You may be wondering, “Why would a man throw his baby down a well?” But if you caught on and realized that it was a wishing well, even then you may think, “But why turn him into a turtle?”
Well, you see…
There really is no good answer to that question. If I’d said that that was the only wish left the well hadn’t granted, the world would be teeming with all kinds of bestial misfits, and this story would simply be a grain of sand on a beach—nothing extraordinary to tell.
The truth, however, is much less interesting. The truth is, this wishing well just didn’t know any better. And how could it? Stones, dirt, and water don't generally score highly on the IQ test, no matter how magical they may be. As a matter of fact, we should be very happy that Hubert, our very own turtlized son, didn’t turn out any worse than he did; he might have come out a gasping fish, a bawking chicken, or something even less lovable, like a grumbling cardboard box. Because nobody likes irritable boxes, and the former two make for a good dinner.
But on a more serious note:
Earlier that year in the hospital, as the mother lay on the bed, she gazed meaningfully into Pa’s eyes. She knew her time had come—not for birthing. The grisly, fleshy mess around her sweaty figure left evidence enough of that agony having just passed. But the strain had proven too much for her. The burly man knelt by his shriveled wife’s side, quivering in tears, clutching her frail hand in both of his; his tears soaked his beard, unseemly for a man of such stature. He begged her not to leave him. She only offered him her sweet, but sad, tranquil smile. Her lips parted, and she squeaked, with all of her last effort, “Give him your best." At that she capitulated, like a wilting flower to a relentless rainstorm, to the inviting darkness behind closed eyes.
Pa stuck around, always nervously wringing his hands or clenching his fists, keeping distressed vigil over his endangered beloved one hour, then slinking out into the hall the next to inquire after the baby's health. (That Hubert was destined for the life of a paraplegic had pierced him to his paternally sympathetic heart. He wouldn't accept it at first. The brutality of it all! The world needed to wait for his wife's full recovery before mercilessly dropping another predicament on his lap!) Back and forth he drifted like an apparition through the hospital halls, losing all feeling-- back and forth between the two benumbing scourges of his existence.
Later that week she died.
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Maybe I shoulda left him disabled. At least he’d fit into the cripple society.
Pa sat on the moonlit porch, arms around his knees, a glowing cigar poking out of his mouth, and somberly stared off into space. An acidic bubble of anticipation swelled against the insides of his stomach; the infant was more an anxiety than a blessing right now. Why it had to be this way, how it was fair for poor little Hubert, what biblical sense it made—none of these things mattered right now, though he might take them up as complaints to God's throne later. But who can concentrate on such metaphysical things when the immediate and portentous responsibility over one's cursed offspring alone, with no partner, menacingly overshadows him?
Can I handle him alone? Will he have friends? Will he be happy? No, no... I gotta stop this. Pa had a knack for worrying, and he knew it. He rested his clammy face in his hands, silently calling on all his own forces to pull himself together. I’m getting too old for this needless fretfulness, he thought; back in the day when I had youth left to waste, maybe, but not now. It’ll wreck my health, and the baby needs a strong daddy. And speaking of a strong daddy... He snatched the cigar out of his mouth as if it threatened Hubert himself, threw it down between his feet, and almost angrily crushed out its flickering flame.
Some moments later he rescued himself from his downward spiral by clinging to one hope: that all baby Hubert, like any other baby, truly needed were love and attention. "Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up," he murmured from memory. That was all Pa could give! He wasn’t a scholar in childhood psychology, but, out of pride, nor was he about to sacrifice the liberty of possessing some parental spine to a bunch of ruthlessly constricting self-help books. He didn’t understand why parents wouldn’t dare think for themselves anymore, or why they turned to so many websites, books, and doctors for directions. Didn’t we get along just fine without these in the old days? My parents did. And judging by the mental meltdown much of the modern world is plummeting into, maybe the old ways were easier on us, were healthier for us. Instinct. Self-reliance.
And occasionally some guidance from one’s neighbors. He could feel that it was his own naivete speaking as he thought this, but he didn't care enough to correct it. He didn't feel like questioning himself.
Pa craned upward, surveying the serenely starlit sky looming above that soothing, warm summer night. The twinkling specks up above seemed to mock his anxieties, which were still not quite dead, with their divine indifference to petty, earthly matters, boasting a sufficiently safe distance between them (though they might lose considerable arrogance if they were to be roped and dragged a couple thousand lightyears, to meet our battered world's woes face-to-face). Pa sometimes wished he could sit up there in their philosophical company, away from all the responsibilities in the wearisome business of living. He realized that compared to them and their all-seeing eyes, he knew nothing; he was keenly aware that he was but a bumbling pioneer crossing an unprecedented frontier of fatherhood, stepping out onto fresh and untrodden territory never seen by any other man. But then, knowing and living were two distinct entities which couldn't mingle together anymore than a preacher and a bartender; both belonged in their own territories. And anyway, there was, as far as Pa was concerned, no book on how to rear a boy in a shell, or one with glossy green skin and big, dreamy, alien eyes like little Hubert had. This led to thinking about how he was to discipline Hubert in his childhood years. Shoot, how am I going to discipline him? Spanking will hardly at all faze him. He'd probably laugh at me from inside the safety of his little fortress. He heaved a deep sigh. Well, I'll climb that hill when I get to it. Maybe he'll be such a good boy that I won't need to lay a finger on him. But if he's anything like I was...
There suddenly came to him a sort of strange and unexpected peace. What is it? he asked himself. He waited patiently for his mind to catch up to see what his heart had already comprehended. Then it came: As long as you’re improvising, no one can expect anything of you. I can only do as best as I know how. Yeah, that's it! That's all I need to know!
Finally satisfied with the fruit of such taxing mental labor, he resolutely roused himself from the porch steps, which groaned under his weight. Pa straightened himself up slowly, stretching and yawning, and carried his sleepy body into the house. His heavy eyelids had been protesting for sleep hours ago, only to be snubbed by Pa's dogged craving for immediate answers. He would undertake building Rome in a day if only it meant pacifying his demanding inquisitiveness. People often told him he thought too much, but he paid them no heed; why struggle to change something he enjoyed? What others might have deemed unhealthy was to him an invigorating exercise of exploration (for the most part, though it did hold repercussions of misery sometimes, when answers hid themselves from him, or when they sprung open trap doors to more questions).
He stepped stealthily into the nursery and, after some intent searching, laid his eyes on the murky, swamp-smelling dome nestled in the crib. He wouldn’t have seen the little thing if it weren’t such a noticeably dark blur in the quiet dimness of the cradle. His little scaly arms and legs were drawn in, his head tucked inside of his private domain. All the bright yellow and blue blankets had been deliberately bunched into a corner; the baby had situated itself on the bare, naked wood of the crib’s frame, more to his strange, reptilian liking. Of course, thought Pa. What's the point of giving blankets to an animal with a built-in house of its own?
Hubert apparently already had developed a sense of reorganizing! He had done this with no help. Pa smiled suddenly with irrepressible warmth; it was a flooding sense of relief to realize that he wouldn’t have to do everything himself; Hubert could figure out many things well enough on his own, even as a baby. They would be a team.
And again, as if to thoroughly cement it into his memory, he thought, Alright, that’s just what I’ll do. I’ll just love you and give you my best shot. There's nothing to worry about after all. Pa kissed the shell, gently placed it down with greatest care so as not to stir the slumbering little creature within, and turned to grope his way through the blackness to bed.
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