The Lava Man

The Lava Man

Joey Sispra didn't talk at all. He said a few things during some of the earliest years of his life, but as a boy of twelve, he never spoke a word.

His parents didn't mind; they spoke softly, patiently to him, and he replied by scribbling words down on a legal pad. Damn thing, I always saw him clutching that yellow pad of paper under one arm, never letting it out of sight, as if it revealed some profound secret within its pages. It irritated me, and I can't fully explain why, except that ultimately I know I simply hated the fact that he didn't talk.

His muteness angered me, because I knew he was fully capable of speaking, but I didn't know what could have triggered his silence. No trauma, no horrors. As his private tutor (his parents, feeling Joey wouldn't do well in school with other children, paid top dollar for my services) I often worked towards getting him to speak.

Of course, we would never work together in front of Joey's parents. They would have said things like, "Mr. Welsh, it's no use. He just doesn't want to talk," or, "Mr. Welsh, stick to the regular curriculum." No, Joey's speech lessons were between he and I.

Maybe the confidentiality was best, because today I can proudly say that Joey is talking again. But honestly it never would have happened had his parents not given him one particular birthday present.

The gift in question was a lava lamp. I was indifferent towards it, but Joey was fascinated by the gooey red bubbles that swam sluggishly through a yellowish liquid, and he insisted that I study the phenomenon with him before the start of each lesson.

Now, one morning, after Joey's father had already gone off to work and Mrs. Sispra was brewing coffee in the kitchen, I trudged up to my student's designated tutoring area--a small office upstairs--feeling a little under the weather. I sat down and made myself comfortable as usual, while Joey, who was always in the office when I arrived, busied himself with his observation of the lava lamp.

"Morning, Joey," I said, feigning cheerfulness.

He turned to smile at me, then went back to watching the blobs converge and detach in smooth, flowing motions. I think this was very calming to him.

"Coffee, Mr. Welsh?"

Joey's mother was standing right outside the door, holding a fresh cup of coffee. Every time she asks me if I would like one, and on each occasion she refers to me by my last name rather than my first. "For Joey," she explained, when I asked her why she didn't acknowledge me as Roy. "You're his teacher. If he were in public school, he wouldn't call his teacher by his first name."

I took the coffee from her, and she left. I wached her descend the stairs, then pulled up a chair beside Joey and sat down. He studied the lava lamp; I studied him, just waiting for the simple movement of his lips, anything to release even a single word.

"How long will you look at it today?"

He seemed to have ignored me and was instead pointing at the lamp.

"I know. But how long? When can we start our lesson? Show me."

He frowned and moved the tip of his pointer finger as close to the glass as he could without burning it. I followed his gaze and found myself staring at a face floating amongst the red blobs. In fact, it was one of the blobs. Yes, a little man's grim visage, squinting out at us. Every one of his features were red, same as the goo, but they were clearly defineable. I studied with amazement his beady little eyes, his pinched cheeks, his pointy nose and jutting chin, the way his face glowed in the lamplight. Bitter, he appeared, as if he had been surviving on a diet of lemons.

"My Lord," I murmured.

The man's lips moved, but I couldn't hear anything.

"Speak up!" I said, unsure if he could hear me.

"Too warm in here," he said. His voice was muddled by the liquid and his position behind the glass, but he had projected it loudly enough.

Stunned, all I could say was, "I'm sure it is."

"Let me out," he said.

"How did you get in there?"

His tiny eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure, really, but ever since this damn lamp was assembled, I've found myself trapped inside it. Joey's been the only thing keeping me from losing my mind."

I was about to point out that Joey couldn't have given much solace because of his silence when the face added, "Joey talks to me."

I shook my head. "He never talks."

"To me, he does."

I looked to my student, who was staring back at me expectantly. "Say something to that man, Joey."

His silence didn't waver.

"Fine, then write something to me. Tell me how you met the man in the lamp and what he's said to you."

Joey picked up his yellow legal pad and began to write.

He scratched out these words in his shaky hand: "He was there the first day I got the lamp. All he says is that he wants to come out. I had a dream about him one time before I got the lamp."

"Why have you talked to him and no one else? Is it even true?"

He wrote, "Yes, I talked to him. He needed my help."

"Then why didn't you let him out?"

A look of shame fell upon his face, and he wrote, "I was scared."

The man laughed, startling me. His chuckling was reedy and weak and slightly less audible than his voice. "Scared? Of what? I'm only this little head."

"Should we let him out?"

Joey shook his head.

"But I'm here."

He hesitated, then nodded.

I unplugged the lava lamp and watched the red bubbles settle, deprived of the electric warmth. Then I led Joey out into the backyard. We went over to the old tree and kneeled down in the neatly mowed lawn.

"Ready?" I said to Joey.

"I am!" the man said, thinking I had been inquiring him.

Joey sighed and nodded, stepping back a bit. So I unscrewed the lid atop the lamp and poured the contents out onto the grass. Everything flowed out in a messy puddle. I searched for the face, but the entire stew just sunk into the ground. The only odd thing I noticed was a faint screaming, and Joey seemed to hear it, too. But the man was nowhere to be found.

"I guess he's gone," I said. "Maybe he couldn't survive on the outside?"

Joey swallowed hard, as if he were having difficulty with a piece of food. Then I noticed tears in his eyes.

"I'm glad he's gone," he said, his voice song-like, fresh and youthful.

"What?" I was dumbfounded.

He gave his head a little shake. "Nothing. Thanks for helping me, Roy."

"You're welcome," I said, trying to be coy about his sudden repossession of speech. Then we went back inside, and I was feeling wonderful.

I'm not sure why Joey decided to talk after that strange and confusing incident, but I'm certainly glad he did. Maybe one day he'll tell me, perhaps to waste time during his math lesson. Joey never did like math.