The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction - July/August 2016

by Various

  "I don't have to lay out anything. The burden is on them, not us."

  "Mr. Earles, do you have anything to say to the people of Beggar's Creek?"

  "Sorry, he's not answering any questions today."

  But Three-Arm stepped forward anyway. "I can speak for myself—might be the last time for a while."

  The reporters cackled.

  "Are you going to take the stand and tell everybody what happened that night?" one of them asked.

  "I don't know." Three-Arm glanced at his lawyer, who responded with a curt shake of the head. "Guess we'll have to see when we get there."

  "What's it like to have three arms?"

  Another glance. His lawyer shook his head emphatically.

  "What do you think of Beggar's Creek so far?"

  He hesitated. The lawyer shrugged. "Well, from what I've seen, seems like a real nice place."

  "Do you have any plans while you're in town?"

  "Think I'll be pretty busy in court. But we drove by the fairgrounds on the way in. Looked like the County Fair was going on. Might want to check it out."

  "Good idea," his lawyer said, quickly stepping in front of him. "Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen. We'll see you in court tomorrow."

  Mac grabbed my arm. I hated when people did that, left me feeling so defenseless. "I'll give you five bucks if you show me where the fairgrounds is."

  "You don't have to give me anything," I told him. "You go to the end of the block, take a left at the Big Swirl drive-in, then down two more blocks and take a right at the old canning plant, and then you take—"

  "Don't tell me, show me!"

  "My bike—"

  "Bring it along. I'll throw it in the trunk."

  "No you won't."

  "Back seat?"

  "Deal."

  I showed him. It wasn't far. You could hear the fairgrounds before you could see it—kids hollerin' for their lives on the midway rides, announcements you couldn't make heads or tails out of over the loudspeakers. You could smell the fair before you even reached the gate—nothing like swine barns in the summer swelter. It was midweek, the crowds weren't too bad. After we parked, Mac slipped me five, then scoped out the area, checking the entrances and exits, the angle of the sun, everything. He took up a position with his camera near the main entrance.

  The crowds came then. A dark car pulled up to the gate, and there was the Three-Armed Man. They had dawdled, allowing the courthouse crowd to tag along.

  I could see Mac wasn't expecting this; he was hoping for some solo time with Three-Arm, but he adjusted in a hurry, moving in before the crowd did.

  What was funny, though, was that I got some attention, too. People kept repeating the line from the courtroom.

  If I could, I'd give you my third.

  It wasn't said in a mean way, it was said with maybe a little respect. Like I was somebody important. But I didn't do anything important, other than stick my arm somewhere it didn't belong. So how could I be treated like I was important? What kind of world is it that treats somebody important when they ain't hardly nothing at all?

  Mac tried to toss a few questions at Three-Arm but his lawyer stepped in, hand up like a railroad crossing sign. Or maybe dangerous road ahead.

  "It's been a long day, and Mr. Earles only wishes to relax and enjoy the fair. So please, give him that courtesy, won't you?" As the press men protested, he smiled in a way that people around here usually didn't. "Your post-trial interview opportunities depend on it."

  That got their attention, and the Three-Armed Man and his lawyer headed into the heat of the fairgrounds. I couldn't get close to him, and he didn't see me.

  The crowd surrounding Three-Arm grew right along. Word-of-mouth. Everybody wanted a spittin'-distance look at him, especially the kids. I tried to figure it out. I was missing one of my arms and folks tended to shy away from me. Maybe they felt sorry for me. Maybe they were afraid something bad might happen to them, too. Like my luck would rub off on them. Like I was carrying a disease that would jump into them and make one of their limbs to fall off, clunk. Folks always want more, I guess. Never enough. If everyone had three arms, then a four-armed man would be the stuff of dreams.

  The Three-Armed Man headed to the midway, rode the Octopus, a whole sky full of arms.

  The House of Mirrors. Three arms, thirty arms, as many arms as there are stars in the movies. I ran in, too. Only saw him once, the mirrors making him look like he had just one arm and me with three.

  Down to the end of the midway, where Pa told me I should never ever go. He was afraid the carnival people would take me away, I guess. Might not have been a bad life.

  At the end of the midway, they never let you see anything without paying first, just the posters, just the promise, just the same things you see in your dreams. When Three-Arm showed up, though, that changed. The Human Flytrap and the Bearded Lady and the Half-Gorilla All-Girl came out and greeted him like a long-lost brother.

  The manager's eyes were job-offer blue.

  Funny thing, though, Three-Arm acted like he didn't want to have anything to do with them. His eyes looked for a way out.

  "You could have a real bright future with our show," said the manager, gaze locked hard on number three.

  Three-Arm's lawyer stepped in. "Not anytime soon, I'm afraid. We're currently booked for a series of personal appearances before one of the most important public officials in the county."

  Three-Arm and company wandered back out of the midway area and meandered through the livestock buildings, the 4-H building, the FFA, the Hall of Industry. When he saw a girl walking by carrying a tuba, he went over and asked her, "Do you play in a band?"

  "No, I'm a soloist. I'm in the talent show."

  "I'd like to see that."

  So it was off to the band shell. A juggler was onstage. Three-Arm politely waited until he was finished, then hopped up beside the juggler, borrowed the balls, and began. One ball, one arm. Two balls, two arms. Three balls…well, that sent the crowd into delights.

  Just a warm-up for what was to come. Somebody in the wings had a guitar. Three-Arm didn't even have to ask. A quiet look was all it took and the guitar was in his many hands.

  "Don't mean to horn in on your fun," he said, tuning the guitar to his liking, "but it's such a beautiful day out, and I've been stuck inside all morning, and, well…see, I'm not much of a musician, but I do enjoy playing.…"

  Three-Arm began strumming the guitar in a three-armed way, and it was the most beautiful sound ever. All three hands moved across the guitar like po'try. His third arm, short thing that it was, mostly stayed down on the lower end of the instrument. It was like the music you hear in dreams. Even the flying birds found a perch on the drooping electrical line so they could listen.

  All at once, the caramel-corn mood changed. Three-Arm stopped strumming, got a serious look on his face. No, serious isn't the right word. Melancholy. He put on a face that showed something deep, the long, dark roads he had traveled. Was that a tear in his eye?

  "Now, folks, the song I'm going to sing next is not a happy song. I wrote it while I was sitting in a jail cell. Got a chance to reflect on my life. Not always a pretty thing to see yourself in the mirror, especially if you're someone who looks like me. But in the end it's a song of hope. It means a lot to me and I thank you for the chance to share it with you. It goes something like this.…

  "Son, said my mother, when I was but wee,

  "While most children have two arms, you, my boy, have three.

  "There is no shirt

  "For a boy with three arms,

  "Nor sweater nor jacket for keeping you warm.

  "And gloves!

  "Why must they always come in pairs…"

  I don't remember the rest of it, but it was real heartfelt.

  When he was done, the final strum from his guitar hung in the air like it knew how wonderful it was and didn't want to go away. Three-Arm bowed his head for a minute, then folks began clapping and
hooting and carrying on.

  His modest grin came back, then he seemed to get self-conscious and handed the guitar back to its owner. The fella looked like he had never seen it before. He held it like a precious thing, put his ear to it like he couldn't believe the sounds that had come out of it. He never took the stage, guessing he went home and thought about some important things. Maybe he hung the guitar, like a sacred ornament, right next to the Jesus face that you plug into the wall.

  The talent show went on but they shouldn't have bothered. Three-Arm was given First Prize, a blue ribbon the size of a sunflower.

  Mac fired questions at me all the way back to the farm.

  "…don't know why he waved at me. I wasn't doing anything. I was just standing there alongside the road."

  "You never saw him before?"

  "Don't you think I woulda remembered him?"

  "If he tries to get in touch with you, would you call me? Here's my card."

  I took it and looked at it, then stuck it in my shirt pocket. "Why would he want to get in touch with me? He never even said one word to me at the fair."

  "I know. And that was important."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Just call me if he contacts you, okay?"

  I didn't tell him about the mural. Shoot, I didn't want to think about it myself.

  * * *

  Ma was resting when I got back. She must have been painting all day. She looked like all of her had been emptied out into a bucket.

  I tucked the five-dollar bill into my dresser drawer, then went outside and did my chores. By the time I finished and cleaned up, Ma was still asleep and I began to fret.

  Round about sunset she finally come to. She had perked up some, but her eyes still looked hollowed out. She asked me if I had ate my dinner. I lied, then asked her how she was feeling.

  "Good," she said. "I'm seein' things, hearin' things."

  * * *

  I SLEPT A LOT the next day, while Ma worked out behind the barn. I still didn't think she was herself but I had my own problems. I get these headaches. Mostly when the weather changes and the crows fly east. Big-time nausea. See the aura. Feel like I'm gonna croak.

  By the next morning I felt like my old self again. I was behind on my chores, so I didn't go nowhere except to the hog barn and the chicken coop and the duck pen and the vegetable garden. Didn't even have time to do any hog-style musing.

  So it had been a couple of days since I was last in town, and when I got there, I couldn't help myself but head to the courthouse to see what was going on. The room was jam-packed. People were fanning themselves even though it weren't that hot out. I squeezed into a corner and watched.

  Mostly just jawboning, dictionary words flyin' around that room. Nothing too fingernail-chewing. Lots of fidgeting in the audience, until they showed the pictures.

  One strangled, one shot.

  In color and everything.

  The victims looked like busted dolls.

  Folks gasped. I felt like the air had been sucked out of my lungs; I didn't make any sound at all.

  That was too much on a nice summer day, so I scooted on out of there, my spot taken by someone right away, like water in a rainstorm rushing into a hole.

  That evening, after supper, I had an antsy feeling. Just reckless as heck. Restless. The words will find their way out if I just be patient.

  "I'm going into town and look at the movie posters," I told Ma, who was at the sink, cleaning her paintbrushes.

  "I'm going to paint what I see."

  "Well, don't hurt your eyes painting in the dark."

  "Okay."

  I rode my bike into town. Having only the one arm made my balance a little off, had to lean the other way so I wouldn't ride in circles. Couldn't ride daredevil like I used to, but as long as I took it slow and easy I was good. Real fine thing to ride your bike down the road this time of year, in the latter hours of the day. Peaceful. Frogs chirping in the ditch. Cows and sheep caught in the sinking sun. The air feels different, too. Sleepy-feeling. Been around all day, getting ready to settle down for the night.

  I didn't know what was playing at the Princess, didn't much care, really. Just wanted to be out after suppertime, in the sleepy-feeling evening. I think it was a space movie. Folks from the future fly to space and realize you can't go home again. Or that there's no place like home. Or maybe it was a dog movie. Just chasin' my tail here.

  When I got uptown, though, there was a line outside the Opera House. Don't think there had ever been an opera at the Opera House, not even one with a giraffe. Just a fancy way to say a big room with not a lot of places to set your seat. Usually just polka bands and fellas telling you to cast asunder thy sinful ways, O wretched ones.

  Left my bike at the tree, then got in line and asked the person ahead of me, "What are we seeing?"

  She shrugged. "I dunno."

  "I was going over to the Princess and look at the movie posters."

  "It's that space movie where they learn that the strength of a chain is its weakest—"

  "Oh, I've seen that poster already."

  "It's not so good."

  "This has to be better."

  "I think it's worth the chance."

  The line picked up speed and before long we were inside. Looked pretty full, but folks are always shy about sitting down front, so I found an empty spot near the stage.

  People were chattering but I couldn't make out what they was saying. It didn't matter, because before long someone came on stage. I sort of recognized him, one of those faces you see around town but can't really put a name to. I think he worked at the radio station, KBEG, the Voice of Beggar's Creek. On the radio, you can't see their faces. Like ghosts. Just lonesome voices in the dark.

  "Welcome, everyone. I know this event came together on short notice, but at KBEG we're always ready to promote fresh talent and bring you, the wonderful people of Beggar's Creek, the finest entertainment in the quad-county area. And in that spirit, let's give a warm welcome to a new face on the Beggar's Creek scene.…"

  It was him.

  Coming out onto the stage, the Three-Armed Man. Toting a guitar. Smiling shyly. He dragged a stool over to the microphone stand with two hands while pulling a harmonica out of his pants pocket with his third. Three-Arm looked a little scared. Like this was more than he was ready for. Like any one of us would feel.

  "Uh, I guess, uh, I didn't really expect to be here. Been pretty busy this week."

  A couple of laughs, but it looked like most folks weren't sure of him.

  "Well, they asked me if I would play and sing for those of you who didn't get a chance to hear me at the fairgrounds. I was going to say no, but then I got to thinking. There's a lot of trouble in the world. Both outside—" he made a gesture with his right hand "—and in." He touched his left hand to his heart. His third hand stayed out of it. "So maybe I can take folks away from their troubles for a time. Or better yet, give them something that will make their troubles feel less troubling. Music can do that. Music can heal the whole troubled world."

  So he sang some old favorites, like "O Death, Where is Thy Sting" and "John Hardy Was a Desperate Little Man" and "I Wish I Was a Mole in the Ground."

  He took a breather, just gently plucking at his guitar strings, then said, "You know, folks, I have three arms, which is nice for strumming, but I only have the one voice. Or do I? I have all of you, all of your voices. Let's sing 'Home Sweet Home.' If you know the words, won't you sing with me?"

  So the whole hall was filled with voices singing that old favorite, although most folks just sang the chorus over and over 'cause they didn't know the words to the rest of it, me included. I'm not much in the voice department. I can call hogs as good as the next person, but proper singing, no. It was a beautiful sound, hearing all those voices filling up the hall. When we were done, nobody clapped. Everybody just sat there and thought about the words we had sung. A bond had been made. No place like home. He was one of us. I felt it. You couldn't
help but feel it. He was home. Just like that, he was home.

  Then Three-Arm stood up and said, "And now I'd like to bring someone onstage who I'm sure you all know. She might be a little shy, so give her some encouragement." Three-Arm drifted across the stage to where I was sitting. He looked at me and smiled, then offered his hand. The one at the end of his third arm. I thought of it as his gun hand. I know, reasonable doubt and all, but I couldn't help it.

  The crowd began cheering.

  I didn't know what to do. I couldn't sit there like a lump, so I reached for the hand.

  It was warmer than I thought it would be. Had a friendly feeling to it.

  He pulled me up onstage. Didn't want to be there, but his look said everything would be okay. He leaned in. "Sorry about this," he whispered.

  Three-Arm led me to the center of the stage, right near the edge, and we stood there side by side, facing the audience, a full set of arms between us.

  The crowd murmured in a way I didn't understand.

  Three-Arm cleared his throat. "As I said before, if I could—"

  And then he broke into song.

  "I'd give you my third,

  "I give you my word.

  "It's not something I need

  "In order to succeed

  "At living a life

  "That has true meaning.

  "One, two, or three,

  "It doesn't matter to me,

  "When at heart we're all the same.…"

  Or something like that. I don't remember exactly because my head felt like it was on the Octopus ride. Like I was goin' somewhere fast and could only hang on. I got off that stage like it was on fire. My face felt hot. I didn't return to my seat, I kept going along the row and left through a side door.

  "That was cute," said Mac, leaning against the lobby wall.

  "It didn't feel cute."

  "What's it like to be in show biz?"

  "Lousy."

  "He chose you, out of everyone in the theater."

  "He felt sorry for me. I'm used to it."