The Skeleton, the only strange one left, bent to pick up the body of the porcelain boy-who-was-Mr. Dark. He moved away into the fields.
Will, in a swift moment, saw the thin man and his burden go over a hill among all the footprints of the vanished carnival race.
Will’s face shadowed this way, then that, pulled by the swift concussions, the tumults, the deaths, the fleeing away of souls. Cooger, Dark, Skeleton, Dwarf-who-was-Lightning-Rod-Salesman, don’t run, come back! Miss Foley, where are you? Mr. Crosetti! it’s over! Be still! Quiet! It’s all right. Come back, come back!
But the wind was blowing their footprints out of the grass and they might run forever now trying to outflee themselves.
So Will turned back astride Jim and pushed the chest and let go, pushed and let go, then, trembling, touched his dear friend’s cheek.
“Jim…?”
But Jim was cold as spaded earth.
Chapter 54
Beneath the cold was a fugitive warmness, in the white skin lay some small color, but when Will felt Jim’s wrist there was nothing and when he put his ear to the chest there was nothing.
“He’s dead!”
Charles Halloway came to his son and his son’s friend and knelt down to touch the quiet throat, the unstirred rib cage.
“No.” Puzzled. “Not quite…”
“Dead!”
The tears burst from Will’s eyes. But then, as swiftly, be felt himself knocked, struck, shaken.
“Stop that!” cried his father. “You want to save him?!”
“It’s too late, oh, Dad!”
“Shut up! Listen!”
But Will wept.
And again his father hauled off and hit him. Once on the left cheek. Once on the right cheek, hard.
All the tears in him were knocked flying; there were no more.
“Will!” His father savagely jabbed a finger at him and at Jim. “Damn it, Willy, all this, all these, Mr. Dark and his sort, they like crying, my God, they love tears! Jesus God, the more you bawl, the more they drink the salt off your chin. Wail and they suck your breath like cats. Get up! Get off your knees, damn it! Jump around! Whoop and holler! You hear! Shout, Will, sing, but most of all laugh, you got that, laugh!”
“I can’t!”
“You must! It’s all we got. I know! In the library! The Witch ran, my God, how she ran! I shot her dead with it. A single smile, Willy, the night people can’t stand it. The sun’s there. They hate the sun. We can’t take them seriously, Will!”
“But—”
“But hell! You saw the mirrors! And the mirrors shoved me half in, half out the grave. Showed me all wrinkles and rot! Blackmailed me! Blackmailed Miss Foley so she joined the grand march Nowhere, joined the fools who wanted everything! Idiot thing to want: everything! Poor damned fools. So wound up with nothing like, the dumb dog who dropped his bone to go after the reflection of the bone in the pond. Will, you saw: every mirror fell. Like ice in a thaw. With no rock or rifle, no knife, just my teeth, tongue and lungs, I gunshot those mirrors with pure contempt! Knocked down ten million scared fools and let the real man get to his feet! Now, on your feet, Will!”
“But Jim—” Will faltered.
“Half in, half out. Jim’s been that, always. Sore-tempted. Now he went too far and maybe he’s lost. But he fought to save himself, right? Put his hand out to you, to fall free of the machine? So we finish that fight for him. Move!”
Will sailed up, giddily, yanked.
“Run!”
Will sniffed again. Dad slapped his face. Tears flew like meteors.
“Hop! Jump! Yell!”
He banged Will ahead, shuffled with him, shoved his hand in his pockets, tearing them inside out until he pulled forth a bright object.
The harmonica.
Dad blew a chord.
Will stopped, staring down at Jim.
Dad clouted him on the car.
“Run! Don’t look!”
Will ran a step.
Dad blew another chord, yanked Will’s elbow, flung each of his arms.
“Sing!”
“What?”
“God, boy, anything!”
The harmonica tried a bad “Swanee River.”
“Dad.” Will shuffled, shaking his head, immensely tired. “Silly…!”
“Sure! We want that! Silly damn fool man! Silly harmonica! Bad off-key tune!”
Dad whooped. He circled like a dancing crane. He was not in the silliness yet. He wanted to crack through. He had to break the moment!
“Wilclass="underline" louder, funnier, as the man said! Oh, hell, don’t let them drink your tears and want more! Will! Don’t let them take your crying, turn it upside down and use it for their own smile! I’ll be damned if death wears my sadness for glad rags. Don’t feed them one damn thing, Willy, loosen your bones! Breathe! Blow!”
He seized Will’s hair, shook him.
“Nothing… funny…”
“Sure there is! Me! You! Jim! All of us! The whole shooting works! Look!”
And Charles Halloway pulled faces, popped his eyes, mashed his nose, winked, cavorted like chimpanzee-ape, waltzed with the wind, tap-danced the dust, threw back his head to bay at the moon, dragging Will with him.
“Death’s funny, God damn it! Bend, two, three, Will. Soft-shoe. Way down upon the Swanee River—what’s next, Will?… Far far away! Will, your God—awful voice! Damn girl soprano. Sparrow in a tin can. Jump, boy!”
Will went up, came down, cheeks hotter, a wincing like lemons in his throat. He felt balloons grow in his chest.
Dad sucked the silver harmonica.
“That’s where the old folks—” Will spoke.
“Stay!” bellowed his father.
Shuffle, tap, bounce, jog.
Where was Jim! Jim was forgotten.
Dad jabbed his ribs, tickling.
“De Camptown ladies sing this song!”
“Doo-dah!” yelled Will. “Doo-dah!” he sang it now, with a tune. The balloon grew. His throat tickled.
“Camptown race track, five miles long!”
“Oh, doo-dah day!”
Man and boy did a minuet.
And in midstep it happened.
Will felt the balloon grow huge within him.
He smiled.
“What?” Dad was surprised by those teeth.
Will snorted. Will giggled.
“What say?” asked Dad.
The force of the exploding warm balloon alone shoved Will’s teeth apart, kicked his head back.
“Dad! Dad!”
He bounded. He grabbed his Dad’s hand. He raced crazily, hollering, quacking like a duck, clucking like a chicken. His palms hit his throbbing knees. Dust flow off his soles.
“Oh, Susanna!”
“Oh, don’t you cry—”
“—for me!”
“For I’m come from—”
“Alabama with my—”
“Banjo on my—”
Together. “Knee!”
The harmonica knocked teeth, wheezing, Dad hocked forth great chords of squeeze-eyed hilarity, turning in a circle, jumping up to kick his heels.
“Ha!” They collided, half-collapsed, knocked elbows, cracked heads, which blew the air out faster. “Ha! Oh God, ha! Oh God. Will, Ha! Weak! Ha!”
In the middle of wild laughter—
A sneeze!
They spun. They stared.
Who lay there on the moonlit earth?
Jim? Jim Nightshade?
Had he stirred? Was his mouth wider, his eyelids quivering? Were his cheeks pinker?
Don’t took! Dad swung Will handily round in a further reel. They do-si-doed, hands extended, the harmonica seeping and guzzling raw tunes from a father who storked his legs and turkeyed his arms. They hopped Jim one way, hopped back, as if he were but a lump-stone on the grass.
“Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah! Someone’s in the kitchen—”
“—I know-oh-oh-oh!”
Jim’s tongue slid out on his lips.
No one saw this. Or if they saw, ignored it, fearing it might pass.