To See a Narwhal

By Michael Fridgen

Growing up in a small Minnesota town during the 1980s was not easy for Matthew. He was abused by the Catholic Church, bullied mercilessly by his peers, and neglected by public school teachers. To complicate matters, he is also gay. Matthew’s path of self-loathing led to an adult life that’s unfulfilled and depressing. To survive, he regularly retreats into the lives of three friends he invented while growing up.

Nikail, the oldest of Matthew’s friends, is a space-cowboy from the planet Infinia. He’s locked in a deadly dispute with an evil warlord. A second friend, Dr. Nicholas Wells, has been with Matthew since junior high. Wells is a world-renowned Egyptologist on the cusp of making the biggest discovery of his career. Mr. Jack Hartman, Matthew’s friend from his celibate young adult years, is a handsome English teacher who is secretly dating the most eligible bachelor in town.

Imaginary friends are fine for children, but they might not be the best way for a grown man to cope with his mental state. In To See a Narwhal, Matthew navigates the complicated institutions of religion, work, relationships, and identity. He attempts to seek happiness in the real world—a world he eagerly escapes from all too often.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480881686

Michael Fridgen

Michael Fridgen loves snow, theme parks, and Christmas. He has written both adult and young adult fiction and was a finalist for the Minnesota Book Award. Fridgen’s work about gay people during the Holocaust, The Iron Words, topped the Goodreads list of World War II books for several weeks in 2014. He’s written three books about the theme park industry and is the author of Jacob Marley’s Ghost. Fridgen lives in Minneapolis.

Book preview

Matthew, Part 1

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M ATTHEW HATED DOING push-ups and other forms of physical exertion. Through no fault of his own, he was in danger of being forced to perform push-ups in front of thirty other boys. His parents were behind schedule, and he was late for boys’ choir practice; the boys who were late were ordered by the priest to do physical labor. He knew he could probably accomplish two push-ups but then would be laughed at as he struggled on the rest. Matthew, running with fear of this punishment, decided to do the one thing that most kids avoided: he would take the shortcut through the dark, deserted, and very creepy sanctuary of St. Sebastian Catholic Church.

He pulled on a heavy, wooden door and squeezed through the opening. The familiar combination of mildew and old incense hit his face. He took a few quick steps inside. Suddenly, he turned around and ran back to the door. Nobody was watching. Nobody would know that he’d forgotten about the holy water. But God would know, and Matthew was scared to death of God. He dipped his right hand into the warm, stagnant water and immediately made the sign of the cross. Droplets of the water flew into the darkness.

He walked as quickly as possible through the empty church. Quite dim remnants of streetlights crept through the stained glass—enough to cast eerie shadows. Matthew passed the statue of the Virgin Mary on the south side of the sanctuary. She looked peaceful, even though she was standing on a giant snake that was attempting to bite her ankle. Matthew hated that snake; its head always seemed to stare directly at him, no matter where his family sat in the church.

The fourteen Stations of the Cross lined the church and hung beside each stained glass window. He briefly caught a view of number six: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. In the depiction, Jesus is crouched on the ground with the Cross on top of him. Veronica stoops next to him, holding a cloth with the face of Jesus burned onto it. Veronica stared directly at Matthew as he ran.

He crossed in front of the three steps that elevated the altar and noticed a red glow. Immediately, he stopped and dropped to his knees. He was relieved that he’d spotted the red glow; otherwise, he would have forgotten to show reverence, committing a venial sin in the process. The red glow was coming from the sacred candle that served to remind all who came near that the true body of Jesus Christ was sitting inside the golden tabernacle. The tabernacle inside Matthew’s church looked exactly like the Ark of the Covenant from the first Indiana Jones movie, which had been released just a few months before. Matthew hadn’t seen the movie because it hadn’t been approved by the US Council of Catholic Bishops’ film commission.

Even though he did not have a moment to spare, Matthew spent the required time on his knees to adore the Holy Sacrament. He looked up, as was habit, at the seven-foot cross mounted above the tabernacle. On the cross hung the life-size body of Jesus. (The life-size aspect of this particular corpus was debatable—as was the fact that this Jesus had the skin tone of one who was born in Norway.) Realistic blood dripped from a large gash in Christ’s side and from the crown of thorns on his head.

Matthew had the same thought each time he saw this crucifix: Jesus is hardly wearing anything. That little loincloth is barely enough to cover his Holy Spirit. He’s wearing less than the men I look at in the JC Penney catalog. He thought this often because, like all good Catholic families, his family went to Mass at least twice each week … sometimes more.

In the distance, he heard a piano. He quickly got to his feet and ran through the rest of the sanctuary. He opened a side door that led directly into the choir rehearsal room. Light from the room hit his face and briefly seeped into the sanctuary until Matthew closed the door. Nobody noticed him, and he was thrilled to have arrived just in time.

A priest sat at the piano. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved Coca-Cola polo shirt that was all the rage at the time. Matthew assumed that he wore these things in order to make himself look cool. Matthew never had the money to buy an authentic Coca-Cola shirt. Yet the priest, who existed on weekly contributions from families as poor as Matthew’s, wore his shirt well. He was handsome. Matthew’s sisters and their friends talked about him. Matthew thought about him—a lot. Then he’d feel terrible guilt and would immediately pray one Act of Contrition.

The other boys sat on chairs surrounding the piano. The younger ones were about nine years old, and the oldest was fourteen. None had been through puberty because that would have affected the youthful vocal folds required to produce the notes of Bach.

The oldest boy, Jeff, sat on a chair. He rolled his eyes at Matthew as he took the empty chair next to him. Matthew hated sitting next to Jeff. Jeff smelled bad. Matthew, now thirteen years old, lived in fear that he would start to smell in about a year. But Matthew knew Jeff would probably not have much time left in the choir. Jeff’s smell signaled that other things were happening in his body that would soon turn his Renaissance alto into a baroque baritone. Matthew thought, The priest has no use for a baritone.

It wasn’t just Jeff’s body odor that Matthew disliked. It was also the fact that he routinely beat the younger boy in the sacristy’s single-stall bathroom. But that wouldn’t happen until the choir had a break. For now, the priest started playing the warm-ups at the piano, and the boys obediently took their seats. They sang up and down various scales, warmed up their high registers, practiced controlling their breath, and uttered diction exercises that involved mumbling mice and ninety-nine nuns.

The boys’ choir rehearsed for just over an hour. When it was time for a break, the priest dismissed each boy by using a bizarre ritual. To leave the room for the break, which was much preferred, each boy had to stand while the priest played a chord at the piano. The boy needed to identify whether the chord was major, minor, augmented, or diminished. A correct answer earned fifteen minutes running around the church grounds; an incorrect answer meant a break spent in the rehearsal room, memorizing the Tantum Ergo. Matthew always got his chord correct. So did Jeff.

Matthew didn’t understand why he went into the bathroom every week with Jeff. The older boy always locked the door punched Matthew’s thighs with his fists. Matthew knew that it wasn’t right, but he felt like he somehow deserved it. Nobody ever noticed the round, greenish bruises, except the kid who had his PE locker next to Matthew’s. That kid never said anything. Matthew was at an age when he was too old for his parents to inspect his body but too young for anyone else to notice anything.

Most of the year, he’d have time between rehearsals for the bruises to heal. But during Advent, when rehearsals were frequent, Jeff would use old bruises as marks to aim at. By the time Midnight Mass came around on Christmas Eve, Matthew’s upper thighs were multicolored blobs that hurt horribly when touched. This went on for three years. He never said anything because he didn’t want Jeff to hate him, he didn’t want to get into trouble himself, and he thought he deserved it for being attracted to other boys.

He discovered that it was much easier to endure the pain if he had something to think about other than Jeff, body odor, or bruises the color of puke. Matthew thought about them—the magical creatures he discovered inside his middle school library. He read one book more than any of the others: a picture book about whales. They only occupied half of one page in the entire book. They were the narwhals.

As Jeff punched on him, Matthew pictured the narwhals swimming through ice and snow as their horns led them to their magical kingdom. In his mind, these creatures lived in underwater ice castles, with turrets that mirrored the spiral shape of their horns. His imagination loved narwhals. The pain of each punch inspired a new and vivid picture in his mind. At night, in bed, he’d press the bruises hard to feel the pain and relive the visions.

Matthew didn’t know that narwhals had tusks, not horns, and that they lived in open water, not ice castles. He also didn’t know that narwhals are real.

Dr. Nicholas Wells, Part 1

D R. NICHOLAS WELLS sat on a large rock in the hot Egyptian sun. It had been a long day of cataloguing artifacts, and he was dripping with sweat. He looked down at his hands; they were caked with dirt. He sighed loudly and scowled. The graduate students working for him were supposed to properly clean the artifacts, but they never did. He was anxious to get back to his trailer, where he could have a long, sun-free shower. His water heater never worked, but he didn’t care on a day like this.

Finally, he saw Rob walking up the desert path to where he sat. Just hours earlier, Rob had asked Nicholas to meet him here at the Royal Wadi. Nicholas wanted to refuse because it was late in the day, but Rob was handsome, and his charming British accent made him hard to disappoint.

Hi, there, Rob said as he got close. He was forty, just a few years older than Nicholas. He wore a tight-fitting white dress shirt, brown cargo pants, and black leather boots. None of his clothes showed even the slightest speck of dirt. Nicholas’s loose-fitting shirt had at one time been white.

Couldn’t you at least find some shade? Rob asked. How long have you been out here?

Shade—in Egypt? What’s that? Nicholas replied, rolling his eyes. I drove over here after finishing with the students at artifact processing. Where is your tour group?

They are behind me somewhere; should be here soon. It takes them awhile to get out of the van. Ahmed is bringing them up. They are quite a lot of talkers.

I can’t understand why you just don’t lecture them yourself, said Nicholas. And why bring them here to poor old Pharaoh Akhenaten? All they ever want to see is Tut in the Valley of the Kings. Hasn’t Akhenaten been through enough without having to endure another of your groups?

"Yes, right, I will be surely hearing a lot of grief from them tonight for missing Tut; when they realize they aren’t to see his tomb, I’ll never hear the end of it. But we didn’t have time to get over there. Besides, Nick—I mean Nicholas, sorry—you always do a much better job than I of explaining things. I suppose my British accent makes me sound more authentic than your American whatever. But you look the part."

What is that supposed to mean?

It means exactly what you think it does. You look like Indiana Jones, and I look like the Queen’s horse trainer.

Nicholas stood, laughed a bit, and walked to a stone doorway that was next to the rock where he sat. Part of Rob’s job was to give luxury insight tours to rich donors. Nicholas hated speaking to these people. But he did it because Rob was his only friend in Egypt and was, as Nicholas often noted to himself, a Disney prince come to life.

Who’s in this group? Nicholas asked.

It’s nine guys from Texas, answered Rob. They are on the board of an oil firm and need to spend their charity money. So don’t groan and hang your head; they might as well spend it on you.

All they want to do, replied Nicholas, is get some good publicity to cover their asses from whatever horrible thing they’ve done to the earth this month. I can’t believe that all these poor ancient Egyptians died so that rich Americans could cover—

I’ve heard it before, Rob said. Save it for the graduate students. This group has a lot of money, and Lord knows you need it. You are going to need millions for that thing you found in the desert.

Nicholas nodded slightly and turned to face the tomb of Pharaoh Akhenaten. He knew that Rob was right. Out on the desert, in the relentless sun, Nicholas recently made a discovery; it was the type of find that few Egyptologists even dream of, probably bigger than Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun. He knew that the site he’d found would be the biggest archeological event in the last century. It held the power to change the culture of practically every country on the planet. But it would also most assuredly bring great danger to its discoverer. He’d need money to secure the site—and money to hire protection for himself.

Rob asked, Have you thought any more about when you plan to move forward on what you found out there?

Well, yes, Nicholas replied. I think about it all the time. I just don’t have an answer yet. He turned to face Rob. It terrifies me.

It should.

You’re still the only person who knows what’s really out there. My grad students think they’re excavating a minor Egyptian queen. I haven’t told them what you and I found when we dug deeper.

Which is precisely why you need to be good to these men. You will need a lot of money to secure the site before you can proceed.

Fine, as long as they don’t ask about Exodus.

They are from Texas; of course, they are going to ask about Exodus.

I should write a dissertation about the likelihood of biblical obsession based solely on how far south in the United States a group is from. I don’t know how many times I can repeat that there’s no evidence that the Hebrews ever lived in Egypt. And I also don’t know—

Shut it. Here they come.

Nicholas watched as Rob enthusiastically waved to the group of approaching men. Even though they’d only walked a quarter-mile from their van, they were already sweating profusely. Most of them were bald. All of them were very white. Nicholas assumed that being from Texas, they should have been better accustomed to the heat. But then again, the pharaohs didn’t install air-conditioning in their chariots, as all Texans had.

Just come on over and make a circle, said Rob. Everyone survive the walk? Yes? Well, there is plenty of cold water when we get back to the van. Now, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Nicholas Wells. He is the director of a joint program in Egyptology that is managed by the Smithsonian and your National Geographic.

Ah, an American, shouted a rather large man from among the group. We finally get to meet someone who knows what he’s talkin’ about. That lady this mornin’ didn’t even think that Moses was real. But it’s nice to know where our tax money is going. Doesn’t the government give you enough to do your laundry, Doc? Ya look like you’ve been plantin’ cott’n.

The group laughed, and Nicholas looked up. There was always at least one racist asshole in every American corporate tour group. He often felt bad for the one or two people of the group who actually came to Egypt to learn and expand their minds.

Actually, Nicholas said, neither the Smithsonian nor National Geographic use tax money. We rely on donations.

Rob cleared his throat. Nicholas knew he was subtly telling him to behave and agree with them.

But I know what you mean, Nicholas added, attempting to sway the Texans. Uncle Sam takes plenty from my paycheck too. Did you know that the Egyptians had a tax system? We have records carved in pottery from the first dynasty, about 2800 BC. It’s interesting to note that they had to pay their taxes in coins—there was no e-filing back then. They had to bring their coins to the treasury; some coins weighed several hundred pounds.

His e-filing joke made him cringe inside. He hated that he sometimes used easy and stupid humor, but it was expected by most tour groups.

They could’ve jes’ had their Jew slaves bring in the loot, the asshole said, laughing. But they might have taken it for themselves, I reck’n.

Nicholas, heeding Rob’s suggestion, pretended that he hadn’t heard the man and attempted to change the subject by saying, Now, if you all follow me into the tomb—

Now, wait jes’ a minute, the asshole said. I really want to know about the slaves. You seem to be the only guide we’ve met out here that knows a thing or two—prob’ly because yer an American. Ya know much more than this pretty boy from England that’s been showin’ us around.

The man gestured to Rob, who smiled.

Tell us where all the stuff in the Good Book happens. Like where is the place where Moses floated down the river? And where did the angel of death kill all the firstborn Egyptians?

Nicholas looked at Rob, smiled, and turned to face the group of dripping men. He wanted, desperately, to inform them that there is absolutely no evidence that there were ever slaves in Egypt. The Egyptians were excellent recordkeepers, and the pyramids were built with paid labor. He would have loved to see their faces when he explained that thousands of Hebrew slaves could never have lived in Egypt for that long without leaving behind at least a pot or two.

But then he thought of his discovery in the desert and the funds he’d need to protect it. Instead, Matthew told them a bunch of plausible lies about the probability that the Exodus had actually occurred.

Jack Hartman: Part 1

J ACK HARTMAN STOOD in front of a glass trophy case at Rochingford High School. The principal of the school wanted to