The people in the audience were straining to see as Vernon Sweet picked up the chicken and appraised it for a moment. The chicken clucked and fluttered and scratched at the delicate hands that were holding it fast, and then Sweet brought the chicken's head to his open mouth and tore it off.
Exclamations of disgust burst from the audience and a few people made motions as if to rise from their seats, but then complete silence descended as Vernon Sweet began slowly to move about within the cage. At first his movements were slow, a measured turning from left to right in a full circle; but then his motions grew more rapid and frenzied, a whirling gyration in the center of the cage. The people in the audience gaped as Sweet's body seemed to begin to shrink as it spun about, and they squinted their eyes through the dim lighting and the incense haze as Sweet's sallow skin grew bright yellow, as feathers began to thrust out in all directions from his rapidly diminishing form.
Their staring eyes inevitably blinked; and in the center of the geek cage were two birds, two chickens. One was clucking and pecking at the floor. The other was lying dead and decapitated.
Ashvarinda allowed the spectators to gaze at the phenomenon for a few more moments, and then he lowered the curtain and shut the cage from sight.
"That concludes our performance, ladies and gentlemen," Appleby said from the other side of the tent. "Thank you for coming, and we hope to see you again soon...."
A few minutes later the rest of the spectators had left the tent, and Appleby walked over to the cage and stepped behind the curtain. Ashvarinda Patanjali was conversing with Vernon Sweet in soft, low tones, and they looked up as Appleby approached. "Damn it, Ash, that's the best goddamned illusion I've ever seen in a carnie, and I've seen 'em all!"
"Thank you, Norman." Ashvarinda smiled as he unlocked the cage, took a rake and burlap bag from the floor behind it, and proceeded to remove the dead chicken. Sweet looked at Appleby blankly.
"And you too, Vernon," Appleby said. "Jesus, I'd never have thought it! I never knew you could come up with . . . well, what I mean is that it never occurred to me that you could learn to . . . what I mean is . . ."
"Vernon understands, Norman," Ashvarinda said. "In many ways he is not as simple as he seems."
The conversation was polite and amicable, but Appleby was, as always, slightly irritated by the clipped, precise, educated English of the Hindu. It was a constant reminder of his own lack of formal education, and he always felt that Ashvarinda's manner and tone seemed a bit condescending. But this was the moment of fare-well, and Appleby smiled almost affectionately at the aged yogi and said, "You know, Ash, I've already spoken to Florence and Bernie about this, but I haven't had a chance to talk to you. . . ."
Ashvarinda held up his hand. "No need, Norman. Bernie told me last week that the show was closing down. I understand, really."
He nodded. "Uh-huh. Good. Did he tell you about the severance pay?"
"That there will not be any?" Ashvarinda smiled. "This much I surmised. It does not matter. All my needs are provided for."
Does that mean you saved your money, or are you saying some weird religious thing? Appleby wondered. "Well, Ash, it's been great working with you over the years." He knew better than to initiate a handshake. Ashvarinda had once explained caste prohibitions to Appleby, and even though he had not really understood it, he put up with it.
"It has been pleasant for me also, Norman. I wish you well."
Appleby nodded again. "You given any thought to what you're gonna do now?"
"I think it is what Bernie calls retirement."
"Oh, good, that's good. What are you, about sixty now?"
Ashvarinda laughed. "Goodness, no, Norman. I am eighty-seven."
Appleby's eyes went wide. "Eighty-seven! That's nuts, Ash! You don't look a day over sixty!"
The Hindu shrugged. "Seventy-five years of yoga can do wonders for the human body, Norman. It is not too late even for you."
Appleby did not know if that was an insult or a witticism, so he ignored it. "Well, best of luck to you. You going back to India?"
"Oh, no, we are going to Beckskill, New York State, to live in Vernon's family home."
"Vernon's . . . what? What are you talking about?"
"Do you not remember, Norman, when Vernon received a telegram five years ago?"
"Oh, yeah, sure, that. It was about taxes or something."
"Yes. Vernon's sister Edith had died, leaving him the family home with all of the tax debts. The telegram told him that taxes on the land needed to be paid immediately, or—"
"Yeah, yeah, I remember that. So what?"
"So I paid the taxes. I have been paying the taxes for Vernon ever since."
"You been paying . . . ! Where the hell'd you get the money to pay taxes on property? You make a lousy thirty-five bucks a week!"
"Yes." Ashvarinda nodded. "And I have been making so modest a sum for many years. And how much of it do I spend?"
Appleby blinked. The Hindu lived on nuts and vegetables. He didn't drink or smoke. He never had any women. The only clothes he ever wore were those stupid sheets and blankets he wrapped himself up in, even in winter. Why, except for books, the son of a bitch hardly ever buys anything! Appleby tried to do some mental calculation. Ashvarinda Patanjali had been with the Dr. Miracle Show for decades before Appleby bought the troupe . . . say an average of thirty a week . . . fifty-two weeks a year . . . say maybe thirty years . . .
"You got a bank account?"
"Oh, yes indeed. Mr. Kessler many years ago suggested . . .
Simple compound interest . . . three percent before the war . . . about five now . . .
He gaped at Ashvarinda. "You got over a hundred grand in the bank?"
"I believe that is the approximate sum, yes."
Appleby was impressed, and just a bit envious. "Well, I'll be damned! And so you're buying Sweet's house from him?"
"Oh, goodness, no, Norman! Vernon and I are going to live there together."
Appleby's eyes narrowed. "Hold on a minute there, Ash. I got plans for our friend Vernon."
"Plans?" Ashvarinda frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"You've heard of Emilio Tagliotti, haven't you?" Ashvarinda shook his head. "The magician?" Another shake. "Well, he's famous and he's rich, that's the important thing. Him and me have made a deal about Vernon here. . . ." He turned to Sweet. "We'll talk about contracts and percents later on, old buddy, okay?"
"Norman, I don't under—" Ashvarinda began.
"Vernon and I stand to make a bundle from Tagliotti," Appleby interrupted. "That chicken bit of his is a surefire draw for the nightclub crowd, and Tagliotti—"
"No!" Ashvarinda said firmly, with just a hint of panic. "It is out of the question!"
"Now, wait just one goddamned—"
"No, Norman, absolutely not!" Ashvarinda said even more firmly. "Tonight was the last . . . the last trick. Vernon shall never—"
"And who the hell do you think you are, his goddamned mother?" Appleby demanded, his face growing red. "I can make this guy rich! Who the hell are you to stand between him and money?"
"Or between you and money," he responded icily. "He is not in need of money. Between us we have more than enough for—"
"I've been waiting for years for something like this to come along, goddamn it! If he'd a started doing this trick fifteen years ago, I wouldn't be in the situation I'm . . . " He paused. "I get it. I get it. You found out about Tagliotti, and now you want a piece of the action, right? Well, that's fair. I know you figured out the trick. Vernon sure couldn't have—"
"Norman, the show has closed, Vernon's work has ended. He is over seventy years old, and he has been doing this for forty years. Now he can rest."
Appleby was too self-centered to be able to conceive of altruism in another man's breast. All he saw was his future income being lowered, vanishing receipts and a future of poverty and want, and in his fear for himself he grew furious. "Yeah, sure, right," he spat.
"And t
wo months after you two walk out of here I turn on the TV and see you on the 'Sullivan Show,' with Tagliotti waving his wand over Vernon while he does his chicken trick and you pick up your percentage! Why, you son of a bitch!"
The nostrils of the aged yogi flared slightly. "You forget yourself, Norman," he said evenly.
"You son of a bitch!" Appleby shouted again, and swinging a closed fist around in a furious arc, struck Ashvarinda in the face, sending him sprawling onto the ground.
A yelp of frightened concern burst from Vernon Sweet as he rushed to the bars of the cage and wrapped his long fingers around them. "Rinda!" he cried.
Ashvarinda Patanjali struggled to retain his composure as he pulled himself to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. This is maya, maya, he told himself, the net of sense perception. This man is trapped in the web of illusion, he suffers from the weight of his karmic chains, he—
"Get the hell out of here, you goddamn jungle bunny!" Appleby shouted, pushing the Hindu forcefully against the cage.
Though Appleby outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, Ashvarinda attempted to hold his ground. "Vernon's destiny is not yours to decide, Norman," he said, his voice shaking from the rage he was attempting to suppress. "He must not continue to do this thing. You do not understand what you are—"
Unlike Ashvarinda, Appleby made no attempt to restrain his anger. He grabbed the elderly man by the throat and began to choke him, screaming. "You goddamn bush nigger, you fuckin' thieving bastard!"
"Rinda! Rinda!" Sweet cried again, and reached out between the bars with his long thin arms.
Ashvarinda saw the motion and his dark skin paled. "No," he rasped through the choke hold. "Vernon . . . no . . . " He attempted to pull Appleby away from the cage, but the larger man saw this as an attempt to dislodge his grip and so he fell back against the bars, dragging Ashvarinda with him.
Appleby heard Sweet cry "Rinda" once again, and then another voice, a lower, darker voice, cried "Rinda!" and then the snarl of an animal barked "Rinda!" Appleby turned to see Vernon Sweet smiling at him through the narrow bars of the cage. Their faces were inches from each other as rows of narrow daggerlike teeth burst out from between the thin lips of the geek and buried themselves in Appleby's forehead, buzzing as they vibrated and burrowed through the bone into the brain.
"No, Vernon . . ." Ashvarinda screarned. “NUHIY Y EY NUHIY KUHRO!" Don't do it!
It was too late. The aged yogi squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed, trying to ignore the shrieks of agony and the guttural sounds of pleasure.
A dark and horrible silence descended upon the tent.
At last Ashvarinda Patanjali opened his eyes and looked sadly down at Appleby's corpse as it lay in a pool of blood at the foot of the geek cage. Then he looked up at the Appleby-thing that was standing impatiently within the cage, its balled fists resting upon its hips, the ripped tatters of the now-much-too-small white robe hanging in shreds from his large frame.
"Goddamn it, you goddamn bush nigger, get me the hell out of here!" the Appleby-thing shouted.
The entrance flaps of the tent whipped open and Florence Jackson and Bernie Sherman rushed in. "What the . . . ?" Sherman began, and then stopped as he saw the two Applebys. "What the hell is going on here?"
Florence Jackson swallowed hard. "Norman, that . . . that guy is dead!" She frowned. "Hey, that guy is you!"
The Appleby-thing laughed. "Well, how do ya like it? Me and Ash've been working on a new bit. Whataya think? Looks real, don't it?"
They walked toward the cage so as to view the body more closely. "Is that wax?" Sherman asked.
"Rubber," the Appleby-thing said calmly. "Hey, come here, both of you. Let me show you the rest of the bit."
Ashvarinda tried to shout a warning, but he was weak and numbed, and his cry came too late. The Appleby-thing reached out between the bars and grabbed Jackson and Sherman in either hand. The Hindu closed his eyes and covered his ears against the shrieks, knowing that if he watched, he would see the Appleby-thing become a Jackson-thing and the Jackson-thing become a Sherman-thing.
A few minutes passed. Two screams became one, and then again there was silence.
"So, ah, Ashvarinda," the Sherman-thing said. "You know what you gotta do, right?"
"Yes," Ashvarinda said softly.
"You get rid of these bodies. But get me outta here first, okay?"
He nodded and rose slowly to his feet. "Yes," he said again as he took the key from Appleby's corpse.
By the time he had unlocked the cage, the Sherman-thing was once again Vernon Sweet. The old geek emerged from the cage and tugged shyly upon Ashvarinda's arm. He looked up at the aged yogi with a look of childish eagerness.
"Vernon go home now?" he asked.
Ashvarinda Patanjali sighed, "Yes," he said for a third time. "Now we will go home."
I
Home Sweet Home
Let me speak to the yet unknowing world
How these things came about: So shall you hear
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts,
Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters,
Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause,
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook
Fall'n on the inventors' heads. . . .
-HAMLET, V.
Chapter One
November 20, 1968
Alex Brown slowly eased his weary body down upon one knee and brushed the leaves off the small plaque that covered the grave of his wife. The dying leaves of late autumn had been falling for weeks in the small rural cemetery, and they were sporadically removed only by the occasional visitor or the buffeting of the indifferent wind. Beckskill, New York, was not an affluent town, and the position of cemetery caretaker had long ago been abolished by the town council as an unnecessary expense, an unjustifiable strain on the town budget. Alex was a member of the council and he had approved of the idea, as he always voted in favor of anything that either lowered taxes or at least inhibited their rise. Still, it pained him to see the cemetery so unkempt, to see the boundary hedges untrimmed and the plaques covered with leaves and twigs. The older gravestones stood upright and were thus spared this indignity, but the newer ones were rectangular markers that lay flat upon the ground, and most of them had been covered by the red, brown, and yellow signatures of the impending winter.
Alex flexed his stiff fingers as he brushed away the leaves and uncovered the inscription. "Paula Brown, nee Riasanovsky . . . 1920 — 1946 . . . Whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."
"Paula." He sighed. "I'm sorry about the leaves." He looked around to make certain he was alone, and then he sat down awkwardly upon the withering grass beside the grave. He sat in silence, gazing at the name of his wife, and then he muttered, "You think maybe I shouldn't have changed my name, Paula? You never changed yours, except by marriage. Your whole family, still the Riasanovskys, just like back in the old country . . ."
The old country. No pleasant memories or nostalgic bonds tied him to the old country, to the Ukraine he had fled as a child, leaving a dead family on a newly collectivized farm in Stalin's Soviet Union. He had come to America possessed by the same vision that had possessed so many millions of European immigrants over the years, and whatever nostalgia he had was connected to those days of his youth when it was still possible to dream of streets lined with gold.
Aleksander Sergeiovich Ovyetchkin. The cold wind drifted across his narrow face and blew a few strands of thinning gray hair down in front of his hazel eyes, but he took no notice. Aleksander Sergeiovich Ovyetchkin. His lips moved as he said the name, his name, silently.
But an American needs an American name, and what name is more American than Brown?
Of course, Paula Riasanovsky had never cared about his name. Ovyetchkin or Brown, it made no difference to her. She had been attracted to his courtliness, his kindness, and his enthusiasm, and she would have married him no matter what his name was. She had allowe
d his dreams to become hers, and so lovely a dream it had been. A resort hotel in the mountains of upstate New York. Four or five children. It would be hard work, yes, but it would be a good life.
A good life, Alex thought bitterly. A run-down tavern in a dying town, no children, and a wife cut down in her prime by cancer.
He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, and then smiled at the plaque. "I'm sorry, Paula," he whispered. "My mind, it wanders sometimes. Maybe I get old, eh?"
Alex stood up slowly and with some difficulty. He paused in brief ceremonial reverence before the grave before turning and walking slowly back to the 1959 Ford station wagon that was parked on Bennets Road in front of the small cemetery. He climbed into the car and then drove back to Beckskill's short main street with the ease of a man in no hurry to get there; no hurry to return to the bar he had run for twenty years and that was now sinking deeper and deeper into debt with each passing season; no hurry to return to the room above the bar, the only room in his hotel that was ever occupied, where Alex slept alone each long, lonely night; no hurry to return to the row after row of unused glasses and his pointless, daily ritual of washing them.
As Alex walked from the street to the door of his tavern he paused to look up at the Sign. BROWNS' HOTEL. He smiled sadly. Browns', not Brown's. Paula had insisted and he had complied happily.
Always the same thoughts, always the same memories. The past was a beautiful thing. The present is a desert.
Alex tied the apron strings around his waist and filled half of the double sink beneath the bar with warm, soapy water. Sighing softly, he removed a clean glass from the shelf, a glass he had washed the day before but not used, and placed it in the sink. He waved it around mechanically beneath the warm water for a few moments, his eyes and his thoughts elsewhere. Then he removed it, dipped it into the clear water in the other sink, and then dried it inside and out with the towel that hung from the apron. He rubbed his tired eyes, rubbed his arthritic elbow, placed the glass back on the shelf, took hold of another clean glass, and continued the ritual.
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