Crenshaw

52

The article I read about imaginary friends said they often appear during times of stress. It said that as kids mature, they tend to outgrow their pretend world.

But Crenshaw told me something else.

He said imaginary friends never leave. He said they were on call. Just waiting, in case they were needed.

I said that sounded like a lot of waiting around, and he said he didn’t mind. It was his job.

The first night in our new apartment, I slept on a chair in the living room. I woke up in the middle of the night. Everyone else was sleeping soundly.

As I headed to the bathroom to get a drink, I was surprised when I heard the water running. I knocked, and when no one answered, I opened the door a crack.

Bubbles floated and danced. Steam billowed. But through the mist I could make out Crenshaw in the shower, fashioning a bubble beard.

“Do you have any purple jelly beans?” he asked.

Before I could answer, I felt my dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Jackson? You okay?”

I turned and hugged him hard. “I love you,” I said. “And that’s a fact.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered.

I smiled, recalling the question I’d been meaning to ask. “Dad,” I said, “have you ever known anyone by the name of Finian?”

“Did you say Finian?” he asked with a faraway look in his eyes.

I closed the bathroom door, and as I did, I caught another glimpse of Crenshaw. He was standing on his head. His tail was covered with bubbles.

I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. Slowly.

Ten seconds seemed like the right amount of time for me to be sure he wasn’t going to leave.

When I opened my eyes, Crenshaw was still there.

There had to be a logical explanation.

There’s always a logical explanation.

Meantime, I was going to enjoy the magic while I could.