Harold shrugged. He hadn’t imagined sleeping anywhere else.
“Gosh, I’d be afraid to even go inside that trailer.” She shivered and held herself. “What if you catch something? What if you turn all hairy like Samuel?”
He hadn’t thought of that. He looked at his hands. He rubbed one on the other, as smooth and white as china. He wondered: Had his fingers always curled like that? When he straightened them, then relaxed his muscles, the fingers curled right back. Were they already turning into claws?
“You could sleep in Roman’s tent,” she said. “It’s empty now.”
“Who’s Roman?” he asked.
“Oh, just a rigger.” She tossed up her hand, as though riggers were nothing. “He’s gone with the canvas boss to have the big top fixed. He won’t be back tonight.”
She took him there, to an orange tent beyond the row of trucks, at the edge of a grove of leafy trees. There was a cot inside, and nothing else, and she left him by himself.
Harold lay on his side, staring out through the open flap at a spot of yellow in the darkness, the window of the Airstream. It surprised him that the light was still on, that Samuel and Princess Minikin were sitting up so late. He remembered promising to go and see them. He couldn’t remember when that was, but they were going to talk about the Cannibal King.
He rolled onto his back. He could reach up and touch the tent’s low roof. Then he sighed and spilled himself out of the cot. He crawled outside and walked toward the light.
The trailer seemed empty when he got there, just the one light burning to show his way in. His bed was made; a chocolate chip cookie had been left for him on the table. Then Tina called to him from her room in the back: “Is that you, Harold?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Have you got everything you need?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“We left a cookie for you.”
“I found it,” he said.
“I love you, Harold.” There was a long pause. “Harold?”
He didn’t answer. Suddenly he was crying.
Chapter
29
By morning the skies were clear. Harold stepped out into the day’s first, pale light, the trailer still shaking with Samuel’s snores. He found the elephants awake, stirring their trunks through the straw, and he led them across the field to the place that was beaten down by their feet, and practiced with them there.
Flip joined him when her chores were done. She lingered at the corner of the tent, her hands in her pockets, watching as Max Graf came around to home and took his place again. She applauded and, smiling, came up to Harold’s side.
“You’re doing just great,” she said.
“I can’t get them to drop the bat,” said Harold. “They can’t drop the bat or throw the ball, and I don’t know how to teach them that.”
“You’ll figure it out. You’ve got more than a week.”
“Is that all?” said Harold. “It’s not enough.”
“It has to be, ’cause then we’ll be in Salem. And if we don’t make money there, it’s finished, Harold. The circus is finished.”
Harold groaned. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Oh, sure you can,” said Flip. She licked her fingers and wiped dust from Harold’s cheeks.
They stood close together, nearly chest to chest. Harold closed his eyes and let her fingers rub along his chin. He felt as though he might keel over in a faint.
“Don’t you think you can?” she purred. “It’s so important to Mr. Hunter.”
He had never kissed a girl, and he thought he might just then. He got his hands all ready; he opened them and closed them. He thought he would put them around her waist. He stood so close to Flip that he could feel her breath against his cheek.
But Conrad nudged her aside. Harold was annoyed, almost angry. But Flip only laughed.
“He is jealous,” she said. “Well, I won’t have to worry about the other girls when he’s around.”
They practiced batting, giving each of the roses a turn. Conrad was Harold’s favorite; he’d hoped he’d be the best. But Max Graf was as close to a natural as an elephant could be. “I guess he’ll have to be the batter,” Harold said. “Now let’s see who’s best at pitching.”
“How?” asked Flip.
Harold had seen the elephants throwing pebbles and dirt, but always over their backs, and that wouldn’t do for pitching. “I guess I’ll have to show them,” he said.
He tried to move his arm like a trunk, the ball between his fingers. “Look,” he told them. “Watch.” And his arm snaked around behind his back, above his shoulder. In his mind he looked like an elephant, but he was more like a mad orchestra conductor, like a rubber man, his arm a twisting noodle. Then he gave the ball to Conrad, who popped it into his mouth.
Flip giggled. “It’s going to take a bit of work.”
“They’ll learn,” he said. “I know they will.”
She stood twenty feet away and caught the ball for Harold. She tossed it back and he pitched again, though it hurt his arm to swing it around like that. He kept on going—thirty times, fifty—until Conrad raised his trunk and made the same strange motion himself.
And right then the dinner gong sounded, a tingle of metal, as though the elephant had rung a magical bell.
Harold pitched again, more slowly, and the elephant’s trunk moved the very same way, like a giant shadow of his arm. “He knows what he’s doing,” said Harold. “I’m sure he knows.”
“Let him try by himself,” said Flip.
Harold held out the ball. Conrad’s trunk reached toward him, the round nostrils opening and closing. It snatched the ball and swept it down across the ground.
“Like this,” said Harold, moving his arm. The trunk moved with it. “Now throw!” He opened his fingers, but the ball stayed in Conrad’s trunk.
Flip groaned. “He’s almost got it.”
“He will,” said Harold. “He still doesn’t know what I want him to do.”
“Huh?” said Flip. She wasn’t listening; she wasn’t even looking. She stood staring off toward the tents, and then she said, “Oh, geez.”
“What?”
“Look who’s coming now.”
Harold turned and squinted across the field. He could barely see the person wading through the grass, but it could only be Tina; there was no one else as small as that.
“I wish she wouldn’t keep coming here,” said Flip. “I wish she’d let us work.”
Harold watched the little princess push through a clump of tall grass, coming with her funny waddle. Conrad tapped his shoulder with the baseball, but Harold ignored it.
“She doesn’t understand that you’ve got work to do.” Flip stood at his side. “She doesn’t think anything’s so important as breakfast.”
Conrad banged the ball a little harder. Harold stroked his chin, surprised to feel a short hair where he’d never felt one before.
“If you quit now, Conrad might never learn.” She touched his arm. “Besides, I like it when you eat with me. I miss you when you aren’t there.”
“Really?” Harold said. Then Conrad nearly toppled him with a sudden push against his back. He stumbled forward and caught his balance. Tina wouldn’t come any closer.
“Didn’t you hear the bell?” she shouted. “It’s time for breakfast, Harold.”
He looked at Flip, at Conrad; he plucked at the hair with his fingernail.
“Tell her,” said Flip. “You’ll eat later; tell her that.”
Tina waved at him. “Come on,” she said.
“I can’t,” said Harold, not loud enough that she would hear. He coughed and shouted back, “I’m really sort of busy.”
He regretted the words right away. They made him think of the girl at the restaurant, bent over her coloring book. It seemed far away and long ago, but he remembered the sound of her voice, and how they had fled from there.
Tina cupped her hands around her mouth. “Okay, Harold. I
’ll catch you later, kiddo.”
She raised a little arm in a wave, then turned and walked away. In a moment she was just a speck to Harold, a blur retreating toward the tents. She looked like a child, like Harold himself. She looked the way he’d felt so many times, fleeing all alone from people who’d told him to go.
“She should stay away from here,” said Flip. “You gotta tell her that.”
Harold nodded.
“She makes the elephants jumpy. They can’t figure it out, how small she is.”
“Okay,” said Harold.
They practiced until the second bell rang, and then a little more. Flip went off for breakfast, but Harold lingered even longer, in case he met the freaks coming from the tent. He crept like a spy through the circus lot, listening for the jingle of the Gypsy Magda’s bracelets. And he arrived so late that the second breakfast was nearly finished.
Wicks gave him the last scoop of eggs, the scrapings of fried potatoes from the griddle. “You should have come sooner,” he said.
Harold nodded. “I know,” he said, “it’s not a restaurant.”
He carried his tray to the closest bench, to his corner by Flip and Mr. Hunter. They had both finished eating. She was talking about the elephants, about Conrad learning to pitch, and he was leaning forward, smiling.
Harold put down his tray. Then, the moment he sat, Mr. Hunter popped to his feet. It gave Harold a little start, as though by sitting he had lifted Mr. Hunter, as though they were partners on a teeter-totter. Mr. Hunter picked up his fork and rang it on his water glass.
“Friends,” he said in his ringmaster’s stirring voice. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The buzz of voices stopped. “For those of you who haven’t met him, I’d like to introduce the newest member of our family. He’s got the roses running ragged, he’s got the pachyderms playing proficiently, he’s the one who’ll turn our fortunes around; he’s …” His arm swept up in a grand gesture, and Harold felt Flip’s hands on his arm, pushing him to his feet. “Harold Kline.”
Harold stood up, blushing like a beet. He stared at the table, at his white hand still holding a knife. Someone clapped and someone whistled, and the tent filled with a squeaky rumble as everyone swiveled around on their benches.
“Harold hails from Liberty,” said Mr. Hunter. “Where the great Hunter and Green’s Traveling Circus performed not a fortnight past. Now he works under my direction, to do what no one else has ever done. He will tell you himself what fabulous feats he has formed.”
The tent fell silent. Harold blinked down at his plate.
“Say something,” said Flip.
“I—I—I, uh …” He stammered badly. “I’m, uh, teaching them how to play baseball.” Well, they knew that already, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Then he saw his hand turn scarlet, and knew that all of him was that same bright color. He sat down as quickly as a jack-in-the-box with its lid slammed shut.
The tent seemed to shake with laughter, with cheers and applause. Mr. Hunter grinned. “And better words were never spoken,” he said, reaching across to put his hand on Harold’s shoulder.
The Ghost felt huge. He felt as warm as the stones on the bank of the Rattlesnake. He could hardly believe he could be so happy, and he shook his head at the thought of it, his white hair flying in a puff. Here he sat at the best seat in the cook tent, with the prettiest girl at his elbow. What a long way he’d come, the saddest boy in Liberty. It seemed so far that there was no going back.
Chapter
30
Conrad proved to be a terrible pitcher. He waved the ball just as Harold had shown him, and he looked majestic doing it, like an enormous magician, almost like a dancer. But he looked nothing like a pitcher.
“Why can’t he throw the ball?” asked Flip. “Oh, Harold, this is never going to work.”
“It has to,” he said. “You can’t play baseball without a pitcher.”
“Then how about Canary Bird?”
He’d thought of that but wouldn’t admit it. He had set his heart on Conrad pitching, the grandest of the elephants standing in the center of the ring.
“Just give Canary Bird a try,” said Flip.
Harold took the ball from Conrad. He saw the elephant’s eyes droop in their masses of wrinkles, the trunk sag pathetically. Harold understood; he knew what it felt like to be sent to the outfield. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Oh, gosh, don’t cry.”
But there were tears in the elephant’s eyes. They filled each wrinkle and dribbled down to the next, then ran in dusty streams across his cheeks.
“Look how sad he is,” said Harold. It almost broke his heart.
“He’s only sad because you’re sad yourself,” said Flip. “He knows how you feel, and he’s crying because of that.”
That didn’t make it any easier. Conrad wailed as Harold took the ball away and gave it to Canary Bird. His cry was so low and so deep that it shook the bones in Harold’s head.
“Just watch,” Harold told him. “And maybe you’ll learn.” But Conrad turned away and sulked. He went with his toes dragging, his tail and his head hanging down. He went straight to the edge of the fresh, tall grass and tore it up in enormous clumps. He ripped them from the ground, not to eat and not to throw across his back, but just to fling in every direction in a little rage, a tantrum.
“Sure. You can throw grass around,” cried Harold. He was amazed at the animal’s strength. “Why can’t you do that with a baseball?”
“Come on,” said Flip. “Just leave him.”
Harold showed Canary Bird how to pitch. He moved his arm, and Canary Bird moved his trunk, and Harold shouted, “Throw!” And the ball went soaring off across the field.
No one was more surprised than Harold. He watched the red-and-yellow blur arc up and down, to land so far away he couldn’t see it. Inside a tent, it would have reached the very roof, or gone smashing through the bleachers.
Flip went running off to get the ball. She threw it back, but it bounced in the mud only halfway toward him, and she had to run and throw again to get it to Harold.
He stuffed it into the elephant’s trunk. He felt as though he was loading a cannon. Then Canary Bird wound up; he didn’t wait for Harold’s signal. He snaked his trunk above his head, snapped it straight and fired the ball in the other direction.
Flip was panting as she passed. “At least he’s got the right idea,” she said.
For an hour they let Canary Bird pitch. The ball flew to the south and then to the east; it flew fifty yards or just ten feet. Once it ricocheted off Conrad’s back, and the giant elephant—still in his fury—let out a startled shriek and barreled, bugling, across the field. He was halfway to his sleeping tent before Harold could bring him back again.
“This isn’t working,” said Flip. She’d turned a stunning red from all her running.
Harold grinned. “What would Mr. Hunter say?”
“Geez.” Her eyes opened wide. “Don’t let him know,” she said.
He sat down in the shade of the roses, watching them blow puffs of dust across their backs. “I’ve got to think of something else.”
“Well, think fast,” she said. “’Cause there isn’t a lot of time.” She settled beside him, then stood again; she shuffled her feet in the dirt. “I hate just waiting. It’s driving everyone nuts, sitting around like this.”
Harold gazed at her. He marveled at the way the sun made her skin so brown, her hair such a silvery gold. He didn’t mind waiting; he wished he could wait forever.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m going to work with the horses. I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And tonight maybe I’ll come to your tent. If you get the roses pitching, I’ll come to your tent and we can look at the stars; we can count the stars. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Harold nodded very quickly. He found he couldn’t speak.
“So just keep working, and I’ll see you later, huh?”
He watched her go, her
hair shining like a sun. He didn’t tell her that stars were a blur to him, that he couldn’t hope to count a blur. He didn’t tell her that he hadn’t slept in the tent but he would tonight. He might even pack up his clothes, he thought, and move them there.
Grinning, giddy, he tried to keep pitching, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t thinking at all about baseball. And finally he sat, his hand on his chin. His finger stroked the little bristle, and he thought about the night ahead.
In his mind it was already dark, and he saw Flip beside him in the starlight. She would put her head on his shoulder and look at the stars. Already he could feel her leaning against him; he could smell her soap and sunburn. They would hold hands, and he would tell her then how much he loved her. His lips moved as he thought of what he’d say. I get sick when I think about you.
He rubbed his thumb in circles. Then suddenly he stopped.
There was another hair beside the first, and he knew it hadn’t been there long ago. A cold chill ran through him to think that Flip had been right. What if you turn all hairy like Samuel? He felt along his jaw, and down his throat, but there weren’t any more little hairs. Then he felt a great relief to think that maybe more would never grow if it was soon enough to stop them.
He got to his feet and ran toward the Airstream. And in the shadow of the Diamond T, he came across the Gypsy Magda.
She sat in the sun, in a folding chair. Her eyes were shut, and she didn’t open them. “Hello, Harold,” she said.
“Hi,” he said.
“Have you lived your dream?” she asked.
“What dream?” said Harold.
“Then you have not lived it yet.” She rolled her head toward him but still didn’t open her eyes. “You will live your dream, and then you will begin to learn the truth of what I have told you.”
Suddenly her eye slid open, only the one that the sun fell upon. Its darkness and its depth disturbed him. She said, “If you do not hurry, you will meet them.”
He knew what she meant by that. It was the only thing he understood, and he went on his way without another word. He ran to the trailer and found it empty, just as she’d said it would be. He cleared the shelves behind his bed, stuffing all his things into the same white pillow slip he’d brought from Liberty. Then he folded his blankets and piled them neatly on the end of the sofa. He took down the cloth wall of his room and put it on top of the pile.
Ghost Boy Page 13
