Prelude: A Boy and His Mother

A small, lanky boy of 6 bounced into his room, his reddish messy hair flopping across his forehead and his pajama pants falling past his waistline. He hoisted them up with every skip and jump. And soon he tired himself out enough that he flopped onto the bed, his arms outstretched and his face flat against the bed sheets. He breathed in the fresh scent of ginger, turning his face towards the bedside table and peeking past the comforter with one uncovered eye, taking note of the fresh cookies sitting on the table top. Beside it was a tall glass of water, the ice slowly melting in the sweltering summer heat. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow.

A tall, thin woman in a long robe entered the room, a glass of ice in her hand. She walked past her son, flat on his mattress, and over to the glorious two door window at the edge of the room. She set the glass of ice down on the seat embedded into the window pane, and leaned over it to unlock the doors. With two hands, she pushed the windows open wide, and a cool breeze flowed in. Turning around, she picked the glass up and scurried over to her son. She set the glass beside the full one of water and sat down on on the bed next to him.

The boy rolled onto his back as his mother went in to tickle him, shielding himself with his arms wrapped around his abdomen. "Mum, no!" he chuckled, pushing her eager hands aside. The woman, whose strawberry blonde hair was wrapped up tightly in a bun withdrew, her eyes squinting with her large smile.

"Come on, now James. Time for bed. I've brought you some ice cubes to refresh your water." Her half American half English accent was hard to place sometimes, but you could certainly displace it from her son's. This was what she got from being raised in a household where accents feuded.

The boy pushed himself to sit up. "Mum, I talked to Mitch Cooper today at school and he told me that Peter Pan never grew up!" he whined.

His mother grimaced. She brushed back his sticky hair that was flat on his forehead and damp with sweat. "Why do you listen to Mitch Cooper? I don't think he knows any more of what's true than the next person."

James huffed, crawling under his blankets and pulling them up to his chest. "But you said dad was Peter Pan! And that he did grow up! And stupid Mitch Cooper said that Wendy Darling couldn't get him to grow up!" He looked crushed. For most of his life, he grew up believing that his father, store manager Peter Branden was the infamous 'boy who wouldn't grow up'. When he gloated about it in school, most of the children went along with it, but these days the boys at the preparatory questioned him, especially Mitch Cooper. The blonde sighed almost as simultaneously as her son, and she nudged him over in bed. She threw her arm around his shoulders and flipped her legs up on the bed. She crossed her heels.

"Well, that's right, love. Wendy couldn't make him grow up. He wasn't ready then," she explained, kissing his temple.

"But then I told Mitch that you did, mum. I said 'me mum is the one who made Peter Pan grow big and strong into a man!' and he laughed at me." James wrapped his arm across his mother, tears pricking at his eyes. You could tell that this surely hurt the boy, and his friend had embarrassed him.

She kissed his head three more times and squeezed him to her tightly. "Well, that boy doesn't know a thing, James. Your father wasn't ready for a long time to grow up. Don't listen to that fool, darling." They sat in silence for a minute after. She wiped away the tears from his wet cheeks and scratched the top of his head and behind his ears. Their dog, a large German Shepherd named Cleopatra, strode into the room, and began to howl quietly when she caught the sight of James' tears. She padded around the room, strutting playfully and jumping from side to side. Both James and his mother giggled childishly. Cleo would do this whenever she sensed sadness in the house. She was a good dog that way.

"C'mere Cleopatra," James cooed. The dog hopped onto the foot of the bed, bouncing the pair that was already sitting on it. They both pet her with their toes. "Mum, can you tell me how you and papa met, so I can tell that Mitch Cooper the truth, and he can believe me?"

"Well if you hold on a minute I was gonna get to it!" she teased, poking his sides. James' eyes were gleaming and hopeful, no longer full of tears. That was the best part about being little; you usually forgot what was making you so sad so fast. His mother got up and walked to the other side of the room, dragging the rocking chair across the wooden floors to the edge of the bed. She laid the blanket that hung over the back of it along the arms, and sat down, wrapping the ends of it around her legs.

"Mum, tell me!" he crooned, tired of waiting any longer. She put her finger to her lips and hushed him, smiling underneath it. Cleopatra's head perked up and she cocked her head to the side, knowing she was about to be told a story- one of her many favorite things.

His mother cleared her throat and began. "Well, first off, I was fifteen. Older than you, love. And I had been sweet on a boy from school. His name was Willie…"

"Willie!" James exclaimed, his smile growing, exposing a few gaps where some baby teeth had fallen out. "What kind of tosser has a name like Willie!" He laughed and held his sides, already entertained by his mother's story.

She raised a brow at him and hushed him again. "Not everyone has a gift of a great name, James. Why, look at that Mitch fellow you mentioned…" she teased. Her son waved his hand at her and urged her to go on. He was now moving to lay on his stomach, his chin propped up under his fists, and his eyes wide, aglow with wonder. "Anyways," she continued. "It was… hmm.. 1941. I was fifteen, and terribly bored with my life…"