Danny by David Henson

After a groan of a day at work, Harmon Donovan riffles through the musty comic books he salvaged from his mother’s estate sale. He feels something under the stack. A beak? Of course—Danny. Harmon turns the toy over in his hands. About six inches tall, the wooden duck stands upright. Harmon traces his finger down the head where the blue-green paint is chipped and fading. The plaything transports him to simpler times. Before his boss, Mr. Murphy. Before—

“Harmon, are you going to mow the lawn or not?” His wife’s sharp voice from downstairs pops his daydream.

Harmon rubs the back of his neck. “Coming, Louise” He nestles the toy with the comics in the battered suitcase and scoots it back under the bed in the spare room.

#

“How was your day, Harmon?” Louise asks as he walks in the next day.

Donovan, this report is a mess. Donovan, you missed your deadline. Shape up, Donovan. “Same as usual,” Harmon says to his wife and heads upstairs to change.

Harmon pauses at the spare bedroom, then enters, slides out the suitcase, and frees the comics and duck. “I can’t remember ever having a bad day when you were around, Danny.” He sets the toy on the floor. “Let’s see if you still come to life.” He pulls the duck by the string. Its wheels squeak as it wobbles across the carpet, orange feet churning, beak opening and closing as if trying to say something. “You lost your voice, Danny, but that squeak sounds familiar.” Harmon remembers how the sound mixed with Saturday morning cartoons and the smell of pancakes and how everything fit together then as if he were inside something instead of outside looking in.

“What in the world are you doing?”

Harmon’s hand twitches, toppling the toy. “Oh…Just seeing if this old thing still works, Louise.”

Louise rolls her eyes. “Please, Harmon, get changed so we can eat. I’ve got a conference call soon. Put away those baseball cards.”

“Comic books.”

“And that stupid chicken.”

“Duck.”

When Harmon tucks Danny away, the toy seems heavier, bigger in his hand.

#

Over the ensuing weeks, Harmon spends more and more time with Danny—when Louise is working late, traveling, on conference calls. Nothing wrong with that, he tells himself. People do a lot worse things to relax. He doesn’t pull Danny by the string. That would be too weird. But he does push the toy to see its feet and beak move and sometimes read comic books out loud to it. He notices that the toy seems to have a fresh coat of paint, but figures it must have been dusty before.

#

“How was your day, Harmon?” Louise is slicing vegetables, the blade tack tack tacking on the cutting board.

“Murphy wants me to come in Saturday.”

“Well.” Tack. “Maybe you should.”

#

Harmon sits cross-legged on the floor, ignoring his aching knees and tingling feet, Danny on his lap, the duck soft and warm in his hands. I agree, Harmon, you shouldn’t have to work on a Saturday.

“Not fair.”

Not fair.

Not fair. Harmon wakes with the words still clouding his thoughts. Crazy dream, he thinks. But true. Saturdays aren’t for work. They’re for pancakes like his mom used to make. Then playing catch. He can still feel his palm sting from his dad’s fastballs. Harmon slides from between the sheets.

Louise rolls onto her back and stretches her arms. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”

“Changed my mind. How many pancakes do you want?”

Louise frowns. “Don’t get your ass fired, Harmon. One.”

“Maybe toss the frisbee after?”

“What?”

“Kidding. I’ll yell when breakfast is ready.”

Floorboards squeaking as Harmon walks down the hall, something in the spare bedroom catches his eye…and his breath. Danny. The toy is in the middle of the room and is taller, probably knee high.

Harmon rubs his eyes, but when he looks again the duck is still there, still bigger. He goes to Danny, and hands-shaking, picks up the toy. What’s going on, Danny? he thinks. I used to pretend you were real, but this? Harmon decides there must be a logical explanation. What’s that scientific principle? Schrödinger’s Razor? He squeezes Danny back under the bed and leaves the room, pushing the button lock and closing the door.

As Harmon pours pancake batter into the skillet, he imagines how much fun a bigger Danny would’ve been. After flipping the last flapjack, he calls out for his wife. When silence answers, he goes upstairs and finds Louise with a clothes hanger at the spare bedroom door.

“Heard something.” Louise shoves the straightened hanger hook into the hole in the knob and pushes the door. “What the hell?”

Harmon brushes past his wife and gasps at the sight of Danny, now thigh high.

“Where did you get that, Harmon?”

“Uh…Amazon.”

“I want that creepy thing out of my house.”

Harmon stares at the wooden duck. It is creepy in its larger form—darker eyes, sharper beak, carved feathers more angular. “Let’s eat first, then—”

“Looks like it’s watching me. It’s going out to the trash. Now.” Louise strides forward, grabs the rope, and pulls the duck. After a couple steps, the fowl stops suddenly, and Louise topples backward. Harmon rushes to his wife. She sits up, holding her head, blood flowing between her fingers.

#

After they get home from the emergency room, where Louise receives 12 stitches, she lies on the sofa to take a nap.

“I’ll get rid of it,” Harmon says. “But I’m going to relax a few minutes first.” He leans back in the recliner, closes his eyes and tries to think of something to carry his mind away from the day’s events. He recalls the day he hit a home run in little league—the crack of the bat, rounding the bases, his parents and Sally Anne cheering in the stands, him jumping and landing with both feet on home plate.

After visualizing the homer a couple more times, he leans the recliner forward with a squeak. He whispers “Sorry” to Louise when her eyes flick open.

When Harmon gets to the spare room, he sinks to his knees at the sight of Danny, now as tall as him. Harmon stands and starts backing out of the room.

“You got another one?”

Harmon wheels around.

“Enough’s enough.” Louise steps past her husband, starts to grab the pull rope, stops and clumps back down the stairs.

She returns with the chainsaw from the garage, yanks the cord, and flinches as the chainsaw roars to life. “We’ll get this thing out of here in pieces if that’s what it takes.”

Before Harmon can react, his wife lowers the blade into the wooden duck. The saw screeches, recoils…and slams into Louise’s head. Worse than the sight for Harmon is the sound it makes. The sound it makes.

#

In the weeks following Louise’s death, Harmon can’t bear to go into the spare room. He has it redone. New paint. New carpet. New everything. When a worker asks about the big wooden duck, Harmon says it’s a family heirloom.

The day after the remodeling is finished, Harmon stands outside the room, pushes his shoulders back and goes inside. The chemical smells stinging his nostrils, Harmon shudders as he traces his finger down the gash on the wing. “You killed her…I take that back. We killed Louise. You were meant to be a small childhood memory, not this monstrosity I made of you. No more.”

Harmon buckles down at work, joins a gym, volunteers at an animal shelter, and trains for something on his bucket list—running a marathon. His marathon dream doesn’t last long, but he does walk about a mile most mornings.

A couple weeks later, he decides to donate his comic books. When he enters the spare room, he stops at the doorway. Danny seems smaller—about shoulder height. “Maybe I won’t have to cut you up after all,” he says, kneels and retrieves the comic books.

#

The next morning, a squeaking sound awakens Harmon. Danny. At the foot of the bed. Harmon pinches his arm. Danny is still there. That home run in little league. Sally Anne kissed your cheek. “A long time ago,” Harmon says. He pinches himself again. Danny squeaks toward him.

Harmon runs for the door, but Danny blocks him. That gold star on your spelling test. “Get away.” Harmon breaks for the window to scream for help, but Danny rolls to block him. The thing is even smaller now, its beak about level with Harmon’s heart. Harmon charges, but Danny is still too heavy to push out of the way. “I just have to outlast you.” He tries to remember how long someone can go without water.

#

Three days later, two officers making a welfare check discover Harmon in the bedroom and call for medical support.

“I think I felt a pulse,” the woman officer says to one of the paramedics. “Any idea what’s wrong with him?”

“Can’t tell for sure but judging by his cracked lips, shriveled tongue, and lack of skin turgor, I’d say we’re looking at dehydration. He might as well have been stranded in a desert. Strange.”

The two officers follow behind as Harmon is wheeled out, an IV replenishing his fluids. “What’s this?” the woman cop says, bending down at the door. “A tiny toy duck.”

Her partner takes it and nestles it next to Harmon on the gurney. “For good luck, buddy.”

David Henson

Image: vintage wooden toy duck from Google images