“You should be careful of that boy of mine, Mr. Costello,” the Child said, looking after Kennedy. “He has a temper.”
“So do I,” the proprietor said. “The bill is fifteen dollars.”
I could scarce believe my ears — fifteen dollars was a princely sum at that time. The Child batted his eyes at the proprietor, sniff’d indignantly at the air, then sigh’d & produced a roll of fresh-minted Treasury bills. I’d never seen half as many in one man’s hand. “Fifteen dollars to Mr. Costello,” the Child said, counting the notes out with great deliberateness.
The proprietor took the bills & inspected them closely, holding them up to the lamp — he’d obviously not expected to see a penny. When he was finish’d he gave a little snort of pleasure & turn’d to me. “And who is this young cavalier?”
“Good-night, Mr. Costello,” the Child said, turning his back on him & guiding me resolutely up the stairs.
Once the two of us were alone I found it harder than ever to contain my excitement. The idea that just that morning I’d been no more than idly curious about the man before me, that I’d known less about him than Wallace’s negroes did, was almost as incredible as the fact that I was about to enter his private chambers. That the grand suite I’d imagined proved, upon entering, to be a three-penny bedroom, its door held shut by a loop’d length of twine, did nothing to dispel my amazement. My thoughts were set on the coming interview. What questions might he put to me, how on God’s green earth would I reply? I imagined nothing short of having to give a complete moral & spiritualaccounting of my life.
“The Pharisee’s Suite,” the Child announced, kicking the door open with his foot.
The room we stepped into was lit by a single window set high in the wall, the kind more commonly found in cellars; by standing on tip-toe I was able to discover that it looked westward, over a jumble of shabby roofs & alleys, toward the better half of town. What scant light remain’d was swiftly draining from the sky, & the room was a tangle of contradictory shadows. I’d just turn’d back from the glass when the wall to my left seemed to fold over on itself; I let out a sharp cry & dashed for the door, nearly trampling the Child in my distress. The Child gave a laugh & caught me by the buckle of my belt.
“Goodman Harvey, hawker of tonics — our Parson. Parson: Harvey.”
“Parson. .?” I said, staring cow-eyed at the man who now emerged out of the dark, his face tipped sideways into a leer. After a mute, stricken pause, I shook the apparition’s hand; he was one more wonder in a night of wonders, nothing more. His hand was smooth & peculiarly elastic, like the pads on the foot of a pedigreed hound.
“Harvey is an enthusiast,” the Child said, leading me to a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room.
The apparition smiled.
I sat down in the chair as bidden. My companions remain’d standing.
“Tell us, Harvey,” the Child said, laying his palm ever-so-lightly on the back of my neck—“Which portion of our lecture did you find the most a fecting?”
I’d not been touch’d by anyone in ages. The warmth of his hand made my mouth go dry. “All of it, Preacher,” I murmur’d.
The Child gave a sour little snicker at this. “Did you hear what he call’d me just now, Auntie?”
Auntie? I look’d to every side. Was there a fourth person in the room?
Parson sucked in a breath, as though he’d only just awoken. “I heard,” he said.
The Child laugh’d again, more gently. “They ran me out of Louisiana on a railroad tie, Harvey, for giving myself that title.”
I squirm’d & fidgeted in my chair, desperate to make some sly rejoinder. The Child gazed wistfully at Parson; Parson’s queer gray eyes bored into me in a way that made my stomach twist.
“Those people back at the Old Grange thought of you as a preacher, sir,” I mumbled. “They believed every word you said. I’m sure of it.”
The Child gazed sleepily at the ceiling. “People believe things in this country, Harvey. Especially if you tell it to them from a well-lit box. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“But surely they won’t believe just anything, sir,” I protested. “Not from anybody. I see no reason why—”
“Because they want to, Harvey. That’s all. They want to, & it’s enough.”
I nodded blankly, looking from the Child to Parson & back again. By some trick of the light it seem’d to be growing brighter in the room. The smoke of the candle crept up the wall behind Parson without the slightest flutter. The Child let his head sink down against his chest, seemingly forgetting me completely; Parson, for his part, neither spoke nor stirred. Seconds went by, then minutes. The silence grew excruciating. Was my interview at an end so soon? I refused to credit it.
Between the Child & myself stood a second chair, distinguish’d by a cushion of yellow silk — a veritable throne in that dilapidated room. I resolved to break the silence. “Won’t you be seated, Parson?” I inquired.
Parson’s eyes flew open & he straighten’d with a gasp, as though I’d poked him in the side, or broken wind. “You are a Mormon?” he demanded.
“I was, sir — yes,” I stammer’d, more astonish’d now than ever. No such information had pass’d between Parson & the Child.
The Child wink’d at me. “Our Parson can smell a believer a mile o f, if the wind is right. Can’t you, Auntie?”
“They smell like a tart’s monthlies,” Parson replied.
“Mr. Wallace told me far too little of your history, Mr. Harvey,” the Child said, sitting down in the chair himself. “What was it that caused you to drift into this godless country?”
“My mission brought me,” I answer’d, wincing at the inevitable rush of shame. “Every Mormon is given one, sir, at eighteen years of age. I came here with my cousin Alva.”
“Of course! Your mission,” the Child said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “To bring grace to the Indians, was it?”
“We call them ‘Canaanites,’ sir. Scripture holds them to be the descendants of the sixth of the Lost Tribes—”
A low mewling wail rose up in Parson’s throat. “The Canaanites?” he hiss’d. “What would you & your clutch of beef-fed bigamists know about them, boy?”
The Child heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Let the boy answer, Parson.”
“I’ll show you Lost Tribes, kitten,” Parson said, rising to his full height & opening his mouth wide as an oven-grate. My own mouth flew open at the sight & a thin squeak of terror escaped from it. The freakishness of the two figures before me — the doll-sized man in the great yellow armchair & the rattling skeleton beside him — caused me to go momentarily blind from panic & I heard myself, as if from the bottom of a well, pleading with them both—
“Please, sirs! Please, sirs! I’m the man you want!”
This declaration gave them pause very briefly — even Parson clapped his dreadful mouth shut & blink’d. I can account for it only by saying that I’d renounced my previous life before stepping into that rooming-house, before hearing the Child’s speech, before so much as setting out for Onadee. I had no intention of returning to Wallace’s depot ever again, not even to collect my horse & wagon. What I wanted was a new mission, a new vocation— something definite & profane. I was ready & willing to indenture myself to the Child — all I ask’d was that Goodman Harvey, peddler of chicaneries, constitutionals& penny-dreadful hymns, be burn’d away to ashes.