Ghost Boy (14 page)

He didn't answer. Suddenly he was crying.

Chapter

29

B
y 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

C
onrad 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.

Harold carried his bag across the field, to the orange tent at the edge of the trees. He didn't stop; he tossed the bag through the door and went back to work with the elephants. For an hour, they practiced pitching, but it wasn't any good. The elephants, he thought, would never learn to throw a ball.

“Maybe you
can't
be pitchers,” he said. “Maybe you just can't do it.”

Conrad murmured at him.

“It's all right,” said Harold. “Maybe it was dumb to even try.” He patted Conrad's leg hard enough to hear the slaps, to shake the dust away. Then he sighed and went to fetch the roses water, bringing bucket after bucket, and each was emptied the moment he set it down. The elephants plunged their trunks inside and drained the buckets as though through straws, then curled them up and squirted the water into their mouths. When they'd had enough to drink they squirted it over their backs, great blasts of water that shimmered in the sun.

“I have to figure this out,” he told the elephants. “I have to teach you how to pitch.”

But instead he thought of Flip. It seemed that no matter where he started, he always thought of her. If he hadn't taught the elephants to pitch by dinnertime, would she still come and see him at the tent? Would they still hold hands and count the stars?

The bell startled him. Surely Wicks had made a mistake and rung it hours early. Then Harold saw how far the sun had moved toward the west, and he got to his feet with a terrible feeling of hopelessness. He kicked through the grass until he found the ball, then called to Conrad. “Just try,” he said. “Really try, okay?”

But no matter what he did, he couldn't teach Conrad to pitch. The elephant only waved the ball around, and Harold felt like crying. “It's no good,” he said. “It just won't work.”

For ten minutes he stood there, staring at Conrad. Then he heard the plod of a horse's hooves coming up behind him. It was a steady sound, soft on the grass, hard on the dirt. And Harold turned slowly, expecting to see the old Indian, but instead seeing Flip, riding bareback on General Sherman.

The horse shied away from the elephants, but Flip held it there, twenty feet away, as it pranced and skittered sideways. “So, how's it going?” she asked.

Harold wanted to lie, to say, “It's great.” But he couldn't; he only shook his head.

High above him, she leapt forward and back as the horse stamped its feet. Her face was a blur; he didn't know if she was smiling or angry.

“But it's
going
to work,” she said. “You're getting
somewhere
, aren't you?”

“It's pretty hard,” he said.

“Well, sure it is.” The horse jostled backward. “All they've ever done is their stupid little dance. You've got to teach them things they've never even
thought
of. And I think you're doing great, Harold. You're doing just fine.”

He gazed up at her. His hand, by itself, went to his chin.

“So don't think of quitting, okay? Don't even
think
of that.”

“No,” he said, and shook his head.

“And you'd better come to dinner now. You've been out all day in the sun.”

“Okay,” he said, and started to go, bumbling across the dirt.

Flip laughed. “Well, don't you want a ride?”

She helped him up. She held his hand for a moment as he ran in a clumsy circle beside the spinning horse. Then she pulled him up, and he settled down behind her.

“Hold on,” she said.

He put his hands on her hips, on the ridges of her bones. “Tighter,” she said, and he pressed as hard as he dared. Then she took his wrist and wrapped it around her waist, and he could feel the hardness of her ribs and the softness of her stomach. He shook, and she laughed. Then General Sherman went off at a canter, and Harold held on far more tightly than he'd ever held to the old Indian. He banged against the horse's back so hard it knocked his teeth together. But he felt as though he rode on clouds, that he dashed with an angel through heaven.

They took the horse to the stable and went on to the cook tent. Side by side they walked around the corner and met a line of people waiting. Harold gasped; they'd come too soon. In the darkness of the tent the freaks were moving, coming to the door. He tried to step away, back behind the canvas wall, but Mr. Hunter saw him.

“Ah, there you are,” said Mr. Hunter. “Speak of the devil, what? We were just pondering the pachyderms' progress.”

“Huh?” said Harold.

“The roses, son. Are you making headway?”

“Yes, sir. A bit.” He looked wildly for somewhere to hide. The Gypsy Magda's bells tinkled in the tent.

“All set for Salem?”

“I hope so.” Harold maneuvered around behind Flip. He wished Mr. Hunter would leave him alone, at least until the Gypsy Magda passed. She was the one he worried about, the one who could shame him with just a look of those black eyes.

“Have they learned to pitch and toss?” asked Mr. Hunter.

Harold shrugged. Everyone was looking at him as he squeezed himself thin behind Flip, as he trembled and sweated. They watched him with curious frowns, and he put his hand up to his chin, to hide the little hair that he imagined they were staring at. He crouched on the ground.

Flip looked back. “What are you doing?” she said. Then Esther came out of the tent with Wallo on her hip, those bizarre little feet making dents in her clothes, his head resting on her beard.

“Hello, Wallo,” said Mr. Hunter. “Why, Esther, what a pretty dress.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Esther in her strange, manly voice. Then she passed, and the Gypsy Magda came behind her, dark and huddled in her scarves, staring fixedly at Esther's back. Samuel and Tina stepped together from the tent, and Harold lowered his head, suddenly busy with the laces on his boots.

Tina said, “Oh, there he is! Hey, Harold. Hi, kiddo.”

He lifted only his eyes, looking at her over the round darkness of his glasses.

“You took your things,” she said. “All your things.”

He nodded, too embarrassed to talk.

“We'll miss you something awful.” She was smiling, but Samuel only glowered. “We don't know what to do with all the space,” she said. “Do we, Samuel?”

His little eyes were half shut. “Maybe we'll sit there like we used to.”

“Oh, you lug.” She laughed. “But you'll come and see us, won't you, Harold? You'll come when you're not so busy.”

He nodded too quickly, everything blurring together, as though he peered through pebbled glass. He had to turn his head away to find her again. And by then she was gone.