Ghost Boy (15 page)

Chapter

31

F
rom dinner till darkness, Harold worked with the elephants. Flip stayed at his side, and together they worked first with Canary Bird and then with Conrad. But one elephant threw the ball too wildly, and the other wouldn't throw it at all. And when the first stars came out, the roses were led to their tent, where they tossed the straw into nests and settled down on their sides.

Flip was disappointed. “Maybe they'll do better tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” said Harold. He wanted to get away from there, to walk with Flip to his little tent.

“I wish you could teach them.”

“I wish there was another one,” said Harold. And then, to show he meant it as a joke, he laughed. But Flip was very quiet.

“There used to be,” she said.

She had her back toward him, fiddling with the harnesses. He could hardly see her at all.

“He was my favorite,” she said. “Even bigger than Conrad, smart as a person almost.”

“What happened to him?” asked Harold.

“He died in a wreck.”

She talked softly, without turning around. Harold had to lean forward to hear her.

“My dad was driving. My mom was beside him. They went over a cliff, and all three of them died.”

“Gosh,” said Harold.

“I was in the next truck. Me and—one of the riggers. I saw it happen. Right in front of me.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, ages. A year, I guess. A bit more than a year.”

Harold heard her sniff. The harnesses clattered in the darkness.

“I loved them so much,” she said. “My mom and my dad. I could never have run away like you. I would have missed my mom like crazy.”

The elephants made chuckling sounds as they fell asleep. The straw crackled when they moved their legs or trunks.

“Don't you miss your mom?” asked Flip.

“A bit.” He missed her a lot when he thought about her, but not at all when he didn't. The truth was, he missed his dog more than his ma. A little part of him was
always
thinking of Honey, a tiny part that never stopped feeling rotten—like a toothache—about leaving her behind.

“See?” said Flip. “I would have missed my mom like crazy if I'd ever run away. I couldn't have gone a mile without running back again.”

She was making him sad, as though misery was a germ that could spread like a cold.

“I wish I was a bit like you,” she said. “I wish I
could
have run away, you know? I wish I was that sort of person.”

It made him love her even more. Harold had spent his whole life wishing he was like other people. No one had
ever
wanted to be like him.

Conrad started snoring. A faint rumble at first, it built to a roar. It sounded as though a diesel truck was racing through the tent. Flip giggled. “Let's get out of here.”

Harold squinted and turned his head, looking for the patch of starlight at the door. He reached out to grope at the darkness and saw his hands like pale blobs, and nothing beyond them. Flip came and led him out. She didn't say anything; she just guided him like a blind man. He felt the canvas brush against his shoulder, then felt a breeze on his face. He took off his glasses, and his skin shivered.

Flip started him walking, her arm around his. He saw the silver smudge of the Milky Way, blotches of light from tents and trailer windows. He squeezed his glasses, frightened he would lose them.

“Mom would have loved this,” she said. “Everyone camped under the stars. She hated traveling. It scared her, driving at night.”

“My dad told me stars are souls,” said Harold, surprising even himself. He thought he'd forgotten everything his dad had said. “Whenever a person dies, a star gets put in the sky. That's what he said.”

Flip bumped against him. “That's nice,” she said.

It seemed funny that he'd forgotten about the stars. Even when his dad had died, he'd forgotten to look for the new one. If it had been off by itself, not mixed in with the smear of others, he might have even seen it.

He looked up, and there were black holes blotting out the Milky Way. He thought for an instant that the stars were dying, until he realized that Flip had led him up to the trees, and their leafy tops covered the sky. Then he stood at the door of the orange tent, and Flip let go of his arm.

“Listen,” she said. “I'm sorta sad now. My mom and everything. If I stayed here with you, I'd just start bawling on your shoulder, so I think I'd better go.”

He didn't mind if she started bawling on his shoulder. “Just for a bit?” he said.

“No, Harold. I'm sorry.” She eased away, vanishing among the shadows. “Tomorrow, okay? We'll sit out here tomorrow night.
All
night, maybe. Cross my heart; I promise.”

She left him alone, and he'd never felt more lonely. He could have kicked himself for asking about the other elephant, for making her too sad to stay.

Harold sat by the door of the tent, imagining she sat there too. With the stars above him, the enormous blotch of stars that he couldn't possibly have hoped to count, he put his hand on the ground and pretended that hers was there below it. But the stars made him feel tiny and scared; there were so many that he couldn't imagine the number of people who had died to make them. He wondered which was his father's, and then if maybe there was one for David. Then he thought of his mother; he pictured her out on the steps, tonight and last night and the night before, each time furiously counting, trying to make sure there wasn't one for him.

An owl hooted from the trees. A little tinkle of laughter came from a tent in the distance, and a trailer's squeaky door slammed shut on its spring. And Harold the Ghost sat all alone, wishing he wasn't. It was the first night in his life he had spent all alone.

Chapter

32

T
he elephants burst from their tent the moment Harold opened it in the morning. They almost bowled him over as they bugled past, trampling off to their corner of the lot. His glasses on, his shirt buttoned so high that the collar hid his chin, he followed them across the grass to the trodden diamond. He found them waiting there, the bat laid neatly across home plate, as though one of the roses had set it down for him.

“Where's the ball?” he said. They stood in a line, their ears flapping slowly. They rumbled and purred.

“We can't play without the ball,” said Harold. “Come on, who's got it?”

Conrad swayed his head, and Harold saw the red-and-yellow ball nestled in the tip of his trunk. He laughed. “You're scared I'm going to make you pitch,” he said. “Aren't you, Conrad?”

The elephant grumbled.

“Okay. We'll do some fielding first. Is that what you want?” It was dumb, he thought, to expect the elephant to know what he was saying. But he stretched out his hand. “Throw me the ball and we'll play five hundred.”

Conrad's head tossed back.

“Just throw me the ball.” Harold flexed his fingers. “Come on, Conrad.”

The trunk swung close to the grass. The ball came out, bouncing and tumbling, then rolling to Harold.

“Gosh, that's better.” He had only to stoop to pick it up. “You've been thinking, I bet. You've probably been playing in your sleep.”

He batted the ball and the elephants chased it. They ran it down, kicked it forward and ran it down again. Then Conrad swept it up and threw it back—or
bowled
it back—with the same lazy swing of his trunk that seemed the best he could do. And Harold praised him so highly that the other elephants stole the trick themselves.

By the time Flip arrived, the roses were bowling back each ball Harold batted. She watched as they thundered across the field in a dusty heap of trunks and flapping ears. Then out from that mass of elephants came the ball, bouncing straight toward Harold.

Flip shrieked. “I don't believe it,” she said. “You've done it!”

“Not really.” He picked up the ball and batted again. The roses went running.

“What do you mean?” she said. “They can bat and field and run the bases. And now—”

“But they don't play
baseball
.” Harold leaned on the bat. “They have to put it all together. And they
still
have to learn to pitch.”

The ball dribbled toward him. He picked it up but only held it in his hand.

“What's wrong?” asked Flip.

To the west, at the summit of the hills, a cloud of dust floated on the skyline. It moved toward them down the slope. And then a truck appeared, dragging the dust behind it like the tail of a speeding comet. It crossed the river and slowed as it neared the circus.

“Who's that?” asked Harold.

“I don't know,” said Flip.

He swiveled as he watched the truck. Max Graf bellowed at him from the edge of the grass. The truck tilted up from the road to the field and vanished past the tents. “Do you think it's him?”

“Who?” said Flip.

“The Cannibal King.”

“I don't think so,” she said.

“It might be the Cannibal King.” Harold let his arm drop at his side. The ball fell to the ground, and—yards away—the elephants lunged sideways.

Harold waited for the truck to appear from behind the tents. His hand shook, and he slid it up his clothes and into his pocket. He wasn't sure now that he
wanted
to meet the Cannibal King.

“Harold!” shouted Flip. “We don't have time to look at stupid trucks.”

“Is it him?” he asked.

“No!” she said, sounding terribly angry. Then she sighed and walked up beside him. “Look. I'll go and see, and you can stay here with the elephants.”

Harold smiled. “Okay.”

“And listen,” she said. “You don't have to stop for breakfast; you don't have to walk all that way. I'll bring you something. Just tell me what you want, and I'll ask Wicks to make it special.”

“He wouldn't do
that,
” said Harold.

“He might if I ask him,” said Flip. “I think he sorta likes me.” She touched his arm. “Okay? I'll bring your breakfast here.”

He felt light-headed again, her face jiggling in front of him. “You don't have to do that,” he said. “I can—”

“Oh, I'd
like
to.” She stood even closer. “We'll have a little picnic.”

“Okay.” He nodded, his chin inside his shirt.

He went back to work when she left, batting the ball for the elephants. But they tired of the game before the first bell rang for breakfast. They moved like slugs across the field, stopping to graze at the grass. And by the time the second bell sounded, Conrad was lying on the ground, his long ribs heaving.

“You're worn out,” said Harold.

He dropped the bat and the ball and walked down to the cook tent. He hoped that Flip would be surprised to see him, and by the look on her face he was right. She stared at him as he carried his tray from the counter, her eyes as big as the hard-boiled eggs that rolled around and around on his plate.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

He grinned. “Surprised?”

“You shouldn't have come,” she said.

“I couldn't wait.” He sat beside her, pleased to see that she made a space for him, though much bigger than he needed. Mr. Hunter nodded, and Harold nodded back.

“What about the roses?” said Flip. She leaned past him, peering out toward the door, as though she thought he'd brought them to the tent.

Harold laughed. “I'm giving them a rest.” Her head leaned very close, and he looked at her hair tumbling down across her cheek. He couldn't help touching it.

She jerked away. “Don't do that!”

Harold blinked. Even Mr. Hunter looked up from his eggs.

“And don't sit so close,” said Flip. She pushed her plate along the table, then moved in front of it. “Don't even talk to me.”

He sat, bewildered, in his place. He poked at one of his eggs and felt like crying. “I'm sorry,” he said. The egg bounced and rocked. “Whatever I did, I'm sorry.” Then he lifted his head, and she was smiling.

Harold smiled back, but she didn't seem to see it. She was looking past him, toward the door, and Harold swiveled slowly around.

The sun came in through the door of the tent. It made a silhouette of the person there, a young man—a boy—with broad shoulders and muscles on his arms. He was waving. He was waving straight at Harold, it seemed.

Harold waved back. Then he saw that it wasn't him the boy was waving at; it was Flip.

“Who's that?” asked Harold.

Flip didn't answer.

He said it again, a little louder in case she hadn't heard. Then Mr. Hunter turned in his seat. He said, “Oh, Roman's here. That's splendid. We can be on our way tomorrow.”

The boy took a tray and went down the counter, then brought it across to the table. He stood behind Harold. “Shove over, Whitey,” he said, and squeezed between Harold and Flip.

Suddenly she was laughing again, as happy as she'd ever been. And Harold felt his heart plummet to his stomach. He kept eating, though he didn't want to. He felt hollow inside. He kept reaching for things—for the salt shaker, for the pepper, for anything he could think of that would let him lean forward and glance across at Flip.

Roman was strong and dark and tanned. He was exactly the person Harold was in his dream—the old dream—before he woke to see his white arms and his white fingers.

Flip laughed at everything Roman said. She touched him the way, just that morning, she had touched Harold.

Soon the table was covered with things and there was nothing else to reach for. And Harold hadn't eaten half his breakfast before the boy and Flip stood up together and headed for the door. Harold followed them, dismayed to see them walking so close they almost touched. He followed them out of the tent, and only then did Flip turn around.

“Oh, Harold,” she said, as though surprised to see him. “Listen. You go back to the elephants, and I'll come by in a bit. When I can.”

         

C
ONRAD WAS STILL
on the ground when Harold came back, feeling sad and puzzled. The elephant had eaten every blade of grass that he could reach but was too lazy—or too tired—to shift himself farther. The huge head lifted as Harold neared, then fell again with only the smallest toot of a bugle.

Harold sat in the curve of Conrad's neck, leaning against the elephant. “She'll come in a minute,” he told himself. “She'll come and say she's sorry.” The trunk snuffled around, and Harold held it. “I bet she's on her way right now,” he said.

Huge black flies buzzed near the elephant's hide. Harold lolled in the shade of Conrad's head, trying to figure out what he'd done, how things had gone so wrong.

The elephant made a sputtery, sleepy sound that was very much like Honey's. Harold stroked the trunk, thinking how he'd used to wish he could make himself a tiny thing and nestle in his dog's thick coat. His hand ran up the trunk, around its curve to the elephant's chin, where a clump of bristles grew in a sparse and wiry bush. And he took it away, quickly, not liking the feel of the hairs that reminded him of his own. He worked his fingers inside his collar, the backs of them touching his skin. He wondered if that was why Flip had acted strangely—because she knew he was becoming a fossil.

“I bet she's telling that guy all about me,” he said to Conrad.

His spot of shade shrank away as the day turned into noon. The sun touched his feet and crept up to his knees, burning on his trousers. It seemed to set his chest on fire, then went blazing through his hair. But Harold stayed where he was, watching Canary Bird and Max Graf showering themselves in dust.

And when the sun had crawled across the elephant's back and put him in the shade again, he realized that Flip wasn't coming. He felt exactly as he had every Saturday morning when the train blew past him at the Liberty station. And now, like then, he sighed a little breath and got to his feet.

“Up trunk,” he said. “Come on, you lazy thing.”

It was just like calling to Honey. The elephant twitched and raised his head. He rolled onto his belly and pried himself up. His great ears flapped like sheets on a clothesline.

Harold got the bat. He gave it to Max Graf and herded the other two elephants down the slope. “You're fielders now,” he told them. “You chase the balls and throw them to me. Understand?”

He pitched to Max Graf, who batted to Conrad, who bowled the ball to Harold. The Ghost couldn't stop himself from grinning, though he didn't feel happy at all. He pitched again, and the ball whistled past his head. Still rising, it soared in a curve above the scattered tents and on across the field.

“Gosh,” said Harold.

He went after the ball, down the slope and around the tents, past the row of trucks and on toward the silver shape of the Airstream.

He heard the voices before he saw the people, Tina's first: “Say, look who's coming.”

Harold slowed and glanced around, hoping he would find the ball before he reached the trailer. He heard Samuel grunt. “Yeah. Isn't that the boy we used to know?”

They sat in wood-and-canvas chairs. Tina, in her doll-sized one, wore a funny hat of artificial flowers. The Gypsy Magda was bundled in a gray blanket, and Samuel—his legs crossed—held a glass of lemonade.

“Yes, I
think
it's him,” he said. “He looks familiar, doesn't he?”

Harold stopped. He could feel a coldness there. He said, “I lost the ball.”

“Underneath the trailer,” Samuel said. “You didn't quite dent it this time.”

Harold tried to smile but couldn't. It was hard for him to stand there, so close but far apart.

“Can't you hear?” said Samuel.

“Samuel, don't,” said Tina.

“Why not? It's not like he's a friend or something.”

“Please,” she said, but Samuel ignored her. “It's underneath the trailer,” he said again. “You don't think I'm going to get it for you, do you?”

“No,” said Harold. He felt like crying.

Samuel got up first. He tipped the glass and spilled his lemonade across the ground. Then he turned his back and went inside the trailer, and Tina followed with just a glance at Harold.

The Gypsy Magda's fingers tightened on her chair. The skin shrank around the bones, and her rings stood up above her fingers, leaving tunnels underneath. “You are like the stray kitten,” she said. “You let others care for you. Wherever you go, someone cares for you.” She pushed herself to her feet, dark shawls swirling around her as the blanket fell away. “The stray kitten, it is much loved and never forgotten.”

Her bracelets jangled. The bells at her ankles tolled her off toward the trailer door.

“Wait,” said Harold.

The Gypsy Magda shrugged her scarves around her shoulders. “But the stray
cat,
” she said, still walking. “The stray
cat,
it spends its nights alone, howling at the shadows.”

The door closed behind her, and the sun glinted off a solid surface. Harold squeezed his hands together. He felt as though he didn't have a friend in the world.

For a while he just stood there, glowering at the trailer. Then he crawled underneath it to fetch his ball. It had rolled impossibly far, as though someone had kicked it under there. He had to squirm on his belly to get out again, then started back across the field, past the orange tent.

His pillowcase lay on the ground, the top open and his clothes spilling out. It looked as though it had been tossed there, thrown from the tent in a fury. Harold collected everything slowly, then carried the bag, slung over his shoulder, up the slope to the elephants.