The Children's Hospital

48

“We should get married, too,” Ethel Puffer said to Pickie Beecher. They were standing at the railing looking down into the atrium from the fourth floor, getting ready to drop a balloon. Four floors was as high as the angel would let them go. When they tried dropping one from any higher floor, the toy would lash out with a cord or a chain and destroy the balloon before it could find a target.

“I am too old to marry you.”

“If by too old you mean too young, then maybe. But not really. Do you think anybody cares about that anymore? Just wait. They’re going to be marrying us off to each other as soon as they think of it, and being ten years old isn’t going to protect you.”

“I am one hundred and thirty-seven years old,” Pickie said.

“That’s why I like you,” she said. “Because you realize how fucking stupid everything is. Don’t you ever tell the truth?”

“I wasn’t made to lie,” he said. “There goes John Grampus. Let’s get him.”

“Bombs away,” Ethel said, about to remove the balloon from under her smock. It wasn’t exactly a water balloon, and not exactly a barf balloon either, since it was filled with synthesized vomit, and yet when Ethel got a little bit of it from the angel in a cup, she discovered that it smelled just the same. And it was hot in a way that made it seem genuine, and made it pleasing to hold against her skin. Just as she was about to take it out and let it drop, Father Jane walked up to them.

“Glorious Day!” she said.

“Maybe for some people,” said Ethel.

“Greetings, fellow creature,” said Pickie.

“I am trying out new ways of saying hello,” Father Jane said. “Because Hello doesn’t seem like enough anymore. I think we need a more extraordinary greeting, since we have become extraordinary. Do you know what I mean?”

“Is goodbye still good enough?” Ethel asked.

“I haven’t thought about it yet. What’s under your shirt?”

“Stuffing. I’m pretending to be pregnant. Like Madame President.”

“Madame Friend,” said Father Jane. “Be careful or you’ll start a fashion trend.” She leaned over the railing. “There’s Dr. Chandra. And is that Frank’s white hair? That’s Grampus. I can recognize his big head from the ninth floor. Do you mind if I…?”

“It’s our balloon,” Pickie said. “We made it.”

“Our baby, Pickie,” said Ethel. “You mean our baby. Oh, hell.” She handed over the balloon, and Father Jane raised it up and aimed carefully.

“You’re supposed to throw it quick and then run away,” said Ethel.

“Quiet,” said Father Jane. Then she let it go, and Pickie and Ethel ran for the stairwell, but Father Jane stayed and watched the balloon hit her friend, and when he recovered enough to look up and see where it came from, she was still at the balcony, laughing and waving.