Ghost Boy (21 page)

Chapter

41

H
arold used the hose to wash the mud from Conrad. The water sprayed off the elephant's hide and flowed in rivers down the ribs.

“You've done it now,” he said. “Oh, gosh, you've done it now.”

He heard a coughing sound as a generator started. Then the night was dazzled by electric lights. They glinted faintly off Conrad and shone in the huge and growing puddle. The calliope wheezed the breaking-down song.

Harold expected Flip to come right back, but it seemed as though ages passed before anyone arrived. And then it wasn't Flip at all. It was Mr. Hunter, and he carried a shotgun with the barrel broken open. It pointed down, as thin and stiff as an extra arm hanging from his shoulder.

Harold dropped the hose. He stood under the elephant's chin.

“There's no reason you have to witness this,” said Mr. Hunter. “It would be better that you left.”

“You're going to shoot him?” Harold hugged the trunk as it drooped across his chest. “You're not going to shoot him, are you?”

“Yes, I am.” Mr. Hunter balanced the gun under his arm and took a shell from his pocket. “I don't like that boy, that Roman Pinski. He's hotheaded and far too full of himself. But if it wasn't Roman that Conrad trampled, it would have been someone else.”

Harold rubbed his hand along the ripples of the trunk. “He didn't trample anyone,” he said.

“Don't play word games,” said Mr. Hunter. “From what I gather, he nearly killed the boy.”

Harold hung his head.

“I'm sorry, son. But pachyderms get a taste for this. They see how big they are, how small a person is, and they just decide that they won't be pushed around. Conrad's crazy, boy. He's mean.”

“He's not,” said Harold. “You're standing there with a gun. He's going to let you put the barrel up against his head and pull the trigger, that's how mean he is.”

“You don't understand.” Mr. Hunter pushed the shell into the breech of his gun. “Next time he could turn on you, or on me, or on a bleacherful of children. And there won't be any warning; he'll just do it.”

He swung the barrel up, and the gun cocked with a click that seemed terribly loud and final. He hoisted it up to his shoulder.

“Don't,” said Harold. “Please don't.”

The calliope paused, and a different song started. Conrad's ears flapped sadly. Then he made his funny chirping sound and tottered up on his two left feet. He swayed, fell flat, and tipped to his right. Then his front feet started moving, shuffling in the mud. He was dancing—such a pathetic effort, such a clumsy dance, that Harold began to cry. The tears dribbled out from under his glasses, and he looked up and saw that the elephant too was crying.

Even Mr. Hunter seemed to pause, his cheek lifting from the gun.

Conrad rocked and shuffled in the mud. Then he slowed, his huge head falling, and he stopped.

“Aw, gosh,” said Harold.

Mr. Hunter sighed. “You're just prolonging this. I have to do it, though Lord knows I wish I didn't.” His finger slid around the trigger, and he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder.

“No!” shouted Harold. “It isn't fair. It wasn't even his fault.”

“Not his fault?” Mr. Hunter sighted down the barrel. “He nearly killed a boy.”

“Who came at me with a stick!” said Harold.

“Is that a fact?” Mr. Hunter let the gun point down. “Roman threatened you with a stick?”

“A brush; yes, sir. He was going to hit me with it.”

“And Conrad came to your rescue?”

Harold nodded. “And you can't shoot him for that. You just can't.”

“I might have known,” said Mr. Hunter. “That part of the story was omitted in its telling.” He looked at the gun with a hopeless frown, then up at Conrad. “Tell me: Can two elephants play baseball?”

“No,” said Harold, shaking his head. “No, it's just impossible.”

Mr. Hunter licked his lips. “You say Roman came at you with a stick?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harold.

“Did he mean to strike you?”

Harold sniffed. “I'm pretty sure he did.”

“Then I'll tell you what. Due to these extenuating circumstances, I'll suspend the sentence here.” Mr. Hunter opened the gun and shook out the shell in his hand. “But from now on you won't let this pachyderm out of your sight. You will sleep with him and eat with him and ride in his truck. You will spend every hour of the day and night at his side.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harold. He hugged the trunk fiercely, and the tip curled up and touched his hand with its rubbery suction.

“And I want him in chains every moment that he isn't working. Every moment; is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get him harnessed. A bit of work might drive this madness from him.”

         

H
AROLD UNFASTENED
Conrad's collars. He took off the muddied blanket and the headdress made of feathers. In their place he put the harness, fussing with the straps, whispering into Conrad's ear. He was fastening the last buckle when he heard Flip coming toward him.

“Roman's okay,” she said. “He's going to be fine.”

Harold shrugged. He found that he didn't care too much one way or the other.

“That wasn't the first time he's been knocked in the mud.” She put her weight on the harness, pulling out the slack. “Most times, though, it's people that do it.”

It annoyed him that she was thinking of Roman when Conrad was nearly dead. “Well, Conrad's fine too,” he said. “Mr. Hunter didn't quite shoot him.”

She laughed. “Of course not. What makes you think he would?”

“Oh, the bullets,” said Harold sarcastically. “The gun. He had it all loaded and everything.”

“But he never woulda done it.” She cinched the strap tighter. “He looks at elephants and all he sees is a great big heap of dollar bills. He might have liked to shoot him, but he couldn't.”

“I don't know,” said Harold.

“Sure. He just wanted to scare you.”

Harold frowned. Nothing at the circus was the way it seemed to be. Like Mr. Happy's welded rings, the false-fronted tents and the banners that made Samuel too big and Tina too small, everything was fake if he looked closely enough to see it. Even Flip, he thought, could sometimes be two different people.

He pulled Conrad's trunk. It curled down and made a step for his boot. He stood there in the curve and let the elephant hoist him up.

“Anyway,” said Flip, “Roman won't be working tonight. So you don't have to be scared of seeing him.”

Harold settled in at the harness. “I'm not,” he said, and started the elephant walking.

Chapter

42

I
n an hour the big top was just a pool of canvas at the foot of the center pole. And an hour after that, there was only a circle of sawdust in a patch of beaten grass, in a field littered with paper wrappings. Harold drove Conrad up the ramp to the back of the Diamond T. He fastened chains to the elephant's feet, then walked around the truck to the passenger's door.

It was high above him. He had to climb to a little step and balance there to reach the handle. Then the door swung out so fast that it almost knocked him off. And he stared into a cab that was dirty and warm, foul with a smell of sweat. The seat was torn in a hundred places, each one patched with cellophane tape that long ago had come unstuck, that crinkled now as Harold settled there. An old pillow, blotched with yellow stains, covered the driver's side. A little plastic doll, a naked woman, dangled from the mirror.

Harold stuffed his bag behind the seat. He dropped his ball and bat on top and sat down to wait for the driver. He tried to think who drove the Diamond T.

On either side the trucks went by. With the yellow jeep in the front, they started down the road, the tents and balloons and celluloid birds moving away in a convoy. Then the lot was empty, and at last the driver's door creaked open. Hands groped up at the wheel, thick fingers and dirt-caked nails. Harold stared across the seat.
Don't let it be Roman,
he thought.
Please, not Roman Pinski.
And into the cab came Wicks, the cook.

“What a day. What a frigging day,” he said, settling into his seat. He
splattered
into his seat in his dirty clothes and bulge of fat. “When's this outfit going to start making some real money? Eh? Tell me that, kid. Are we going to have a bigger crowd tomorrow?”

Harold frowned. “Maybe,” he said.

“Shoot! Just tell me yes or no.”

“I hope so,” said Harold, puzzled. “I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens.”

Wicks glowered at him. “So that's the way you're going to be, is it?” He jammed the truck into gear, jammed it up to second, spun the wheel and brought it jolting to the road. He jammed it into third, into fourth, and wriggled down in the squealing springs of the bench. “You don't want to tell me, that's fine. But let's get this straight,” he said. “I don't like talking, I don't like singing, I don't like wise guys driving with me.”

Harold turned his head to the side window. He leaned against the door, watching fence posts pass. The cab was filled with the nauseating smells of grease and sweat. Harold rolled his window down.

“And I don't like wind, okay?” said Wicks. “So roll that window up.”

They drove for thirty miles without a word, through darkness and a swirl of brown dust in the headlights. The road twisted through low brown hills, and Harold stared at the little plastic doll that swung, spinning slowly, in the middle of the windshield. He wished he was riding with Mr. Hunter again. Even more, he wished he was back with Samuel and Tina. They'd be playing their game of grocery stores, he thought, imagining Tina on her apple box. They'd be laughing as the miles went by, talking of the little house they'd have someday.

Harold watched at each curve for a gleam of headlights on the Airstream trailer.

“I guess you're rich,” said Wicks, so suddenly that it startled him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Come on!” said Wicks. “I hear you albinos can sniff out gold like horses sniff out water. Ain't that right?”

“I don't know,” said Harold. “What does gold smell like?”

“I told you, don't be a wise guy. You do it with sticks,” said the cook. “Albinos dowse for gold, and ain't that the truth?”

“Not me,” said Harold.

“Why not?”

Harold shrugged. “I never thought of it, I guess.”

“Say,” said the cook, his brows all wrinkled. “When it's dark, when it's pitch-black dark, can you see stuff?”

“No,” said Harold. He could hardly see stuff in the daylight.

“But you can tell the future, can't you?”

“I can guess,” said Harold.

“Aw, shoot!” The cook shrugged. He was sweating. “Then you're not a real albino.
Real
albinos, they dowse for gold. They live in darkness—in caves and stuff—and never come out except when it's dark. And they can see the future like nobody's business.”

“Gosh,” said Harold. “Can the Cannibal King do all of that?”

“Shoot, no. He's not a real albino either.”

The big Diamond T rolled along, following the convoy. Bugs splattered on the windshield, and Wicks turned the wipers on. Yellow goo smeared across the glass.

“What is he?” asked Harold.

“The Cannibal King?” said Wicks. “He's just a frigging white guy, a sugar-cookie guy, same as you.” He stomped on the clutch and wrenched at the gearshift. “Shoot! I bet you're no different than a regular fella except for your skin and your hair and stuff.”

“Why are you angry?” asked Harold.

“There's nothing special about you!” Wicks shook his head fiercely. “Shoot! I guess there's nothing in this world that's better than anything else.”

“I never said I was,” said Harold.

The cook wiped his forehead with his fist. “I guess you didn't,” he said. “I was only hoping that you were.”

The truck dipped toward a creek and rumbled on a wooden bridge. A hawk flew across the headlights' glare. The cook shifted gears. The truck rattled past a crossroad, spitting gravel at the fenders, and followed along behind the convoy.

“How old are you?” asked Wicks.

“Almost fifteen,” said Harold.

“Then you're fourteen. You got a family?”

“Not much,” said Harold. He was slumped on the seat, his knees on the dashboard.

“What do you mean?” The cook clamped his fist on the gearshift. “You've got a dad, don't you?”

“No,” said Harold. “He was killed in the war.”

“That right?” The cook turned his head. “Tough break, kid.” He squeaked his hands on the steering wheel, and when he spoke again it was a little less harshly. “But you've got a mother, don't you?”

“Sort of,” said Harold.

“You do or you don't.”

“Well, sure I do. But she's not the same. She used to be really nice, really pretty. And now she's … I don't know.” He puffed out his cheeks and made himself look fat. “And she married this guy, a banker …”

“And you don't like him,” said Wicks.

“No.”

“So you ran away from home.”

“I guess so.”

“Was she glad you left?”

Harold hadn't thought of that. The idea made him sad, and then guilty. He hadn't been nice to her lately, not for such a long time that he couldn't remember
ever
being nice.

“You going to go back?” said Wicks, glancing down.

“Oh, I might.” Harold picked at a bit of dry mud on his leg. “I don't know.”

“Do you even know where you're going?”

“Oregon.” Harold sighed. “My great-grandfather went there with nothing but a horse and a wagon, and he made himself rich. You can go to Oregon and start your life all over, and you can be whatever you want in Oregon.”

“You're looney tunes,” said Wicks. “It's no different than anywhere else.”

“Sure it is.” Harold picked away the mud and ground it to dust in his fingers. The convoy snaked ahead of them, rising over the crest of a hill. “My brother's going to be there, and we're going to get some horses. We're going to ride up in the forests where it's cool and dark, and we're going to live like mountain men.”

The cook laughed. It was a mean, short little laugh that made Harold feel small and childish. It was the sort of laugh his mother would use if he came home late from school. “I guess you've been with your
girl
friend,” she would say, and laugh like that.

The truck slowed, then jolted forward as the cook shifted gears on the hill. “There ain't no mountain men,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“No?” asked Harold.

“They'd lock them up in nuthouses if there were.” Wicks wiped a hand across his mouth. “That sort of freedom's gone. It's finished.”

“But Thunder Wakes Him,” Harold said. “He—”

“Who?”

“The old Indian. He—”

Wicks laughed. “Big hairy deal. They
shoulda
locked him up, that guy.”

“He goes wherever he wants,” said Harold, almost to himself.

“Look, kid.” Wicks tapped the steering wheel. “I went all the way to Germany fighting for freedom, and you know what? I think I killed it somewhere. The world's too fast now, too crowded up to let anyone go roaming free.”

“But you do it,” said Harold.

“Don't make me laugh.” He shifted gears again, the convoy going ahead. “Let me turn this truck around and go the other way and you'll see how free I am. I wouldn't get to the county line before I was out of gas and out of food, and out of a job to boot.”

The truck crawled up the hill, lurching into first. In the back, an elephant bugled. Ahead, with a flash of light, the Airstream passed over the crest and vanished, as though into the sky.

“Well,
they're
free,” said Harold. “Samuel and Tina.”

The cook laughed again, the same short bark. “A thousand people pay a dime a day to see them. That's a hundred bucks, kid. A hundred bucks a day, and what do they get? Nothing. Mr. Hunter—the nicest guy you'd ever find, but cheap as sin—he takes it all. Then he lets them sell their dumb little postcards, and he takes half of that as well 'cause that's the way a circus works. Free? Kid, they're welded to the circus. They'll die in the circus, and then Mr. Hunter will wrap them up in bandages and charge
two
dimes to see the mummies.”

But their house,
he wanted to say.
They're going to have a house with curtains and a cuckoo clock.

“You should be back home,” said Wicks. “Wherever that is. You should be doing your learning in school, learning how to work with adams. That's the future, kid: adam bombs and adam plants.”

The cellophane crackled as Harold wriggled down in the corner. The sound of the engine, the swinging of the little doll, put him to sleep as the truck rumbled west. He slept until dawn, when he woke with the sun in his eyes.

It was so much like the day before, like so many other days, that he couldn't tell right away
what
day it was, or even which truck he was in. Then he blinked and saw that the cab was empty, and he got a sudden fright before he noticed that the little doll hung stiffly on its thread. The truck wasn't moving.

Harold pulled himself up and looked out the windshield at Oola Boola Mambo. The painted trailer sat right there, with a stubbled field beyond it.

A ticking sound came from under the hood, then a huge bang and a clatter behind him. It was like a puzzle to Harold that he solved half asleep. The engine was still hot, the ramp just falling open; the truck must have stopped only a moment ago. He climbed down from the cab and saw other people coming from other trucks, all rubbing their eyes or scratching their heads.

The work started right away, the building of a city. Harold, up on Conrad's back, watched it rise around him. It was a bit of a disappointment to see they were raising the very same city they had built at Trickle Creek, placing everything so perfectly that they might have moved the holes for the tent pegs too. He hadn't imagined that a circus could ever be the same thing twice. And when the children came, looking like the very same children that had come to Trickle Creek, he felt a little sorry for them at the way they thought it all so new and magical. They made him think of Farmer Hull's children—“dirt poor,” his mother said—who got secondhand toys for Christmas and never thought a thing about it.

Harold made a hundred trips from the trucks to the field before the job was done. He watched for Roman but didn't see the boy until he rode Conrad to the elephants' tent. Canary Bird and Max Graf were there, chains at their ankles, tearing at a bale of straw. Other bales lay scattered on the ground, and Roman stood on a broken one, pitching the yellow-green stalks into the tent. He looked up, then jumped behind the bale.

Harold stared down. He had hoped to get off the elephant but now didn't dare.

“Don't come any closer,” said Roman. He held the pitchfork like a shield. “I'm busting up the bales, okay? They'll eat a ton of it, a ton of it each.”

At the sound of his voice, Conrad's head began to turn.

“Can you keep him there?” asked Roman. “He won't attack me, will he?”

Conrad growled.

“Don't let him come at me,” said Roman, his voice shaking.

He suddenly seemed so small and frightened that he made Harold think of himself, of Harold the Ghost. And Harold reached down and patted the elephant's head. “Easy, boy,” he said.

Conrad raised his trunk and bugled.

“Okay, I'm leaving,” said Roman. He put down the fork and spread his arms apart. “I'm going, okay? But listen, um—Harold. I wanted to … I didn't tell you before … I …” His face looked old and miserable. “Thanks for …” He sighed. “Just thanks, okay?”

Harold nodded. He watched Roman leave, and a huge feeling of fright and dismay left him at the same time. It had always been with him, and suddenly it was gone, like a part of him torn away. It gave him that weightless sensation of an elephant rising below him—but made him feel empty in a way he didn't like. He must have been born feeling scared, he thought.

“Down trunk!” he shouted.

Conrad let him off, then attacked his own bale. Soon there was green dust floating through the air, and bits of broken straw covered Conrad's back. Harold put a chain on him and sat down to wait for Flip.