Someone yawned loudly and left the tent.
Hearing that, the sword swallower gave up. He dropped to the edge of the platform and tried an informal huddle.
First he dipped a black-tipped wire — it was something like a coat hanger with a charred marshmallow at the end — in fluid and ignited it with a whoosh.
He spat out a medicinal lozenge and showed the inside of his mouth. He lifted his tongue. "No," he answered candidly, "my mouth's not coated with anything. You don't need anything to do this," and Geoff believed him. In fact, this casual revelation was the first thing he had believed tonight.
Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, the sword swallower popped the fireball in and closed quickly to extinguish it. "It's the fumes," he said. "The fumes are what's burning, not the wad. You cut off the air, that's it." He picked a second wire from the jar and lit it with his Zippo. Black smoke wisped upward.
"See, I can put my fingers right through it." He cupped his hand through the glowing aurora around the fireball. "See, it's the vapors burning," he said, flashing his smudged palm. "That's what you call the fumes."
"Don't you ever burn your mouth?" someone asked.
"You get numb to it. I been doing this for years." He plucked two more torches, holding them between his knuckles like xylophone sticks, and ignited them. "The trick is to hold your breath, or you suck fire."
"Yeah, but did you ever get burned?"
He twirled the first torch toward his lips in a graceful, surprisingly feminine gesture, dousing it quickly, and then the pair of torches together. He inserted them rapidly, aiming cleanly into the center of his open mouth. A second longer and the flames would lick his nose and chin, would sweep up the rod to his fingers.
"Sure, I been burned. Wouldn't you?"
He hunkered closer. He stretched back his thin lip with his thumb to reveal a beaded chain of small blisters lining the inner membrane. Someone drew a breath.
"I been burned more times than I can remember. Every part that can burn has been."
Geoff took a close look at him. The face was one of those the age of which, once past puberty, is incomputable, rawboned and alert, every trace of self-indulgence long gone from it. The eyes were a startling eggshell blue, transparent as water, the nose pointed, nostrils pinched, the bridge pitted with blackheads as his cheeks were pitted with scars. The short, coarse hair shone from working in the sun, and the skin reflected a bright oil sheen. The expression on the sword swallower's face was a kind of detached mercilessness, toward itself as well as the world. It was a face seen at shooting gallery machines in Greyhound Bus depots the country over, and it was a law unto itself.
"You all probably want to see this," he said.
He felt behind him, came up with a 45 rpm record. Geoff tried to read the label. The sword swallower held it as if displaying a product, and a certain indefatigable pride showed through now in spite of the late hour.
He bit the record about an inch into the grooves, grimacing, his teeth dry and white and bone-like. The vinyl cracked and crumbled. He showed the disk, a rough half-moon missing from the edge. He began to chew. His eyes clenched, his jaws vibrated. The plastic broke and ground to powder. He chewed till nothing but black grounds remained in his mouth. He balled the powder into a clod and wiped it into a handkerchief.
A girl's voice tried to interrupt.
He held up a hand and went on cleaning his teeth and gums with his fingers. Then, "Hey," he called behind the curtain. He waited, hand out. "You know what I want." The curtain wobbled. A deep, unseen voice grumbled. "Don't give me any of that," he snapped.
He dropped his eyes to the bottom of the curtain, reached over and picked up a light bulb.
He turned it in his fingertips. Then he cracked it on the stage like an egg, took a curved, opaque wafer and positioned it in his mouth. He began to chew in a rolling motion, grinding it to dust. He extended his tongue to show the pile of shining particles, then picked off the ground glass cautiously, daubing with the handkerchief.
"Why don't you swallow it?" asked a girl.
"Who said that?" he asked coolly, but the spectators were hidden in the shadows. "I can swallow it. You want to see me swallow it?"
"Don't it hurt your innards?" asked a man's voice. It was one of the sailors, in front, and he sounded genuinely interested.
"Sure it does. What do you think? Let me ask you something. Wouldn't it hurt you?"
No answer.
"What did you say?"
Finally, "Then — " The sailor did not finish.
"It's something I do," answered the sword swallower.
He took a bent pack of Kools from his pants pocket, straightened one with careful strokes. He lit it, inhaling deeply. Seconds passed. A board fell outside, and heavy shoes somewhere.
"Let's see you put that cigarette in your mouth," said a girl.
He looked into the darkness, his face hard as rock. Then he laid the cigarette on his tongue, the glowing tip protruding from his mouth, and simply flicked it inside like a chameleon. Smoke blew out his nose. Then he opened his mouth, flicking the cigarette back out and down.
"Satisfied?" he said to the darkness. He wasn't smiling.
"Let's see you put it out."
The sword swallower held a deep breath, let it out slowly and with great control. He cocked an eye knowingly. "Let's hear the rest of it," he said.
A giggle.
"No. Come on. You want to say something, say it."
"Let's see you put that cigarette out in your mouth, I said."
No, thought Geoff. Don't let her make you.
The sword swallower sat forward, elbows braced on knees. He stared at the cigarette. His expression was unreadable. He took a hard drag and tapped the ash, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. He made a short, bitter sound that might have been a laugh, straightened his back, crossed his left ankle on his right thigh, dragged again, tapped the ash again so that the bare coal was hot and bright in the air.
"I can do it, you know. I've done it before. It'll blister for four days, then it'll hurt like hell. But I can do it. What's the matter, you think I can't?"
Geoff cleared his throat. "Man," he offered, "you don't have to prove anything." Uncertainly he added, "The hell with her, see?"
The sword swallower looked at Geoff, or as near as he could come to him in the shadows. The eyes, sharp and steely, would not give him away. Strange eyes, Geoff thought. The eyes were looking at him.
The sword swallower put his feet down and flexed his legs, half-standing. He opened his mouth, showed his tongue. Then, you know what he did. You know what he did then.
He put out the cigarette on his tongue.
"Didn't it…" A throat caught. "Didn't it hurt?"
"Sure it hurt." The sword swallower stepped up to the curtain. "Sure I feel it. Wouldn't you?"
Geoff pivoted, somewhat unsteadily. The show must be over, he thought.
Now where was she?
The others stretched and bumped together like wind-up dolls suddenly activated on the dirt floor.
"Exit to your left. This show is—"
"Hey, you're the Pin Head, right? I seen this show before."
Geoff craned his neck. The fat, rumpled man was speaking. To a new man on the platform, come out from behind the curtain.
And there was Sherron, edging over.
"Psst," whispered Geoff, "over here! You're blind as a bat, aren't you? I was looking for—"
"Is that the Pin Head?" She gave him her hands but not her attention.
Geoff sighed. "That's all, honey," he said, "there ain't no more."
"I am the Human Pin Cushion," said the man on the stage.
"I wanna see some more," said Sherron.
The man heard her. "Very well," he said, since the sailors had stopped by the tent flap, blocking the others from leaving.
Her fingers were cold. Geoff wanted to pull away but made himself hold on.
The man, the Human Pin Cushion, was old, old. Bush
y brows. A tight, unexpected cupid's-bow mouth between his hanging jowls.
Sherron laughed.
"Don't — " say any more, thought Geoff. There was something about her voice he did not like.
The old man checked his watch resignedly, slid back his sleeve as he took out a pair of spectacles. He had an old leather eyeglass case clipped over his pocket. Without enthusiasm, he produced a long, gleaming hatpin from an envelope. He waved the people closer and prepared himself, pinching up the loose rice-paper skin on his wrist. It pulled into a familiar fold.
"Hey," said a girl, "that picture outside, it shows you sticking pins all over your body."
"That is correct." The old man hesitated, needle poised. "I have passed steel through all areas of my body. I have performed for The Johnny Car—" He stopped himself, drew off his glasses, gazing out. "What is it you would have me do?"
"Stick it through your…your…" Giggle. The girl's voice. "Oh, through your tongue."
Geoff forced himself to look.
It was Sherron. It had been her voice all along.
"My God, Sher…" He tried to say her name. "My God."
The old man was looking at her, and so was everyone else. She had come up close to the stage. "No, not that. I've already seen that. Stick it through…"
"Yes, young lady?"
"…Through, oh, your ear," she said impatiently. "Stick it in your ear!"
The old man checked his watch again. The show was folding. He studied her. He pushed back his hair, badly in need of a cut, folded his long ear forward. Salt-and-pepper hairs encrusted the opening above the pendulous lobe. Light from a single miniature spotlight turned the flesh a warm peach color.
He raised the long needle. He held his ear with one hand, placed the point behind the lobe, and pushed it through.
"Not there," said Sherron, "anybody can do that!"
The old man stared her down. He folded his upper ear and pressed with a slow, trembling force, driving the tip through the cartilage in a tiny stirring motion.
He stepped to the edge, the needle penetrating his ear in two places. He looked down past his chins at the girl. At Sherron.
"You are satisfied now?" he asked.
"How come you don't bleed?" she said defiantly.
The old man stepped back. He grasped the ball on the end of the needle. "This show," he said, "is over." And then, to Sherron alone, he said:
"What do you think I am? Don't you think we are human?
"Of course we bleed."
He pulled the needle as if lowering a sword from salute.
A stream of blood coursed immediately from his ear. It gushed down his neck and spattered to the boards.
Then he left the stage.
Geoff forced a path out. He put a hand to his forehead and hurried away from the pike. He was aware of the tarpaulined machinery of thrill rides, canvased shapes and empty attractions. A mist of dew was already forming on the glass of the fortune shop but he did not see it as he passed. He zipped his windbreaker and continued to his car, refusing to break stride, and as the girl named Sherron strove to keep pace, laughing at him, cajoling, finally silent and unintentionally merciful as the fog rolled in, he felt, no, he knew at last that he was alone now, after all, quite alone.
White Moon Rising
It went like this: in her room at the top of the stairs in the empty sorority house she lay warm and rumpled in her bed, trying hard to sleep some more. It was now near noon and the light streaming through the open curtains had forced her awake again. She did not seem to care if she ever got up; she had no classes, not for a week. Still she could not make herself relax. The late morning flashed a granular red through her eyelids. Then she heard the front door down below open and close, the click echoing through the abandoned house like a garbage can dropped in an alley at dawn. Probably it was one of the few remaining girls returning from an overnight date or to pick up books before leaving for vacation. Lissa hoped so. Now she could hear footsteps treading up the stairs. She tried to imagine who it was. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped. Firmly, deliberately the footfalls turned and came down the hall, toward her room. Maybe it was Sharon. She wanted it to be Sharon. She kept her eyes tightly closed. The shoes thumped deep into the rug; the loose board in the middle of the hail creaked. Finally whoever it was reached her room—there, just on the other side of the door. Lissa felt ice crystals forming in her blood. She waited for the knock, for the clearing of a familiar throat, for the sound of her own name to come muffled through the door. But there was no sound. Still she waited. She held a breath. The blood pulsed coldly in her ears like a drum beaten underwater. She wanted to speak out. Then the sound of a hand on the loose doorknob. And the almost imperceptible wing beat of the door gliding open. I know, she thought, I'll lie perfectly still, I won't let anything move in my body and I'll be safe, whoever it is won't see me and will go away. Yes, she thought, that's what I will have to do. Now she clearly felt a presence next to her bed. She was sure that someone was standing there in the doorway to her right, a hand probably still on the knob. She had not heard it rattle a second time. Time passed. She counted her heartbeats. At last she knew she could hold her breath no longer. She would have to do something very brave. With a rush that screamed adrenaline into her body she sat bolt upright, at the same instant snapping her head to the right and unsticking her eyes with a pop. There was no one there. The door was still closed and locked. The room was empty. Suddenly she realized that her kidneys were throbbing in dull pain. She knew what that was. It was fear.
The sunlight washed in through the window.
"Oh Joe," said his wife, "it makes me sick, just physically ill. And I know it gets to you, too."
Joe Mallory cleaned up the steak and eggs on his plate with a last swipe, then hesitated and let his fork mark a slow pattern through the smear of yolk that remained.
"No." He cleared his throat. "No, honey. Just a job." Gently he removed the newspaper from her side, poked it in half and tried to find something else to read.
"Joey," she said. She reached across the tablecloth suddenly and covered his hand. "I know you. And I know I shouldn't have let you take this job, not this one."
He looked up and was surprised and strangely moved to see her clear brown eyes glistening. As he forced his shoulders to shrug and his mouth to smile, she placed her other hand as well over his. From the open kitchen window sprang the sounds of bright chains of children on their way to the elementary school. He could almost see their black bowl haircuts and dirty feet. He wished he could help them, but it was already too late. He blinked, trying to concentrate.
"Babe," he said calmly, resurrecting a pet name they had abandoned before he went overseas. "One more semester and I'm finished with night classes. Look. You know the size of the government checks, and you know they aren't going to get any bigger. We both know Ray can't take me on without a degree—"
"You know he would, Joey, if you ask him again. What's a brother for?" Instantly she darkened, regretting the last. She held to his hand, hoping that he would let it pass.
"Now let me finish," he said slowly. "I can't handle a position like that yet, not without leaning on someone half the time. I have to do it right. This damned uniform is just a job until I'm ready. Till then, well, what else do I know? Really, now?" He flipped her hands over and warmed them with his. "I have to make things right before I go ahead, to feel like I'm my own man. I thought you understood that."
"Oh, I know all that. I'm sorry. I know. It was just all the details, the whole horrible thing, these last few weeks. It sounds so awful."
She rested her forehead on her arm and cried for a few seconds. Then she pressed her nose and stood up, stacking the dishes. "Come on, you big jock. You'll be late."
He pushed away from the table and crossed the kitchen in three steps. He took his wife in his arms and held her close for a long minute, while the electric clock hummed high and white on the wall.
She rocked
back and forth with his body. Finally she began to laugh.
"Get out of here," she said, trying hard.
"Meet me at work," he said. "I'll take you to Fernando's for dinner."
The tears settled diamond-bright in her eyes. She kissed him noisily and pushed him out the door.
She watched him through the window.
He came back in.
"Forgot something," he said. He walked briskly to the breakfast nook, picked up the morning paper and dropped it in the waste can. "Give my love to the ice cream man," he said before he shut the door again.
"Hey, I don't even know the…"
He was gone and she stopped laughing. She went to the can and picked out the paper. She spread it on the table and stared down at it.
"Shit," she said very seriously. "Oh shit, Joe…."
The latest headline read:
Security Doubled
ANOTHER BRUTAL COED SLAYING
Lissa, now in tank top and embroidered Levi's, toed into her sandals and slipped down the stairs, her thin fingers playing lightly over the handrail.
"Sharon?" On the wall at the foot of the stairs she noticed the poster Sharon had brought with her from New York. It was one of those old You Don't Have To Be Jewish To Love Levy's advertisements, showing an Indian biting into a slice of rye bread; Sharon had replaced the Indian with the horribly burned face of an Asian child, and now she saw that someone had written across the face with a red marking pen the words You Don't Have To Be A Unicorn To Enjoy The Tapestry in an unmistakably feminine hand. She wondered what that meant. "Has anybody seen Sharon?" she called, tapping her nails on the railing. Then, "Is anybody here?"
She thought she heard voices and stepped off the stairs. But she saw only the bright, still day outside the open front door, and the two familiar Security guards at the edge of the dry lawn. They stood with their hands behind their backs and, Lissa thought, peculiar smiles on their faces; as they rocked on their heels their billy clubs swung tautly from wide, black belts.
Something about them gave her the creeps.
Her eyes listlessly scanned the living room, finding nothing to settle on.
Got to Kill Them All & Other Stories Page 9
