Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,58

seem extremely interested in that prospect. She unlocks the place, tells them no other employees will be there for an hour, when they begin to prep for the 8:00 AM rush. Everyone lingers around the register while she prepares the breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Schumann still sits on Coffen’s shoulder.

“Why should I do him any favors?” Björn says, not taking off his sunglasses. “He kidnapped me.”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” Coffen says. “And his family. Please?”

“Chow time,” suggests Tilda, holding a whole tray of breakfast Mexican lasagnas that are actually completely identical in structure to regular non-breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Soon, they’re all gorging on grease.

Tilda speaks up first: “Maybe Björn is right. I mean, Schumann did kidnap him, which if memory serves correctly is a felony. This seems like it might be an appropriate punishment given the severity of the crime.”

Schumann shakes his wee head very much to the contrary again.

“I’m sure,” Coffen says to Tilda, “if he stays a mouse you’d be happy to watch over him as a kind of gentle guardian, is that right? Is that how you’d like to see this end—you get your pet and his son grows up without a father?”

“I’d be open to that suggestion,” she says.

“We’re talking about a husband and a father and he needs to be human once more,” Coffen says.

“I grew up without a father,” Tilda says, “and I’m fine.”

“Me, too,” the magician chimes in.

Bob sighs. “Me, too.”

Björn unwraps another Mexican lasagna, enjoys a bite, and says, “You know what? After last night’s awful show, I want to get out of this godforsaken town and forget all about it. I don’t want to have this guy on my conscience for the rest of my life. I don’t need that. Believe me, there’s enough on my conscience. You don’t think I retaliated dark-arts-style once the ink dried on our divorce papers? You bet I did. I’m not proud of it, but I got the last laugh. Was what I did to her childish and vindictive? No doubt. I am regretful. Yes, there is shame in my shame-cave. So I don’t need to add to it for no real reason.” Then he puts his finger right in Schumann’s wee face. “But snap out of this quarterback-hero crap. Act like a regular guy or god help me, I’ll turn you right back to a mouse. You got me?”

Adamant rodent nodding ensues.

“What did you do to your wife?” Coffen asks Björn.

“I can’t talk about it. I thought I was punishing her but all I did was make me hate myself.”

Björn picks mousy Schumann up and puts the rodent in his jacket pocket. Then he lightly taps on the rodent-lump from outside the jacket a few times. The magician takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and there’s a clap of thunder outside. Bob and Tilda look at each other. Björn takes another deep breath, and there’s another clap of thunder. Finally he says, “Let evolution take its course.” He taps the lump one last time.

And it’s gone.

“Where is he?” Tilda asks.

That’s when Schumann lopes in the front door of Taco Shed in his football uniform, standing full-sized, dressed as though Purdue might lock pigskinned-horns with Notre Dame any minute now.

“What happened?” he says, looking perplexed and disheveled.

“Where were you?” Tilda says.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I was suddenly standing out in the parking lot, and everything before it is hazy. I kind of remember feeling inconsequential, a sort of afterthought.”

“Where are you coming from right now? Think hard,” Coffen says. “Did you hear thunder just now?”

“I can’t remember anything besides wearing a really warm fur coat,” Schumann says.

“Holy shit,” says Tilda.

“Boo-ya,” Björn says.

“Are you being serious?” Coffen asks Schumann.

He nods and says, “Yeah, the fur coat is really all I can remember.”

“What the almighty pigeon-toed fuck is going on?” Tilda screams.

Björn cracks up. “I keep telling you people I’m a sorcerer. But nobody wants to hear that. You all only want to rain hate down on my happy little shindig. Let me do my thing. Leave me and my well enough alone.”

Bob wants to ask a flood of practical questions, feels the tug to disprove the possibility that Schumann had indeed been a mouse. The urge comes on strong, almost like a craving, a habit, but Coffen strangles it. The explanation isn’t the point. Schumann’s back. His wife has her husband. Little Schu, his dad. That’s the point. That’s all that matters, and Bob tries to embrace the mystery of it.

Schumann tells all