“Next, I went to my wagon, melted down a pot of Vaseline, and saturated the piece of canvas with it.” She stopped and took in their confusion. “See, I didn’t notice the canvas stuck to me till I was walking back to my wagon wondering why the hell my shoulder felt so stiff. Skin came off with it, though. ’Fraid of that.” She lifted up her sleeve again. “Got this graft in Chicago. Not bad, huh?”
“It looks good,” Margie said.
“You were burnt too, right?” She gazed at Margie. People had come to think that Charlie’s obsession had to do with his falling in love with the girl whose whole back was burned in the fire. Margie just kind of went along with that assumption. She said, “Yes, I was.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Dixie said, “You get grafts?”
Margie cleared her throat. “No, I didn’t.”
“How come?”
Charlie was staring at her. Margie said, “I never saw the need.”
There was a silence. Then Dixie said, “They come a long way, honey. Give me a call if you want the name of my man. His family’s circus. His specialty is circus. Fixes broke bones, clawed skin, rope burns. Told him a rope burn wasn’t as bad as what I had, but he said not to worry. So I didn’t. He was damn good. I was able to rip all those little puffy sleeves off of my costumes soon’s he took off the bandages. Amazin’.”
Margie thanked her again.
Dixie said to Charlie, “Really think someone started that fire, don’t ya?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hate to think you’re right, mister. At the same time, I never heard of a circus tent catchin’ fire all by itself. But I can’t help you there. When you’re keepin’ a gorilla calm, you don’t concentrate on much else.”
Charlie leaned forward in his chair. Dixie did, too, though she didn’t know it. Charlie’s eyes could draw a person to him like he had the person on a leash. Those eyelashes. He said, “Dixie, you were just outside the tent. Fifty feet from where the fire started. Who else was there?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
“’Course not. Who could be sure?”
“I guess it isn’t necessary for me to ask you to think about it.”
She pressed her lips together. “No, sir, it ain’t. Many a night I lay in my bed thinkin’ about not much of anything else. But I’m ready, now, to do some extra thinkin’. Haven’t been ready to do that till now; that’s why I come. Waited till I could take the sleeves off my costumes. See, I believe I know someone who could help both of us. Help me with my thinking and help you too, mister.”
“Not mister. Charlie.”
Her face had been so pained. Now she smiled. She said, “Charlie.”
“And who would that person be?”
“That would be the Master of Illusion.”
She paused, still smiling, grinning actually. She was a flirt and she was also a performer. She knew all about dramatic timing.
Charlie said, calm as could be, “The Master of Illusion?” as if someone had suggested him before.
“That’s right. He’s a clown, a magician, too. He comes out into the ring, snaps his fingers, and puffs of pink smoke come out of the snap. And he’s a contortionist. Fits in a car that’s no more than two foot square.”
“How could he help us?”
“He’s a hypnotist, too. The best. Off season, he does nightclubs and things like bowling banquets and bar mitzvahs. Gets people to act like they’re chickens. ’Course, then he’s known as the Master of Hypnosis. He’s a real psychologist, honest to Pete. Went to school. He can get people to stop smoking, things like that. But he’s circus. He gets real bored out there. Can’t wait to come back.
“He could get me to remember whatever it was I forgot after all these years. He’ll do it for me because I stand in as his assistant once in a while—when his wife is having babies. They got about eight or nine kids, that’s why he has to work outside.”
“How do you assist him?”
“I get to open the car door.”
“And what’s this hypnotist’s name?”
“Told ya. The Master of Illusion.”
“I mean his real name.”
“Real name’s Bud. He kind of likes Master, though.”
The tape broke. It didn’t matter. With a nod from Charlie toward the phone, Alfred Court’s assistant was hooked up with the Master of Illusion in just a few minutes. He was working at a club in Boston. She exchanged some polite talk, asked for his family, and then told him what she was about. Then she put her hand over the phone and said, “’Course he wants a thousand big ones. Me and him will split.”
Charlie looked over at Margie. Margie said, “Why not?” The thought of watching this woman get hypnotized thrilled her. She listened as Dixie and her friend spent half an hour shooting the breeze about their last performance together, laughing, and later, when she’d left, Charlie and Margie kidded around themselves—talked about subtracting the phone bill from the thousand.
Margie said to Charlie, “It could be a scam.”
“It is a lot of money, Margie.”
“Who cares about money? But these people aren’t known for honesty, right?”
“You’re thinking of carnies, honey. Not circus people.”
“Well… let’s do it. Time to sell the old Caddie anyway. It must have at least seven hundred miles on it.”
Charlie kissed her. She kissed him back. He said, “We’ve only got twenty minutes till Martha gets back.”
“Then you’d better make it good.”
Margie wanted to invite everyone they knew to the hypnosis session, but Charlie reminded her that it wasn’t exactly a party. When Charlie would remind her of what he was actually up to, it would dawn on her that though his firebug hunt might be a game for her, it was no game for him. Margie had a living thriller going on in a private corner of her house—she was in the middle of a best-seller, married to Nero Wolfe, or Hercule Poirot, or even Sherlock Holmes, all those detectives who never wanted wives. Margie’s detective wanted one—wanted Margie. She asked Charlie if Martha could sit in.
At this stage, Martha had gotten to be a real friend to her parents, holding up her end of the conversation. She loved being read to, and she was just learning to read herself. Now, Margie was reading the Odyssey to Martha, a chapter a night. She loved gore, as did her mother. Reading the poetry that they couldn’t understand geared them up for all Homer’s gore, which they could.
Charlie agreed to let Martha sit off in a corner while the Master hypnotized Dixie. So Margie explained what hypnosis was to her daughter beforehand. Margie told her it was real magic as opposed to make-believe magic like in the Odyssey. Martha said, “Make-believe?” And Margie had to backtrack and explain that there wasn’t any such thing as a giant with a big eye in the middle of his forehead.
Martha said, “But I bet there are Sirens.”
Margie said, “Well, there are whirlpools, that’s for sure.”
Martha shivered. “I know. Right down the drain.” Then she did an imitation of a drain, though she looked more like a person sucking up spaghetti.
Charlie warned Martha that the lady might say some really sad things about what she saw when the circus burned down.
Martha said, “About Mommy’s back getting burned?”
“Well, yes, she’ll talk about all kinds of people getting burned.”
“About the little girl that got burned that no one knows who she is?”
“That’s right.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled. She couldn’t wait. Neither could Margie. And neither could Charlie.
Chapter Six
They both wore capes except that the Master’s was black. After Dixie had made the introductions, and they’d shaken hands, the Master of Illusion stooped down by Martha, reached out to her, and said, “Now what’s this in your hair?” And he pulled a tiny paper butterfly out of one of her curls. Martha was agog and immediately felt in her hair for
more. He said, “Just this one,” and he put it into her hands. Margie said to him, “You really are a master of illusion.” He said, “Well, we all are, aren’t we? It’s just that circus people can’t let themselves get carried away.”
The Master didn’t swing a watch on a chain. He hypnotized people with his voice. Martha was sitting next to Margie by the tape recorder. Thirty seconds after he started hypnotizing Dixie, Margie noticed Martha swaying. She caught her and put her to bed. Margie whispered to Charlie, “I hope I won’t have to spend another thousand in the morning getting the Master of Illusion to wake this kid up.”
When she got back into the room Dixie was chatting away and Margie thought that they were waiting for her. Then she realized that Dixie was talking to an invisible point in the air about a foot above the Master’s head. She was back in time, back at the circus describing what she saw of the catastrophe as it was happening: “… and then the Wallendas went right to their wagons except for Hermes; he’s the youngest. He stayed for a minute or two to pull a few kids over the chute. I’ll tell ya, the Wallendas were strange birds. Kept to themselves. Couldn’t speak any English whatsoever. Don’t know what they spoke. Someone asked them once if they were Hungarian and that bent them all out of shape. They’re Gypsies. ’Course I wasn’t born circus, so I never could understand why Gypsies aren’t something besides Gypsies. I mean, it’s not like there’s a Gypsyland somewhere.”
The Master interrupted her with his serene voice. “And tell me what happened, Dixie, after the Wallendas had gone back to their wagon.”
Dixie’s brow wrinkled. She said, “Well, the clowns’ faces were melting. Emmett was late for his act because he’d been trying to keep his nose on. I’m not talking about the fire, now. This was before the fire. Y’see, once the temperature goes over ninety degrees, makeup melts. Right from the start it was a damn, hot, sorry day. But anyway, Emmett is supposed to do his all-alone act to divert the crowd while the cage comes down and while the Wallendas climb their ladder. First, the cats rouse them, then Emmett mopes around making them feel real sorry for him, and then—boom—goosebumps; there’s the Wallendas in the big spot at the tippity-top of the tent. Magic. And ya know what? When thousands of people say ‘oooooh’ all at the same time, I get a shiver.
“But that day, Emmett was late because he couldn’t keep his nose on, so the crowd was watching the roustabouts dismantle the cage. ’Course the audience is just supposed to see the magic. A lion is there in front of you, and then before you know it, he’s gone, and there go five people, high in the sky, all piled up on top of one another riding a single bike on a steel cable that the crowd thinks is a rope. Magic. That’s what the circus is.”
The Master said, “When did you finally spot Emmett?”
“I saw him outside running to the tent while I was just getting ready for the last of ’em, Vickie and her babies. I saw Emmett, and right then, I saw a little bit of fire on the side of the tent. Then the little fire ripped up the tent, and then I heard Merle switch to the ‘Stars and Stripes.’ So then I had to concern myself getting Vickie out-she’d stopped at the ‘Stars and Stripes.’ I said, ‘Vickie, you come on, honey’ When she came through she was frantic, but the babies were right behind her. The canvas had started breaking up so they’d caught a few pieces. Had to cool them down.” Dixie paused. Her eyes darted around. She pointed, “There he is now!” With that, Dixie leaped out of her chair and pointed at the window.
“Who?”
“Emmett! Praise Jesus. All the while I had this feeling that he’d run into the tent. That he’d never come out. And look at that! He’s got a bucket! He’s gonna try to put out the fire. Oh, Emmett! But I’ve got to get to that Gargantua. Vickie’s okay, she’s in her cage lickin her babies. They’re just fine. But Gargantua, what about him? He can’t take any commotion. He’s old now. Emmett’s standing in the middle of the lot holding his bucket, but now he’s turning away—looking toward me. His nose is gone. Everyone is turning away, same as Emmett. All of them, pouring out of the exits. But I got Gargantua now, and me and him are together watching it all.
“That’s okay, big fella, that’s okay. The children will be just finc—soon’s those boys get them out. See, honey, they’re getting all the children out right now.”
Dixie had tears coursing down her cheeks through the tan makeup, leaving jagged white tracks. The Master asked her, “And what else is happening?”
“The whole tent is on fire. The whole tent. Those soldiers who passed the children are running. Hermes Wallenda is running to his trailer. His spangles are smoking. They’re smoking! No, no, Gargantua, honey. See the children lying on the blankets? Look at Emmett making them laugh.”
Then she stopped talking to the gorilla. She went back to the spot over the Master’s head. “There are sirens all around us, but the fire trucks are here first and the ambulances can’t get in. So people are taking the burned children down the street. Running with them. You can’t leave burned people lying in the sun—not this hot sun we got here today.”
The Master said, “Do you see a little baby girl that the soldiers got out of the fire?”
“Yes, sir! She’s wearin black shoes, and I’m wonderin’—now why the hell isn’t she wearing those itty-bitty white baby shoes? ’Course, the shoes are covered with soot, stupid me. Gargantua sees her, too. He’s makin’ those little cheeping sounds he makes when he’s feeling bad. His worry for the child is calming him, though. I think maybe he’s singing to her. I’m telling him not to worry, the baby’s going to be all right.”
And Margie imagined not herself, but Martha, lying in the field, her back burned, her white baby shoes turned black. Charlie sensed what Margie must have been thinking, and he came over and took her out of her chair by her shoulders, sat down, and cuddled her into his lap. She was shaking like a leaf.
Now the Master asked what Charlie had prompted him to ask, and Margie felt Charlie grow tense. “What do you see that stands out most of all, Dixie?” And to Margie that question, for the first time, was so absurd. What that question really meant was: In all this horror and chaos, did anything look normal?
Dixie said, “I just see commotion now. And I hear the band. My God, they’re still in the tent. They’re still in the tent! Why don’t they get out?” She started screaming, “Merle! Merle!” Then she shouted. “The pole! The pole is coming down.”
Like almost every witness, she remembered the sound of her own voice shouting, “The pole, the pole!” and that was when everyone in the lot finally turned around to look for just a second, in time to see what was left of the tent collapse.
Dixie said, “Oh, mercy. Here they come! They’re out! Merle and the musicians are settin’ up over at the edge of the lot. They’re all covered in soot. Their uniforms are supposed to be red, but they ain’t red now. They’re burned black. Their jackets have holes in them. Merle’s jacket is smoking the way Hermes Wallenda’s spangles were doing. They’re playing ‘The Pennsylvania Polka.’ Lordy, that’s always such a rouser.”
Margie wondered if her mother died listening to Merle Evans’s circus band playing their polka or maybe she was already dead before they’d finished the “Stars and Stripes.”
“What do you see that is different from all the rest, Dixie?”
And calmly as could be, Dixie said, “Oh, just that kid who keeps watching the whole thing. Like me and the gorilla. He doesn’t look the other way like everyone else. He just keeps watching. He steps back, but he doesn’t run away. Then, when the sirens start, he’s gone.”
The Master said, “What else is different about him? There are lots of children running away.”
“But they’re all crying. Or screaming. For their mothers. They’re looking for mama. Not him. The boy runs away down the street. None of the other children run away down the street. They’re staying there calling for their mothers. And now there are lots and lots of children running up the street—children from the neighborhood, come to see the fire. The lot is
filled with people—firemen and policemen and people. Some of the children run to the policemen.”
Dixie had broken into a sweat. The same sweat she’d been in twenty years before. The Master looked to Charlie and Charlie nodded.
The Master took Dixie out of her trance by clapping his hands with a loud smack. Dixie looked away from her spot in the air and said to her friend, “This just ain’t workin’, is it sugar? But I tried.”
The Master said, “It worked. You’re all done.”
Dixie looked over at Margie. “Hey, now, is that true?”
Margie said, “Yes. It’s all right here on tape.”
“Well, then, I’ll be a red hen.” Now she looked close at Charlie and Margie. “You two certainly got all cozy,” and she saw that Margie was quivering a little. “Aw, honey. I upset you there, didn’t I? I do apologize.”
Margie said, “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’m gonna want a copy of that tape. I hate the sound of my own voice—feel like I’m hearing my Ma—but the doc says I should hear it. I called him yesterday, I was so nervous. The doc who fixed my shoulder. Says I got to fix my brain, too. So I’ll play that tape soon’s I pick the right fella to cuddle me.” And Charlie snuggled Margie even closer, which was an expression of sympathy for Dixie.
Later, that night, when Charlie and Margie were in bed, trying to fall asleep, they gave up and started talking and talking, hashing out all Dixie had said like two little kids in on a big secret. Margie said, “Charlie, would a child really set such a terrible fire?”
He said, “Happens every day. They don’t know, though, what their fires are capable of.” Charlie put out a lot of fires like that. Set by kids.
“So maybe it was a kid playing with matches after all.”
“No. If a kid did it, he did it deliberately.”
“You set store by what she said, right?”
Masters of Illusions Page 6
