Mister Boots (16 page)

She says her father ran off. (I tell her that always happens.) Now there's just her and her mother, and she has to do all the work because her mother has this weakness. Rosie says it's hard getting food and hard carrying water way out here, and they haven't enough money to stay with the tents. In fact they haven't any money at all. (The twenty dollars I gave her got used up a long time ago.) Mostly she doesn't know what to do. She thinks her mother should see a doctor, but she doesn't know how to get her to one. When her father went off, he took the flivver.

When she starts to tell me, she gets shaky. I know how scary it is when there's something wrong with your mother, and she hasn't even got a big sister to help her.

Rosie isn't like she used to be. She's too worried and she's working too hard. We won't have time to play.

I give her forty dollars, which I brought along specially. (My pile of money is still just as big as ever.)

Rosie looks at me funny.

“I didn't steal it. Honest. And I have more if you need it. You can use it to get your mother to the doctor.”

I feel so sorry for her I almost give her Wilhelmina, but she'd probably sell her, and I don't ever want Wilhelmina sold.

 

 

It's pretty late when I walk back from Rosie's. The almost-full moon is coming up. I stay away from the road even if it means walking through all kinds of scratchy things. (It's good I'm wearing knickers.) Part of the time I walk in the empty ditch where it's not so bushy. When cars come by, I step away from their lights. Ever since that man in the park, I'm careful.

Whenever there's moonlight like this, I think about how Moonlight Blue looked the first time I saw him as a horse.

What if he came galloping by right now,
thumpety, thumpety, thump
ing up to me? I haven't ridden a horse for a long time, and that's one of my most favorite things.

When I get back, I see Boots and Jocelyn by the fire. I sit across from them. Boots lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the palm. How did a horse learn a thing like that?

 

 

A couple of days go by and I haven't gone back to see Rosie. I worry about her, but it's a long walk and I haven't much time. I have to keep in practice. But all of a sudden here's Rosie, in the middle of the night, in my tent! In my bed! First I try to get in bed and then I give a yell because I think it's got to be that dirty old bum from the park. Thank goodness Jocelyn doesn't sleep with me anymore. She and Boots have a pup tent of their own.

I say, “Shhhhh.” I look outside to see if anybody heard. Jocelyn calls, “Are you all right?” I say, “Just a spider.” Then I say, “One of those giant barn spiders. I'm bringing it out to you.” And then I laugh a Halloween kind of laugh. I do all that because I don't usually yell for spiders since that's a girl thing. I didn't even do that back before our father came when I knew, better than I know now, that I'm a girl.

We can't talk; Mister Boots and my sister and Aunt Tilly are too nearby. Rosie does tell me that they took her mother to the hospital and that she doesn't want to be alone down there by the ditch.

I tell her she can stay here forever if she needs to.

We cuddle up. There's not much room, so there's no way not to. She cries for a while. I can tell, though she doesn't make a single sound. Then I think she's asleep, but all of a sudden I feel her hand on me and she says, “You're a girl.” I say, “I know.” And then I say, “Don't tell,” and she says, “Of course not.” She says, “Besides, I knew it all the time.”

 

 

In the morning I sneak her biscuits with lots of apple butter just the way I like them. She says she shouldn't have so much, it's expensive, but I say I want her to. Then I show her where I keep the money and the pistol.

I tell her I'll only shoot bad people. And now that she knows where it is, she can do that, too, if she needs to.

(I usually keep it in sort of the same place it was when Mother hid it. I stick it up under my cot with adhesive tape. I tell her that has to be a good spot since I'm the only one who found it in the first place. But I have to be sure to take it down when the cot's going to be folded up.

Then I have to leave to go practice with our father.

The next day I worry about Rosie not having things to do, stuck there in a tent that's only a little bit bigger than a pup tent, but she just sleeps, as if she's catching up for a long time of worry. Later a person drives into our tent city looking for her. He says her mother's dying and she should come. Jocelyn says Rosie's not around here that she knows of, but I say I know where she is and I'll go get her.

For a day and a half I don't have to worry about us getting found out, but then she comes back, because her mother died. This time she hitchhiked back. It took her most of the day. She didn't know where else to go. I tell her, “You did right. I have enough of everything for two.”

The minute she gets here she goes out by herself for a while, out where those rocks are—where we used to play and where I saw Mister Boots and Jocelyn except I left before it happened. When she comes back, she just wants to sleep again. She says she isn't hungry, though you'd think she would be after a couple of days like these last two. I bring her cookies anyway, for later. I put them in a can with a tight lid because of mice.

 

 

I guess Rosie won't be able to appreciate seeing me perform. I don't think she even cares if she comes or just lies here in the tent staring into space. It's sure not hard to keep her a secret.

But I want her to see me. I tell her I'll feel bad if she doesn't come and doesn't like me. She says she isn't in the mood for liking things even if it's me. I say, “There'll always be plenty of other times for staring into space, and I think it's not good for you to stay in here all the time.”

 

 

Our father and I put up posters that say, SPECIAL HOLIDAY RATES, and ONE-TIME PERFORMANCE. LASSITER THE GREAT AND SON, PRIZES AND FREE RABBITS.

I ask our father for a free ticket. Just one. In all this time, I never have asked, not even once. And we're only charging a nickel. (The farmer who owns the barn is going to get half.) Jocelyn hears me, and when our father says, “What do you want a ticket for?” she stops knitting and says, “One ticket, for heaven's sake! He doesn't have to tell you everything.”

“Since when?”

“Since all the time.”

She puts her knitting down and stands up. I love that she's as tall as our father, and I love her when she stands up and looks like this.

She says, “I'm tired of all this. I've a good mind to just take Bobby and . . . Mister Blue . . . and go back home for some peace and quiet. Bobby has rights.”

“Control yourself, for heaven's sake.”

“Control!”

She turns her back, picks up her knitting, and goes out. But I get a ticket.

 

 

Later I asked Aunt Tilly, “How come, for a person who says he never loses his temper, he's the worst of anybody? And why all the time mad at me?”

She says it's because I'm so special to him. “He wants to live his life over again through you. You're of no use to him as a girl. When . . .” (She says, “When.”) “When he finds out . . . ! You know he doesn't know his own strength. You come to me. Right off, you hear? You come straight to me.” I have a dream about it. In my dream our father is like that bull at the rodeo we saw. We saw this bull bang into fences and chase people. He knocked a man down and trampled all over him. So I dream a bull like that but black and white, as if in a dress suit. It pulls down all our tents and tramples everything, and then it throws Wilhelmina in the fire. Wilhelmina cries
baa, baa,
like a little lamb. In the dream I try to rescue her. There's this terrible bellowing all through the dream. I wake myself up making bellowing sounds myself, as if I'm the crazy angry bull.

Rosie wakes me to stop my nightmare, but Jocelyn is already rushing in like she always does when I have a bad dream. She's brought her flashlight, and first thing she shines it right on Rosie. I can't see her face with the light in my eyes. I can't tell what she's thinking. I say, “But her mother died.” Then Jocelyn kneels beside us and first hugs Rosie and then me. She sits for a while smoothing our hair back from our foreheads and stroking our cheeks, alternating me and Rosie. She keeps saying, “Everything's all right,” even to Rosie.

 

 

We load up and go to have our barn show. We put up our little stage and our wings and our backdrop and our lights. I dress in my dress suit and get our tricks ready. Boots is ready, looking droopy in his clown suit with his halter dangling.

I peek out from the wings. The barn is getting full. Everybody from the camp who can afford a nickel is there; all the farmers come, too. Everybody is dressed in their best. We were smart because our father and the farmer are having a barn dance afterward. The farmer's wife looks happy. She and Jocelyn are at the door taking in money and tickets. Rosie came down by herself so our father wouldn't know about her staying with us. She's already here in a good front seat—on a pillow on the ground. I told her to bring our pillow.

 

 

As usual I'm a big hit even the minute I come onstage. Our father always does a few things first and then I come on and everybody yells. Mostly sport-type things like, “Go, Bobby!” And right away I don't mind having to be seven anymore.

Rosie thinks it's all real. She's like I used to be. When I'm in the sword box getting swords stuck into it, I hear Rosie yell not to do it. That's when she starts to cry. After that she cries all through. I suppose it's really her mother she's thinking of. Jocelyn goes and sits beside her and holds her hand. And then I see they're both crying.

Then comes the part where Boots and I come in at a slow lope, his floppy shoes flap, flapping. Everybody laughs, except Rosie keeps on crying.

And then, all of a sudden, there's this gasping sound—everybody gasping at the same time. I look around to see what's wrong; is the barn burning down? Then I know it's got to be Moonlight Blue! I don't know why he does it. He does it and then just stays in one spot as if he
is
a mirror trick and doesn't dare move out of the mirror's range. But then he stamps and thumps on our stage floor with his unshod hoofs. It makes a nice racket. His ears are pricked up as if everything is fine. He looks good, shiny white in the lights and bigger, like our father always seems. Everybody oohs and aahs, and I yell, “Yes!” I can't help it. This is even better than sunsets and even better than Aunt Tilly's songs.

Our father doesn't get to see the change. He always takes the moment we're onstage alone to wipe his hands and face and change what he has in his coattails. I see him come and look, but it's too late. Boots is back. First I think he did it for me, and then I think, No, it's special for Rosie.

 

 

After it's over, the barn dance and all, we sit around the fire back at our camping spot like we do. It's late, but we're still too excited even to think of going to bed. I ask Mister Boots why did he, all of a sudden, do it?

Rosie is with us. She has a midnight snack with us right out in front of everybody. Nobody says a word about her being here. If our father was here, he would have for sure, but he went off to town wearing his turban. When he's away like this, I always know that's where he is, not drinking much, but singing and doing tricks and getting admired and talking about me.

It's cool. I guess fall is coming. Aunt Tilly has on a black shawl that's so lacy I don't see how there can be any warmth to it. Boots is wearing his red sweater. I'm letting Rosie wear Wilhelmina, but I tell her I can't—I just
can't
—give her to her. She doesn't mind, long as she can borrow it now and then.

Mister Boots says, “Money isn't everything.” Is that supposed to be my answer?

“That's what I think, too,” says my sister.

I don't say it, but I'm thinking: Then why did we all run around like crazy people looking for the knitting money?

“But, Mister Boots, tonight . . . ? Why did you do it, all of a sudden, tonight?”

“I saw Rosie—I saw you, Rosie and you were crying, and I thought how I said before that everybody should think and I thought I should think, too, and what I thought was: Do ideas come from words? Or do ideas come from things? Or do they come from actions? It was an action and an idea and a thing.”

I suppose that's an explanation.

Aunt Tilly doesn't say a word. What I like about her is she knows when to keep quiet.

After this barn performance, we don't have any more shows lined up. Our father tries. Sometimes he's gone for days, but he always comes back with nothing, or nothing worth taking all of us to. He does a little show now and then by himself. I guess that's why we're not starving. And then there's the knitting. That still sells a little.

It's hard to believe, but he's getting even angrier than he already was. The good thing about it is, he gets quiet this time. He hardly seems to be with us when he's with us. Aunt Tilly says it's never been this bad. She says he's really scared.

Another good thing is, he doesn't care anymore if I stand up straight or not, or if I get my exercise and my sunshine every day, and breathe deeply of this country air. He used to tell me, “Practice, practice, practice,” and then, “Practice doesn't make perfect, practice makes permanent; only perfect practice makes perfect.” I couldn't count the times he's said that, but he doesn't say it anymore.