It was quite a treasure.
Mikel
The woman next to him on the bus was trying not to, but she was staring.
That was okay. Mikel was used to people staring.
She noted his freckled, pudgy cheeks, the prepubescent twinkle in his eyes, the brick-red book bag with stickers of cartoon characters on it, and finally asked, “How old are you?”
The beaming boy, who quite enjoyed the attention, looked down at the woman and said, “I’m nine, and I’m going to see my father. I have to take three trains and four buses to get there. He lives very far away. In Mapleton.”
“That is very far away,” the woman said. “Where is your mother?”
The boy explained, “Because of my height, I can travel alone. No one will trouble me.”
“Indeed, you are very… tall for your age,” the woman responded. “You’ll be okay, I’m sure, but I’ll keep an eye on you until you change buses.”
“Thank you very much. I will enjoy your company,” the boy said, digging into his pocket. “Would you like a stick of gum, ma’am?”
He held out his enormous hand and the tinfoil-wrapped stick of gum floated like an insignificant strip of silver on a vast ocean of pink palm. When she took it from him she marveled at how small her hand was compared to his. Her hand was not even half the size. And how uncomfortable he looked with the large knees of his long legs pressed against the back of the seat ahead of theirs.
Despite all that, he was still beaming, and he was talkative as most children are at that age. Somewhere amid his chatter, he informed her, “I am the tallest boy in the world, you know?”
“I believe you.”
Indeed, Mikel was the tallest boy in the world according to the Guinness Book of World Records, of which he had two copies, a paperback which he carried around with him in his brick-red book bag to show people when they stared, and the hardcover which he kept on the desk in his bedroom opened to page 321.
He was the tallest boy in the world at 6’10" and he would probably grow taller with the years. At nine, he was three inches taller than Robert Wadlow was at that age, yet he was not the tallest boy who had ever lived. That distinction belonged to his father, whose somber black-and-white photograph stared back at him from page 321 of the Guinness on his desk in his bedroom. When his father was nine, he had already reached the lofty stature of 7’7".
His father was the tallest man who ever lived, though Mikel had never met him.
His mother had always told him, “There were some difficulties, as you can imagine. He is very shy. He does not like people very much. The stress of all that got to him and we separated. But he is a good man. As you can see, we live very well. He’s very generous with his money, and he never forgets your birthday.”
In the crease between pages 320 and page 321 of the Guinness was the photograph of the infant Mikel in the arms of his smiling father.
“He loved you very much and was proud to be a father. That’s why he is smiling,” Mikel’s mother would explain.
In the photograph his father had rust-colored hair shaved close to the scalp and a long curly beard of a slightly darker red. Between these parting crimson whiskers, there was the smile. It was the only photograph of the hundred or so that Mikel owned of him in which his father smiled. As far as he knew, it was the only photograph in the whole wide world in which his father smiled.
Mikel had never seen his father’s smile in real life, but that was all going to change because his father had called yesterday with a message: “I want to see you. Every boy should know his father.”
When Mikel changed buses, he sat next to a new nice woman, who stared and said, “You’re very — ”
“Tall for my age,” laughed Mikel.
On the trains it was the same thing: “Tall… for your age.”
“Yup,” said a beaming Mikel, offering gum all around until he ran out. When he ran out, he offered breath mints. He was a very gentle, very friendly child, and people reacted to him with both amazement and kindness.
On the final bus, the one that took him into Mapleton, Mikel was plumb worn out and he rested his head against the back of the seat ahead of his and fell asleep. He awoke and looked up and saw that the bus driver had come back to his seat and was shaking him.
“This is your stop, kid.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m going to see my father.”
“I know,” said the bus driver. “I’ve met your father a few times.”
Mikel was eager to hear more. “What’s he like?”
“He’s big.”
“Oh.” He already knew that.
He got off the bus in Mapleton, a small community way up in the hills. There weren’t too many houses, but everyone he encountered seemed to know of his father, seemed to know immediately that he was the son of his father, and pointed him in the right direction.
His father lived in an immense Tudor mansion overlooking a cliff. It was gray with black trimmings. In the yard maple trees grew in abundance like a well-manicured forest, and here and there daisies and hollyhocks bloomed in patches.
The main door of the estate was left open and built high enough to allow entrance to a man of great height, and Mikel skipped delightedly through it.
Inside, Mikel giggled. No bumping of his head would go on in here — the ceiling was high enough! The grand paintings on the wall were at a level with his eyes so that he could enjoy their magnificence without stooping or stepping back to view them. There was ample space between the furnishings so that his wide hips and big feet could move about comfortably without knocking things over. All the chairs and tables were sturdily built to accommodate his great height and weight.
Mikel had never had it so good.
For the first time in his life he felt like a normal-sized kid. Giggling madly, he ran from chair to chair, plopping down and testing each for comfort and bounce.
When he caught sight of his father at the entrance to the main room, silently watching his antics, he froze.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said his red-bearded father in a voice that casually boomed from his slightly parted lips.
Mikel’s jaw dropped. His father looked to be head and shoulders above him. He had to be sure, so he rose from the chair, and even standing, he had to look up to see his father’s face. His father was over nine feet tall.
“You’re so… tall!” Mikel exclaimed.
“Yup.” His father embraced him and lifted him as easily as any father would his nine-year-old child.
“Daddy,” Mikel said and began to cry into his father’s chest. He had so many questions. There were so many things he needed to know. And now, at last, they would all be revealed to him.
His father said, “There, there, son, do not cry. Your patience has been rewarded. Every boy needs to know his father. Now wipe your tears away and I will tell you all you need to know. I will tell you the story of my mother and my grandmother, and of my stepfather Jack and my real father the oaf, and you will learn the meaning of your great height and mine. I will tell you of a land of silver. I will tell you of the small singing harp of gold. I will tell it to you as my mother told it to me when I was younger than you are now and shedding many tears because I did not fit in. It begins in a place far, far away, but not too far at all. It begins with a boy who had a man…”