Summary: The bond between mother and child transcends everything. Even fur.
Note 1: I have tinkered slightly with Kurt's story. Simplified it, mostly. Thanks (as always) for reading, and enjoy. :D
Warning: The category for this collection of Kurt craziness is, as you all know, Humor/Drama. I dialed up the Drama for this one. It's rated PG-13 for fleeting images of horror, one cuss word, and some serious angst. So. Without further ado, here is …
=== PLATFORM 3 ===
It was a little past midnight in Heiligenstadt. The wind whistled through the airy, wrought-iron grates that fenced in the wooden platforms of the train station, leaving the air colder and cleaner in its wake. The hanging lamps in the platforms kept the inky night at bay, making warm pools of light on the floors. A plump-faced woman in her forties, with well-defined muscles that were visible even under her loose blouse, huffed up the wooden stairs to the platform. Her long skirt swished against the steps, muffling the sound of her clogs. The wind played with the kerchief on her head and made her old traveling cloak ripple out behind her. In one hand she carried a duffel bag. In the other, she held someone's sleeve.
The person stumbling along next to her was covered completely by a very large sackcloth robe, which dragged on the floor. The hood of the robe obliterated any hint of a face. A blind monk, perhaps. It tripped on a stair.
"Pick your feet up, liebe," the woman said quietly. "Ant keep your head down."
"I'm trying, mamma."
They got up to the main platform. It was deserted. The only sound around them was the wail of the wind and the creak of a hanging sign that said "3." The woman tugged gently on the cloaked figure, leading it to a bench. She plopped the duffel onto the floor and they both sat down, under the swinging glow of a nearby lamp.
"Zere's nobody here, schatz. You can take it off."
"Ja?"
"Go ahead."
At this encouragement, the "blind monk" peeled back the hood of his burnoose. Kurt Wagner lifted his long blue nose and sniffed in the crispness of the cool night. He blinked a bit and smiled at his mother. Elsa Wagner smiled back, ruffling his blue-black hair.
"You're tired."
"Ah hah," he agreed.
He yawned and rubbed a three-fingered, furry fist into the corner of one of his golden eyes. It had been a long day. He brushed away the little dot of sleep and squinted down the track. No train. It was early, though. The express wasn't due until 12:30.
He yawned again. The cock crow had woken him at six in the morning. He spent his day packing, helping with some last minute chores, and making sure his father would be okay on his own while they were at the station. Gustav Wagner had broken his leg in a farming accident and was laid up, most unhappily, right when he wanted to see his son off to "The Famous Institute in America."
Kurt didn't seem inclined to make any conversation, so Elsa stared down the track and let her mind wander. Naturally, it wandered toward Kurt. Her little boy had grown up so fast … how did that happen? It seemed like only yesterday when he'd been swept into the house and onto the kitchen table for inspection, like he'd been six years old a few minutes ago. She sneaked a look at her son, dozing with his shaggy head tipped back against the iron grate, and things began to come back to her.
There was the definite smell of formaldehyde, she recalled, when she sat in the doctor's office in Munich, and the chair squeaked loudly at the precise moment he informed her she was infertile. She was sitting across the desk from him, and he had raised his bushy white eyebrows and given her this look of pity. Such a friendly, sweet, terrible look. "I'm so sorry," he said. He even pushed a box of tissues towards her, expecting her to cry.
Elsa did not cry. She was disappointed by the news, but she was also an acrobat in a traveling circus. She literally had a clown for a husband. The last thing she needed was children. They were a death sentence, not to mention a liability on the road. Once you had them, your figure was never the same. The costumes looked like shit because your hips spread and your breasts sagged. And worse, bending became too hard. No. Children were not for her.
And then Kurt arrived, and turned everything on its ear.
Memories began to skirt through her head in a blur of sights and sounds. The past was flashing before her in vivid splashes of color, bursts of smells and touches, and noise.
*~*
She's sitting in the kitchen of the farmhouse she and Gustav are renting while the circus is stopped in Bavaria, talking about the weather with their housemates: the sword swallower and his wife, who assists one of the circus's magicians. And here comes Gustav, blustering into the house with a red face and yelling, "Someone srew a kitten in za river!" He's carrying a wet bundle of cloth …
A wet, blue, hairy little creature with expressive yellow eyes. Little pointy ears. Chubby, grasping hands with three dexterous fingers. A round belly that pooches out and deflates with every deep breath. Little furry feet kicking in the air. A tiny tail that whips back and forth. He mews and coughs and then laughs, showing fangs, and reaches up to her, stealing her heart …
An energetic little monster. Literally. Five years old, tearing around the green meadow behind the circus tent. He wears little overalls with a hole cut in the seat for his tail. Waving arms. Joyful shouts. Spontaneous leaps. He uses his knees to break when he falls. Grass stains everywhere. It is a boisterous game of tag between Kurt, his several imaginary friends, and the sword swallower's cat, Koogle …
A daring young man on a flying trapeze. Kurt's seven --- the youngest out there. It's a pie-slice view, with a lot of patched red curtain on either side. Her son is turning tricks and leaping from swing to swing in an absurdly ugly uniform. The crowd roars beyond the curtain. Her skin-tight acrobatic gear is starting to itch, and suddenly it smells like Gustav. The clown-white he uses gives off a very strong, clean odor that burns in her nostrils. His hand, gritty and warm, squeezes her bare shoulder, and he whispers in her ear, "Vould you listen to zat crowd!" She turns around and gently honks his false red nose …
At thirteen, a rare thing. Acceptance. Kurt misses the bar during a practice run and hits the dirt the wrong way. SNAP. He howls in pain and tries to sit up. The circus, to a man, comes running. His shoulder is dislocated. Mr. Bedermeier, the one-eyed lion tamer, forces Kurt back down on his back and yells in the boy's face, "Look at your muzzer!" Kurt's horrified yellow eyes turn in her direction. Bedermeier pops the joint back into place with a loud crack. Kurt stares, his jaw twitches, and his big eyes roll back in his head and close. Bertold, who cleans up after the elephants, yells, "Nein! Kurt!" and dumps a bucket of water on him to revive him …
Soap bubbles. Kurt's doing the dishes in the kitchen of their new house. Elsa feels him sneak around behind her and grab some slices of the carrot she's working on. He zips away, mouth full, before she can catch him. Kurt is skinny and fifteen, and wearing only an old pair of pants. The summer sun shines in through the window. His tail flaps every which way as he scrubs and sings "Let It Be." His voice is wobbly and he's completely out of tune, but at least The Beatles have been teaching him English.
She throws him a carrot slice. He catches it in his mouth with a satisfied, cat-like chomp. "Clean up vhen you're done," she hears herself say, looking at a heap of Kurt's books on the rough-hewn kitchen table. Thank God for home-school. A whistled melody floats in through the window, riding on a hot summer breeze. Gustav is outside, working the fields behind their home. They are settled, now, and finished with the circus. They are respectable farmers. Nobody knows about Kurt. They are safe …
Commotion. Torches and pitchforks. A crowd is banging past the front of the house, stomping and yelling. "Mein Gott! Ze whole verdammt village has gone crazy, Gustav! Kurt? Vere are you?! KURT!" …
"It's a demon! Kill it! KILL IT!" …
That tower of flame. The stake. Chains. Right in the town square, like a public witch-burning. Kurt is about to be consumed by fire, terror, ignorance, and an angry mob. (Vould you listen to zat crowd!) The light. The heat. The noise. So much screaming. It's coming from the stake. Elsa can feel her own legs burning, her eyes tearing up as she runs over, screeching "NEIN!" as her baby starts to go up like a human torch …
*BAMF!*
And he's gone. Flashlights and torches, people hollering in a rage, wildly fanning out from the center and looking around, grubby hands shielding small eyes, squinting into the darkness. They tromp off to search the shadows of stone buildings for any sign of their prey. The crowd disperses, prepared to turn the town upside-down. "It can't have gotten far." It. Not he. It. Gustav's arm is around her and she feels hot tears slip down her face. He's shaking. She is, too. And then, something unearthly turns her head toward the woods. She grabs Gustav by the hand and the two hurry off …
The pale moonlight makes the lake shimmer like molten silver. They burst through the edge of the forest and slip down to the water's edge. Steam and smoke rise from beyond a rock cropping. They hurry around it. Elsa drops to her knees in the shallow water, Gustav right behind her. Kurt is on his side, half in the water, half out, spluttering and coughing and burnt; the picture of misery. The steam is coming off his legs. He put them out in the lake. Elsa lets loose a wordless cry as she gathers him into her arms. He just turns his singed face away from her and vomits like all hell …
A bald man in a wheelchair has parked himself in Kurt's attic bedroom. He is explaining quietly about an institute in America for people who are special, like Kurt. He speaks English and Kurt translates, slurring his words a little. The cotton comforter of his bed is warm where she sits, and the mattress sinks slightly behind her from his weight. He's tucked in up to the chin. She slathered his legs with aloe and wrapped them in bandages. He's tired. Weak. His stomach won't settle, not even for weak tea. "Would you let him come?" the bald man asks hopefully, his English accent ever so polite and inviting. Kurt translates behind her, then says in German, "May I go, mamma? Vhen I'm better? … Mamma?" …
*~*
"Mamma?"
"Ah?"
Kurt was staring at her a little funny. Elsa tried to re-animate her face, to assure him she wasn't zoning out. It was silly to be trapped in the past anyway. He'd recovered completely from the incident. He was just fine.
"Ah you all right?" he asked.
"Ja, schatz, I'm all right," she said, with a bit of a smile. "It vill just be a bit hard vissout you."
Kurt scooted over to her and rested his head against her shoulder. She brought an arm around him, and rubbed his rock-hard tricep. She had raised a strong boy. She tucked this fact into her memory, suspecting, on instinct, that she'd need to remember it before she went to sleep at night.
The train arrived, a huge, impersonal gray thing with too many windows. Finally it stopped whooshing by and ground to a halt, screeching and steaming. The air turned gray from all the steam and smoke.
Elsa stood up and Kurt got to his feet. Kurt gave her a little smile and turned down to fiddle with his belt. When he looked up, tears were streaking down his mother's cheeks. Kurt sighed. He knew this would happen.
"Mamma, please. Don't cry." His own voice was starting to wobble. "Come on, mamma. Please. You know you olvays take everyone viss you vhen you do."
Elsa's lip quivered. She bit it to hold it firm. Then like a hawk, she swooped down and threw her arms around her son. Held him tight. Ran her fingers through his shoulder-length, shaggy hair. Took in his earthy, soapy, furry smell. She felt his ropy arms around her, and a squeeze. Finally she pulled away and gave him a once-over … and spotted something.
Kurt raised an eyebrow as she licked her thumb. (Oh, God. A spit bath!) He tried to wiggle away.
"I'm sixteen, mamma!" he protested, dodging her hand.
"Ja, you're sixteen ant grungy. Hergekommen! You haff somesing on your face."
"Mamma!" he moaned, swatting at her. "Dyah! Yech!"
His swat missed. She swiped her thumb across his face, catching the tip of his sensitive nose and then a bit of sleep that had nestled in his cheek fur. He had the sense to look immediately embarrassed at his outburst. She smiled.
"Zere. Now you ah perfect. You'll call as soon as you get zere, ja?"
"Of course."
With a gasp of steam, the door to the train opened. They had run out of time. She gave him one last hug.
"Ich liebe dich," she murmured.
"I love you too," he said. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and broke the embrace.
With a showman's wink, he pulled the hood over his head like a magic trick. In one smooth motion, he scooped up his duffel and trotted off towards the train. Elsa watched as the door closed and Kurt sidled his way to the very back of the empty car. She walked around it, following him. He knocked on the back window and waved with a goofy smile. She waved back.
The train started up with a loud chut-chut-chut and began to roll away. Kurt waved frantically, with both arms and his tail. Elsa laughed, tears rolling down her face, and blew a kiss. She stood there on Platform 3, letting the wind whip her clothes, watching until the car was out of sight.
Kurt was leaving her. But he was going to America, where he would be able to go to school and be happy and safe and free. He was disappearing from her life. But he would come back eventually. And in the meantime there would be visits and telephone calls, birthday cards and Christmas. It seemed like a fair trade-off.
"Yes," she said, to no one at all. "My boy is strong, and brave, and he is going to America. And if he needs me … I am here."
THE END.
Note:
Yeah, Elsa and Gustav are 100% BS. But I love 'em, and they're a lot easier to deal with than Margali and her witchery stuff, or mistaken family identity, or the half-sister Jimaine thing, and murder, and all that. Besides, we haven't learned a whole lot about Evo Kurt's folks anyway, so there's sort of the creative license thing here.
FYI: the only really good Kurt story I've read that involves some mention of Kurt's relationship with his mom is "Popcorn and Sawdust," an absolutely amazing, gripping, beautiful piece of work that ISN'T DONE, *ahem ahem.* It's also of interest to anyone who wants to see a story that brilliantly weaves in the ACTUAL history of Nightcrawler, as opposed to my above thing. I really hope that author gets her behind in gear and finishes it, because it's spectacular.
THANK YOU EVERYBODY FOR REVIEWING! IT MAKETH MY DAY SO! I LOVE YOU ALL!!! If there's anything y'all want to see in these little one-shots, don't be shy! Just bust out and say what you want. You want Kurtty? You got Kurtty! You want somethin' else, well, you get the idea!
Cheers, take care, and have a wonderful day,
Kiki
