Ghost Boy (25 page)

“What do you think?” said Samuel. “The elephants, of course.”

The Cannibal King was the pitcher, and the elephants batted. They hit long, looping drives and went trundling around the bases. They bugled past first, then bugled past second, squashing the shoes as they ran in a great jiggle of hide.

Like the old Indian, the Gypsy Magda had never played baseball. She stood in deep right field, and every time the ball was hit she ran toward it with her scarves flowing back, her bracelets and bells all a-tinkle. The freaks shouted and laughed; they tagged the elephants out by their knees and their tails. Even Tina tagged out Conrad, running behind him from second to third, flinging herself forward to touch his massive heel.

The laughter and the trumpeting brought other people to the corner of the field. Wicks came and played second base; Mr. Hunter came, as thin as the bat itself, and knocked the ball right across the river. The roustabouts joined in; Mr. Frizzle came on his crutches, swatting at the ball like a golfer. People who hadn't done more than grumble at each other for almost a day now played side by side, the best of friends again. They switched teams, and switched again, as the score went up and up.

And the elephants fielded and batted. The elephants stampeded around the bases.

Then Flip came, and Roman was with her, and they stood at the edge of the trees, only watching the game.

Harold was waiting to bat. He saw Samuel crouched at third, swaying on his shoeless, hair-covered feet. Wicks was running for the elephants, and he waited on third for Conrad to bat. Never before had the two of them said so much as a word outside of the cook tent, but now they joked together, and Samuel's crooked teeth flashed in a grin.

Mr. Hunter pitched. His thin arm whipped the ball across the plate. Conrad swung at it; he swung harder than the Sultan of Swat. He swung so hard that he reeled around in a half circle as the ball went whistling past. A jeer, a laugh, a cheer and a trumpet: They rose together from the field, one tremendous sound that filled the valley of the Snake and echoed from the mountains.

“It's something to see,” said Thunder Wakes Him, next in line past Harold. “I saw a million buffalo pass here once; they took six days going by. Once I saw the valley—every blade of grass—burning in a fire. Once I saw a wagon train draw up in a circle here, and a man played a real piano as the others danced a ballroom dance. But I never thought I would see anything like this.”

“It's wonderful,” said Harold.

Conrad thumped the bat on the ground. Mr. Hunter pitched again. The elephant swung. And with a sound like cannons the ball went soaring far across the field. Conrad headed off for first.

“Drop the bat!” shouted twenty voices.

The old Indian sighed. “Do you know what you have done?” he asked.

“It's not me, really,” said Harold. “It's the elephants.”

“No, my friend.” The old Indian put his hand on Harold's shoulder. “It's you. You have brought the people together. You are just like White Buffalo Woman. You have made all the people one.”

“Not everyone,” said Harold. “Not quite.”

He stepped out of the batters' line and shambled across the field. It was getting dark and the shadows fooled him. He tripped and caught himself and carried on. He crossed to the trees, to Flip and Roman.

They were standing close together, but Flip moved half a step away.

“Hi, Harold,” she said.

“Hi,” he told her.

Roman only glowered at him.

“You did it, huh?” Flip grinned with unnatural charm. “You got them ready, and a day early.”

“Think the scouts will like it?” Harold asked.

Her eyes went wide, her eyebrows up. “You know all that?” she asked.

“Most, I think.”

“The Gypsy Magda, right? I knew she'd tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That she made me go and talk to you.”

Harold smiled to think the Gypsy Magda had tried to help him. “No, she didn't tell me that,” he said. Then he squinted sideways at Flip. “You should come and play.”

“You want me to?”

“I guess. You were pretty nice to me, and …” He shrugged. “A lot of people weren't. Not right then.”

“You're sweet, you know that?” She leaned forward as though she meant to kiss him, but Harold pulled away.

“Roman can play too. I don't care.”

“No way,” said Roman. “I'm not going near those elephants. Not now and not never.”

“Oh?” said Harold. “I thought you'd have to look after them from now on. I thought you'd have to wash them and dress them and clean up their stables and everything. I thought you'd be the elephant boy for Flip and the Pharaohs.”

“In a pig's eye,” said Roman. He backed away. “Screw you, Whitey.”

“Wait!” cried Flip.

“And you, too,” shouted Roman. He kept on going. “I'm not going to be anybody's stable boy.”

In a moment he was gone. Then Flip pouted and stamped her foot on the grass. “Well, thanks a lot,” she said. “Who told you he'd be the stable boy?”

“No one,” said Harold. “I was just making trouble, I think.”

Chapter

49

T
he sun was nearly down; the shadows of the players stretched in purple bands along the grass. The game might have ended then if someone had kept track of the score. But nobody had, and so an extra inning was played in a clear and starry twilight.

With one out, Harold batted. He closed his eyes and batted, and Harold never missed.

The ball bounced off Samuel's shoes. It shot between Wicks' legs and caromed off Mr. Frizzle's crutch. Harold headed for first.

The Cannibal King chased down the ball in center field. He threw it to the Gypsy Magda, who was jingling in from the right. She fumbled it, and Harold headed for second amid such a shouting and a cheering that he imagined himself running for the Dodgers.

A roustabout snatched the ball and threw it underhand to second, where Tina waited with her hands held out. Harold raced the ball. He couldn't hope to see it in the fading light, against a sprinkle of stars that seemed to him to whirl across the sky. But he
felt
it there, and he hurried, and he and the ball arrived pretty much together.

“You're out!” shouted Tina. She capered around the shoes. “You're out, kiddo! You're out like a light!”

“Safe!” shouted the old Indian.

It started quite a ruckus. Everyone but the Gypsy Magda argued that he was safe or out, all at the same time, all at the tops of their voices. Conrad, who was waiting with the bat, thumped the plate and whistled like a steam train.

Mr. Hunter made the ruling; he made all the rulings that seemed too close to call. “The boy was clearly at the shoes,” he said. “I saw him hasten there, and I say the boy is safe.”

The freaks groaned. The elephants trumpeted—all the players on that side trumpeted like elephants.

The ball made its way from hand to hand, back toward the pitcher. Tina was grinning up at Harold. “Gee, I'm proud of you, kiddo,” she said. “I've never been so happy in all my life.”

Then Conrad hit a pop fly. The red-and-yellow ball went up like a rocket, straight from the plate, and the freaks closed in on Samuel's giant shoes. Side by side on second base, Harold and Tina watched with amazement as the players tumbled into the infield. The Gypsy Magda went by with her bracelets jangling. The Cannibal King slid past like a great white bar of soap. And the ball disappeared against the stars.

Conrad dropped the bat. It was the first time that he had ever done it. He dropped the bat and lumbered off to first.

“Stop!” shouted Harold. He'd never thought of teaching rules to roses. “Go back. Go back.”

But Conrad was only gaining speed. His ears flapping, his head shaking, he trundled on.

And the ball fell out of the stars.

“Catch the elephant out!” shouted Wicks. An immense shout swelled through the freaks. “Catch the elephant out!”

Conrad rounded first. Tilted over, his feet hammering, he swept around the corner with his trunk scraping on the ground.

“Stop!” shouted Harold.

Tina doubled up with laughter. “You'd better run,” she said. “He's going to overtake you.”

Harold thrust his hands out. “Go back!” he shouted, laughing himself.

“Run, kiddo!” Tina pushed him. Hunched down, she shoved him with her shoulder and caught him on the knees.

The Gypsy Magda spun around, her scarves in a dark swirl. “No!” she screamed.

Harold stumbled. He sprawled across the ground.

Tina laughed. “Hey, kiddo!” she shouted, and pummeled at his shoulder.

Conrad veered slightly from his path. He skidded to a stop, rearing until his head was impossibly high and his trunk even higher, curled back to his forehead. He trumpeted once, with the most furious, frightening sound that anyone there had ever heard. And then he came battering down.

He came down like an avalanche on top of the little woman who seemed to be hitting Harold.

There was a scream: a short, awful scream. The elephant trampled over the shoes, over the base, over Tina. His gigantic gray feet rose and fell, bashing at the ground. The bottoms of them sagged as they lifted, tightened as they fell, turning slowly red with blood.

And the ball plopped onto the field and trickled back toward the plate.

Chapter

50

S
amuel held the tiny princess. He raised her little shoulders from the grass and let her head fall across his lap. From the waist down, it was as though she wasn't there. Her little black dress was flat as paper on the ground.

“Hey, Samuel,” she said. Her arms reached up; her hands took hold of Samuel's fur. Her face was white and taut with pain. She tried to smile but only winced.

“You'll have to do it yourself,” she said. “You'll have to get the house and put the curtains up.” She squeezed her fingers in his fur. “And don't forget your cuckoo clock.”

“Oh, Tina,” said Samuel. Tears ran down his horrid jowls, down his thickly matted beard. “You're going to be okay,” he said. “Just hang on. You're going to be okay.”

“Squeeze me,” she said. “Give me a good old geezer-squeezer, Samuel.”

He wrapped himself around her. He swayed and crooned, and all the time he shook with sobs.

“That's good,” she said. “That's nice.” Her voice was fading.

Harold stared right into her eyes, into her face, which was turned toward him.

“Say,” she said. “Is Harold here?”

“Yes,” said Harold. He dropped beside her on his knees. People pressed around him, silent as the stars.

“Where are you, kiddo?”

“Here,” he said.

She took a hand from Samuel's fur, and Harold grasped it tightly. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Oh, geez, I'm sorry.”

“Don't feel bad.” She twitched and groaned. A spot of blood bubbled on her lip. “It's okay, Harold. I'm okay. Sort of tired anyway. I was sort of tired.”

Her hand tightened in Harold's fist. “Go see your mama,” she said. “Okay? She'll miss you, kiddo.” Then her eyes closed, and she slumped back in Samuel's arms.

“Tina,” said Harold. “Oh, Tina, please.”

“Shhh.” Samuel brought her higher in his lap. His claws nearly covered her chest. “She's gone now,” he said.

Harold sat back. He couldn't believe she was dead, not so quickly as that, not in the time it took a baseball to rise and fall again.

“Yes, she's gone.” Samuel looked up at all the faces, his claws kneading and pressing at Tina. “Could you go away now?” he asked. “Everybody? She didn't like to be looked at. She didn't like people staring.”

They wandered away in quiet groups. They muttered apologies and touched Samuel's shoulder as they passed. Then only Harold was left. He stood up and saw the Gypsy Magda watching him. “Bring her back!” he shouted.

The Gypsy Magda didn't move. Harold ran to her—he ran
at
her—and clutched her scarves in his fists. “Bring her
back,
” he said again, and pushed with his arms. The bracelets jangled.

“Do it!” he cried. “You did it for the farmer's girl, now do it for her.”

The Gypsy Magda held him. She hugged him as he fell against her, sobbing in her scarves.

“Can't you bring her back?” he asked.

“To what?” she said. “Look at her and tell me: Do you think she would want to live like that?”

Harold shuddered. He didn't look at Tina.

“She could never run again. She could never walk,” said the Gypsy Magda. “She could never sit on her apple box or rock in a rocking chair. No, it is not what she would want.”

Harold groaned, but he didn't argue. And he let the Gypsy Magda lead him away.

Her hand on his shoulder, she took him to the grove of willows. They stopped there, and Harold looked back.

Samuel was a little black dot in the empty field. With the stars above him, the grass and the mountains around him, he looked like a part of the land, like a hunched stone that had been there forever.

“I wish I could help him,” said Harold.

“There is nothing you can do,” said the Gypsy Magda. “He must sit and remember things. He must work the sadness from himself.”

Far across the field, an orange light flashed in the darkness. Then Harold heard a gunshot, and the sound made him wince. It was followed by a thud, a hopeless-sounding thump of something toppling to the grass.

Tears filled Harold's eyes. He thought of Conrad hitting the ball for the first time, of Conrad trumpeting to his rescue by the river. He remembered the touch of the elephant's trunk and the deep, caring look in his eyes. He wondered if Conrad had danced again as the gun pointed at him. Then he thought of Conrad falling, crumpling to his knees, folding to the ground with a shudder and a sigh.

Suddenly it was too much for him, his hopes in ruins. He buried his face in the Gypsy Magda's scarves. “I don't understand,” he said. “You saw the angry boy in your crystal ball. You saw Roman there.”

“No,” she said. “I saw you.”

“Me?”

“You were seething with anger.”

“Oh, gosh. Then it's my fault,” said Harold. “Everything that's happened. It's all my fault.”

“No,” said the Gypsy Magda. “You taught the elephants what no one else could teach them. And Tina, you gave her happiness. A great happiness. And—you must believe me—happiness is worth many times more than years.”

“But you saw it coming,” said Harold. “You tried to warn me.”

“I saw only a bit of it.” Her bracelets rubbed on Harold's arm. “It is all I ever see. There was nothing you could do to change it.”

They stayed together until the moon rose. Then she guided Harold to the cottonwoods, to the big Air-stream, where she left him. Harold lay on the sofa, but he couldn't sleep. He was too aware of the empty room at the back, of Samuel tossing endlessly, and sometimes sobbing.