middle on one hand, and dragging Greta, Daniel, and Hans along with his other hand. Their tiny wooden bodies bumping along, little puffs of dirt appearing and disappearing behind them.

No one approached him, his mood on Thursday evenings had never been studied. Mr. Oscot was flummoxed, Miss Jane was flabbergasted, and the rest of the townspeople wore fear on their faces. The whispers wafted through the air. What is he doing? Did his clock break? Did we lose a day? Arthur walked a straight line from his tarpaper shack to the edge of town. He shuffled along, left foot, right foot, marionettes bouncing, his eyes heavy, pointed toward the ground in front of him. His pace was slow but deliberate. People moved out of his way, then followed at what they thought was a safe distance.

A small, round, merchant emerged from a time shop near the border, much like the cuckoos emerged from the clocks he hocks in the shop, just in time to see Arthur approach. Arthur stopped, stooped, looked him right in the eye then asked, “What do birds do when it rains?”

The merchant was taken aback at the deep sound of Arthur’s voice. His mouth dropped open and he blinked twice, but no words surfaced. Arthur cocked his head, waiting for an answer. The merchant shrugged, “Get wet?”

“Hm.” Arthur nodded. His head tipped up toward the sky, his fingers gripped the strings tighter, and Greta, Hans, and Daniel perked up. He stuffed the handkerchief with the bump in the middle neatly in his jacket pocket. The townspeople stood around, mouths agape, for what felt like three go-rounds of the little clock hand, but was probably only a few quick moments. Arthur sighed then sauntered across the town line, marionettes bumping along behind him. The townspeople watched as he disappeared over the horizon, some swear Hans waved at them, some swear Greta winked, some swear Daniel smiled so wide they heard the crack of his wooden jaw. One thing that could be definitively agreed upon was that Arthur McLongbody was never to be heard from again.

Samantha Crane is a Chicago based writer currently riding out this pandemic in a small Florida beach town. Her work can be read online at Dream Pop Press and Coffin Bell. Follow her on Twitter @dangercrane.