"Work? Where?" Rigo frankly disbelieved.
"Sorting ore at the Absalom."
Rigo snapped his thumbnail again derisively. "That penny-picking stuff? They pay peanuts."
"Yes." And the Francher kid slouched off around the corner of the building without a glance or a good-by.
"Well, he's working!" Twyla thoughtfully spit out a stray hair and pointed the wet end of her braid with her fingers.
"The Francher kid's doing something. I wonder how come?"
"Trying to figure that dopey dilldock out?" Janniset asked.
"Don't waste your time. I bet he's just goofing off."
"You kids run on," I said. "We can't do anything tonight. I'll lock up. See you in the morning."
I waited inside the dusty echoing hall until the sound of their going died down the rocky alley that edged around the rim of the railroad cut and dissolved into the street of the town. I still couldn't reconcile myself to slowing their steps to match my uncertain feet. Maybe someday I would he able to accept my braces as others accept glasses; but not yet—oh, not yet!
I left the hall and snapped the dime-store padlock shut. I struggled precariously along through the sliding shale and loose rocks until suddenly one piece of shale shattered under the pressure of one of my crutches and I stumbled off balance. I saw with shake-making clarity in the accelerated speed of the moment that the only place my groping crutch could reach was the smooth curving of a small boulder, and, in that same instant, I visualized myself sprawling helplessly, hopelessly, in the clutter of the alley, a useless nonfunctioning piece of humanity, a drag and a hindrance on everyone again. And then, at the last possible instant, the smooth boulder slid aside and my crutch caught and steadied on the solid damp hollow beneath it. I caught my breath with relief and unclenched my spasmed hands a little. Lucky!
Then all at once there was the Francher kid at my elbow again, quietly waiting.
"Oh!" I hoped he hadn't seen me floundering in my awkwardness. "Hi! I thought you'd gone."
"I really will be working." His voice had lost its flatness. "I'm not making much but I'm saving to buy me a musical instrument."
"Well, good!" I said, smiling into the unusualness of his straightforward look. "What kind of instrument?"
"I don't know. Something that will sing like this—"
And there on the rocky trail with the long light slanting through the trees for late afternoon, I heard soft tentative notes that stumbled at first and then began to sing: "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling—" Each note of this, my favorite, was like a white flower opening inside me in ascending order like steps—steps that I could climb freely, lightly....
"What kind of instrument am I saving for?" The Francher kid's voice pulled me back down to earth.
"You'll have to settle for less." My voice shook a little. "There isn't one like that."
"But I've heard it—" He was bewildered.
"Maybe you have. But was anyone playing it?"
"Why yes—no. I used to hear it from Mom. She thought it to me,"
"Where did your mom come from?" I asked impulsively.
"From terror and from panic places. From hunger and from hiding—to live midway between madness and the dream—" He looked at me, his mouth drooping a little. "She promised me I'd understand someday, but this is someday and she's gone."
"Yes," I sighed, remembering how once I had dreamed that someday I'd run again. "But there are other somedays ahead—for you."
"Yes," he said. "And time hasn't stopped for you either." .And he was gone.
I looked after him. "Doggone!" I thought. "There I go again, talking to him as though he made sense!" I poked the end of my crutch in the damp earth three times, making interlacing circles. Then with quickened interest I poked the boulder that had rolled up out of the slight hollow before the crutch tip had landed there.
"Son-a-gun!" I cried aloud. "Well, son-a-gun!"
~ * ~
Next morning at five of nine the kids were waiting for me at the door to the hall, huddled against the October chill that the milky sun hadn't yet had time to disperse. Rigo had a shaky old ladder with two broken rungs and splashes of old paint gumming it liberally.
"That looks awfully rickety," I said. "We don't want any blood spilled on our dance floor. It's bad for the wax."
Rigo grinned. "It'll hold me up," he said. "I used it last night to pick apples. You just have to be kinda careful."
"Well, be so then," I smiled, unlocking the door. "Better safe than—" My words faltered and died as I gaped in at the open door. The others pushed in around me, round-eyed and momentarily silenced. My first wild impression was that the ceiling had fallen in.
"My gorsh!" Janniset gasped. "what hit this place?"
"Just look at it!" Twyla shrilled. "Hey! Just look at it!" We looked as we scuffled forward. Every single piece of paper was gone from the ceiling and walls. Every scrap of paper was on the floor, in tiny twisted confetti-sized pieces like a tattered faded snowfall, all over the floor. There must have been an incredible amount of paper tangled in the decorations, because we waded wonderingly almost ankle-deep through it.
"Looky here!" Rigo was staring at the front of the bandstand. Lined up neatly across the front stood all the nails that had been pulled out of the decorations, each balanced precisely on its head.
Twyla frowned and bit her lip. "It scares me," she said.
"It doesn't feel right. It looks like somebody was mad or crazy—like they tore up the paper wishing they was killing something. And then to put all those nails so—so even and careful, like they had been put down gently—that looks madder than the paper." She reached over and swept her finger sideways, wincing as though she expected a shock. A section of the nails toppled with faint pings on the bare boards of the stand. In a sudden flurry Twyla swept all the nails over. "There!" she said, wiping her finger on her dress.
"Now it's all crazy."
"Well," I said, "crazy or not, somebody's saved us a lot of trouble. Rigo, we won't need your ladder. Get the brooms and let's get this mess swept out."
While they were gone for the brooms I picked up two nails and clicked them together in a metrical cadence: "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling—"
By noon we had the place scrubbed out and fairly glistening through its shabby paint. By evening we had the crisp new orange-and-black decorations up, low down and with thumbtacks, and all sighed with tired satisfaction at how good the place looked. As we locked up Twyla suddenly said in a small voice, "What if it happens again before the dance Friday? All our work—"
"It won't," I promised. "It won't."
In spite of my hanging back and trying the lock a couple of times Twyla was still waiting when I turned away from the door. She was examining the end of her braid carefully as she said, "It was him, wasn't it?'"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"How did he do it?"
"You've known him longer than I have. How did he do it?"
"Nobody knows the Francher kid," she said. Then softly, "He looked at me once, really looked at me. He's funny—but not to laugh," she hastened. "When he looks at me it—" her hand tightened on her braid until her head tilted and she glanced up slantingly at me, "it makes music in me.
"You know," she said quickly into the echo of her unorthodox words, "you're kinda like him. He makes me think things and believe things I wouldn't ever by myself. You make me say things I wouldn't ever by myself no, that's not quite fight. You let me say things I wouldn't dare to say to anyone else."
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you, Twyla."
~ * ~
I had forgotten the trembling glamor of a teen-age dance. I had forgotten the cautious stilted gait of high heels on loafer-type feet. I had forgotten how the look of maturity could be put on with a tie and sport jacket and how—how peoplelike teen-agers could look when divorced for a while from Levi's and flannel shirts. Janniset could hardly contain himself for his own splendor and turned not a
hair of his incredibly polished head when I smiled my "Good evening, Mr. Janniset." But in his pleased satisfaction at my formality he forgot himself as he turned away and hoisted up his sharply creased trousers as though they were his old Levi's.
Rigo was stunning in his Latin handsomeness, and he and Angie so drowned in each other's dark eyes that I could see why our Mexican youngsters usually marry so young. And Angie! Well, she didn't look like any eighth grader—her strapless gown, her dangly earrings, her laughing flirtatious eyes—but taken out of the context and custom and tradition she was breath-takingly lovely. Of course it was on her "unsuitable for her age" dress and jewelry and make-up that the long line of mothers and aunts and grandmothers fixed disapproving eyes, but I'd be willing to bet that there were plenty who wished their own children could look as lovely.
In this small community the girls always dressed up to the hilt at the least provocation, and the Hallowe'en dance was usually the first event of the fall that could serve as an excuse. Crinolined skirts belled like blossoms across the floor above the glitter of high heels, but it was only a matter of a few minutes before the shoes were kicked off, to toe in together forlornly under a chair or dangle from some motherly forefinger while unprotected toes braved the brogans of the boys.
Twyla was bright-checked and laughing, dance after dance, until the first intermission. She and Janniset brought me punch where I sat among the other spectators; then Janniset skidded off across the floor, balancing his paper cup precariously as he went to take another look at Marty, who at school was only a girl but here, all dressed up, was dawn of woman-wonder for him. Twyla gulped her punch hastily and then licked the corners of her mouth.
"He isn't here," she said huskily.
"I'm sorry," I said. "l wanted him to have fun with the rest of you. Maybe he'll come yet."
"Maybe." She twisted her cup slowly, then hastily shoved it under the chair as it threatened to drip on her dress.
"That's a beautiful dress," I said. "I love the way your petticoat shows red against the blue when you whirl."
"Thank you." She smoothed the billowing of her skirt.
"I feel funny with sleeves. None of the others have them. That's why he didn't come, I bet. Not having any dress-up clothes like the others, I mean. Nothing but Levi's."
"Oh, that's a shame. If I had known—"
"No. Mrs. McVey is supposed to buy his clothes. She gets money for them. All she does is sit around and talk about how much she sacrifices to take care of the Francher kid and she doesn't take care of him at all. It's her fault—"
"Let's not be too critical of others. There may be circumstances we know nothing of—and besides—" I nodded my head, "he's here now."
I could almost see the leap of her heart under the close-fitting blue as she turned to look.
The Francher kid was lounging against the door, his face closed and impassive. I noted with a flame of anger at Mrs. McVey that he was dressed in his Levi's, faded almost white from many washings, and a flannel shirt, the plaid of which Was nearly indistinguishable except along the seams. It wasn't fair to keep him from being like the other kids even in this minor way—or maybe especially in this way, because clothes can't be hidden the way a mind or soul can.
I tried to catch his eye and beckon him in, but he looked only at the bandstand where the band members were preparing to resume playing. It was tragic that the Francher kid had only this handful of inexpertly played instruments to feed his hunger on. He winced back into the darkness at their first blare, and I felt Twyla's tenseness as she turned to me.
"He won't come in," she half shouted against the take-a-melody-tear-it-to-pieces-stick-it-back-together-bleeding type of music that was going on.
I shook my head regretfully. "I guess not," I mouthed and then was drawn into a half-audible, completely incomprehensible conversation with Mrs. Frisney. It wasn't until the next dance started and she was towed away by Grampa Griggs that I could turn back to Twyla. She was gone. I glanced around the room. Nowhere the swirl of blue echoing the heavy brown-gold swing of her ponytail.
There was no reason for me to feel apprehensive. There were any number of places she might have gone and quite legitimately, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming need for fresh air and swung myself past the romping dancers and out into the gasping chill of the night. I huddled closer inside my jacket, wishing it were on right instead of merely flung around my shoulders. But the air tasted clean and fresh. I don't know what we'd been breathing in the dance hall, but it wasn't air. By the time I'd got the whatever-it-was out of my lungs and filled them with the freshness of the night I found myself halfway down the path over the edge of the railroad cut. There hadn't been a train over the single track since nineteen-aught-something, and just beyond it was a thicket of willows and cottonwoods and a few scraggly piñon trees. As I moved into the shadow of the trees I glanced up at the sky ablaze with a skrillion stars that dissolved into light near the lopsided moon and perforated the darker horizon with brilliance. I was startled out of my absorption by the sound of movement and music. I took an uncertain step into the dark. A few yards away I saw the flick of skirts and started to call out to Twyla. But instead I rounded the brush in front of me and saw what she was intent upon.
The Francher kid was dancing—dancing all alone in the quiet night. No, not alone, because a column of yellow leaves had swirled up from the ground around him and danced with him to a melody so exactly like their movement that I couldn't be sure there was music. Fascinated, I watched the drift and sway, the swirl and turn, the treetop-high rise and the hesitant drifting fall of the Francher kid and the autumn leaves. But somehow I couldn't see the kid as a separate Levied flannel-shirted entity. He and the leaves so blended together that the sudden sharp definition of a hand or a turning head was startling. The kid was just a larger leaf borne along with the smaller in the chilly winds of fall. On a final minor glissade of the music the Francher kid slid to the ground.
He stood for a moment, head bent, crumbling a crisp leaf in his fingers; then he turned swiftly defensive to the rustle of movement. Twyla stepped out into the clearing. For a moment they stood looking at each other without a word. Then Twyla's voice came So softly I could barely hear it.
"I would have danced with you."
"With me like this?" He gestured at his clothes.
"Sure. It doesn't matter."
"In front of everyone?"
"If you wanted to. I wouldn't mind."
"Not there," he said. "It's too tight and hard."
"Then here," she said, holding out her hands.
"The music—" But his hands were reaching for hers,
"Your music," she said.
"My mother's music," he corrected.
And the music began, a haunting lilting waltz-time melody. As lightly as the leaves that stirred at their feet the two circled the clearing.
I have the picture yet, but when I return to it my heart is emptied of adjectives because there are none for such enchantment. The music quickened and swelled, softly, richly full—the lost music that a mother bequeathed to her child.
Twyla was so completely engrossed in the magic of the moment that I'm sure she didn't even know when their feet no longer rustled in the fallen leaves. She couldn't have known when the treetops brushed their shoes—when the long turning of the tune brought them back, spiraling down into the clearing. Her scarlet petticoat caught on a branch as they passed, and left a bright shred to trail the wind, but even that did not distract her.
Before my heart completely broke with wonder the music faded softly away and left the two standing on the ragged grass. After a breathless pause Twyla's hand went softly, wonderingly, to Francher's cheek. The kid turned his face slowly and pressed his mouth to her palm. Then they turned and left each other, without a word.
Twyla passed so close to me that her skirts brushed mine. I let her cross the tracks back to the dance before I followed. I got there just in time to catch the whisper on apparently the
second round, "... alone out there with the Francher kid!" and the gleefully malicious shock of ". . . and her petticoat is torn..."
It was like pigsty muck clotting an Easter dress.
~ * ~
Anna said, "Hi!" and flung herself into my one armchair. As the front leg collapsed she caught herself with the dexterity of long practice, tilted the chair, reinserted the leg and then eased herself back into its dusty depths.
"From the vagaries of the small town good Lord deliver me!" she moaned.
"What now?" I asked, shifting gears on my crochet hook as I finished another row of my rug.
"You mean you haven't heard the latest scandal?" Her eyes widened in mock horror and her voice sank conspiratorially. "They were out there in the dark—alone—doing nobody knows what. Imagine!" Her voice shook with avid outrage. "With the Francher kid!
The Best from Fantasy & Science Fiction 8 - [Anthology] Page 21
