Last Tango With Marlon

A novella by Fletcher Rhoden

(Trafford, 7/2008)

Chapter Two

No, Marlon reminded himself, it can’t be. Yet there he stood, broad shoulders drooping in that same wrinkled, brown suit. His thin mustache was graying, like the temples of his receding hairline. Another gulp of cognac made Wally all the more realistic.
The feet turned to inches, Wally reaching out in their familiar childhood salute. Wally touched Marlon’s nose with the tip of his index finger and held it there. Marlon did the same to Wally’s nose.
Marlon said, “Needles.”
“Pins,” Wally countered.
“Triplets.”
“Twins.”
“When a man marries -- ”
“The trouble begins.”
“When a man dies -- ”
“His troubles will end.” Wally removed his index finger from Marlon’s nose and Marlon removed his from Wally’s. But as their hands crossed, their pinkies interlocked.
Marlon asked, “What goes up the chimney?”
“Smoke.”
Together, they said, “The promise between us will never be broke.”
Each closed his eyes. Marlon’s inner voice muttered his wish, in the darkness of his imagination Wally did the same. He opened his eyes just as Wally did, squinting in the light. But there was one more gesture to complete the ritual greeting. Marlon’s thumb stood tall, pressing against Wally’s for a few seconds. Together, Marlon and Wally said, “Thumbs,” before their digits slipped off with a slight twist.
This fixed things in Marlon’s mind; Wally was back. A flood of warmth welled up in Marlon. His skin tingled, breath easy in his lungs. The corners of his smile pressed into his sagging jowls. His thickening face wrinkled up at the corners of his eyes.
They hugged. Marlon patted Wally’s back, firm and broad under that baggy suit, to assure himself that this unusual visit was more than just his drunken imagination. And if not, the sheer force of his will would make it so. No mere law of the physical world would prevent this happy reunion.
“I’ve missed you, Wally, I can hardly say.”
But before Wally could return the compliment, Marlon lunged at him.
“Killer Brando gets Cox in a headlock,” Marlon said, at once the beastly Killer and the rapid-talking announcer calling the action. Wally’s head peeked out of Marlon's armpit. Marlon could almost feel Wally’s palms pressing against his back, then his little friend’s fingers pulling at his left arm. In Marlon’s ears a stadium of fans cheered and booed, the full froth of a championship bout. “There’s no love loss between these two titans,” Marlon’s announcer went on, “but only one can emerge victorious. Can the baby face get loose?”
Wally struggled, balance shifting as he tried to yank free.
Marlon’s announcer declared, “Wily Wally Cox has had it, folks. What an end to such a sterling and fabled career; three-year world champion, a hero to children everywhere. And it’s all over, folks. Yes, it looks like a finish ...”
Wally pulled out of the hold, slipping past Marlon’s fading muscles. He grabbed Marlon’s vulnerable right wrist and yanked it back almost to his left shoulder blade. “Oh, Cox turns the tables on the Killer,” Wally said, doing his own announcer’s voice. “The crowd goes wild!”
Wally reached around Marlon’s neck with his left arm, pulling him back. Marlon could almost feel his throat being choked off, muscles straining against Wally’s forearm.
“An incredible turnabout,” Wally’s announcer said. “The underdog has the giant dead to rights. Will the Killer tap out?”
Marlon reached for the table, but Wally had him bent backward. In his wrestler’s voice, Marlon said, “I’ll never tap out,” and then after a slight pause, “I can’t reach!”
Wally let go, Marlon fell forward and his flat palm smacked against the tabletop. His ass hit the chair a second later.
“Cox wins the day!” Wally threw up his hands and the crowd leapt to their feet. Their cheers receded into Marlon’s inner ear.
“Christ it’s good to see you, Wally. How’ve you been?”
“Well, Bud, I am dead for over a year now, so I guess you could say things have been better.” With a wry look down at the floor and beyond, he added, “Then again, things could be a whole lot worse.”
“I knew you’d make it in, Wally. But you’re still wearing that same crappy suit.”
Wally shrugged. “It’s heaven, they’d want you to be comfortable. Can you imagine? Everywhere you look it’s bunny slippers and old bathrobes and La-Z-Boy recliners.”
Marlon could imagine it, a cloudy haven of nerds and good-natured slobs lolling eternity away in complete contentment. Marlon asked, “Cognac?” Wally shook his head. “Sandwich? Isn’t there something I can get you, anything I can do?”
“I thought maybe there was something I could do for you.”
“Me? Nah. Things were a little rough goin’ for a while, I admit; not just the pictures, I mean. But everything’s coming together now. With Godfather and Tango I’m on top again. I can handle it.”
Wally picked up the Magnum, holding it with the tips of his thumb and middle finger, his pinky extended. He glared at Marlon as he returned the revolver to the writing table on the other side of the room.
“Everybody needs a little help sometimes, Bud.”
There was no arguing the point. Wally was right. And Marlon was glad for the help and thrilled with the company, even if he was more enthused about the company than the help. He leaned back, pinching the ridge of his nose between the eyes.
“You’re right, Dr. Cox. I’m in trouble here, serious trouble.” Marlon leaned back further, sensing the smile on Wally’s face. “I know it sounds bizarre, but I just can’t shake this feeling that I’m ...”
After a long, dramatic pause, Marlon added, “ ... A chicken.”
Wally pretended to look over a note pad. In a Viennese accent, he asked, “And how long, zese feelings you’ve been having?”
“Since I was an egg. I was never religious, even though my father was a fryer.”
But Marlon couldn’t relish his own wordplay for long. That tenacious itch skimmed across his back, tracing a subtle burn. “You really wanna be a help?”
Wally nodded, fingers clawed. Marlon could almost feel Wally’s scratching nails move with rhythmic precision. Just the suggestion was enough for the time being. It would have to be.
“Hey, Wally, remember back in Evanston?”
“The good ol’ days, when a nickel was worth a nickel’s worth of joy.”
Marlon said, “At Lincoln Elementary,” and Wally joined him in the school’s unofficial motto.
“Best in the nation!”
“Did you ever think we’d wind up the way we did?” Marlon asked.
“It’s not over yet, at least not for you.”
Wally stepped into the room, expanding his chest and pushing his muscular shoulders back. He planted his fists on his hips like he was Superman. “I thought I’d be a square-jawed hero who jumped out of airplanes and swung from the trees to catch criminals. I’d rely solely on my superior musculature, my trusty Bowie knife and of course my pet lion, Samson.” He lowered his fists, which opened in submission as his shoulders drooped. “Where did I go wrong?”
“That, my old friend, is the question of the day.”
“No, the real question is, ‘How do you go right?’”
But Marlon pretended not to hear him, or to play it off as though he had no idea what Wally meant. Better to keep the conversation moving in another direction, even if that happened to be backward. “Life was an improvisation. What a pair we made; Wally the wit -- ”
“Buddy the bod.”
“We were destined to be friends from the time your old man met Dodie in Chicago. Of course, I wasn’t sickly like you.”
Wally’s head tipped on his shoulders as he considered. “Yes, uh, I guess I may have been prone to the odd cold or two. I did get pretty sick after that game of cowboys when you tied me to a tree. I was there for hours.”
The day came roaring back; the gray Illinois sky, the shrieks of the children as their alter egos died from imagined gunshot wounds and flying arrows. Marlon remembered the tree he tied Wally to, the boy’s voice as he called out to be released. The voice got softer as it got more distant.
“My father eventually came and untied me.” Marlon’s stomach turned, guilty nausea stirring his bile. Wally added, “And then there were times I was faking, or I got sick on purpose. To get time off school, of course.”
Of course, Marlon reassured himself. No reason I would have anything to do with that.
“When you were on your feet, you were a hell of a lawman.” Marlon pushed himself up out of the Louis XV side chair. By the time he stood erect he was no longer in his study but in an abandoned lot back in Evanston, decades earlier. And he was transported from Evanston to the dusty towns of Arizona or Nevada or some other area typical of a young boy’s Wild West fantasies. His hands were steady at his hips. Wally assumed a similar posture; legs spread, head forward, arms akimbo, fingers ready to grab for his guns.
“But those days are over,” Marlon said, his voice a deadly western twang. “Word’s out you gone soft, Sheriff, took to the bottle. Ain’t no two-bit, run-down, tinhorn greenhorn gonna bring in ol’ Buddy Aberdeen Brando.”
Wally’s eyes were locked on Marlon’s. “Give it up, Aberdeen. We gotcha f’r horse stealin’, cattle rustlin’, train robbin’ ... rapin’ a cactus?”
“It was dark.” Suddenly Marlon was channeling Jack Benny, with his broad takes and round syllables. “Anyway, I reckon I been punished enough on that score, Sheriff.”
“Tell it to the judge, Aberdeen. We got the place surrounded. The rest of your gang’s either tied up outside or in the pokey.”
In Aberdeen’s determined hiss, Marlon said, “Then I guess I’ll die alone. Unless you’d like to join me.”
Marlon drew his guns and fired.
But Wally was quicker. Amid the spit-filled gun noises each man made as he fired, Marlon dropped his imaginary guns and clutched his gut. He fell to his chair, only half on it as he shakily reached for his drink. He took a final swig, still clutching his mortally wounded belly. He swallowed hard and winced, squinting up at Wally. He looked like he was about to speak, to offer some parting wisdom or a last gesture of friendship to his victorious opponent. But a dramatic pain took him in the chest and, with a final grimace, Marlon fell forward.
Wally said, “Nobody could take a fall like you, Bud.”
When Marlon opened his eyes he was back in his study, once more the middle-aged screen legend shambling around in his pajamas; drinking and carrying on an imagined conversation with his best friend Wally Cox, dead for over a year.
Everything was back to normal.

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