“No tickling is all it is, for sure,” he roared. “Oh, ha! Ha, stop!”
“Yes, stop heart!” she squealed. “Stop blood.” Her own heart must have shaken like a tambourine; her hands shook. In mid-gesticulation she froze and became, aware of the silly fingers.
“Oh, my God!” He wept beautiful glad tears. “Get off my ribs, oh, ha, go on, my heart!”
“Your heart, yesssssss!”
“God!” He popped his eyes wide, gulped air, released more soap and water washing everything clear, incredibly clean. “Toys! The key sticks out your back! Who wound you up!?”
And the largest roar of all, flung at the woman, burnt her hands, seared her face, or so it seemed, for she seized herself as from a blast furnace, wrapped her fried hands in Egyptian rags, gripped her dry dugs, skipped back, gave pause, then started a slow retreat, nudged, pushed, pummeled inch by inch, foot by foot, clattering bookracks, shelves, fumbling for handholds on volumes that thrashed free as she scrambled them down. Her brow knocked dim histories, vain theories, duned-up time, promised but compromised years. Chased, bruised, beaten by his laugh which echoed, rang, swam to fill the marble vaults, she whirled at last, claws razoring the wild air and fled to fall downstairs.
Moments later, she managed to cram herself through the front door, which slammed!
Her fall, the door slam, almost broke his frame with laughter.
“Oh God, God, please stop, stop yourself!” he begged of his hilarity.
And thus begged, his humor let be.
In mid-roar, at last, all faded to honest laughter, pleasant chuckling, faint giggling, then softly and with great contentment receiving and giving, breath, shaking his happy-weary head, the good ache of action in his throat and ribs, gone from his crumpled hand. He lay against the stacks, head leaned to some dear befriending book, the tears of releaseful mirth salting his cheeks, and suddenly knew her gone.
Why? he wondered. What did I do?
With one last bark of mirth, he rose up, slow.
What’s happened? Oh, God, let’s get it clear! First, the drug store, a half-dozen aspirin to cure this hand for an hour, then, think. In the last five minutes you did win something, didn’t you? What’s victory taste like? Think!
Try to remember!
And smiling a new smile at the ridiculous dead-animal left hand nested in his right crooked elbow, he hurried down the night corridors, and out into town…
III
Departures
Chapter 45
The small parade moved, soundless, past the eternally revolving, ending-but-unending candy serpentine of Mr. Crosetti’s barber pole, past all the darkening or darkened shops, the emptying streets, for people were home now from the church suppers, or out at the carnival for the last side show or the last high-ladder diver floating like milkweed down the night.
Will’s feet, far away below, clubbed the sidewalk. One, two, he thought, someone tells me left, right. Dragonfly whispers: one-two.
Is Jim in the parade?! Will’s eyes flicked the briefest to one side. Yes! But who’s the other little one? The gone-mad, everything’s-interesting-so-touch-it, everything’s red-hot, pull-back, Dwarf! Plus the Skeleton. And then behind, who were all those hundreds, no, thousands of people marching along, breathing down his neck?
The Illustrated Man.
Will nodded and whined so high and silently that only dogs, dogs who were no help, dogs who could not speak, might hear.
And sure enough, looking obliquely over, he saw not one, not two, but three dogs who, smelling the occasion, their own parade, now ran ahead, now fell behind, their tails like guidons for the platoon.
Bark! thought Will, like in the movies! Bark, bring the police!
But the dogs just smiled and trotted.
Coincidence, please, thought Will. Just a small one!
Mr. Tetley! Yes! Will saw-but-did-not-see Mr. Tetley! Rolling the wooden Indian back into his shop, closing for the night!
“Turn heads,” murmured the Illustrated Man.
Jim turned his head. Will turned his head.
Mr. Tetley smiled.
“Smile,” murmured Mr. Dark.
The two boys smiled.
“Hello!” said Mr. Tetley.
“Say hello,” someone whispered.
“Hello,” said Jim.
“Hello,” said Will.
The dogs barked.
“A free ride at the carnival,” murmured Mr. Dark.
“Free ride,” said Will.
“At the carnival!” cracked Jim.
Then, like good machines, they shut up their smiles.
“Have fun!” called Mr. Tetley.
The dogs barked joy.
The parade marched on.
“Fun,” said Mr. Dark. “Free rides. When the crowds go home, half an hour from now. We’ll ride Jim round. You still want that, Jim?”
Hearing but not hearing, locked away in himself, Will thought, Jim, don’t listen!
Jim’s eyes slid: wet or oily, it was hard to tell.
“You’ll travel with us, Jim, and if Mr. Cooger doesn’t survive (it’s a near thing for him, we haven’t saved him yet, we’ll try again now) but if he doesn’t make it, Jim, how would you like to be partners? I’ll grow you to a fine strong age, eh? Twenty-two? twenty-five?”. Dark and Nightshade, Nightshade and Dark, sweet lovely names for such as we with such as the side shows to run around the world! What say, Jim?”
Jim said nothing, sewn up in the Witch’s dream.
Don’t listen! wailed his best friend, who heard nothing but heard it all.
“And Will?” said Mr. Dark. “Let’s ride him back and back, eh? Make him a babe in arms, a babe for the Dwarf to carry like a clown-child, roundabout in parades, every day for the next fifty years, would you like that, Will? to be a babe forever? not able to talk and tell all the lovely things you know? Yes, I think that’s best for Will. A plaything, a little wet friend for the Dwarf!”
Will must have screamed.
But not out loud.
For only the dogs barked, in terror; yiping, off they ran, as if pelted with rocks.
A man came around the corner.
A policeman.
“Who’s this?” muttered Mr. Dark.
“Mr. Kolb,” said Jim.
“Mr. Kolb!” said Will.
“Darning-needle,” whispered Mr. Dark. “Dragonfly.” Pain stabbed Will’s ears. Moss stuffed his eyes. Gum glued his teeth. He felt a multitudinous tapping, shuttling, weaving, about his face, all numb again.
“Say hello to Mr. Kolb.”
“Hello,” said Jim.
“…Kolb…” said the dreaming Will.
“Hello, boys. Gentlemen.”
“Turn here,” said Mr. Dark.
They turned.
Away toward meadow country, away from warm lights, good town, safe streets, the drumless march progressed.
Chapter 46
Stretched out over, a mile of territory the straggling parade now moved as follows:
At the edge of the carnival midway, stumping the grass with their dead feet, Jim and Will paced friends who constantly retold the wondrous uses of darning-needle dragonflies.
Behind, a good half mile, trying to catch up, walking mysteriously wounded, the Gypsy, who whorl-symboled the dust.
And yet farther back came the janitor-father, now slowing himself with remembrances of age, now pacing swiftly young with thoughts of the brief first encounter and victory, carrying his left hand patted to his chest, chewing medicines as he went.
At the midway rim, Mr. Dark looked back as if an inner voice had named the stragglers in his widely separated maneuver. But the voice failed, he was unsure. He nodded briskly, and Dwarf, Skeleton, Jim, Will thrust through the crowd.
Jim felt the river of bright people wash by all around but not touching. Will heard waterfall laughter here, there, and him walking through the downpour. An explosion of fireflies blossomed on the sky; the ferris wheel, exultant as a titanic fireworks, dilated above them.