SoaringreviewsforMr.Vertigo

“Mr.Vertigoisathrillingflightoffancythatneverabandonstheworld.Amagicalpertinentbook,itgivesusabird’s-eyeviewofthestrange,violent,paradoxicalcenturybehindus.”

—LosAngelesTimes

“Arollickingtaleofgreedandredemption…Austerhascreatedacharacterwhowillremainaloftinreaders’memories.”

—People

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“Mr.Vertigoprovesthatnothingbeatsagoodoldyarn.”

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“Beautifulwritingdoessoar,andathisbest,Austermakesitlookeasy.”

—ChicagoTribune

PENGUINBOOKS

MR.VERTIGO

PAULAUSTERistheauthorofthenovelsTheBrooklynFollies,OracleNight,TheBookofIllusions,Timbuktu,Mr.Vertigo,Leviathan(awardedthe1993PrixMedicisÉtranger),TheMusicofChance(nominatedforthe1991PEN/FaulknerAward),MoonPalace,IntheCountryofLastThings,andthethreenovelsknownas“TheNewYorkTrilogy”:CityofGlass,Ghosts,andTheLockedRoom.Hehasalsowrittentwomemoirs(TheInventionofSolitudeandHandtoMouth),acollectionofessays,andavolumeofpoems,andeditedthebookIThoughtMyFatherWasGod:AndOtherTrueTalesfromNPR’sNationalStoryProject.Austerwastherecipientofthe2006PrinceofAsturiasAwardforLettersandwasinductedintotheAmericanAcademyofArtsandLettersin2006.HehaswonliteraryfellowshipsfromtheNationalEndowmentfortheArtsinbothpoetryandprose,andin1990receivedtheMortonDauwenZabelAwardfromtheAmericanAcademyandInstituteofArtsandLetters.HewrotethescreenplaysforSmoke,BlueintheFace,andLuluontheBridge,whichhealsodirected.Hisworkhasbeentranslatedintomorethanthirtylanguages.HelivesinBrooklyn,NewYork.

PAULAUSTER

MR.VERTIGO

PENGUINBOOKS

PENGUINCOMPASSPublishedbythePenguinGroupPenguinGroup(USA)Inc.,375HudsonStreet,NewYork,NewYork10014,U.S.A.PenguinGroup(Canada),90EglintonAvenueEast,Suite700,Toronto,Ontario,CanadaM4P2Y3(adivisionofPearsonPenguinCanadaInc.)PenguinBooksLtd,80Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,EnglandPenguinIreland,25StStephen’sGreen,Dublin2,Ireland(adivisionofPenguinBooksLtd)PenguinGroup(Australia),250CamberwellRoad,Camberwell,Victoria3124,Australia(adivisionofPearsonAustraliaGroupPtyLtd)PenguinBooksIndiaPvtLtd,11CommunityCentre,PanchsheelPark,NewDelhi-110017,IndiaPenguinGroup(NZ),67ApolloDrive,Rosedale,NorthShore0632,NewZealand(adivisionofPearsonNewZealandLtd)PenguinBooks(SouthAfrica)(Pty)Ltd,24SturdeeAvenue,Rosebank,Johannesburg2196,SouthAfricaPenguinBooksLtd,RegisteredOffices:80Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,England

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyFaberandFaberLimited1994FirstpublishedintheUnitedStatesofAmericabyVikingPenguin,adivisionofPenguinBooksUSAInc.,1994

PublishedinPenguinBooks1995Copyright©PaulAuster,1994Allrightsreserved

PortionsofthisbookappearedinGranta,TheReviewofContemporaryFiction,andGrandStreet.THELIBRARYOFCONGRESSHASCATALOGUEDTHEHARDCOVERASFOLLOWS:Auster,Paul.Mr.Vertigo/PaulAuster.p.cm.ISBN0-670-85209-0(hc.)ISBN978-0-14-023190-8(pbk.)ISBN:978-1-101-56263-5(epub.)1.Agedmen—UnitedStates—Fiction.2.Magicians—UnitedStates—Fiction.I.Title.II.Title:MisterVertigo.PS3551.U77M71994813’.54—dc2093-34887

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TableofContents

I

II

III

IV

I

IwastwelveyearsoldthefirsttimeIwalkedonwater.Themanintheblackclothestaughtmehowtodoit,andI’mnotgoingtopretendIlearnedthattrickovernight.MasterYehudifoundmewhenIwasnine,anorphanboybeggingnickelsonthestreetsofSaintLouis,andheworkedwithmesteadilyforthreeyearsbeforeheletmeshowmystuffinpublic.Thatwasin1927,theyearofBabeRuthandCharlesLindbergh,thepreciseyearwhennightbegantofallontheworldforever.IkeptitupuntilafewdaysbeforetheOctobercrash,andwhatIdidwasgreaterthananythingthosetwogentscouldhavedreamedof.IdidwhatnoAmericanhaddonebeforeme,whatnoonehaseverdonesince.

MasterYehudichosemebecauseIwasthesmallest,thedirtiest,themostabject.“You’renobetterthanananimal,”hesaid,“apieceofhumannothingness.”Thatwasthefirstsentencehespoketome,andeventhoughsixty-eightyearshavepassedsincethatnight,it’sasifIcanstillhearthewordscomingfromthemaster’smouth.“You’renobetterthanananimal.Ifyoustaywhereyouare,you’llbedeadbeforewinterisout.Ifyoucomewithme,I’llteachyouhowtofly.”

“Ain’tnobodycanfly,mister,”Isaid.“That’swhatbirdsdo,andIsureashellain’tnobird.”

“Youknownothing,”MasterYehudisaid.“Youknownothingbecauseyouarenothing.IfIhaven’ttaughtyoutoflybyyourthirteenthbirthday,youcanchopoffmyheadwithanaxe.I’llputitinwritingifyoulike.IfIfailtodeliveronmypromise,myfatewillbeinyourhands.”

ItwasaSaturdaynightinearlyNovember,andwewerestandinginfrontoftheParadiseCafe,aslickdowntownginmillwithacoloredjazzbandandcigarettegirlsintransparentdresses.Iusedtohangaroundthereonweekends,cadginghandoutsandrunningerrandsandhustlingcabsfortheswells.AtfirstIthoughtMasterYehudiwasjustanotherdrunk,arichboozehoundstumblingthroughthenightinablacktuxedoandasilktophat.Hisaccentwasstrange,soIfiguredhimtobefromoutoftown,butthatwasasfarasItookit.Drunkssaystupidthings,andthebusinessaboutflyingwasnostupiderthanmost.

“Yougettoohighintheair,”Isaid,“youcouldbreakyourneckwhenyoucomedown.”

“We’lltalkabouttechniquelater,”themastersaid.“It’snotaneasyskilltolearn,butifyoulistentomeandobeymyinstructions,we’llbothwindupmillionaires.”

“You’realreadyamillionaire,”Isaid.“Whatdoyouneedmefor?”

“Because,mywretchedlittlethug,Ibarelyhavetwodimestorubtogether,Imightlooklikearobberbarontoyou,butthat’sonlybecauseyouhavesawdustforbrains.Listentomecarefully.I’mofferingyouthechanceofalifetime,butyouonlygetthatchanceonce.I’mbookedontheBlueBirdSpecialatsixthirtya.m.,andifyoudon’thaulyourcarcassontothattrain,thisisthelastyou’lleverseeofme.”

“Youstillhaven’tansweredmyquestion,”Isaid.

“Becauseyou’retheanswertomyprayers,son.That’swhyIwantyou.Becauseyouhavethegift.”

“Gift?Iain’tgotnogift.AndevenifIdid,whatwouldyouknowaboutit,Mr.MonkeySuit?Youonlystartedtalkingtomeaminuteago.”

“Wrongagain,”saidMasterYehudi.“I’vebeenwatchingyouforaweek.Andifyouthinkyourauntandunelewouldbesorrytoseeyougone,thenyoudon’tknowwhoyou’vebeenlivingwithforthepastfouryears.”

“Myauntanduncle?”Isaid,suddenlyrealizingthatthismanwasnoSaturday-nightdrunk.Hewassomethingworsethanthat:atruantofficeroracop,andsureasIwasstandingthere,Iwasuptomykneesinshit.

“YourUncleSlimisapieceofwork,”themastercontinued,takinghistimenowthathehadmyattention.“IneverknewanAmericancitizencouldbethatdumb.Notonlydoeshesmellbad,buthe’smeananduglytoboot.Nowonderyouturnedintosuchaweasel-facedguttersnipe.Wehadalongconversationthismorning,youruncleandI,andhe’swillingtoletyougowithoutapennychanginghands.Imaginethat,boy.Ididn’tevenhavetopayforyou.Andthatdough-fleshedsowhecallshiswifejustsatthereandneversaidawordinyourdefense.Ifthat’sthebestyoucandoforafamily,thenyou’reluckytoberidofthosetwo.Thedecisionisyours,butevenifyouturnmedown,itmightnotbesuchagoodideatogoback.They’dbeplentydisappointedtoseeyouagain,Icantellyouthat.Justaboutdumbstruckwithsorrow,ifyouknowwhatImean.”

Imighthavebeenananimal,buteventhelowestanimalhasfeelings,andwhenthemastersprangthisnewsonme,IfeltasifI’dbeenpunched.UncleSlimandAuntPegwerenothingtowritehomeabout,buttheirhomewaswhereIlived,anditstoppedmeinmytrackstolearntheydidn’twantme.Iwasonlynineyearsold,afterall.ToughasIwasforthatage,Iwasn’thalfastoughasIpretendedtobe,andifthemasterhadn’tbeenlookingdownatmewiththosedarkeyesofhisjustthen,Iprobablywouldhavestartedbawlingrightthereonthestreet.

WhenIthinkbacktothatnightnow,I’mstillnotsureifhewastellingmethetruthornot.Hecouldhavetalkedtomyauntanduncle,butthenagain,hecouldhavebeenmakingthewholethingup.Idon’tdoubtthathe’dseenthem—hehadtheirdescriptionsdeadon—butknowingmyUncleSlim,itstrikesmeasnexttoimpossiblethathewouldhaveletmegowithoutwheedlingsomecashoutofthebargain.I’mnotsayingthatMasterYehudiwelshedonhim,butgivenwhathappenedlater,there’snoquestionthatthebastardfeltwronged,whetherjusticewasonhissideornot.I’mnotgoingtowastetimepuzzlingoverthatnow.TheupshotwasthatIfellforwhatthemastertoldme,andinthelongrunthat’stheonlyfactthatbearstelling.HeconvincedmethatIcouldn’tgohome,andonceIacceptedthat,Ididn’tgiveadamnaboutmyselfanymore.Thatmusthavebeenhowhewantedmetofeel—alljangledupandlostinside.Ifyoudon’tseeanyreasontogoonliving,it’shardtocaremuchaboutwhathappenstoyou.Youtellyourselfyouwanttobedead,andafterthatyoudiscoveryou’rereadyforanything—evenacrazythinglikevanishingintothenightwithastranger.

“Okay,mister,”Isaid,droppingmyvoiceacoupleofoctavesandgivinghimmybestcutthroatstare,“you’vegotyourselfadeal.Butifyoudon’tcomethroughformelikeyousay,youcankissyourheadgood-bye.Imightbesmall,butIneverletamanforgetapromise.”

Itwasstilldarkwhenweboardedthetrain.Werodewestintothedawn,travelingacrossthestateofMissouriasthedimNovemberlightstruggledtocrackthroughtheclouds.Ihadn’tbeenoutofSaintLouissincethedaytheyburiedmymother,anditwasagloomyworldIdiscoveredthatmorning:grayandbarren,withendlessfieldsofwitheredcornstalksflankingusonbothsides.WechuggedintoKansasCityalittlepastnoon,butinallthehourswespenttogetherIdon’tthinkMasterYehudispokemorethanthreeorfourwordstome.Mostofthetimeheslept,noddingoffwithhishatpulleddownoverhisface,butIwastooscaredtodoanythingbutlookoutthewindow,watchingthelandslippastmeasIponderedthemessI’dgottenmyselfinto.MypalsinSaintLouishadwarnedmeaboutcharacterslikeMasterYehudi:solitarydrifterswithevildesigns,pervertsontheprowlforyoungboystodotheirbidding.ItwasbadenoughtoimaginehimtakingoffmyclothesandtouchingmewhereIdidn’twanttobetouched,butthatwasnothingcomparedtosomeoftheotherfearsknockingaroundinmyskull.I’dheardaboutoneboywhohadgoneoffwithastrangerandwasneverheardfromagain.Lateron,themanconfessedhe’dsliceduptheladintolittlepiecesandboiledhimfordinner.Anotherboyhadbeenchainedtoawallinadarkcellarandgivennothingtoeatbutbreadandwaterforsixmonths.Anotheronehadhadtheskinpeeledoffhisbones.NowthatIhadtimetoconsiderwhatI’ddone,IfiguredImightbeinforthesamekindoftreatmentmyself.I’dlet

myselffallintotheclutchesofamonster,andifheturnedouttobehalfasspookyashelooked,theoddswereI’dneverseethedawnriseagain.

Wegotoffthetrainandstartedwalkingdowntheplatform,wendingourwaythroughthecrowd.“I’mhungry,”Isaid,tuggingonMasterYehudi’scoat.“Ifyoudon’tfeedmenow,I’mgoingtoturnyouintothefirstflatfootIsee.”

“What’sthematterwiththeappleIgaveyou?”hesaid.

“Ichuckeditoutthewindowofthetrain.”

“Oh,nottookeenonapples,arewe?Andwhataboutthehamsandwich?Nottospeakofthefriedchickenlegandthebagofdoughnuts.”

“Ichuckeditall.Youdon’texpectmetoeatthegrubyougiveme,doyou?”

“Andwhynot,littleman?Ifyoudon’teat,you’llshrivelupanddie.Everybodyknowsthat.”

“Atleastyoudieslowthatway.Youbiteintosomethingfilledwithpoison,andyoucroakonthespot.”

ForthefirsttimesinceI’dmethim,MasterYehudibrokeintoasmile.IfI’mnotmistaken,Ibelieveheevenwentsofarastolaugh.“You’resayingyoudon’ttrustme,isthatit?”

“You’redamnstraight.Iwouldn’ttrustyouasfarasIcouldthrowadeadmule.”

“Lightenup,squirt,”themastersaid,pattingmeaffectionatelyontheshoulder.“You’remymealticket,remember?Iwouldn’thurtahaironyourhead.”

ThosewerejustwordsasfarasIwasconcerned,andIwasn’tsodumbastoswallowthatkindofsugarytalk.ButthenMasterYehudireachedintohispocket,pulledoutastiffnewdollarbill,andslappeditintomypalm.“Seethatrestaurantoverthere?”hesaid,pointingtoahashhouseinthemiddleofthestation.“Goinandorderyourselfthebiggestlunchyoucanstuffinsidethatbellyofyours,I’llwaitforyououthere.”

“Andwhataboutyou?Yougotsomethingagainsteating?”

“Don’tworryaboutme,”MasterYehudireplied.“Mystomachcantakecareofitself.”Then,justasIwasturningtogo,headded:“Onewordofadvice,pipsqueak.Incaseyou’replanningtorunaway,thisisthetimetodoit.Anddon’tworryaboutthedollar.Youcankeepitforyourtrouble.”

Iwalkedonintotherestaurantbymyself,feelingsomewhatmollifiedby

thosepartingwords.Ifhehadsomesinisterpurpose,thenwhywouldheoffermeachancetoescape?Isatdownatthecounterandaskedfortheblue-platespecialandabottleofsarsaparilla.BeforeIcouldblink,thewaitershovedamountainofcornedbeefandcabbageinfrontofme.ItwasthelargestmealIhadeverencountered,amealaslargeasSportsman’sParkinSaintLouis,andIwolfeddowneverymorselofit,alongwithtwoslicesofbreadandasecondbottleofsarsaparilla.Nothingcancomparetothesenseofwell-beingthatwashedthroughmeatthatfilthylunchcounter.Oncemybellywasfull,Ifeltinvincible,asifnothingcouldharmmeagain.ThecrowningtouchcamewhenIextractedthedollarbillfrommypockettosettlethetab.Thewholethingtoteduptojustforty-fivecents,andevenafterIthrewinanickeltipforthewaiter,thatleftmewithfourbitsinchange.Itdoesn’tsoundlikemuchtoday,buttwoquartersrepresentedafortunetomebackthen.Thisismychancetorun,Itoldmyself,givingthejointtheonce-overasIstoodupfrommystool.Icanslipoutthesidedoor,andthemaninblackwillneverknowwhathithim.ButIdidn’tdoit,andinthatchoicehungtheentirestoryofmylife.Iwentbacktowherethemasterwaswaitingbecausehe’dpromisedtoturnmeintoamillionaire.Onthestrengthofthosefiftycents,Ifigureditmightbeworthittoseeiftherewasanytruthtotheboast.

Wetookanothertrainafterthat,andthenathirdtrainneartheendofthejourneywhichbroughtustothetownofCibolaatseveno’clockthatnight.Silentashehadbeenallmorning,MasterYehudirarelystoppedtalkingfortherestoftheday.Iwasalreadylearningnottomakeanyassumptionsaboutwhathemightormightnotdo.Justwhenyouthoughtyouhadhimpegged,hewouldturnaroundanddotheprecisecontraryofwhatyouwereexpecting.

“YoucancallmeMasterYehudi,”hesaid,announcinghisnametomeforthefirsttime.“Ifyoulike,youcancallmeMasterforshort.Butnever,underanycircumstances,areyoutocallmeYehudi.Isthatclear?”

“IsthatyourGod-givenname,”Isaid,“ordidyouchoosethatmonikeryourself?”

“There’snoneedforyoutoknowmyrealname.MasterYehudiwillbesufficient.”

“Well,I’mWalter.WalterClaireborneRawley.ButyoucancallmeWalt.”

“I’llcallyouanythingIlike.IfIwanttocallyouWorm,I’llcallyouWorm.IfIwanttocallyouPig,I’llcallyouPig.Isthatunderstood?”

“Hell,mister,Idon’tunderstandathingyou’retalkingabout.”

“NorwillItolerateanylyingorduplicity.Noexcuses,nocomplaints,nobacktalk.Onceyoucatchon,you’regoingtobethehappiestboyonearth.”

“Sure.Andifaleglessmanhadlegs,hecouldpissstandingup.”

“Iknowyourstory,son.Soyoudon’thavetoinventanytalltalesforme.IknowhowyourpagotgassedoverinBelgiumin‘seventeen.AndIknowaboutyourma,too,andhowsheusedtoturntricksoverinEastSaintLouisforabuckatumble,andwhathappenedtoherfourandahalfyearsagowhenthatcrazycopturnedhisrevolveronherandblewoffherface.Don’tthinkIdon’tpityyou,boy,butyou’llnevergetanywhereifyoudodgethetruthwhenyou’redealingwithme.”

“Okay,Mr.SmartyPants.Ifyou’vegotalltheanswers,whywasteyourbreathtellingmethingsyoualreadyknow?”

“Becauseyoustilldon’tbelieveawordI’vesaid.Youthinkthisstuffaboutflyingisalotofhotair.You’regoingtoworkhard,Walt,harderthanyou’veeverworkedbefore,andyou’regoingtowanttoquitonmealmosteveryday,butifyoustickwithitandtrustwhatItellyou,attheendofafewyearsyou’llbeabletofly.Iswearit.You’llbeabletoliftyourselfoffthegroundandflythroughtheairlikeabird.”

“I’mfromMissouri,remember?Theydon’tcallittheShow-MeStatefornothing.”

“Well,we’renotinMissourianymore,mylittlefriend.We’reinKansas.Andaflatter,moredesolateplaceyou’veneverseeninyourlife.WhenCoronadoandhismenmarchedthroughherein1540lookingfortheCitiesofGold,theygotsolostthathalfofthemwentinsane.There’snothingtotellyouwhereyouare.Nomountains,notrees,nobumpsintheroad.It’sflatasdeathouthere,andonceyou’vebeenaroundforawhile,you’llunderstandthere’snowheretogobutup—thattheskyistheonlyfriendyouhave.”

Itwasdarkbythetimewepulledintothestation,sotherewasnowaytovouchforthemaster’sdescriptionofmynewhome.AsfarasIcouldtell,thetownwasnodifferentfromwhatyou’dexpecttoseeinalittletown.Atriflecolder,perhaps,andmorethanatrifledarkerthanwhatIwasusedto,butgiventhatIhadneverbeeninalittletownbefore,Ihadnoideawhattoexpect.Everythingwasnewtome:everysmellwasstrange,everystarintheskyseemedunfamiliar.IfsomeonehadtoldmeI’djustenteredtheLandofOz,Idon’tthinkIwouldhaveknownthedifference.

Wewalkedthroughthestationhouseandstoodoutsidethedoorforamomentscanningthedarkvillage.Itwasonlyseveno’clockintheevening,butthewholeplacewaslockedup,andexceptforafewlampsburninginthehousesbeyond,therewasnosignoflifeanywhere.“Don’tworry,”MasterYehudisaid,“ourridewillbealonganyminute.”Hereachedoutandtriedtotakeholdofmyhand,butIyankedmyarmawaybeforehecouldgetafirm

grip.“Keepyourpawstoyourself,Mr.Master,”Isaid.“Youmightthinkyouownmenow,butyoudon’townsquat.”

AboutninesecondsafterIutteredthosewords,abiggrayhorseappearedattheendofthestreetpullingabuckboardwagon.ItlookedlikesomethingfromtheTomMixwesternI’dseenthatsummeratthePicturePalace,butthiswas1924,forChrist’ssake,andwhenIcaughtsightofthatantiquatedvehiclerumblingdownthestreet,Ithoughtitwasanapparition.Butloandbehold,MasterYehudiwavedwhenhesawitcoming,andthenthatoldgrayhorsestoppedrightinfrontofus,sidlinguptothecurbasgustsofsteampouredfromitsnostrils.Thedriverwasaround,chunkyfigureinawide-brimmedhatwhosebodywaswrappedinblankets,andatfirstIcouldn’ttellifitwasaman,awoman,orabear.

“Hello,MotherSue,”themastersaid.“TakealookatwhatIfound.”

Thewomangazedatmeforacoupleofsecondswithblank,stone-coldeyes,andthen,outofnowhere,flashedoneofthewarmest,friendliestsmilesI’veeverhadthepleasuretoreceive.Therecouldn’thavebeenmorethantwoorthreeteethjuttingfromhergums,andfromthewayherdarkeyesglittered,IconcludedthatshewasaGypsy.ShewasMotherSue,theQueenoftheGypsies,andMasterYehudiwasherson,thePrinceofBlackness.TheywereabductingmetotheCastleofNoReturn,andiftheydidn’teatmefordinnerthatnight,theyweregoingtoturnmeintoaslaveyboy,agrovelingeunuchwithanearringinmyearandasilkbandannawrappedaroundmyhead.

“Hopin,sonny,”MotherSuesaid.Hervoicewassodeepandmannish,IwouldhavebeenscaredtodeathifIhadn’tknownshecouldsmile,“You’llseesomeblanketsintheback.Ifyouknowwhat’sgoodforyou,you’lluse‘em.Wegotalongcoldrideaheadofus,andyoudon’twanttogettherewithnofrozenfanny.”

“HisnameisWalt,”themastersaidasheclimbedupbesideher.“Apus-brainedragamuffinfromhonky-tonkrow.Ifmyhunchiscorrect,he’stheoneI’vebeenlookingforalltheseyears.”Then,turninginmydirection,hesaidbrusquely,“ThisisMotherSue,kid.Treathernice,andshe’llgiveyouonlygoodnessinreturn.Crossher,andyou’llregretthedayyouwereborn.Shemightbefatandtoothless,butshe’stheclosestthingtoamotheryou’lleverhave.”

Idon’tknowhowlongittookustogettothehouse.Itwasoutinthecountrysomewhere,sixteenorseventeenmilesfromtown,butIdidn’tlearnthatuntillater,foronceIclimbedinundertheblanketsandthewagonstarteddowntheroad,Ifellfastasleep.WhenIopenedmyeyesagain,wewerealreadythere,andifthemasterhadn’trousedmewithaslapacrosstheface,I

probablywouldhavesleptuntilmorning.

HeledmeintothehouseasMotherSueunhitchedthenag,andthefirstroomweenteredwasthekitchen:abare,dimlylitspacewithawoodstoveinonecornerandakerosenelampflickeringinanother.Ablackboyofaboutfifteenwassittingatthetablereadingabook.Hewasn’tbrownlikemostofthecoloredfolksI’drunacrossbackhome,hewasthecolorofpitch,ablacksoblackitwasalmostblue.Hewasafull-fledgedEthiopian,apickaninnyfromthejunglesofdarkestAfrica,andmyheartjustaboutstoppedbeatingwhenIcaughtsightofhim.Hewasafrail,scrawnyfellowwithbulgingeyesandthoseenormouslips,andassoonashestoodupfromhischairtogreetus,Isawthathisboneswerealltwistedandaskew,thathehadthejagged,hunchbackedbodyofacripple.

“ThisisAesop,”themastersaidtome,“thefinestboywhoeverlived.Sayhellotohim,Walt,andshakehishand.He’sgoingtobeyournewbrother.”

“Iain’tshakinghandswithnonigger,”Isaid.“You’vegottobecrazyifyou’dthinkI’ddoathinglikethat.”

MasterYehudiletoutaloud,prolongedsigh.Itwasn’tanexpressionofdisgustsomuchasofsorrow,amonumentalshudderfromthedepthsofhissoul.Then,withutmostdeliberationandcalm,hecurledtheindexfingerofhisrighthandintoafrozen,beckoninghookandplacedthetipofthathookdirectlyundermychin,attheprecisespotwherethefleshmeetsthebone.Thenhebegantopress,andallatonceahorrificpainshotaroundthebackofmyneckandupintomyskull.Ihadneverfeltpainlikethatbefore.Istruggledtocryout,butmythroatwasblocked,andIcoulddonomorethanproduceasickgaggingnoise.Themastercontinuedtopresswithhisfinger,andpresentlyIfeltmyfeetliftofftheground.Iwastravelingupward,risingintotheairlikeafeather,andthemasterseemedtobeaccomplishingthiswithouttheslightesteffort,asifIwereofnomoreconsequencetohimthanaladybug.Eventually,hehadmeuptowheremyfacewasonalevelwithhisandIwaslookingdirectlyintohiseyes.

“Wedon’ttalklikethataroundhere,boy,”hesaid.“Allmenarebrothers,andinthisfamilyeveryonegetstreatedwithrespect.That’sthelaw.Ifyoudon’tlikeit,lumpit.Thelawisthelaw,andwhoevergoesagainstitisturnedintoaslugandwallowsintheearthfortherestofhisdays.”

Theyfedmeandclothedmeandgavemearoomofmyown.Iwasn’tspankedorpaddled,Iwasn’tkickedaroundorpunchedorboxedontheears,andyettolerableasthingswereforme,Ihadneverbeenmoredownatthemouth,morefilledwithbitternessandpent-upfury.Forthefirstsixmonths,Ithoughtonlyaboutrunningaway.Iwasacityboywhohadgrownupwithjazzinhisblood,astreetkidwithhiseyeonthemainchance,andIlovedthehurly-burlyofcrowds,thescreechoftrolleycarsandthethrobofneon,thestinkofbootlegwhiskeytricklinginthegutters.Iwasaboogie-toedprankster,amidgetscatmanwithaquicktongueandahundredangles,andthereIwasstuckinthemiddleofnowhere,livingunderaskythatbroughtonlyweather—nearlyallofitbad.

MasterYehudi’spropertyconsistedofthirty-sevenacresofdirt,atwo-storyfarmhouse,achickencoop,apigpen,andabarn.Therewereadozenchickensinthecoop,twocowsandthegrayhorseinthebam,andsixorsevenpigsinthepen.Therewasnoelectricity,noplumbing,notelephone,nowireless,nophonograph,nonothing.Theonlysourceofentertainmentwasthepianointheparlor,butAesopwastheonlyonewhocouldplayit,andhemadesuchabotchofeventhesimplestsongsthatIalwayslefttheroomthemomenthesatdownandtouchedhisfingerstothekeys.Thejointwasashithole,theworldcapitalofboredom,andIwasalreadyfedupwithitafteroneday.Theydidn’tevenknowaboutbaseballinthathouse,andIhadnoonetotalktoaboutmybelovedCardinals,whichwasabouttheonlysubjectthatinterestedmebackthen.IfeltasifI’dfallenthroughacrackintimeandlandedinthestoneage,acountrywheredinosaursstillroamedtheearth.AccordingtoMotherSue,MasterYehudihadwonthefarmonabetwithsomefellowinChicagoaboutsevenyearsearlier.Thatmusthavebeensomebet,Isaid.Theloserturnsouttobethewinner,andthewinner’sachumpwhogetstorotawayhisfutureinBungholeville,U.S.A.

Iwasafierylittleduncebackthen,I’lladmitit,butI’mnotgoingtomakeanyapologiesformyself.IwaswhoIwas,aproductofthepeopleandplacesI’dcomefrom,andthere’snopointinwhiningaboutthatnow.Whatimpressesmemostaboutthoseearlymonthsishowpatienttheywere,howwelltheyseemedtounderstandmeandtoleratemyantics.Iranawayfourtimesthatfirstwinter,oncegettingasfarasWichita,andeachtimetheytookmeback,noquestionsasked.Iwasscarcelyahair’sbreadthgreaterthannothing,amoleculeortwoabovethevanishingpointofwhatconstitutesahumanbeing,andsincethemasterreckonedthatmysoulwasnoloftierthanananimal’s,that’swherehestartedmeout:inthebarnwiththeanimals.

MuchasIdetestedtakingcareofthosechickensandpigs,Ipreferredtheir

companytothepeople.ItwasdifficultformetodecidewhichoneIhatedmost,andeverydayIwouldreshuffletheorderofmyanimosities.MotherSueandAesopcameinfortheirfairshareofinnerscorn,butintheenditwasthemasterwhoprovokedmygreatestireandresentment.Hewasthescoundrelwhohadtrickedmeintogoingthere,andifanyonewastoblameforthefixIwasin,hewasthechiefculprit.Whatgalledmemostwashissarcasm,thecracksandinsultshehurledconstantlyinmydirection,thewayhewouldridemeandhoundmefornoreasonbuttoprovehowworthlessIwas.Withtheothertwohewasalwayspolite,amodelofdecorum,butherarelywastedanopportunitytosaysomethingmean-spiritedonmyaccount.Itstartedtheveryfirstmorning,andafterthatheneverletup.Beforelong,IrealizedthathewasnobetterthanUncleSlim.HemightnothavethrashedmethewaySlimdid,butthemaster’swordshadpower,andtheyhurtjustasmuchasanyblowtothehead.

“Well,myfine-featheredrascal,”hesaidtomethatfirstmorning,“givemethelowdownonwhatyouknowaboutthethreeR’s.”

“Three?”Isaid,goingforthequick,wise-guyretort.“Iain’tgotbutonearse,andIuseiteverytimeIsitdown.Sameaseverybodyelse.”

“Imeanschool,youtwerp.Haveyoueversetfootinaclassroom—andifso,whatdidyoulearnthere?”

“Idon’tneednoschooltoteachmethings.I’vegotbetterwaysofspendingmytimethanthat.”

“Excellent.Spokenlikeatruescholar.Butbemorespecific.Whataboutthealphabet?Canyouwritethelettersofthealphabetornot?”

“Someofthem.Theonesthatservemypurpose.Theothersdon’tmatter.Theyjustgivemeapain,soIdon’tworryaboutthem.”

“Andwhichonesserveyourpurpose?”

“Well,let’ssee.There’stheA,Ilikethatone,andtheW.Thenthere’sthewhatchamacallit,theL,andtheE,andtheR,andtheonethatlookslikeacross.TheT.AsinT-bonesteak.Thoselettersaremybuddies,andtherestcangofryinhellforallIcare.”

“Soyouknowhowtowriteyourname.”

“That’swhatI’mtellingyou,boss.Icanwritemyname,Icancounttokingdomcome,andIknowthatthesunisastarinthesky.Ialsoknowthatbooksareforgirlsandsissies,andifyou’replanningtoteachmeanythingoutofbooks,wecancalloffourarrangementrightnow.”

“Don’tfret,kid.Whatyou’vejusttoldmeismusictomyears.Thedumber

youare,thebetteritisforbothofus.There’slesstoundothatway,andthat’sgoingtosaveusalotoftime.”

“Andwhatabouttheflyinglessons?Whendowestartwiththem?”

“We’vealreadystarted.Fromnowon,everythingwedoisconnectedtoyourtraining.Thatwon’talwaysbeapparenttoyou,sotrytokeepitinmind.Ifyoudon’tforget,you’llbeabletohangintherewhenthegoinggetsrough.We’reembarkingonalongjourney,son,andthefirstthingIhavetodoisbreakyourspirit.Iwishitcouldbesomeotherway,butitcan’t.Consideringthemuckyouspringfrom,thatshouldn’tbetoohardatask.”

SoIspentmydaysshovelingmanureinthebarn,freezingmyeyebrowsoffastheotherssatsnugandcozyinthehouse.MotherSuetookcareofthecookinganddomesticchores,Aesoploungedaroundonthesofareadingbooks,andMasterYehudididnothingatall.Hisprincipaloccupationseemedtobesittingonastraight-backedwoodenchairfromsunrisetosundownandlookingoutthewindow.ExceptforhisconversationswithAesop,thatwastheonlythingIsawhimdountilspring.Isometimeslistenedinwhenthetwoofthemtalked,butIcouldnevermakesenseofwhattheyweresaying.Theyusedsomanycomplicatedwords,itwasasiftheywerecommunicatingintheirownprivategibberish.Lateron,whenIsettledintotheswingofthingsabitmore,Ilearnedthattheywerestudying.MasterYehudihadtakenituponhimselftoeducateAesopintheliberalarts,andthebookstheyreadconcernedanynumberofdifferentsubjects:history,science,literature,mathematics,Latin,French,andsoon.Hehadhisprojectofteachingmetofly,buthewasalsoengagedinturningAesopintoascholar,andasfarasIcouldtellthatsecondprojectmeantalotmoretohimthanminedid.Asthemasterputittomeonemorningnotlongaftermyarrival:“Hewasevenworseoffthanyouwere,runt.WhenIfoundhimtwelveyearsago,hewascrawlingthroughacottonfieldinGeorgiadressedinrags.Hehadn’teatenintwodays,andhismama,whowasnomorethanachildherself,laydeadfromTBintheirshackfourteenmilesdowntheroad.That’showfarthekidhadwanderedfromhome.Hewasdeliriouswithhungerbythen,andifIhadn’tchanceduponhimatthatparticularmoment,there’snotellingwhatwouldhavehappened.Hisbodymightbecontortedintoatragicshape,buthismindisagloriousinstrument,andhe’salreadysurpassedmeinmostfields.Myplanistosendhimtocollegeinthreeyears.Hecancontinuehisstudiesthere,andoncehegraduatesandgoesoutintotheworld,he’llbecomealeaderofhisrace,ashiningexampletoallthedowntroddenblackfolksofthisviolent,hypocriticalcountry.”Icouldn’tmakeheadortailofwhatthemasterwastalkingabout,buttheloveinhisvoiceburnedthroughtomeandimpresseditselfonmymind.Forallmystupidity,Iwasabletounderstandthatmuch.

HelovedAesopasifhewerehisownson,andIwasnobetterthanamutt,amongrelbeasttobespatonandleftoutintherain.

MotherSuewasmycompanioninignorance,myfellowilliterateandsluggard,andwhilethatmighthavehelpedtocreateabondbetweenus,itdidnothingofthesort.Therewasnooverthostilityinher,butatthesametimeshegavemethewillies,andIthinkittookmelongertoadjusttoheroddnessesthanitdidwiththetwoothers—whocouldhardlybecallednormalthemselves.Evenwiththeblanketsremovedfromherbodyandthehatgonefromherhead,Ihadtroubledeterminingwhichsexshebelongedto.Ifoundthatdistressingsomehow,andevenafterIglimpsedhernakedthroughthekeyholeofherdoorandsawwithmyowneyesthatshepossessedapairoftittiesandhadnomemberdanglingfromherbush,Istillwasn’tentirelyconvinced.Herhandsweretoughlikeaman’s,shehadbroadshouldersandmusclesthatbulgedinherupperarms,andexceptwhensheflashedmeoneofherrareandbeautifulsmiles,herfacewasasremoteandungivingasablockofwood.That’sclosertowhatunsettledme,perhaps:hersilence,thewaysheseemedtolookthroughmeasifIwasn’tthere.Inthepeckingorderofthehousehold,Istooddirectlybelowher,whichmeantthatIhadmoredealingswithMotherSuethanwithanyoneelse.Shewastheonewhodoledoutmychoresandcheckeduponme,whomadesureIwashedmyfaceandbrushedmyteethbeforegoingtobed,andyetforallthehoursIspentinhercompany,shemademefeellonelierthanifIhadbeentrulyalone.Ahollowed-outsensationcreptintomybellywhenevershewasaround,asifjustbeingnearherwouldstarttomakemeshrink.Itdidn’tmatterhowIbehaved.Icouldjumpupanddownorstandstill,Icouldhollermyheadofforholdmytongue,andtheresultsnevervaried.MotherSuewasawall,andeverytimeIapproachedthatwallIwasturnedintoapuffofsmoke,atinycloudofashesscatteringinthewind.

TheonlyonewhoshowedmeanygenuinekindnesswasAesop,butIwasagainsthimfromthestart,andtherewasnothinghecouldsayordothatwouldeverchangethat.Icouldn’thelpmyself.Itwasinmybloodtofeelcontemptforhim,andgiventhathewastheugliestspecimenofhiskindI’deverhadthemisfortunetosee,itstruckmeaspreposterousthatwewerelivingunderthesameroof.Itwentagainstthelawsofnature,ittransgressedeverythingthatwasholyandproper,andIwouldn’tallowmyselftoacceptit.WhenyouthrewinthefactthatAesoptalkedlikenoothercoloredboyonthefaceoftheearth—morelikeanEnglishlordthananAmerican—andthenthrewintheadditionalfactthathewasthemaster’sfavorite,Icouldn’teventhinkabouthimwithoutsuccumbingtoanonslaughtofnerves.Tomakemattersworse,Ihadtokeepmymouthshutwheneverhewasaround.Afewchoiceremarkswouldhaveblownoffsomeofmyrage,Ithink,butI

rememberedthemaster’sfingerthrustingundermychin,andIwasinnomoodtosubmittothattortureagain.

TheworstpartofitwasthatAesopdidn’tseemtocarethatIdespisedhimsomuch.Iperfectedawholerepertoireofscowlsandgrimacestouseinhiscompany,butwheneverIshotoneofthoselooksinhisdirection,hewouldjustshakehisheadandsmiletohimself.Itmademefeellikeanidiot.NomatterhowhardItriedtohurthim,heneverletmegetunderhisskin,nevergavemethesatisfactionofscoringapointagainsthim.Hewasn’tsimplywinningthewarbetweenus,hewaswinningeverydamnedbattleofthatwar,andIfiguredthatifIcouldn’tevenbestablackdevilinafairexchangeofinsults,thenthewholeofthatKansasprairiemusthavebeenbewitched.I’dbeenshanghaiedtoalandofbaddreams,andthemoreIstruggledtowakeup,thescarierthenightmarebecame.

“Youtrytoohard,”Aesopsaidtomeoneafternoon.“You’resoconsumedwithyourownrighteousness,it’smadeyoublindtothethingsaroundyou.Andifyoucan’tseewhat’sinfrontofyournose,you’llneverbeabletolookatyourselfandknowwhoyouare.”

“IknowwhoIam,”Isaid.“Thereain’tnobodycanstealthatfromme.”

“Themasterisn’tstealinganythingfromyou.He’sgivingyouthegiftofgreatness.”

“Look,domeafavor,willyou?Don’tmentionthatbuzzard’snamewhenI’maround.Hegivesmethecreeps,thatmasterofyours,andthelessIhavetothinkabouthim,thebetteroffI’mgoingtobe.”

“Helovesyou,Walt.Hebelievesinyouwitheveryounceofhissoul.”

“Thehellhedoes.Thatfakerdon’tgivearat’sassaboutnothing.He’sthekingofthegypsiesiswhatheis,andifhe’sgotanysoulatall—whichI’mnotsayinghedoes—thenit’spackedwithevilthroughandthrough.”

“Kingofthegypsies?”Aesop’seyesbuggedoutinamazement.“Isthatwhatyouthink?”Theideamusthaveboppedhimonthefunnybone,foramomentlaterhegrabbedhisstomachandstartedshakinginafitoflaughter.“Yousureknowhowtocomeupwithsomegoodones,”hesaid,wipingthetearsfromhiseyes.“Whatoneartheverputthatnotioninyourhead?”

“Well,”Isaid,feelingmycheeksblushwithembarrassment,“ifheain’tnogypsy,whatthehellishe,then?”

“AHungarian.”

“Awhat?”Istammered.ItwasthefirsttimeI’deverheardanyoneusethatword,andIwassoflummoxedbyitthatImomentarilylostthepowerof

speech.

“AHungarian.HewasborninBudapestandcametoAmericaasayoungboy.HegrewupinBrooklyn,NewYork,andbothhisfatherandgrandfatherwererabbis.”

“Andwhat’sthat,somelesserformofrodent?”

“It’saJewishteacher.Sortoflikeaministerorpriest,onlyforJews.”

“Wellnow,”Isaid,“thereyougo.Thatexplainseverything,don’tit?He’sworsethanagypsy,oldDoctorDarkBrows—he’sakike.Thereain’tnothingworsethanthatonthewholemiserableplanet.”

“You’dbetternotlethimhearyoutalkinglikethat,”Aesopsaid.

“Iknowmrights,”Isaid.“AndnoJewmanisgoingtoshovemearound,Iswearit.”

“Easydoesit,Walt.You’reonlyaskingfortrouble.”

“Andwhataboutthatwitch,MotherSue?IssheanotheroneofthemHebes?”

Aesopshookhisheadandstareddownattheground.Myvoicewasseethingwithsuchanger,hecouldn’tbringhimselftolookmeintheeyes.“No,”hesaid.“She’sanOglalaSioux.HergrandfatherwasSittingBull’sbrother,andwhenshewasyoung,shewasthetopbarebackriderinBuffaloBill’sWildWestShow.”

“You’reshittingme.”

“Iwouldn’tdreamofit.WhatI’mtellingyouisthepure,unvarnishedtruth.You’relivinginthesamehousewithaJew,ablackman,andanIndian,andthesooneryouacceptthefacts,thehappieryourlifeisgoingtobe.”

I’dheldonforthreeweeksuntilthen,butafterthatconversationwithAesopIknewIcouldn’tstanditanymore.Ilitoutoftherethatsamenight—waitinguntileveryonewasasleepandthencrawlingoutofthecovers,sneakingdownthestairs,andtiptoeingintothefrigidDecemberdarkness.Therewasnomoonoverhead,notevenastartoshinedownonme,andthemomentIcrossedthethreshold,Iwasstruckbyawindsofiercethatitblewmestraightbackagainstthesideofthehouse.Myboneswerenostrongerthancottoninthatwind.Thenightwasaroarwithclamor,andtheairrushedandboomedasifitcarriedthevoiceofGod,howlingdownitswrathonanycreaturefoolishenoughtoriseagainstit.Ibecamethatfool,andtimeandagainIpickedmyselfoffthegroundandfoughtmywayintotheteethofthemaelstrom,spinningaroundlikeapinwheelasIinchedmybodyintotheyard.Aftertenortwelvetries,Iwasallwornout,aspentandbatteredhulk.I

hadmadeitasfarasthepigpen,andjustasIwasabouttoscrambletomykneesoncemore,myeyesshutonmeandIlostconsciousness.Hourspassed.Iwokeatthecrackofdawnandfoundmyselfencircledbyfourslumberingpigs.IfIhadn’tlandedamongthoseswine,there’sagoodchanceIwouldhavefrozentodeathduringthenight.Thinkingaboutitnow,Isupposeitwasamiracle,butwhenIopenedmyeyesthatmorningandsawwhereIwas,thefirstthingIdidwasjumptomyfeetandspit,cursingmyrottenluck.

IhadnodoubtthatMasterYehudiwasresponsibleforwhathadhappened.Inthatearlystageofourhistorytogether,Iattributedallsortsofsupernaturalpowerstohim,andIwasfullyconvincedthathehadbroughtforththatferociouswindfornootherreasonthantostopmefromrunningaway.Forseveralweeksafterthat,myheadfilledwithamultitudeofwildtheoriesandspeculations.ThescariestonehadtodowithAesop—andmygrowingcertaintythathehadbeenbornawhiteperson.Itwasaterriblethingtocontemplate,butalltheevidenceseemedtosupportmyconclusion.Hetalkedlikeawhiteperson,didn’the?Heactedlikeawhiteperson,hethoughtlikeawhiteperson,heplayedthepianolikeawhiteperson,andjustbecausehisskinwasblack,whyshouldIbelievemyeyeswhenmyguttoldmesomethingelse?Theonlyanswerwasthathehadbeenbornwhite.Yearsago,themasterhadchosenhimashisfirststudentintheartofflying.He’dtoldAesoptojumpfromtheroofofthebarn,andAesophadjumped—butinsteadofcatchingthewindcurrentsandsoaringthroughtheair,he’dfallentothegroundandbrokeneveryboneinhisbody.Thataccountedforhispitiful,lopsidedframe,butthen,tomakemattersevenworse,MasterYehudihadpunishedhimforhisfailure.InvokingthepowerofahundredJewishdemons,he’dpointedhisfingerathisdiscipleandturnedhimintoaghastlynigger.Aesop’slifehadbeendestroyed,andIhadnodoubtthatthesamefatewasinstoreforme.NotonlywouldIwindupwithblackskinandacrippledbody,butIwouldbeforcedtospendtherestofmydaysstudyingbooks.

Iabscondedforthesecondtimeinthemiddleoftheafternoon.Thenighthadthwartedmewithitsmagic,soIcounteredwithanewstrategyandstoleoffinbroaddaylight,figuringthatifIcouldseewhereIwasgoing,therewouldn’tbeanygoblinstomenacemysteps.Forthefirsthourortwo,everythingwentaccordingtoplan.IslippedoutofthebarnjustafterlunchandheadeddowntheroadtoCibola,intentonmaintainingabriskpaceandreachingtownbeforedark.FromthereIwasgoingtohitcharideonafreighttrainandwendmywaybackeast.IfIdidn’tmessup,intwenty-fourhoursI’dbestrollingdowntheboulevardsofdearoldSaintLouis.

SothereIwas,joggingalongthatflatdustyhighwaywiththefieldmiceandthecrows,feelingmoreandmoreconfidentwitheachstepItook,when

allofasuddenIglancedupandsawabuckboardwagonapproachingfromtheoppositedirection.ItlookedsurprisinglylikethewagonthatbelongedtoMasterYehudi,butsinceI’djustseenthatoneinthebarnbeforeIleft,Ishruggeditoffasacoincidenceandkeptonwalking.WhenIgottowithinabouttwelveyardsofit,Iglancedupagain.Mytonguefrozetotheroofofmymouth;myeyeballsdroppedfromtheirsocketsandclatteredatmyfeet.ItwasMasterYehudi’swagonallright,andsittingontopofthatwagonwasnoneotherthanthemasterhimself,lookingdownatmewithabigsmileonhisface.Heeasedthewagontoahaltandtippedhishattomeinacasual,friendlysortofway.

“Howdy,son.Abitnippyforastrollthisafternoon,don’tyouthink?”

“Theweathersuitsmefine,”Isaid.“Atleastafellowcanbreatheouthere.Youstayinoneplacetoolong,youstarttochokeonyourownexhaust.”

“Sure,Iknowhowitis.Everyboyneedstostretchhislegs.Buttheoutingisovernow,andit’stimetogohome.Hoistyourselfaboard,Walt,andwellseeifwecan’tgettherebeforetheothersnoticewe’vebeengone.”

Ididn’thavemuchchoice,soIclimbedupandsatmyselfbesidehimasheflickedthereinsandgotthehorsegoingagain.Atleasthewasn’ttreatingmewithhiscustomaryrudeness,andburnedasIwasthatmyescapehadbeenfoiled,Iwasn’tabouttolethimknowwhatI’dbeenupto.He’dprobablyguessedthatanyway,butratherthanrevealhowdisappointedIwas,Ipretendedtoplayalongwiththebusinessaboutbeingoutforawalk.

“Itain’tgoodforaboytobecoopedupsomuch,”Isaid.“Itmakeshimsadandfoul-tempered,andthenhedon’tgetdowntohischoresintherightspirit.Ifyougiveaguyalittlefreshair,he’sthatmuchmorewillingtodohiswork.”

“Ihearwhatyou’resaying,chum,”themastersaid,“andIunderstandeverywordofit.”

“Well,what’sitgonnabe,captain?IknowCibolaain’tmuchofaburg,butI’llbettheygotapictureshoworsomething.Itmightbenicetogothereoneevening.Youknow,alittlejaunttobreakthemonotony.Orelsemaybethere’saballclubaroundhere,oneofthemminorleagueoutfits.Whenspringcomes,whynotlet’stakeinagameortwo?Itdon’thavetobenobig-timestuffliketheCards.Imean,ClassDisokaywithme.Justaslongastheyusebatsandballs,youwon’thearawordofcomplaintfromthiscorner.Youneverknow,sir.Ifyougiveithalfachance,youmighteventakeashinetoityourself.”

“I’msureIwould.Butthere’samountainofworkstillinfrontofus,andin

themeantimethefamilyhastolielow.Themoreinvisiblewemakeourselves,thesaferwe’regoingtobe.Idon’twanttoscareyou,butthingsaren’tasdullinthisneighborhoodastheymightseem.Wehavesomepowerfulenemiesaroundhere,andthey’renottoothrilledbyourpresenceintheircounty.Alotofthemwouldn’tmindifwesuddenlystoppedbreathing,andwedon’twanttoprovokethembystruttingourmotleyselvesinpublic.”

“Aslongaswemindourownbusiness,whocareswhatotherfolksthink?”

“That’sjustit.Somepeoplethinkourbusinessistheirbusiness,andIaimtokeepawideberthofthosemeddlers.Doyoufollowme,Walt?”

ItoldhimIdid,butthetruthwasIdidn’tfollowhimatall.TheonlythingIknewwasthattherewerepeoplewhowantedtokillmeandthatIwasn’tallowedtogotoanyballgames.Noteventhesympathetictoneinthemaster’svoicecouldmakemeunderstandthat,andallduringtheridehomeIkepttellingmyselftobestrongandneversaydie.SoonerorlaterI’dfindawaytogetoutofthere,soonerorlaterI’dleavethatVoodooManinthedust.

Mythirdattemptfailedjustasmiserablyastheothertwo.Ileftinthemorningthattime,andeventhoughImadeittotheoutskirtsofCibola,MasterYehudiwaswaitingformeagain,perchedonthebuckboardwagonwiththatsameself-satisfiedgrinspreadacrosshisface.Iwasutterlydisarrangedbythatepisode.Unliketheprevioustime,Icouldnolongerdismisshisbeingthereasamatterofchance.ItwasasifhehadknownIwasgoingtorunawaybeforeIknewitmyself.Thebastardwasinsidemyhead,suckingoutthejuicesofmybrain,andnotevenmyinnermostthoughtscouldbehiddenfromhim.

Still,Ididn’tgiveup.Iwasjustgoingtohavetobemoreclever,moremethodicalinthewayIwentaboutit.Afteramplereflection,Iconcludedthattheprimarycauseofmytroubleswasthefarmitself.Icouldn’tgetoutoftherebecausetheplacewassowell-organized,sothoroughlyself-sufficient.Wehadmilkandbutterfromthecows,eggsfromthechickens,meatfromthepigs,vegetablesfromtherootcellar,abundantstoresofflour,salt,sugar,andcloth,anditwasunnecessaryforanyonetogototowntostockuponsupplies.Butwhatifweranoutofsomething,Itoldmyself,whatiftherewasasuddenshortageofsomevitalsomethingwecouldn’tlivewithout?Themasterwouldhavetogooffformore,wouldn’the?Andassoonashewasgone,I’dsneakoutofthereandmakemyescape.

Itwasallsosimple,Inearlygaggedforjoywhenthisideacametome.ItmusthavebeenFebruarybythen,andforthenextmonthorsoIthoughtoflittleelsebutsabotage.Mymindchurnedwithcountlessplotsandschemes,conjuringupactsofuntoldterroranddevastation.IfiguredIwouldstart

small—slashingabagofflourortwo,maybepissingintothesugarbarrel—butifthosethingsfailedtoproducethedesiredresult,Iwasn’taversetomoregrandioseformsofvandalism:releasingthechickensfromtheircoop,forexample,orslittingthethroatsofthepigs.Therewasn’tanythingIwasn’twillingtodotogetoutofthere,andifpushcametoshove,Iwasevenpreparedtosetthestrawonfireandbumdownthebarn.

NoneofitworkedoutasIimagineditwould.Ihadmyopportunities,buteachtimeIwasabouttoputaplanintooperation,mynervemysteriouslyfailedme.Fearwouldwellupinmylungs,myheartwouldbegintoflutter,andjustasmyhandwaspoisedtocommitthedeed,aninvisibleforcewouldrobmeofmystrength.Nothinglikethathadeverhappenedbefore.Ihadalwaysbeenamischief-makerthroughandthrough,infullcommandofmyimpulsesanddesires.IfIwantedtodosomething,Ijustwentaheadanddidit,plunginginwiththerecklessnessofabornoutlaw.NowIwasstymied,blockedbyastrangeparalysisofwill,andIdespisedmyselfforactinglikesuchacoward,couldnotcomprehendhowatruantofmycalibercouldhavesunksolow.MasterYehudihadbeatenmetothepunchagain.He’dturnedmeintoapuppet,andthemoreIstruggledtodefeathim,thetighterhepulledthestrings.

IwentthroughamonthofhellbeforeIfoundthecouragetogiveitanothershot.Thistime,luckseemedtobewithme.Nottenminutesafterhittingtheroad,Iwaspickedupbyapassingmotorist,andhedrovemeallthewaytoWichita.HewasaboutthenicestfellowI’devermet,acollegeboyonhiswaytoseehisfiancée,andwegotalongfromthewordgo,regalingeachotherwithstoriesforthewholetwoandahalfhours.IwishIcouldrememberhisname.Hewasasandy-hairedlummoxwithfrecklesaroundhisnoseandaniftylittleleathercap.Forsomereason,Irememberthathisgirlfriend’snamewasFrancine,butthatmusthavebeenbecausehetalkedabouthersomuch,goingonatlengthabouttherosynipplesonherbreastsandthelacyfrillsattachedtoherundies.LeatherCaphadashinynewFordroadster,andhespeddownthatemptyhighwayasiftherewasnotomorrow.IgotthegigglesIfeltsofreeandhappy,andthemoreweyackedaboutonethingandanother,thefreerandhappierIfelt.I’dreallydoneitthistime,Itoldmyself.I’dreallybustedoutofthere,andfromnowonthere’dbenostoppingme.

Ican’tsaypreciselywhatIwasexpectingfromWichita,butitcertainlywasn’tthedrearylittlecowtownIdiscoveredthatafternoonin1925.TheplacewasPodunkCity,apimpleofyawnsonabarewhitebutt.Wherewerethesaloonsandthegunslingersandtheprofessionalcardsharks?WherewasWyattEarp?WhateverWichitahadbeeninthepast,itspresentincarnationwasasober,joylessmuddleofshopsandhouses,atownbuiltsolowtothe

groundthatyourelbowknockedagainsttheskywheneveryoupausedtoscratchyourhead.I’dfiguredI’dgetsomescamgoingformyself,hangaroundforafewdayswhileIbuiltupmynestegg,andthentravelbacktoSaintLouisinstyle.Aquicktourofthestreetsconvincedmetobagthatnotion,andhalfanhourafterI’darrived,Iwasalreadylookingforatraintogetmeoutofthere.

Ifeltsoglumanddejected,Ididn’tevennoticethatithadstartedtosnow.Marchwastheworstseasonforstormsinthatcountry,butthedayhaddawnedsobrightandclear,ithadn’tevenoccurredtometothinktheweathermightchange.Itbeganwithasmallflurry,afewsprinklesofwhitenessslitheringthroughtheclouds,butasIcontinuedmywalkacrosstowninsearchoftheraildepot,theflakesgrewthickerandmoreintense,andwhenIstoppedtocheckmybearingsfiveortenminuteslater,Iwasalreadyuptomyanklesinthestuff.Snowwasfallingbythebucketful.BeforeIcouldsaythewordblizzard,thewindkickedupandstartedwhirlingthesnowaroundinalldirectionsatonce.Itwasuncannyhowfastithappened.Oneminute,I’dbeenwalkingthroughthestreetsofdowntownWichita,andthenextminuteIwaslost,stumblingblindlythroughawhitetempest.IhadnoclueastowhereIwasanymore.Iwasshiveringundermywetclothes,thewindwasinafrenzy,andIwassmackinthemiddleofit,turningaroundincircles.

I’mnotsurehowlongIblunderedthroughthatglop.Nolessthanthreehours,Iwouldthink,perhapsasmanyasfiveorsix.Ihadreachedtowninthelateafternoon,andIwasstillonmyfeetafter’nightfall,pushingmywaythroughthemountainousdrifts,hemmedinuptomyknees,thenuptomywaist,thenuptomyneck,franticallylookingforshelterbeforethesnowswallowedmyentirebody.Ihadtokeepmoving.Theslightestpausewouldburyme,andbeforeIcouldfightmywayout,I’deitherfreezetodeathorsuffocate.SoIkeptonstrugglingforward,eventhoughIknewitwashopeless,eventhoughIknewthateachstepwascarryingmeclosertomyend.Wherearethelights?Ikeptaskingmyself.Iwaswanderingfartherandfartherawayfromtown,outintothecountrysidewherenoonelived,andyeteverytimeIshiftedcourse,Ifoundmyselfinthesamedarkness,surroundedbyunbrokennightandcold.

Afterawhile,nothingfeltrealtomeanymore.Mymindhadstoppedworking,andifmybodywasstilldraggingmealong,itwasonlybecauseitdidn’tknowanybetter.WhenIsawthefaintglowoflightinthedistance,itscarcelyregisteredwithme.Istaggeredtowardit,nomoreconsciousofwhatIwasdoingthanamothiswhenitzeroesinonacandle.AtmostItookitforadream,anillusioncastbeforemebytheshadowsofdeath,andeventhoughIkeptitinfrontofmethewholetime,IsenseditwouldbegonebeforeIgot

there.

Idon’tremembercrawlingupthestepsofthehouseorstandingonthefrontporch,butIcanstillseemyhandreachingoutforthewhiteporcelaindoorknob,andIrecallmysurprisewhenIfelttheknobturnandthelatchclickedopen.Isteppedintothehallway,andeverythingwassobrightinthere,sointolerablyradiant,thatIwasforcedtoshutmyeyes.WhenIopenedthemagain,awomanwasstandinginfrontofme—abeautifulwomanwithredhair.Shewaswearingalongwhitedress,andherblueeyeswerelookingatmewithsuchwonder,suchanexpressionofalarm,thatIalmostburstintotears.Forasecondortwo,itcrossedmymindthatshewasmymother,andthen,whenIrememberedthatmymotherwasdead,IrealizedthatImustbedeadmyselfandhadjustwalkedthroughthepearlygates.

“Lookatyou,”thewomansaid.“Youpoorboy.Justlookatyou.”

“Forgivetheintrusion,ma’am,”Isaid.“MynameisWalterRawley,andI’mnineyearsold.Iknowthismightsoundstrange,butI’dappreciateitifyoutoldmewhereIam.Ihaveafeelingthisisheaven,andthatdon’tseemrighttome.AfteralltherottenthingsIdone,IalwaysfiguredI’dwindupinhell.”

“Ohdear,”thewomansaid.“Justlookatyou.You’rehalffrozentodeath.Comeintotheparlorandwarmyourselfbythefire.”

BeforeIcouldrepeatmyquestion,shetookmebythehandandledmearoundthestaircasetothefrontroom.Justassheopenedthedoor,Iheardhersay,“Darling,getthisboy’sclothesoffhimandsithimbythefire.I’mgoingupstairstofetchsomeblankets.”

SoIcrossedthethresholdbymyself,steppingintothewarmthoftheparlorasclumpsofsnowdroppedoffmeandstartedmeltingatmyfeet.Amanwassittingatasmalltableinthecorner,drinkingcoffeefromadelicatechinacup.Hewasnattilydressedinapearl-graysuit,andhishairwasslickedbackwithnopart,glisteningwithbrilliantineintheyellowlamplight.Iwasabouttosaysomethingtohimwhenhelookedupandsmiled,andrightthenandthereIknewthatIwasdeadandhadgonestraighttohell.OfalltheshocksI’vesufferedinmylongcareer,nonewasgreaterthantheelectrocutionIreceivedthatnight.

“Nowyouknow,”themastersaid.“Whereveryouturn,that’swhereI’mgoingtobe.Howeverfaryourun,I’llalwaysbewaitingforyouattheotherend.MasterYehudiiseverywhere,Walt,anditisn’tpossibletoescapehim.”

“Yougoddamnson-of-a-bitch,”Isaid.“Youdouble-crossingskunk.Youshit-facedbagofgarbage.”

“Watchyourtongue,boy.ThisisMrs.Witherspoon’shouse,andshewon’tcountenanceanyswearinghere.Ifyoudon’twanttogetturnedoutintothatstorm,you’llstripoffthoseclothesandbehaveyourself.”

“Makeme,youbigJewturd,”Ispatbackathim.“Justtryandmakeme.”

Butthemasterdidn’thavetodoanything.AsecondafterIgavehimthatanswer,Ifeltafloodofhot,saltytearsgushdownmycheeks.Itookadeepbreath,gatheringasmuchairintomylungsasIcould,andthenIletloosewithahowl,ascreamofpure,unbridledwretchedness.Bythetimeitwashalfwayoutofme,mythroatfeltallhoarseandchokedup,andmyheadbegantospin.Istoppedtotakeanotherbreath,andthen,beforeIknewwhatwashappening,Iblackedoutandfelltothefloor.

Iwassickforalongtimeafterthat.Mybodyhadcaughtfire,andasthefeverburnedwithinme,itlookedmoreandmoreasthoughmynextmailingaddresswasgoingtobeawoodenbox.IspentthefirstdaysinMrs.Witherspoon’shouse,languishingintheupstairsguestroom,butIremembernoneofthat.NordoIrememberbeingtakenbackhome,noranythingelseforthatmatteruntilseveralweekshadpassed.Accordingtowhattheytoldme,IwouldhavebeenagonerifnotforMotherSue—orMotherSioux,asIeventuallycametothinkofher.Shesatbymybedaroundtheclock,changingcompressesandpouringspoonfulsofliquiddownmythroat,andthreetimesadayshewouldgetupfromherchairanddoadancearoundmybed,beatingoutaspecialrhythmonherOglaladrumasshechantedprayerstotheGreatSpirit,imploringhimtolookdownonmewithsympathyandmakemewellagain.Idon’tsupposeitcouldhavehurtthecause,fornoprofessionaldoctorwasevercalledintoexamineme,andconsideringthatIdidcomeroundandmakeafullrecovery,it’spossiblethathermagicwaswhatdidthetrick.

Nooneevergaveamedicalnametomyillness.MyownthoughtwasthatithadbeenbroughtonbythehoursI’dspentinthestorm,butthemasterdismissedthatexplanationasofnoaccount.ItwastheAcheofBeing,hesaid,anditwasboundtostrikemedownsoonerorlater.ThepoisonshadtobepurgedfrommysystembeforeIcouldadvancetothenextplateauofmytraining,andwhatmighthavedraggedonforanothersixorninemonths(withcountlessskirmishesbetweenus)hadbeencutshortbyourfortuitiousencounterinWichita.Ihadbeenjoltedintosubmission,hesaid,crushedbytheknowledgethatIwouldnevertriumphagainsthim,andthatmentalblowhadbeenthesparkthattriggeredofftheillness.Afterthat,therancorwascleansedoutofme,andwhenIwokefromthenightmareofmyneardeath,thehatredfesteringinsidemehadbeentransformedintolove.

Idon’twanttocontradictthemaster’sopinion,butitseemstomethatmyturnaroundwasagooddealsimplerthanthat.Itmighthavestartedjustaftermyfeverwentdown,whenIwokeupandsawMotherSiouxsittingbesidemewithoneofthoserapturous,beatificsmilesonherface.“Fancythat,”shesaid.“MylittleWalnut’sbackinthelandoftheliving.”Therewassuchgladnessinhervoice,suchanobviousconcernformywell-being,thatsomethinginsidemestartedtomelt.“Nosweat,SisterMa,”Isaid,barelyconsciousofwhatIwassaying.“I’vejustbeensnoozingisall.”Iimmediatelyshutmyeyesandsankbackintomytorpor,butjustasIwasdriftingoff,IdistinctlyfeltMotherSioux’slipsbrushagainstmycheek.Itwasthefirstkissanyonehadgivenmesincemymotherdied,anditbroughtonsuchawarmandwelcomingglow,IrealizedthatIdidn’tcarewhereithad

comefrom.IfthatchubbyIndiansquawwantedtonuzzlewithmelikethat,thenbyGodlether,Iwasn’tgoingtostandinherway.

Thatwasthefirststep,Ithink,buttherewereotherincidentsaswell,nottheleastofwhichoccurredafewdayslater,atamomentwhenmyfeverhadshotbackupagain.Iawokeintheearlyafternoontofindtheroomempty.Iwasabouttocrawloutofbedtomakeastabatusingthechamberpot,butonceIdisentangledmyearsfromthepillow,Iheardwhisperingoutsidemydoor.MasterYehudiandAesopwerestandinginthehall,engagedinahushedconversation,andthoughIcouldn’tmakeouteverythingtheysaid,Icaughtenoughtodeterminethegist.Aesopwasouttheregivingittothemaster,standinguptothebigmanandtellinghimnottobesohardonme.Icouldn’tbelievewhatIwashearing.AfterallthetroubleandunpleasantnessIhadcausedhim,IfeltmortallyashamedofmyselftoknowthatAesopwasonmyside.“You’vecrushedthesouloutofhim,”hewhispered,“andnowhe’sintherelyingonhisdeathbed.It’snotfair,master.Iknowhe’sahell-raiserandascamp,butthere’smorethanjustrebellioninhisheart.I’vefeltit,I’veseenitwithmyowneyes.AndevenifI’mwrong,hestillwouldn’tdeservethekindoftreatmentyou’vegivenhim.Noonedoes.”

Itfeltextraordinarytohavesomeonespeakupformelikethat,butevenmoreextraordinarywasthatAesop’sharanguedidnotfallondeafears.Thatverynight,asIlaytossingandturninginthedark,MasterYehudihimselfcreptintomyroom,satdownonthesweat-soakedbed,andtookholdofmyhandinhis.Ikeptmyeyesshutanddidn’tmakeasound,pretendingtobeasleepthewholetimehewasthere.“Don’tdieonme,Walt,”hesaidsoftly,asifspeakingtohimself.“You’reatoughlittlebugger,andthetimehasn’tcomeforyoutogiveuptheghost.Wehavegreatthingsinstoreforus,wondrousthingsyoucan’tevenimagine.YoumightthinkI’magainstyou,butI’mnot.It’sjustthatIknowwhoyouare,andIknowyoucanhandlethepressure.You’vegotthegift,son,andI’mgoingtotakeyoufartherthananyonehasevergonebefore.Doyouhearme,Walt?I’mtellingyounottodie.I’mtellingyouIneedyouandthatyoumustn’tdieonmeyet.”

Iheardhimallright.Hewascomingthroughtomeloudandclear,andtemptedasIwastosaysomethinginresponse,Ibeatbacktheurgeandheldmytongue.Alongsilencefollowed.MasterYehudisatthereinthedarknessstrokingmyhand,andafterawhile,ifI’mnotmistaken,ifIdidn’tdozeoffanddreamwhathappenednext,Iheard,oratleastIthoughtIheard,aseriesofbroken-offsobs,analmostindiscerniblerumblingthatspilledoutfromthelargeman’schestandpiercedthequietoftheroom—once,twice,adozentimes.

ItwouldbeanexaggerationtosaythatIabandonedmysuspicionsallat

once,butthere’snoquestionthatmyattitudestartedtochange.I’dlearnedthatescapewaspointless,andnowthatIwasstucktherewhetherIlikeditornot,IdecidedtomakethemostofwhatI’dbeengiven.Perhapsmybrushwithdeathhadsomethingtodowithit,Idon’tknow,butonceIclimbedoutofmysickbedandgotbackonmyfeet,thechipI’dbeencarryingaroundonmyshoulderwasnolongerthere.Iwassogladtobewellagain,itnolongerbotheredmethatIwaslivingwiththeoutcastsoftheuniverse.Theywereacurious,unsavorylot,butinspiteofmyconstantgrumblingandbadbehavior,eachoneofthemhaddevelopedacertainaffectionforme,andIwouldhavebeenalouttoignorethat.PerhapsitallboileddowntothefactthatIwasfinallygettingusedtothem.Ifyoulookintosomeone’sfacelongenough,eventuallyyou’regoingtofeelthatyou’relookingatyourself.

Allthatsaid,Idon’tmeantoimplythatmylifebecameanyeasier.Intheshortrun,itprovedtobeevenrougherthanbefore,andjustbecauseI’dthrottledmyresistancesomewhat,thatdidn’tmakemeanylessofawisenheimer,anylessofthepugnaciouslittlepunkI’dalwaysbeen.Springwasuponus,andwithinaweekofmyrecoveryIwasoutinthefieldsplowingupthegroundandplantingseeds,breakingmybacklikesomegrubby,bird-brainedhick.Iabhorredmanuallabor,andgiventhatIhadnoknackforitwhatsoever,Ilookeduponthosedaysasapenance,anunendingtrialofblisters,bloodyfingers,andstubbedtoes.ButatleastIwasn’touttherealone.Thefourofusworkedtogetherforapproximatelyamonth,suspendingallotherbusinessaswehastenedtogetthecropsinontime(corn,wheat,oats,alfalfa)andtopreparethesoilforMotherSioux’svegetablegarden,whichwouldkeepourstomachsfullthroughoutthesummer.Theworkwastoohardforustostandaroundandchat,butIhadanaudienceformycomplaintsnow,andwheneverIletforthwithoneofmycausticasides,Ialwaysmanagedtogetalaughoutofsomeone.ThatwasthebigdifferencebetweenthedaysbeforeandafterIfellsick.Mymouthneverstoppedworking,butwhereaspreviouslymycommentshadbeenconstruedasvicious,ungratefulbarbs,theywerenowlookeduponasjokes,therambunctiouspatterofacleverlittleclown.

MasterYehuditoiledlikeanox,sloggingawayathistasksasifhehadbeenborntotheland,andheneverfailedtoaccomplishmorethantherestofusputtogether.MotherSiouxwassteady,diligent,silent,advancinginaconstantcrouchashervastrearendjuttedupintothesky.Shecamefromaraceofhuntersandwarriors,andfarmingwasasunnaturaltoherasitwastome.IneptasImighthavebeen,however,Aesopwasevenworse,anditcomfortedmetoknowthathewasnotonebitmoreenthusiasticaboutwastinghistimeonthatdrudgerythanIwas.Hewantedtobeindoorsreadinghisbooks,tobedreaminghisdreamsandhatchinghisideas,andwhilehe

neveropenlyconfrontedthemasterwithhisgrievances,hewasparticularlyresponsivetomycracks,interruptingmyjagsofwhimsywithspontaneousguffaws,andeachtimehelaugheditwasasifhewereexhalingaloudamen,reassuringmethatI’dhitthenailonthehead.IhadalwaysthoughtofAesopasagoody-goody,aninoffensivekilljoywhoneverbroketherules,butafterlisteningtohislaughteroutthereinthefields,Ibegantoformanewopinionofhim.TherewasmorespiceinthosecrookedbonesthanIhadimagined,andinspiteofhisearnestnessanduppityways,hewasasmuchonthelookoutforfunasanyotherfifteen-year-old.WhatIdidwastoprovidehimwithsomecomicrelief.Mysharptonguetickledhim,mysassandpluckbuoyedhisspirits,andastimewentonIunderstoodthathewasnolongeranuisanceorarival.Hewasafriend—thefirstrealfriendI’deverhad.

Idon’tmeantowaxsentimental,butthisismychildhoodI’mtalkingabout,thequiltworkofmyearliestmemories,andwithsofewattachmentstotalkaboutfromlateryears,myfriendshipwithAesopdeservestobenoted.AsmuchasMasterYehudihimself,hemarkedmeinwaysthatalteredwhoIwas,thatchangedthecourseandsubstanceofmylife.I’mnotjustreferringtomyprejudices,theoldwitchcraftofneverlookingpastthecolorofaperson’sskin,buttothefactoffriendshipitself,tothebondthatgrewbetweenus.Aesopbecamemycomrade,myanchorinaseaofundifferentiatedsky,andwithouthimtheretobuckmeup,Ineverwouldhavefoundthecouragetowithstandthetormentsthatengulfedmeoverthenexttwelveorfourteenmonths.Themasterhadweptinthedarknessofmysickroom,butonceIwaswellagain,heturnedintoaslavedriver,subjectingmetoagoniesthatnolivingsoulshouldhavetoendure.WhenIlookbackonthosedaysnow,I’mastonishedthatIdidn’tdie,thatI’mactuallystillheretotalkaboutthem.

Oncetheplantingseasonwasoverandourfoodwasintheground,therealworkbegan.Itwasjustaftermytenthbirthday,aprettymorningattheendofMay.Themasterpulledmeasideafterbreakfastandwhisperedintomyear,“Braceyourself,kid.Thefunisabouttostart.”

“Youmeanweain’tbeenhavingfun?”Isaid.“CorrectmeifI’mwrong,butIthoughtthatFour-HstuffwasaboutthefunnestwhirlI’vehadsincethelasttimeIplayedChinesecheckers.”

“Workingthelandisonething,adullbutnecessarychore.Butnowwe’regoingtoturnourthoughtstothesky.”

“Youmeanlikethembirdsyoutoldmeabout?”

“That’sit,Walt,justlikethebirds.”

“You’retellingmeyou’restillseriousaboutthatplanofyours?”

“Deadserious.We’reabouttoadvancetothethirteenthstage.IfyoudowhatItellyou,you’llbeairborneayearfromnextChristmas.”

“Thirteenthstage?YoumeanI’vealreadygonethroughtwelveofthem?”

“That’sright,twelve.Andyou’vepassedeachonewithflyingcolors.”

“Well,shavemytonsils.AndIneverhadnoinkling.You’vebeenholdingoutonme,boss.”

“Ionlytellyouwhatyouneedtoknow.Therestisformetoworryabout.”

“Twelvestages,huh?Andhowmanymoretogo?”

“Therearethirty-threeinall.”

“IfIgetthroughthenexttwelveasfastasthefirstones,I’llalreadybeinthehomestretch.”

“Youwon’t,Ipromiseyou.Howevermuchyouthinkyou’vesufferedsofar,it’snothingcomparedtowhatliesahead.”

“Thebirdsdon’tsuffer.Theyjustspreadtheirwingsandtakeoff.IfIgotthegiftlikeyousay,Idon’tseewhyitshouldn’tbeabreeze.”

“Because,mylittlepumpkin-head,you’renotabird—you’reaman.Inordertoliftyouofftheground,wehavetocracktheheavensintwo.Wehavetoturnthewholebloodyuniverseinsideout.”

Onceagain,Ididn’tunderstandthetenthpartofwhatthemasterwassaying,butInoddedwhenhecalledmeaman,feelinginthatwordanewtoneofappreciation,anacknowledgmentoftheimportanceIhadassumedinhiseyes.HeputhishandgentlyonmyshoulderandledmeoutintotheMaymorning.Ifeltnothingbuttrustforhimatthatmoment,andthoughhisfacewassetinagrim,inward-lookingexpression,itnevercrossedmymindthathewoulddoanythingtobreakthattrust.That’sprobablyhowIsaacfeltwhenAbrahamtookhimupthatmountaininGenesis,chaptertwenty-two.Ifamantellsyouhe’syourfather,evenifyouknowhe’snot,youletdownyourguardandgetallstupidinside.Youdon’timaginethathe’sbeenconspiringagainstyouwithGod,theLordofHosts.Aboy’sbraindoesn’tworkthatfast;it’snotsubtleenoughtofathomsuchchicanery.Allyouknowisthatthebigguyhasplacedhishandonyourshoulderandgivenitafriendlysqueeze.Hetellsyou,Comewithme,andsoyouturnyourselfinthatdirectionandfollowhimwhereverhe’sgoing.

Wewalkedoutpastthebarntothetoolshed,aricketylittlestructurewithasaggingroofandwallsmadeofweathered,unpaintedplanks.MasterYehudiopenedthedoorandstoodthereinsilenceforalongmoment,gazingatthedarktangleofmetalobjectsinside.Atlasthereachedinandpulledouta

shovel,arustylugofathingthatmusthaveweighedfifteenortwentypounds.Heputtheshovelinmyhands,andIfeltproudtobecarryingitforhimoncewestartedwalkingagain.Wepassedalongtheedgeofthenearcornfield,anditwasasplendidmorning,Iremember,filledwithdartingrobinsandbluebirds,andmyskinwastinglingwithastrangesenseofaliveness,theblessingofthesun’swarmthasitpoureddownuponme.Byandbywecametoapatchofuntilledground,abarespotatthejunctureoftwofields,andthemasterturnedtomeandsaid,“Thisiswherewe’regoingtoputthehole.Doyouwanttodothedigging,orwouldyouratherleaveittome?”

Igaveitmybestshot,butmyarmsweren’tuptoit.Iwastoosmalltowieldashovelofthatheft,andwhenthemastersawmestrugglingjusttopiercethesoil,letaloneslidethebladeinunderit,hetoldmetositdownandrest,hewouldfinishthejobhimself.ForthenexttwohoursIwatchedhimtransformthatpatchofearthintoanimmensecavity,aholeasbroadanddeepasagiant’sgrave.Heworkedsofastthatitseemedasiftheearthwasswallowinghimup,andafteratimehehadburroweddownsolowthatIcouldn’tseehisheadanymore.Icouldhearhisgrunts,thelocomotivehuffandpuffthataccompaniedeachturnofthespade,andthenavolleyofloosedirtwouldcomesoaringupoverthesurface,hangforasecondinmidair,andthendroptothepilethatwasgrowingaroundthehole.Hekepiatitasifthereweretenofhim,anarmyofdiggersbentontunnelingtoAustralia,andwhenhefinallystoppedandhoistedhimselfoutofthepit,hewassosmudgedwithfilthandsweatthathelookedlikeamanmadeofcoal,ahaggardvaudevillianabouttodiewithhisblackfaceon.Ihadneverseenanyonepantsohard,hadneverwitnessedabodysodeprivedofbreath,andwhenheflunghimselftothegroundanddidn’tstirforthenexttenminutes,Ifeltcertainthathisheartwasabouttogiveoutonhim.

Iwastooawedtospeak.Istudiedthemaster’sribcageforsignsofcollapse,shuttlingbetweenjoyandsorrowashischestheavedupanddown,upanddown,swellingandshrinkingagainstthelongbluehorizon.Halfwaythroughmyvigil,acloudwanderedinfrontofthesunandtheskyturnedominouslydark.Ithoughtitwastheangelofdeathpassingoverhead,butMasterYehudi’slungskeptonpumpingastheairslowlybrightenedagain,andamomentlaterhesatupandsmiled,eagerlywipingthedirtfromhisface.

“Well,”hesaid,“whatdoyouthinkofourhole?”

“It’sagrandhole,”Isaid,“asdeepandlovelyaholeasthereeverwas.”

“I’mgladyoulikeit,becauseyouandthatholearegoingtobeonintimatetermsforthenexttwenty-fourhours.”

“Idon’tmind.Itlookslikeaninterestingplacetome.Aslongasitdon’train,itmightbefuntositinthereforawhile.”

“Noneedtoworryabouttherain,Walt.”

“Youaweathermanorsomething?Maybeyouhaven’tnoticed,butconditionschangearoundhereabouteveryfifteenminutes.Whenitcomestoweather,thisKansasplaceisasfickleasitgets.”

“Trueenough.Theskiesinthesepartscan’tbecountedon.ButI’mnotsayingitwon’train.Justthatyoudon’thavetoworryifitdoes.”

“Sure,givemeacover,oroneofthemcanvasthingamajigs—atarp.That’sgoodthinking.Youcan’tgowrongifyouplanfortheworst.”

“I’mnotputtingyoudownthereforfunandfrolic.You’llhaveabreath-hole,ofcourse,alongtubetokeepinyourmouthforpurposesofrespiration,butotherwiseit’sgoingtobefairlydankanduncomfortable.Aclosed-in,wormykindofdiscomfort,ifyouforgivemysayingso.Idoubtyou’llforgettheexperienceaslongasyoulive.”

“IknowI’mdumb,butifyoudon’tstoptalkinginriddles,we’llbeoutherealldaybeforeIglomontoyourdrift.”

“I’mgoingtoburyyou,son.”

“Saywhat?”

“I’mgoingtoputyoudowninthathole,coveryouupwithdirt,andburyyoualive.”

“Andyouexpectmetoagreetothat?”

“Youdon’thaveanychoice.EitheryougodownthereofyourownvolitionorIstrangleyouwithmytwobarehands.Oneway,yougettolivealong,prosperouslife;theotherway,yourlifeendsinthirtyseconds.”

SoIlethimburymealive—anexperienceIwouldnotrecommendtoanyone.Distastefulastheideasounds,theactualincarcerationisfarworse,andonceyou’vespentsometimeinthebowelsofnethernessasIdidthatday,theworldcanneverlookthesametoyouagain.Itbecomesinexpressiblymorebeautiful,andyetthatbeautyisdrenchedinalightsotransient,sounreal,thatitnevertakesonanysubstance,andeventhoughyoucanseeitandtouchitasyoualwaysdid,apartofyouunderstandsthatitisnomorethanamirage.Feelingthedirtontopofyouisonething,thepressureandcoldnessofit,thepanicofdeathlikeimmobility,butthetrueterrordoesn’tbeginuntillater,untilafteryou’vebeenunburiedandcanstandupandwalkagain.Fromthenon,everythingthathappenstoyouonthesurfaceisconnectedtothosehoursyouspentunderground.Alittleseedofcrazinesshas

beenplantedinyourhead,andeventhoughyou’vewonthestruggletosurvive,nearlyeverythingelsehasbeenlost.Deathlivesinsideyou,eatingawayatyourinnocenceandyourhope,andintheendyou’releftwithnothingbutthedirt,thesolidityofthedirt,theeverlastingpowerandtriumphofthedirt.

Thatwashowmyinitiationbegan.Overtheweeksandmonthsthatfollowed,Ilivedthroughmoreofthesame,anunremittingavalancheofwrongs.Eachtestwasmoreterriblethantheonebeforeit,andifImanagednottobackdown,itwasonlyfromsheerreptilianstubbornness,abrainlesspassivitythatlurkedsomewhereinthecoreofmysoul.Ithadnothingtodowithwillordeterminationorcourage.Ihadnoneofthosequalities,andthefartherIwaspushed,thelessprideIfeltinmyaccomplishments.Iwasfloggedwithabullwhip;Iwasthrownfromagallopinghorse;Iwaslashedtotheroofofthebarnfortwodayswithoutfoodorwater;IhadmyskinsmearedwithhoneyandthenstoodnakedintheAugustheatasathousandfliesandwaspsswarmedoverme;Isatinacircleoffireforonewholenightasmybodybecamescorchedwithblisters;Iwasdunkedrepeatedlyforsixstraighthoursinatubfullofvinegar;Iwasstruckbylightning;Idrankcow,pissandatehorseshit;Itookaknifeandcutofftheupperjointofmyleftpinky;Idangledforthreedaysandthreenightsinacocoonofropesfromtheraftersintheattic.IdidthesethingsbecauseMasterYehuditoldmetodothem,andifIcouldnotbringmyselftolovehim,neitherdidIhatehimorresenthimforthesufferingsIendured.Henolongerhadtothreatenme.Ifollowedhiscommandswithblindobedience,neverbotheringtoquestionwhathispurposemighthavebeen.Hetoldmetojump,andIjumped.Hetoldmetostopbreathing,andIstoppedbreathing.Thiswasthemanwhohadpromisedtomakemefly,andeventhoughIneverbelievedhim,IlethimusemeasifIdid.Wehadourbargain,afterall,thepactwe’dmadethatfirstnightinSaintLouis,andIneverforgotit.Ifhedidn’tcomethroughformebymythirteenthbirthday,Iwasgoingtolopoffhisheadwithanaxe.Therewasnothingpersonalaboutthatarrangement—itwasasimplematterofjustice.Iftheson-of-a-bitchletmedown,Iwasgoingtokillhim,andheknewitaswellasIdid.

Whiletheseordealslasted,AesopandMotherSiouxstuckbymeasifIweretheirfleshandblood,thedarlingoftheirhearts.Therewerelullsbetweenthevariousstagesofmydevelopment,sometimesdays,sometimesweeks,andmoreoftenthannotMasterYehudiwouldvanish,leavingthefarmaltogetherwhilemywoundsmendedandIrecoveredtofacethenextdumbfoundingassaultonmyperson.Ihadnoideawherehewentduringthosepauses,nordidIasktheothersaboutit,sinceIalwaysfeltrelievedwhenhewasgone.NotonlywasIsafefromfurthertrials,butIwasfreed

fromtheburdenofthemaster’spresence—hisbroodingsilencesandtormentedlooks,theenormityofthespaceheoccupied—andthatalonereassuredme,gavemeachancetobreatheagain.Thehousewasahappierplacewithouthim,andthethreeofuslivedtogetherinremarkableharmony.PlumpMotherSiouxandhertwoskinnyboys.ThosewerethedayswhenAesopandIbecamepals,andmiserableasmuchofthattimewasforme,italsocontainssomegoodmemories,perhapsthebestmemoriesofall.Hewasagreatonefortellingstories,Aesopwas,andIlikednothingbetterthantolistentothatsweetvoiceofhisspinningoutthewildtalesthatwerecrammedinhishead.Heknewhundredsofthem,andwheneverIaskedhim,lyinginbedallbruisedandsorefrommylatestpummeling,hewouldsitthereforhoursrecitingonestoryafteranother.JacktheGiantKiller,SinbadtheSailor,UlyssestheWanderer,BillytheKid,LancelotandKingArthur,PaulBunyan—Iheardthemall.Thebestones,though,thestorieshesavedforwhenIwasfeelingparticularlyblue,wereaboutmynamesake,SirWalterRaleigh.IrememberhowshockedIwaswhenhetoldmeIhadafamousname,thenameofareal-lifeadventurerandhero.Toprovethathewasn’tmakingitup,AesopwenttothebookshelfandpulleddownathickvolumewithSirWalter’spictureinit.Ihadneverseenamoreelegantface,andIsoonfellintothehabitofstudyingitfortenorfifteenminuteseveryday.Ilovedthepointybeardandrazor-sharpeyes,thepearlearringfixedinhisleftlobe.Itwasthefaceofapirate,agenuineswashbucklingknight,andfromthatdayforthIcarriedSirWalterinsidemeasasecondself,aninvisiblebrothertostandwithmethroughthickandthin.Aesoprecountedthestoriesofthecloakandthepuddle,thesearchforElDorado,thelostcolonyatRoanoke,thethirteenyearsintheTowerofLondon,thebravewordsheutteredathisbeheading.Hewasthebestpoetofhisday;hewasascholar,ascientist,andafreethinker;hewasthenumber-oneloverofwomeninallofEngland.“Thinkofyouandmeputtogether,”Aesopsaid,“andyoubegintogetanideaofwhohewas.Amanwithmybrainsandyourguts,andtallandhandsomeaswell—that’sSirWalterRaleigh,themostperfectmanwhoeverlived.”

Everynight,MotherSiouxwouldcomeintomyroomandtuckmein,sittingonmybedforhoweverlongittookmetofallasleep.Icametodependonthisritual,andthoughIwasgrowingupfastandhardineveryotherway,Iwasstilljustababytoher.IneverletmyselfcryinfrontofMasterYehudiorAesop,butwithMotherSiouxIlettheductsgivewayoncountlessoccasions,blubberinginherarmslikesomehaplessmama’sboy.Once,Iremember,Ievenwentsofarastotouchonthesubjectofflying,andwhatshesaidwassounexpected,socalminitsassurance,thatitpacifiedtheturmoilwithinmeforweekstocome—notbecauseIbelieveditmyself,butbecauseshedid,andshewasthepersonItrustedmostintheworld.

“He’sawickedman,”Isaid,referringtothemaster,“andbythetimehe’sthroughwithme,I’llbeashunchedandcrippledasAesop.”

“No,sonny,itain’tso.You’llbedancingwiththecloudsinthesky.”

“Withaharpinmyhandsandwingssproutingfrommyback.”

“Inyourownskin.Inyourownfleshandbones.”

“It’sabluff,MotherSioux,adisgustingpackoflies.Ifheaimstoteachmewhathesays,whydon’thegetdownanddoit?Foronewholeyear,I’vesufferedeveryindignityknowntoman.I’vebeenburied,I’vebeenburned,I’vebeenmutilated,andI’mstillasboundtotheearthasIeverwas.”

“Thosearethesteps.Ithastobedonethatway.Buttheworstisnearlybehindyounow.”

“Sohe’ssuckeredyouintobelievingit,too.”

“NoonesuckersMotherSiouxintoanything.I’mtoooldandtoofattoswallowwhatpeoplesay.Falsewordsarelikechickenbones.TheycatchinmythroatandIspitthemout.”

“Mencan’tfly.It’sassimpleasthat.Mencan’tflybecauseGoddon’twantthemto.”

“Itcanbedone.”

“Insomeotherworldmaybe.Butnotthisone.”

“Isawithappen.WhenIwasalittlegirl.Isawitwithmyowntwoeyes.Andifithappenedbefore,itcanhappenagain.”

“Youdreamedit.Youthoughtyousawit,butitwasonlyinyoursleep.”

“Myownfather,Walt.Myownfatherandmyownbrother.Isawthemmovingthroughtheairlikespirits.Itwasn’tflyingthewayyouimagineit.Notlikebirdsormoths,notwithwingsoranythinglikethat.Buttheywereupintheair,andtheyweremoving.Allslowandstrange.Asiftheywasswimming.Pushingtheirwaythroughtheairlikeswimmers,likespiritswalkingonthebottomofalake.”

“Whydidn’tyoutellmethisbefore?”

“Becauseyouwouldn’thavebelievedmebefore.That’swhyI’mtellingyounow.Becausethetimeiscoming.Ifyoulistentowhatthemastertellsyou,it’scomingsoonerthanyouthink.”

Whenspringrolledaroundforthesecondtime,thefarmworkwaslikeaholidaytome,andIthrewmyselfintoitwithmanicgoodcheer,welcomingthechancetolivelikeanormalpersonagain.Insteadoflaggingbehindandgrousingaboutmyachesandpains,Isurgedalongattopspeed,daringmyselftostickwithit,revelinginmyownexertions.Iwasstillpunyformyage,butIwasolderandstronger,andeventhoughitwasimpossible,IdidallIcouldtokeepupwithMasterYehudihimself.Iwasouttoprovesomething,Isuppose,tostunhimintorespectingme,tobenoticed.Thiswasanewwayoffightingback,andeverytimethemastertoldmetoslowdown,toeaseoffandnotpushsohard(“It’snotanOlympicsport,”hewouldsay,“we’renotoutherecompetingformedals,kid”),IfeltasifIhadwonavictory,asifIweregraduallyregainingpossessionofmysoul.

Mypinkyjointhadhealedbythen.Whathadoncebeenabloodymessoftissueandbonehadsmoothedoverintoanodd,naillessstump.Ienjoyedlookingatitnowandrunningmythumbover,thescar,touchingthatbitofmethatwasgoneforever.Imusthavedoneitfiftyorahundredtimesaday,andeverytimeIdid,IwouldsoundoutthewordsSaintLouisinmyhead.Iwasstrugglingtoholdontomypast,butbythenthewordshadbecomejustwords,aritualexerciseinremembrance.Theysummonedforthnopictures,tookmeonnojourneysbacktowhereIhadbeen.AftereighteenmonthsinCibola,SaintLouishadbeenturnedintoaphantomcityforme,andalittlemoreofitwasvanishingeveryday.

Oneafternoonthatspringtheweatherbecameinordinatelyhot,boilinguptomidsummerlevels.Thefourofuswereworkingoutinthefields,andwhenthemasterremovedhisshirtforgreatercomfort,Isawthathewaswearingsomethingaroundhisneck:aleatherthongwithasmall,transparentglobehangingfromitlikeajeweloranornament.WhenIapproachedhimtohaveabetterlook—merelycurious,withnoulteriormotive—Isawthatitwasmymissingpinkyjoint,encasedinthependantalongwithsomekindofclearliquid.Themastermusthavenoticedmysurprise,forheglanceddownathischestwithanexpressionofalarm,asifhethoughtaspidermightbecrawlingthere.Whenhesawwhatitwas,hetookholdoftheglobeinhisfingersandhelditouttome,smilingwithsatisfaction.“Aprettylittlewidget,ehWait?”hesaid.

“Idon’tknowaboutpretty,”Isaid,“butitlooksawfulfamiliartome.”

“Itshould.Itusedtobelongtoyou.Forthefirsttenyearsofyourlife,itwaspartofwhoyouwere.”

“Itstillis.Justbecauseit’sdetachedfrommybody,thatdon’tmakeitany

lessminethanbefore.”

“It’spickledinformaldehyde.Preservedlikesomedeadfetusinajar.Itdoesn’tbelongtoyounow,itbelongstoscience.”

“Yeah,thenwhat’sitdoingaroundyourneck?Ifitbelongstoscience,whynotdonateittothewaxmuseum?”

“Becauseithasspecialmeaningforme,sport.IwearittoremindmyselfofthedebtIoweyou.Likeahangman’snoose.Thisthingisthealbatrossofmyconscience,andIcan’tletitfallintoastranger’shands.”

“Whataboutmyhands,then?Fairisfair,andIwantmyjointback.Ifanyonewearsthatnecklace,it’sgottobeme.”

“I’llmakeabargainwithyou.Ifyouletmeholdontoitalittlelonger,I’llthinkofitasyours.That’sapromise.It’sgotyournameonit,andonceIgetyouofftheground,youcanhaveitback.”

“Forkeeps?”

“Forkeeps.Ofcourseforkeeps.”

“Andhowlongisthis‘littlelonger’goingtobe?”

“Notlong.You’realreadystandingonthebrink.”

“TheonlybrinkI’mstandingonisthebrinkofperdition.Andifthat’swhereIam,that’swhereyouare,too.Ain’tthatso,master?”

“Youcatchonfast,son.Unitedwestand,dividedwefall.Youformeandmeforyou,andwherewestopnobodyknows.”

ThiswasthesecondtimeIhadbeengivenencouragingnewsaboutmyprogress.FirstfromMotherSioux,andnowfromthemasterHimself.Iwon’tdenythatIfeltflattered,butforalltheirconfidenceinmyabilities,IfailedtoseethatIwasonejotclosertosuccess.AfterthatswelteringafternooninMay,wewentthroughaperiodofepicheat,thehottestsummerinlivingmemory.Thegroundwasacaldron,andeverytimeyouwalkedonit,youfeltthatthesoleswouldmeltrightoffyourshoes.Weprayedforrainatsuppereveryevening,andforthreemonthsnotasingledropfellfromthesky.Theairwassoparched,sodeliriousinitsdessication,youcouldtrackthebuzzingofahorseflyfromahundredyardsaway.Everythingseemedtoitch,torasplikethistlerubbingagainstbarbedwire,andthesmellfromtheouthousewassorankitsingedthehairsinyournostrils.Thecornwilted,drooped,anddied;thelettuceboltedtogrotesque,gargantuanheights,standinginthegardenlikemutanttowers.Bymid-August,youcoulddropapebbledownthewellandcounttosixbeforeyouheardthewaterplink.Nogreenbeans,nocornonthecob,nosucculenttomatoesliketheyearbefore.Wesubsistedoneggsand

mushandsmokedham,andwhiletherewasenoughtoseeusthroughthesummer,ourdiminishingstoresbodedillforthemonthsthatlayahead.“Tightenyourbelts,children,”themasterwouldsaytousatsupper,“tightenyourbeltsandchewuntilyoucan’ttasteitanymore.Ifwedon’tstretchoutwhatwehave,it’sgoingtobealong,hungrywinter.”

Forallthewoesthatassailedusduringthedrought,Iwashappy,muchhappierthanwouldhaveseemedpossible.Ihadweatheredthemostgruesomepartsofmyinitiation,andwhatstoodbeforemenowwerethestagesofmentalstruggle,theshowdownbetweenmyselfandmyself.MasterYehudiwashardlyanobstacleanymore.Hewouldissuehiscommandsandthendisappearfrommymind,leadingmetoplacesofsuchinwardnessthatInolongerrememberedwhoIwas.Thephysicalstageshadbeenawar,anactofdefianceagainstthemaster’sskull-dentingcruelty,andhehadneverwithdrawnfrommysight,standingovermeashestudiedmyreactions,watchingmyfaceforeachmicroscopicshudderofpain.Allthatwasfinishednow.Hehadturnedintoagentle,munificentguide,talkinginthesoftvoiceofaseducerasheluredmeintoacceptingonebizarretaskafteranother.Hehadmegointothebarnandcounteverybladeofstrawinthehorse’sstall.Hehadmestandononelegforanentirenight,thenstandontheotherlegforthewholeofthenextnight.Hetiedmetoapostinthemiddaysunandorderedmetorepeathisnametenthousandtimes.Heimposedavowofsilenceonme,andfortwenty-fourdaysIdidnotspeaktoanyone,didnotutterasoundevenwhenIwasalone.Hehadmerollmybodyacrosstheyard,hehadmehop,hehadmejumpthroughhoops.Hetaughtmehowtocryatwill,andthenhetaughtmehowtolaughandcryatthesametime.Hemademeteachmyselfhowtojuggle,andonceIcouldjugglethreestones,hemademejugglefour.Heblindfoldedmeforaweek,thenhepluggedmyearsforaweek,thenheboundmyarmsandlegstogetherforaweekandmademecrawlonmybellylikeaworm.

TheweatherbrokeinearlySeptember.Downpours,lightningandthunder,highwinds,atornadothatbarelymissedcarryingawaythehouse.Waterlevelsroseagain,butotherwisewewerenobetteroffthanwe’dbeen.Thecropshadfailed,andwithnothingtoaddtoourlong-termsupplies,prospectsforthefuturewerebleak,touchandgoatbest.Themasterreportedthatfarmersallovertheregionhadbeensimilarlydevastated,andthemoodintownwasturningugly.Pricesweredown,creditwasscarce,andtalkofbankforeclosureswasintheair.Whenpocketbooksareempty,themastersaid,brainsfillwithangerandsmut.“ThosepeckerwoodscanrotforallIcare,”hecontinued,“butafterawhilethey’regoingtolookforsomeonetoblametheirtroubleson,andwhenthathappens,thefourofushadbetterduck.”Throughoutthatstrangeautumnofstormsanddrenchings,MasterYehudi

seemeddistractedwithworry,asifhewerecontemplatingsomeunnameabledisaster,athingsoblackhedarednotsayitaloud.Aftercoddlingmeallsummer,urgingmeonthroughtherigorsofmyspiritualexercises,hesuddenlyseemedtohavelostinterestinme.Hisabsencesbecamemorefrequent,onceortwicehestumbledinwithwhatsmelledlikeliquoronhisbreath,andhehadallbutabandonedhisstudysessionswithAesop.Anewsadnesshadcreptintohiseyes,alookofwistfulnessandforeboding.Muchofthisisdimtomenow,butIrememberthatduringthebriefmomentswhenhegracedmewithhiscompany,heactedwithsurprisingwarmth.Oneincidentstandsoutfromtheblur:aneveninginearlyOctoberwhenhewalkedintothehousewithanewspaperunderhisarmandabiggrinonhisface.“Ihavegoodnewsforyou,”hesaidtome,sittingdownandspreadingoutthepaperonthekitchentable.“Yourteamwon.Ihopethatmakesyouglad,becauseitsayshereit’sbeenthirty-eightyearssincetheycameoutontop.”

“Myteam?”Isaid.

“TheSaintLouisCardinals.That’syourteam,isn’tit?”

“Youbetitis.I’mwiththoseRedbirdstilltheendoftime.”

“Well,they’vejustwontheWorldSeries.Accordingtowhat’sprintedhere,theseventhgamewasthemostbreathless,rivetingcontesteverplayed.”

ThatwashowIlearnedmyboyshadbecomethe1926champions.MasterYehudireadmetheaccountofthedramaticseventhinning,whenGroverClevelandAlexandercameintostrikeoutTonyLazzeriwiththebasesloaded.Forthefirstfewminutes,Ithoughthewasmakingitup.ThelastI’dheard,AlexanderwastopdogonthePhillystaff,andLazzeriwasanamethatmeantnothingtome.Itsoundedlikeapileofforeignnoodlessmotheredingarlicsauce,butthenthemasterinformedmethathewasarookieandthatGroverhadbeentradedtotheCardsinmidseason.He’dhurlednineinningsjustthedaybefore,shuttingdowntheYankstoknottheseriesatthreegamesapiece,andherewasRogersHornsbycallinghiminfromthebullpentosnuffoutarallywiththewholeballofwaxontheline.Andtheoldguysaunteredin,drunkasaskunkfromlastnight’sbender,andmoweddowntheyoungNewYorkhotshot.Ifnotforacoupleofinches,itwouldhavebeenanotherstory.Onthepitchbeforethethirdstrike,Lazzeridroveoneintotheleftfieldseats,asuregrandslamthathookedfoulatthelastsecond.Itwasenoughtogiveyouapoplexy.Alexanderhungintherethroughtheeighthandninthtonaildownthewin,andtotopitoff,thegameandtheseriesendedwhenBabeRuth,theoneandonlySultanofSwat,wasthrownouttryingtostealsecondbase.Therehadneverbeenanythinglikeit.Itwasthemaddest,mostinfernalgameinhistory,andmyRedbirdswerethechamps,thebestteamintheworld.

Thatwasawatershedforme,alandmarkeventinmyyounglife,butotherwisethefallwasasomberstretch,alonginterludeofboredomandquiet.Afterawhile,IgotsoantsythatIaskedAesopifhewouldn’tmindteachingmehowtoread.Hewasmorethanwilling,buthehadtoclearitwithMasterYehudifirst,andwhenthemastergavehisapproval,IconfessthatIwasalittlehurt.He’dalwayssaidhowhewantedtokeepmestupid—howitwasanadvantageasfarasmytrainingwasconcerned—andnowhehadblithelygoneaheadandreversedhimselfwithoutanyexplanation.ForatimeIthoughtitmeanthehadgivenuponme,anddisappointmentfesteredinmyheart,ahangdogsorrowthatdraggeddownallmybrightdreamsandturnedthemtodust.WhathadIdonewrong,Iaskedmyself,andwhyhadhedesertedmewhenImostneededhim?

SoIlearnedthelettersandnumberswithAesop’shelp,andonceIgotstarted,theycamesoquicklythatIwonderedwhatallthefusshadbeenabout.IfIwasn’tgoingtofly,atleastIcouldconvincethemasterthatIwasn’tadolt,butsolittleeffortwasinvolved,itsoonfeltlikeahollowvictory.SpiritsaroundthehousepickedupforawhileinNovemberwhenourfoodshortagewassuddenlyeliminated.Withouttellinganyonewherehe’dfoundthemoneytodosuchathing,themasterhadsecretlyarrangedforadeliveryofcannedgoods.Itfeltlikeamiraclewhenithappened,anabsoluteboltfromtheblue.Atruckarrivedatourdooronemorningandtwoburlymenbeganunloadingcartonsfromtheback.Therewerehundredsofboxes,andeachboxcontainedtwodozencansoffood:vegetablesofeveryvariety,meatsandbroths,puddings,preservedapricotsandpeaches,anoutflowofunimaginableabundance.Ittookthemenoveranhourtohaultheshipmentintothehouse,andthewholetimethemasterjuststoodtherewithhisarmsfoldedacrosshischest,grinninglikeacraftyoldowl.AesopandIbothgawked,andafterawhilehecalledusovertohimandputahandoneachofourshoulders.“Itcan’tholdacandletoMotherSioux’scooking,”hesaid,“butit’sadamnsightbetterthanmush,ehboys?Whenthechipsaredown,justrememberwhotocounton.Nomatterhowdarkourtroublesmightbe,I’llalwaysfindawaytopullusthrough.”

Howeverhehadmanagedit,thecrisiswasover.Ourlarderwasfullagain,andwenolongerstoodupfrommealscravingmore,nolongermoanedaboutourgurglingbellies.You’dthinkthisturnaroundwouldhaveearnedourundyinggratitude,butthefactwasthatwequicklylearnedtotakeitforgranted.Withintendays,itseemedperfectlynormalthatweshouldbeeatingwell,andbytheendofthemonthitwashardtorememberthedayswhenwehadn’t.That’showitiswithwant.Aslongasyoulacksomething,youyearnforitwithoutcease.IfonlyIcouldhavethatonething,youtellyourself,allmyproblemswouldbesolved.Butonceyougetit,oncetheobjectofyour

desiresisthrustintoyourhands,itbeginstoloseitscharm.Otherwantsassertthemselves,otherdesiresmakethemselvesfelt,andbitbybityoudiscoverthatyou’rerightbackwhereyoustarted.Soitwaswithmyreadinglessons;soitwaswiththenewfoundplentyjammedintothekitchencupboards.Ihadthoughtthosethingswouldmakeadifference,butintheendtheywerenomorethanshadows,substitutelongingsfortheonethingIreallywanted—whichwaspreciselythethingIcouldn’thave.Ineededthemastertolovemeagain.That’swhatthestoryofthosemonthscamedownto.Ihungeredforthemaster’saffections,andnoamountoffoodwasevergoingtosatisfyme.Aftertwoyears,IhadlearnedthateverythingIwasfloweddirectlyfromhim.Hehadmademeinhisownimage,andnowhewasn’tthereformeanymore.ForreasonsIcouldn’tunderstand,IfeltIhadlosthimforever.

ItneveroccurredtometothinkofMrs.Witherspoon.NotevenwhenMotherSiouxdroppedahintonenightaboutthemaster’s“widowlady”inWichitadidIputsixandthreetogether.Iwasbackwardinthatregard,aneleven-year-oldknow-it-allwhodidn’tunderstandthefirstthingthatwentonbetweenmenandwomen.Iassumeditwasallcarnal,intermittentspasmsofwaywardlust,andwhenAesoptalkedtomeaboutplantinghisbonersinanicewarmquim(hehadjustturnedseventeen),IimmediatelythoughtofthewhoresI’dknowninSaintLouis,theblowsy,wisecrackingdollswhostruttedupanddownthealleysattwointhemorning,peddlingtheirbodiesforcold,hardcash.Ididn’tknowdirtaboutgrown-uploveormarriageoranyoftheso-calledloftysentiments.TheonlymarriedcoupleI’dseenwasUncleSlimandAuntPeg,andthatwassuchabrutalcombination,suchafrenzyofspitting,cursing,andclamor,itprobablymadesensethatIwassoignorant.Whenthemasterwentaway,IfiguredhewasplayingpokersomewhereorbeltingbackabottleofrotgutinaCibolaspeakeasy.ItneverdawnedonmethathewasinWichitacourtingahigh-classladylikeMarionWitherspoon—andgraduallygettinghisheartbrokenintheprocess.Ihadactuallylaideyesonhermyself,butIhadbeensosickandfeverishatthetimethatIcouldscarcelyrememberher.Shewasahallucination,afigmentborninthethroesofdeath,andeventhoughherfaceflashedthroughmeeverynowandthen,Ididnotcreditherasreal.Ifanything,Ithoughtshewasmymother—butthenIwouldgrowscared,appalledthatIcouldn’trecognizemyownmother’sghost.

Ittookacoupleofneardisasterstosetmestraight.InearlyDecember,Aesopcuthisfingeropeningacanofclingpeaches.Itseemedlikenothingatfirst,asimplescratchthatwouldhealinnotime,butinsteadofscabbingoverasitshouldhave,itswelledupintoafrightfulbloatofpusandrawness,andbythethirddaypoorAesopwaslanguishinginbedwithahighfever.ItwasfortunatethatMasterYehudiwashomethen,forinadditiontohisother

talents,hehadafairknowledgeofmedicine,andwhenhewentupstairstoAesop’sroomthenextmorningtoseehowthepatientwasdoing,hewalkedouttwominuteslatershakinghisheadandblinkingbackarushoftears.“There’snotimetowaste,”hesaidtome.“Gangrenehassetin,andunlesswegetridofthatfingernow,it’sliabletospreadthroughhishandandupintohisarm.RunoutsideandtellMotherSiouxtodropwhat’sshe’sdoingandputontwopotsofwatertoboil.I’llgodowntothekitchenandsharpentheknives.Wehavetooperatewithinthehour.”

IdidwhatIwastold,andonceI’droundedupMotherSiouxfromthebarnyard,Idashedbackintothehouse,climbedthestairstothesecondfloor,andparkedmyselfbesidemyfriend.Aesoplookeddreadful.Thelustrousblackofhisskinhadturnedtoachalky,mottledgray,andIcouldhearthephlegmrattlinginhischestashisheadlolledbackandforthonthepillow.

“Hangon,buddy,”Isaid.“Itwon’tbelongnow.Themaster’sgoingtofixyouup,andbeforeyouknowityou’llbedownstairsattheivoriesagain,twiddlingoutoneofyourgoofyrags.”

“Walt?”hesaid.“Isthatyou,Walt?”Heopenedhisbloodshoteyesandlookedinthedirectionofmyvoice,buthispupilsweresoglazedoverIwasn’tsurehecouldseeme.

“Ofcourseit’sme,”Ianswered.“Whoelsedoyouthinkwouldbesittinghereatatimelikethis?”

“He’sgoingtocutoffmyfinger,Walt.I’llbedeformedforlife,andnogirlwilleverwantme.”

“You’realreadydeformedforlife,andthathasn’tstoppedyoufromhankeringfortwat,hasit?Heain’tgoingtocutoffyourdick,Aesop.Onlyafinger,andafingeronyourlefthandatthat.Aslongasyourwilly’sstillattached,youcanbangthebroadstillkingdomcome.”

“Idon’twanttolosemyfinger,”hemoaned.“IfIlosemyfinger,itmeansthere’snojustice.ItmeansthatGodhasturnedhisbackonme.”

“Iain’tgotbutnineandahalffingersmyself,anditdon’tbothermehardlyatall.Onceyouloseyours,we’llbejustliketwins.BonafidemembersoftheNineFingerClub,brotherstillthedaywedrop—justlikethemasteralwayssaid.”

IdidwhatIcouldtoreassurehim,butoncetheoperationbegan,Iwasshuntedasideandforgotten.Istoodinthedoorwaywithmyhandsovermyface,peekingthroughthecrackseverynowandthenasthemasterandMotherSiouxdidtheirwork.Therewasnoetheroranaesthetic,andAesophowledandhowled,beltingoutahorrific,bloodcurdlingnoisethatnever

slackenedfromstarttofinish.SorryasIfeltforhim,thosehowlsnearlyundidme.Theywereinhuman,andtheterrortheyexpressedwassodeepandsoprolonged,itwasallIcoulddonottobeginscreamingmyself.MasterYehudiwentabouthisbusinesswiththecalmofatraineddoctor,butthehowlsgottoMotherSiouxjustasbadlyastheygottome.ThatwasthelastthingIwasexpectingfromher.I’dalwaysthoughtthatIndianshidtheirfeelings,thattheywerebraverandmorestoicalthanwhitefolks,butthetruthwasthatMotherS.wasunhinged,andasthebloodcontinuedtospurtandAesop’spaincontinuedtomount,shegaspedandwhimperedasiftheknifewastearingintoherownflesh.MasterYehuditoldhertogetagriponherself.Sheapologized,butfifteensecondslatershestartedsobbingagain.Shewasapitifulnurse,andafterawhilehertearfulinterruptionssodistractedthemasterthathehadtosendheroutoftheroom.“Weneedafreshbucketofboilingwater,”hesaid.“Snaptoit,woman.Onthedouble.”Itwasjustanexcusetogetridofher,andassherushedpastmeintothehall,sheburiedherfaceinherhandsandweptonblindlytothetopofthestairs.Ihadaclearviewofeverythingthathappenedafterthat:thewayherfootsnaggedonthefirststep,thewayherkneebuckledasshetriedtorightherbalance,andthentheheadlongfalldownthestairs—thethumping,tumblingcareerofherhugebulkasitcrashedtothebottom.Shelandedwithathudthatshooktheentirehouse.Aninstantlatersheletoutashriek,thengrabbedholdofherleftlegandstartedwrithingaroundonthefloor.“Youdumboldbitch,”shesaidtoherself.“Youdumboldfloozybitch,nowlookwhatyoudone.Youfelldownthestairsandbrokeyourgoddamnleg.”

Forthenextcoupleofweeks,thehousewasasgloomyasahospital.Thereweretwoinvalidstobetakencareof,andthemasterandIspentourdaysrushingupanddownthestairs,servingthemtheirmeals,emptyingtheirpotties,anddoingeverythingshortofwipingtheirbedriddenasses.Aesopwasinafunkofself-pityanddejection,MotherSiouxraineddowncursesonherselffrommorningtonight,andwhatwiththeanimalstobelookedafterinthebarnandtheroomstobecleanedandthebedstobemadeandthedishestobewashedandthestovetobefed,therewasn’tsomuchasaminuteleftoverforthemasterandmetodoourwork.Christmaswasapproaching,thetimewhenIwassupposedtobeofftheground,andIwasstillassubjecttothelawsofgravityasI’deverbeen.Itwasmydarkestmomentinoverayear.I’dbeenturnedintoaregularcitizenwhodidhischoresandknewhowtoreadandwrite,andifitwentonanylonger,I’dprobablywinduptakingelocutionlessonsandjoiningtheBoyScouts.

Onemorning,Iwokeupalittleearlierthanusual.IcheckedinonAesopandMotherSioux,sawthattheywerebothstillasleep,andtiptoeddownthestairs,intendingtosurprisethemasterwithmypredawnlevee.Ordinarily,he

wouldhavebeendowninthekitchenatthathour,cookingbreakfastandpreparingtostarttheday.Buttherewerenosmellsofcoffeewaftingupfromthestove,nosoundsofbaconcracklinginthepan,andsureenough,whenIenteredtheroomitturnedouttobeempty.He’sinthebarn,Itoldmyself,gatheringeggsormilkingoneofthecows,butthenIrealizedthatthestovehadnotbeenlit.Startingthefirewasthefirstorderofbusinessonwintermornings,andthetemperaturedownstairswasfrigid,coldenoughformetosendforthaburstofvaporeverytimeIexhaled.Well,Icontinuedtomyself,maybetheoldguyisfaggedoutandwantedtocatchuponhisbeautysleep.Thatwouldcertainlyputanewtwistonthings,wouldn’tit?Formetobetheonetorousehimfrombedinsteadofviceversa.SoIwentbackupstairsandknockedonhisbedroomdoor,andwhentherewasnoresponseafterseveraltries,Iopenedthedoorandgingerlysteppedacrossthethreshold.MasterYehudiwasnowheretobefound.Notonlywashenotinhisbed,butthebeditselfwasneatlymadeandborenosignsofhavingbeensleptinthatnight.He’srunoutonus,Isaidtomyself.He’suppedandskedaddled,andthat’sthelastwe’lleverseeofhim.

Forthenexthour,mymindwasafree-for-allofdesperatethoughts.Ispunfromsorrowtoanger,frombelligerencetolaughter,fromsnarlinggrieftovileself-mockery.Theuniversehadgoneupinsmoke,andIwaslefttodwellamongtheashes,aloneforeveramongthesmolderingruinsofbetrayal.

MotherSiouxandAesopsleptonintheirbeds,oblivioustomyrantingsandmytears.Somehoworother(Ican’trememberhowIgotthere),Iwasdowninthekitchenagain,lyingonmystomachwithmyfacepressedagainstthefloor,rubbingmynoseintothefilthywoodenplanks.Therewerenomoretearstobegottenoutofme—onlyadry,chokedheaving,anaftermathofhiccupsandscorched,airlessbreaths.PresentlyIgrewstill,almosttranquil,andbitbybitasenseofcalmspreadthroughme,radiatingoutamongmymusclesandoozingtowardthetipsofmyfingersandtoes.Therewerenomorethoughtsinmyhead,nomorefeelingsinmyheart.Iwasweightlessinsidemyownbody,floatingonaplacidwaveofnothingness,utterlydetachedandindifferenttotheworldaroundme.Andthat’swhenIdiditforthefirsttime—withoutwarning,withouttheleastnotionthatitwasabouttohappen.Veryslowly,Ifeltmybodyriseoffthefloor.Themovementwassonatural,soexquisiteinitsgentleness,itwasn’tuntilIopenedmyeyesthatIunderstoodmylimbsweretouchingonlyair.Iwasnotfarofftheground—nomorethananinchortwo—butIhungtherewithouteffort,suspendedlikethemooninthenightsky,motionlessandaloft,consciousonlyoftheairflutteringinandoutofmylungs.Ican’tsayhowlongIhoveredlikethat,butatacertainmoment,withthesameslownessandgentlenessasbefore,Ieasedbacktotheground.Everythinghadbeendrainedoutofmebythen,andmy

eyeswerealreadyshut.Withoutsomuchasasinglethoughtaboutwhathadjusttakenplace,Ifellintoadeep,dreamlesssleep,sinkinglikeastonetothebottomoftheworld.

Iwoketothesoundofvoices,theshufflingofshoesagainstthebarewoodfloor.WhenIopenedmyeyes,IfoundmyselflookingdirectlyintotheblacknessofMasterYehudi’slefttrouserleg.“Greetings,kid,”hesaid,nudgingmewithhisfoot.“Fortywinksonthecoldkitchenfloor.Notthebestplaceforanapifyouwanttostayhealthy.”

Itriedtositup,butmybodyfeltsodullandturgid,ittookallmystrengthjusttoliftmyselfontooneelbow.Myheadwasatremblingmassofcobwebs,andnomatterhowhardIrubbedandblinkedmyeyes,Icouldn’tgetthemtofocusproperly.

“What’sthetrouble,Walt?”themastercontinued.“Youhaven’tbeenwalkinginyoursleep,haveyou?”

“No,sir.Nothinglikethat.”

“Thenwhysoglum?Youlooklikeyou’vebeentoafuneral.”

Animmensesadnesssweptthroughmewhenhesaidthat,andIsuddenlyfeltmyselfonthevergeoftears.“Oh,master,”Isaid,grabbingholdofhislegwithbotharmsandpressingmycheekagainsthisshin.“Oh,master,Ithoughtyou’dleftme.Ithoughtyou’dleftme,andwerenevercomingback.”

Themomentthosewordsleftmylips,IunderstoodthatIwaswrong.Itwasn’tthemasterwhohadcausedthisfeelingofvulnerabilityanddespair,itwasthethingI’ddonejustpriortofallingasleep.Itallcamebackinavivid,nauseatingrush:themomentsI’dspentofftheground,thecertaintythatIhaddonewhatmostcertainlyIcouldnothavedone.Ratherthanfillmewithecstasyorgladness,thisbreakthroughoverpoweredmewithdread.Ididn’tknowmyselfanymore.Iwasinhabitedbysomethingthatwasn’tme,andthatthingwassoterrible,soalieninitsnewness,Icouldn’tbringmyselftotalkaboutit.Iletmyselfcryinstead.Iletthetearscomepouringoutofme,andonceIstarted,Iwasn’tsureI’deverbeabletostop.

“Dearboy,”themastersaid,“mydear,sweetboy.”Heloweredhimselftothegroundandgatheredmeinhisarms,pattingmybackandhuggingmeclosetohimasIwentonweeping.Then,afterapause,Iheardhimspeakagain—buthewasnolongeraddressinghiswordstome.Forthefirsttimesinceregainingconsciousness,Iunderstoodthatanotherpersonwasintheroom.

“He’sthebravestladwhoeverwas,”themastersaid.“He’sworkedsohard,he’swornhimselfout.Abodycanbearjustsomuch,andI’mafraidthe

poorlittlefellow’salldonein.”

ThatwaswhenIfinallylookedup.IliftedmyheadoffMasterYehudi’slap,castmyeyesaboutforamoment,andtherewasMrs.Witherspoon,standinginthelightofthedoorway.Shewaswearingacrimsonovercoatandablackfurhat,Iremember,andhercheekswerestillflushfromthewintercold.Theinstantoureyesmet,shebrokeintoasmile.

“Hello,Walt,”shesaid.

“Andhellotoyou,ma’am,”Isaid,sniffingbackthelastofmytears.

“Meetyourfairygodmother,”themastersaid.“Mrs.Witherspoonhascometorescueus,andshe’llbestayinginthehouseforalittlewhile.Untilthingsgetbacktonormal.”

“You’retheladyfromWichita,ain’tyou?”Isaid,realizingwhyherfacelookedsofamiliartome.

“That’sright,”shesaid.“Andyou’rethelittleboywholosthiswayinthestorm.”

“Thatwasalongtimeago,”Isaid,extricatingmyselffromthemaster’sarmsandfinallystandingup.“Ican’tsayIremembermuchaboutit.”

“No,”shesaid,“youprobablydon’t.ButIdo.”

“NotonlyisMrs.Witherspoonafriendofthefamily,”themastersaid,“she’sournumber-onechampionandbusinesspartner.Justsoyouknowthescore,Walt.Iwantyoutobearthatinmindwhileshe’sherewithus.Thefoodthatfeedsyou,theclothesthatclotheyou,thefirethatwarmsyou—allthatcomescourtesyofMrs.Witherspoon,anditwouldbeasaddayifyoueverforgotit.”

“Don’tworry,”Isaid,suddenlyfeelingsomespringinmysoulagain.“Iain’tnoslob.Whenahandsomeladyentersmyhouse,Iknowhowagentlemanissupposedtoact.”

Withoutmissingabeat,IturnedmyeyesinMrs.Witherspoon’sdirection,andwithallthepoiseandbravuraIcouldmuster,flashedherthesexiest,mostpreposterouswinkeverbeheldbywomankind.Tohercredit,Mrs.Witherspoonneitherblushednorstammered.Givingasgoodasshegot,sheletoutabrieflaugh,andthen,ascoolandcollectedasanoldbawd,tossedbackaplayfulwinkatme.ItwasamomentIstillcherish,andtheinstantithappened,Iknewweweregoingtobefriends.

Ihadnoideawhatthemaster’sarrangementwithherwas,andatthetimeIdidn’tgivethemattermuchthought.WhatconcernedmewasthatMrs.Witherspoonwasthereandthatherpresencerelievedmeofmyjobas

nursemaidandbottle-washer.Shetookthingsinhandthatfirstmorning,andforthenextthreeweeksthehouseholdranassmoothlyasanewpairofrollerskates.Tobehonest,Ididn’tthinkshe’dbecapableofit,atleastnotwhenIsawherinthatfancycoatandthoseexpensivegloves.Shelookedlikeawomanwhowasusedtohavingservantswaitonher,andthoughshewasprettyenoughinafragilesortofway,herskinwastoopaleformytasteandtherewastoolittlemeatonherbones.Ittookmesometimetoadjusttoher,sinceshedidn’tfitintoanyofthefemalecategoriesIwasfamiliarwith.Shewasn’taflapperorahussy,shewasn’tameekhouse-wifeyblob,shewasn’taschoolmarmoravirginbattle-ax—butsomehowabitofallofthem,whichmeantthatyoucouldneverquitepinherdownorpredictwhathernextmovewasgoingtobe.TheonlythingIfeltcertainaboutwasthatthemasterwasinlovewithher.Healwaysgrewverystillandsoft-spokenwhensheenteredtheroom,andmorethanonceIcaughthimstaringatherwithafar-offlookinhiseyeswhenherheadwasturnedtheotherway.Sincetheyslepttogetherinthesamebedeverynight,andsinceIheardthemattresscreakandbouncewithacertainregularity,Itookitforgrantedthatshefeltthesamewayabouthim.WhatIdidn’tknowwasthatshehadalreadyturnedhimdowninmarriagethreetimes—butevenifIhadknown,Idoubtitwouldhavemademuchdifference.Ihadotherthingsonmymindjustthen,andtheywereahellofalotmoreimportanttomethantheupsanddownsofthemaster’slovelife.

Ikepttomyselfasmuchaspossibleduringthoseweeks,hidingoutinmyroomasIexploredthemysteriesandterrorsofmynewgift.IdideverythingIcouldtotameit,tocometotermswithit,tostudyitsexactdimensionsandacceptitasafundamentalpartofmyself.Thatwasthestruggle:notjusttomastertheskill,buttoabsorbitsgruesomeandshatteringimplications,toplungeintothemawofthebeast.Ithadmarkedmewithaspecialdestiny,andIwouldbesetapartfromothersfortherestofmylife.Imaginewakinguponemorningtodiscoverthatyouhaveanewface,andthenimaginethehoursyouwouldhavetospendinfrontofthemirrorbeforeyougotusedtoit,beforeyoucouldbegintofeelcomfortablewithyourselfagain.Dayafterday,Iwouldlockmyselfinmyroom,stretchoutonthefloor,andwishmybodyintotheair.Ipracticedsomuchthatitwasn’tlongbeforeIcouldlevitateatwill,“liftingmyselfoffthegroundinamatterofseconds.Afteracoupleofweeks,Ilearnedthatitwasn’tnecessarytoliedownonthefloor.IfIputmyselfinthepropertrance,Iwasabletodoitstandingup,tofloatagoodsixinchesintotheairfromaverticalposition.Threedaysafterthat,IlearnedthatIcouldbegintheascentwithmyeyesopen.Icouldactuallylookdownandseemyfeetrisingoffthefloor,andstillthespellwouldnotbebroken.

Meanwhile,thelifeoftheothersswirledaroundme.Aesop’sbandagescameoff,MotherSiouxwasfittedwithacaneandbegantohobblearound

again,themasterandMrs.Witherspoonshookthebedspringseverynight,fillingthehousewiththeirgroans.Withsomuchhubbubtocontendwith,itwasn’talwayseasytocomeupwithanexcuseforshuttingmyselfinmyroom,Acoupleoftimes,Ifeltcertainthatthemastersawstraightthroughme,thatheunderstoodmyduplicityandwaslenientonlybecausehewantedmeoutofhishair.Atanyothermoment,Iwouldhavebeenconsumedwithjealousytobeshunnedlikethat,toknowthathepreferredthecompanyofawomantomyownsterling,inimitablepresence.NowthatIwasairborne,however,MasterYehudiwasbeginningtolosehisgodlikepropertiesforme,andInolongerfeltundertheswayofhisinfluence.Isawhimasaman,amannobetterorworsethanothermen,andifhewantedtospendhistimecavortingwithaskinnywenchfromWichita,thatwashisaffair.HehadhisaffairsandIhadmine,andthat’showitwasgoingtobefromnowon.Ihadtaughtmyselfhowtofly,afterall,oratleastsomethingthatresembledflying,andIassumedthatmeantIwasmyownmannow,thatIwasbeholdentonoonebutmyself.Asitturnedout,Ihadmerelyadvancedtothenextstageofmydevelopment.Deviousandcunningasever,themasterwasstillfaraheadofme,andIhadalongroadtotravelbeforeIbecamethehotshotIthoughtIwas.

Aesopdroopedinhisnine-fingeredstate,alistlessshadowofhisformerself,andthoughIspentasmuchtimewithhimasIcould,Iwastoobusywithmyexperimentstogivehimthekindofattentionheneeded.HekeptaskingmewhyIspentsomanyhoursaloneinmyroom,andonemorning(itmusthavebeenthefifteenthorsixteenthofDecember)Iletforthwithasmalllietohelpassuagehisdoubtsaboutme.Ididn’twanthimtothinkI’dstoppedcaringabouthim,andunderthecircumstancesitseemedbettertofibthantosaynothing.

“It’sinthenatureofasurprise,”Isaid.“Ifyoupromisenottobreatheawordaboutit,I’llgiveyouahint.”

Aesopeyedmewithsuspicion.“You’reuptoanotheroneofyourtricks,aren’tyou?”

“Notricks,Iswear.WhatI’mtellingyouisonthelevel,thewholegobstraightfromthehorse’smouth.”

“Youdon’thavetohemandhaw.Ifyouhavesomethingtosay,justcomeoutandsayit.”

“Iwill.Butfirstyou’vegottopromise.”

“Thishadbetterbegood.Idon’tlikegivingmywordfornoreason,youknow.”

“Oh,it’sgoodallright,youcantrustmeonthat.”

“Well,”hesaid,beginningtolosepatience.“What’sthepitch,littlebrother?”

“Raiseyourrighthandandswearyou’llnevertell.Swearonyourmother’sgrave.Swearonthewhitesofyoureyeballs.SwearonthepussyofeverywhoreinNiggertown.”

Aesopsighed,grabbedholdofhisballswithhislefthand—whichwashowthetwoofussworetosacredoaths—andliftedhisrighthandintotheair.“Ipromise,”hesaid,andthenherepeatedthethingsI’dtoldhimtosay.

“Well,”Isaid,improvisingasIwentalong,“it’slikethis.Christmasiscomingupnextweek,andwhatwithMrs.Witherspooninthehouseandall,I’veheardtalkaboutacelebrationonthetwenty-fifth.Turkeyandpudding,presents,maybeevenafirtreewithbaublesandpopcornonit.IfthisshindigcomesofflikeIthinkitwill,Idon’twanttobecaughtwithmypantsdown.Youknowhowitis.Itain’tnofuntoreceiveapresentifyoucan’tgiveoneinreturn.Sothat’swhatI’vebeenuptoinmyroomallthesedays.I’mworkingonapresent,concoctingthebiggestandbestsurprisemypoorlittlebraincanthinkof.I’llbeunveilingittoyouinjustafewdays,bigbrother,andIhopetohellyouaren’tdisappointed.”

EverythingIsaidabouttheChristmaspartywastrue.I’doverheardthemasterandhisladytalkingaboutitonenightthroughthewalls,butuntilthenithadn’toccurredtometogiveanyoneapresent.NowthatI’dplantedtheideainmyhead,Isawitasagoldenopportunity,thechanceI’dbeenwaitingforallalong.IftherewasaChristmasdinner(andthatsamenightthemasterannouncedtherewouldbe),Iwouldusetheoccasiontoshowoffmynewtalent.Thatwouldbemypresenttothem.Iwouldstandupandlevitatebeforetheireyes,andatlastmysecretwouldbeknowntotheworld.

Ispentthenextweekandahalfinacoldsweat.Itwasonethingtoperformmystuntsinprivate,buthowcouldIbesureIwouldn’tfallonmyfacewhenIwalkedoutinfrontofthem?IfIdidn’tcomethrough,I’dbeturnedintoalaughingstock,thebuttofeveryjokeforthenexttwenty-sevenyears.Sobeganthelongest,mosttormenteddayofmylife.Fromwhateverangleyouchosetolookatit,theYuletidebashwasatriumph,averitablebanquetoflaughterandgaiety,butIdidn’tenjoymyselfonebit.Icouldbarelychewtheturkeyforfearofchokingonit,andthemashedturnipstastedlikeamixtureoflibrarypasteandmud.Bythetimewemovedintotheparlortosingsongsandexchangepresents,Iwasreadytopassout.Mrs.Witherspoonstartedoffbygivingmeabluesweaterwithredreindeerstitchedacrossthefront.MotherSiouxfollowedwithapairofhand-knitargylesocks,andthenthe

mastergavemeaspankingnewwhitebaseball.Finally,AesopgavemetheportraitofSirWalterRaleigh,whichhe’dcutoutofthebookandmountedinasleekebonyframe.Theywereallgenerousgifts,buteachtimeIunwrappedone,Icoulddonomorethanmumbleagrim,inaudiblethanks.EachpresentmeantthatIwasdrawingclosertothemomentoftruth,andeachonesappedalittlemoreofthespiritoutofme.Isankdowninmychair,andbythetimeI’dopenedthelastpackage,Ihadallbutresolvedtocancelthedemonstration.Iwasn’tprepared,Itoldmyself,Istillneededmorepractice,andonceIstartedinwiththosearguments,Ihadnotroubletalkingmyselfoutofit.Then,justwhenI’dmanagedtogluemyasstothechairforever,Aesoppipedinwithhistwocentsandtheceilingfellontopofme.

“Nowit’sWalt’sturn,”hesaidinallinnocence,thinkingIwasamanofmyword.“He’sgotsomethinguphissleeve,andIcan’twaitforhimtospringitonus.”

“That’sright,”themastersaid,turningtomewithoneofhispiercing,all-knowinglooks.“YoungMr.Rawleyhasyettobeheardfrom.”

Iwasonthespot.Ididn’thaveanotherpresent,andifIstalledanylonger,they’dseemefortheselfishingrateIreallywas.SoIstoodupfrommychair,myknee-bonesknockingtogether,andsaidinafeeblelittlechurch-mousevoice:“Heregoes,ladiesandgentlemen.Ifitdon’twork,youcan’tsayit’sfromwantoftrying.”

Thefourofthemwerelookingatmewithsuchcuriosity,sucharaptnessofpuzzlementandattention,thatIshutmyeyestoblockthemout.Itookalongslowbreathandexhaled,spreadmyarmsintheloose,slack-jointedwayI’dworkedonforsomanyhours,andwentintomytrance.Ibegantorisealmostimmediately,liftingoffthegroundinasmoothandgradualascent,andwhenIreachedaheightofsixorseveninches—themaximumIwascapableofinthoseearlymonths—Iopenedmyeyesandlookedoutatmyaudience.Aesopandthetwowomenweregapinginwonder,theirthreemouthsformedintoidenticallittleo’s.Themasterwassmiling,however,smilingasthetearsrolleddownhischeeks,andevenasIhoveredbeforehim,Isawthathewasalreadyreachingfortheleatherstrapbehindhiscollar.BythetimeIfloateddownagain,hehadslippedthenecklaceoverhisheadandwasholdingitouttomeinhisextendedpalm.Noonesaidaword.Istartedwalkingtowardhim,Crossingtheroomwithmyeyesfixedonhiseyes,notdaringtolookanywhereelse.WhenIcametotheplacewhereMasterYehudiwassitting,Itookmyfingerjointfromhimandfelltomyknees,buryingmyfaceinhislap.Iheldonlikethatforclosetoaminute,andwhenIfinallyfoundthecouragetostandupagain,Iranfromtheroom,rushingtothekitchenandoutintothecoldnightair—gaspingforbreath,gaspingforlifeunderthe

immensityofthewinterstars.

Wesaidgood-byetoMrs.Witherspoonthreedaysafterthat,wavingtoherfromthekitchendoorasshedroveoffinheremeraldgreenChryslersedan.Thenitwas1927,andforthefirstsixmonthsofthatyearIworkedwithsavageconcentration,pushingmyselfalittlefarthereachweek.MasterYehudimadeitclearthatlevitationwasonlythebeginning.Itwasalovelyaccomplishment,ofcourse,butnothingtosettheworldonfirewith.Scoresofpeoplepossessedtheabilitytoliftthemselvesofftheground,andevenafteryousubtractedtheIndianfakirsandTibetanmonksandCongolesewitchdoctors,therewerenumerousexamplesfromtheso-calledcivilizednations,thewhitecountriesofEuropeandNorthAmerica.InHungaryalone,themastersaid,therehadbeenfiveactivelevitatorsattheturnofthecentury,threeofthemrightinhishometownofBudapest.Itwasawonderfulskill,butthepublicsoongrewtiredofit,andunlessyoucoulddomorethanhoverjustafewinchesofftheground,therewasnochanceofturningitintoaprofitablecareer.Theartoflevitationhadbeensulliedbytrickstersandcharlatans,thesmoke-and-mirrorboysoutforaquickbuck,andeventhelamest,mosttawdrymagicianonthevaudevillecircuitcouldpulloffthestuntofthefloatinggirl:thebombshellinthescant,glitteringcostumewhohangsinmidairasahoopisplacedaroundher(Look:nostrings,nowires)andtravelsthelengthofheroutstretchedbody.Thatwasstandardprocedurenow,anestablishedpartoftherepertoire,andithadputthereallevitatorsoutofbusiness.Everyoneknewitwasafake,andthefakerywassowidespreadthatevenwhenconfrontedwithanactofgenuinelevitation,audiencesinsistedonbelievingitwasasham.

“Thereareonlytwowaysofgrabbingtheirattention,”themastersaid.“Eitheronewillbringusagoodlife,butifyoumanagetocombinethetwoofthemintoasingleroutine,there’snotellinghowfarwemightgo.Thereisn’tabankintheworldthatcouldholdallthemoneywe’dmakethen.”

“Twoways,”Isaid.“Aretheypartofthethirty-threesteps,orarewepastthatstuffnow?”

“We’repastit.You’vegoneasfarasIdidwhenIwasyourage,andbeyondthispointwe’reenteringnewterritory,continentsnoonehaseverseenbefore.Icanhelpyouwithadviceandinstruction,Icansteeryouwhenyou’vegoneofftrack,butalltheessentialthingsyou’llhavetodiscoverforyourself.We’vecometothecrossroads,andfromnowoneverythingisuptoyou.”

“Tellmeaboutthetwoways.Givemethelowdownonthewholekaboodle,andwe’llseeifI’vegotitinmeornot.”

“Loftandlocomotion—thosearethetwoways.ByloftImeangettingyourselfupintotheair.Notjusthalfafoot,butthreefeet,sixfeet,twentyfeet.Thehigheryougo,themorespectaculartheresultswillbe.Threefeetisnice,butitwon’tbeenoughtostunthecrowdsintoamazement.Thatputsyoujustalittleaboveeye-levelformostadults,andthatcan’tdothetrickoverthelonghaul.Atsixfeet,you’rehoveringabovetheirheads,andonceyouforcethemtolookup,you’llbecreatingthekindofimpressionwewant.Attenfeet,theeffectwillbetranscendent.Attwentyfeet,you’llbeupthereamongtheangels,Walt,awondrousthingtobehold,anapparitionoflightandbeautyshiningjoyintotheheartofeveryman,woman,andchildwholiftshisfaceuptoyou.”

“You’regivingmegoosebumps,master.Whenyoutalklikethat,itsetsmybonesallatremble.”

“Loftisonlythehalfofit,son.Beforeyougetcarriedaway,stopandconsiderlocomotion.BythatImeanmovingyourselfthroughtheair.Forwardorbackward,asthecasemaybe,butpreferablyboth.Speedisofnoconsequence,butdurationisvital,theverynubofthematter.Imaginethespectacleofglidingthroughtheairfortenseconds.Peoplewillgasp.They’llpointatyouindisbelief,butbeforetheycanabsorbtherealityofwhatthey’rewitnessing,themiraclewillbeover.Nowstretchtheperformancetothirtysecondsoraminute.Itgetsbetter,doesn’tit?Thesoulbeginstoexpand,thebloodbeginstoflowmoresweetlyinyourveins.Nowstretchittofiveminutes,totenminutes,andimagineyourselfturningfigureeightsanddancingpirouettesasyoumove,inexhaustibleandfree,withfiftythousandpairsofeyestrainedonyouasyoufloatabovethegrassofthePoloGroundsinNewYorkCity.Trytoimagineit,Walt,andyou’llseewhatI’vebeenseeingforallthesemonthsandyears.”

“InthenameoftheLord,MasterYehudi,Idon’tthinkIcanstandit.”

“Butwait,Walt,waitanothersecond.Justsuppose,forthesakeofargument,justsupposethatbysomevaststrokeofluckyouwereabletomasterboththosethingsandperformthematthesametime.”

“Loftandlocomotiontogether?”

“That’sit,Walt.Loftandlocomotiontogether.Whatthen?”

“I’dbeflying,wouldn’tI?I’dbeflyingthroughtheairlikeabird.”

“Notlikeabird,mylittleman.Likeagod.You’dbethewonderofwonders,Walt,theholyofholies.Aslongasmenwalkedtheearth,they’dworshipyouasthegreatestmanamongthem.”

Ispentmostofthewinterworkingaloneinthebarn.Theanimalswere

there,buttheypaidnoattentiontome,watchingmyantigravitationalfeatswithdumbindifference.Everynowandthen,themasterwouldstopintoseehowIwasdoing,butotherthanafewwordsofencouragement,herarelysaidmuch.Januaryprovedtobethehardestmonth,andImadenoprogressatall.Levitationwasalmostassimpleasbreathingformebythen,butIwasstuckatthesamepaltryheightofsixinches,andtheideaofmovingthroughtheairseemedoutofthequestion.Itwasn’tthatIcouldn’tgetthehangofthosethings,Icouldn’tevenconceiveofthem,andworkasIdidtocoaxmybodytoexpressthem,Icouldn’tfindawaytobegin.Norwasthemasterinanypositiontohelp.“Trialanderror,”hewouldsay,“trialanderror,that’swhatitboilsdownto.You’vecometothehardpartnow,andyoucan’texpecttoreachtheheavensovernight.”

InearlyFebruary,AesopandMasterYehudileftthefarmtogoonatourofcollegesanduniversitiesbackEast.TheywantedtomakeuptheirmindsaboutwhereAesopshouldbeenrolledinSeptember,andtheywereplanningtobegoneforafullmonth.Idon’tneedtoaddthatIbeggedtogoalongwiththem.TheywouldbevisitingcitieslikeBostonandNewYork,giantmetropoliseswithmajorleagueballclubsandtrolleycarsandpinballmachines,andtheideaofbeingstuckintheboondockswasabithardtoswallow.IfI’dbeenmakingsomeheadwayonmyloftandlocomotion,itmightnothavebeensoawfultobeleftbehind,butIwasn’tgettinganywhere,andItoldthemasterthatachangeofscenerywasjustwhatIneededtogetthejuicesflowingagain.Helaughedinthatcondescendingwayofhisandsaid,“Yourtimeiscoming,champ,butit’sAesop’sturnnow.Thepoorboyhasn’tseteyesonasidewalkoratrafficlightforsevenyears,andit’smydutyasafathertoshowhimalittleoftheworld.Bookscanonlygosofar,afterall.Amomentcomeswhenyouhavetoexperiencethingsintheflesh.”

“Talkingaboutflesh,”Isaid,gulpingbackmydisappointment,“besuretotakecareofAesop’slittlepal.Ifthere’soneexperiencehe’sbeencraving,it’sthechancetoputitsomewhereotherthaninhisownhand.”

“Restassured,Walt.It’sontheagenda.Mrs.Witherspoongavemesomeextracashforpreciselythatpurpose.”

“Thatwasthoughtfulofher.Maybeshe’lldothesameformeoneday.”

“I’msureshewould,butIdoubtyou’regoingtoneedherhelp.”

“We’llseeaboutthat.Thewaythingsstandnow,Iain’tinterestedanyway.”

“AllthemorereasontostaybehindinKansasanddoyourwork.Ifyoukeepatit,theremightbeasurpriseortwoformewhenIcomeback.”

SoIspentthemonthofFebruaryalonewithMotherSioux,watchingthe

snowfallandlisteningtothewindblowacrosstheprairie.Forthefirstcoupleofweeks,theweatherwassocoldthatIcouldn’tbringmyselftogoouttothebam.Ispentthebetterpartofmytimemopingaroundthehouse,toodejectedtothinkaboutpracticingmystunts.Evenwithjustthetwoofus,MotherSiouxhadtokeepupwithherchores,andwhatwiththeextraeffortrequiredbecauseofherbumleg,shetiredmoreeasilythanshehadbefore.Still,Ipesteredhertodistraction,tryingtogethertotalktomeasshewentaboutherwork.ForovertwoyearsIhadn’tgivenmuchthoughttoanyonebutmyself,acceptingthepeoplearoundmemoreorlessastheyappearedonthesurface.Ihadneverbotheredtoprobeintotheirpasts,hadneverreallycaredtoknowwhothey’dbeenbeforeIenteredtheirlives.Now,suddenly,IwasgrippedbyacompulsiontolearneverythingIcouldabouteachoneofthem.IthinkitstartedbecauseImissedthemsomuch—themasterandAesopmostofall,butMrs.Witherspoonaswell.I’dlikedhavingheraroundthehouse,andtheplacewasalotdullernowthatshewasgone.Askingquestionswasawaytobringthemback,andthemoreMotherSiouxtalkedaboutthem,thelesslonelyIfelt.

Forallmyinsistenceandnagging,Ididn’tgetmuchoutofherduringthedaytime.Anoccasionalanecdote,afewdribsanddrabs,suggestivehints.Theeveningsweremoreconducivetotalk,andnomatterhowhardIpressedher,sherarelygotgoingbeforewesatdowntosupper.MotherSiouxwasatight-lippedperson,notgiventoidlechatterorshootingthebreeze,butonceshesettledintotherightmood,shewasn’thalfbadattellingstories.Herdeliverywasflat,andshedidn’tthrowinmanycolorfuldetails,butshehadaknackforpausingeverysoofteninthemiddleofasentenceoranidea,andthoselittlebreaksinthetellingproducedratherstartlingeffects.Theygaveyouachancetothink,tocarryonwiththestoryyourself,andbythetimeshestartedupagain,youdiscoveredthatyourheadwasfilledwithallkindsofvividpicturesthathadn’tbeentherebefore.

Onenight,fornoreasonthatIcouldunderstand,shetookmeuptoherroomonthesecondfloor.Shetoldmetositonthebed,andonceI’dmademyselfcomfortable,sheopenedthelidofabatteredoldtrunkthatstoodinthecorner.I’dalwaysthoughtitwasastorageplaceforhersheetsandblankets,butitturnedouttobestuffedwithobjectsfromherpast:photographsandbeads,moccasinsandrawhidedresses,arrowheads,newspaperclippings,andpressedflowers.Onebyone,shecarriedthesemementoesovertothebed,satdownbesideme,andexplainedwhattheymeant.ItwasalltrueaboutherhavingworkedforBuffaloBill,Idiscovered,andthethingthatgotmewhenIlookedthroughheroldpictureswashowprettyshe’dbeenbackthen—pertandslim,withafullsetofwhiteteethandtwolong,lovelybraids.She’dbeenaregularIndianprincess,adreamsquawlikethegirlsinthemovies,andit

washardtoputthatcutelittlepackagetogetherwiththeroly-polygimpwhokepthouseforus,toacceptthefactthattheywereoneandthesameperson.Itstartedwhenshewassixteenyearsold,shesaid,attheheightoftheGhostDancecrazethatsweptthroughtheIndianlandsinthelate1880s.Thosewerethebadtimes,theyearsoftheendoftheworld,andtheredpeoplebelievedthatmagicwastheonlythingthatcouldsavethemfromextinction.Thecavalrywasclosinginfromallsides,crowdingthemofftheprairiesontosmallreservations,andtheBlue-Coatshadtoomanymentomakeacounterattackfeasible.DancingtheGhostDancewasthelastlineofresistance:tojiggleandshakeyourselfintoafrenzy,tobounceandbobliketheHolyRollersandthescrewballswhobabbleintongues.Youcouldflyoutofyourbodythen,andthewhiteman’sbulletswouldnolongertouchyou,nolongerkillyou,nolongeremptyyourveinsofblood.TheDancecaughtoneverywhere,andeventuallySittingBullhimselfthrewinhislotwiththeshakers.TheU.S.Armygotscared,fearingrebellionwasintheworks,andorderedMotherSioux’sgreat-uncletostop.Buttheoldboytoldthemtoshoveit,hecouldjitterbuginhisowntepeeifhewantedto,andwhoweretheytomeddleinhisprivatebusiness?SoGeneralBlueCoat(IthinkhisnamewasMiles,orNiles)calledinBuffaloBilltopowwowwiththechief.Theywere’buddiesfrombackwhenSittingBullhadworkedintheWildWestShow,andCodywasabouttheonlypalefacehetrusted.SoBilltrekkedouttothereservationinSouthDakotalikeagoodsoldier,butoncehegotthere,thegeneralchangedhismindandwouldn’tallowhimtomeetwithSittingBull.Billwasunderstandablytickedoff.Justashewasabouttostormaway,however,hecaughtsightoftheyoungMotherSioux(whosenamebackthenwasSheWhoSmilesliketheSun)andsignedheronasamemberofhistroupe.Atleastthejourneyhadn’tgoneentirelyfornought.ForMotherSioux,itprobablymeantthedifferencebetweenlifeanddeath.Afewdaysafterherdepartureintotheworldofshowbusiness,SittingBullwasmurderedinascufflewithsomeofthesoldierswhowereholdinghimprisoner,andnotlongafterthat,threehundredwomen,children,andoldmenweremoweddownbyacavalryregimentattheso-calledBattleofWoundedKnee,whichwasn’tabattlesomuchasaturkeyshoot,awholesaleslaughteroftheinnocent.

ThereweretearsinMotherSioux’seyeswhenshespokeaboutthis.“Custer’srevenge,”shemuttered.“IwastwoyearsoldwhenCrazyHorsefilledhisbodywitharrows,andbythetimeIwassixteen,therewasnothingleft.”

“Aesoponceexplainedittome,”Isaid.“It’sabitfuzzynow,butIrecallhimdescribinghowtherewouldn’thavebeennoblackslavesfromAfricaifthewhitefolkshadbeengivenafreehandwiththeIndians.Hesaidthey

wantedtoturntheredskinsintoslaves,buttheCatholicbossmanintheoldcountryputthenixonit.SothepirateswenttoAfricainsteadandroundedupalotofdarkiesandhauledthemoffinchains.That’showAesoptoldit,andI’veneverknownhimtolieaboutnothing.Indiansweresupposedtobetreatedgood.Likethatlive-and-let-livestuffthemasterisalwaysnatteringabout.”

“Supposedto,”MotherSiouxanswered.“Butsupposedtoain’tthesameasis.”

“You’vegotapointthere,Ma.Ifyoudon’tputyourmoneywhereyourmouthis,youcanmakeallthepromisesyouwant,anditstilldon’tadduptoamoundofsquash.”

Shepulledoutmorephotosafterthat,andthenshestartedinonthetheaterprograms,posterbills,andnewspaperclippings.MotherSiouxhadbeenjustabouteverywhere,notjustinAmericaandCanada,butontheothersideoftheoceanaswell.ShehadperformedinfrontofthekingandqueenofEngland,shehadsignedherautographforthetsarofRussia,shehaddrunkchampagnewithSarahBernhardt.AfterfiveorsixyearsoftouringwithBuffaloBill,shemarriedanIrishmannamedTed,alittlejockeywhorodesteeplechaseupanddowntheBritishIsles.TheyhadadaughternamedDaffodil,astonecottagewithbluemorninggloriesandpinkclimbingrosesinthegarden,andforsevenyearsherhappinessknewnobounds.Thendisasterstruck.TedandDaffodilwerekilledinatrainwreck,andMotherSiouxreturnedtoAmericawithabrokenheart.ShemarriedapipefitterwhosenamewasalsoTed,butunlikeTedOne,TedTwowasasotandaroughneck,andbyandbyMotherSiouxtooktodrinkherself,sogreatwashersorrowwhenevershecomparedhernewlifetoherold.Theywounduplivingtogetherinatar-papershackontheoutskirtsofMemphis,Tennessee,andifnotforthesudden,whollychanceappearanceofMasterYehudiontheirroadonemorninginthesummerof1912,MotherSiouxwouldhavebeenacorpsebeforehertime.HewaswalkingalongwiththeyoungAesopinhisarms(justtwodaysafterhe’drescuedhiminthecottonfield)whenheheardshrieksandhowlsrisingfromthebroken-downhutthatMotherSiouxcalledherhome.TedTwohadjustcommencedpummelingherwithhishairyfists,knockingoutsixorseventeethwiththefirstblows,andMasterYehudi,whowasneveronetowalkawayfromtrouble,enteredtheshack,gentlyplacedhiscrippledchildonthefloor,andputanendtothedonnybrookbysneakingupbehindTedTwo,clampinghisthumbandmiddlefingerontothecrumbum’sneck,andapplyingenoughpressuretodispatchhimtothelandofdreams.ThemasterthenwashedthebloodfromMotherSioux’gumsandlips,helpedhertoherfeet,andglancedaboutatthesqualoroftheroom.Hedidn’tneedmore

thantwelvesecondstocometoadecision.“Ihaveaproposaltomake,”hesaidtothebatteredwoman.“Leavethislouseonthefloorandcomewithme.Ihavearickets-plaguedboyinwantofamother,andifyouagreetotakecareofhim,I’llagreetotakecareofyou.Idon’tstayanywhereforverylong,soyou’llhavetoacquireatastefortravel,butIpromiseonmyfather’ssoulthatI’llneverletyouandthechildgohungry.”

Themasterwastwenty-nineyearsoldthen,aradiantspecimenofmanhoodsportingawaxedhandlebarmustacheandanimpeccablyknottedtie.MotherSiouxjoinedforceswithhimthatmorning,andforthenextfifteenyearsshestuckwithhimthrougheverytwistandturnofhiscareer,raisingAesopasifhewereherown.Ican’trememberalltheplacesshetalkedabout,butthebeststoriesalwaysseemedtobecenteredaroundChicago,atowntheyvisitedoften.ThatwaswhereMrs.Witherspoonhailedfrom,andonceMotherSiouxgotontothatsubject,myheadstartedtospin.Shegavemeonlythesketchiestoutline,butthebarefactsweresocurious,soweirdlytheatrical,thatitwasn’tlongbeforeIhadembroideredthemintoafull-blowndrama.MarionWitherspoonhadmarriedherlatehusbandwhenshewastwentyortwenty-one.HehimselfhadbeenraisedinKansas,thesonofawealthyfamilyfromWichitawhohadrunofftothebigcitythemomenthecameintohisinheritance.MotherSiouxdescribedhimasahandsome,fun-lovingrake,oneofthosemealy-mouthedcharmerswhocouldtalkhiswayintoawoman’sskirtinlesstimethanittookJimThorpetotiehisshoe.Theyoungcouplelivedhighonthehogforthreeorfouryears,butMr.Witherspoonhadaweaknessfortheponies,nottospeakofapenchantfordabblinginafriendlygameofcardssomefifteenortwentynightsamonth,andsincehedemonstratedmoreenthusiasmthanskillathischosenvices,hisoncevastfortuneshranktoapittance.Towardtheend,thesituationbecamesodesperatethatitlookedasifheandhiswifewouldhavetomovebacktothefamilyhomeinWichitaandthathe,CharlieWitherspoon,thepolo-playinggadaboutandjokesteroftheNorthSide,wouldactuallyhavetolookfornine-to-fiveemploymentinsomedrearygrain-beltinsurancecompany.ThatwaswhereMasterYehudienteredthepicture—inthebackroomofaRushStreetpoolhallatfourinthemorningwithsaidMr.Witherspoonandtwoorthreeanonymousothers,allofthemsittingaroundagreenfelttableholdingcardsintheirhands.Astheysayinthefunnypapers,itwasn’tCharlie’snight,andtherehewasabouttogobelly-up,sittingonthreejacksandapairofkingswithoutadimetothrowinthepot.MasterYehudiwastheonlyoneleftinthegame,andsincethiswasclearlythelastgoodchanceCharliewouldeverhave,hedecidedtogoforbroke.FirsthebethispropertyinCibola,Kansas(whichhadoncebeenhisgrandparents’farm),signingoverthehouseandthelandonascrapofpaper,andthen,whenMasterYehudihunginthereand

raisedhim,thegentlemansignedanotherscrapofpaperwherebyherelinquishedallclaimstohisownwife.MasterYehudiwasholdingfoursevens,andsincefourofakindalwaysbeatsafullhouse,nomatterhowmuchroyaltyiscrammedintothathouse,hewonthefarmandthewoman,andpoor,defeatedCharlieWitherspoon,atlastathiswit’send,wobbledhomeatdawn,enteredtheroomwherehiswifelayasleep,andextractedarevolverfromthebedsidetable,whereuponheblewhisbrainsoutrightthereonthebed.

ThatwashowMasterYehudicametopitchhistentinKansas.Afteryearsofwandering,hefinallyhadaplacetocallhisown,andwhileitwasn’tnecessarilytheplacehe’dhadinmind,hewasn’tabouttospurnwhatthosefoursevenshadgivenhim.WhatpuzzledmewashowMrs.Witherspoonfitintothesetup.Ifherhusbandhaddiedbroke,fromwhencehadsprungthewherewithalforhertolivesocomfortablyinherWichitamansion,topamperherselfwithfineclothesandemerald-greensedansandstillhaveenoughleftovertofundMasterYehudi’sprojects?MotherSiouxhadareadyanswerforthatone.Becauseshewassmart.Onceshecaughtontotheprofligatewaysofherhusband,Mrs.Witherspoonhadbegunfiddlingwiththebooks,stashingawaybitsoftheirmonthlyincomeinhigh-yieldinvestments,stocks,corporatebonds,andotherfinancialtransactions.Bythetimeshewaswidowed,thishanky-pankyhadproducedsomerobustprofits,multiplyingherinitialoutlaybyafactoroffour,andwiththistidylittlefortunetuckedintoherpurse,shewasmorethanabletoeat,drink,andmakemerry.ButwhataboutMasterYehudi?Iasked.He’dwonherfairandsquareinthatpokergame,andifMrs.Witherspoonbelongedtohim,whyweren’ttheymarried?Whywasn’tsheherewithusdarninghissocksandcookinghisgrubandcarryinghisbabiesinherwomb?

MotherSiouxshookherheadslowlybackandforth.“It’sanewworldwe’relivingin,”shesaid.“Ain’tnobodycanownanother’sbodynomore.Awomanain’tchatteltobeboughtandsoldbymen,leastofalloneofthemnewwomenlikethemaster’slady.Theyloveandhate,theygrappleandspoon,theywantanddon’twant,andastimegoesontheyeachsinkdeeperundertheother’sskin.It’sarealshow,patty-cake,thefolliesandthecircusallrolledintoone,anddollarstodoughnutsit’sgoingtobelikethattillthedaytheydie.”

ThesestoriesgavemealottochewonduringthehoursIspentalone,butthemoreIponderedwhatMotherSiouxhadtoldme,themoretwistedandconfoundingitbecame.Myheadgrewwearyfromtryingtoparsetheinsandoutsofsuchcomplexdoings,andatacertainpointIjuststopped,tellingmyselfI’dshortmybrainwiresifIkeptupallthatcogitation.Grown-ups

wereimpenetrablecreatures,andifIeverbecameonemyself,Ipromisedtowritealetterbacktomyoldselfexplaininghowtheygottobethatway—butfornowI’dhadenough.Itwasarelieftoletgolikethat,butonceIabandonedthosethoughts,Ifellintoaboredomsoprofound,sotaxinginitsblandandfeatherysameness,thatIfinallywentbacktowork.Itwasn’tbecauseIwantedto,it’sjustthatIcouldn’tthinkofanyotherwaytofillthetime.

Ilockedmyselfinmyroomagain,andafterthreedaysoffruitlessendeavor,IdiscoveredwhatIhadbeendoingwrong.Thewholeproblemlayinmyapproach.Ihadsomehowgottenitintomyheadthatloftandlocomotioncouldonlybeachievedthroughatwo-stepprocess.FirstlevitateashighasIcould,thenpushoutandgo.Ihadtrainedmyselftodotheonething,andIfiguredIcouldaccomplishthesecondthingbygraftingitontothefirst.Butthetruthwasthatthesecondthingcanceledoutwhatcamebeforeit.Againandagain,Iwouldliftmyselfintotheairaccordingtotheoldmethod,butassoonasIstartedtothinkaboutmovingforward,Iwouldflutterbacktotheground,landingonmyfeetagainbeforeIhadachancetogetgoing.IfIfailedonce,Ifailedathousandtimes,andafterawhileIfeltsodisgusted,sobedeviledbymyincompetence,thatItooktothrowingtantrumsandpoundingmyfistsonthefloor.Atlast,inthefullflushofangeranddefeat,Ipickedmyselfupandjumpedstraightintothewall,hopingtosmashmyselfintounconsciousness.Ileapt,andforthebriefesteyeblinkofasecond,justbeforemyshoulderthuddedagainsttheplaster,IsensedthatIwasfloating—thatevenasIrushedforward,Iwaslosingtouchwithgravity,goingupwithafamiliarbuoyantsurgeasIlungedthroughtheair.BeforeIcouldgraspwhatwashappening,Ihadbouncedoffthewallandwascrumplingontothefloorinpain.Mywholeleftsidethrobbedfromtheimpact,butIdidn’tcare.Ijumpedtomyfeetanddidalittledancearoundtheroom,laughingmyheadoffforthenexttwentyminutes.Ihadcrackedthesecret.Iunderstood.Forgetrightangles,Itoldmyself.Thinkarc,thinktrajectory.Itwasn’tamatteroffirstgoingupandthengoingout,itwasamatterofgoingupandoutatthesametime,oflaunchingmyselfinonesmooth,uninterruptedgestureintothearmsofthegreatambientnothingness.

Iworkedlikeadogoverthenexteighteenortwentydays,practicingthisnewtechniqueuntilitwasembeddedinmymusclesandbones,areflexactionthatnolongerrequiredtheslightestpauseforthought.Locomotionwasaperfectibleskill,adreamlikewalkingthroughairthatwasessentiallynodifferentfromwalkingontheground,andjustasababytottersandfallswithitsfirststeps,IexperiencedagoodlydoseofstumblesandspillswhenIbegantospreadmywings.Durationwastheabidingissueformeatthatpoint,thequestionofhowlongandhowfarIcouldkeepmyselfgoing.Theearlyresults

variedwidely,ranginganywherefromthreetofifteenseconds,andsincethespeedatwhichImovedwasachinglyslow,thebestIcouldmanagewassevenoreightfeet,noteventhedistancefromonewallofmyroomtoanother.Itwasn’tavigorous,smart-steppingamble,butakindofshufflingghost-walk,thewayanaerialistadvancesalongahighwire.Still,Ikeptonworkingwithconfidence,nolongersubjecttoswoonsofdiscouragementasI’dbeenbefore.Iwasinchingforwardnow,andnothingwasgoingtostopme.EvenifIhadn’trisenhigherthanmystandardsixorseveninches,Ifigureditwasbesttoconcentrateonlocomotionforthetimebeing.OnceI’dachievedsomemasteryinthatarea,Iwouldturnmyattentiontoloftandtacklethatproblemaswell.Itmadesense,andevenifIhadittodoalloveragain,Iwouldn’tbudgefromthatplan.HowcouldIhaveknownthattimewasalreadyrunningshort,thatfewerdayswereleftthananyofushadimagined?

AfterMasterYehudiandAesopreturned,spiritsinthehouseholdpercolatedasneverbefore.Itwastheendofanera,andwewerealllookingaheadtothefuturenow,anticipatingthenewlivesthatwaitedforusbeyondtheboundariesofthefarm.Aesopwouldbethefirsttogo—offtoYaleinSeptember—butifthingswentaccordingtoschedule,therestofuswouldbefollowingsuitbytheturnoftheyear.NowthatIhadpassedtothenextstageofmytraining,themastercalculatedthatI’dbereadytoperforminpublicinroughlyninemonths.Itwasstillalongwaytogoforsomeonemyage,buthetalkedaboutitassomethingrealnow,andwhatwithhisuseofwordslikebookings,venues,andboxofficenet,hekeptmehumminginastateofpermanentexcitement.Iwasn’tWaltRawleyanymore,thewhitetrashnobodywithoutapottopissin,IwasWalttheWonderBoy,thediminutivedaredevilwhodefiedthelawsofgravity,theoneandonlyaceoftheair.OncewehittheroadandlettheworldseewhatIcoulddo,Iwasgoingtobeasensation,themosttalked-aboutpersonalityinAmerica.

AsforAesop,histourbackEasthadbeenanunqualifiedsuccess.They’dgivenhimspecialexams,they’dinterviewedhim,they’dpickedandprobedthecontentsofhiswoolyskull,andtohearthemastertellit,he’dknockedthesocksoffthelotofthem.Notasinglecollegehadturnedhimdown,butYalewasofferingafour-yearscholarship—alongwithfoodandlodgingandasmalllivingallowance—andthathadtippedthebalanceintheirfavor.Boolaboola,bulldogsoftheworldunite.Recallingthesefactsnow,Iunderstandwhatanachievementitwasforaself-taughtblackyoungstertohavescaledtherampartsofthosecold-heartedinstitutions.Iknewnothingaboutbooks,hadnoyardsticktomeasuremyfriend’sabilitiesagainstanyoneelse’s,butItookitonblindfaiththathewasagenius,andtheideathatabunchofsourpussesandstuffedshirtsatYaleCollegeshouldwanthimasastudent

struckmeasnatural,themostfittingthingintheworld.

IfIwastoodumbtograspthesignificanceofAesop’striumph,Iwasmorethanbowledoverbythenewclotheshebroughtbackfromhistrip.Hereturnedinaraccooncoatandablue-and-whitebeanie,andhelookedsostrangeinthatgetupthatIcouldn’thelplaughingwhenhewalkedthroughthedoor.ThemasterhadhadhimfittedfortwobrowntweedsuitsinBoston,andnowthathewashome,hetooktowearingthemaroundthehouseinsteadofhisoldfarmduds,completewithwhiteshirt,stiffcollar,necktie,andapairofgleaming,dung-huedbrogans.Itwasaltogetherimpressivehowhecarriedhimselfinthosethreads—asiftheymadehimmoreerect,moredignified,moreawareofhisownimportance.Eventhoughhedidn’thaveto,hestartedshavingeverymorning,andIwouldkeephimcompanyinthekitchenashelathereduphismuganddippedhisstraight-edgedrazorintothechillybucket,holdingalittlemirrorforhimashetoldmeaboutthethingshe’dseenanddoneinthebigcitiesalongtheAtlanticcoast.Themasterhaddonemorethanjustgethimintocollege,he’dshownhimthetimeofhislife,andAesoprememberedeveryminuteofit:thehighspots,thelowspots,andallthespotsinbetween.Hetalkedabouttheskyscrapers,themuseums,thevarietyshows,therestaurants,thelibraries,thesidewalksthrongedwithpeopleofeverycoloranddescription.“Kansasisanillusion,”hesaidonemorningashescrapedawayathisinvisiblebeard,“astoppingplaceontheroadtoreality.”

“Youdon’thavetotellme,”Isaid.“Thisholeissobackward,thestatewentdrybeforetheyevenheardofProhibitionintherestofthecountry.”

“IdrankabeerinNewYorkCity,Walt.”

“Well,Ifiguredyoumusthavedone.”

“Inaspeakeasy.AnillegalestablishmentonMacDougalStreet,rightintheheartofGreenwichVillage.Iwishyoucouldhavebeentherewithme.”

“Ican’tstandthetasteofthemsuds,Aesop.Givemeagoodstiffbourbon,though,andI’lldrinkanymanunderthetable.”

“I’mnotsayingittastedgood.Butitwasexcitingtobetherewithallthosepeople,quaffingmydrinkinacrowdedplacelikethat.”

“I’llbetitwasn’ttheonlyexcitingthingyoudid.”

“No,notbyalongshot.Itwasjustoneofmany.”

“I’llbetyourpeckergotsomegoodworkouts,too.I’mjustmakingawildguess,ofcourse,socorrectmeifI’mwrong.”

Aesoppausedwiththerazorinmidair,grewthoughtfulforamoment,andthenstartedgrinningintothemirror.“Let’sjustsayitwasn’tneglected,little

brother,andwe’llleaveitatthat.”

“Canyoutellmehername?Idon’tmeantobepushy,butI’mcurioustofindoutwhotheluckygirlwas.”

“Well,ifyoumustknow,hernamewasMabel.”

“Mabel.Notbad,allthingsconsidered.Shesoundslikeadollywithsomefleshonherbones.Wassheoldoryoung?”

“Shewasn’told,andshewasn’tyoung.Butyouhititrightabouttheflesh.Mabelwasthefattest,blackestmamayou’deverhopetosinkyourteethinto.Shewassobig,Icouldn’ttellwhereshestartedandwheresheended.Itwaslikewrestlingwithahippo,Walt.Butonceyougetintotheswingofit,theanatomytakescareofitself.Youcreepintoherbedasaboy,andhalfanhourlateryouwalkoutasaman.”

Nowthathehadgraduatedtomanhood,Aesopdecidedthemomenthadcometositdownandwritehisautobiography.Thatwashowheplannedtospendthemonthsbeforehelefthome—tellingthestoryofhislifesofar,fromhisbirthinaruralshackinGeorgiatohisdefloweringinaHarlembordello,wrappedintheblubberyarmsofMabelthewhore.Thewordsbegantoflow,butthetitlevexedhim,andIrememberhowheditheredbackandforthaboutit.OnedayhewasgoingtocallthebookConfessionsofaNegroFoundling;thenextdayhechangedittoAesop’sAdventures:TheTrueHistoryandUnvarnishedOpinionsofaLostBoy;thedayafterthatitwasgoingtobeTheRoadtoYale:TheLifeofaNegroScholarfromHisHumbleOriginstothePresent.Thosewerejustsomeofthem,andforaslongasheworkedonthatbook,hekepttryingoutdifferentones,shufflingandreshufflinghisideasuntilhe’dbuiltupastackoftitlepageseverybitastallasthemanuscriptitself.Hemusthavetoiledeightortenhoursadayonhisopus,andIcanrememberpeekingthroughthedoorashesattherehunchedoverhisdesk,marvellingathowapersoncouldsitstillforsolong,engagedinnootheractivitythanguidingthenibofapenacrossaleafofwhitefoolscap.Itwasmyfirstexperiencewiththemakingofbooks,andevenwhenAesopcalledmeintohisroomtoreadselectedpassagesofhisworkaloud,Ifoundithardtotallyallthatsilenceandconcentrationwiththestoriesthatcametumblingfromhislips.Wewereallinthebook—MasterYehudi,MotherSioux,myself—andtomyclumsy,untutoredear,thethinghadeveryintentionofbecomingamasterpiece.Ilaughedatsomeparts,Icriedatothers,andwhatmorecanapersonwantfromabookthantofeeltheprickofsuchdelightsandsorrows?NowthatI’mwritingabookofmyown,notadaygoesbywhenIdon’tthinkaboutAesopupthereinhisroom.Thatwassixty-fivespringsago,andIcanstillseehimsittingathisdesk,scribblingawayathisyouthfulmemoirsasthelightpouredthroughthewindow,catchingthedustparticlesthatdanced

aroundhim.IfIconcentratehardenough,Icanstillhearthebreathgoinginandoutofhislungs,Icanstillhearthepointofhispenscratchingacrossthepaper.

WhileAesopworkedindoors,MasterYehudiandIspentourdaysinthefields,toilinguntoldhoursonmyact.Inafitofoptimismafterhisreturn,he’dannouncedtousatdinnerthattherewouldn’tbeanyplantingthatyear.“Tohellwiththecrops,”hesaid.“There’senoughfoodtolastthroughthewinter,andbythetimespringcomesagain,we’llbelonggonefromthisplace.ThewayIlookatit,itwouldbeasintogrowthingswe’llneverneed.”Therewasgeneralrejoicingoverthisnewpolicy,andforoncetheearlyspringwasfreeofdrudgeworkandplowing,theinterminableweeksofbentbacksandsloggingthroughmud.Mylocomotionbreakthroughhadturnedthetide,andMasterYehudiwassoconfidentnowthathewaswillingtoletthefarmgotopot.Itwastheonlysanedecisionamancouldmake.We’dalldoneourtime,andwhyeatdirtwhenwe’dsoonbecountingourgold?

Thatdoesn’tmeanwedidn’tbustourassesoutthere—particularlymyself—butIenjoyedthework,andnomatterhowhardthemasterpushedme,Ineverwantedtoquit.Oncetheweatherturnedwarm,weusuallykeptgoinguntilafterdark,workingbytorchlightinthefarmeadowsasthemoonroseintothesky.Iwasinexhaustible,consumedbyahappinessthatsweptmealongfromonechallengetothenext.ByMayfirst,Iwasabletowalkfromtentotwelveyardsasamatterofroutine.ByMayfifth,Ihadextendedittotwentyyards,andlessthanaweekafterthatIhadpushedittoforty:ahundredandtwentyfeetofairbornelocomotion,nearlytenuninterruptedminutesofpuremagic.Thatwaswhenthemasterhitupontheideaofhavingmepracticeoverwater.Therewasapondinthenortheastcorneroftheproperty,andfromthenonwedidallourworkoverthere,ridingoutinthebuckboardwagoneverymorningafterbreakfasttoapointwherewecouldnolongerseethehouse—alonetogetherinthesilentfields,barelysayingawordtoeachotherforhoursonend.Thewaterintimidatedmeatfirst,andsinceIdidn’tknowhowtoswim,itwasnolaughingmattertotestmyprowessoverthatelement.Thepondmusthavebeensixtyfeetacross,andthewaterlevelinatleasthalfofitwasovermyhead.Ifellinsixteenortwentytimesthefirstday,andonfourofthoseoccasionsthemasterhadtojumpinandfishmeout.Afterthat,wecameequippedwithtowelsandseveralchangesofclothes,butbytheendoftheweektheywerenolongernecessary.Iconqueredmyfearofthewaterbypretendingitwasn’tthere.IfIdidn’tlookdown,IdiscoveredIcouldpropelmybodyacrossthesurfacewithoutgettingwet.Itwasassimpleasthat,andbythelastdaysofMay1927,IwaswalkingonwaterwiththesameskillasJesushimself.

Somewhereinthemiddleofthattime,LindberghmadehissoloflightacrosstheAtlantic,travelingnonstopfromNewYorkCitytoParisinthirty-threehours.WeheardaboutitfromMrs.Witherspoon,whodroveoutfromWichitaonedaywithapileofnewspapersinthebackseatofhercar.Thefarmwassocutofffromtheworld,evenbigstorieslikethatoneescapedournotice.Ifithadn’tbeenforherwantingtocomeallthatway,weneverwouldhaveheardapeepaboutit.I’vealwaysfounditstrangethatLindbergh’sstuntcoincidedsoexactlywithmyownefforts,thatattheprecisemomenthewasmakinghiswayacrosstheocean,IwastraversingmylittlepondinKansas—thetwoofusintheairtogether,eachoneaccomplishinghisfeatatthesametime.Itwasasiftheskyhadsuddenlyopeneditselfuptoman,andwewerethefirstpioneers,theColumbusandMagellanofhumanflight.Ididn’tknowtheLoneEaglefromaholeinthewall,butIfeltlinkedtohimafterthat,asifwesharedsomedarkfraternalbond.Itcouldn’thavebeenacoincidencethathisplanewascalledtheSpiritofSt.Louis.Thatwasmytown,too,thetownofchampionsandtwentieth-centuryheroes,andwithoutevenknowingit,Lindberghhadnamedhisplaneinmyhonor.

Mrs.Witherspoonhungaroundforacoupleofdaysandnights.Aftersheleft,themasterandIgotbacktobusiness,shiftingthefocusofourattentionfromlocomotiontoloft.IhaddonewhatIcoulddowithhorizontaltravel;nowitwastimetoattemptthevertical.Lindberghwasaninspirationtome,Ifreelyconfessit,butIwantedtodohimonebetter:todowithmybodywhathe’ddonewithamachine.Itwouldbeonasmallerscale,perhaps,butitwouldbeinfinitelymorestupendous,athingthatwoulddwarfhisfameovernight.TryasIdid,however,Icouldn’tmakeaninchofheadway.Foraweekandahalf,themasterandIstruggledoutbythepond,equallydauntedbythetaskwe’dsetforourselves,andattheendofthattimeIwasstillnohigherthanI’dbeenbefore.Then,ontheeveningofJunefifth,MasterYehudimadeasuggestionthatbegantoturnthingsaround.

“I’mjustspeculating,”hesaid,“butitoccurstomethatyournecklacemighthavesomethingtodowithit.Itcan’tweighmorethananounceortwo,butgiventhemathematicsofwhatyou’reattempting,thatcouldbeenough.Foreachmillimeteryouriseintotheair,theweightoftheobjectincreasesingeometricproportiontotheheight—meaningthatonceyou’resixinchesofftheground,you’recarryingtheequivalentoffortyextrapounds.Thatcomestohalfyourtotalweight.Ifmycalculationsarecorrect,it’snowonderyou’vebeenhavingsucharoughtimeofit.”

“I’vewornthatthingsinceChristmas,”Isaid.“It’smyluckycharm,andIcan’tdonothingwithoutit.”

“Yesyoucan,Walt.Thefirsttimeyougotyourselfofftheground,itwas

slungaroundmyneck,remember?I’mnotsayingyoudon’thaveasentimentalattachmenttoit,butwe’reintrudingondeepspiritualmattershere,anditcouldbethatyoucan’tbewholetodowhatyouhavetodo,thatyouhavetoleaveapartofyourselfbehindbeforeyoucanattainthefullmagnitudeofyourgift.”

“That’sjustdouble-talk,I’mwearingclothes,ain’tI?I’mwearingshoesandsocks,ain’tI?Ifthenecklaceisboggingmedown,thenthosethingsaredoingittoo.AndIsureashellain’tgoingtoflauntmystuffinpublicwithoutnoclotheson.”

“Itcan’thurttotry.There’snothingtolose,Walt,andeverythingtogain.IfI’mwrong,sobeit.IfI’mnot,itwouldbeanawfulpityifweneverhadachancetofindout.”

Hehadmethere,sowithmuchskepticismandreluctanceIremovedthegoodluckcharmandplaceditinthemaster’shand.“Allright,”Isaid,“we’llgiveitawhirl.Butifitdon’tturnoutlikeyousay,that’sthelastwe’llevertalkaboutit.”

Overthecourseofthenexthour,Imanagedtodoublemypreviousrecord,ascendingtoheightsoftwelvetofourteeninches.Bynightfall,Ihadraisedmyselfagoodtwoandahalffeetofftheground,demonstratingthatMasterYehudi’shunchhadbeencorrect,apropheticinsightintothecausesandconsequencesofthelevitationarts.Thethrillwasspectacular—tofeelmyselfhoveringatsuchadistancefromtheground,tobeliterallyonthevergeofflying—butabovetwofeetitwasdifficultformetomaintainaverticalpositionwithoutbeginningtototterandgrowdizzy.Itwasallsonewtomeupthere,Iwasn’tabletofindmynaturalequilibrium.Ifeltlongtomyself,asifIwerecomposedofsegmentsandnotmadeofacontinuouspiece,andmyheadandshouldersrespondedinonewaywhilemyshinsandanklesrespondedinanother.Soasnottotipover,IfoundmyselfeasingintoapronepositionwhenIgotupthere,instinctivelyknowingitwouldbesaferandmorecomfortabletohavemyentirebodystretchedoverthegroundthanjustthesolesofmyfeet.Iwasstilltoonervoustothinkaboutmovingforwardinthatposition,butlatethatnight,justbeforeweknockedoffandwenthometobed,Ituckedmyheadundermychestandmanagedtodoaslowsomersaultintheair,completingafull,unbrokencirclewithoutoncegrazingtheearth.

ThemasterandIrodebacktothehousethatnightdrunkwithjoy.Everythingseemedpossibletousnow:theconquestofbothloftandlocomotion,theascensionintoactualflight,thedreamofdreams.Thatwasourgreatestmomenttogether,Ithink,themomentwhenourwholefuturefellintoplaceatlast.OnJunesixth,however,justonenightafterreachingthatpinnacle,mytraininggroundtoanabruptandirrevocablehalt.Thethingthat

MasterYehudihadbeendreadingforsolongfinallycametopass,andwhenitdid,ithappenedwithsuchviolence,causedsuchhavocandupheavalinourhearts,thatneitheroneofuswaseverthesameagain.

Ihadworkedwellallday,andaswasourhabitthroughoutthatmiraculousspring,wedecidedtolingeronintothenight.Atseventhirty,weateasupperofsandwichesthatMotherSiouxhadpackedforusthatmorningandthenresumedourlaborsasdarknessgatheredinthesurroundingfields.Itmusthavebeenclosetoteno’clockwhenweheardthesoundofhorses.Itwasnomorethanafaintrumblingatfirst,adisturbanceinthegroundthatmademethinkofdistantthunder,asifalightningstormwerebrewingsomewhereinthenextcounty.Ihadjustcompletedadoublesomersaultattheedgeofthepondandwaswaitingforthemaster’scomments,butinsteadofspeakinginhisnormalcalmvoice,hegrabbedholdofmyarminasudden,panic-strickengesture.“Listen,”hesaid.Andthenhesaiditagain:“Listentothat.They’recoming.Thebastardsarecoming.”Iprickedupmyears,andsureenough,thesoundwasgettinglouder.Acoupleofsecondspassed,andthenIunderstoodthatitwasthesoundofhorses,astampedingclatterofhoovescharginginourdirection.

“Don’tmove,”themastersaid.“Staywhereyouareanddon’tmoveamuscleuntilIcomeback.”

Then,withoutawordofexplanation,hestartedrunningtowardthehouse,tearingthroughthefieldslikeasprinter.Iignoredhiscommandandtookoffafterhim,racingalongasfastasmylegscouldcarryme.Wewereagoodquartermilefromthehouse,butbeforewe’dtraveledahundredyards,flameswerealreadyvisible,aglowingsurgeofredandyellowpulsingagainsttheblacksky.Weheardwhoopsandwaryodels,avolleyofshotsrangout,andthenweheardtheunmistakablesoundofhumanscreams.Themasterkeptrunning,steadilyincreasingthedistancebetweenus,butoncehecametothestandofoaksonthefarsideofthebarn,hestopped.Ipushedontothevergeofthetreesmyself,intentoncontinuingallthewaytothehouse,butthemastersawmeoutofthecornerofhiseyeandwrestledmetothegroundbeforeIcouldgoanyfarther.“We’retoolate,”hesaid.“Ifwegointherenow,we’reonlygoingtogetourselveskilled.There’stwelveofthemandtwoofus,andthey’veallgotriflesandguns.PraytoGodtheydon’tfindus,Walt,butthere’snotadamnedthingwecandofortheothers.”

Sowestoodtherehelplesslybehindthetrees,watchingtheKuKluxKlandoitswork.Adozenmenonadozenhorsesprancedabouttheyard,amobofyelpingmurdererswithwhitesheetsovertheirheads,andwewerepowerlesstothwartthem.TheydraggedAesopandMotherSiouxoutoftheburninghouse,putropesaroundtheirnecks,andstrungthemuptotheelmtreebythe

sideoftheroad,eachonetoadifferentbranch.Aesophowled,MotherSiouxsaidnothing,andwithinminutestheywerebothdead.Mytwobestfriendsweremurderedbeforemyeyes,andallIcoulddowaswatch,fightingbacktearsasMasterYehudiclampedhispalmovermymouth.Oncethekillingwasover,acoupleoftheKlansmenstuckawoodencrossintheground,douseditwithgasoline,andsetitonfire.Thecrossburnedasthehouseburned,themenwhoopeditupalittlemore,firingroundsofbuckshotintotheair,andthentheyallclimbedontotheirhorsesandrodeoffinthedirectionofCibola.Thehousewasincandescentbythen,afireballofheatandroaringtimbers,andbythetimethelastofthemenwasgone,theroofhadalreadygivenway,collapsingtothegroundinashowerofsparksandmeteors.IfeltasifIhadseenthesunexplode.IfeltasifIhadjustwitnessedtheendoftheworld.

II

Weburiedthemonthepropertythatnight,loweringtheirbodiesintotwounmarkedgravesbesidethebarn.Weshouldhavesaidsomeprayers,butourlungsweretoofullofsobbingforthat,sowejustcoveredthemupwithdirtandsaidnothing,workinginsilenceasthesaltwatertrickleddownourcheeks.Then,withoutreturningtothesmolderinghouse,withoutevenbotheringtoseeifanyofourbelongingswerestillintact,wehitchedthemaretothewagonanddroveoffintothedarkness,leavingCibolabehindusforgood.

IttookallnightandhalfthenextmorningbeforewemadeittoMrs.Witherspoon’shouseinWichita,andfortherestofthatsummerthemaster’sgriefwassobadIthoughthemightbeindangerofdyinghimself.Hescarcelystirredfromhisbed,hescarcelyate,hescarcelytalked.Exceptforthetearsthatdroppedfromhiseyeseverythreeorfourhours,therewasnowaytotellifyouwerelookingatamanorablockofstone.Thebigfellawasalldonein,ravagedbysorrowandself-recrimination,andnomatterhowhardIwishedhe’dsnapoutofit,heonlygotworseastheweekswentby.“Isawitcoming,”he’dsometimesmuttertohimself.“Isawitcoming,andIdidn’tliftafingertostopit.It’smyfault.It’smyfaultthey’redead.Icouldn’thavedoneabetterjobifI’dkilledthemwithmyowntwohands,andamanwhokillsdeservesnomercy.Hedoesn’tdeservetolive.”

Ishudderedtoseehimlikethat,alluselessandinert,andinthelongrunitscaredmeeverybitasmuchaswhathadhappenedtoAesopandMotherSioux—maybeevenmore.Idon’tmeantosoundcoldheartedaboutit,butlifeisfortheliving,andshockedasIwasbythemassacreofmyfriends,Iwasstilljustakid,alittlejumpingbeanwithantsinmypantsandrubberinmyknees,andIdidn’thaveitinmetowalkaroundmewlingandmourningforverylong.Ishedmytears,IcursedGod,Ibangedmyheadagainstthefloor,butaftercarryingonlikethatforafewdays,Iwasreadytoputitbehindmeandgetontootherthings.Idon’tsupposethatspeakstoowellofmeasaperson,butthere’snopointinpretendingIfeltwhatIdidn’tfeel.ImissedAesopandMotherSioux,Iachedtobewiththemagain—buttheyweregone,andnoamountofbeggingwasgoingtobringthemback.AsfarasIwasconcerned,itwastimetoshakeourtoesandgetcracking.Myheadwasstillstuffedwithdreamsaboutmynewcareer,andpiggishasthosedreamsmighthavebeen,Icouldn’twaittogetstarted,tolaunchmyselfintothefirmamentanddazzletheworldwithmygreatness.

Imaginemydisappointment,then,asIwatchedJuneturnintoJulyandMasterYehudistilllanguished;imaginehowmyspiritssankwhenJulybecameAugustandhestillshowednosignsofreboundingfromthetragedy.

Notonlydiditputacrimpinmyplans,butIfeltletdown,bollixed,leftinthelurch.Anessentialflawinthemaster’scharacterhadbeenrevealedtome,andIresentedhimforhislackofinnertoughness,hisrefusaltofaceuptotheshittinessoflife.Ihaddependedonhimforsomanyyears,haddrawnsomuchstrengthfromhisstrength,andnowhewasactinglikeanyotherblitheringoptimist,anotheroneofthoseguyswhowelcomedthegoodwhenitcamebutcouldn’tacceptthebad.Itturnedmystomachtoseehimfallapartlikethat,andashisgriefdraggedon,Icouldn’thelpbutlosesomefaithinhim.IfnotforMrs.Witherspoon,there’sachanceIwouldhavethrowninthetowelandsplit.“Yourmasterisabigman,”shesaidtomeonemorning,“andbigmenhavebigfeelings.Theyfeelmorethanothermen—biggerjoys,biggerangers,biggersorrows.He’sinpainnow,andit’sgoingtolastlongerforhimthanitwouldforsomeoneelse.Don’tletitfrightenyou,Walt.He’llgetoveriteventually.Youjusthavetobepatient.”

That’swhatshesaid,butdeepdownI’mnotsosureshebelievedthosewordsherself.Astimewenton,IsensedthatshewasgrowingjustasdisgustedwithhimasIwas,andIlikeditthatwesaweyetoeyeonsuchanimportantmatter.Shewasonesaltybroad,Mrs.W.,andnowthatIwaslivinginherhouseandspendingeverydayinhercompany,IunderstoodthatwehadmuchmoreincommonthanIhadpreviouslysuspected.She’dbeenonherbestbehaviorwhenshevisitedthefarm,allprimandfustysoasnottooffendAesopandMotherSioux,butnowthatshewasonherownturf,shewasfreetoletgoandunfurlhertruenature.Forthefirstcoupleofweeks,nearlyeverythingaboutthatnaturesurprisedme,riddledasitwaswithbadhabitsanduncheckedboutsofself-indulgence.I’mnotjusttalkingaboutherpenchantforbooze(nolessthansixorsevenginandtonicsperday),norherpassionforcigarettes(puffingonbygonebrandslikePicayunesandSweetCaporalsfrommorningtonight),butacertainoveralllaxness,asiflurkingbehindherladylikeexteriortherewasaloose,slattern’ssoulstrugglingtobreakfree.Thetipoffwashermouth,andonceshe’dimbibedaroundortwoofherfavoritebeverage,she’dlapseintosomeofthecoarsest,mostvulgarlanguageI’veeverheardfromthelipsofawoman,zingingoutthepungentone-linersasfastasatommygunburpsbullets.AfterallthecleanlivingI’ddoneonthefarm,Ifounditrefreshingtominglewithsomeonewhowasn’tboundbyahighmoralpurpose,whoseonlyaiminlifewastoenjoyherselfandmakeasmuchmoneyasshecould.Sowebecamefriends,leavingMasterYehuditohisanguishaswesweatedoutthedogdaysandboredomofthehotWichitasummer.

Iknewshewasfondofme,butIdon’twanttoexaggeratethedepthofheraffections,atleastnotatthatearlystage.Mrs.Witherspoonhadadefinitereasonforkeepingmehappy,andwhileI’dliketoflattermyselfitwas

becauseshefoundmesuchasterlingcompanion,suchawitty,devil-may-carefellow,thetruthwasthatshewasthinkingaboutthefuturehealthofherbankaccount.Whyelsewouldawomanofhergumptionandsexappealbothertopalaroundwithastump-dickedbratlikemyself?Shesawmeasabusinessopportunity,adollarsignintheshapeofaboy,andsheknewthatifmycareerwashandledwiththepropercareandacumen,itwasgoingtomakehertherichestwomaninthirteencounties.I’mnotsayingthatwedidn’thavesomefuntimestogether,butitwasalwaysintheserviceofherowninterests,andshesuckeduptomeandwonmeoverasawaytokeepmeinthefold,tomakesureIdidn’tsneakawaybeforeshe’dcashedinonmytalent.

Sobeit.Idon’tblameherforactinglikethat,andifI’dbeeninhershoes,Iprobablywouldhavedonethesamething.Still,Iwon’tdenythatitsometimesbuggedmetoseehowlittleanimpressionmymagicmadeonher.Throughoutthosedrearyweeksandmonths,Ikeptmyhandinbypracticingmyroutinenolessthanoneortwohoursaday.Soasnottospookthepeoplewhodrovepastthehouse,Iconfinedmyselftotheindoors,workingintheupstairsparlorwiththeshadesdrawn.NotonlydidMrs.Witherspoonrarelybothertowatchthesesessions,butonthefewoccasionswhenshedidentertheroom,shewouldobservethespectacleofmylevitationswithouttwitchingamuscle,studyingmewiththeblank-eyedobjectivityofabutcherinspectingaslabofbeef.NomatterhowextraordinarythestuntsIperformed,sheacceptedthemaspartofthenaturalorderofthings,nomorestrangeorinexplicablethanthewaxingofthemoonorthenoiseofthewind.Maybeshewastoodrunktonoticethedifferencebetweenamiracleandaneverydayevent,ormaybethemysteryofitjustlefthercold,butwhenitcametoentertainment,she’dhavesoonerdriventhrougharainstormtoseesomethird-ratepictureshowthanwatchmefloatabovethegoddamntablesandchairsinherlivingroom.Myactwasnomorethanameanstoanendforher.Aslongastheendwasassured,shecouldn’thavecaredlessaboutthemeans.

Butshewasgoodtome,Iwon’ttakethatawayfromher.Whateverhermotivesmighthavebeen,shedidn’tstintontheamusements,andnotoncedidshehesitatetoforkoutdoughonmybehalf.Twodaysaftermyarrival,shetookmeonashoppingspreeindowntownWichita,outfittingmewithawholenewsetofclothes.Afterthattherewastheicecreamparlor,thecandyshop,thepennyarcade.Shewasalwaysonestepaheadofme,andbeforeIevenknewIwantedsomething,she’dalreadybeofferingittome,thrustingitintomyhandswithawinkandalittlepatonthehead.AfterallthehardtimesI’dbeenthrough,Ican’tsayIobjectedtowhilingawaymydaysinthelapofluxury.Isleptinasoftbedwithembroideredsheetsanddownpillows,IatethegiganticmealscookedforusbyNellyBoggsthecoloredmaid,Ineverhadtoputonthesamepairofunderpantstwomorningsinarow.Most

afternoons,we’descapetheheatbytakingaspinthroughthecountrysideintheemeraldsedan,whizzingdowntheemptyroadswiththewindowsopenandtheairrushinginonusfromallsides.Mrs.Witherspoonlovedspeed,andIdon’tthinkIeversawherhappierthanwhenshewaspressingherfootonthegaspedal:laughingbetweensnortsfromhersilverflask,herbobbedredhairflutteringlikethelegsofanoverturnedcaterpillar.Thewomanhadnofear,nosensethatacartravelingatseventyoreightymilesanhourcanactuallykillsomeone.Ididmybesttostaycalmwhensheflooreditlikethat,butoncewegottosixty-fiveorseventyIcouldn’thelpmyself.Thepanicwellingupinsidemewoulddosomethingtomystomach,andbeforelongI’dbelettingoutonefartafteranother,awholechainofstinkbombsaccompaniedbyloudstaccatobuttmusic.Ineedn’taddthatIalmostdiedofshame,forMrs.Witherspoonwasnotsomeonetoletindiscretionslikethatpasswithoutcomment.Thefirsttimeithappened,sheburstoutlaughingsohardIthoughtherheadwasgoingtoflyoffhershoulders.Then,withoutwarning,sheslammedherfootonthebrakesandbroughtthecartoaskidding,heart-poundingstop.

“Afewmorecorkerslikethose,”shesaid,“andwe’llhavetodrivearoundingasmasks.”

“Idon’tsmellnothing,”Isaid,givingtheonlyanswerthatseemedpossible.

Mrs.Witherspoonsniffedloudly,thenscreweduphernoseandmadeaface.“Smellagain,sport.Thewholebeanbrigade’sbeentravelingwithus,tootingDixiefromyourrearend.”

“Justalittlegas,”Isaid,subtlychangingtactics.“IfI’mnotmistaken,acarwon’trunifyoudon’tfillitwithgas.”

“Dependsontheoctane,honey.Thekindofchemistryexperimentwe’rediscussinghere,it’sliabletogetusbothblownup.”

“Yeah,well,atleastthat’sabetterwaytodiethancrashingintoatree.”

“Don’tworry,snookums,”shesaid,unexpectedlysofteninghertone.Shereachedoutandtouchedmyhead,gentlyrunningherfingertipsthroughmyhair.“I’mahellofadriver.Nomatterhowfastwe’regoing,you’realwayssafewithLadyMarionatthecontrols.”

“Thatsoundsgood,”Isaid,enjoyingthepressureofherhandagainstmyscalp,“butI’dfeelalotbetterifyou’dputthatinwriting.”

Sheletoutashort,throatyguffawandsmiled.“Here’satipforthefuture,”shesaid.“IfyouthinkI’mgoingtoofast,justcloseyoureyesandyell.Thelouderyouyell,themorefunit’sgoingtobeforbothofus.”

Sothat’swhatIdid,oratleastwhatItriedtodo.OnsubsequentoutingsIalwaysmadeapointofshuttingmyeyeswhenthespeedometerreachedseventy-five,butafewtimesthefartscamesneakingoutatseventy,onceevenaslowassixty-five(whenitlookedlikewewereabouttoplowintoanoncomingtruckandveeredawayatthelastsecond).Thoselapsesdidnothingformyself-respect,butnonewasworsethanthetraumathatoccurredinearlyAugustwhenmybungholewentforbrokeandIwoundupcrappingmypants.Itwasabrutallyhotday.Norainhadfalleninovertwoweeks,andeveryleafoneverytreeinthewholeflatcountrysidewascoveredwithdust.Mrs.Witherspoonwasalittlemoreplasteredthanusual,Ithink,andbythetimeweleftthecitylimitsshe’dworkedherselfintooneofthosecharged-up,fuck-the-worldmoods.Shepushedherbuggypastfiftyonthefirstturn,andafterthattherewasnostoppingher.Dustfleweverywhere.Itshowereddownonthewindshield,itdancedinsideourclothes,itbatteredourteeth,andallshedidwaslaugh,pressingdownontheacceleratorasifshemeanttobreaktheMokeyDugwayspeedrecord.IshutmyeyesandhowledforallIwasworth,clutchingthedashboardasthecarshimmiedandroaredalongthedry,divot-scarredturnpike.Aftertwentyorthirtysecondsofmountingterror,Iknewthatmynumberwasup.Iwasgoingtodieonthatstupidroad,andtheseweremylastmomentsonearth.Thatwaswhentheturdslidoutofmycrack;alooseandslipperycigarthatthuddedagainstmydrawerswithawarm,sickeningwetness,thenstartedslidingdownmyleg.WhenIrealizedwhathadhappened,Icouldn’tthinkofanybetterresponsethantoburstintotears.

Meanwhile,theridecontinued,andbythetimethecarcametoahaltsometenortwelveminuteslater,Iwassoakedthroughandthrough—withsweat,withshit,withtears.Myentirebeingwasawashinbodyfluidsandmisery.

“Well,buckaroo,”Mrs.Witherspoonannounced,lightingupacigarettetosavorhertriumph.“Wedidit.Webrokethecenturymark.I’llbetyouI’mthefirstwomaninthiswholetight-assedstatewhoeverdidthat.Whatdoyouthink?Prettygoodforanoldbaglikeme,no?”

“Youain’tnooldbag,ma’am,”Isaid.

“Ah,that’snice.Iappreciatethatone.You’vegotasofttouchwiththeladies,kid.Inafewmoreyears,you’llbeknockingthemdeadwiththatkindoftalk.”

Iwantedtogoonchattingwithherlikethat,allcalmandeasyasifnothinghadhappened,butnowthatthecarhadstopped,thesmellfrommypantswasgettingmorenoticeable,andIknewitwasonlyamatterofsecondsbeforemysecretcameout.Humiliationstungmeagain,andbeforeIcouldsayanotherword,Iwassobbingintomyhandsbesideher.

“Jesus,Walt,”Iheardhersay.“JesusChristalmighty.You’vereallydoneitthistime,haven’tyou?”

“I’msorry,”Isaid,notdaringtolookather.“Icouldn’thelpit.”

“It’sprobablyallthatcandyI’vebeenfeedingyou.Yourbellyisn’tusedtoit.”

“Maybe.OrmaybeIjustdon’thavenoguts.”

“Don’tbedumb,boy.Youhadalittleaccidentisall.Ithappenstoeveryone.”

“Sure.Aslongasyou’reindiapersitdoes.Iain’tneverbeensoembarrassedinallmylife.”

“Forgetit.Thisisnotimetofeelsorryforyourself.We’vegottocleanupthatlittlebacksideofyoursbeforeanygunkoozesontotheupholstery.Areyoulisteningtome,Walt?Idon’tcareaboutyourbloodybowelmovements,Ijustdon’twantmycartobearthebrunt.There’sapondbehindthosetreesoverthere,andthat’swhereI’mtakingyounow.We’llscruboffthemustardandrelish,andthenyou’llbeasgoodasnew.”

Ididn’thavemuchchoicebuttogoalongwithher.Itwasprettyawfulhavingtostandupandwalk,whatwithallthesloshingandslitheringtakingplaceinsidemypants,andsinceIstillhadn’tquelledmysobs,mychestwentonheavingandshuddering,lettingforthawholerangeofweird,half-stifledsounds.Mrs.Witherspoonwalkedaheadofme,leadingthewaytothepond.Itwasaboutahundredfeetbackfromtheroad,setofffromitssurroundingsbyabarrierofscrawnytreesandshrubs,alittleoasisinthemiddleoftheprairie.Whenwecametotheedgeofthewater,shetoldmetostripoffmyclothes,urgingmeoninamatter-of-facttoneofvoice.Ididn’twanttodoit,atleastnotwithherlookingatme,butonceIrealizedshewasn’tgoingtoturnherback,Ifixedmyeyesonthegroundandsubmittedtotheordeal.Firstsheundidmyshoesandpulledoffmysocks;then,withouttheslightestpause,sheunbuckledmybelt,unbuttonedmyfly,andtugged.Pantsandundiesfelltomyanklesinoneswoop,andthereIwasstandingwithmydickinthebreezebeforeagrownwoman,mywhitelegsstainedwithbrownmushandmyassholereekinglikeyesterday’sgarbage.Itwassurelyoneofthelowpointsofmylife,buttoMrs.Witherspoon’simmensecredit(andthisisathingI’veneverforgotten),shedidn’tmakeasound.Notonegroanofdisgust,notonegasp.Withallthetendernessofamotherwashinghernewbornbaby,shedippedherhandsintothewaterandbegancleaningmeoff,splashingandrubbingmynakedskinuntileverysignofmydisgracehadbeenremoved.

“There,”shesaid,pattingmedrywithahandkerchiefshe’dpulledfromherredbeadedpurse.“Outofsight,outofmind.”

“Fairenough,”Isaid,“butwhatdowedowiththemfouled-upundies?”

“Weleavethemforthebirds,that’swhat,andthatgoesforthepants,too.”

“Andyouexpectmetoridehomelikethat?Withoutnostitchonmynetherbottom?”

“Whynot?Yourshirttailshangdowntoyourknees,andit’snotasthoughthere’smuchtohideanyway.We’retalkingmicroscopes,kid,thecrownjewelsofLilliput.”

“Don’tcastaspersionsonmyprivates,ma’am.Theymaybetriflestoyou,butI’mproudofthemjustthesame.”

“Ofcourseyouare.Andacutelittledicky-birditis,Walt,withthosebaldnutsandsmooth,babydollthighs.You’vegoteverythingittakestobeaman”—andhere,tomygreatastonishment,shegatheredupthewholepackageinherpalmandgaveitagoodhealthyshake—“butyou’renotquitethereyet.Besides,noone’sgoingtoseeyouinthecar.We’llskiptheicecreamparlortodayanddrivestraighthome.Ifitmakesyoufeelanybetter,I’llsmuggleyouintothehousethroughthebackdoor.How’sthat?I’mtheonlyonewho’sgoingtoknowaboutit,andyoucanbetyourbottomdollarI’llnevertell.”

“Noteventhemaster?”

“Leastofallthemaster.Whathappenedoutheretodayisstrictlybetweenyouandme.”

Shecouldbeagoodegg,thatwoman,andwheneveritreallycounted,shewasaboutthebesttherewas.Atothertimes,though,Icouldn’tmakeheadsortailsofher.Justwhenyouthoughtshewasyourbosombuddy,she’dturnaroundanddosomethingunexpected—teaseyou,forinstance,orsnubyou,orgosilentonyou—andthebeautifullittleworldyou’dbeenlivinginwouldsuddenlygosour.TherewasalotIdidn’tunderstand,grown-upthingsthatwerestillovermyhead,butlittlebylittleIbegantocatchonthatshewaspiningforMasterYehudi.Shewasbingeingherselfintothebluesasshewaitedforhimtocomeround,andifthingshadgoneonmuchlonger,Idon’tdoubtthatshewouldhavejumpedoffthedeepend.

Theturningpointcameabouttwonightsaftertheshitepisode.Weweresittingonlawnchairsinthebackyard,watchingthefirefliesdartinandoutofthebushesandlisteningtothecricketschirptheirtinnysongs.Thatpassedforbig-timeentertainmentinthosedays,evenintheso-calledRoaringTwenties.

Ihatetodebunkpopularlegends,buttherewasn’tahellofalotthatroaredinWichita,andaftertwomonthsofscouringthatsleepyburgfornoiseanddiversion,we’dmorethanuseduptheavailableresources.We’dseeneverymotionpicture,slurpeddowneveryicecream,playedeverypinballmachine,takenaspinoneverymerry-go-round.Itwasn’tworththeefforttogooutanymore,andforseveralnightsrunningwe’djuststayedput,lettingthetorporspreadthroughourboneslikesomefataldisease.Iwassuckingonaglassoftepidlemonadethatnight,Irecall,Mrs.W.wasoffonanotherbender,andneitheroneofushadpuncturedthesilenceinoverfortyminutes.

“Iusedtothink,”shefinallysaid,followingsomesecrettrainofthought,“Iusedtothinkhewasthemostdashingstudevertotrotoutofthefuckingstable.”

Itookasipofmydrink,lookedupatthestarsinthenightsky,andyawned.“Who’sthat?”Isaid,notbotheringtoconcealmyboredom.

“Whodoyouthink,pisshead?”Herspeechwasslurredandbarelycomprehensible.IfIhadn’tknownherbetter,Iwouldhavetakenherforastumblebumwithwateronthebrain.

“Oh,”Isaid,suddenlyrealizingwheretheconversationwasheaded.

“Yeah,thatone,Mr.Birdman,that’stheoneI’mtalkingabout.”

“Well,he’sinabadway,ma’am,youknowthat,andallwecandoishopehissoulmendsbeforeit’stoolate.”

“I’mnottalkingabouthissoul,nitwit.I’mtalkingabouthispecker.He’sstillgotone,doesn’the?”

“Iguessso.It’snotasifI’minthehabitofaskinghimaboutit.”

“Well,amanhastodohisduty.Hecan’tleaveagirlhighanddryfortwomonthsandexpecttogetawaywithit.That’snothowitworks.Apussyneedslove.Itneedstobestrokedandfed,justlikeanyotheranimal.”

Eveninthedarknesswithnoonelooking,Icouldfeelmyselfblush.“Areyousureyouwanttobetellingmethis,Mrs.Witherspoon?”

“There’snooneelse,sweetheart.Andbesides,you’reoldenoughtoknowaboutthesethings.Youdon’twanttowalkthroughlifelikeallthoseothernumbskulls,doyou?”

“IalwaysfiguredI’dletnaturetakecareofitself.”

“That’swhereyou’rewrong.Aman’sgottotendhishoneypot.He’sgottomakesurethestopper’sinanditdoesn’trunoutofjuice.DoyouhearwhatI’msaying?”

“Ithinkso.”

“Thinkso?Whatkindofbullshitansweristhat?”

“Yeah,Ihearyou.”

“It’snotasifIhaven’thadotheroffers,youknow.I’mayoung,healthygirl,andI’msickandtiredofwaitingaroundlikethis.I’vebeendiddlingmyowntwatallsummer,anditjustwon’twashanymore.Ican’tmakeitanyclearerthanthat,canI?”

“ThewayIheardit,you’vealreadyturneddownthemasterthreetimes.”

“Well,thingschange,don’tthey,Mr.Know-It-All?”

“Maybetheydo,maybetheydon’t.It’snotformetosay.”

Itwasonthepointofturningugly,andIwantednopartofit—tosittherelisteningtoherblatheronaboutherdisappointedcunt.Iwasn’tequippedtohandlethatkindofstuff,andpeevedasIwasatthemastermyself,Ididn’thavethehearttojoininandattackhismanhood.Icouldhavestoodupandwalkedaway,Iguess,butthenshewouldhavestartedscreamingatme,andnineminuteslatereverycopinWichitawouldhavebeenoutthereintheyardwithus,haulingusofftojailfordisturbingthepeace.

Asitwas,Ineedn’thaveworried.Beforeshecouldgetinanotherword,aloudnoisesuddenlyexplodedfromwithinthehouse.Itwasmoreofaboomthanacrash,Isuppose,akindoflong,hollowdetonationthatimmediatelygavewaytoseveralresoundingthuds:thwack,thwack,thwack,asifthewallswereabouttotumbledown.Forsomereason,Mrs.Witherspoonfoundthisfunny.Shethrewbackherheadinafitoflaughter,andforthenextfifteensecondstheairrippledoutofherwindpipelikeaswarmofflyinggrasshoppers.I’dneverheardlaughterlikethatbefore.Itsoundedlikeoneofthetenplagues,liketwo-hundred-proofgin,likefourhundredhyenasstalkingthestreetsofCrazytown.Then,evenasthethudscontinued,shestartedravingatthetopofhervoice.“Doyouhearthat?”sheshouted.“Doyouhearthat,Walt!That’sme!That’sthesoundofmythoughts,thesoundofthethoughtsbouncinginmybrain!Justlikepopcorn,Walt!Myskull’sabouttocrackintwo!Ha,ha!Mywholehead’sgoingtobursttobits!”

Justthen,thethudswerereplacedbythenoiseofshatteringglass.Firstonethingbroke,thenanother:cups,mirrors,bottles,adeafeningbarrage.Itwashardtotellwhatwaswhat,buteachthingshattereddifferently,anditwentonforalongtime,morethanaminute,Iwouldsay,andafterthefirstfewsecondsthedinwaseverywhere,thewholenightwasscreechingwiththesoundofsplinteringglass.Withouteventhinking,Ijumpedtomyfeetandrantowardthehouse.Mrs.Witherspoonmadeastabatfollowingme,butshewas

toodrunktogetveryfar.ThelastthingIrememberislookingbackandseeingherslip—flatonherface,justlikeasotinthefunnies.Sheletoutayelp.Then,realizingtherewasnopointintryingtogetup,shestartedinonanothergigglingjag.ThatwashowIlefther:rollingaroundonthegroundandlaughing,laughingherpoorpottedgutsalloverthelawn.

TheonlyideathatflashedthroughmyheadwasthatsomeonehadbrokenintothehouseandwasattackingMasterYehudi.BythetimeIgotthroughthebackdoorandstartedclimbingthestairs,however,allwasquietagain.Thatseemedstrange,yetevenstrangerwaswhathappenednext.Iwalkeddownthehalltothemaster’sroom,knockedtentativelyonthedoor,andheardhimcallouttomeinaclear,perfectlynormalvoice:“Comein.”SoIwentin,andtherewasMasterYehudihimself,standinginhisbathrobeandslippersinthemiddleoftheroom,handsinhispocketsandacuriouslittlesmileonhisface.Everythingwasdestructionaroundhim.Thebedwasinadozenpieces,thewallsweregouged,amillionwhitefeathersfloatedintheair.Brokenpictureframes,brokenglasses,brokenchairs,brokenbitsofnamelessthings—theywereallstrewnaboutthefloorlikesomuchrubble.HeallowedmeacoupleofsecondstotakeinwhatIwasseeing,andthenhespoke,addressingmewithallthecalmofamanwho’sjuststeppedoutofawarmbath.“Goodevening,Walt,”hesaid.“Andwhatbringsyouuphereatthislatehour?”

“MasterYehudi,”Isaid.“Areyouallright?”

“Allright?OfcourseI’mallright.Don’tIlookallright?”

“Idon’tknow.Yes,well,maybeyoudo.Butthis,”Isaid,gesturingtotheruinsatmyfeet,“whataboutthis?Idon’tgetit.Theplaceisashambles,it’sallinsmithereens.”

“Anexerciseincatharsis,son.”

“Anexerciseinwhat?”

“Nomatter.It’sakindofheartmedicine,abalmforailingspirits.”

“Youmeantotellmeyoudoneallthisyourself?”

“Ithadtobedone.I’msorryaboutallthecommotion,butsoonerorlaterithadtobedone.”

Fromthewayhewaslookingatme,Isensedhewasbacktohisoldsnappyself.Hisvoicehadregaineditshaughtytimbre,andheseemedtobemixingkindnessandsarcasmwiththeoldfamiliarcunning.“Doesthatmean,”Isaid,stillnotdaringtohope,“doesthatmeanthingsaregoingtobedifferentaroundherenow?”

“Wehaveanobligationtorememberthedead.That’sthefundamentallaw.

Ifwedidn’trememberthem,we’dlosetherighttocallourselveshuman.Doyoufollowme,Walt?”

“Yes,sir,Ifollow.Thereain’tadaythatgoesbywhenIdon’tthinkaboutourdeardarlingsandwhatwasdonetothem.It’sjust…”

“Justwhat,Walt?”

“It’sjustthattimeiswasting,andwe’dbedoingtheworldaninjusticeifwedidn’tthinkaboutourselves,too.”

“Youhaveaquickmind,son.Maybethere’shopeforyouyet.”

“It’snotjustme,youunderstand.There’sMrs.Witherspoon,too.Theselastcoupleofweeks,she’sworkedherselfintoquiteaconniption.Ifmyeyesdidn’tfoolmejustnow,Ibelieveshe’spassedoutonthelawn,snoringinapuddleofherownbarf.”

“I’mnotgoingtoapologizeforthingsthatneednoapology.IdidwhatIhadtodo,andittookaslongasithadtotake.Nowanewchapterbegins.Thedemonshavefled,andthedarknightofthesoulisover.”Hetookadeepbreath,removedhishandsfromhispockets,andclaspedmefirmlyontheshoulder.“Whatdoyousay,littleman?Areyoureadytoshowthemyourstuff?”

“I’mready,boss.YoubetyourbootsI’mready.Justrigupaplaceformetodoit,andI’myourboytilldeathdouspart.”

IgavemyfirstpublicperformanceonAugust25,1927,appearingasWalttheWonderBoyforaone-showbookingatthePawneeCountyFairinLarned,Kansas.Itwouldbehardtoimagineamoremodestdebut,butasthingsturnedout,itcamewithinaninchofbeingmyswansong.Itwasn’tthatIflubbeduptheact,butthecrowdwassoraucousandmean-spirited,sofilledwithdrunksandhooters,thatifnotforsomequickthinkingonthemaster’spart,Imightnothavelivedtoseeanotherday.

They’dropedoffafieldontheothersideofthehorticulturalexhibits,outpastthestallswiththeprize-winningearsofcornandthetwo-headedcowandthesix-hundredpoundpig,andIremembertravelingforwhatseemedlikehalfamilebeforecomingtoalittlepondwithmurkygreenwaterandwhitescumfloatingontop.Itstruckmeasawoefulsiteforsuchahistoricoccasion,butthemasterwantedmetostartsmall,withaslittlefussandfanfareaspossible.“EvenTyCobbplayedinthebushleagues,”hesaid,asweclimbedoutofMrs.Witherspoon’scar.“Youhavetogetsomeperformancesunderyourbelt.Dowellhere,andwe’llstarttalkingaboutthebigtimeinafewmonths.”

Unfortunately,therewasnograndstandforthespectators,whichmadeforalotoftiredlegsandsurlycomplaints,andwithticketsgoingattencentsapop,thecrowdwasalreadyfeelingchiseledbeforeImademyentrance.Therecouldn’thavebeenmorethansixtyorseventyofthem,abunchofthick-neckedhayseedsmillingaroundintheiroverallsandflannelshirts—delegatesfromtheFirstInternationalCongressofBumpkins.Halfofthemwereguzzlingbathtubhootchfromlittlebrowncough-syrupbottlesandtheotherhalfhadjustfinishedtheirsandwereitchingformore.WhenMasterYehudisteppedforwardinhisblacktuxedoandsilkhattoannouncetheworldpremiereofWalttheWonderBoy,thewisecracksandhecklingbegan.Maybetheydidn’tlikehisclothes,ormaybetheyobjectedtohisBrooklyn-Budapestaccent,butI’mcertainitdidn’thelpthatIwaswearingtheworstcostumeintheannalsofshowbusiness:alongwhiterobethatmademelooklikesomemidgetJohntheBaptist,completewithleathersandalsandahempsashtiedaroundmywaist.Themasterhadinsistedonwhathecalledan“otherworldlylook,”butIfeltlikeatwitinthatgetup,andwhenIheardsomeclownyellatthetopofhisvoice—“WalttheWonderGirl”—IrealizedIwasn’taloneinmysentiments.

IfIfoundthecouragetobegin,itwasonlybecauseofAesop.Iknewhewaslookingdownonmefromwhereverhewas,andIwasn’tgoingtoletmyselffailhim.Hewascountingonmetoshine,andwhateverthatsoused-upmoboffoolsmighthavethoughtofme,Iowedittomybrothertogiveitthe

bestshotIcould.SoIwalkedtotheedgeofthepondandwentintomyspread-arms-and-tranceroutine,strugglingtoshutoutthecatcallsandinsults.Iheardsomeoohsandahswhenmybodyroseofftheground—butdimly,onlydimly,forIwasalreadyinaseparateworldbythen,walledofffromfriendandfoealikeinthegloryofmyascent.ItwasthefirstperformanceIhadevergiven,butIalreadyhadthemakingsofatrooper,andI’mcertainIwouldhavewonoverthecrowdifnotforsomebirdbrainwhotookituponhimselftohurlabottleinmydirection.Nineteentimesoutoftwenty,theprojectilesailspastmeandnoharmisdone,butthiswasadayforflukesandlongshots,andthedamnedthingclunkedmesquareinthenoggin.Theblowaddledmyconcentration(nottospeakofrenderingmeunconscious),andbeforeIknewwhichendwasup,Iwassinkinglikeabagofpenniestothebottomofthewater.Ifthemasterhadn’tbeenonhistoes,divinginaftermewithoutbotheringtoshedhiscoatandtails,Iprobablywouldhavedrownedinthatcrummymud-hole,andthatwouldhavebeenthefirstandlastbowIevertook.

SoweleftLarnedindisgrace,hightailingitoutofthereasthosebloodthirstyhickspelteduswitheggsandstonesandwatermelons.NooneseemedtocarethatI’dalmostdiedfromthatblowonthehead,andtheywentonlaughingasthegoodmasterrescuedmefromthedrinkandcarriedmetothesafetyofMrs.W.’scar.IwasstillsemideliriousfrommyvisittoDavyJones’slocker,andIcoughedandpukedalloverthemaster’sshirtasheranacrossthefieldwithmywetbodybouncinginhisarms.Icouldn’theareverythingthatwassaid,butenoughreachedmyearsformetogatherthatopinionsaboutusweresharplydivided.Somepeopletookthereligiousview,boldlyassertingthatwewereinleaguewiththedevil.Otherscalledusfakesandcharlatans,andstillothershadnoopinionatall.Theyyelledforthepurepleasureofyelling,justgladtobepartofthemayhemastheyletforthwithangry,wordlesshowls.Fortunately,thecarwaswaitingforusontheothersideoftheroped-offarea,andwemanagedtogetinsidebeforetherowdiescaughtupwithus.Afeweggsthuddedagainsttherearwindowaswedroveoff,butnoglassshattered,noshotsrangout,andallinallIsupposewewereluckytoescapewithourhidesintact.

Wemusthavetraveledtwomilesbeforeeitheroneofusfoundthecouragetospeak.Wewereoutamongthefarmsandpasturesbythen,toolingalongabumpybywayinourdrenchedandsoppingclothes.Witheachjoltofthecar,anotherspurtofpondwatergushedfromusandsankintoMrs.Witherspoon’sdeluxesuedeupholstery.ItsoundsfunnyasItellitnow,butIwasn’ttheleastbittemptedtolaughatthetime.Ijustsattherestewinginthefrontseat,tryingtocontrolmytemperandfigureoutwhathadgonewrong.Inspiteofhiserrorsandmiscalculations,itdidn’tseemfairtoblamethemaster.He’d

beenthroughalot,andIknewhisjudgmentwasn’tallitshouldhavebeen,butitwasmyfaultforgoingalongwithhim.Inevershouldhaveallowedmyselftogetsuckedintosuchahalf-assed,poorlyplannedoperation.Itwasmybuttonthelineoutthere,andwhenallwassaidanddone,itwasmyjobtoprotectit.

“Well,partner,”themastersaid,doinghisbesttocrackasmile,“welcometoshowbiz.”

“Thatwasn’tnoshowbiz,”Isaid.“Whathappenedbacktherewasassaultandbattery.Itwaslikewalkingintoanambushandgettingscalped.”

“That’stheroughandtumble,kid,thegiveandtakeofcrowds.Oncethecurtaingoesup,youneverknowwhat’sgoingtohappen.”

“Idon’tmeantobedisrespectful,sir,butthatkindoftalkain’tnothingbutwind.”

“Ohho,”hesaid,amusedbymypluckyrejoinder.“Thelittlelad’sinahuff.Andwhatkindoftalkdoyouproposeweengagein,Mr.Rawley?”

“Practicaltalk,sir.Thekindoftalkthat’llstopusfromrepeatingourmistakes.”

“Wedidn’tmakeanymistakes.Wejustdrewabumaudience,that’sall.Sometimesyougetlucky,sometimesyoudon’t.”

“Luck’sgotnothingtodowithit.Wedidalotofdumbthingstoday,andwewounduppayingtheprice.”

“Ithoughtyouwerebrilliant.Ifnotforthatflyingbottle,itwouldhavebeenafour-starsuccess.”

“Well,foronething,I’dsincerelyliketoditchthiscostume.It’sabouttheawfulestpieceofhokumIeversaw.Wedon’tneednootherworldlytrappings.Theact’sgotenoughofthatalready,andwedon’twanttoconfusefolksbydressingmeuplikesomenancy-boyangel.Itputsthemoff.ItmakesmelooklikeI’msupposedtobebetterthantheyare.”

“Youarebetter,Walt.Don’teverforgetthat.”

“Maybeso.Butonceweletthemknowthat,we’resunk.TheywereagainstmebeforeIevenstarted.”

“Thecostumehadnothingtodowithit.Thatcrowdwasstoned,pickledtothetoejamintheirsocks.Theyweresocrosseyed,notoneofthemevensawwhatyouhadon.”

“You’rethebestteacherthereis,master,andI’mtrulygratefultoyouforsavingmylifetoday,butonthisparticularpoint,you’reaswrongasany

mortalmancanbe.Thecostumestinks.I’msorrytobesoblunt,butnomatterhowhardyouyellatme,Iain’tneverwearingitagain.”

“WhywouldIyellatyou?We’reinthistogether,son,andyou’refreetoexpressyouropinions.Ifyouwanttodressanotherway,allyouhavetodoistellme.”

“Onthelevel?”

“It’salongtripbacktoWichita,andthere’snoreasonwhyweshouldn’tdiscussthesethingsnow.”

“Idon’tmeantogrumble,”Isaid,jumpingthroughthedoorhe’djustopenedforme,“butthewayIseeit,weain’tgotaprayerunlesswewinthemoverfromtheget-go.Theserubesdon’tlikenofancystuff.Theydidn’ttaketoyourpenguinsuit,andtheydidn’ttaketomysissyrobe.Andallthathigh-flowntalkyoupitchedthematthestart—itwentrightovertheirheads.”

“Itwasnothingbutgibberish.Justtogettheminthemood.”

“Whateveryousay.Buthow’saboutweskipitinthefuture?Justkeepitsimpleandfolksy.Youknow,somethinglike‘Ladiesandgentlemen,I’mproudtopresent,’andthenbackoffandletmecomeon.Ifyouwearaplainoldseersuckersuitandanicestrawhat,noonewilltakeoffense.They’llthinkyou’reafriendly,good-heartedJoeouttomakeanhonestbuck.That’sthekey,thewholesackofonions.Istrolloutbeforethemlikealittleknow-nothing,awide-eyedfarmboydressedindenimoverallsandaplaidshirt.Noshoes,nosocks,abarefootnobodywiththesamegeekmugastheirownsonsandnephews.Theytakeonelookatmeandrelax.It’slikeI’mamemberofthefamily.Andthen,themomentIstartrisingintotheair,theirheartsfailthem.It’sthatsimple.Softenthemup,thenhitthemwiththewhammy.It’sboundtobegood.Twominutesintotheact,they’llbeeatingoutofourhandslikesquirrels.”

Ittookalmostthreehourstogethome,andallduringtherideItalked,speakingmymindtothemasterinawayI’dneverdonebefore.IcoveredeverythingIcouldthinkof—fromcostumestovenues,fromticket-takingtomusic,fromshowtimestopublicity—andheletmehavemysay.There’snoquestionthathewasimpressed,maybeevenalittlestartledbymythoroughnessandstrongopinions,butIwasfightingformylifethatafternoon,anditwouldn’thavehelpedthecausetoholdbackandmincewords.MasterYehudihadlaunchedashipthatwasfullofholes,andratherthantrytoplugthoseholesasthewaterrushedinandsankus,Iwantedtodragthethingbacktoportandrebuilditfromthebottomup.Themasterlistenedtomyideaswithoutinterruptingormakingfunofme,andintheendhegaveinonmostofthepointsIraised.Itcouldn’thavebeeneasyforhimto

accepthisfailureasashowman,butMasterYehudiwantedthingstoworkasmuchasIdid,andhewasbigenoughtoadmitthathe’dgottenusoffonthewrongtrack.Itwasn’tthathedidn’thaveamethod,butthatmethodwasoutofdate,moresuitedtothecornyprewarstylehe’dgrownupwiththantothejumpandjangleofthenewage.Iwasaftersomethingmodern,somethingsleekandsavvyanddirect,andlittlebylittleImanagedtotalkhimintoit,tobringhimaroundtoadifferentapproach.

Still,oncertainissuesherefusedtofallinline.IwaskeenontakingtheacttoSaintLouisandshowingoffinfrontofmyoldhometown,buthenippedthatpropositioninthebud.“That’sthemostdangerousspotonearthforyou,”hesaid,“andtheminuteyougobackthere,you’llbesigningyourowndeathwarrant.Markmywords.SaintLouisisbadmedicine.It’sapoisonplace,andyou’llnevergetoutoftherealive.”Icouldn’tunderstandhisvehemence,buthetalkedlikesomeonewhosemindwasset,andtherewasnowayIcouldgoagainsthim.Asitturnedout,hiswordsprovedtobedeadonthemark.Justonemonthafterhespokethemtome,SaintLouiswashitbytheworsttornadoofthecentury.Thetwistershotthroughtownlikeacannonballfromhell,andbythetimeitleftfiveminuteslater,athousandbuildingshadbeenflattened,ahundredpeopleweredead,andtwothousandotherslaywrithinginthewreckagewithbrokenbonesandbloodpouringfromtheirwounds.WewereonourwaytoVernon,Oklahoma,bythen,onthefifthlegofafourteen-stoptour,andwhenIpickedupthemorningeditionofthelocalragandsawthepicturesonthefrontpage,Ialmostregurgitatedmybreakfast.I’dthoughtthemasterhadlosthistouch,butonceagainI’dsoldhimshort.HeknewthingsIwouldneverknow,heheardthingsnooneelsecouldhear,andnotamanintheworldcouldmatchhim.IfIeverdoubthiswordsagain,Itoldmyself,maytheLordstrikemedownandscattermycorpsetothepigs.

ButI’mgoingtoofast.Thetornadodidn’tcomeuntillateSeptember,andforthetimebeingit’sstillAugusttwenty-fifth.MasterYehudiandIarestillsittinginourclammyclothes,andwe’restilldrivingbacktoMrs.Witherspoon’shouseinWichita.Afterourlongconversationaboutrevampingtheact,Iwasbeginningtofeelalittlebetteraboutourprospects,butIwouldn’tgosofarastosaythatmymindwastotallyatease.PuttingthelidonSaintLouiswasonething,aminordifferenceofopinion,buttherewereothermattersthattroubledmemoredeeply.Essentialflawsinthearrangement,youmightcallthem,andnowthatIhadbaredmysoulaboutsomuch,IfiguredIshouldgoforthebrassring.SoIplungedinandbroughtupthesubjectofMrs.Witherspoon.Ihadneverdaredtospeakaboutherbefore,andIhopedthemasterwasn’tgoingtohauloffandbeltmeinthesnout.

“Maybeit’snoneofmybusiness,”Isaid,steppingasgingerlyasIcould,

“butIstilldon’tseewhyMrs.Witherspoondidn’tcomewithus.”

“Shedidn’twanttobeintheway,”themastersaid.“Shethoughtshemightjinxus.”

“Butshe’sourbacker,ain’tshe?She’stheonewho’sfootingthebill.You’dthinkshe’dwanttostickaroundandkeepacloseeyeonherinvestment.”

“She’swhattheycallasilentpartner.”

“Silent?You’refunningme,boss.ThatMrs.isabouttheunsilentestfrailthissideofacarfactory.Why,she’llchewoffyourearandspitoutthepiecesbeforeyoucangetawordin.”

“Inlife,yes.ButI’mtalkingaboutbusiness.Inlife,there’snoquestionshe’sgotatongueonher.I’mnotgoingtoarguewithyouaboutthat.”

“Idon’tknowwhatherproblemis,butallthosedayswhenyouwereoutofcommissionthere,shedidsomeawfullystrangethings.I’mnotsayingsheain’tagoodsportandallthat,butthereweretimes,letmetellyou,thereweretimeswhenitgavemethecreepstoseehercarryonthewayshedid.”

“She’sbeendistraught.Youcan’tblameher,Walt.She’shadsomeroughthingstoswallowthesepastmonths,andshe’salotmorefragilethanyouthinksheis.Youjusthavetobepatientwithher.”

“That’sprettymuchthesamethingshesaidaboutyou.”

“She’sasmartwoman.Alittlehigh-strung,perhaps,butshe’sgotagoodheadonhershoulders,andherheart’sintherightplace.”

“MotherSioux,mayhersoulrestinpeace,oncetoldmeyouwerefixingtomarryher.”

“Iwas.ThenIwasn’tanymore.ThenIwas.ThenIwasn’t.Nowwhoknows.Iftheyearshavetaughtmeanything,kid,it’sthatanythingcanhappen.Whenitcomestomenandwomen,allbetsareoff.”

“Yeah,she’safriskyone,I’llgrantyouthat.Justwhenyouthinkyou’veropedherin,sheslipstheknotandboltstothenextpasture.”

“Exactly.Whichexplainswhyit’ssometimesbesttodonothing.Ifyoujuststandthereandwait,there’sachancethethingyou’rehopingforwillcomerighttoyou.”

“It’salltoodeepforme,sir.”

“You’renottheonlyone,Walt.”

“Butifandeveryoudogethitched,I’lllayoddsitwon’tbeaverysmoothride.”

“Don’tworryyourselfaboutthat.Justconcentrateonyourworkandleavethelovebusinesstome.Idon’tneedanyadvicefromthepeanutgallery.It’smysong,andI’llsingitinmyownway.”

Ididn’thavetheballstopushitanyfartherthanthat.MasterYehudiwasageniusandawizard,butitwasgrowingabundantlycleartomethathedidn’tunderstandthefirstthingaboutwomen.I’dbeenprivytoMrs.Witherspoon’sinnermostthoughts,I’dlistenedtoherdrunken,bawdyconfidencesonmanyanoccasion,andIknewthemasterwasnevergoingtogetanywherewithherunlesshetookthebullbythehorns.Shedidn’twanttobedeferredto,shewantedtobestormedandconquered,andthelongerheshilly-shalliedaround,theworsehischanceswouldbe.Buthowtotellhimthat?Icouldn’tdoit.NotifIvaluedmyownskinIcouldn’t,soIkeptmymouthshutandletthematterride.Itwashisdamnedgoose,Itoldmyself,andifhewassobentoncookingit,whowasItostandinhisway?

SowereturnedtoWichitaandgotbusymakingplansforafreshstart.Mrs.W.saidnaryawordaboutthewaterstainsontheseats,butIsupposeshethoughtofthemasabusinessexpense,partoftheriskyoutakewhenyousetyoursightsonmakingbigmoney.Ittookaboutthreeweekstowrapupthepreparations—schedulingperformances,printinghandbillsandposters,rehearsingthenewroutine—andduringthattimethemasterandMrs.Witherspoonwereprettycozywitheachother,alotmorelovey-doveythanI’dexpectedthemtobe.MaybeIwasallwrong,Ithought,andthemasterknewexactlywhathewasdoing.Butthen,onthedayofourdeparture,hecommittedanerror,atacticalblunderthatshoweduptheweaknessofhisoverallstrategy.Isawitwithmyowneyes,standingontheporchasthemasterandthemissussaidtheirfarewells,anditwasapainfulthingtobehold,asadlittlechapterinthehistoryofheartbreak.

Hesaid:“Solong,sister.We’llseeyouinamonthandthreedays.”Andshesaid:“Offyougo,boys—intothewildblueyonder.”Therewasanawkwardsilenceafterthat,andsinceitmademefeeluncomfortable,Iopenedmybigmouthandsaid:“Whatdoyousay,ma’am?Whynothopinthecarandcomewithus?”

IcouldseehereyeslightupwhenIsaidthat,andsureasdogandgodarethesamewordspelledbackwardsandforwards,shewouldhavegivensixyearsoffherlifetochuckeverythingandclimbaboard.Sheturnedtothemasterandsaid:“Well,whatdoyouthink?ShouldIgowithyouornot?”Andhe,pompousoafthathewas,pattedherontheshoulderandsaid:“It’suptoyou,mydear.”Hereyescloudedoverforasecond,buteventhenallwasnotlost.Stillhopefulofhearingtherightwordsfromhim,shegaveitanothershotandsaid:“No,youdecide;Iwouldn’twanttobeintheway.”Andhe

said:“You’reafreeagent,Marion.It’snotformetotellyouwhattodo.”Andthatwasthat.Isawthelightgooutinhereyes;herfaceclosedupintoataut,quizzicalexpression;andthensheshrugged.“Nevermind,”shesaid.“There’stoomuchtodohereanyway.”Then,forcingabravelittlesmiletoherlips,sheadded:“Dropmeapostcardwhenyougetachance.ThelastIheard,theystillgoforapennyapiece.”

Andthereitwas,folks.Theopportunityofalifetime—lostforever.Themasterletitsliprightthroughhisfingers,andtheworstpartofitwas,Idon’teventhinkherealizedwhathe’ddone.

Wetraveledinadifferentcarthistime—ablacksecondhandFordthatMrs.WitherspoonhadpickedoutforusafterourreturnfromLarned.She’ddubbedittheWondermobile,andthoughitcouldn’tmatchthesizeandsmoothnessoftheChrysler,itdideverythingitwasaskedtodo.Wesetoffonarainymorninginmid-September,andonehouroutofWichitaI’dalreadyforgottenaboutthehearts-and-flowersfumbleI’dwitnessedontheporch.MymentalbeamswerefixedonOklahoma,thefirststatebookedforthetour,andwhenwepulledintoRedbirdtwodayslater,Iwasaskeyedupasajack-in-the-boxandcrazierthanamonkey.It’sgoingtoworkthistime,Itoldmyself.Yessir,thisiswhereitallbegins.Eventhenameofthetownstruckmeasagoodomen,andsinceIwasnothingifnotsuperstitiousinthosedays,ithadapowerfuleffectonmyspirits.Redbird.JustlikemyballclubinSaintLouis,mydearoldchumstheCardinals.

Itwasthesameactinanewsetofclothes,buteverythingfeltdifferentsomehow,andtheaudiencetookashinetomethemomentIcameon—whichwashalfthebattlerightthere.MasterYehudididhiscornponespieltothehilt,myHuckFinncostumewasthelastwordinunderstatement,andallinallweknockedthemdead.Sixorsevenwomenfainted,childrenscreamed,grownmengaspedinaweanddisbelief.ForthirtyminutesIkeptthemspellbound,prancingandtumblinginmidair,glidingmylittlebodyoverthesurfaceofabroadandsparklinglake,andthen,attheend,pushingmyselftoarecordheightoffourandahalffeetbeforefloatingbacktothegroundandtakingmybow.Theapplausewasthunderous,ecstatic.Theywhoopedandcried,theybangedpotsandpans,theytossedconfettiintotheair.Thiswasmyfirsttasteofsuccess,andIlovedit,IloveditinawayI’veneverlovedanythingbeforeorsince.

DunbarandBattiest.JumboandPlunketsville.Pickens,Muse,andBethel.Wapanucka.BoggyDepotandKingfisher.Gerty,Ringling,andMarbleCity.Ifthiswereamovie,here’swherethecalendarpageswouldstartflyingoffthewall.We’dseethemflutteringagainstabackgroundofcountryroadsandtumbleweed,andthenthenamesofthosetownswouldflashbyaswefollowedtheprogressoftheblackFordacrossamapofeasternOklahoma.Themusicwouldbejauntyandfullofbounce,asyncopatedchug-chugtoapethenoiseofringingcashregisters.Shotwouldfollowshot,eachonemeltingintotheother.Bushelbasketsbrimmingwithcoins,roadsidebungalows,clappinghandsandstompingfeet,openmouths,bug-eyedfacesturnedtothesky.Thewholesequencewouldtakeabouttenseconds,andbythetimeitwasover,thestoryofthatmonthwouldbeknowntoeverypersoninthetheater.Ah,theoldHollywoodrazzmatazz.There’snothinglikeitforhustlingthings

along.Itmaynotbesubtle,butitgetsthejobdone.

Somuchforthequirksofmemory.IfI’msuddenlythinkingaboutmoviesnow,it’sprobablybecauseIsawsomanyoftheminthemonthsthatfollowed.AftertheOklahomatriumph,bookingsceasedtobeaproblem,andthemasterandIspentmostofourtimeontheroad,movingaroundfromonebackwatertoanother.WeplayedTexas,Arkansas,andLouisiana,dippingfartherandfarthersouthaswintercameon,andItendedtofillinthedeadtimebetweenperformancesbyvisitingthelocalBijouforapeekatthelatestflick.Themastergenerallyhadbusinesstotakecareof—talkingtofairmanagersandticketsellers,distributinghandbillsandpostersaroundtown,adjustingnutsandboltsfortheupcomingperformance—whichmeantheseldomhadtimetogowithme.Moreoftenthannot,I’dcomebacktofindhimaloneintheroom,sittinginachairreadinghisbook.Itwasalwaysthesamebook—abatteredlittlegreenvolumethathecarriedwithhimonallourtravels—anditbecameasfamiliartomeasthelinesandcontoursofhisface.ItwaswritteninLatin,ofallthings,andtheauthor’snamewasSpinoza,adetailI’veneverforgotten,evenaftersomanyyears.WhenIaskedthemasterwhyhekeptstudyingthatonebookoverandoveragain,hetoldmeitwasbecauseyoucouldnevergettothebottomofit.Thedeeperyougo,hesaid,themorethereis,andthemorethereis,thelongerittakestoreadit.

“Amagicbook,”Isaid.“Itcan’tneveruseitselfup.”

“That’sit,squirt.It’sinexhaustible.Youdrinkdownthewine,puttheglassbackonthetable,andloandbehold,youreachfortheglassagainanddiscoverit’sstillfull.”

“Andthereyouare,drunkasaskunkforthepriceofonedrink.”

“Icouldn’thaveputitbettermyself,”hesaid,suddenlyturningfrommeandgazingoutthewindow.“Yougetdrunkontheworld,boy.Drunkonthemysteryoftheworld.”

ChristbutIwashappyoutthereontheroadwithhim.Justmovingfromplacetoplacewasenoughtokeepmyspiritsup,butwhenyouaddedinalltheotheringredients—thecrowds,theperformances,themoneywemade—thosefirstmonthswerehandsdownthebestmonthsI’deverlived.EvenaftertheinitialexcitementworeoffandIgrewaccustomedtotheroutine,Istilldidn’twantittostop.Lumpybeds,flattires,badfood,alltherainoutsandlullsandboringstretcheswereasnothingtome,merepebblesbouncingofftheskinofarhinoceros.We’dclimbintotheFordandblowoutoftown,anotherseventyorhundredbucksstashedawayinthetrunk,andthenmoseyontothenextwhistle-stop,watchingthelandscaperollbyaswechewedoverthefinerpointsofthelastperformance.Themasterwasaprincetome,

alwaysencouragingandcounselingandlisteningtowhatIsaid,andhenevermademefeelthatIwasonebitlessimportantthanhewas.Somanythingshadchangedbetweenussincethesummer,itwasasifwewereonanewfootingnow,asifwe’dreachedsomekindofpermanentequilibrium.HedidhisjobandIdidmine,andtogetherwemadethethingwork.

Thestockmarketdidn’tcrashuntiltwoyearslater,buttheDepressionhadalreadystartedinthehinterlands,andfarmersandruralfolksthroughouttheregionwerefeelingthepinch.Wecameacrossalotofdesperatepeopleonourtravels,andMasterYehuditaughtmenevertolookdownonthem.TheyneededWalttheWonderBoy,hesaid,andImustneverforgettheresponsibilitythatneedentailed.Towatchatwelve-year-olddowhatonlysaintsandprophetshaddonebeforehimwaslikeajoltfromheaven,andmyperformancescouldbringspiritualuplifttothousandsofsufferingsouls.Thatdidn’tmeanIshouldn’tmakeabundledoingit,butunlessIunderstoodthatIhadtotouchpeople’shearts,I’dnevergainthefollowingIdeserved.Ithinkthat’swhythemasterstartedmycareerinsuchout-of-the-wayplaces,sucharinky-dinkcollectionofforgottencornersandcrevicesonthemap.Hewantedthewordaboutmetospreadslowly,forsupporttobeginfromthegroundup.Itwasn’tjustamatterofbreakingmein,itwasawayofcontrollingthings,ofmakingsureIdidn’tturnouttobeaflashinthepan.

WhowasItoobject?Thebookingswereorganizedinasystematicway,theturnoutsweregood,andwealwayshadaroofoverourheadswhenwewenttosleepatnight.IwasdoingwhatIwantedtodo,andthefeelingitgavemewassogood,soexhilarating,Icouldn’thavecaredlessifthepeoplewhosawmeperformwerefromParis,France,orParis,Texas.Everynowandthen,ofcourse,weencounteredabumpintheroad,butMasterYehudiseemedtobepreparedforanyandallsituations.Once,forexample,atruantofficercameknockingonthedoorofourroominghouseinDublin,Mississippi.Whyisn’tthisladinschool?hesaidtothemaster,pointinghislongbonyfingeratme.Therearelawsagainstthis,youknow,statutes,regulations,andsoonandsoforth.Ifiguredweweresunk,butthemasteronlysmiled,askedthegentlemantostepin,andthenpulledapieceofpaperfromthebreastpocketofhiscoat.Itwascoveredwithofficial-lookingstampsandseals,andoncethetruantofficerreaditthrough,hetippedhishatinanembarrassedsortofway,apologizedforthemixup,andleft.Godknowswhatwaswrittenonthatpaper,butitdidthetrickinonefasthurry.BeforeIcouldmakeoutanyofthewords,themasterhadalreadyfoldeduptheletterandslippeditbackintohiscoatpocket.“Whatdoesitsay?”Iasked,buteventhoughIaskedagain,heneveransweredme.Hejustpattedhispocketandgrinned,lookingawfullysmugandpleasedwithhimself.Heremindedmeofacatwho’djustpolishedoffthefamilybird,andhewasn’tabouttotellmehowhe’dopenedthecage.

Fromthelatterpartof1927throughthefirsthalfof1928,Ilivedinacocoonoftotalconcentration.Ineverthoughtaboutthepast,Ineverthoughtaboutthefuture—onlyaboutwhatwashappeningnow,thethingIwasdoingatthisorthatmoment.Ontheaverage,wedidn’tspendmorethanthreeorfourdaysamonthinWichita,andtherestofthetimewewereontheroad,bee-lininghitherandyonintheblackWondermobile.Thefirstrealpausedidn’tcomeuntilthemiddleofMay.Mythirteenthbirthdaywasapproaching,andthemasterthoughtitmightbeagoodideatotakeacoupleofweeksoff.We’dgobacktoMrs.Witherspoon’s,hesaid,andeatsomehomecookingforachange.We’drelaxandcelebrateandcountourmoney,andthen,afterweweredoneplayingpasha,we’dpackupourbagsandtakeoffagain.Thatsoundedfinewithme,butoncewegotthereandsettledinforourholiday,Isensedthatsomethingwaswrong.Itwasn’tthemasterorMrs.Witherspoon.Theywerebothlovelytome,andrelationsbetweenthemwereparticularlyharmoniousjustthen.Norwasitanythingconnectedtothehouse.NellyBoggs’scookingwasintopform,thebedwasstillcomfortable,thespringweatherwassuperb.Yetthemomentwewalkedthroughthedoor,aninexplicableheavinessinvadedmyheart,amurkysortofsadnessanddisquiet.IassumedI’dfeelbetterafteranight’ssleep,butthefeelingdidn’tgoaway;itjustsatinsidemelikealumpofundigestedstew,andnomatterwhatIsaidtomyself,Icouldn’tgetridofit.Ifanything,itseemedtobegrowing,tobetakingonalifeofitsown,andtosuchanextentthatbythethirdnight,justafterIputonmypajamasandcrawledintobed,Iwasovercomebyanirresistibleurgetocry.Itseemedcrazy,andyethalfaminutelaterIwassobbingintothepillow,weepingmyblinkersoutinanonrushofmiseryandremorse.

WhenIsatdowntobreakfastwithMasterYehudiearlythenextmorning,Icouldn’tholdmyselfback,thewordscameoutbeforeIevenknewIwasgoingtosaythem.Mrs.Witherspoonwasstillupstairsinbed,anditwasjustthetwoofusatthetable,waitingforNellyBoggstocomeoutofthekitchenandserveusoursausagesandscrambledeggs.

“Rememberthatlawyoutoldmeabout?”Isaid.

Themaster,whosenosewasburiedinthepaper,glancedupfromtheheadlinesandgavemealongblankstare.“Law?”hesaid.“Whatlawisthat?”

“Youremember.Theoneaboutdutiesandsuch.Howwewouldn’tbehumannomoreifweforgotthedead.”

“OfcourseIremember.”

“Well,itseemstomewebeenbreakingthatlawleftandright.”

“Howso,Walt?AesopandMotherSiouxareinsideus.Wecarrytheminourheartswhereverwego.Nothing’severgoingtochangethat.”

“Butwejustwalkedaway,didn’twe?Theywasmurderedbyapackofdevilsanddemons,andweneverdidnothingaboutit.”

“Wecouldn’t.Ifwe’dgoneafterthem,theywouldhavekilledus,too.”

“Thatnight,maybe.Butwhataboutnow?Ifwe’resupposedtorememberthedead,thenwedon’thavenochoicebuttohuntdownthebastardsandseetheygetwhat’scomingtothem.Imean,hell,we’rehavingafineoldtime,ain’twe?Barnstormingaroundthecountryinourmotorcar,rakinginthedough,struttingbeforetheworldlikeapairofhotshots.ButwhataboutmypalAesop?WhataboutfunnyoldMotherSioux?They’remolderingintheirgravesiswhat,andthetrashthathungthem’sstillrunningfree.”

“Getagriponyourself,”themastersaid,studyingmecloselyasthetearssprangforthagainandstartedrunningdownmycheeks.Hisvoicewasstern,almostonthepointofanger.“Sure,wecouldgoafterthem,”hesaid.“Wecouldtrackthemdownandbringthemtojustice,butthat’stheonlyjobwe’dhavefortherestofourlives.Thecopswon’thelpus,I’llguaranteeyouthat,andifyouthinkajurywouldconvictthem,thinkagain.TheKlaniseverywhere,Walt,theyownthewholerottencharade.They’rethesamenicesmilingfolksyouusedtoseeonthestreetsofCibola—TomSkinner,JuddMcNally,HaroldDowd—they’reallpartofit,everylastoneofthem.Thebutcher,thebaker,thecandlestickmaker.We’dhavetokillthemourselves,andoncewewentafterthem,they’dgoafterus.Alotofbloodwouldbeshed,Walt,andmostofitwouldbeours.”

“Itain’tfair,”Isaid,snifflingthroughanotherrushoftears.“Itain’tfair,anditain’tright.”

“Youknowthat,andIknowthat,andaslongaswebothknowit,AesopandMotherSiouxaretakencareof.”

“They’rewrithingintorment,master,andtheirsoulswon’tneverbeatpeaceuntilwedowhatwe’vegottodo.”

“No,Walt,you’rewrong.They’rebothatpeacealready.”

“Yeah?Andwhatmakesyousuchanexpertonwhatthedeadaredoingintheirgraves?”

“BecauseI’vebeenwiththem.I’vebeenwiththemandspokentothem,andthey’renotsufferinganymore.Theywantustogoonwithourwork.That’swhattheytoldme.Theywantustorememberthembykeepingupwiththeworkwe’vestarted.”

“What?”Isaid,suddenlyfeelingmyskincrawl.“Whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?”

“Theycometome,Walt.Almosteverynightforthepastsixmonths.Theycometomeandsitdownonmybed,singingsongsandstrokingmyface.They’rehappierthantheywereinthisworld,believeme.AesopandMotherSiouxareangelsnow,andnothingcanhurtthemanymore.”

Itwasaboutthestrangest,mostfantasticalthingI’deverheard,andyetMasterYehuditolditwithsuchconviction,suchstraightforwardsincerityandcalm,Ineverdoubtedthathewastellingthetruth.Evenifitwasn’ttrueinanabsolutesense,therewasnoquestionthathebelievedit—andevenifhedidn’tbelieveit,thenhe’djustturnedinoneofthemostpowerfulactingperformancesofalltime.Isatthereinakindoffeverishimmobility,lettingthevisionlingerinmyhead,tryingtoholdontothepictureofAesopandMotherSiouxsingingtothemasterinthemiddleofthenight.Itdoesn’treallymatterifithappenedornot,forthefactwasthatitchangedeverythingforme.Thepainbegantosubside,theblackcloudsbegantodisperse,andbythetimeIstoodupfromthetablethatmorning,theworstofthegriefwasgone.Intheend,that’stheonlythingthatmatters.Ifthemasterlied,thenhediditforareason.Andifhedidn’tlie,thenthestorystandsastold,andthere’snocausetodefendhim.Onewayortheother,hesavedme.Onewayortheother,herescuedmysoulfromthejawsofthebeast.

Tendayslater,wepickedupwherewehadleftoff,drivingawayfromWichitainyetanothernewcar.Ourearningsweresuchthatwecouldaffordsomethingbetternow,sowetradedintheFordforWondermobileII,asilver-grayPierceArrowwithleatherseatsandrunningboardsthesizeofsofas.We’dbeenintheblacksinceearlyspring,whichmeantthatMrs.Witherspoonhadbeenreimbursedforherinitialexpenditures,therewasmoneyinthebankforthemasterandmyself,andwenolongerhadtopinchpenniesaswehadbefore.Thewholeoperationhadmovedupanotchortwo:largertownsfortheperformances,smallhotelsinsteadofroominghousesandguestcottagestoflopourbonesin,morestylishtransportation.Iwasbackonthebeambythetimeweleft,allchargedupandreadytoroll,andforthenextfewmonthsIpulledoutonestopafteranother,addingnewwrinklesandflourishestotheactalmosteveryweek.Ihadgrownsoaccustomedtothecrowdsbythen,feltsoateaseduringmyperformances,thatIwasabletoimproviseasIwentalong,actuallytoinventanddiscovernewturnsinthemiddleofashow.InthebeginningIhadalwaysstucktotheroutine,rigidlyfollowingthestepsthemasterandIhadworkedoutinadvance,butIwaspastthatnow,Ihadhitmystride,andIwasnolongerafraidtoexperiment.Locomotionhadalwaysbeenmystrength.Itwastheheartofmyact,the

thingthatseparatedmefromeverylevitatorwhohadcomebeforeme,butmyloftwasnobetterthanaverage,afairtomiddlingfivefeet.Iwantedtoimproveonthat,todoubleoreventriplethatmarkifIcould,butInolongerhadtheluxuryofall-daypracticesessions,theoldfreedomofworkingunderMasterYehudi’ssupervisionfortenortwelvehoursatastretch.Iwasapronow,withalltheburdensandschedulingconstraintsofapro,andtheonlyplaceIcouldpracticewasinfrontofaliveaudience.

Sothat’swhatIdid,especiallyafterthatlittleholidayinWichita,andtomyimmensewondermentIfoundthatthepressureinspiredme.Someofmyfinesttricksdatefromthatperiod,andwithouttheeyesofthecrowdtospurmeon,IdoubtthatIwouldhavemusteredthecouragetotryhalfthethingsIdid.Itallstartedwiththestaircasenumber,whichwasthefirsttimeIevermadeuseofan“invisibleprop”—thetermIlatercoinedformyinvention.WewereinupperMichiganthen,andsmackinthemiddleoftheperformance,justasIrosetobeginmycrossingofthelake,Icaughtsightofabuildinginthedistance.Itwasalargebrickstructure,probablyawarehouseoranoldfactory,andithadafireescaperunningdownoneofthewalls.Icouldn’thelpbutnoticethosemetalstairs.Thesunlightwasbouncingoffofthematjustthatmoment,andtheyweregleamingwithafrantickindofbrightnessinthelateafternoonsun.Withoutgivingthematteranythought,Iliftedonefootintotheair,asifIwereabouttoclimbarealstaircase,andputitdownonaninvisiblestep;thenIliftedtheotherfootandputitdownonthenextstep.Itwasn’tthatIfeltanythingsolidintheair,butIwasneverthelessgoingup,graduallyascendingastaircasethatstretchedfromoneendofthelaketotheother.EventhoughIcouldn’tseeit,Ihadadefinitepictureofitinmymind.Tothebestofmyrecollection,itlookedsomethinglikethis:

LAKE

Atitshighestpoint—theplatforminthemiddle—itwasroughlynineandahalffeetabovethesurfaceofthewater—agoodfourfeethigherthanI’deverbeenbefore.TheeeriethingwasthatIdidn’thesitate.OnceIhadthatpictureclearlyinmymind,IknewIcoulddependonittogetmeacross.AllIhadtodowasfollowtheshapeoftheimaginarybridge,anditwouldsupportmeasifitwerereal.Afewmomentslater,Iwasglidingacrossthelakewithnaryahitchorastumble.Twelvestepsup,fifty-twostepsacross,andthentwelvestepsdown.Theresultswerenothinglessthanperfect.

Afterthatbreakthrough,IdiscoveredthatIcoulduseotherpropsjustaseffectively.AslongasIcouldimaginethethingIwanted,aslongasIcouldvisualizeitwithahighdegreeofclarityanddefinition,itwouldbeavailabletomefortheperformance.ThatwashowIdevelopedsomeofthemostmemorableportionsofmyact:therope-ladderroutine,theslideroutine,theseesawroutine,thehigh-wireroutine,thecountlessinnovationsIwasheraldedfor.Notonlydidtheseturnsenhancetheaudience’spleasure,buttheythrustmeintoanentirelynewrelationshipwithmywork.Iwasn’tjustarobotanymore,awind-upbaboonwhodidthesamesetoftricksforeveryshow—Iwasevolvingintoanartist,atruecreatorwhoperformedasmuchforhisownsakeasforthesakeofothers.Itwastheunpredictabilitythatexcitedme,theadventureofneverknowingwhatwasgoingtohappenfromoneshowtothenext.Ifyouronlymotiveistobeloved,toingratiateyourselfwiththecrowd,you’reboundtofallintobadhabits,andeventuallythepublicwillgrowtiredofyou.Youhavetokeeptestingyourself,pushingyourtalentashardasyoucan.Youdoitforyourself,butintheendit’sthisstruggletodobetterthatmostendearsyoutoyourfans.That’stheparadox.Peoplebegintosensethatyou’reouttheretakingrisksforthem.They’reallowedtoshareinthemystery,toparticipateinwhatevernamelessthingisdrivingyoutodoit,andoncethathappens,you’renolongerjustaperformer,you’reonyourwaytobecomingastar.Inthefallof1928,that’sexactlywhereIwas:onthebrinkofbecomingastar.

Bymid-OctoberwefoundourselvesincentralIllinois,playingoutalastfewgigsbeforeweheadedbacktoWichitaforawell-earnedbreather.IfIremembercorrectly,we’djustfinishedupashowinGibsonCity,oneofthoselostlittletownswithaBuckRogersskylineofwatertowersandgrainelevators.Fromadistanceyouthinkyou’reapproachingaheftyburg,andthenyougetthereanddiscoverthosegrainelevatorsareallthey’vegot.We’dalreadycheckedoutofthehotelandweresittinginadineronthemaindrag,slurpingdownsomeliquidrefreshmentsbeforewejumpedintothecarandtookoff.Itwasadeadhouroftheday,somewherebetweenbreakfastandlunch,andMasterYehudiandIweretheonlycustomers.Ihadjustdownedthelastbitsoffoamfrommyhotchocolate,Iremember,whenthebellonthedoorjangledandathirdcustomerwalkedin.Outofidlecuriosity,Iglanceduptotakeaganderatthenewarrival,andwhoshoulditturnouttobebutmyUncleSlim,theoldchinlesswonderhimself?Itcouldn’thavebeenwarmerthanthirty-fivedegreesthatday,buthewasdressedinathreadbaresummersuit.Thecollarwasturnedupagainsthisneck,andhewasclutchingthetwohalvesofthejacketinhisrighthand.Heshiveredashecrossedthethreshold,lookinglikeachihuahuablowninbythenorthwind,andifIhadn’tbeensostunned,Iprobablywouldhavelaughedatthesight.

MasterYehudi’sbackwasturnedtothedoor.Whenhesawtheexpressiononmyface(Imusthavegonewhite),hewheeledaroundtohavealookatwhathadsodiscombobulatedme.Slimwasstillstandingintheentrance,rubbinghishandstogetherandsurveyingthejointwithhissquintyeyes,andthemomenthezoomedinonus,hebrokeintooneofthosesnaggletoothedgrinsI’dalwaysdreadedasaboy.Thismeetingwasnoaccident.He’dcometoGibsonCitybecausehewantedtotalk,andsureassixandsevenmadethirteen,theunluckiestnumbertherewas,wewerestaringatamessoftrouble.

“Well,well,”hesaid,oozingfalseamiabilityashesaunteredovertoourtable.“Fancythat.Icometothebackofbeyondonpersonalbusiness,dropinatthelocalbeaneryforacupofjava,andwhoshouldIrunintobutmylong-lostnephew?LittleWalt,theappleofmyeye,thefreckle-facedboywonder.It’slikedestinyiswhatitis.Likefindinganeedleinahaystack.”Withoutawordfromeitherthemasterormyself,heparkedhimselfintheemptychairbesideme.“Youdon’tmindifIsitdown,doyou?”hesaid.“I’mjustsobowledoverbythisjoyfuloccasion,IhavetogetoffmypinsbeforeIpassout.”Thenhebangedmeonthebackandtousledmyhair,stillpretendinghowhappyhewastoseeme—whichmaybehewas,butnotforanyofthereasonsanormalpersonwouldbe.Itgavemethechillstobetouchedbyhimlikethat.Isquirmedawayfromhishand,buthepaidnoattentiontotherebuff,chatteringoninthatslimywayofHisandbaringhiscrookedbrownteethateveryopportunity.“Well,oldbean,”hecontinued,“itlooksliketheworld’sbeentreatingyouprettygoodthesedays,don’tit?Fromwhatthepaperstellme,you’rethecat’spajamas,thegreatestthingsinceryebread.Yourmentorheremustbeflushwithpride—nottospeakofjustplainflush,sincehiswalletcan’thavesufferednoneintheprocess.Ican’ttellyouthegooditdoesme,Walt,seeingmykinmakeanameforhimselfinthebigworld.”

“Stateyourbusiness,friend,”themastersaid,finallybreakinginonSlim’smonologue.“ThekidandIwerejustonourwayout,andwedon’thavetimetositaroundshootingthebreeze.”

“Hell,”Slimsaid,doinghisbesttolookoffended,“can’taguycatchuponthenewswithhisownsister’sson?What’stherush?Fromthelooksofthatmachineyougotparkedatthecurb,you’llgetwhereyou’regoinginnotime.”

“Walt’sgotnothingtosaytoyou,”themastersaid,“andasfarasI’mconcerned,you’vegotnothingtosaytohim.”

“Iwouldn’tbesosureaboutthat,”Slimsaid,reachingforthecrumpledcherootinhispocketandlightingup.“He’sgotarighttoknowabouthispoor

AuntPeg,andI’vegottherighttotellhim.”

“Whatabouther?”Isaid,barelygettingmyvoiceaboveawhisper.

“Hey,thekidcantalk!”Slimsaid,pinchingmycheekwithmockenthusiasm.“Foramomentthere,Ithoughthe’dcutoutyourtongue,Walt.”

“Whatabouther?”Irepeated.

“She’sdead,son,that’swhat.ShegottookbythattornadothatdemolishedSaintLouislastyear.Thewholehousefellontopofher,andthatwastheendofsweetoldPeg.Ithappenedjustlikethat.”

“Andyouescaped,”Isaid.

“ItwastheLord’swill,”Slimsaid.“Aschancewouldhaveit,Iwasontheothersideoftown,doinganhonestday’swork.”

“Toobaditwasn’ttheotherwayaround,”Isaid.“AuntPegwasnogreatshakes,butatleastshedidn’tsockmearoundlikeyoudid.”

“Hey,now,”Slimsaid,“that’snowaytotalktoyouruncle.I’myourownfleshandblood,Walt,andyoudon’thavetotellnofibsaboutme.NotwhenI’mhereonsuchavitalerrand.Mr.Yehudiandmegotthingstotalkabout,andIdon’tneednocracksfromyougumminguptheworks.”

“Ibelieveyou’remistaken,”themastersaid.“YouandIhavenothingtotalkabout.WaltandIarerunninglatenow,andI’mafraidyou’llhavetoexcuseus.”

“Notsofast,mister,”Slimsaid,suddenlyforgettinghisfakecharm.Hisvoicewasseethingwithpetulanceandanger,justasI’dalwaysrememberedit.“YouandImadeadeal,andyou’renotgoingtowormoutonmenow.”

“Deal?”themastersaid.“Whatdealwasthat?”

“TheonewemadeinSaintLouisfouryearsago.DidyouthinkI’dforgetorsomething?I’mnotstupid,youknow.Youpromisedmeacutoftheprofits,andI’mheretoclaimmyfairshare.Twenty-fivepercent.That’swhatyoupromised,andthat’swhatIwant.”

“AsIrecall,Mr.Sparks,”themastersaid,tryingtocontrolhistemper,“youjustaboutkissedmyfeetwhenItoldyouI’dtaketheboyoffyourhands.Youwereslobberingalloverme,tellingmehowgladyouweretoberidofhim.Thatwasthedeal,Mr.Sparks.Iaskedfortheboy,andyougavehimtome.”

“Ihadmyconditions.Ispelledthemoutforyou,andyouagreed.Twenty-fivepercent.You’renotgoingtotellmethere’snodeal.Youpromisedme,andItookyouatyourword.”

“Dreamon,laddie.Ifyouthinkthere’sadeal,thenshowmethecontract.Showmethepieceofpaperwhereitsaysyouhaveonedimecomingtoyou.”

“Weshookhandsonit.Itwasagentlemen’sagreement,allontheupandup.”

“Youhaveasplendidimagination,Mr.Sparks,butyou’realiarandacrook.Ifyouhaveacomplaintagainstme,takeittoalawyer,andwe’llseehowwellyourcasestandsupincourt.Butuntilthathappens,kindlyhavethedecencytoremoveyouruglyfacefrommysight.”Thenthemasterturnedtomeandsaid,“Comeon,Walt,let’sgo.They’rewaitingforusinUrbana,andwedon’thaveaminutetolose.”

Themasterthrewadollaronthetableandstoodup,andIstoodupwithhim.ButSlimwasn’tfinishedhavinghissay,andhemanagedtogetinthelastword,deliveringafewpartingshotsasweleftthediner.“Youthinkyou’resmart,mister,”hesaid,“butyouain’tdonewithmeyet.NobodycallsEdwardJ.Sparksaliarandgetsawaywithit,youhear?That’sright,keeponwalkingoutthedoor—itdon’tmatter.Butthat’sthelasttimeyou’lleverturnyourbackonme.Bewarned,pal.I’mcomingafteryou.I’mcomingafteryouandthatscummykid,andonceIgettoyou,you’llbesorryyouevertalkedtomelikethat.You’llbesorrytillthedayyoudie.”

Hepursuedustothedooroftherestaurant,showeringuswithhisderangedthreatsasweclimbedintothePierceArrowandthemasterstarteduptheengine.Thenoisedrownedoutmyuncle’swords,buthislipswerestillmoving,andIcouldseetheveinsbulginginhisscrawnyneck.Thatwashowwelefthim:besidehimselfwithfuryashewatcheduspullaway,shakinghisfistatusandmouthinghisinaudiblevengeance.Myunclehadbeenwanderinginthedesertforfortyyears,andallhehadtoshowforitwasahistoryofstumblesandwrongturns,anendlessstringoffailures.Watchinghisfacethroughtherearwindowofthecar,Iunderstoodthathehadapurposenow,thatthefuckerhadfinallyfoundamissioninlife.

Oncewewereoutoftown,themasterturnedtomeandsaid,“Thatbigmouthdoesn’thavealegtostandon.It’sallabluff,jiveandnonsensefromstarttofinish.Theguy’sabornloser,andifheeversomuchaslaysahandonyou,Walt,I’llkillhim.Iswearit.I’llchopthatgrifterintosomanypieces,they’llstillbefindingbitsofhiminCanadatwentyyearsfromnow.”

Iwasproudofthewaythemasterhadhandledhimselfinthediner,butthatdidn’tmeanIwasn’tworried.Mymother’solderbrotherwasaslipperycustomer,andnowthathe’dsethismindonsomething,hewasn’tlikelytobedistractedfromhisgoal.Personallyspeaking,Ihadnowishtoconsiderhissideofthedispute.Maybethemasterhadpromisedhimtwenty-fivepercent

andmaybehehadn’t,butthatwasallwaterdownthetoiletnow,andtheonlythingIwantedwastohavethatson-of-a-bitchoutofmylifeforgood.He’dbouncedmeoffthewallstoomanytimesformetofeelanythingbuthatredforhim,andwhetherhehadarightfulclaimtothemoneyornot,thetruthwashedidn’tdeserveapenny.Butalas,whatIfeltdidn’tcountforadamn.Norwhatthemasterfelt.ItwasalluptoSlim,andIknewinmybonesthathewascoming,thathe’dkeeponcominguntilhishandswerepressedaroundmythroat.

Thesefearsandpremonitionsdidn’tleaveme.Theycastapallovereverythingthathappenedinthedaysandmonthsthatfollowed,affectingmymoodtothepointwhereeventhejoyofmygrowingsuccesswascontaminated.Itwasparticularlybadinthebeginning.Everywherewewent,everytownwetraveledto,IkeptexpectingSlimtopopupagain.Sittinginarestaurant,walkingintoahotellobby,steppingoutofthecar:myunclewasliabletoappearatanyhumdrummoment,burstingthroughthefabricofmylifewithnowarning.Thatwaswhatmadethesituationsohardtobear.Itwastheuncertainty,thethoughtthatallmyhappinesscouldbesmashedintheblinkofaneye.Theonlyspotthatfeltsafetomeanymorewasstandingbeforeacrowdanddoingmyact.Slimwouldn’tdaretomakeamoveinpublic,atleastnotwhenIwasthecenterofattentionlikethat,andgivenalltheanxietyIcarriedaroundwithmetherestofthetime,performingbecameakindofmentalrepose,arespitefromtheterrorthatstalkedmyheart.Ithrewmyselfintomyworkasneverbefore,exultinginthefreedomandprotectionitgaveme.Somethinghadshiftedinsidemysoul,andIunderstoodthatthiswaswhoIwasnow:notWalterRawley,thekidwhoturnedintoWalttheWonderBoyforonehouraday,butWalttheWonderBoythroughandthrough,apersonwhodidnotexistexceptwhenhewasintheair.Thegroundwasanillusion,ano-man’s-landminedwithtrapsandshadows,andeverythingthathappeneddowntherewasfalse.Onlytheairwasrealnow,andfortwenty-threehoursadayIlivedasastrangertomyself,cutofffrommyoldpleasuresandhabits,acoweringbundleofdesperationandfright.

Theworkkeptmegoing,andfortunatelytherewaslotsofit,anendlessparadeofwinterbookings.AfterourreturntoWichita,themasterworkedoutanelaboratetour,witharecordnumberofweeklyperformances.Ofallthesmartmoveshemade,hisclevereststrokewasgettingustoFloridafortheworstofthecoldweather.Weweretherefrommid-JanuarytotheendofMarch,coveringthepeninsulafromtoptobottom,andforthisoneextendedtrip—thefirstandonlytimeiteverhappened—Mrs.Witherspoontaggedalongwithus.Contrarytoallthatgarbageaboutbeingajinx,shebroughtmenothingbutgoodluck.LucknotonlyasfarasSlimwasconcerned(wesawneitherhidenortailofhim),butluckintermsofpackedaudiences,largebox-

officereceipts,andgoodcompanionship(shelikedgoingtothemoviesasmuchasIdid).ThosewerethedaysoftheFloridalandboom,andrichpeoplehadbegunflockingdownthereintheirwhitesuitsanddiamondnecklacestodanceawaythewinterunderthepalmtrees.Itwasmyfirstexperiencegoingoutinfrontofswells.Ididmyactatcountryclubs,golfcourses,andduderanches,andforalltheirpolishandsophistication,thoseblue-bloodstooktomewiththesamegustoasthewretchedoftheearth.Itmadenodifference.Myactwasuniversal,anditflooredeveryoneinthesameway,richandpooralike.

BythetimewereturnedtoKansas,Iwasbeginningtofeelmorelikemyselfagain.Slimhadn’tshownhisfaceinoverfivemonths,andIfiguredthatifhewasplanninganysurprises,hewouldhavesprungthemonusbynow.WhenwetookoffagainfortheupperMidwestattheendofApril,Ihadmoreorlessstoppedthinkingabouthim.ThatscarysceneinGibsonCitywassofarinthepast,itsometimesfeltasifithadneverhappened.Iwasrelaxedandconfident,andiftherewasanythingonmymindbesidetheact,itwasthehairthathadstartedgrowinginmyarmpitsandaroundmycrotch,allthatlate-sproutingstuffthatannouncedmyentranceintothelandofwetdreamsanddirtythoughts.Myguardwasdown,andjustasI’dalwaysknownitwould,justasI’dfearedwhenthewholebusinessstarted,thebladefellattheverymomentIwasleastexpectingit.ThemasterandIwereinNorthfield,Minnesota,alittletownaboutfortymilessouthofSaintPaul,andaswasmycustompriortoeveningperformances,Iwenttothelocalmoviehousetofritterawayacoupleofhours.Thetalkieswereinfullswingbythen,andIcouldn’tgetenoughofthem,IwenteverychanceIhad,sometimesseeingthesamepicturethreeorfourtimes.Onthatparticularday,thefeatureshowwasCocoanuts,thenewMarxBrotherscomedysetinFlorida.I’dalreadyseenitbefore,butIwascrazyaboutthoseclowns,especiallyHarpo,themuteonewiththenuttywigandtheloudhonker,andIhoppedtowhenIhearditwasplayingthatafternoon.Thetheaterwasafair-sizeestablishment,withseatsfortwoorthreehundredpeople,butowingtothegoodspringweather,therecouldn’thavebeenmorethanhalfadozenfolksinattendancewithme.NotthatIcared,ofcourse.Isettledinwithabagofpopcornandproceededtolaughmyheadoff,oblivioustotheotherbodiesscatteredinthedark.Abouttwentyorthirtyminutesintoit,Isniffedsomethingstrange,acuriouslysweetmedicinalodorwaftingupfrombehindme.Itwasastrongsmell,anditwasgettingstrongerbythesecond.BeforeIcouldturnaroundtoseewhatitwas,aragdrenchedinthatpungentconcoctionwasclampedovermyface.Ibuckedandstruggledtobreakfreeofit,butahandpushedmeback,andthen,beforeIcouldgathermystrengthforasecondeffort,thefightsuddenlywentoutofme.Mymuscleswentlimp;myskinmeltedintoabutteryooze;my

headdetacheditselffrommybody.WhereverIwasfromthenon,itwasn’tanyplaceI’dbeentobefore.

IhadimaginedallkindsofbattlesandconfrontationswithSlim—fistfights,holdups,gunsgoingoffindarkalleys—butnotoncediditentermymindthathe’dkidnapme.Itwasn’tinmyuncle’sM.O.todosomethingthatrequiredsuchlong-termplanning.Hewasahothead,abanjo-brainwhojumpedintothingsonthespurofthemoment,andifhebrokethemoldonmyaccount,itonlyshowshowbitterhewas,howdeeplymysuccesshadrankledhim.Iwastheonebigchancehe’deverhave,andhewasn’tgoingtoblowitbyflyingoffthehandle.Notthistime.Hewasgoingtoactlikeapropergangster,aslickprofessionalwhothoughtofalltheangles,andhe’dendupputtingthescrewstousbutgood.Hewasn’tinitjustforthemoney,andhewasn’tinitjustforrevenge—hewantedboth,andsnatchingmeforransomwasthemagiccombination,thewaytokillthosetwobirdswithonestone.

Hehadapartnerthistime,acorpulentyeggbythenameofFritz,andconsideringwhatmentallightweightstheywere,theydidaprettythoroughjobofkeepingmehidden.FirsttheystashedmeinacaveontheoutskirtsofNorthfield,adank,filthyholewhereIspentthreedaysandnights,mylegsboundinthickropesandagagtiedaroundmymouth;thentheygavemeaseconddoseofetherandtookmesomewhereelse,abasementinwhatmusthavebeenanapartmentbuildinginMinneapolisorSaintPaul.Thatlastedonlyaday,andfromtherewedrovetothecountryagain,settlingintoanabandonedprospector’shouseinwhatIlaterlearnedwasSouthDakota.Itlookedmorelikethemoonthantheearthoutthere,alltreelessanddesolateandstill,andweweresofarbackfromanyroadthatevenifI’dmanagedtorunawayfromthem,itwouldhavetakenmehourstofindhelp.They’dstockedtheplacewithacoupleofmonths’worthofcannedfood,andallsignspointedtoalong,nerve-rackingsiege.ThatwashowSlimhadchosentoplayit:asslowlyashecould.Hewantedtomakethemastersquirm,andifthatmeantdraggingthingsoutalittlebit,somuchthebetter.Hewasn’tinanyrush.Itwasallsodeliciousforhim,whyputastoptoitbeforehe’dhadhisfun?

Ihadneverseenhimsococky,sobuoyedupandsatisfiedwithhimself.Hestruttedaroundthatcabinlikeafour-stargeneral,barkingoutordersandlaughingathisownjokes,awhirlwindoflunaticbravado.Itdisgustedmetoseehimlikethat,butatthesametimeitsparedmefromthefullimpactofhiscruelty.Witheverythingcomingupacesforhim,Slimcouldaffordtobegenerous,andheneverwentatmewithquitethesavageryIwasexpecting.Thatisn’ttosayhedidn’tslapmearoundfromtimetotime,zingingmeacrossthemouthortwistingmyearswhenitstruckhisfancy,butmostofhisabusecameintheformoftauntsandverbaldigs.Heneverweariedoftelling

mehowhe’d“turnedthetablesonthatlousyJew,”orofmakingfunoftheacneeruptionsthatmottledmyface(“Look,boy,anotherpus-gusher”;“Whoathere,pal,getaloadofthemvolcanoesstitchedacrossyourbrow”),orofremindingmehowmyfatenowrestedinhishands.Toemphasizethislastpoint,he’dsometimessaunterovertometwirlingagunonhisfingerandpressthetipofthebarrelagainstmyskull.“SeewhatImean,fella?”he’dsay,andthenburstoutlaughing.“Alittlesqueezeonthistriggerhere,andyourbrainsgosplatagainstthewall.”Onceortwice,hewentaheadandpulledthetrigger,butthatwasonlytoscareme.Aslongashehadn’tpocketedtheransommoney,Iknewhewouldn’thavethegutstoloadthatgunwithliveammunition.

Itwasnopicnic,butIfoundIcouldhandlethatstuff.Sticksandstones,astheysay,andIrealizeditwasalotbettertolistentohisyammeringthangetmybonesbrokenintwo.AslongasIkeptmymouthshutanddidn’tprovokehim,heusuallyranoutofsteamafterfifteenortwentyminutes.Sincetheykeptthegagonmemostofthetime,Ididn’thavemuchchoiceinthematteranyway.Butevenwhenmylipswerefree,IdideverythingIcouldtoignorehiscracks.Icameupwithscoresofjuicyrebuttalsandinsults,butIgenerallykeptthemtomyself,knowingfullwellthatthelessIwrangledwiththebastard,thelesshewouldgetundermyskin.Beyondthat,Ididn’thavemuchtoclingto.Slimwastoocrazytobetrusted,andtherewasnothingtoguaranteehewouldn’tfindawaytokillmeoncehe’dcollectedthemoney.Icouldn’tknowwhathehadinmind,andthatnotknowingwasthethingthattorturedmemost.Icouldendurethehardshipsofincarceration,butmyheadwasneverfreeofvisionsofwhatwastocome:havingmythroatcut,havingabulletfiredthroughmyheart,havingtheskinpeeledoffmybones.

Fritzdidnothingtoassuagethesetorments.Hewaslittlemorethanayes-man,ablunderingfatsowhowheezedandshuffledhiswaythroughthevariousminortasksthatSlimdoledouttohim.Hecookedthebeansonthewoodstove,hesweptthefloors,heemptiedtheshitbuckets,headjustedandtightenedtheropesaroundmyarmsandlegs.GodknowswhereSlimhaddugupthatbovinegumball,butIdon’tsupposehecouldhaveaskedforamorewillinghenchman.Fritzwasmaid,butler,anderrandboy,thestalwartninnywhoneverspokeawordofcomplaint.HesatthroughthoselongdaysandnightsasiftheBadlandswerethefinestvacationspotinAmerica,perfectlycontenttobidehistimeanddonothing,tostareoutthewindow,tobreathe.Fortenortwelvedayshedidn’tsaymuchofanythingtome,butthen,afterthefirstransomnotewassenttoMasterYehudi,Slimstarteddrivingofftotowneverymorning,presumablytopostlettersormaketelephonecallsorcommunicatehisdemandsbysomeothermeans,andFritzandIstartedspendingaportionofeverydayalonetogether.Iwouldn’tgosofarastosay

thatwedevelopedanunderstanding,butatleasthedidn’tscaremethewaySlimdid.Fritzhadnothingpersonalagainstme.Hewasjustdoinghisjob,anditwasn’tlongbeforeIrealizedthathewasasmuchinthedarkaboutthefutureasIwas.

“He’sgoingtokillme,ain’the?”Isaidtohimonce,sittinginachairashefedmemymiddaymealofbakedbeansandcrackers.SlimwassointimidatedbythethoughtthatI’dflyaway,heneverlettheropescomeoff,notevenwhenIwaseatingorsleepingortakingashit.SoFritzspoon-fedmemygrub,shovelingitintomymouthasifIwereababy.

“Huh?”Fritzsaid,respondinginthatbright,rapid-firewayofhis.Hiseyeslookedblank,asifhisbrainhadstalledintrafficsomewherebetweenPittsburghandtheAlleghenyMountains.“Youjustsaysomethin’?”

“He’sgoingtobumpmeoff,ain’the?”Irepeated.“Imean,thereain’tachanceinhellI’lleverwalkoutofherealive.”

“Dunnoaboutthat,bub.Youruncledon’ttellmenothin’aboutwhathe’sgoingtodo.Hejustgoesanddoesit.”

“Andyoudon’tmindthathedoesn’tletyouinonthings?”

“Nope,Idon’tmind.AslongasIgetmycut,whyshouldImind?Whathedoeswithyouisnoneofmybeeswax.”

“Andwhatmakesyousosurehe’llpayupwhatheowesyou?”

“Nothin’.Butifhedon’tdowhathe’ssupposedtodo,I’llbusthisass.”

“It’snevergoingtowork,Fritz.AllthoselettersSlim’sbeenmailingfromthepostofficeintown—why,they’lltraceyouturtlestothisshackinnotime,notimeatall.”

“Ha,that’sagoodone.Youthinkwe’restupid,don’tyou?”

“Yeah,that’swhatIthink.Prettystupid.”

“Ha.AndwhatifItoldyouwegotanotherpartner?Andwhatifthatpartnerhappenstobetheguythoseletterswasgoin’to?”

“Well,whatifyoudid?”

“Yeah,asifIjustdidn’t.SeewhatI’mdrivin’at,bub?Thisotherpartypassesonthenotesandsuchtothefolkswiththecash.Thereain’tnowaythey’llfindushere.”

“Andwhatabouthim,theguyyou’reincahootswith?Heinvisibleorsomething?”

“Yeah,that’sright.Hetookoneofthemvanishin’powdersandwentupin

apuffofsmoke.”

ThatwasaboutthelongestconversationIeverhadwithhim:Fritzathismosteloquentandlong-winded.Itwasn’tthathewasmeantome,buthehadiceinhisveinsandcrackerjackswaddedinhisskull,andIcouldnevergetthroughtohim.Icouldn’tturnhimagainstUncleSlim,Icouldn’tpersuadehimtountietheropes(“Sorry,bub,nocando”),Icouldn’tshakehisloyaltyandsteadfastnessbyonejot.Anyotherpersonwouldhaveansweredmyquestioninoneoftwoways:bytellingmeitwastrueortellingmeitwasfalse.Yes,hewouldhavesaid,Slimwasplanningtocutmythroat,orelsehewouldhavepattedmeontheheadandassuredmethatmyfearsweregroundless.Evenifthepersonliedwhenhesaidthosethings(foranynumberofreasons,bothgoodandbad),Iwouldhavebeengivenastraightanswer.ButnotwithFritz.Fritzwashonesttoafault,andsincehecouldn’tanswermyquestion,hesaidhedidn’tknow,forgettingthatnormalhumandecencyrequiresapersontogiveafirmanswertoaquestionasmonumentalasthatone.ButFritzhadn’tlearnedtherulesofhumanbehavior.Hewasanobodaddyandaclod,andanypimple-facedboycouldseethattalkingtohimwasawasteofbreath.

Oh,IhadajollytimeinSouthDakota,allright,aregularlaughathonofnonstopfunandentertainment.Boundandgaggedformorethanamonth,leftaloneinalockedroomwithtwelverustyshovelsandpitchforkstokeepmecompany,certainthatIwoulddieabrutal,pulverizingdeath.Myonlyhopewasthatthemasterwouldrescueme,andagainandagainIdreamedofhowheandaposseofmenwouldswoopdownonthehut,plugFritzandSlimfulloflead,andcarrymebacktothelandoftheliving.Buttheweekspassed,andnothingeverchanged.Andthen,whenthingsdidchange,itwasonlyfortheworse.Oncetheransomnotesandnegotiationsstarted,IthoughtIdetectedagradualhardeningofSlim’smood,anever-so-slightebbingofhisconfidence.Thegamehadturnedseriousnow.Thefirstrushofenthusiasmhadsubsided,andlittlebylittlehisjocularitywaslosingouttohisoldsnappish,foul-temperedself.HenaggedatFritz,hegrousedaboutthedullfood,hebrokesomeplatesagainstthewall.Thoseweretheearliestsigns,andeventuallytheywerefollowedbyothers:kickingmeoffmychair,pokingfunatFritz’sblimpytorso,tighteningtheropesaroundmylimbs.Itseemedclearthatthepressurewasgettingtohim,butwhythisshouldhavebeensoIcouldn’tsay.Iwasn’tprivytothediscussionsthatwentonintheotherroom,Ididn’treadtheransomnotesorseethenewspaperarticlesthatwerewrittenaboutme,andthelittleIheardthroughthedoorwassomuffledandfragmented,Icouldneverfitthepiecestogether.AllIknewwasthatSlimwasactingmoreandmorelikeSlim.Thetrendwasunmistakable,andoncehegotbacktobeingwhohewas,Iknewthateverythingthathadhappenedsofarwouldfeellikea

holiday,acruisetotheLesserAntillesonagoddamnedluxuryyacht.

ByearlyJune,he’dpushedhimselfclosetothesnappingpoint.EvenFritz,theeverplacidandunbudgeableFritz,wasbeginningtoshowsymptomsofwearandtear,andIcouldseeinhiseyesthatSlim’srazzingcouldonlygosofarbeforehisfellowdunderheadtookoffense.Thatbecamethemostferventobjectofmyprayers—anout-and-outbrawl—butevenifitdidn’tcometothat,itgavemenosmallcomforttoseehowoftentheirconversationswereeruptingintominorsquabbles,whichmostlyconsistedofSlimneedlingFritzandFritzsulkinginthecorner,staringdownatthefloorandmutteringcursesunderhisbreath.Ifnothingelse,ittooksomeoftheburdenoffme,andwithsomanydangerslurkingintheair,tobeforgottenforevenfiveortenminuteswasablessing,anunimaginableboon.

Eachday,theweathergrewalittlehotter,boredownalittlemoreheavilyonmyskin.Thesunneverseemedtosetanymore,andIitchedalmostconstantlyfromtheropes.Withthecomingoftheheat,spidershadinfestedthebackroomwhereIspentmostofmytime.Theyranupanddownmylegs,coveredmyface,hatchedtheireggsinmyhair.NosoonerwouldIshakeoneoffthananotherwouldfindme.Mosquitoesdive-bombedintomyears,flieswriggledandbuzzedinsixteendifferentwebs,Iexcretedanever-endingflowofsweat.Ifitwasn’tthecreepy-crawliesthatgotme,itwasthedrynessinmythroat.Andifitwasn’tthirst,itwassadness,arelentlesscrumblingofmywillandresolve.Iwasturningintoporridge,amoondogboilinginapotofspitandraggedfur,andnomatterhowhardIstruggledtobebraveandstrong,thereweremomentswhenIcouldn’thelpmyselfanymore,whenthetearsjustfellfrommyeyesandwouldn’tstop.

Oneafternoon,Slimburstintomylittlehideawayandcaughtmeinthemiddleofoneofthesecryingfits.“Whysoglum,pal?”hesaid.“Don’tyouknowthattomorrowisyourbigday?”

Itmortifiedmeforhimtoseemelikethat,soIturnedawaymyheadwithoutresponding.Ididn’thaveanyideawhathewastalkingabout,andsinceIcouldonlyspeakwithmyeyes,therewasnowayIcouldfindout.Bythen,ithardlyseemedtomatteranymore.

“Payday,chum.Tomorrowwegetthedough,andaprettylittlebundleit’sgoingtobe.Fiftythousanddancinggirlslyingcheektojowlinabatteredstrawsuitcase.Justwhatthedoctorordered,ehkid?It’sahellofaretirementplan,letmetellyou,andwhenyouthrowinthefactthatthembillsisunmarked,IcanspendthemallthewaytoMexicoandthefedswon’tbenonethewiser.”

Ididn’thaveanyreasontodoubthim.Hewastalkingsofast,andhis

nervesweresojangled,itseemedclearthatsomethingwasup.Still,Ididn’trespond.Ididn’twanttogivehimthesatisfaction,soIcontinuedlookingaway.Afteramoment,Slimsatdownonthebedoppositemychair.WhenIstilldidn’trespond,heleanedforward,untiedthegag,andpulleditawayfrommymouth.

“LookatmewhenI’mtalkingtoyou,”hesaid.

Butstill,Ikeptmyeyesfixedonthefloor,refusingtoreturnhisgaze.Withoutanywarning,hesprangforwardandslappedmeacrossthecheek—once,veryhard.Ilookedup.

“That’sbetter,”hesaid.Normally,hewouldhavesmiledoverhislittlevictory,buthewasbeyondsuchpettyanticstoday.Hisexpressionturnedgrim,andforthenextfewsecondshestaredatmesohard,IthoughtI’dshrivelupinmyclothes.“You’realuckyboy,”hecontinued.“Fiftythousandbucks,nephew.Doyouthinkyou’reworththatkindofdough?Ineverthoughtthey’dgothathigh,butthepricejustkeptclimbing,andtheyneverevenflinched.Shit,boy,thereain’tnobodyintheworldwho’dcoughupthemapplesforme.OntheopenmarketIwouldn’tfetchnomorethananickelortwo—andthat’sonagoodday,whenI’matmysweetestandmostlovable.AndhereyougotthatJewcrudwillingtoforkoverfiftygrandtogetyouback.Isupposethatmakesyoukindofspecial,don’tit?Ordoyouthinkhe’sjustbluffing?Isthatwhathe’supto,nephew?Makingmorepromiseshedon’tintendtokeep?”

Iwaslookingathimnow,butthatdidn’tmeanIhadanyintentionofansweringhisquestions.UncleSlimwasnearlyontopofme,coiledlikeaninfielderontheedgeofthebed,thrustinghisfacerightagainstmine.Hewassoclose,Icouldseeeverybloodshotveininhiseyes,everycraterlikeporeofhisskin.Hispupilsweredilated,hewasshortofbreath,andanysecondnowitlookedasifhewasgoingtolungeforwardandbiteoffmynose.

“WalttheWonderBoy,”hesaid,loweringhisvoicetoawhisper.“It’sgotaniceringtoit,don’tit?Walt…the…Wonder…Boy.Everybody’sheardaboutyou,kid,you’rethetalkofthewholefuckingcountry.I’veseenyouperformmyself,youknow.Notonce,butseveraltimes—sixorseventimesinthepastyear.Thereain’tnothinglikeit,isthere?Aruntwhowalksonwater.It’sthedamnedesttrickIeversaw,theslickestbitofhocus-pocussincetheradio.Nowires,nomirrors,notrapdoors.What’sthegimmick,Walt?Howinhelldoyougetyourselfoffthegroundlikethat?”

Iwasn’tgoingtotalk,Iwasn’tgoingtosayawordtohim,butafterstaringhimdownthroughthesilencefortenorfifteenseconds,hejumpedupandwhackedmeinthetemplewiththeheelofhishand,thenslappedmeacross

thejawwiththeotherhand.

“There’snogimmick,”Isaid.

“Ho,ho,”hesaid.“Ho,ho,ho.”

“Theact’sonthelevel.Whatyouseeiswhatthereis.”

“Andyouexpectmetobelievethat?”

“Idon’tcarewhatyoubelieve.I’mtellingyouthere’snotrick.”

“Lying’sasin,Walt,youknowthat.Especiallytoyourelders.Liarsburninhell,andifyoudon’tstopfeedingmethisbullshit,that’sexactlywhereyou’regoing.Intothefiresofhell.Countonit,boy.Iwantthetruth,andIwantitnow.”

“Andthat’swhatI’mgivingyou.Thewholetruthandnothingbutthetruth,sohelpmeGod.”

“Allright,”hesaid,slappinghiskneesinfrustration.“Ifthat’showyouwanttoplayit,that’showwe’llplayit.”Hebouncedupfromthebedandgrabbedmebythecollar,yankingmeoutofmychairwithoneswiftjerkofhisarm.“Ifyou’resogoddamnsureofyourself,thenshowme.We’llstepoutsideandhavealittledemonstration.Butyoubetterdeliverthegoods,wiseguy.Idon’ttruckwithnofibbers.Youhearme,Walt?It’sputuporshutup.Yougetyourselfofftheground,oryourassisfuckinggrass.”

Hedraggedmeintotheotherroom,yellingandharanguingasmyheadthumpedagainstthefloorandsplintersjabbedintomyscalp.TherewasnothingIcoulddotofightback.Theropeswerestillfastenedaroundmyarmsandlegs,andthebestIcoulddowasWritheandscream,beggingformercyasthebloodtrickledthroughmyhair.

“Untiehim,”heorderedFritz.“Thesquirtsayshecanfly,andwe’regoingtoholdhimtohisword.Noifs,ands,orbuts.It’sshowtime,gents.LittleWalt’sgoingtospreadhiswingsanddanceintheairforus.”

IcouldseeFritz’sfacefrommypositiononthefloor,andhewaslookingatSlimwithamixtureofhorrorandconfusion.Thefatmanwassostunned,hedidn’teventrytospeak.

“Well?”Slimsaid.“Whatareyouwaitingfor?Untiehim!”

“ButSlim,”Fritzstammered.“Itdon’tmakenosense.Welethimflyintotheair,andhe’llflyclearawayfromus.Justlikeyoualwayssaid.”

“ForgetwhatIsaid.Justundotheropes,andwe’llseewhatkindofbullshitterhereallyis.I’mbettinghedon’tgetafootofftheground.Notonemeaslyinch.Andevenifhedoes,whothefuckcares?I’vegotmygun,don’t

I?Oneshotintheleg,andhe’llfalldownfasterthanagoddamnduck.”

ThiscockeyedargumentseemedtopersuadeFritz.Heshrugged,walkedtothecenteroftheroomwhereSlimhaddepositedme,andbentdowntodowhathe’dbeentold.Themomentheloosenedthefirstknot,however,Ifeltasurgeoffearandrevulsionwashthroughme.

“Iain’tgoingtodoit,”Isaid.

“Oh,you’lldoit,”Slimsaid.Myhandswerefreebythen,andFritzhadturnedhisattentiontotheropesaroundmylegs.“You’lldoitalldayifItellyouto.”

“Youcanshootmedead,”Iblubbered.“Youcanslitmythroatorburnmetoashes,butthereain’tnowayI’mgoingtodoit.”

Slimchuckledbriefly,thensentthepointofhisshoeflyingintomyback.Thebreathburstoutofmelikearocket,andIhitthefloorinpain.

“Aw,layoffhim,Slim,”Fritzsaid,workingonthelastknotaroundmy’ankles.“Heain’tinthemood.Anydopecanseethat.”

“Andwhoaskedyouropinion,tubby?”Slimsaid,turninghisangeronamanwhoweighedtwicewhathedidandwasthreetimesasstrong.

“Cutitout,”Fritzsaid,gruntingfromtheeffortasheraisedhimselfoffthefloor.“YouknowIdon’tlikeitwhenyoucallmethemnames.”

“Names?”Slimshouted.“Whatnamesareyoutalkingabout,fatso?”

“Youknow.Allthattubbyandfatsostuff.Itain’tnicetomockafellalikethat.”

“Gettingsensitive,arewe?AndwhatamIsupposedtocallyou,then?Justtakealookinthemirrorandtellmewhatyousee.Amountainofflesh,that’swhat.Icalls‘emasIsees‘em,fatso.Youwantanothername,thenstartsheddingafewpounds.”

Fritzhadaboutthelongest,slowestfuseofanymanI’devermet,butthistimeSlimhadpushedhimtoofar.Icouldfeelit,Icouldtasteit,andevenasIlaytheregaspingforairandtryingtorecoverfromtheblowtomyback,IunderstoodthatthiswastheoneopeningI’deverhave.Myarmsandlegswerefree,ahostilehubbubwasbrewingaboveme,andallIhadtodowaspickmymoment.ItcamewhenFritztookasteptowardSlimandpokedhiminthechest.“Yougotnocalltogoonlikethat,”hesaid.“NotwhenIaskedyoutostop.”

Withoutmakingasound,Ibegancrawlinginthedirectionofthedoor,inchingforwardassmoothlyandunhurriedlyasIcould.Iheardathudbehind

me.Thentherewasanotherthud,followedbythenoiseofscufflingshoesonthebarewoodfloor.Shoutsandgruntsandfoulwordspunctuatedthesandpapertango,butbythenIwaspushingmyhandagainstthescreendoor,whichluckilywastoowarpedtofitintothejam.Iopeneditwithoneshove,creptforwardanotherhalffootorso,andthentumbledoutintothesunlight,landingshoulder-firstonthehardSouthDakotadirt.

Mymusclesfeltallstrangeandspongy.WhenItriedtostandup,Iscarcelyrecognizedthemanymore.They’dgonestupidonme,andIcouldn’tgetthemtowork.Aftersomuchconfinementandinactivity,I’dbeenturnedintoaspasticclown.Ibattledmywaytomyfeet,butnosoonerdidItakeastepthanIbegantostumble.Ifell,pickedmyselfup,lurchedforwardanotheryardortwo,thenfellagain.Ididn’thaveasecondtowaste,andthereIwaswobblingaroundlikeawino,belly-floppingbetweeneverythirdandfourthstep.Bysheerpersistence,IfinallymadeittoSlim’scar,adentedoldjalopyparkedaroundthesideofthehouse.Thesunhadturnedthethingintoanoven,andwhenItouchedthedoorhandle,themetalwassohotIalmostletoutascream.Fortunately,Iknewmywayaroundcars.Themasterhadtaughtmehowtodrive,andIhadnotroublereleasingthehandbrake,pullingoutthechoke,andturningthekeyintheignition.Therewasnotimetoadjusttheseat,however.Mylegsweretooshort,andtheonlywayIcouldgetmyfootonthegaspedalwastoslidedown,hangingontothesteeringwheelfordearlife.Thefirstcoughofthemotorhaltedthefightinsidethecabin,andbythetimeIgotthecaringear,Slimwasalreadyboltingoutthedoorandracingtowardmewithhisguninhishand.Ispunoutinanarc,tryingtokeepasmuchdistancebetweenusasIcould,butthebastardwasgainingonmeandIcouldn’ttakemyhandoffthewheeltoshiftintosecond.IsawSlimliftthegunandtakeaim.Insteadofswervingright,Iswervedleft,barrelingstraightintohimwiththefender.Itcaughthimjustabovetheknee,andhebouncedoffandfelltotheground.Thatgavemeafewsecondstoworkwith.BeforeSlimcouldstandup,I’dstraightenedoutthewheelandpointedmyselfintherightdirection.Ithrewthecarintosecondandpressedthepedaltothefloor.Abulletwentcrashingthroughtherearwindow,shatteringtheglassbehindme.Anotherbulletthumpedintothedashboard,openingupaholeintheglove-compartmentdoor.Igropedfortheclutchwithmyleftfoot,shiftedintothird,andthenIwasoff,Ipushedthecaruptothirty,fortymilesanhour,bouncingovertheroughterrainlikeabroncobusterasIwaitedforthenextbullettocometearingthroughmyback.Buttherewerenomorebullets.I’dleftthatshitbaginthedust,andwhenIcameupontheroadafewminuteslater,Iwashomefree.

WasIhappytoseethemasteragain?YoubetyourlifeIwas.Didmyheartpoundwithjoywhenheopenedhisarmsandsmotheredmeinalongembrace?Yes,myheartpoundedwithjoy.Didweweepoverourgoodfortune?Ofcoursewedid.Didwelaughandcelebrateanddanceahundredjigs?Wedidallthatandmore.

MasterYehudisaid:“I’llneverletyououtofmysightagain.”

AndIsaid:“I’llnevergonowherewithoutyou,notfortherestofmydays.”

There’sanoldadageaboutnotappreciatingwhatyouhaveuntilyou’velostit.Accurateasthatwisdomis,Ican’tsayiteverappliedtome.IknewwhatI’dlostallalong:fromthemomentIwascarriedoutofthatmovietheaterinNorthfield,Minnesota,tothemomentIlaideyesonthemasteragaininRapidCity,SouthDakota.ForfiveandahalfweeksImournedthelossofeverythingthatwasgoodandprecioustome,andIstandbeforetheworldnowtotestifythatnothingcancomparetothesweetnessofgettingbackwhatwastakenfromyou.OfallthetriumphsIevernotchedinmybelt,nonethrilledmemorethanthesimplefactofhavingmylifereturnedtome.

ThereunionwasheldinRapidCitybecausethat’swhereIwoundupaftermyescape.Penny-pincherthathewas,Slimhadneglectedthehealthofhiscar,andtheheapranoutofgasbeforeI’ddriventwentymiles.Ifnotforatravelingsalesmanwhopickedmeupjustbeforedark,ImightstillbewanderingaroundthoseBadlandsnow,vainlysearchingforhelp.Iaskedhimtodropmeatthenearestpolicestation,andoncethosecopsfoundoutwhoIwas,theytreatedmelikethecrownprinceofBallyball.TheyfedmesoupandConeyIslandhotdogs,theygavemenewclothesandawarmbath,theytaughtmehowtoplaypinochle.Bythetimethemasterarrivedthenextafternoon,Ihadalreadytalkedtotwodozenreportersandposedforfourhundredpictures.Mykidnapinghadbeenfront-pagenewsformorethanamonth,andwhenastringerfromthelocalpresscamesnoopingaroundthestationhouseforsomelate-breakingcrumbs,herecognizedmefrommyphotosandputouttheword.Thebloodhoundsandambulancechaserspouredinafterthat.Flashbulbspoppedlikefirecrackersallaroundme,andIbraggedmyheadoffintotheweehoursofthemorning,tellingwildstoriesabouthowI’doutwittedmycaptorsandstolenoffbeforetheycouldswapmefortheloot.Isupposethebarefactswouldhavedonejustaswell,butIcouldn’tresisttheurgetoexaggerate.Ireveledinmynewfoundcelebrity,andafterawhileIgrewgiddyfromthewaythosereporterslookedatme,hangingonmyeveryword.Iwasashowman,afterall,andblessedwithanaudiencelikethat

one,Ididn’thavethehearttoletthemdown.

Themasterputastoptothenonsensethemomenthewalkedin.Forthenexthourourhugsandtearsoccupiedallmyattention—butnoneofthatwasseenbythepublic.Wesataloneinabackroomoftheconstabulary,sobbingintoeachother’sarmsastwopoliceofficersguardedthedoor.Afterthat,statementsweremade,papersweresigned,andthenhewhiskedmeoutofthere,elbowingpastathrongofgawkersandwell-wishersinthestreet.Cheerswentup,huzzahsrangout,butthemasteronlypausedlongenoughtosmileandwaveoncetotherubber-neckersbeforehustlingmeintoachauffeur-drivencarparkedatthecurb.Anhourandahalflater,weweresittinginaprivatecompartmentonaneastboundtrain,headedforNewEnglandandthesandyshoresofCapeCod.

Itwasn’tuntilnightfallthatIrealizedweweren’tgoingtobestoppingoffinKansas.Withsomuchcatchinguptodowiththemaster,somanythingstodescribeandexplainandrecount,myheadhadbeenchurninglikeamilkshakemachine,anditwasonlyafterthelightswereoutandweweretuckedintoourberthsthatIthoughttoaskaboutMrs.Witherspoon.ThemasterandIhadbeentogetherforsixhoursbythen,andhernamehadn’tcomeuponce.

“What’sthematterwithWichita?”Isaid.“Ain’tthatjustasgoodaplaceforusasCapeCod?”

“It’safineplace,”themastersaid,“butit’stoohotthistimeofyear.Theoceanwillbegoodforyou,Walt.You’llrecuperatefaster.”

“AndwhataboutMrs.W.?When’ssheplanningtojoinus?”

“Shewon’tbealongthistime,kid.”

“Whynot?YourememberFlorida,don’tyou?Sheloveditdowntheresomuch,wejustabouthadtodragheroutofthewater.Ineverseenabodyhappierthanshewassloshingaroundinthemwaves.”

“Thatmightbeso,butshewon’tbedoinganyswimmingthissummer.Atleastnotwithus.”

MasterYehudisighed,fillingthedarknesswithasoft,plaintiveflutterofsound,andeventhoughIwasdeadtired,justonthebrinkofdozingoff,myheartbegantospeedup,pumpinginsidemelikeanalarm.

“Oh,”Isaid,tryingnottobetraymyworry.“Andwhy’sthat?”

“Iwasn’tgoingtotellyoutonight.Butnowthatyou’vebroughtitup,Idon’tsupposethere’sanypointinkeepingitfromyou.”

“Tellmewhat?”

“LadyMarionisabouttotaketheplunge.”

“Plunge?Whatplunge?”

“She’sengagedtobemarried.Ifallgoesaccordingtoplan,she’llbejoinedinholywedlockbeforeThanksgiving.”

“Youmeanhitched?Youmeancoupledinmatrimonyfortherestofhernaturallife?”

“That’sit.Witharingonherfingerandahusbandinherbed.”

“Andthathusbandain’tyou?”

“Perishthethought.I’mherewithyou,aren’tI?HowcanIbebacktherewithherifI’mherewithyou?”

“Butyou’rehermainsqueeze.Shedon’thavenorighttoditchyoulikethat.Notwithoutyoursay-so.”

“Shehadtodoit,andIdidn’tstandinherway.Thatwoman’soneinamillion,Walt,andIdon’twantyoubreathingawordagainsther.”

“I’llbreatheallthewordsIwant.Somebodydoesyouabadturn,andIbreathefire.”

“Shedidn’tdomeabadturn.Herhandsweretied,andshemadeapromisethatcouldn’tbebroken.IfIwereyou,boy,I’dthankherformakingthatpromiseeveryhouronthehourforthenextfiftyyears.”

“Thankher?Ispitonthattrollop,master.Ispitandcurseonthattwo-facedbitchfordoingyouwrong.”

“Notwhenyoufindoutwhyshedidit,youwon’t.It’sallbecauseofyou,littleman.SheputherselfonthelineforapipsqueaknamedWalterClaireborneRawley,anditwasaboutthebravest,mostselflessthingI’veeverseenapersondo.”

“Bullroar.Idon’thavenothingtodowithit.Iwasn’teventhere.”

“Fiftythousanddollars,sport.Youthinkthatkindofmoneygrowsonbushes?Whentheransomnotesstartedcomingin,wehadtoactfast.”

“It’salotofdough,sure,butwemusthaveearnedtwicethatmuchbynow.”

“Notevenclose.MarionandIcouldn’tevenraisehalfthatamountbetweenus.We’vedonenicelyforourselves,Walt,butnowherewhatyou’dthink.Theoverheadisenormous.Hotelbills,transportation,advertising—italladdsup,andwe’vejustbarelykeptourheadsabovewater.”

“Oh,”Isaid,doingsomequickmentalcalculationsonhowmuchmoneywemusthavespent—andgrowingdizzyintheprocess.

“Ohisright.Sowhattodo—that’sthequestion.Whithergoestusbeforeit’stoolate?OldJudgeWitherspoonturnsusdown.Hehasn’ttalkedtoMarionsinceCharliekilledhimself,andhe’snotabouttointerrupthissilencenow.Thebankslaugh,theloansharkswon’ttouchus,andevenifwesellthehouse,we’restillgoingtofallshort.Sowhattodo—that’sthequestionburningaholeinourstomachs.Theclock’sticking,andeverydaywelose,thepriceisonlygoingtogoup.”

“Fiftythousandbuckstosavemyass.”

“Andacheappriceitwas,too,consideringyourbox-officepotentialintheyearsahead.Acheapprice,butwejustdidn’thaveit.”

“Sowhere’dyougo?”

“AsI’msureyouunderstandbynow,Mrs.Witherspoonisawomanofmanifoldcharmsandallurements.Imighthavewonaspecialplaceinherheart,butIwasn’ttheonlymanwhocarriedthetorchforher.Wichitateemswiththem,hersuitorslurkbehindeveryfencepostandfirehydrant.Oneofthem,ayounggraintycoonbythenameofOrvilleCox,hasproposedtoherfivetimesinthepastyear.WhenyouandIwereouttouringthesticks,youngOrvillewasbackintown,pressinghiscaseprettyhard.Marionrebuffedhim,ofcourse,butnotwithoutacertainwistfulnessandregret,andeachtimeshesaidno,Ithinkthatwistfulnessandregretgrewalittlestronger.NeedIsaymore?SheturnedtoCoxforthefiftythousand,asumhewasalltoowillingtopartwith,butonlyontheconditionthatshecastmeasideandjoinhimatthealtar.”

“That’sblackmail.”

“Moreorless.ButthisOrvillereallyisn’tsuchabadcharacter.Alittleonthedullside,maybe,butMarion’sgoingintoitwithhereyesopen.”

“Well,”Isputtered,notknowingwhattomakeofallthis,“IguessIoweheranapology.Shecamethroughformelikearealtrooper.”

“Thatshedid.Likeanhonest-to-goodnessheroine.”

“But,”Icontinued,stillnotwillingtogiveup,“butthat’salldonewithnow.Imean,allbetsisoff.IgotawayfromSlimonmyown,andnobodyhadtoforkoutnofiftythousand.Orville’sstillgothisrottendough,andbyrightsthatmeansoldMrs.Witherspoon’sstillfree.”

“Maybeso.Butshe’sstillplanningtomarryhim.Italkedtoherjustyesterday,andthatwashowthingsstood.Sheintendstogoaheadwithit.”

“Weshouldbreakitup,master,that’swhatweshoulddo.Stormrightintotheweddingandsnatchheraway.”

“Justlikethemovies,ehWalt?”Forthefirsttimesincewe’dstartedthisdreadfulconversation,MasterYehudiletoutalaugh.

“You’redamnstraight.Justlikeatwo-reelerpunch-’em-up.”

“Lethergo,Walt.Hermind’ssetonit,andthere’snothingwecandotostopher.”

“Butit’smyfault.Ifitwasn’tforthatlousykidnaping,noneofthiswouldhavehappened.”

“It’syouruncle’sfault,son,notyours,andyoumustn’tblameyourself—notnow,notever.Putittorest.Mrs.Witherspoonisdoingwhatshewantstodo,andwe’renotgoingtogripeaboutit.Understood?We’regoingtoactlikegentlemen,andnotonlyarewenotgoingtoholditagainsther,we’regoingtosendhertheprettiestweddingpresentanybrideeversaw.Nowgetsomesleep.Wehaveatonofworkaheadofus,andIdon’twantyoufrettingaboutthisbusinessasecondlonger.It’sdone.Thecurtainisdown,andthenextactisabouttobegin.”

MasterYehuditalkedagoodgame,butwhenwesatdowntobreakfastinthediningcarthenextmorning,hisfacelookedwanandtroubled—asifhe’dbeenupallnight,staringintothedarknessandcontemplatingtheendoftheworld.Itoccurredtomethatheseemedthinnerthanhehadinthepast,andIwonderedhowthiscouldhaveescapedmynoticethedaybefore.Hadhappinessmademethatblind?Ilookedmoreclosely,studyinghisfacewithasmuchdetachmentasIcould.Therewasnoquestionthatsomethinghadchangedinhim.Hisskinwaspinchedandsallow,acertainhaggardnesshadcreptintothecreasesaroundhiseyes,andallinallhelookedsomewhatdiminished,lessimposingthanI’drememberedhim.He’dbeenunderduress,afterall—firsttheordealofmykidnaping,thentheblowoflosinghiswoman—butIhopedthatwasalltherewastoit.Everynowandthen,IthoughtIdetectedaslightwinceashechewedhisfood,andonce,towardtheendofthemeal,Iunmistakablysawhishanddartunderthetableandclutchhisbelly.Washeunwell,orwasitsimplyapassingattackofindigestion?Andifhewasn’twell,howbadwasit?

Hedidn’tsayaword,ofcourse,andsinceIwaslookingnonetoohealthymyself,hemanagedtokeepthespotlightonmethroughoutthebreakfast.

“Eatup,”hesaid.“You’vedwindledtoastick.Chompdownthewaffles,son,andthenI’llorderyousomemore.We’vegottoputsomemeatonyourbones,getyoubacktofullstrength.”

“I’mdoingmybest,”Isaid.“It’snotasthoughIgotputupinsomeritzyhotel.Ilivedonasteadydietofdogfoodwiththosebums,andmystomach’sshrunkentothesizeofapea.”

“Andthenthere’sthematterofyourskin,”themasteradded,watchingmestruggletogetdownanotherrasherofbacon.“We’llhavetodosomethingaboutthat,too.Allthoseblotches.Itlookslikeyou’vebrokenoutwithacaseofthechickenpox.”

“No,sir,whatI’vegotisthezits,andsometimesthey’resosore,ithurtsmejusttosmile.”

“Ofcourseitdoes.Yourpoorbody’sgonehaywirefromallthatcaptivity.Coopedupwithoutanysunshine,sweatingbulletsdayandnight—it’snowonderyou’reamess.Thebeachisgoingtodoyouaworldofgood,Walt,andifthosepimplesdon’tclearup,I’llshowyouhowtotakecareofthemandkeepthenewonesatbay.Mygrandmotherhadasecretremedy,andithasn’tfailedyet.”

“YoumeanIdon’thavetogrowanotherface?”

“Thisonewilldo.Ifyoudidn’thavesomanyfreckles,itwouldn’tlooksobad.Combinethosewiththeacne,anditcreatesquiteaneffect.Butdon’tbrood,kid.Beforelong,theonlythingyou’llhavetoworryaboutiswhiskers—andthat’spermanent,theystaywithyouuntilthebitterend.”

WespentmorethanamonthinalittlebeachhouseontheCapeCodshore,onedayforeverydayI’dbeenlockedupbyUncleSlim.Themasterrenteditunderafalsenametoprotectmefromthepress,andforpurposesofsimplicityandconvenienceweposedasfatherandson.Buckwasthealiashe’dchosen.TimothyBuckforhimselfandTimothyBuckIIforme,orTimBuckOneandTimBuckTwo.Wegotsomegoodlaughsoutofthat,andthefunnythingwas,itwasn’tawholelotdifferentfromTimbuktuwherewewere,atleastasfarasremotenesswasconcerned:highuponapromontoryoverlookingtheocean,withnoneighborsformilesaround.AwomannamedMrs.HawthornedroveoutfromTruroeverydaytocookandcleanforus,butotherthankibbitzingwithher,weprettymuchkepttoourselves.Wesoakedupthesun,tooklongwalksonthebeach,ateclamchowder,slepttenortwelvehourseverynight.Afteraweekofthatloafer’sregimen,Iwasfeelingfitenoughtotrymyhandatlevitationagain.Themasterstartedmeoffslowlywithsomeroutinegroundexercises.Push-ups,jumpingjacks,jogsonthebeach,andwhenthetimecametotesttheairagain,weworkedoutbehindthecliff,whereMrs.Hawthornecouldn’tspyonus.Iwasalittlerustyatfirst,andItooksomeflopsandspills,butafterfiveorsixdaysIwasbackinmyoldform,aslimberandbouncyasI’deverbeen.Thefreshairwasagreat

healer,andevenifthemaster’sremedydidn’tdoallhe’dpromised(awarmtowelsoakedinbrine,vinegar,anddrugstoreastringents,appliedtomyfaceeveryfourhours),halfmyzitsbegantofadeontheirown,nodoubtfromthesunshineandthegoodfoodIwaseatingagain.

Mystrengthwouldhavereturnedevenmorequickly,Ithink,ifnotforanastyhabitIdevelopedduringthatholidayamongthedunesandfoghorns.Nowthatmyhandswerefreetomoveagain,theybegantoshowaremarkableindependence.Theywerefilledwithwanderlust,fidgetywithurgestoroamandexplore,andnomatterhowmanytimesItoldthemtostayput,theytraveledwherevertheydamnpleased.Ihadonlytocrawlunderthecoversatnight,andtheywouldinsistonflyingtotheirfavoritehotspot,aforestkingdomjustsouthoftheequator.Theretheywouldvisittheirfriend,thegreatfingeroffingers,theall-powerfulonewhoruledtheuniversebymentaltelepathy.Whenhecalled,nosubjectcouldresist.Myhandswereinhisthrall,andshortoftyingthemupinropesagain,Ihadnochoicebuttogivethemtheirfreedom.SoitwasthatAesop’smadnessbecamemymadness,andsoitwasthatmypeckerroseuptotakecontrolofmylife.ItnolongerresembledthelittlesquirtgunthatMrs.Witherspoonhadoncecuppedinherpalm.Ithadgainedinbothsizeandstaturesincethen,anditswordwaslaw.Itbeggedtobetouched,andItouchedit.Itcriedouttobefondled,yanked,andsqueezed,andIbowedtoitswhimswithawillingheart.WhocaredifIwentblind?Whocaredifmyhairfellout?Naturewascalling,andeverynightIrantoitasbreathlesslyandhungrilyasAdamhimself.

Asforthemaster,Ididn’tknowwhattothink.Heseemedtobeenjoyinghimself,andwhilehiscomplexionandcolorundoubtedlyimproved,Iwitnessedthreeorfourstomach-clutchingepisodes,andthefacialtwingesoccurredalmostregularlynow,ateverysecondorthirdmeal.Buthisspiritscouldn’thavebeenbrighter,andwhenhewasn’treadinghisSpinozaorworkingwithmeontheact,hekepthimselfbusyonthetelephone,hagglingoverarrangementsformyupcomingtour.Iwasbigstuffnow.Thekidnapinghadseentothat,andMasterYehudiwasmorethanreadytotakefulladvantageofthesituation.Hastilyrevisinghisplansformycareer,hesettledusintoourCapeCodretreatandwentontheoffensive.Hewasholdingthechipsnowandcouldaffordtoplayhard-to-get.Hecoulddictateterms,pressfornewandunheard-ofpercentagesfromthebookingagents,demandguaranteesmatchedbyonlythebiggestdraws.I’dreachedthetopalotsoonerthaneitherofushadexpected,andbeforethemaster’swheelingsanddealingsweredone,he’dbookedmeintoscoresoftheatersupanddowntheEastCoast,astringofone-andtwo-nightstandsthatwouldkeepusgoinguntiltheendoftheyear.Andnotjustinpunytownsandvillages—inrealcities,thefront-lineplacesI’dalwaysdreamedofgoingto.Providenceand

Newark;NewHavenandBaltimore;Philadelphia,Boston,NewYork.Theacthadmovedindoors,andfromnowonwe’dbeplayingforhighstakes.“Nomorewalkingonwater,”themastersaid,“nomorefarm-boycostume,nomorecountyfairsandchamberofcommercepicnics.You’reanaerialartistnow,Walt,theoneandonlyofyourkind,andfolksaregoingtopaytopdollarfortheprivilegeofseeingyouperform.They’lldressupintheirSundayfineryandsitinplushvelvetseats,andoncethetheatergoesdarkandthespotlightturnsonyou,theireyeswillfalloutoftheirhead.They’lldieathousanddeaths,Walt.You’llpranceandspinbeforethem,andonebyonethey’llfollowyouupthestairsofheaven.Bythetimeit’sover,they’llbesittinginthepresenceofGod.”

Sucharethetwistsoffortune.Thekidnapingwastheworstthingthathadeverhappenedtome,andyetitturnedouttobemybigbreak,thefuelthatfinallylaunchedmeintoorbit.I’dbeengivenamonth’sworthoffreepublicity,andbythetimeIwriggledoutofSlim’sgrasp,Iwasalreadyahouseholdname,thenumber-onecausecélèbreintheland.Thenewsofmyescapecreatedastir,asecondsensationontopofthefirst,andafterthatIcoulddonowrong.NotonlywasIavictim,Iwasahero,amighty-miteofspunkandderring-do,andbeyondjustbeingpitied,Iwasloved.Howtofiguresuchabusiness?I’dbeenthrownintohell.I’dbeenboundandgaggedandgivenupfordead,andonemonthlaterIwaseverybody’sdarling.Itwasenoughtofryyourbrain,tosizzletheboogersinyoursnout.Americawasatmyfeet,andwithamanlikeMasterYehudipullingthestrings,theoddswereitwouldstaythereforalongtimetocome.

I’doutfoxedUncleSlim,allright,butthatdidn’tchangethefactthathewasstillatlarge.ThecopsraidedtheshackinSouthDakota,butotherthanamessoffingerprintsandapileofdirtylaundry,theyfoundnotraceoftheculprits.IsupposeIshouldhavebeenscared,onthealertformoretrouble,butcuriouslyenoughIdidn’tspendmuchtimeworrying.ItwastoopeacefulonCapeCodforanyofthat,andnowthatI’dbestedmyuncleonce,IfeltconfidentIcoulddoitagain—quicklyforgettinghowcloseashaveI’djusthad.ButMasterYehudihadpromisedtoprotectme,andIbelievedhim.Iwasn’tgoingtostrollintoanymovietheatersonmyownanymore,andaslongashewaswithmewhereverIwent,whatcouldpossiblyhappen?Ithoughtaboutthekidnapinglessandlessasthedaysworeon.WhenIdidthinkaboutit,itwasmostlytorelivemygetawayandtowonderhowbadlyI’dhurtSlim’slegwiththecar.Ihopeditwasrealbad—thatthefenderhadclippedhiminthekneecap,maybehardenoughtoshatterthebone.Iwantedtohavedonesomeseriousdamage,toknowthathe’dbewalkingwithalimpfortherestofhislife.

ButIwastoobusywithotherthingstofeelmuchdesiretolookback.Thedayswerefull,crammedwithpreparationsandrehearsalsformynewshow,andthereweren’tanyblanksonmynighttimedancecardeither,consideringhowreadymydickwasfordallianceanddiversion.Betweenthesenocturnalescapadesandmyafternoonexertions,Ididn’thaveasparemomenttosulkorfeelfrightened.Iwasn’thauntedbySlim,Iwasn’tboggeddownbyMrs.Witherspoon’simpendingmarriage.Mythoughtswereturnedtoamoreimmediateproblem,andthatwasenoughtokeepmyhandsfull:howtoremakeWalttheWonderBoyintoatheatricalperformer,acreaturefitfortheconfinesoftheindoorstage.

MasterYehudiandIhadsomemammothconversationsonthissubject,butmostlyweworkedoutthenewroutinesbytrialanderror.Hourafterhour,dayafterday,we’dstandonthewindybeachmakingchangesandcorrections,strugglingtogetitrightasflocksofseagullshonkedandwheeledoverhead.Wewantedtomakeeveryminutecount.Thatwasourguidingprinciple,theobjectofalloureffortsandfuriouscalculations.OutintheboondocksI’dhadeveryshowtomyself,agoodhour’sworthofperformingtime,evenmoreifI’dfeltinthemood.Butvaudevillewasadifferentbrandofbeer.I’dbesharingthebillwithotheracts,andtheprogramhadtobeboileddowntotwentyminutes.We’dlostthelake,we’dlosttheimpactofthenaturalsky,we’dlostthegrandeurofmyhundred-yardsalliesandlocomotion-struts.Everythinghadtobesqueezedintoasmallerspace,butoncewebegantoexploretheinsandoutsofit,wesawthatsmallerdidn’tnecessarilymeanworse.Wehadsomenewtoolsatourdisposal,andthetrickwastoturnthemtoouradvantage.Foronething,wehadlights.ThemasterandIbothdrooledatthethoughtofthem,imaginingalltheeffectstheymadepossible.Wecouldgofrompitchblacktobrightnessintheblinkofaneye—andviceversa.Wecoulddimthehalltosquintyobscurity,throwspotsfromplacetoplace,manipulatecolors,makemeappearanddisappearatwill.Andthentherewasthemusic,whichwouldsoundfarmoreampleandsonorouswhenplayedindoors.Itwouldn’tgetlostinthebackground,itwouldn’tbedrownedoutbytrafficandmerry-go-roundnoises.Theinstrumentswouldbecomeanintegralpartoftheshow,andthey’dnavigatetheaudiencethroughaseaofshiftingemotions,subtlycueingthecrowdonhowitshouldreact.Strings,horns,woodwinds,drums:we’dhaveprosdowninthepitwithuseverynight,andwhenwetoldthemwhattoplay,they’dknowhowtoputitable.Undistractedbythebuzzingoffliesandtheglareofthesun,peoplewouldbelesspronetotalkandlosetheirconcentration.Ahushwouldgreetmethemomentthecurtainwentup,andfrombeginningtoendtheperformancewouldbecontrolled,advancinglikeclockworkfromafewsimplestuntstothewildest,mostheart-stoppingfinaleeverseenonamodernstage.

Sowehashedoutourideas,battingitbackandforthforacoupleofweeks,andeventuallywecameupwithablueprint.“Shapeandcoherence,”themastersaid.“Structure,rhythm,andsurprise.”Weweren’tgoingtogivethemarandomcollectionoftricks.Theactwasgoingtounfoldlikeastory,andlittlebylittlewe’dbuildupthetension,leadingtheaudienceintobiggerandbetterthrillsaswewentalong,savingthebestandmostspectacularstuntsforlast.

Thecostumecouldn’thavebeenmorebasic:awhiteshirtopenatthecollar,looseblacktrousers,andapairofwhitedanceslippersonmyfeet.Thewhiteshoeswereessential.Theyhadtojumpoutatyou,tocreatethegreatestpossiblecontrastwiththebrownfloorofthestage.Withonlytwentyminutestoworkwith,therewasnotimeforcostumechangesorextraentrancesandexits.Wemadetheactcontinuous,tobeperformedwithoutpauseorinterruption,butinourmindswebrokeitdownintofourparts,andweworkedoneachpartseparately,asifeachwasanactinaplay:

PARTTHEFIRSTSoloclarinet,trillingafewbarsofpastoralfluff.Themelodysuggestsinnocence,butterflies,dandelionsbobbinginthebreeze.Thecurtaingoesuponabare,brightlylitstage.Icomeon,andforthefirsttwominutesIactlikeaknow-nothing,aboobwithastickupmyassandpuddingforbrains.Ibumpintoinvisibleobjectsstrewnaboutme,encounteringoneobstacleafteranotherastheclarinetisjoinedbyarumblingbassoon.Itripoverastone,Ibangmynoseagainstawall,Icatchmyfingerinadoor.I’mthepictureofhumanincompetence,astumblingnincompoopwhocanbarelystandontheground—letaloneriseaboveit.Atlast,afterseveralnearmisses,Ifallflatonmyface.Thetrombonedoesadippingglissando,Igetsomelaughs.Reprise.Butevenclutzierthanthefirsttime.Againtheslidingtrombone,followedbyathumpity-thumponthesnaredrum,aboomonthekettledrum.Thisisslapstickheaven,andI’monacollisioncoursewiththinice.NosoonerdoIpickmyselfupandtakeastepthanmyfootsnagsonarollerskateandIfallagain.Howlsoflaughter.Istruggletomyfeet,totteringaboutasIshakethecobwebsfrommyhead,andthen,justwhentheaudienceisbeginningtogetpuzzled,justwhenitlookslikeI’meverybitasineptasIseem,Ipullthefirststunt.

PARTTHESECONDIthastolooklikeanaccident.I’vejusttrippedagain,andasIstaggerforward,desperatelytryingtoregainmybalance,Ireachoutmyhandandcatchholdofsomething.It’stherungofaninvisibleladder,andsuddenlyI’mhanginginmidair—butonlyforasplitsecond.Itallhappenssofast,it’shardtotellifI’veleftmyfeetornot.Beforetheaudiencecanfigureitout,Ireleasemygripandtumbletotheground.Thelightsdim,thengooff,plungingthehallintodarkness.Musicplays:mysteriousstrings,tremulous

withwonderandexpectation.Amomentlater,aspotlightisturnedon.Itwandersleftandright,thenstopsattheplaceoccupiedbytheladder.Istandupandbegintolookfortheinvisiblerung.Whenmyhandsmakecontactwiththeladderagain,Ipatitgingerly,gapinginastonishment.Athingthatisn’tthereisthere.Ipatitagain,testingtomakesureit’ssteady,andthenbegintoclimb—verycautiously,oneagonizingrungatatime.There’snodoubtaboutitnow.I’mofftheground,andthetipsofmybrightwhiteshoesaredanglingintheairtoproveit.Duringmyascent,thespotlightexpands,dissolvingintoasoftglowthateventuallyengulfstheentirestage.Ireachthetop,lookdown,andbegintogrowfrightened.I’mfivefeetoffthegroundnow,andwhatthehellamIdoingthere?Thestringsvibrateagain,underscoringmypanic.Ibegintoclimbdown,buthalfwaytothefloorIreachoutwithmyhandandcomeagainstsomethingsolid—aplankjuttingintothemiddleoftheair.I’mflabbergasted.Irunmyfingersoverthisinvisibleobject,andlittlebylittlecuriositygetsthebetterofme.Islidemybodyaroundtheladderandcrawlontotheplank.It’sstrongenoughtoholdmyweight.Istandupandbegintowalk,slowlycrossingthestageatanaltitudeofthreefeet.Afterthat,onepropleadstoanother.Theplankbecomesastaircase,thestaircasebecomesarope,theropebecomesaswing,theswingbecomesaslide.ForsevenminutesIexploretheseobjects,creepingandtiptoeinguponthem,graduallygainingconfidenceasthemusicswells.ItlooksasifI’llbeabletocavortlikethisforever.Then,suddenly,Istepoffaledgeandbegintofall.

PARTTHETHIRDI’mfloatingdowntothegroundwithmyarmsspread,descendingasslowlyassomeoneinadream.JustasI’mabouttotouchthestage,Istop.Gravityhasceasedtocount,andthereIam,hoveringsixinchesoffthegroundwithnoproptosupportme.Thetheaterdarkens,andasecondlaterI’menclosedinthebeamofasinglespotlight.Ilookdown,Ilookup,Ilookdownagain.Iwigglemytoes.Iturnmyleftfootthiswayandthat.Iturnmyrightfootthiswayandthat.It’sreallyhappened.It’sreallytruethatI’mstandingonair.Adrum-rollbreaksthesilence:loud,insistent,nerve-shattering.Itseemstoannounceterriblerisks,anassaultontheimpossible.Ishutmyeyes,extendmyarmstotheirfullest,andtakeadeepbreath.Thisistheexactmidpointoftheperformance,themomentofmoments.Withthespotlightstillfixedonme,Ibegintoriseintotheair,slowlyandinexorablytakingmyselfupward,climbingtoaheightofsevenfeetinonesmoothheaven-boundsoar.Ipauseatthetop,countthreelongbeatsinmyhead,andthenopenmyeyes.Everythingturnstomagicafterthat.Withthemusicplayingatfullthrottle,Igothroughaneight-minuteroutineofaerialacrobatics,dartinginandoutofthespotlightasIturntwistsandsomersaultsandfullgainers.Onecontortionflowsintoanother,eachstuntismore

beautifulthanthelast.Thereisnosenseofdangeranymore.Everythinghasbeenturnedintopleasure,euphoria,theecstasyofseeingthelawsofnaturecrumblebeforeyoureyes.

PARTTHEFOURTHAfterthefinalsomersault,Iglidebacktomypositionatthecenterofthestage,sevenfeetofftheground.Themusicstops.Atriplespotlightisthrownonme:onered,onewhite,oneblue.Themusicstartsupagain:astirringofcellosandFrenchhorns,lovelinessbeyondmeasure.Theorchestraisplaying“AmericatheBeautiful,”themostcherished,mostfamiliarsongofall.Whenthefourthbarbegins,Istarttomoveforward,walkingontheairabovetheheadsofthemusiciansandoutintotheaudience.Ikeeponwalkingasthemusicplays,travelingtotheverybackofthetheater,eyessetbeforemeasneckscraneandpeoplestandupfromtheirseats.Ireachthewall,turn,andbegintoheadback,walkinginthesameslowandstatelymannerasbefore.BythetimeIreachthestageagain,theaudienceisonewithme.Ihavetouchedthemwithmygrace,letthemshareinthemysteryofmygodlikepowers.Iturninmidair,pausebrieflyonceagain,andthenfloatdowntothegroundasthelastnotesofthesongareplayed.Ispreadmyarmsandsmile.AndthenIbow—justonce—andthecurtaincomesdown.

Itwasn’ttooshabby.Atriflebloatedattheend,perhaps,butthemasterwanted“AmericatheBeautiful”comehellorhighwater,andIcouldn’ttalkhimoutofit.TheOpeningpantomimesketchcamestraightfromyourstruly,andthemasterfeltsokeenaboutthosepratfallsthathegotalittlecarriedaway.Aclownsuitwouldmakethemevenfunnier,hesaid,butItoldhimno,itwasjusttheopposite.Ifpeopleexpectajoke,youhavetoworkalothardertomakethemlaugh.Youcan’tgowholehogfromthestart;youhavetosneakupandgoosethem.Ittookmehalfadayofarguingtowinthatpoint,butonothermattersIwasn’tnearlysopersuasive.ThebitIworriedaboutmostwastheend—thepartwhereIhadtoleavethestageandgooffonanaerialtouroftheaudience.Iknewitwasagoodidea,butIstilldidn’thavetotalconfidenceinmyloftabilities.IfIdidn’tmaintainaheightofeightandahalforninefeet,allsortsofproblemscouldarise.Peoplecouldjumpupandswatatmylegs,andevenaweak,glancingblowwouldbeenoughtoknockmeoffcourse.Andwhatifsomeoneactuallygrabbedholdofmyankleandwrestledmetotheground?AriotwouldbreakOutinthetheater,I’dwindupgettingmyselfkilled.Thisfeltlikeadefinitedangertome,butthemasterpooh-poohedmynervousness.“Youcandoit,”hesaid.“YougottotwelvefeetinFloridalastwinter,andIcan’tevenrememberthelasttimeyoudippedunderten.Alabamamaybe,butyouhadacoldthatdayandyourheartwasn’tinit.You’vegottenbetter,Walt.Littlebylittle,you’veshownimprovementineveryarea.It’sgoingtotakesomeconcentration,butninefeetisn’tastretch

anymore.It’sjustanotherdayattheoffice,awalkaroundtheblockandthenhome.Nosweat.Onetimeandyou’llbeoverit.Believeme,son,it’sgoingtogolikegangbusters.”

Thehardesttrickwastheladderjump,andImusthavespentasmuchtimeonthatoneasalltheothersputtogether.MostoftheactwasarecombinationofturnsIalreadyfeltcomfortablewith.Theinvisibleprops,theskywardrushes,themidairacrobatics—allthosethingswereoldhattomebythen.Buttheladderjumpwasnew,andtheentireprogramhingedonmybeingabletopullitoff.Itmightnotsoundlikeabigdealcomparedtothosedramaticflourishes—justthreeinchesoffthegroundforonetickoftheclock—butthedifficultywasinthetransition,thelightning-fasttwo-steprequiredtogetmefromonestatetoanother.Fromfloppingandcareeningmadlyaboutthestage,Ihadtogostraightintoliftoff,andithadtobedoneinoneseamlessmovement,whichmeanttrippingforward,grabbingtherung,andgoingupatthesametime.Sixmonthsearlier,Ineverwouldhaveattemptedsuchathing,butIhadmadeprogressonreducingthelengthofmyprelevitationtrances.Fromsixorsevensecondsatthebeginningofmycareer,Ihadbroughtthemdowntolessthanone,anearlysimultaneousfusionofthoughtanddeed.ButthefactremainedthatIstillliftedofffromastandingposition.Ihadalwaysdoneitthatway;itwasoneofthefundamentaltenetsofmyart,andjusttoconceiveofsucharadicalchangemeantrethinkingthewholeprocessfromtoptobottom.ButIdidit.Ididit,bygum,andofallthefeatsIaccomplishedasalevitator,thisistheoneI’mproudestof.MasterYehudidubbedittheScattershotFling,andthat’sroughlywhatitfeltlike:asensationofbeinginmorethanoneplaceatthesametime.Fallingforward,I’dplantmyfeetonthegroundforafractionofasecond,andthenblink.Theblinkwascrucial.Itbroughtbackthememoryofthetrance,andeventhesmallestvestigeofthatfibrillatingblanknesswasenoughtoproducethenecessaryshiftinme.I’dblinkandraisemyarm,latchingmyhandontotheunseenrung,andthenI’dstartgoingup.Itwouldn’thavebeenpossibletosustainsuchaconvolutedstuntforverylong.Threequartersofasecondwasthelimit,butthatwasallIneeded,andonceIperfectedthemove,itbecametheturningpointoftheshow,theaxisonwhicheverythingelserevolved.

ThreedaysbeforeweleftCapeCod,thePierceArrowwasdeliveredtoourdoorbyamaninawhitesuit.ThedriverhadbroughtthethingallthewayfromWichita,andwhenhesteppedoutandpumpedthemaster’shand,grinningandgushinghisheartyhellos,IassumedIwaslookingattheinfamousOrvilleCox,Myfirstthoughtwastokickthefour-flusherintheshins,butbeforeIcoulddelivermyscout’swelcome,MasterYehudisavedmebyaddressinghimasMr.Bigelow.Itdidn’ttakelongtofigureoutthathewasanotheroneofMrs.Witherspoon’slunkheadadmirers.Hewasa

youngishguyofabouttwenty-fourwitharoundfaceandagee-whizbooster’slaugh,andeveryotherwordthatcamefromhismouthwas“Marion.”Shemusthavedoneahellofasnowjobtoconscripthimintorunningsuchalong-distanceerrandforher,butheseemedpleasedwithhimselfandoh-so-proudtohavedoneit.Itmademewanttopuke.Bythetimethemastersuggestedgoingintothehouseforacooldrink,Ihadalreadyturnedmybackonhimandwasclompingupthewoodenstairs.

Iheadedstraightforthekitchen;Mrs.Hawthornewasintherewashingthedishesfromlunch,hersmallbonyfigureperchedonastoolbesidethesink.“Hi,Mrs.H.,”Isaid,stillchurninginside,feelingasifthedevilhimselfweredoinghandspringsinmyhead.“What’sfordinnertonight?”

“Flounder,mashedpotatoes,andpickledbeets,”shesaid,answeringinhercurtNewEnglandtwang.

“Yum.Ican’twaittosinkmychompersintothembeets.Makemeadoubleportion,okay?”

Thatgotalittlesmilefromher,“Noproblem,MasterBuck,”shesaid,swivelingaroundonthestooltolookatme.Itookthreeorfourstepsinherdirection,thenwentinforthekill.

“Goodasyourcookingis,ma’am,”Isaid,“I’llbetyouain’tneverrustledupadishhalfsotastyasthisone.”

Andthen,beforeshecouldsayanotherword,Iflashedherabigsmile,spreadmyarms,andliftedmyselfofftheground.Iwentupslowly,takingmyselfashighasIcouldwithoutbumpingmyheadagainsttheceiling.OnceI’dreachedthetop,IhungtherelookingdownatMrs.Hawthorne,andtheshockandconsternationthatspreadacrossherfacewereeverythingI’dhopedfor.Achokedhowldiedinherthroat;hereyesrolledbackintoherhead;andthenshetoppledoffthestool,faintingontothefloorwithatinythud.

Asithappened,Bigelowandthemasterwerejustenteringthehouseatthatpoint,andthethudbroughtthemrunningintothekitchen.MasterYehudigottherefirst,burstingthroughthedoorinthemiddleofmydescent,butwhenBigelowarrivedacoupleofsecondslater,myfeetwerealreadytouchingtheground.

“What’sthis!”themastersaid,sizingupthesituationinasingleglance.HepushedmeasideandbentdownoverMrs.Hawthorne’scomatosebody.“Whatthehellisthis!”

“Justalittleaccident,”Isaid.

“Accidentmyfoot,”hesaid,soundingangrierthanI’dheardhimin

months,perhapsyears.Isuddenlyregrettedthewholestupidprank.“Gotoyourroom,youidiot,anddon’tcomeoutuntilItellyou.Wehavecompanynow,andI’lldealwithyoulater.”

Ineverdidgettoeatthosebeets,noranyotherofMrs.Hawthorne’sdishesforthatmatter.Oncesherecoveredfromherswoon,shepromptlypickedherselfupandmarchedoutthedoor,vowingnevertosetfootinourhouseagain.Iwasn’taroundtowitnessherdeparture,butthat’swhatthemastertoldmethenextmorning.AtfirstIthoughthewaspullingmyleg,butwhenshedidn’tshowupbythemiddleoftheday,IrealizedI’dscaredthepoorwomanhalftodeath.That’sexactlywhatI’dwantedtodo,butnowthatI’ddoneit,itdidn’tseemsofunnytomeanymore.Sheneverevenreturnedtocollectherwages,andthoughwestayedonforanotherseventy-twohoursourselves,thatwasthelastweeversawofher.

Notonlydidthemealsdeteriorate,butIsufferedafinalindignitywhenMasterYehudimademecleanthehouseonthemorningwepackedupandleft.Ihatedtobepunishedlikethat—sentofftobedwithoutanysupper,consignedtoKPdutyandhouseholdchores—butfumeandbitchasIdidaboutit,hewaswellwithinhisrights.Itdidn’tmatterthatIwasthehottestchildstarsinceDavidloadeduphisslingshotandlet‘errip.Ihadsteppedoutofline,andbeforemyheadswelledtothesizeofamedicineball,themasterhadnochoicebuttocrackdownandletmehaveit.

AsforBigelow,thecauseofmytemperamentaloutburst,thereisn’tmuchtobesaid.Hehungaroundforonlyafewhours,andbylateafternoonataxicametofetchhim—presumablytodrivehimtothenearestrailroadstation,wherehewouldbeginhislongtripbacktoKansas.Iwatchedhimleavefrommysecond-floorwindow,despisinghimforhismoroniccheerfulnessandthefactthathewasabuddyofOrvilleCox,themanMrs.Witherspoonhadchosenovermeandthemaster.Tomakemattersworse,MasterYehudiwasonhisbestbehavior,anditaddledmyspleentoseehowpolitelyhetreatedthattwitofabankclerk.Notonlydidheshakehishand,butheentrustedhimwithdeliveringhisweddingpresenttothebride-to-be.Justasthecabdoorwasabouttoclose,heplacedalarge,beautifullywrappedpackageintothescoundrel’shands.Ihadnoideawhatwashiddeninthebox.Themasterhadn’ttoldme,andthoughIfullyintendedtoaskhimaboutitatthefirstopportunity,somanyhourspassedbeforehereleasedmefrommyprison,Icleanforgottowhenthemomentarrived.Asitturnedout,sevenyearswentbybeforeIdiscoveredwhatthegiftwas.

FromCapeCodwewenttoWorcester,halfaday’sdrivetothewest.ItfeltgoodtobetravelinginthePierceArrowagain,ensconcedinourleatherseatsasofyore,andonceweheadedinland,whateverconflictswe’dbeenhaving

wereleftbehindlikesomanydiscardedcandywrappers,blowingoutintothedunegrassandthesurf.Still,Ididn’twanttotakeanythingforgranted,andjusttomakesuretherewasnobadbloodbetweenus,Iapologizedtothemasteragain.“Idonewrong,”Isaid,“andI’msorry,”andjustlikethatthewholebusinesswasasstaleasyesterday’snews.

WeholedupintheCherryValleyHotel,adingyhooker’snesttwodoorsdownfromtheLuxorTheatre.That’swhereI’dbeenslottedformyfirstperformance,andwerehearsedinthatmusichalleverymorningandafternoonforthenextfourdays.TheLuxorwasafarcryfromthegrandentertainmentpalaceI’dbeenhopingfor,butithadastageandcurtainsandasetupforlights,andthemasterassuredmethatthetheaterswouldgetbetteroncewehitsomeofthelargerstopsonthetour.Worcesterwasagoodquietplacetobegin,hesaid,tofamiliarizemyselfwiththefeelofthestage.Icaughtonfast,learningmymarksandcueswithoutmuchtrouble,butevensotherewereallsortsofkinksandglitchestobeworkedon:perfectingthespotlightsequences,coordinatingthemusicwiththestunts,choreographingthefinaletoavoidthebalconythatjuttedoutoverhalftheseatsintheorchestra.Themasterwasconsumedbyathousandandonedetails.Hetestedthecurtainswiththecurtainman,headjustedthelightswiththelightingman,hetalkedendlesslyaboutmusicwiththemusicians.Atnosmallexpense,hehiredsevenofthemtojoinusforthelasttwodaysofrehearsals,andhekeptscribblingchangesandcorrectionsontotheirscoresuntilthelastminute,desperatetogeteverythingjustright.Igotakickoutofworkingwiththoseguysmyself.Theywereabunchofhacksandhas-beens,old-timerswho’dstartedoutbeforeIwasborn,andwhenyouaddeditup,theymusthavespenttwentythousandnightsinvarietytheatersandplayedforahundredthousanddifferentacts.Thosegeezershadseeneverything,andyetthefirsttimeIcameoutanddidmystuffforthem,allhellbrokeloose.Thedrummerpassedout,thebassoonistdroppedhisbassoon,thetrombonistsputteredandwentsour.Itfeltlikeagoodsigntome.IfIcouldimpressthosehard-boiledcynics,justthinkwhatI’ddowhenIgotinfrontofaregularaudience.

Thehotelwasconvenientlylocated,butthenightsinthatflea-bagalmostdidmein.Withallthewhoreswalkingupanddownthestairsandsaunteringthroughthehalls,mydickthrobbedlikeabrokenboneandgavemenorest.ThemasterandIsharedadoubleroom,andI’dhavetowaituntilIheardhimsnoringinthenextbedbeforeIdaredtobeatmymeat.Thebuildupcouldbeinterminable.Helikedtotalkinthedark,discussingsmallpointsaboutthatday’srehearsal,andratherthanattendtothematterathand(whichwasalsoinmyhand),I’dhavetothinkofpoliteanswerstohisquestions.Witheveryminutethatpassed,theagonybecamethatmuchmorecrushing,thatmuchmorepainfultobear.Whenhefinallydriftedoff,I’dreachdownandremove

oneofmydirtysocks.Thatwasmycum-catcher,andI’dholditinmylefthandwhileIgottoworkwithmyright,squirtingjismintothebunched-upfoldsofcotton.Aftersomuchdelay,itnevertookmorethanoneortwotugs.I’dmoanforthaquiethymnofthanksandtrytofallasleep,butoncewasrarelyenoughformeinthosedays.Ahookerwouldburstoutlaughinginthehall,abedspringwouldcreakinanupstairsroom,andmyheadwouldfillwitheverykindoffleshyobscenity.BeforeIknewit,mycockwouldstiffen,andI’dbeatitagain.

Onenight,Imusthavemadetoomuchnoise.ItwastheeveoftheWorcesterperformance,andIwaswingingmywaytowardanothersockfulofblisswhenthemastersuddenlywokeup.Talkaboutajolttothenerves.Whenhisvoicebrokethroughthedarkness,itfeltlikethechandelierhadlandedonmyhead.

“What’sthetrouble,Walt?”

Idroppedmyunitasifithadsproutedthorns.“Trouble?”Isaid.“Whatdoyoumeantrouble?”

“Imeanthatnoise.Thatjostlingandshakingandsqueaking.Thatruckuscomingfromyourbed.”

“Igotanitch.It’sadoozyofanitch,master,andifIdon’tscratchhard,it’llnevergoaway.”

“It’sanitch,allright.Anitchthatstartsintheloinsandendsupalloverthesheets.Giveitarest,kid.You’lltireyourselfout,andatuckeredshowmanisasloppyshowman.”

“Iain’ttuckered.I’mfitasafiddleandraringtogo.”

“Forthetimebeingmaybe.Butwankingtakesitstoll,andbeforelongyou’llstarttofeelthestrain.Idon’tneedtotellyouwhatapreciousthingapeckeris.Yougettoofondofit,though,andit’sliabletoturnintoastickofdynamite.Preservethebindu,Walt.Saveitforwhenitreallycounts.”

“Preservethewhat?”

“Thebindu.AnIndiantermforthestuffoflife.”

“Youmeanthestickum?”

“That’sright,thestickum.Orwhateverelseyouwanttocallit.Theremustbeahundrednames,buttheyallmeanthesamething.”

“Ilikebindu.Itbeatsthemothershandsdown.”

“Justsolongasyoudon’tbeatyourselfdown,littleman.Wehavesomebigdaysandnightsaheadofus,andyou’regoingtoneedeveryounceof

strengthyou’vegot.”

Noneofitmattered.Tiredornottired,preservingthebinduorproducingitinbuckets,Ibrokefromthegatelikeabatoutofhell.WestunnedtheminWorcester.WewowedtheminSpringfield.TheydroppedtheirdrawersinBridgeport.EventhemishapinNewHavenprovedtobeablessingindisguise,sinceitbuttonedthelipsofthedoubtersonceandforall.Withsomuchtalkaboutmecirculatingintheair,Isupposeitwasnaturalthatsomepeopleshouldbegintosuspectfraud.Theybelievedtheworldwassetupinacertainway,andtherewasnoplaceinitforapersonofmytalents.TodowhatIcoulddoupsetalltherules.Itcontradictedscience,overturnedlogicandcommonsense,mademincemeatofahundredtheories,andratherthanchangetherulestoaccommodatemyact,thebigshotsandprofessorsdecidedIwascheating.Thenewspaperswerefullofthatstuffineverytownwewentto:debatesandarguments,chargesandcountercharges,alltheprosandconsyoucouldcount.Themastertooknopartinit.Hestoodoutsidethefray,grinninghappilyasthebox-officereceiptsrolledin,andwhenreporterspressedhimtogiveacomment,hisanswerwasalwaysthesame:“Cometothetheaterandjudgeforyourself.”

Aftertwoorthreeweeksofmountingcontroversy,thingsfinallycametoaheadinNewHaven.Ihadn’tforgottenthatthiswasthehomeofYaleCollege—andthatifnotforthevillainiesandoutragescommittedinKansastwoyearsbefore,italsowouldhavebeenmybrotherAesop’shome.Itsaddenedmetobethere,andalldaypriortotheperformanceIsatinthehotelroomwithaheavyheart,rememberingthecrazytimeswe’dlivedthroughtogetherandthinkingaboutwhatagreatmanhewouldhavebecome.Whenwefinallyleftforthetheateratsixo’clock,Iwasanemotionalwreck,andtryasIdidtogetmybearings,Iturnedintheflattestperformanceofmycareer.Mytimingwasoff,Iwobbledduringmyspins,andmyloftwasadisgrace.Whenthemomentcametocrankitupandflyoutovertheheadsoftheaudience,thedreadedbombfinallywentoff.Icouldn’tmaintainaltitude.Bysheerwill-powerI’dmanagedtoliftmyselftosevenandahalffeet,butthatwasthebestIcoulddo,andIstartedthefinalewithgravemisgivings,knowingthatatallpersonwithonlymoderatereachcouldnabmewithoutbotheringtojump.Afterthat,thingswentfrombadtoworse.Halfwayoutovertheorchestraseats,IdecidedtomakealastgallantefforttoseeifIcouldn’tgetmyselfalittlehigher.Iwasn’thopingformiracles—justalittlebreathingroom,maybesixoreightmoreinches.Ipausedforamomenttoregroup,hoveringinplaceasIshutmyeyesandconcentratedonmytask,butonceIstartedmovingagain,myaltitudewasjustasdismalasbefore.NotonlywasInotgoingup,butafterafewsecondsIrealizedthatIwasactuallybeginningtosink.Ithappenedslowly,eversoslowly,aninchortwoforeveryyardIwent

forward,andyetthedeclinewasirreversible—likeairleakingoutofaballoon.BythetimeIreachedthebackrows,Iwasdowntosixfeet,asittingduckforeventheshortestdwarf.Andthenthefunbegan.Abald-headedgooninaredblazershotoutofhisseatandwhackedmeontheheelofmyleftfoot.Ispunoutfromtheblow,tiltinglikealopsidedparadefloat,andbeforeIcouldrightmybalance,someoneelsebattedmyotherfoot.Thatsecondbumpclinchedit.Itumbledoutoftheairlikeadeadsparrowandlandedforehead-firstontherimofametalchairback.Theimpactwassosuddenandsofierce,itknockedmeoutcold.

Imissedthebedlamthatfollowed,butbyallaccountsitwasahoneyofarumble:ninehundredpeopleshoutingandjumpingeverywhichway,anoutbreakofmasshystericsthatspreadthroughthehalllikeabrushfire.UnconsciousthoughImighthavebeen,myfallhadprovedonething,andithadproveditbeyondashadowofadoubtforalltime.Theactwasreal.Therewerenoinvisiblewiresattachedtomylimbs,noheliumbubbleshiddenundermyclothes,nosilentenginesstrappedaroundmywaist.Onebyone,membersoftheaudiencepassedmydormantbodyaroundthetheater,gropingandpinchingmewiththeircuriousfingersasifIweresomekindofmedicalspecimen.Theystrippedoffmycostume,theylookedinsidemymouth,theyspreadmycheeksandpeeredintomybunghole,andnotoneofthemfoundadamnedthingthatGodhimselfhadn’tputthere.Meanwhile,themasterhadsprungfromhispositionbackstageandwasfightinghiswaytowardme.Bythetimehe’dleapfroggedovernineteenrowsofcustomersandwrestedmefromthelastpairofarms,theverdictwasunanimous.WalttheWonderBoywastherealgoods.Theactwasontheup-and-up,andwhatyousawwaswhatyougot,amen.

Thefirstoftheheadachescamethatnight.ConsideringhowI’dcrash-landedonthechairback,itwasnosurprisethatIshouldhavefeltsometwingesandaftereffects.Butthispainwasmonstrous—ahorrificjackhammerassault,anendlessvolleyofhailstonespoundingagainsttheinnerwallsofmyskull—anditwokemefromadeepsleepinthemiddleofthenight.ThemasterandIhadconnectingroomswithabathroominbetween,andonceI’dfoundthecouragetoprymyselfoutofbed,Istaggeredtowardthebathroom,prayingI’dfindsomeaspirinsinthemedicinecabinet.Iwassowoozyanddistractedbythepain,Ididn’tnoticethatthebathroomlightwasalreadyon.Or,ifIdidnotice,Ididn’tpausetothinkaboutwhythatlightshouldbeburningatthreeo’clockinthemorning.AsIsoonfoundout,Iwasn’ttheonlypersonwhohadlefthisbedatthatungodlyhour.WhenIopenedthedoorandsteppedintothedazzlingwhite-tiledroom,InearlystumbledintoMasterYehudi.Dressedinhislavendersilkpajamas,hewasclutchingthesinkwithhistwohandsanddoubledoverinpain,gaspingandretchingasif

hisinsideshadcaughtfire.Thesiegelastedforanothertwentyorthirtyseconds,anditwassuchaterriblethingtowitness,IalmostforgotIwasinpainmyself.

OncehesawthatIwasthere,hedideverythinghecouldtocoverupwhathadjusthappened.Heturnedhisgrimacesintoforced,histrionicsmiles;hestraightenedupandthrewbackhisshoulders;heslickeddownhishairwithhispalms.Iwantedtotellhimthatheshouldstoppretending,thatIwasontohissecretnow,butmyownpainwassobadthatIcouldn’tsummonthewordstodoit.HeaskedmewhyIwasn’tasleep,andwhenhelearnedaboutmyheadache,hetookchargeofthesituationbyrushingaboutandplayingdoctor:shakingaspirinsoutofthebottle,fillingupaglasswithwater,examiningthebumponmyforehead.Hetalkedsomuchduringtheseministrations,Icouldn’tgetawordinedgewise.

“We’requiteapair,aren’twe?”hesaid,ashecarriedmetomyroomandtuckedmeintobed.“Firstyoutakeanosediveandclunkyourbean,andthenIgorgemyselfonrancidcherrystones.Ishouldlearntolayoffthosebuggers.EverytimeIeatthem,Icomedownwiththegoddamnbends.”

Itwasn’tabadstory,especiallyforonehe’dmadeuponthespurofthemoment,butitdidn’tfoolme.NomatterhowmuchIwantedtobelievehim,Iwasn’tfooledforasecond.

Bythemiddleofthenextafternoon,theworstoftheheadachewasgone.Adullthrobbingpersistednearmylefttemple,butitwasn’tenoughtokeepmeoffmyfeet.Sincethebumpwasontherightsideofmyforehead,itwouldhavemademoresenseforthetenderspottobethere,butIwasnoexpertonthesemattersanddidn’tdwellonthediscrepancy.AllIcaredaboutwasthatIwasfeelingbetter,thatthepainwassubsiding,andthatIwouldbereadyforthenextperformance.

WhatworriesIdidhavewerecenteredaroundthemaster’scondition—orwhateveritwasthathadcausedthegruesomeattackI’dseeninthebathroom.Thetruthcouldn’tbehiddenanymore.Hisshamhadbeenexposed,andyetbecauseheseemedsomuchbetterthenextmorning,Ididn’tdaretomentionit.Mynervesimplyfailedme,andIcouldn’tbringmyselftoopenmymouth.I’mnotproudofhowIacted,butthethoughtthatthemasterhadbeenstruckbysometerriblediseasewastoofrighteningeventoconsider.Ratherthanjumptomorbidconclusions,Ilethimcowmeintoacceptinghisversionoftheincident.Cherrystoneclamsmyeye.He’dclammeduponmeallright,andnowthatI’dseenwhatIshouldn’thaveseen,he’dmakesureI’dneverseeitagain.Icouldcountonhimforthatkindofperformance.He’dgutitout,he’dputupatoughfront,andlittlebylittleI’dbegintothinkIhadn’tseenitafterall.NotbecauseIwouldbelievesuchalie—butbecauseI’dbetooafraidnotto.

FromNewHavenwewenttoProvidence;fromProvidencetoBoston;fromBostontoAlbany;fromAlbanytoSyracuse;fromSyracusetoBuffalo.Irememberallthosestops,allthosetheatersandhotels,alltheperformancesIgave,everythingabouteverything.Itwaslatesummer,earlyfall.Littlebylittle,thetreeslosttheirgreenness.Theworldturnedredandyellowandorangeandbrown,andeverywherewewenttheroadswerelinedwiththestrangespectacleofmutatingcolor.ThemasterandIwereonarollnow,anditseemedthatnothingcouldstopusanymore.Iplayedtopackedhousesineverycity.Notonlydidtheshowssellout,buthundredsmorewereturnedawayattheboxofficeeverynight.Scalpersdidabang-upbusiness,peddlingticketsforthree,four,evenfivetimestheirfacevalue,andeverytimewepulledupinfrontofanewhotel,therewouldbeacrowdofpeoplewaitingattheentrance,desperatefanswho’dstoodforhoursintherainandfrostjusttogetaglimpseofme.

Myfellowperformerswerealittleenvious,Ithink,butthetruthwasthey’dneverhaditsogood.Whenthemobspouredintoseemyact,theysawtheotheracts,too,andthatmeantmoneyinallourpockets.Overthecourseofthoseweeksandmonths,Itoppedbillsthatincludedeverykindofwigged-out

entertainment.Comics,jugglers,falsettosingers,birdcallers,midgetjazzbands,dancingmonkeys—theyalltooktheirspillsanddidtheirturnsbeforeIcameon.Ilikedwatchingthatloopystuff,andIdidmybesttomakepalsbackstagewithanyonewhoseemedfriendly,butthemasterwasn’ttookeenonhavingmemixwithmycohorts.Hewasstandoffishwithmostofthemandurgedmetofollowhisexample.“You’rethestar,”he’dwhisper.“Actlikeit.Youdon’thavetogivethosechumpsthetimeofday.”Itwasasmallboneofcontentionbetweenus,butIfiguredI’dbeonthevaudevillecircuitforyearstocome,andIsawnopointinmakingenemieswhenIdidn’thaveto.Unbeknownsttome,however,themasterhadbeenhatchinghisownplansforourfuture,andbytheendofSeptemberhewasalreadytalkingoutloudaboutaone-manspringtour.ThatwashowitwaswithMasterYehudi:thebetterthingswentforus,thehigherhesethissights.Thecurrenttourwouldn’tbeoveruntilChristmas,andyethecouldn’tresistlookingbeyondittosomethingevenmorespectacular.Thefirsttimehementionedittome,Igulpedatthepureballsinessoftheproposition.TheideawastoworkourwayeastfromSanFranciscotoNewYork,playingthetenortwelvebiggestcitiesforspecialcommandperformances.We’dbooktheshowsinindoorarenasandfootballstadiumslikeMadisonSquareGardenandSoldier’sField,andnocrowdwouldeverbesmallerthanfifteenthousand.“AtriumphalmarchacrossAmerica”washowhedescribedit,andbythetimehefinishedhissalespitch,myheartwaspoundingfourtimesfasterthannormal.Christ,couldthatmantalk.Hismouthwasoneofthegreathuckstermachinesofalltime,andoncehegotitgoingfulltilt,thedreamspouredoutofitlikesmokerushingthroughachimney.

“Shit,boss,”Isaid.“Ifyoucanswingatourlikethat,we’llrakeinmillions.”

“I’llswingitallright,”hesaid.“Justkeepupthegoodwork,andit’sinthebag.That’sallittakes,Walt.Youkeepondoingwhatyou’vebeendoing,andRawley’sMarchisasurething.”

Meanwhile,weweregearingupformyfirsttheatricalperformanceinNewYork.Wewouldn’tbethereuntilThanksgivingweekend,stillalongwaydowntheroad,butwebothknewitwasgoingtobethehighlightoftheseason,thepinnacleofmycareersofar.Justthinkingaboutitwasenoughtomakemedizzy.AddtenBostonstotenPhiladelphias,andtheywouldn’tequaloneNewYork.Puteighty-sixperformancesinBuffalotogetherwithninety-threeinTrenton,andthesumwouldn’tamounttoaminute’sworthofstagetimeintheBigApple.NewYorkwastopbanana,groundzeroontheshowbusinessmap,andnomatterhowmanyravesIgotinothercities,Iwouldn’tbeanythinguntilItookmyacttoBroadwayandletthemseewhatI

coulddo.That’swhythemasterhadbookedNewYorkforsolateinthetour.Hewantedmetobeanoldhandbythetimewegotthere,aseasoned,battle-testedsoldierwhoknewwhatbulletstastedlikeandcouldrollwithanypunch.Ibecamethatvetwithtimetospare.ByOctobertwelfth,I’ddoneforty-fourvarietytheatergigs,andIfeltready,asleanandmeanasI’deverbe,andyetwestillhadmorethanamonthtogo.Ihadneverenduredsuchsuspense.NewYorkateatmedayandnight,andafterawhileIdidn’tthinkIcouldstanditanymore.

WeplayedRichmondonthethirteenthandfourteenth,Baltimoreonthefifteenthandsixteenth,andthenheadedforScranton,Pennsylvania.Iturnedinagoodperformancethere,certainlyuptosnuffandnoworsethananyoftheothers,butimmediatelyuponfinishingtheshow,justasItookmybowandthecurtaincamedown,Ipassedoutandfelltothefloor.Ihadfeltperfectlyfineuntilthatmoment,goingthroughmyaerialturnswithalltheeaseandaplombIwasaccustomedto,butassoonasmyfeettouchedthestageforthelasttime,IfeltasifIweighedtenthousandpounds.Iheldmypositionjustlongenoughforthesmile,thebow,andtheclosingofthecurtain,andthenmykneesbuckled,mybackgaveway,andmybodywasthrusttotheground.WhenIopenedmyeyesinthedressingroomfiveminuteslater,Ifeltalittlelight-headed,butitseemedthatthecrisishadpassed.ButthenIstoodup,anditwaspreciselythenthattheheadachereturned,rippingthroughmewithablastofsavage,blindingpain.Itriedtotakeastep,buttheworldwasswimming,undulatinglikeabellydancerinafun-housemirror,andIcouldn’tseewhereIwasgoing.BythetimeItookasecondstep,Ihadalreadylostmybalance.Ifthemasterhadn’tbeentheretocatchme,Iwouldhavefallenflatonmyfaceagain.

Neitheroneofuswasreadytopanicatthatpoint.Theheadacheanddizzinesscouldhavebeencausedbyanynumberofthings—fatigue,atouchoftheflu,anearinfection—butjusttoplayitsafe,themastercalledWilkes-Barreandcanceledmyperformanceforthefollowingnight.IsleptsoundlyintheScrantonhotel,andbythenextmorningIwaswellagain,utterlyfreeofpainanddiscomfort.Myrecoverydefiedalllogic,butwebothaccepteditasoneofthosethings,aflukethatdidn’tdeservetobesecond-guessed.WesetoffforPittsburghingoodspirits,gladofthedayoff,andoncewegotthereandcheckedintothehotel,weactuallytookinamovietogethertocelebratemyreturntoform.Thenextnight,however,whenIdidmyshowattheFosbergTheatre,itwasScrantonalloveragain.Iturnedinajewelofaperformance,andjustasthecurtaincamedownandtheactwasdone,Icollapsed.TheheadachestartedupagainimmediatelyafterIopenedmyeyes,andthistimeitdidn’tgoawayinonenight.WhenIwokeupthenextmorning,thedaggerswerestilllodgedinmyskull,andtheydidn’tleaveuntil

fouro’clockintheafternoon—severalhoursafterMasterYehudihadbeenforcedtocancelthatnight’sperformance.

EverythingpointedtotheknockontheheadI’dreceivedinNewHaven.Thatwasthemostlikelycauseofmyproblem,andyetifI’dbeenwalkingaroundwithaconcussionforthepastfewweeks,itmusthavebeenthemildestconcussioninmedicalhistory.HowelsetoaccountfortheoddandunsettlingfactthataslongasIkeptmyfeetontheground,Iremainedingoodhealth?TheheadachesanddizzyspellscameonlyafterIperformed,andifthelinkbetweenlevitatingandmynewconditionwasasdefiniteasitseemed,thenthemasterwonderedifmybrainhadn’tbeenjarredinsuchawayastoputunduepressureonmycranialarterieseverytimeIwentupintotheair,whichinturncausedtheexcruciatingattackswhenIcamedown.HewantedtoputmeinthehospitalandhavesomeXraystakenofmyskull.“Whychanceit?”hesaid.“We’vehittheflatpartofthetour,andaweekortendaysoffmightbejustwhatyouneed.They’lldosometests,probearoundinyourneurologicalgearbox,andmaybethey’llfigureoutwhatthiscursedthingis.”

“Noway,”Isaid.“Iain’tgoingintonohospital.”

“Theonlycureforaconcussionisrest.Ifthat’swhatitis,thenyoudon’thaveanychoice.”

“Forgetit.I’dsoonerworkonachaingangthanparkmybuttinoneofthemjoints.”

“Thinkofthenurses,Walt.Allthosesweetlittlegalsinwhiteuniforms.You’llhaveadozenhoneybunsdotingonyounightandday.Ifyouplayitsmart,youmightevenseesomeaction.”

“Youcan’ttemptme.Nobody’sgoingtoturnmeintoasucker.We’resigneduptodosomeshows,andIaimtodothem—evenifitkillsme.”

“ReadingandAltoonaaren’twheretheactionis,son.WecanskipElmiraandBinghamton,anditwon’tmakeapeashooter’sworthofdifference.I’mthinkingaboutNewYork,andIknowyouare,too.That’stheoneyou’vegottobeinshapefor.”

“Myheaddon’thurtwhenIdotheact.That’sthebottomline,chief.AslongasIcangoon,Igottagoon.WhocaresifIsmartsomeafterwards?Icanlivewithpain.Life’sapainanyway,andtheonlygoodthingaboutitiswhenI’muponstagedoingmyact.”

“Problemis,theactiswipingyouout.Youkeepcomingdownwiththoseheadaches,andyouwon’tbeWalttheWonderBoymuchlonger.I’llhavetochangeyournametoMr,Vertigo.”

“Mr.Who?”

“Mr.Dizzy-in-the-Head.Mr.Fear-of-Heights.”

“Iain’tafraidofnothing.Youknowthat.”

“You’reallguts,kid,andIloveyouforit.Buttherecomesatimeineverylevitator’scareerwhentheairisfraughtwithperil,andI’mafraidwe’vecometothattimenow.”

Wekeptonjawingaboutthesethingsforthenexthour,andintheendIworehimdownenoughtogivemeonelastchance.Thatwasthebargain.I’dplayReadingthenextnight,andheadacheornoheadache,ifIwaswellenoughtogooninAltoonathenightafterthat,Iwouldperformasscheduled.Itwasacrazythingtopushfor,butthatsecondattackhadscaredmestiff,andIwasafraiditmeantIwaslosingmytouch.Whatiftheheadacheswereonlythefirststep?Ifiguredmyonlyhopewastofightmywaythroughit,togoonperforminguntilIgotbetterorcouldn’ttakeitanymore—andthenseewhathappened.Iwassounhinged,Ireallydidn’tcareifmybrainburstintoathousandpieces.Bettertobedeadthantolosemypowers,Itoldmyself.IfIcouldn’tbeWalttheWonderBoy,Ididn’twanttobeanyone.

Readingturnedoutbadly,muchworsethanIhadfeared.Notonlydidmygamblenotpayoff,buttheresultswereevenmorecatastrophicthanbefore.Ididtheshowandcollapsed,justasI’dknownIwould,butthistimeIdidn’twakeupinthedressingroom.Twostagehandshadtocarrymeacrossthestreettothehotel,andwhenIopenedmyeyesfifteenortwentyminuteslater,Ididn’tevenhavetostanduptofeelthepain.Theinstantthelighthitmypupils,theagonybegan.Ahundredtrolleycarsjumpedtherailsandconvergedonaspotbehindmylefttemple;airplanescrashedthere;truckscollidedthere;andthentwolittlegreengremlinspickeduphammersandstarteddrivingstakesthroughmyeyeballs.Iwrithedaboutonthebed,howlingforsomeonetoputmeoutofmymisery,andbythetimethemastersummonedthehotelquacktocomeupstairsandadministerahypo,Iwasfittobetied,atobogganofflamestwistingandplungingthroughthevalleyoftheshadowofdeath.

IwokeupinaPhiladelphiahospitaltenhourslater,andforthenexttwelvedaysIdidn’tbudge.Theheadachecontinuedforanotherforty-eighthours,andtheykeptmeundersuchheavysedationthatIcan’trememberanythinguntilthethirdday,whenIfinallywokeupagainanddiscoveredthatthepainwasgone.Afterthat,theysubjectedmetoallkindsofexaminationsandprocedures.Theircuriositywasinexhaustible,andoncetheygotstartedtheydidn’tleavemealone.Everyhouronthehouradifferentdoctorwouldwalkintotheroomandputmethroughmypaces.Mykneesweretappedwith

hammers,cookiecutterswererolledovermyskin,flashlightswereshoneinmyeyes;Igavethempissandbloodandshit;theylistenedtomyheartandlookedintomyears;theyX-rayedmefromconktotoe.Therewasnothingtoliveforanymoreexceptscience,andthoseboysinthewhitecoatsdidathoroughjobofit.Withinadayortwotheyturnedmeintoaquiveringnakedgerm,amicrobetrappedinamazeofneedles,stethoscopes,andtonguedepressors.Ifthenurseshadbeengoodtolookat,theremighthavebeensomerelief,buttheonesIgotwerealloldandugly,withfatbehindsandhairontheirchins.I’dnevercomeacrosssuchacrewofdog-showcontestants,andwheneveroneofthemcameintotakemytemperatureorreadmychart,I’dshutmyeyesandpretendIwasasleep.

MasterYehudisatbymysidethroughoutthisordeal.Thepresshadgotwindofmywhereabouts,andforthefirstweekorsothepaperswerefullofupdatesaboutmycondition.Themasterreadthesearticlesoutloudtomeeveryday.IfoundsomecomfortinthehullaballoowhileIwaslistening,butthemomenthestoppedreading,boredomandcussednesswouldcloseinonmeagain.ThentheNewYorkstockmarketcrashed,andIgotpushedoffthefrontpages.Iwasn’tpayingmuchattention,butIfiguredthecrisiswasonlytemporary,andoncethatBlackTuesdaybusinesswasoverI’dbebackintheheadlineswhereIbelonged.Allthosestoriesaboutpeoplejumpingoutofwindowsandshootingthemselvesintheheadstruckmeastabloidflimflam,andIshruggedthemofflikesomanyfairytales.TheonlythingIcaredaboutwasgettingtheshowbackontheroad.MyheadachewasgoneandIfeltterrific,one-hundred-percentnormal.WhenIopenedmyeyesinthemorningandsawMasterYehudisittingbymybed,IwouldbeginthedaybyaskingthesamequestionI’daskedthedaybefore:WhendoIgetoutofhere?Andeverydayhewouldgivemethesameanswer:Assoonasthetestresultsarein.

Whentheydidcomein,Icouldn’thavebeenmorepleased.Afterallthatrigmaroleofprickingandpoking,allthosetubesandsuctioncupsandrubbergloves,thedoctorscouldn’tfindathingwrongwithme.Noconcussion,nobraintumor,noblooddisease,noinner-earimbalance,nolumps,nomumps,nobumps.Theygavemeacleanbillofhealthanddeclaredmethefittestspecimenoffourteen-year-oldmanhoodthey’deverseen.Asfarastheheadachesanddizzinesswent,theycouldn’tdeterminetheprecisecause.Itmighthavebeenabugthathadalreadypassedthroughmysystem.ItmighthavebeensomethingI’deaten.Whateveritwas,itwasn’tthereanymore,andifbychanceitwasthere,itwastoosmalltobedetected—notevenbythestrongestmicroscopeontheplanet.

“Hotdiggity,”Isaid,whenthemasterbrokethenewstome.“Hotdiggity

dog.”

Wewerealoneinmyroomonthefourthfloor,sittingsidebysideontheedgeofthebed.Itwasearlymorning,andthelightwaspouringinonusthroughtheslatsoftheVenetianblinds.Forthreeorfourseconds,IfeltashappyasI’veeverbeeninmylife.IfeltsohappyIwantedtoscream.

“Notsofast,son,”themastersaid.“Ihaven’tfinishedyet.”

“Fast?Fast’sthenameofthegame,boss.Thefasterthebetter.We’vealreadymissedeightshows,andthesoonerwepackupandgetmeoutofhere,thesoonerwegettowherewe’regoing.Whichcitywebookedinnext?Ifitain’ttoofar,wemightevenmakeitbycurtaintime.”

Themastertookholdofoneofmyhandsandsqueezed.“Calmdown,Walt.Takeadeepbreath,closeyoureyes,andlistentowhatIhavetosay.”

Itdidn’tsoundlikeajoke,soIdidwhatheaskedandtriedtositstill.

“Good.”Hespokethatonewordandstopped.Therewasalongpausebeforehespokeagain,andinthatintervalofdarknessandsilence,Iknewthatsomethingawfulwasabouttohappen.“Therearen’tgoingtobeanymoreshows,”hesaidatlast.“We’reallwashedup,kid.WalttheWonderBoyiskaput.”

“Don’tjoshme,master,”Isaid,openingmyeyesandlookingathisglum,determinedface.Ikeptwaitingforhimtothrowmeawinkandburstoutlaughing,buthejustsattheregazingatmewiththosedarkeyesofhis.Ifanything,hisexpressiongrewevensadder.

“Iwouldn’tteaseatamomentlikethis,”hesaid.“We’vecometotheendoftheline,andthere’snotafuckingthingwecandoaboutit.”

“Butthedocsjustgavemethethumbsup.I’mhealthyasahorse.”

“That’sthetrouble.There’snothingwrongwithyou—whichmeansthere’snothingtobecured.Notwithrest,notwithmedicine,notwithexercise.You’reperfectlywell,andbecauseyou’rewell,yourcareerisover.”

“That’scrazytalk,master.Itdon’tmakeabitofsense.”

“I’veheardaboutcaseslikeyoursbefore.They’reveryrare.Theliteraturespeaksofonlytwoofthem,andthey’reseparatedintimebyhundredsofyears.ACzechlevitatorintheearlynineteenthcenturyhadwhatyouhave,andbeforethattherewasAntoineDubois,aFrenchmanwhowasactiveduringthereignofLouistheFourteenth.AsfarasIknow,thosearetheonlytworecordedcases.You’rethethird,Walt.Inalltheannalsoflevitation,you’rejustthethirdonetoconfrontthisproblem.”

“Istilldon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”

“Puberty,Walt,that’swhat.Adolescence.Thebodilychangesthatturnaboyintoaman.”

“Youmeanmybonersandsuch?Mycurlyhairsandthecrackinmyvoice?”

“Justso.Allthenaturaltransformations.”

“MaybeI’vebeenwhackingofftoomuch.WhatifIstoppedthattomfoolery?Youknow,preservedthebindualittlemore.Doyouthinkthatwouldhelp?”

“Idoubtit.There’sonlyonecureforyourcondition,butIwouldn’tdreamofinflictingitonyou.I’vealreadyputyouthroughenough.”

“Idon’tcare.Ifthere’sawaytofixit,thenthat’swhatwe’vegottodo.”

“I’mtalkingaboutcastration,Walt.Youcutoffyourballs,andthenmaybethere’sachance.”

“Didyousaymaybe?”

“Nothing’sguaranteed.TheFrenchmandidit,andhewentonlevitatinguntilhewassixty-four.TheCzechdidit,anditdidn’tdoanounceofgood.Themutilationwentfornaught,andtwomonthslaterhejumpedofftheCharlesBridgeandkilledhimself.”

“Idon’tknowwhattosay.”

“Ofcourseyoudon’t.IfIwereinyourshoes,Iwouldn’tknowwhattosayeither.That’swhyI’msuggestingwepackitin.Idon’texpectyoutodoathinglikethat.Nomancouldaskthatofanotherman.Itwouldn’tbehuman.”

“Well,seeingthattheverdictissortoffuzzy,itwouldn’tbetoosmarttoriskit,wouldit?Imean,ifIgiveupbeingWalttheWonderBoy,atleastI’vegotmyballstokeepmecompany.Iwouldn’twanttobeinapositionwhereIwounduplosingboth.”

“Exactly.Whichiswhythesubjectisclosed.There’snopointintalkingaboutitanymore.We’vehadagoodrun,andnowit’sover.Atleastyougettoquitwhileyou’restillontop.”

“Butwhatiftheheadachesgoaway?”

“Theywon’t.Believemetheywon’t.”

“Howcanyouknow?Maybethoseotherguysstillgotthem,butwhatifI’mdifferent?”

“You’renot.It’sapermanentcondition,andthere’snocureforit.Shortoftakingtheriskwe’vealreadyrejected,theheadacheswillbewithyoufortherestofyourlife.Foreveryminuteyouspendintheair,you’llberackedwithpainforthreehoursontheground.Andtheolderyouare,theworsethatpainwillbe.It’sgravity’srevenge,son.Wethoughtwehaditlicked,butitturnsouttobestrongerthanweare.That’sthewayitgoes.Wewonforawhile,andnowwe’velost.Sobeit.Ifthat’swhatGodwants’,thenwehavetobowtohiswill.”

Itwasallsosad,sodepressing,sofutile.I’dstruggledtomakeasuccessofmyselfforsolong,andnow,justwhenIwasabouttobecomeoneoftheimmortalsofhistory,Ihadtoturnmybackonitandwalkaway.MasterYehudiswallowedthispoisonwithoutflinchingamuscle.Heacceptedourfatelikeastoicandrefusedtomakeafuss.Itwasanoblestance,Isuppose,butitwasn’tinmyrepertoiretotakebadnewslyingdown.Oncewe’drunoutofthingstosay,Istoodupandstartedkickingthefurnitureandpunchingthewalls,stormingabouttheroomlikesomenutsoshadowboxer.Iknockedoverachair,sentthenighttableclatteringtothefloor,andcursedmybadluckwithvocalchordsgoingatfullblast.Wiseoldmanthathewas,MasterYehudididnothingtostopme.Evenwhenacoupleofnursesrushedintotheroomtoseewhatthetroublewas,hecalmlyshooedthemout,explaininghewouldcoveranydamagesinfull.HeknewhowIwasbuilt,andheknewthatmyfuryneededachancetoexpressitself.Nobottlingupforme;noturningtheothercheekforWalt.Iftheworldhitme,Ihadtohitback.

Fairenough.MasterYehudiwassmarttoletmecarryonlikethat,andI’mnotgoingtoblamehimifIactedlikeadumbbellandcarriedittoofar.Rightinthemiddleofmyoutburst,Icameupwithwhathadtobemyall-timestupidestidea,thehowlertoendallhowlers.Oh,itseemedprettycleveratthetime,butthatwasonlybecauseIstillcouldn’tfaceuptowhathadhappened—andonceyoudenythefacts,you’reonlyaskingfortrouble.ButIwasdesperatetoprovethemasterwrong,toshowhimthathistheoriesaboutmyconditionweresomuchflatfizzywater.So,rightthereinthatPhiladelphiahospitalroom,onthethirddayofNovember1929,Imadeasudden,last-ditchattempttoresurrectmycareer.Istoppedpunchingthewall,turnedaroundandfacedthemaster,andthenspreadmyarmsandliftedmyselfofftheground.

“Look!”Ishoutedathim.“Takeagoodlookandtellmewhatyousee!”

Themasterstudiedmewithadark,mournfulexpression.“Iseethepast,”hesaid.“IseeWalttheWonderBoyforthelasttime.Iseesomeonewho’sabouttobesorryforwhathejustdid.”

“I’masgoodasIeverwas!”Iyelledbackathim.“Andthat’sthe

goddamnedbestintheworld!”

Themasterglanceddownathiswatch.“Tenseconds,”hesaid.“Foreverysecondyoustayupthere,you’llhavethreeminutesofpain.Iguaranteeit.”

IfiguredI’dputmypointacross,soratherthanriskanotherlongboutofagony,Idecidedtocomedown.Andthenithappened—justasthemasterhadpromiseditwould.Theinstantmytoestouchedtheground,myheadcrackedopenagain,explodingwithaviolencethatsuckedthedaylightsoutofmeandmademeseestars.Vomitburstthroughmywindpipeandlandedonthewallsixfeetaway.Switchbladesopenedinmyskull,tunnelingdeepintothecenterofmybrain.Ishook,Ihowled,Ifelltothefloor,andthistimeIdidn’thavetheluxuryoffainting.Ithrashedaboutlikeaflounderwithahookinhiseye,andwhenIpleadedforhelp,imploringthemastertocallinadoctortogivemeashot,hejustshookhisheadandwalkedaway.“You’llgetoverit,”hesaid.“Inlessthananhour,you’llbeasgoodasnew.”Then,withoutofferingmeasinglewordofcomfort,hequietlystraightenedupthemessintheroomandstartedpackingmybag.

ThatwastheonlytreatmentIdeserved.Hiswordshadfallenondeafears,andthatlefthimwithnochoicebuttobackoffandletmyactionsspeakforthemselves.Sothepainspoketome,andthistimeIlistened.Ilistenedforforty-sevenminutes,andbythetimeclasswasout,I’dlearnedeverythingIneededtoknow.Talkaboutacrashcourseinthewaysoftheworld.Talkaboutboninguponsorrow.Thepainfixedmebutgood,andwhenIwalkedoutofthehospitallaterthatmorning,myheadwasmoreorlessscrewedonstraightagain.Iknewthefactsoflife.Iknewthemineverycreviceofmysoulandeveryporeofmyskin,andIwasn’tabouttoforgetthem.Theglorydayswereover,WalttheWonderBoywasdead,andtherewasn’tachanceinhellhe’devershowhisfaceagain.

Wewalkedbacktothemaster’shotelinsilence,wendingourwaythroughthecitystreetslikeapairofghosts.Ittooktenorfifteenminutestogetthere,andwhenwereachedtheentranceIcouldn’tthinkofanythingbettertodothanstickoutmyhandandtrytosaygood-bye.

“Well,”Isaid.“Iguessthisiswherewepartcompany.”

“Oh?”themastersaid.“Andwhyisthat?”

“You’llbelookingforanewboynow,andthereain’tmuchpointinhangingaroundifI’mjustgoingtobeintheway.”

“AndwhywouldIlookforanewboy?”Heseemedgenuinelyastonishedbythesuggestion.

“BecauseI’madud,that’swhy.Becausetheactisfinished,andIain’tno

goodtoyounomore.”

“YouthinkI’ddropyoulikethat?”

“Whynot?Fairisfair,andifIcan’tdeliverthegoods,it’sonlyrightforyoutostartmakingotherplans.”

“Ihavemadeplans.I’vemadeahundredofthem,athousandofthem.I’vegotplansupmysleevesandplansinmysocks.Mywholebody’scrawlingwithplans,andbeforetheitchworksmeintoafrenzy,Iwanttopluckthemoutandputthemonthetableforyou.”

“Forme?”

“Whoelse,squirt?Butwecan’thaveaseriousdiscussionstandinginthedoorway,canwe?Comeonuptotheroom.We’llordersomelunchandgetdowntobrasstacks.”

“Istilldon’tgetit.”

“What’stoget?Wemightbeoutofthelevitationbusiness,butthatdoesn’tmeanwe’veclosedupshop.”

“Youmeanwe’restillpartners?”

“Fiveyearsisalongtime,son.Afterallwe’vebeenthroughtogether,I’vesortofgrownattached.I’mnotgettinganyyounger,youknow.Itwouldn’tmakesensetostartlookingforsomeoneelse.Notnow,notatmyage.Ittookmehalfalifetofindyou,andI’mnotgoingtokissyouoffbecausewe’vehadafewsetbacks.LikeIsaid,I’vegotsomeplanstodiscusswithyou.Ifyoulikethoseplansandwantin,you’rein.Ifnot,wedivideupthemoneyandpartways.”

“Themoney.JesusGod,Icleanforgotaboutthemoney.”

“You’vehadotherthingsonyourmind.”

“I’vebeensolowinthedumps,mynoodle’sbeenonholiday.Sohowmuchwegot?What’sittoteuptoinroundfigures,boss?”

“Twenty-seventhousanddollars.It’ssittinginthehotelsafe,andit’salloursfreeandclear.”

“AndhereIthoughtIwasdown-and-outbrokeagain.Itkindofputsthingsinadifferentlight,don’tit?Imean,twenty-sevengrand’sanicelittlebooty.”

“Notbad.Wecouldhavedoneworse.”

“Sotheshipain’tsunkafterall.”

“Notbyalongshot.Wedidokayforourselves.Andwithhardtimes

coming,we’llbeprettysnug.Dryandwarminourlittleboat,we’llsailtheseasofadversityalotbetterthanmost.”

“Ayeaye,sir.”

“That’sit,mate.Allaboard.Assoonasthewindisup,we’llliftanchor—andwithaheaveandahowe’llbeoff!”

Iwouldhavetraveledtotheendsoftheearthwithhim.Byboat,bybicycle,bycrawlingonmybelly—itdidn’tmatterwhatmeansoftransportationweused.Ijustwantedtobewherehewasandtogowherehewent.Untilthatconversationinfrontofthehotel,IthoughtI’dlosteverything.Notonlymycareer,notonlymylife,butmymasteraswell.Iassumedhewasfinishedwithme,thathe’dkickmeoutandnevergiveitasecondthought,butnowIknewdifferent.Iwasn’tjustapaychecktohim.Iwasn’tjustaflyingmachinewitharustyengineanddamagedwings.Forbetterorworse,wewerebookedfortheduration,andthatcountedmoretomethanalltheseatsinallthetheatersandfootballstadiumsputtogether.I’mnotsayingthatthingsweren’tblack,buttheyweren’thalfasblackastheycouldhavebeen.MasterYehudiwasstillwithme,andnotonlywashewithme,hewascarryingapocketfulofmatchestolighttheway.

Sowewentupstairsandateourlunch.Idon’tknowaboutathousandplans,buthecertainlyhadthreeorfourofthem,andhe’dthoughteachonethroughprettycarefully.Theguyjustwouldn’tquit.Fiveyearsofhardworkhadflownoutthewindow,decadesofschemingandpreparationhadturnedtodustovernight,andtherehewasbubblingoverwithnewideas,plottingournextmoveasifeverythingstilllaybeforeus.Theydon’tmakethemlikethatanymore.MasterYehudiwasthelastofabreed,andI’veneverrunacrossthelikesofhimsince:amanwhofeltperfectlyathomeinthejungle.Hemightnothavebeentheking,butheunderstooditslawsbetterthananyoneelse.Bashhiminthegut,spitinhisface,breakhisheart,andhe’dbouncerightback,readytotakeonallcomers.Neversaydie.Hedidn’tjustlivebythatmotto,hewasthemanwhoinventedit.

Thefirstplanwasthesimplest.We’dmovetoNewYorkandlivelikeregularpeople.I’dgotoschoolandgetagoodeducation,he’dstartupabusinessandmakemoney,andwe’dbothlivehappilyeverafter.Ididn’tsayawordwhenhefinished,sohepassedontothenextone.We’dgooutontour,hesaid,givinglecturesatcolleges,churches,andladies’gardenclubsontheartoflevitation.There’dbeabigdemandforus,atleastforthenextsixmonthsorso,andwhynotcontinuetocashinonWalttheWonderBoyuntilthelastlingeringbitsofmyfamehaddriedup?Ididn’tlikethatoneeither,soheshruggedandmovedontothenext.We’dpackupourbelongings,hesaid,getintothecar,anddriveouttoHollywood.I’dstartanewcareerasamovie

actor,andhe’dbemyagentandmanager.WhatwithallthenoticesI’dhadfromtheact,itwouldn’tbehardtoswingmeatryout.Iwasalreadyabigname,andgivenmyflairforslapstick,I’dprobablylandonmyfeetinnotime.

“Ah,”Isaid.“Nowyou’retalking.”

“Ifiguredyou’dgoforit,”themastersaid,leaningbackinhischairandlightingupafatCubancigar.“That’swhyIsaveditforlast.”

Andjustlikethat,wewereofftotheracesagain.

Wecheckedoutofthehotelearlythenextmorning,andbyeighto’clockwewereontheroad,headingwesttoanewlifeinthesunnyhillsofTinseltown.Itwasalong,gruelingdrivebackinthosedays.TherewerenosuperhighwaysorHowardJohnsons,nosix-lanebowlingalleysstretchingbackandforthbetweencoasts,andyouhadtotwistyourwaythrougheverylittletownandhamlet,followingwhateverroadwouldtakeyouintherightdirection.IfyougotstuckbehindafarmerhaulingaloadofhaywithaModel-Ttractor,thatwasyourtoughluck.Iftheyweredigginguparoadsomewhere,you’dhavetoturnaroundandfindanotherroad,andmoreoftenthannotthatmeantgoinghoursoutofyourway.Thoseweretherulesofthegamebackthen,butIcan’tsayIwasperturbedbytheslowgoing.Iwasjustapassenger,andifIfeltlikedozingoffforanhourortwointhebackseat,therewasnothingtostopme.Afewtimes,whenwehitaparticularlydesertedstretchofroad,themasterletmetakeoveratthewheel,butthatdidn’thappenoften,andhewoundupdoingninety-eightpercentofthedriving.Itwasahypnoticsortofexperienceforhim,andafterfiveorsixdayshefellintoawistful,ruminatingstateofmind,moreandmorelostinhisownthoughtsaswepushedtowardthemiddleofthecountry.Wewerebackinthelandofbigskiesandflat,drearyexpanses,andtheall-envelopingairseemedtodrainsomeoftheenthusiasmoutofhim.MaybehewasthinkingaboutMrs.Witherspoon,ormaybesomeotherpersonfromhispasthadcomebacktohaunthim,butmorethanlikelyhewasponderingquestionsaboutlifeanddeath,thebigscarystuffthatwormsitswayintoyourheadwhenthere’snothingtodistractyou.WhyamIhere?WhereamIgoing?WhathappenstomeafterI’vedrawnmylastbreath?Theseareweightysubjects,Iknow,butaftermullingoverthemaster’sactionsonthattripformorethanhalfacentury,IbelieveIknowwhereofIspeak.Oneconversationstandsoutinmemory,andifI’mnotwronginhowIinterpretedwhathesaid,itshowsthesortsofthingsthatwerebeginningtopreyonhisspirit.WeweresomewhereinTexas,alittlepastForthWorth,Ithink,andIwasjabberingontohiminthatbreezy,boastfulwayofmine,talkingfornootherreasonthantohearmyselftalk.

“California,”Isaid.“Itneversnowsthere,andyoucanswimintheoceanallyearround.Fromwhatfolkssay,it’sthenextbestthingtoparadise.MakesFloridalooklikeamuggyswampbycomparison.”

“Noplaceisperfect,kid,”themastersaid.“Don’tforgettheearthquakesandthemudslidesandthedroughts.Theycangoforyearswithoutrainthere,andwhenthathappens,thewholestateturnsintoatinderbox.Yourhousecanburndowninlesstimethanittakestoflipanegg.”

“Don’tworryaboutthat.Sixmonthsfromnow,we’llbelivinginastonecastle.Thatstuffcan’tburn—butjusttoplayitsafe,we’llhaveourownfiredepartmentonthepremises.I’mtellingyou,boss,theflicksandmewasmadeforeachother.I’mgoingtorakeinsomuchdough,we’llhavetoopenanewbank.TheRawleySavingsandLoan,withnationalheadquartersonSunsetBoulevard.Youwatchandsee.Innotimeatall,I’mgoingtobeastar.”

“Ifeverythinggoeswell,you’llbeabletoearnyourcrustofbread.That’stheimportantthing.It’snotasifI’mgoingtobearoundforever,andIwanttomakesureyoucanfendforyourself.Itdoesn’tmatterhowyoudoit.Actor,cameraman,messengerboy—onetrade’sasgoodasanother.Ijustneedtoknowthere’llbeafutureforyouafterI’mgone.”

“That’soldmantalk,master.Youain’tevenfiftyyet.”“Forty-six.WhereIcomefrom,that’sprettylonginthetooth.”“Swizzlesticks.YougetoutinthatCaliforniasun,it’lladdtenyearstoyourlifethefirstday.”

“Maybeso.Butevenifitdoes,Istillhavemoreyearsbehindmethaninfrontofme.It’ssimplemathematics,Walt,anditcan’tdousanyharmtoprepareforwhat’sahead.”

Weswitchedontoanothersubjectafterthat,ormaybewejuststoppedtalkingaltogether,butthosedarklittlecommentsofhisloomedlargerandlargertomeasthedaysdraggedon.Foramanwhoworkedsohardathidinghisfeelings,themaster’swordsweretantamounttoaconfession.I’dneverheardhimopenuplikethatbefore,andeventhoughhecoucheditinalanguageofwhatifsandwhatthens,Iwasn’tsostupidastoignorethemessageburiedbetweenthelines.Mythoughtswentbacktothestomach-clutchingsceneintheNewHavenhotel.IfIhadn’tbeensoboggeddownwithmyowntroublessincethen,Iwouldhavebeenmorevigilant.Now,withnothingbetterto,dothanstareoutthewindowandcountthedaysuntilwegottoCalifornia,Iresolvedtowatchhiseverymove.Iwasn’tgoingtobeacowardthistime.IfIcaughthimgrimacingorgrabbinghisstomachagain,Iwasgoingtospeakupandcallhisbluff—andhustlehimtothefirstdoctorIcouldfind.

Hemusthavenoticedmyworry,fornotlongafterthatconversation,heclampeddownonthegloom-and-doomtalkandstartedwhistlingadifferentsong.BythetimeweleftTexasandcrossedintoNewMexico,heseemedtoperkupconsiderably,andalertasIwasforsignsoftrouble,Icouldn’tdetectasingleone—noteventhesmallesthint.Littlebylittle,hemanagedtopullthewoolovermyeyesagain,andifnotforwhathappenedsevenoreighthundredmilesdowntheroad,itwouldhavebeenmonthsbeforeIsuspectedthetruth,perhapsevenyears.Suchwasthemaster’spower.Noonecould

matchhiminabattleofwits,andeverytimeItried,Iwoundupfeelinglikeahorse’sass.HewassomuchquickerthanIwas,somuchdefterandmoreexperienced,hecouldfakemeoutofmypantsbeforeIevenputthemon.Therewasneveranycontest.MasterYehudialwayswon,andhewentonwinningtothebitterend.

Themosttediouspartofthetripbegan.WespentdaysridingthroughNewMexicoandArizona,andafterawhileitfeltlikeweweretheonlypeopleleftintheworld.Themasterwasfondofthedesert,however,andonceweenteredthatbarrenlandscapeofrocksandcacti,hekeptpointingoutcuriousgeologicalformationsanddeliveringlittlelecturesontheincalculableageoftheearth.Tobeperfectlyhonest,itleftmeprettycold.Ididn’twanttospoilthemaster’sfun,soIkeptmymouthshutandpretendedtolisten,butafterfourthousandbuttesandsixhundredcanyons,I’dhadenoughofthescenictourtolastmealifetime.

“IfthisisGod’scountry,”Ifinallysaid,“thenGodcanhaveit.”

“Don’tletitgetyoudown,”themastersaid.“Itgoesonforeverouthere,andcountingthemileswon’tshortenthetrip.IfyouwanttogettoCalifornia,thisistheroadwehavetotake.”

“Iknowthat.ButjustbecauseIputupwithitdon’tmeanIhavetolikeit.”

“Youmightaswelltry.Thetimewillgofasterthatway.”

“Ihatetobeapartypooper,sir,butthisbeautystuff’sagreatbigho-hum.Imean,whocaresifaplacelookscrummyornot?Aslongasit’sgotsomepeopleinit,it’sboundtobeinteresting.Subtractthepeople,andwhat’sleft?Emptiness,that’swhat.Andemptinessdon’tdoathingformebutlowermybloodpressureandmakemyeyelidsdroop.”

“Thencloseyoureyesandgetsomesleep,andI’llcommunewithnaturemyself.Don’tfret,littleman.Itwon’tbelongnow.Beforeyouknowit,you’llhaveallthepeopleyouwant.”

ThedarkestdayofmylifedawnedinwesternArizonaonNovembersixteenth.Itwasabone-drymorninglikealltheothers,andbyteno’clockwewerecrossingtheCaliforniabordertobeginourglidethroughtheMojavetowardthecoast.Iletoutalittlewhoopofcelebrationwhenwepassedthatmilestoneandthensettledinforthelastlegofthejourney.Themasterwasclippingalongatanicespeed,andwefiguredwe’dmakeittoLosAngelesintimefordinner.Irememberarguinginfavorofaswankrestaurantforourfirstnightintown.Maybewe’drunintoBusterKeatonorHaroldLloyd,Isaid,andwouldn’tthatbeathrill,huh?ImagineshakinghandswiththoseguysoveramoundofbakedAlaskainsomeposhsupperclub.Iftheywerein

themoodforit,maybewecouldgetintoapiefightandtearthejointapart.ThemasterwasjustbeginningtolaughatmydescriptionofthisscrewyscenewhenIlookedupandsawsomethingontheroadinfrontofus.“What’sthat?”Isaid.“What’swhat?”themastersaid.Andacoupleofmomentslater,wewererunningforourlives.

Thewhatwasagangoffourmenspreadoutacrossthenarrowturnpike.Theywerestandinginarow—two,threehundredyardsupahead—andatfirstitwastoughtomakethemout.Whatwiththeglarefromthesunandtheheatrisingofftheground,theylookedlikespectersfromanotherplanet,shimmeringbodiesmadeoflightandthinair.Fiftyyardscloser,andIcouldseethattheirhandswereraisedovertheirheads,asiftheyweresignalingustostop.AtthatpointItookthemforacrewofroadworkers,andevenwhenwegotstillcloserandIsawthattheyhadhandkerchiefsovertheirfaces,Ididn’tthinktwiceaboutit.It’sdustyouthere,Isaidtomyself,andwhenthewindblowsamanneedssomeprotection.Butthenweweresixtyorseventyyardsaway,andsuddenlyIcouldseethatallfourofthemwereholdingshinymetalobjectsintheirupraisedhands.JustwhenIrealizedtheywereguns,themasterslammedonthebrakes,skiddedtoastop,andthrewthecarintoreverse.Neitheroneofussaidaword.Gaspedaltothefloor,webackedupwiththeenginewhiningandthechassisshaking.Thefourdesperadoestookoffafterus,runninguptheroadastheirgunbarrelsglintedinthelight.MasterYehudihadturnedhisheadintheotherdirectiontolookthroughtherearwindow,andhecouldn’tseewhatIsaw,butasIwatchedthemengaininggroundonus,Inoticedthatoneofthemranwithalimp.Hewasascrawny,chicken-neckedsackofbones,butinspiteofhishandicaphemovedfasterthantheothers.Beforelong,hewasoutintheleadbyhimself,andthatwaswhenthehandkerchiefslippedoffhisfaceandIgotmyfirstreallookathim.Dustwasflyinginalldirections,butIwouldhaveknownthatmuganywhere.EdwardJ.Sparks.Theoneandonlywasback,andthemomentIlaideyesonUncleSlim,Iknewmylifewasruinedforever.

Ishoutedthroughthenoiseofthestrainingengine:“They’recatchinguptous!Turnaroundandgoforward!They’recloseenoughtoshoot!”

Itwasaroughcall.Wecouldn’tgofastenoughinreversetogetaway,andyetthetimeittooktoturnaroundwouldslowusdownevenmore.Butwehadtoriskit.Ifwedidn’tincreaseourspeedinaboutfourseconds,wewouldn’thaveachance.

MasterYehudiswungoutsharplytotheright,anglingintoafrantic,backwardsU-turnasheshiftedintofirst.Thegearsmadeahideous,grindingnoise,thebackwheelsjumpedofftheedgeoftheroadandhitsomestrayrocks,andthenwewerespinning,flailingwithouttractionasthecargroaned

andshook.Ittookasecondortwobeforethetirescaughtholdagain,andbythetimeweshotoutoftherewithournosepointedintherightdirection,thegunswerecoughingbehindus.Oneshellsnaggedabacktire,andtheinstanttherubberblewout,thePierceArrowlurchedwildlytotheleft.Themasterrolledwithitandneverliftedhisfootfromthefloor.Steeringlikeamadmantokeepusontheroad,hewasalreadyshiftingintothirdwhenanotherbulletcameblastingthroughthebackwindow.Heletoutahowl,andhishandsflewoffthesteeringwheel.Thecarbuckedofftheroad,bouncedontotherock-strewndesertfloor,andamomentlaterbloodstartedgushingoutofhisrightshoulder.Godknowswherehefoundthestrength,buthemanagedtograbholdofthewheelagainandgiveitanothertry.Itwasn’thisfaultthatitdidn’twork.Thecarwascareeningoutofcontrolbythen,andbeforehecouldgetusturnedbacktowardtheroad,theleftfronttireskiddeduptherampofalargeprotrudingstoneandthewholemachinetippedover.

Thenexthourwasablank.Thejoltflungmeoutofmyseat,andthelastthingIrememberisflyingthroughtheairinthemaster’sdirection.Somewherebetweentakeoffandlanding,Imusthaveclunkedmyheadagainstthedashboardorsteeringwheel,forbythetimethecarstoppedmoving,Iwasalreadyoutcold.Dozensofthingshappenedafterthat,butImissedthemall.ImissedseeingSlimandhismenswoopdownonthecarandrobusofthestrongboxinthetrunk.Imissedseeingthemslashtheotherthreetires.Imissedseeingthemopenoursuitcasesandscatterourclothesontheground.Whytheydidn’tshootusafterthatisstillsomethingofamysterytome.Theymusthavetalkedaboutwhethertokillusornot,butIheardnothingofwhattheysaidandcan’tbegintospeculateonwhywewerespared.Maybewelookeddeadalready,ormaybetheyjustdidn’tgiveadamn.Theyhadthestrongboxwithallourmoneyinit,andevenifwewerestillbreathingwhentheyleft,theyprobablyfiguredwe’ddiefromourinjuriesanyway.Iftherewasanycomfortinbeingrobbedofeverycentwehad,itcamefromthesmallnessofthesumtheywalkedoffwith.Slimmusthavethoughtwehadmillions.Hemusthavebeencountingonaonce-in-a-lifetimejackpot,butallhegotfromhiseffortswasapaltrytwenty-seventhousanddollars.Splitthatintofour,andthesharesdidn’tadduptomuch.Nomorethanapittance,really,anditmademegladtothinkabouthisdisappointment.Foryearsandyears,itwarmedmysoultoimaginehowcrushedhemusthavebeen.

IthinkIwasoutforanhour—butitcouldhavebeenmorethanthat,itcouldhavebeenless.Howeverlongitwas,whenIwokeupIfoundmyselflyingontopofthemaster.Hewasstillunconscious,andthetwoofuswerewedgedagainstthedooronthedriver’sside,limbstangledtogetherandourclothessoakedinblood.ThefirstthingIsawwhenmyeyesblinkedinto

focuswasanantmarchingoverasmallstone.Mymouthwasfilledwithcrumbledbitsofdirt,andmyfacewasjammedflatagainsttheground.Thatwasbecausethewindowhadbeenopenatthetimeofthecrash,andIsupposethatwasapieceofluck,ifluckisawordthatcanbeusedindescribingsuchthings.Atleastmyheadhadn’tgonethroughtheglass.Therewasthattobethankfulfor,Isuppose.Atleastmyfacehadn’tbeencuttoshreds.

Myforeheadhurtlikehellandmybodywasbruisedallover,butnoboneswerebroken.IfoundthatoutwhenIstoodupandtriedtoopenthedooraboveme.Ifanyrealdamagehadbeendone,Iwouldn’thavebeenabletomove.Still,itwasn’teasytopushthatthingoutonitshinges.Itweighedhalfaton,andwhatwiththestrangetiltofthecarandthedifficultyofgettinganyleverageonit,Imusthavestruggledforfiveminutesbeforeclamberingthroughthehatch.Warmairhitmyface,butitfeltcoolafterthesweatboxconfinesofthePierceArrow.Isatonmyperchforacoupleofseconds,spittingoutdirtandsuckinginthelanguidbreeze,butthenmyhandsslipped,andthemomentItouchedthered-hotsurfaceofthecar,Ihadtojumpoff.Icrashedtotheground,pickedmyselfup,andbeganstaggeringaroundthecartotheotherside.Ontheway,Icaughtsightoftheopentrunkandnoticedthatthemoneyboxwasmissing,butsincethatwasalreadyaforegoneconclusion,Ididn’tpausetothinkaboutit.Theleftsideofthecarhadlandedonastoneoutcrop,andtherewasasmallspacebetweenthegroundandthedoor—aboutsixoreightinches.Itwasn’twideenoughtostickmyheadthrough,butbylyingflatonthegroundIcouldseefarenoughinsidetogetaglimpseofthemaster’sheaddanglingoutthewindow.Ican’texplainhowithappened,butthemomentIspottedhimthroughthatnarrowcrack,hiseyesopened.Hesawmelookingathim,andamomentlaterhetwistedhisfaceintosomethingthatresembledasmile.“Getmeoutofhere,Walt,”hesaid.“Myarm’sallbustedup,andIcan’tmoveonmyown.”

Iranaroundtotheothersideofthecaragain,tookoffmyshirt,andbuncheditupinmyhands,improvisingapairofmakeshiftmittenstoprotectmypalmsagainsttheburningmetal.ThenIscrambledtothetop,bracedmyselfalongtheedgeoftheopendoor,andreachedintopullthemasterout.Unfortunately,hisrightshoulderwasthebadone,andhecouldn’textendthatarm.Hemadeanefforttoturnhisbodyaroundandgivemehisotherarm,butthattookwork,realwork,andIcouldseehowexcruciatingthepainwasforhim.Itoldhimtostaystill,removedthebeltfrommypants,andthentriedagainbyloweringtheleatherstrapintothecar.Thatseemedtodothetrick.MasterYehudigrabbedholdofitwithhislefthand,andIbegantopull.Idon’twanttorememberhowmanytimeshebumpedhimself,howmanytimesheslipped,butwebothfoughton,andaftertwentyorthirtyminuteswefinallygothimout.

Andtherewewere,maroonedintheMojaveDesert.Thecarwaswrecked,wehadnowater,andtheclosesttownwasfortymilesaway.Thatwasbadenough,buttheworstpartofourpredicamentwasthemaster’swound.He’dlostanawfullotofbloodinthepasttwohours.Boneswereshatteredinsidehim,musclesweretorn,andthelastbitsofhisstrengthhadbeenspentoncrawlingoutofthecar.IsathimdownintheshadeofthePierceArrowandthenranofftocollectsomeoftheclothingscatteredaboutontheground.Onebyone,Ipickeduphisfinewhiteshirtsandcustom-madesilkties,andwhenmyarmsweretoofulltoholdanymore,Icarriedthembacktouseasbandages.ItwasthebestideaIcouldthinkof,butitdidn’tdomuchgood.Ilinkedthetiestogether,toretheshirtsintolongstrips,andwrappedhimastightlyasIcould—butthebloodcameseepingthroughbeforeIwasfinished.

“We’llresthereforawhile,”Isaid.“Oncethesunstartsgoingdown,we’llseeifwecan’tstandyouonyourfeetandgetmoving.”

“It’snogood,Walt,”hesaid.“I’mnevergoingtomakeit.”

“Sureyouwill.We’llstartwalkingdowntheroad,andbeforeyouknowit,acarwillcomealongandpickusup.”

“Therehasn’tbeenacarbyhereallday.”

“Thatdon’tmatter.Someone’sboundtoturnup.It’sthelawofaverages.”

“Andwhatifnoonecomes?”

“ThenI’llcarryyouonmyback.Onewayoranother,we’regoingtogetyoutoasawbonesandseethathepatchesyouup.”

MasterYehudiclosedhiseyesandwhisperedthroughthepain.“Theytookthemoney,didn’tthey?”

“Yougotthatoneright.It’sallgone,everylastpennyofit.”

“Ohwell,”hesaid,doinghisbesttocrackasmile.“Easycome,easygo,ehWalt?”

“That’saboutthesizeofit.”

MasterYehudistartedtolaugh,butthejostlinghurttoomuchforhimtocontinue.Hepausedtogetagriponhimself,andthen,aproposofnothing,helookedintomyeyesandannounced:“Threedaysfromnow,wewouldhavebeeninNewYork.”

“That’sancienthistory,boss.Onedayfromnow,we’regoingtobeinHollywood.”

Themasterlookedatmeforalongtimewithoutsayinganything.Then,unexpectedly,hereachedoutandtookholdofmyarmwithhislefthand.

“Whateveryouare,”hefinallysaid,“it’sbecauseofme.Isn’tthatso,Walt?”

“Ofcourseitis.Iwasano-goodbumbeforeyoufoundme.”

“Ijustwantyoutoknowthatitworksbothways.WhateverIam,it’sbecauseofyou.”

Ididn’tknowhowtoanswerthatone,soIdidn’ttry.Somethingstrangewasintheair,andallofasuddenIcouldn’ttellwhereweweregoinganymore.Iwouldn’tsaythatIwasscared—atleastnotyet—butmystomachwasbeginningtotwitchandflutter,andthatwasalwaysasuresignofatmosphericdisturbance.Wheneveroneofthosefandangosstartedupinsideme,Iknewtheweatherwasabouttochange.

“Don’tworry,Walt,”themastercontinued.“Everything’sgoingtobeallright.”

“Ihopeso.Thewayyou’relookingatmenow,it’senoughtogiveaguytheheebie-jeebies.”

“I’mthinking,that’sall.ThinkingthingsthroughascarefullyasIcan.Youshouldn’tletthatupsetyou.”

“Iain’tupset.Aslongasyoudon’tpullafastoneonme,Iwon’tbeupsetatall.”

“Youtrustme,don’tyou,Walt?”

“SureItrustyou.”

“You’ddoanythingforme,wouldn’tyou?”

“Sure,youknowthat.”

“Well,whatIwantyoutodoformenowisclimbbackintothecarandfetchthepistolfromtheglovecompartment.”

“Thegun?Whatdoyouwantthatfor?There’snorobberstoshootnow.It’sjustusandthewindouthere—andwhateverwindthereis,itain’tmuchtospeakof.”

“Don’taskquestions.JustdoasIsayandbringmethegun.”

DidIhaveanychoice?Yes,Iprobablydid.Iprobablycouldhaverefused,andthatwouldhaveendedthematterrightthenandthere.Butthemasterhadgivenmeanorder,andIwasn’tabouttogivehimanylip—notthen,notatatimelikethat.Hewantedthegun,andasfarasIwasconcerned,itwasmyjobtogetitforhim.So,withoutanotherword,Iscrambledintothecarandgotit.

“Blessyou,Walt,”hesaidwhenIhandedittohimaminutelater.“You’rea

boyaftermyownheart.”

“Justbecareful,”Isaid.“Thatweapon’sloaded,andthelastthingweneedisanotheraccident.”

“Comehere,son,”hesaid,pattingthegroundnexttohim.“SitdownbesidemeandlistentowhatIhavetosay.”

I’dalreadybeguntoregreteverything.Thesweettoneinhisvoicewasthegiveaway,andbythetimeIsatdown,mystomachwasturningcartwheels,pole-vaultingstraightintomyesophagus.Themaster’sskinwaschalk-white.Littledotsofsweatclungtohismustache,andhislimbsweretremblingwithfever.Buthisgazewassteady.Whateverforcehestillhadwaslockedinsidehiseyes,andhekeptthoseeyesfixedonmethewholetimehetalked.

“Here’showitis,Walt.We’reinanastyspot,andwehavetogetourselvesoutofit.Ifwedon’tdoitprettysoon,we’rebothgoingtocroak.”

“Thatcouldbe.Butitdon’tmakesensetoleaveuntilthetemperaturecoolsoffabit.”

“Don’tinterrupt.Hearmeoutfirst,andthenyou’llhaveyoursay.”Hestoppedforamomenttowethislipswithhistongue,buthewastoolowonsalivaforthegesturetodohimanygood.“Wehavetostandupandwalkawayfromhere.That’sdefinite,andthelongerwewait,theworseit’sgoingtobe.Problemis,Ican’tstandupandIcan’twalk.Nothing’sgoingtochangethat.Bythetimethesungoesdown,I’llonlybeweakerthanIamnow.”

“Maybeyes,maybeno.”

“Nomaybesaboutit,sport.Soinsteadofsittingaroundandlosingprecioustime,Ihaveapropositionforyou.”

“Yeah,andwhat’sthat?”

“Istayhere,andyougooffonyourown.”

“Forgetit.Iain’tbudgingfromyourside,master.Imadethatpromisealongtimeago,andIintendtostickbyit.”

“Thosearefinesentiments,boy,butthey’reonlygoingtocauseyoutrouble.You’vegottogetoutofhere,andyoucan’tdothatwithmedraggingyoudown.Facethefacts.Thisisthelastdaywe’reevergoingtospendtogether.Youknowthat,andIknowthat,andthefasterwegetitintotheopen,thebetteroffwe’regoingtobe.”

“Nothingdoing.Idon’tbuythatforasecond.”

“Youdon’twanttoleaveme.It’snotthatyouthinkyoushouldn’tgo,butitpainsyoutothinkofmelyinghereinthiscondition.Youdon’twantmeto

suffer,andI’mgratefultoyouforthat.Itshowsyou’velearnedyourlessonswell.ButI’mofferingyouawayout,andonceyouthinkaboutitalittlebit,you’llrealizeit’sthebestsolutionforbothofus.”

“What’sthewayout?”

“It’sverysimple.Youtakethisgunandshootmethroughthehead.”

“Comeon,master.Thisisnotimeforjokes.”

“It’snojoke,Walt.Firstyoukillme,andthenyougoonyourway.”

“Thesun’sgottoyourhead,andit’sturnedyoubonkers.Youcaughtabulletintheshoulder,that’sall.Sureithurts,butit’snotasthoughit’sgoingtokillyou.Thedocscanmendthosethingsone,two,three.”

“I’mnottalkingaboutthebullet.I’mtalkingaboutthecancerinmybelly.Wedon’thavetofooleachotheraboutthatanymore.Mygut’sallmangledanddestroyed,andIdon’thavemorethansixmonthstolive.EvenifIcouldgetoutofhere,I’mdoneforanyway.Sowhynottakemattersintoourownhands?Sixmonthsofpainandagony—that’swhatI’vegottolookforwardto.IwashopingtogetyoustartedonsomethingnewbeforeIkickedthebucket,butthatwasn’tmeanttobe.Toobad.Toobadaboutalotofthings,butyou’llbedoingmeabigfavorifyoupullthetriggernow,Walt.I’mdependingonyou,andIknowyouwon’tletmedown.”

“Cutitout.Stopthistalk,master.Youdon’tknowwhatyou’resaying.”

“Deathisn’tsoterrible,Walt.Whenamancomestotheendoftheline,it’stheonlythinghereallywants.”

“Iwon’tdoit.NotinathousandyearsIwon’t.Youcanaskmetillkingdomcome,butI’llneverraiseahandagainstyou.”

“Ifyouwon’tdoit,I’llhavetodoitmyself.It’salotharderthatway,andIwashopingyou’dsparemethetrouble.”

“JesusGod,master,putthegundown.”

“SorryWalt.Ifyoudon’twanttoseeit,thensayyourgoodbyesnow.”

“Iain’tsayingnothing.Youwon’tgetawordoutofmeuntilyouputthatgundown.”

Buthewasn’tlisteninganymore.Stilllookingintomyeyes,heraisedthepistolagainsthisheadandcockedthehammer.Itwasasifhewasdaringmetostophim,daringmetoreachoutandgrabthegun,butIcouldn’tmove.Ijustsatthereandwatched,andIdidn’tdoathing.

Hishandwasshakingandsweatwaspouringoffhisforehead,buthiseyes

werestillsteadyandclear.“Rememberthegoodtimes,”hesaid,“RememberthethingsItaughtyou.”Then,swallowingonce,heshuthiseyesandsqueezedthetrigger.

III

IttookmethreeyearstotrackdownUncleSlim.FormorethanathousanddaysIroamedthecountry,huntingthebastardineverycityfromSanFranciscotoNewYork.Ilivedfromhandtomouth,scroungingandhustlingasbestIcould,andlittlebylittleIturnedbackintothebeggarIwasborntobe.Ihitchhiked,Itraveledonfoot,Irodetherails.Isleptindoorways,inhobojungles,inflophouses,inopenpastures.Insomecities,Ithrewmyhatonthesidewalkandjuggledorangesforthepassersby.Inothercities,Isweptfloorsandemptiedgarbagecans.Instillothercities,Istole.Ipilferedfoodfromrestaurantkitchens,moneyfromcashregisters,socksandunderwearfromthebinsatWoolworth’s—whateverIcouldlaymyhandson.IstoodinbreadlinesandsnoredthroughsermonsattheSalvationArmy.Itap-dancedonstreetcorners,Isangformysupper.Once,inamovietheaterinSeattle,Iearnedtendollarsfromanoldmanwhowantedtosuckmycock.Anothertime,onHennepinAvenueinMinneapolis,Ifoundahundred-dollarbilllyinginthegutter.Inthecourseofthosethreeyears,adozenpeoplewalkeduptomeinadozendifferentplacesandaskedifIwasWalttheWonderBoy.Thefirstonetookmebysurprise,butafterthatIhadmyanswerready.“Sorry,pal,”I’dsay.“Neverheardofhim.Youmustbeconfusingmewithsomeoneelse.”Andbeforetheycouldinsist,I’dtipmycapandvanishintothecrowd.

IwaspushingeighteenbythetimeIcaughtupwithhim.I’dgrowntomyfullheightoffivefeetfiveandahalfinches,andRoosevelt’sinaugurationwasjusttwomonthsaway.Bootleggerswerestillinbusiness,butwithProhibitionabouttogiveuptheghost,theyweresellingofftheirlastbitsofstockandexploringnewlinesofcrookedinvestment.That’showIfoundmyuncle.OnceIrealizedthatHooverwasgoingtobethrownout,Istartedknockingonthedoorofeveryrum-runnerIcouldfind.Slimwasjustthesorttolatchontoadead-endoperationlikeillegalbooze,andtheoddswerethatifhe’dbeggedsomeoneforajob,hewouldhavedoneitclosetohome.Thateliminatedtheeastandwestcoasts.I’dalreadylostenoughtimeinthoseplaces,soIbeganzeroinginonallhisoldhaunts.WhennothinghappenedinSaintLouis,KansasCity,orOmaha,IfannedoutthroughwiderandwiderswatchesoftheMidwest.Milwaukee,Cincinnati,Minneapolis,Chicago,Detroit.FromDetroitIwentbacktoChicago,andeventhoughIhadn’tturnedupanyleadsonthreepreviousvisitsthere,thefourthonechangedmyluck.Forgetaboutluckythree.Threestrikesandyou’reout,butfourballsandyouwalk,andwhenIreturnedtoChicagoinJanuaryof1933,Ifinallygottofirstbase.ThetrailledtoRockford,Illinois—justeightymilesdowntheroad—andthat’swhereIfoundhim:sittinginawarehouseatthreeo’clockinthemorning,guardingtwohundredsmuggledcasesofbondedCanadianrye.

Itwouldhavebeeneasytoshoothimrightthenandthere.Ihadaloadedguninmypocket,andseeingthatitwasthesamegunthe,masterhadusedonhimselfthreeyearsbefore,therewouldhavebeenacertainjusticeinturningthatgunonSlimnow.ButIhaddifferentplans,andI’dbeennurturingthemforsolong,Iwasn’tabouttoletmyselfgetcarriedaway.Itwasn’tenoughjusttokillSlim.Hehadtoknowwhohisexecutionerwas,andbeforeIallowedhimtodie,Iwantedhimtolivewithhisdeathforagoodlittlemoment.Fairwasfair,afterall,andifrevengecouldn’tbesweet,whybotherwithitinthefirstplace?NowthatI’denteredthepastryshop,Iaimedtogorgemyselfonawholeplatterfulofgoodies.

Theplanwasnothingifnotcomplicated.Itwasallmixedupwithmemoriesfromthepast,andIneverwouldhavethoughtofitwithoutthebooksthatAesopreadtomebackonthefarminCibola.Oneofthem,alargetomewitharaggedbluecover,wasaboutKingArthurandtheknightsoftheRoundTable.ExceptformynamesakeSirWalter,thoseboysinthemetalsuitsweremytopheroes,andIaskedforthatcollectionmorethananyother.WheneverIwasmostinneedofcompany(nursingmywounds,say,orjustfeelinglowfrommystruggleswiththemaster),Aesopwouldbreakofffromhisstudiesandcomeupstairstositwithme,andIneverforgothowcomfortingitwastolistentothosetalesofblackmagicandadventure.NowthatIwasaloneintheworld,theycamebacktomeoften.Iwasonaquestofmyown,afterall.IwaslookingformyownHolyGrail,andayearorsointomysearch,acuriousthingstartedtohappen:thecupinthestorystartedturningintoarealcup.Drinkfromthecupanditwillgiveyoulife.ButthelifeIwaslookingforcouldonlybeginwithmyuncle’sdeath.ThatwasmyHolyGrail,andtherecouldbenoreallifeformeuntilIfoundit.Drinkfromthecupanditwillgiveyoudeath.Littlebylittle,theonecupturnedintotheothercup,andasIwentonmovingfromplacetoplace,itgraduallydawnedonmehowIwasgoingtokillhim.IwasinLincoln,Nebraskawhentheplanfinallycrystallized—hunchedoverabowlofsoupattheSaintOlafLutheranMission—andafterthattherewerenomoredoubts.Iwasgoingtofillacupwithstrychnineandmakethebastarddrinkit.ThatwasthepictureIsaw,andfromthatdayonitneverleftme.I’dholdaguntohisheadandmakehimdrinkdownhisowndeath.

SothereIwas,sneakingupbehindhiminthatcold,emptywarehouseinRockford,Illinois.I’dspentthepastthreehourscrouchedbehindastackofwoodenboxes,waitingforSlimtogetdrowsyenoughtonodoff,andnowthemomentwasuponme.Consideringhowmanyyearshadgoneintoplanningforthismoment,itwasremarkablehowcalmIfelt.

“Howdythere,unc,”Isaid,whisperingintohisear.“Longtimenosee.”

Thegunwaspressedintothebackofhishead,butjusttomakesurehegotthepoint,Icockedthehammerwithmythumb.Abare,forty-wattbulbhungabovethetablewhereSlimwassitting,andallthetoolsofhisnightwatchman’stradewerespreadoutbeforehim:athermosofcoffee,abottleofrye,ashotglass,theSundayfunnies,andathirty-eightrevolver.

“Walt?”hesaid.“Isthatyou,Walt?”

“Intheflesh,buddy.Yournumber-onefavoritenephew.”

“Ididn’thearathing.Howthehell’dyousneakuponmelikethat?”

“Putyourhandsonthetableanddon’tturnaround.Ifyoutrytoreachforthegun,you’readeadman.Gotit?”

Heletoutanervouslittlelaugh.“Yeah,Igotit.”

“Sortoflikeoldtimes,huh?Oneofussitsinachair,andtheotheroneholdsagunonhim.Ithoughtyou’dappreciatemystickingtofamilytradition.”

“Yougotnocalltobedoingthis,Walt.”

“Shutup.Youstarttopleadwithme,andIplugyouonthespot.”

“Jesus,kid.Giveaguyabreak.”

Isniffedtheairbehindhishead.“What’sthatsmell,unc?Youhaven’tshityourpantsalready,haveyou?Ithoughtyouweresupposedtobetough.Alltheseyears,I’vebeenwalkingaroundrememberingwhatatoughguyyouwere.”

“You’renuts,Iain’tdonenothing.”

“Suresmellslikeaturdtome.Oristhatjustfear?Isthatwhatfearsmellslikeonyou,Eddieboy?”

Thegunwasinmylefthand,andinmyrightIwasholdingasatchel.Beforehecouldcontinuetheconversation—whichwasalreadygratingonmynerves—Iswungthebagaroundpasthisheadandplunkeditonthetablebeforehim.“Openit,”Isaid.Ashewasunzippingthesatchel,Imovedaroundtothesideofthetableandpocketedhisgun.Then,slowlypullingmyowngunawayfromhishead,IcontinuedwalkinguntilIwasdirectlyoppositehim.Ikeptthegunpointedathisfaceashereachedinanddugoutthecontentsofthebag:firstthescrew-topjarfilledwiththepoisonedmilk,thenthesilverchalice.I’dpinchedthatthingfromaClevelandpawnshoptwoyearsbeforeandhadbeencarryingitwithmeeversince.Themetalwasn’tpure—justsilverplate—butitwasembossedwithlittlefiguresonhorseback,andI’dpolisheditupthateveninguntilitglowed.Onceitwassittingonthe

tablewiththejar,Ibackedupacoupleoffeettogivemyselfabroaderview.Theshowwasabouttostart,andIdidn’twanttomissathing.

Slimlookedoldtome,asoldasthehills.He’dagedtwentyyearssinceI’dlastseenhim,andtheexpressioninhiseyeswassohurt,sofilledwithpainandconfusion,alessermanthanmyselfmighthavefeltsomepityforhim.ButIfeltnothing.Iwantedhimtobedead,andevenasIlookedintohisface,searchingitforthesmallestsignofhumanityorgoodness,Ithrilledattheideaofkillinghim.“What’sallthis?”hesaid.

“Cocktailhour.You’regoingtopouryourselfagoodstiffdrink,amigo,andthenyou’regoingtodrinktomyhealth.”

“Itlookslikemilk.”

“Onehundredpercent—andthensome.StraightfromBessiethecow.”

“Milk’sforkids.Ican’tstandthetasteofthatshit.”

“It’sgoodforyou.Makesforstrongbonesandasunnydisposition.Oldasyoulooknow,unc,itmightnotbesuchabadideatosipfromthefountainofyouth.It’llworkwonders,believeme.Afewsipsofthatliquidthere,andyou’llneverlookadayolderthanyoudonow.”

“Youwantmetopourthemilkintothecup.Isthatwhatyou’resaying?”

“Pourthemilkintothecup,liftitintheairandsay‘Longlifetoyou,Walt,’andthenstartdrinking.Drinkthewholethingdown.Drinkittothelastdrop.”

“Andthenwhat?”

“Thennothing.You’llbedoingtheworldagreatservice,Slim,andGodwillrewardyou.”

“There’spoisoninthismilk,ain’tthere?”

“Maybethereis,maybethereisn’t.There’sonlyonewaytofindout.”

“Shit.YougottabecrazyifyouthinkI’mgoingtodrinkthatstuff.”

“Youdon’tdrinkit,abulletgoesintoyourhead.Youdrinkit,andmaybeyou’vegotachance.”

“Sure.JustlikethatChinamaninhell.”

“Youneverknow.MaybeI’mdoingthisjusttoscareyou.MaybeIwanttodrinkalittletoastwithyoubeforewegetdowntobusiness.”

“Business?Whatkindofbusiness?”

“Pastbusiness,presentbusiness.Maybeevenfuturebusiness.I’mbroke,Slim,andIneedajob.MaybeI’mheretoaskyourhelp.”

“Sure,I’llhelpyougetajob.ButIdon’thavetodrinknomilktodothat.Ifyouwantmeto,I’lltalktoBingofirstthingtomorrowmorning.”

“Good.I’llholdyoutothat.Butfirstwe’regoingtodrinkourvitamin3D.”Isteppedforwardtotheedgeofthetable,reachedoutwiththegun,andjabbeditunderhischin—hardenoughtomakehisheadsnapback.“Andwe’regoingtodrinkitnow.”

Slim’shandsweretremblingbythen,buthewentaheadandunscrewedthetopofthejar.“Don’tspillit,”Isaid,ashestartedpouringthemilkintothechalice.“YouspillonedropandIsqueezethetrigger.”Thewhiteliquidflowedfromonecontainerintotheother,andnoneofitlandedonthetable.“Good,”Isaid,“verygood.Nowliftthecupandsaythetoast.”

“Longlifetoyou,Walt.”

Theskunkwassweatingbullets.Ibreathedinthewholefoulstenchofhimashebroughtthegoblettohislips,andIwasglad,gladthatheknewwhatwascoming.Iwatchedtheterrormountinhiseyes,andsuddenlyIwastremblingalongwithhim.Notfromshameorregret—butfromjoy.

“Snarkitdown,youoldfuck,”Isaid.“Openyourgulletandmakewiththeglug-glug-glug.”

Heshuthiseyes,heldhisnoselikeakidabouttotakehismedicine,andstartedtodrink.Hewasdamnedifhedidanddamnedifhedidn’t,butatleastI’dheldoutalittlescrapofhopetohim.Betterthatthanthegun.Gunskilledyouforsure,butmaybeIwasonlyteasinghimaboutthemilk.AndevenifIwasn’t,maybehe’dgetluckyandsurvivethepoison.Whenamanhasonlyonechance,he’sgoingtotakeit,evenifit’sthelongestlongshotontheboard.Sohepluggeduphisnoseandwentforit,andinspiteofhowIfeltabouthim,I’llsaythisforthecreep:hetookhismedicinelikeagoodboy.Hedownedhisdeathasifitwereadoseofcastoroil,andeventhoughheshedsometearsalongtheway,gaspingandwhimperingaftereachswallow,hegulpedonbravelyuntilitwasgone.

Iwaitedforthepoisontokickin,standingtherelikeadummyasIwatchedSlim’sfaceforsignsofdistress.Thesecondstickedby,andstillthebastarddidn’tkeelover.I’dbeenexpectingimmediateresults—deathafteroneortwoswallows—butthemilkmusthavebufferedthesting,andbythetimemyuncleslammedtheemptycupdownonthetable,Iwasalreadywonderingwhathadgonewrong.

“Fuckyou,”hesaid.“Fuckyou,youbluffingsonofabitch.”

Hemusthaveseentheastonishmentinmyface.He’ddrunkenoughstrychninetokillanelephant,andyettherehewasstandingupandshoving

hischairtothefloor,grinninglikealeprechaunwho’djustwonatRussianroulette.“Staywhereyouare,”Isaid,gesturingathimwiththegun.“You’llbesorryifyoudon’t.”

Forallresponse,Slimburstoutlaughing.“Youdon’thavetheguts,asshole.”

Andhewasright.Heturnedaroundandstartedwalkingaway,andIcouldn’tbringmyselftofirethegun.Hewasgivingmehisbackasatarget,andIjuststoodtherewatchinghim,tooshakentopullthetrigger.Hetookonestep,thenanotherstep,andbegandisappearingintotheshadowsofthewarehouse.Ilistenedtohismocking,lunaticlaughterbounceoffthewalls,andjustwhenIcouldn’tstanditanymore,justwhenIthoughthe’dlickedmeforgood,thepoisoncaughtupwithhim.He’dmanaged’totaketwentyorthirtystepsbythen,butthatwasasfarashegot,whichmeantthatIhadthelastlaughafterall.Iheardthesudden,choked-offgurglinginhisthroat,Iheardthethudofhisbodyhittingthefloor,andwhenIfinallystumbledmywaythroughthedarkandfoundhim,hewasflat-outstonedead.

Still,Ididn’twanttotakeanythingforgranted,soIdraggedhiscorpsebacktowardthelighttohaveabetterlook,pullinghimface-downbythecollaracrossthecementfloor.Istoppedafewfeetfromthetable,butjustwhenIwasabouttocrouchdownandputabulletthroughSlim’shead,avoiceinterruptedmefrombehind.

“Okay,buster,”thevoicesaid.“Dropthegatandputyourhandsintheair.”

Iletgoofthegun,Iraisedmyhands,andthen,veryslowly,Iturnedaroundtofacethestranger.Hedidn’tstrikemeasanythingspecial:anondescriptsortofguyinhislatethirtiesorearlyforties.Hewasdressedinspiffybluepinstripesandexpensiveblackshoesandsportedapeach-coloredhankyinhisfrontpocket.AtfirstIthoughthewasolder,butthatwasonlybecausehishairhadturnedwhiteonhim.Onceyoulookedintohisface,yourealizedhewasn’toldatall.

“Youjustknockedoffoneofmymen,”hesaid.“That’sano-no,kid.Idon’tcarehowyoungyouare.Youdosomethinglikethat,yougottapaythepenalty.”

“Yeah,that’sright,”Isaid,“Ikilledtheson-of-a-bitch.Hehaditcoming,andIdidhimin.That’sthewayyoutreatvermin,mister.Theycrawlintoyourhouse,yougetridofthem.Youcanshootmeifyouwant,Idon’tcare.IdonewhatIcametodo,andthat’sallthatmatters.IfIdienow,atleastI’mgoingtodiehappy.”

Theman’seyebrowswentupaboutasixteenthofaninch,thenfluttered

thereforamomentinsurprise.Mylittlespeechhadthrownhim,andhewasn’tsurehowtoreact.Afterthinkingitoverforacoupleofseconds,itlookedasifhedecidedtobeamused.“Soyouwanttodienow,”hesaid.“Isthatit?”

“Ididn’tsaythat.You’retheoneholdingthegun,notme.Ifyouwanttopullthetrigger,there’snotahellofalotIcandoaboutit.”

“AndwhatifIdon’tshoot?WhatamIsupposedtodowithyouthen?”

“Well,seeingashowyoujustlostoneofyourmen,youmightthinkabouthiringsomeonetoreplacehim.Idon’tknowhowlongSlimwasonthepayroll,butitmusthavebeenlongenoughforyoutofigureoutwhatacrud-brainedbucketofslimehewas.Ifyoudidn’tknowthat,Iwouldn’tbestandingherenow,wouldI?I’dbestretchedoutonthefloorwithabulletinmyheart.”

“Slimhadhisfaults.I’mnotgoingtoarguewithyouaboutthat.”

“Youdidn’tlosemuchofanything,mister.Youlookattheplusandminus,andyou’llseeyou’rebetteroffwithouthim.Whypretendtofeelsorryforano-goodnobodylikeSlim?Whateverhedidforyou,I’lldobetter.That’sapromise.”

“Yougotsomemouthonyou,shorty.”

“AfterwhatI’vebeenthroughthesepastthreeyears,it’sabouttheonlythingIgotleft.”

“Andwhataboutaname?Youstillgotoneofthose?”

“Walt.”

“Waltwhat?”

“WaltRawley,sir.”

“DoyouknowwhoIam,Walt?”

“No,sir.Idon’thaveaclue.”

“Thename’sBingoWalsh.Youeverhearofme?”

“Sure,I’veheardofyou.You’reMr.Chicago.Right-handmantoBossO’Malley.You’reKingoftheLoop,Bingo,theshakerandmoverwhocranksthewheelandmakesthingsspin.”

Hecouldn’thelpsmilingatthebuildup.Youtellanumber-twoguyhe’snumberone,andhe’sboundtoappreciatethecomplimentConsideringthathestillhadn’tloweredthegun,Iwasinnomoodtospreadunkindwordsabouthim.Aslongasitkeptmealive,I’dstandtherescratchinghisbackuntilthe

cowscamehome.

“Okay,Walt,”hesaid.“We’llgiveitashot.Two,threemonths,andthenwe’llseewherewestand.Sortofatrialperiodtogetacquainted.Butifyoudon’tpanoutbythen,Idumpyou.Isendyouoffonalongtrip.”

“TothesameplacewhereSlimjustwent,Isuppose.”

“That’sthedealI’moffering.Takeitorleaveit,kid.”

“Itsoundsfairtome.IfIcan’tdothejob,youcutoffmyheadwithanaxe.Yeah,Icanlivewiththat.Whythehellnot?IfIcan’tcatchonwithyou,Bingo,what’stheuseoflivinganyway?”

Thatwashowmynewcareerbegan.Bingobrokemeinandtaughtmetheropes,andlittlebylittleIbecamehisboy.Thetwo-monthtrialperiodwashardonmynerves,butmyheadwasstillattachedtomybodybythetimeitended,andafterthatIfoundmyselfwarmingtothebusiness.O’MalleyhadoneofthelargestsetupsinCookCounty,andBingowasresponsibleforrunningtheshow.Gamblingparlors,numbersoperations,whorehouses,protectionsquads,slotmachines—hemanagedalltheseenterpriseswithafirmhand,accountabletonoonebutthebosshimself.Imetupwithhimatatumultuousmoment,aperiodoftransitionandnewopportunities,andbythetimetheyearwasouthe’dsolidifiedhispositionasoneofthecleveresttalentsintheMidwest.Iwasluckytohavehimasmymentor.Bingotookmeunderhiswing,Ikeptmyeyesopenandlistenedtowhathesaid,andmywholelifeturnedaround.Afterthreeyearsofdesperationandhunger,Inowhadfoodinmystomach,moneyinmypocket,anddecentclothesonmyback.Iwassuddenlyonmywayagain,andbecauseIwasBingo’sboy,doorsopenedwheneverIknocked.

Istartedoutasagofer,runningerrandsforhimanddoingoddlittlejobs.Ilithiscigarettesandtookhissuitstothecleaners;Iboughtflowersforhisgirlfriendsandpolishedthehubcapsonhiscar;Ihoppedtohiscommandslikeaneagerpup.Itsoundshumiliating,butthefactwasIdidn’tmindbeingalackey.Iknewmychancewouldcome,andinthemeantimeIwasjustthankfulhe’dtakenmeon.ItwastheDepression,afterall,andwhereelsewassomeonelikemegoingtogetabetterdeal?Ihadnoeducation,noskills,notrainingforanythingexceptacareerthatwasalreadyfinished,soIswallowedmyprideanddidwhatIwastold.IfIhadtolickbootstoearnmyliving,thensobeit,I’dturnmyselfintothebestbootlickeraround.WhocaredifIhadtolistentoBingo’sstoriesandlaughathisjokes?Theguywasn’tabadstoryteller,andthetruthwas,hecouldbeprettyfunnywhenhewantedtobe.

OnceIprovedmyloyaltytohim,hedidn’tholdmeback.ByearlyspringIwasalreadyclimbingtheladder,andfromthenontheonlyquestionwashowfastitwouldtakemetogettothenextrung.Bingopairedmewithanex-pugnamedStuttersGrogan,andStuttersandIbegangoingtheroundsofbars,restaurants,andcandystorestocollectO’Malley’sweeklyprotectionmoney.Ashisnamesuggests,Stutterswasn’tmuchonspeech-making,butIhadavividwaywithwords,andwheneverwecameacrossaslackerordeadbeat,Iwouldpaintsuchcolorfulpicturesofwhathappenedtoclientswhorenegedontheirpaymentsthatmypartnerrarelyhadtoemployhisfists.Hewasausefulprop,anditwasgoodtohavehimforpurposesofeither-or

demonstrations,butIpridedmyselfonbeingabletosettleconflictswithouthavingtocallonhisservices.Eventually,wordgotbacktoBingoaboutmygoodtrackrecord,andhemovedmeuptoapositionontheSouthSiderunningnumbers.StuttersandIhadworkedwelltogether,butIpreferredbeingonmyown,andforthenextsixmonthsIpoundedthesidewalksinadozendifferentcoloredneighborhoods,chattingupmyregularsastheypartedwiththeirnickelsanddimesforashotatwinningafewextrabucks.Everyonehadasystem,fromthecornernewsboytothesextoninthechurch,andIlikedlisteningtopeopletellmehowtheypickedtheircombinations.Thenumberscamefromeverywhere.Frombirthdaysanddreams,frombattingaveragesandthepriceofpotatoes,fromcracksinthepavement,licenseplates,laundrylists,andtheattendanceatlastSunday’sprayermeeting.Thechancesofwinningwerealmostnil,sonoonehelditagainstmewhentheylost,butonthoserareoccasionswhensomebodyhitthemark,Igotturnedintoamessengerofgoodtidings.IwastheCountofLuckyDough,thefat-waddedDukeofLargesse,andIlovedwatchingpeople’sfaceslightupwhenIforkedoverthemoney.Allinall,itwasn’tanunpleasantjob,andwhenBingofinallypromotedmeagain,Iwasalmostsorrytoleave.

FromnumbersIwasshiftedovertogambling,andby1936IwaschiefoperatingbossofabettingparloronLocustStreet,asnug,smoke-filledjointhiddenawayinthebackroomofadry-cleaningestablishment.Thecustomerswouldarrivewiththeirrumpledshirtsandpants,dropthemoffatthefrontcounter,andthenpushtheirwaypasttheracksofhangingclothestothesecretroomintherear.Almosteveryonewhosteppedintothatplacemadesomecrackaboutgettingtakentothecleaners.Itwasastandingjokewiththemenwhoworkedunderme,andafterawhilewebeganmakingbetsonhowmanypeoplewouldcomeoutwithitonagivenday.AsmybookkeeperWaldoMcNaironceputit:“Thisistheonlyplaceintheworldwheretheyemptyyourpocketsandpressyourpantsatthesametime.Blowyourwadontheponies,andyoustillcan’tloseyourshirt.”

IranagoodlittlebusinessinthatroombehindBenny’sCleaners.Trafficwasheavy,butIhiredakidtokeepitspic-and-spanforme,andIalwayssawtoitthatbuttswereputoutinashtraysandnotonthefloor.Myticker-tapemachineswerethelastwordinmodernequipment,withhookupstoeverymajorhippodromearoundthecountry,andIkeptthelawoffmybackwithregulardonationstotheprivatepensionfundsofhalfadozencops.Iwastwenty-oneyearsold,andanywayyoulookedatitIwassittingpretty.IlivedinaclassyroomattheFeatherstoneHotel,Ihadaclosetfulofsuitsthatawoptailorhadcutformeathalfprice,IcouldtrotouttoWrigleyandtakeinaCubsgameanyafternoonIpleased.Thatwasalreadygood,butontopofthattherewerewomen,lotsofwomen,andImadesuremycrotchsawallthe

actionitcouldhandle.AfterfacingthatterribledecisioninPhiladelphiasevenyearsbefore,myballshadbecomeexceedinglyprecioustome.I’dgivenupmyshotatfameandfortunefortheirsake,andnowthatWalttheWonderBoywasnomore,IfiguredthebestwaytojustifymychoicewastousethemasoftenasIcould.IwasnolongeravirginwhenIreachedChicago,butmycareerasacocksmandidn’tgetfullyoffthegrounduntilIjoinedupwithBingoandhadthecashtobuymywayintoanybloomersIfancied.MycherryhadbeenlosttoafarmgirlnamedVelmaChildesomewhereinwesternPennsylvania,butthathadbeenfairlyrudimentarystuff:fumblingaroundwithourclothesonoutinacoldbarn,ourfacesrawwithsalivaaswegropedandgrappledourwayintoposition,notexactlycertainwhatwentwhere.Afewmonthslater,onthestrengthofthehundred-dollarbillIfoundinMinneapolis,I’dhadtwoorthreeexperienceswithwhores,butforallintentsandpurposesIwasstillaranknovicewhenIhitthestreetsofHog-town.OnceIsettledintomynewlife,IdideverythingIcouldtomakeupforlosttime.

Soitwent.Imadeahomeformyselfintheorganization,andIneverfeltthesmallestpangaboutthrowinginmylotwiththebadguys.Isawmyselfasoneofthem,Istoodforwhattheystoodfor,andIneverbreathedawordtoanyoneaboutmypast:nottoBingo,nottothegirlsIsleptwith,nottoanyone.AslongasIdidn’tdwellontheolddays,IcoulddeceivemyselfintothinkingIhadafuture.Ithurttoomuchtolookback,soIkeptmyeyesfixedinfrontofme,andeverytimeItookanotherstepforward,IdriftedfartherawayfromthepersonI’dbeenwithMasterYehudi.ThebestpartofmewaslyingunderthegroundwithhimintheCaliforniadesert.I’dburiedhimtherealongwithhisSpinoza,hisscrapbookofWalttheWonderBoyclippings,andthenecklacewithmyseveredfingerjoint,buteventhoughIwentbackthereeverynightinmydreams,itdrovemecrazytothinkaboutitduringtheday.KillingSlimwassupposedtohavesquaredtheaccount,butinthelongrunitdidn’tdoabitofgood.Iwasn’tsorryforwhatI’ddone,butMasterYehudiwasstilldead,andalltheBingosintheworldcouldn’tbegintomakeupforhim.IstruttedaroundChicagoasifIweregoingplaces,asifIwerearegularMr.Somebody,butunderneathitallIwasnoone.WithoutthemasterIwasnoone,andIwasn’tgoinganywhere.

Ihadonechancetopulloutbeforeitwastoolate,asingleopportunitytocutmylossesandrun,butIwastooblindtogoforitwhentheofferfellinmylap.ThatwasinOctoberof1936,andIwassopuffedupwithmyownimportancebythen,Ithoughtthebubblewouldneverburst.I’dduckedoutofthecleaner’soneafternoontoattendtosomepersonalbusiness:ashaveandahaircutatBrewer’sbarbershop,lunchatLemmele’sonWabashAvenue,andthenontotheRoyalParkHotelforsomehanky-pankywithadancernamed

DixieSinclair.Therendezvouswassetfortwothirtyinsuite409,andmypantswerealreadybulgingattheprospect.SixorsevenyardsbeforeIreachedLemmele’sdoor,however,justasIroundedthecornerandwasabouttogoinformylunch,IlookedupandsawthelastpersonintheworldIwasexpectingtosee.Itstoppedmedeadinmytracks.TherewasMrs.Witherspoonwithherarmsfullofbundles,lookingasprettyandsmartlyturnedoutasever,rushingtowardataxiatahundredandtenmilesanhour.Istoodtherewithalumpforminginmythroat,andbeforeIcouldsayanything,sheglancedup,flickedhereyesinmydirection,andfroze.Ismiled.Ismiledfromoneeartotheother,andthenfollowedoneofthemostastonishingdouble-takesI’veeverseen.Herjawliterallydroppedopen,thepackagesslippedoutofherhandsandscatteredonthesidewalk,andasecondlatershewasflingingherarmsaroundmeandplantinglipstickallovermynewlyshavenmug.

“Thereyouare,yourascal,”shesaid,squeezingmeforallshewasworth.“NowI’vegotyou,yougoddamnslipperyson-of-a-biteh.Wherethehellhaveyoubeen,kiddo?”

“Hereandthere,”Isaid.“Aroundandabout.Upanddown,downandup,theusualstory.Youlookswell,Mrs.Witherspoon.Reallygrand.OrshouldIbecallingyouMrs.Cox?That’syournamenow,isn’tit?Mrs.OrvilleCox.”

Shebackedofftogetabetterlookatme,holdingmeatarms’lengthasabigsmilespreadacrossherface.“I’mstillWitherspoon,honey.Igotallthewaytothealtar,butwhenthetimecametosay‘Ido,’thewordsgotstuckinmythroat.Thedosturnedintodon’ts,andhereIamsevenyearslater,stillasinglegirlandproudofit.”

“Goodforyou.IalwaysknewthatCoxguywasamistake.”

“Ifithadn’tbeenforthepresent,Iprobablywouldhavegonethroughwithit.WhenBillyBigelowbroughtbackthatpackagefromCapeCod,Icouldn’tresisttakingapeek.Abride’snotsupposedtoopenherpresentsbeforethewedding,butthisonewasspecial,andonceIunwrappedit,Iknewthemarriagewasn’tmeanttobe.”

“Whatwasinthebox?”

“Ithoughtyouknew.”

“Inevergotaroundtoaskinghim.”

“Hegavemeaglobe.Aglobeoftheworld.”

“Aglobe?What’ssospecialaboutthat?”

“Itwasn’tthepresent,Walt.Itwasthenotehesentalongwithit.”

“Ineversawthateither.”

“Onesentence,that’sallitwas.Whereveryouare,I’llbewithyou.Ireadthosewords,andthenIfellapart.Therewasonlyonemanforme,sweetiepie.IfIcouldn’thavehim,Iwasn’tgoingtofoolaroundwithsubstitutesandcheapimitations.”

Shestoodthererememberingthenoteasthedowntowncrowdsswirledpastus.Thewindflutteredagainstthebrimofhergreenfelthat,andafteramomenthereyesstartedfillingwithtears.Beforeshecouldletgoinearnest,Ibentdownandgatheredupherpackages.“Comeoninside,Mrs.W.,”Isaid.“I’llbuyyousomelunch,andthenwe’llorderatubofChiantiandgetgoodandcrocked.”

Islippedaten-spottothemaitred’atthedoorandtoldhimwewantedprivacy.Heshrugged,explainingthatalltheprivatetableswerebooked,soIpeeledoffanothertenfrommywad.Thatwasgoodenoughtocauseanunexpectedcancellation,andlessthanaminutelateroneofhisminionswasleadingusthroughtherestauranttotheback,whereheinstalledusinasnug,candlelitalcovefurnishedwithasetofredvelvetcurtainstoshieldusfromtheothercustomers.IwouldhavedoneanythingtoimpressMrs.Witherspoonthatday,andIdon’tthinkshewasdisappointed.Isawtheflashofamusementinhereyesaswesettledintoourchairs,andwhenIwhippedoutmymonogrammedgoldlightertogetherChesterfieldgoing,itsuddenlyseemedtohitherthatlittleWaltwasn’tsolittleanymore.

“We’redoingallrightforourselves,aren’twe?”shesaid.

“Notbad,”Isaid.“I’vebeenrunningprettyhardsinceyoulastsawme.”

Wetalkedaboutthisandthat,circlingaroundeachotherforthefirstfewminutes,butitdidn’ttakelongforustostartfeelingcomfortableagain,andbythetimethewaitercameinwiththemenus,wewerealreadytalkingabouttheolddays.Asitturnedout,Mrs.WitherspoonknewalotmoreaboutmylastmonthswiththemasterthanIthoughtshedid.Aweekbeforehedied,he’dwrittenheralongletterfromtheroad,andeverythinghadbeenspelledouttoher:theheadaches,theendofWalttheWonderBoy,theplantogotoHollywoodandturnmeintoamoviestar.

“Idon’tgetit,”Isaid.“Ifyouandthemasterwerequits,whatwashedoingwritingyoualetter?”

“Weweren’tquits.Wejustweren’tgoingtogetmarried,that’sall.”

“Istilldon’tgetit.”

“Hewasdying,Walt.Youknowthat.Youmusthaveknownitbythen.He

foundoutaboutthecancernotlongafteryouwerekidnaped.Afinelittlemess,no?Talkabouthell.Talkaboutyourroughpatches.Therewewere,scramblingaroundWichitatryingtoscrapeupthemoneytofreeyou,andhecomesdownwithagoddamnfataldisease.That’showallthemarriagetalkgotstartedinthefirstplace.Iwasgung-hotomarryhim,yousee.Ididn’tcarehowlonghehadtolive,Ijustwantedtobehiswife.Buthewouldn’tgoforit.‘Youhitchupwithme,’hesaid,‘andyou’llbemarryingacorpse.Thinkofthefuture,Marion’—hemusthavesaidthosewordstomeathousandtimes—’thinkofthefuture,Marion.ThisCoxfellowisn’ttoobad.He’llgiveusthemoneytospringWalt,andthenyou’llbesetupinstylefortherestofyourdays.It’sasweetdeal,sister,andyou’dbeafoolnottojumpatit.”’

“SweetfuckingChrist.Hereallylovedyou,didn’the?Imean,hereallyfuckinglovedyou.”

“Helovedusboth,Walt.AfterwhathappenedtoAesopandMotherSioux,youandIwerethewholeworldtohim.”

Ihadnointentionoftellingherhowhe’ddied.Iwantedtospareherthegorydetails,andallthroughdrinksImanagedtoholdheroff—butshekeptpressingmetotalkaboutthelastpartofthetrip,toexplainwhathappenedtousafterwegottoCalifornia.Whyhadn’tIgoneintothemovies?Howlonghadhelived?WhywasIlookingatherlikethat?Istartedtotellherhowhe’dslippedoffgentlyinhissleeponenight,butsheknewmetoowelltobuyit.Shesawthroughmeinaboutfourseconds,andoncesheunderstoodthatIwascoveringupsomething,itwasnousepretendinganymore.SoItoldher.Itoldherthewholeuglystory,andstepbystepIcrawleddownintothehorrorofitagain.Ididn’tleaveanythingout.Mrs.Witherspoonhadarighttoknow,andonceIgotstarted,Icouldn’tstop.Ijusttalkedonthroughhertears,watchinghermakeupsmudgeandthepowderrunoffhercheeksasthewordstumbledoutofme.

WhenIgottotheend,Iopenedmyjacketandpulledthegunfromtheholsterstrappedaroundmyshoulder.Ihelditintheairforamomentortwoandthensetitdownonthetablebetweenus.“Hereitis,”Isaid.“Themaster’sgun.Justsoyouknowwhatitlookslike.”

“PoorWalt,”shesaid.

“Poornobody.It’stheonlythingofhisI’vegotleft.”

Mrs.Witherspoonstaredatthesmall,oak-handledrevolverfortenortwelveseconds.Then,verytentatively,shereachedoutandputherhandontopofit.Ithoughtshewasgoingtopickitup,butshedidn’t.Shejustsattherelookingatherfingersastheyclosedaroundthegun,asiftouchingwhat

themasterhadtouchedallowedhertotouchhimagain.

“Youdidtheonlythingyoucould,”shefinallysaid.

“IlethimdowniswhatIdid.Hebeggedmetopullthetrigger,andIcouldn’tdoit.Hislastwish—andIturnedmybackonhimandmadehimdoithimself.”

“Rememberthegoodtimes,that’swhathetoldyou.”

“Ican’t.BeforeIgettothegoodtimes,Irememberwhatitwaslikewhenhetoldmetorememberthem.Ican’tgetaroundthatlastday.Ican’tgobackfarenoughtorememberanythingbeforeit.”

“Forgetthegun,Walt.Getridofthedamnthingandwipetheslateclean.”

“Ican’t.IfIdothat,he’llbegoneforever.”

Thatwaswhenshestoodupfromherchairandleftthetable.Shedidn’tsaywhereshewasgoing,andIdidn’task.Theconversationhadturnedsoheavy,soawfulforbothofus,wecouldn’tsayanotherwordandnotgocrazy.Iputthegunbackintheholsterandlookedatmywatch.Oneo’clock.IhadplentyoftimeuntilmyappointmentwithDixie.MaybeMrs.Witherspoonwouldbeback,andmaybeshewouldn’t.Onewayortheother,Iwasgoingtositthereandeatmylunch,andafterwardIwasgoingtopranceovertotheRoyalParkHotelandspendanhourwithmynewflame,bouncingonthebedwithhersilkygamswrappedaroundmywaist.

ButMrs.W.hadn’tflownthecoop.She’dmerelygonetotheladies’todryhertearsandfreshenup,andwhenshereturnedabouttenminuteslater,shewaswearinganewcoatoflipstickandhadredoneherlashes.Hereyeswerestillredaroundtherims,butsheshotmealittlesmilewhenshesatdown,andIcouldseethatshewasdeterminedtopushtheconversationontoadifferentsubject.

“So,myfriend,”shesaid,takingabiteofhershrimpcocktail,“how’stheflyingbusinessthesedays?”

“Packedawayinmothballs,”Isaid.“Thefleet’sbeengrounded,andonebyoneI’vebeensellingoffthewingsforscrap.”

“Andyoudon’tfeeltemptedtogiveitanotherwhirl?”

“NotforallthecrackersinKalamazoo.”

“Theheadacheswerethatbad,huh?”

“Youdon’tknowthemeaningofbad,toots.We’retalkinghigh-voltagetraumahere,life-threateningtoasterburns.”

“It’sfunny.Isometimeshearconversations.Youknow,sittinginatrainorwalkingdownthestreet,littlesnatchesofthings.Peopleremember,Walt.TheWonderBoymadequiteastir,andalotofpeoplestillthinkaboutyou.”

“Yeah,Iknow.I’mafuckinglegend.Theproblemis,nobodybelievesitanymore.Theystoppedbelievingwhentheactfolded,andbynowthere’snobodyleft.Iknowthekindoftalkyoumean.Iusedtohearit,too.Italwaysendedupinanargument.Oneguywouldsayitwasafake,theotherguywouldsaymaybeitwasn’t,andprettysoonthey’dbesopissedoffateachotherthey’dstoptalking.Butthatwasawhileago.Youdon’thearsomuchofitanymore.It’slikethewholethingneverhappened.”

“Abouttwoyearsagotheyrananarticleaboutyousomewhere,Iforgetwhichpaper.WalttheWonderBoy,thelittleladwhofiredtheimaginationofmillions.Whateverhappenedtohim,andwhereishenow?Thatkindofarticle.”

“Hefelloffthefaceoftheearth,that’swhathappenedtohim.Theangelscarriedhimbacktowherehecamefrom,andnoone’severgoingtoseehimagain.”

“Exceptme.”

“Exceptyou.Butthat’sourlittlesecret,isn’tit?”

“Mum’stheword,Walt.Whatkindofpersondoyoutakemeforanyway?”

Thingsloosenedupquiteabitafterthat.Thebusboycameintohaulofftheappetizerplates,andbythetimethewaiterreturnedwiththemaincourse,we’ddrunkenoughtobereadyforasecondbottle.

“Iseeyouhaven’tlostyourtasteforthestuff,”Isaid.

“Booze,money,andsex.Thosearetheeternalverities.”

“Inthatorder?”

“Inanyorderyoulike.Withoutthemtheworldwouldbeasadanddismalplace.”

“Speakingofsadplaces,what’snewinWichita?”

“Wichita?”Sheputdownherglassandgavemeagorgeousshit-eatinggrin.“Where’sthat?”

“Idon’tknow.Youtellme.”

“Ican’tremember.Ipackedmybagsfiveyearsagoandhaven’tsetfootinthattownsince.”

“Whoboughtthehouse?”

“Ididn’tsellit.BillyBigelowlivestherewithhischatterboxwifeandtwolittlegirls.Ithoughttherentwouldgivemesomenicepinmoney,butthepoorsaplosthisjobatthebankamonthaftertheymovedin,andI’vebeenlettinghimhaveitforadollarayear.”

“Youmustbedoingokayifyoucanaffordthat.”

“Ipulledoutofthemarketthesummerbeforethecrash.Somethingtodowithransomnotes,cashdeliveries,drop-offpoints—it’sallabitblurrynow.Itturnedouttobethebestthingthateverhappenedtome.Yourlittlemisadventuresavedmylife,Walt.WhateverIwasworththen,I’mworthtentimesthatnow.”

“WhystayinWichitawiththatkindofdough,right?HowlongsinceyoumovedtoChicago?”

“I’mjusthereonbusiness.IgobacktoNewYorktomorrowmorning.”

“FifthAvenue,I’llbet.”

“Youbetright,Mr.Rawley.”

“IknewitthesecondIsawyou.Youlooklikebigmoneynow.Itgivesoffaspecialsmell,andIlikesittingherebreathinginthevapors.”

“Mostofitcomesfromoil.Thatstuffstinksintheground,butonceyouconvertitintocash,itdoesreleasealovelyperfume,doesn’tit?”

ShewasthesameoldMrs.Witherspoon.Shestilllikedtodrink,andshestilllikedtotalkaboutmoney,andonceyouuncorkedabottleandsteeredherontoherfavoritesubject,shecouldholdherownwithanycigar-chompingcapitalistthissideofDaddyWarbucks.Shespenttherestofthemaincoursetellingmeaboutherdealsandinvestments,andwhentheplateswerecartedoffagainandthewaiterslidbackinwiththedessertmenus,somethingwentclick,andIcouldseethelightbulbgooninherhead.Itwasaquartertotwobymywatch.Comefireorflood,Iaimedtobeoutofthereinhalfanhour.

“Ifyouwantin,Walt,”shesaid,“I’llbehappytomakeaplaceforyou.”

“Place?Whatkindofplace?”

“Texas.I’vegotsomenewwildcatrigsdownthere,andIneedsomeonetowatchoverthedrillingforme.”

“Idon’tknowthefirstthingaboutoil.”

“You’resmart.You’llcatchonfast.Lookattheprogressyou’vemadealready.Niceclothes,fancyrestaurants,moneyinyourpocket.You’vecomealongway,sport.Anddon’tthinkIhaven’tnoticedhowyou’vecleanedupyourgrammar.Notone‘ain’t’thewholetimewe’vebeentogether.”

“Yeah,Iworkedhardonthat.Ididn’twanttosoundlikeanignoramusanymore,soIreadsomebooksandretooledmyword-box.Ifigureditwastimetostepoutofthegutter.”

“That’smypoint.Youcandoanythingyouwanttodo.Aslongasyouputyourmindtoit,there’snotellingwhereyoumightgo.Youwatch,Walt.Comeinwithme,andtwoorthreeyearsfromnowwe’llbepartners.”

Itwasahellofanendorsement,butonceI’dsoakedupherpraiseIsnubbedoutmyCamelandshookmyhead.“IlikewhatI’mdoingnow.WhygotoTexaswhenI’vegoteverythingIwantinChicago?”

“Becauseyou’reinthewrongbusiness,that’swhy.There’snofutureinthiscops-and-robbersstuff.Youkeepitup,andyou’lleitherbedeadorservingtimebeforeyourtwenty-fifthbirthday.”

“Whatcops-and-robbersstuff?I’mcleanasasurgeon’sfingernails.”

“Sure.Andthepope’saHindusnakecharmerindisguise.”

Dessertwaswheeledinafterthat,andwenibbledatoureclairsinsilence.Itwasabadwaytoendthemeal,butwewerebothtoostubborntobackdown.Eventually,wemadesmalltalkabouttheweather,threwoutsomeinconsequentialremarksabouttheupcomingelection,butthejuicewasgoneandtherewasnogettingitback.Mrs.Witherspoonwasn’tjustpeevedatmeforturningdownheroffer.Chancehadthrownustogetheragain,andonlyabunglerwouldpassupthecalloffateasblithelyasIhad.Shewasn’twrongtofeeldisgustedwithme,butIhadmyownpathtofollow,andIwastoofullofmyselftounderstandthatmypathwasthesameashers.IfIhadn’tbeensohottorunoffandplantmypeckerinDixieSinclair,Imighthavelistenedtohermorecarefully,butIwasinarush,andIcouldn’tbebotheredwithanysoul-searchingthatday.Soitgoes.Onceyourgroingetstheupperhand,youlosetheabilitytoreason.

Weskippedcoffee,andwhenthewaiterdeliveredthechecktothetableattenpasttwo,IsnatcheditoutofhisfingersbeforeMrs.Witherspooncouldgrabholdofit.

“Mytreat,”Isaid.

“Okay,Mr.BigTime.Showoffifitmakesyouhappy.Butifyoueverwiseup,don’tforgetwhereIam.Maybeyou’llcometoyoursensesbeforeit’stoolate.”Andwiththatshereachedintoherpurse,pulledoutherbusinesscard,andlaiditgentlyinmypalm.“Don’tworryaboutthecost,”sheadded.“Ifyou’rebelly-upbythetimeyourememberme,justtelltheoperatortoreversethecharges.”

ButInevercalled.Istuckthecardinmypocket,fullyintendingtosaveit,butwhenIlookedforitbeforegoingtobedthatnight,itwasnowheretobefound.Giventhetusslingandtuggingthosetrousersweresubjectedtoimmediatelyfollowinglunch,itwasn’thardtoguesswhathadhappened.Thecardhadfallenout,andifithadn’talreadybeentossedintothetrashbyachambermaid,itwaslyingonthefloorinsuite409oftheRoyalParkHotel.

Iwasanunstoppableforceinthosedays,acomertobeatallcomers,andIwasridingtheexpresstrainwithaone-waytickettoFatCity.LessthanayearaftermylunchwithMrs.Witherspoon,IlandedmynextbigbreakwhenIwentouttoArlingtononesultryAugustafternoonandputathousanddollarsonalongshottowinthethirdrace.IfIaddthatthehorsewasdubbedWonderBoy,andifIfurtheraddthatIwasstillinthethrallofmyoldsuperstitions,itwon’ttakeamindreadertounderstandwhyIbitonsuchahopelessgamble.Ididcrazythingsasamatterofroutinebackthen,andwhenthecoltcameinbyhalfalengthatfortytoone,IknewtherewasaGodinheavenandthathewassmilingdownonmycraziness.

ThewinningsprovidedmewiththeclouttodothethingImostwantedtodo,andIpromptlysetabouttoturnmydreamintoreality.IrequestedaprivatecounselwithBingoinhispenthouseapartmentoverlookingLakeMichigan,andonceIlaidouttheplantohimandhegotoverhisinitialshock,hegrudginglygavemethegreenlight.Itwasn’tthathethoughtthepropositionwasunworthy,butIthinkhewasdisappointedinmeforsettingmysightssolow.Hewasgroomingmeforaplaceintheinnercircle,andhereIwastellinghimthatIwantedtogomyownwayandopenanightclubthatwouldoccupymyenergiestotheexclusionofallelse.Icouldseehowhemightinterpretitasanactofbetrayal,andIhadtotreadcarefullyaroundthattrapwithsomefancyfootwork.Luckily,mymouthwasingoodformthatevening,andbyshowinghowmanyadvantageswouldaccruetohimintermsofbothprofitandpleasure,Ieventuallybroughthimaround.

“Myfortygrandcancoverthewholedeal,”Isaid.“Anotherguyinmyshoeswouldtiphishatandsaysolong,butthat’snothowIconductbusiness.You’remypal,Bingo,andIwantyoutohaveapieceoftheaction.Nomoneydown,noworktofusswith,noliabilities,butforeverydollarIearn,I’llgiveyoutwenty-fivecents.Fairisfair,right?Yougavememychance,andnowI’minapositiontoreturnthefavor.Loyaltyhastocountforsomethinginthisworld,andI’mnotabouttoforgetwheremyluckcamefrom.Thiswon’tbeanytwo-bitcheesejointforthehoipolloi.I’mtalkingGoldCoastwithallthetrimmings.Afull-scalerestaurantwithaFrogchef,top-notchfloorshows,beautifulgirlsslitheringoutofthewoodworkinskin-tightgowns.It’llgiveyouahard-onjusttowalkinthere,Bingo.You’llhavethebestseatinthehouse,andonnightswhenyoudon’tshowup,yourtablewillsitthereempty—nomatterhowmanypeoplearewaitingoutsidethedoor.”

Hehaggledmeuptofiftypercent,butIwasexpectingsomegive-and-takeanddidn’tmakeanissueofit.Theimportantthingwastowinhisblessing,andIdidthatbyjollyinghimalong,steadilywearingdownhisdefenseswith

myfriendly,accommodatingattitude,andintheend,justtoshowhowclassyhewas,heofferedtokickinanextratenthousandtoseethatIdiduptheplaceright.Ididn’tcare.AllIwantedwasmynightclub,andwithBingo’sfiftypercentsubtractedfromthetake,Iwasstillgoingtocomeoutahead.Therewerenumerousbenefitsinhavinghimasapartner,andIwouldhavebeenkiddingmyselftothinkIcouldgetalongwithouthim.HishalfwouldguaranteemeprotectionfromO’Malley(whoipsofactobecamethethirdpartner)andhelpkeepthecopsfrombreakingdownthedoor.WhenyouthrewinhisconnectionswiththeChicagoliquorboard,thecommerciallaundrycompanies,andthelocaltalentagents,losingthatfiftypercentdidn’tseemlikesuchashabbycompromiseafterall.

IcalledtheplaceMr.Vertigo’s.ItwassmackintheheartofthecityatWestDivisionandNorthLaSalle,anditsflashingneonsignwentfrompinktobluetopinkasadancinggirltookturnswithacocktailshakeragainstthenightsky.Therhumbarhythmofthoselightsmadeyourheartbeatfasterandyourbloodgrowwarm,andonceyoucaughtthelittlestutter-stepsyncopationinyourpulse,youdidn’twanttobeanywhereexceptwherethemusicwas.Inside,thedecorwasablendofhighandlow,aswanksortofbigtowncomfortmixedwithnaughtyinnuendosandaneasy,roadhousecharm.Iworkedhardoncreatingthatatmosphere,andeverynuanceandeffectwasplannedtothesmallestdetail:fromtheliprougeonthehat-checkgirltothecolorofthedinnerplates,fromthedesignofthemenustothesocksonthebartender’sfeet.Therewasroomforfiftytables,agood-sizedancefloor,anelevatedstage,andalongmahoganybaralongasidewall.ItcostmeeverycentofthefiftythousandtodoitupthewayIwanted,butwhentheplacefinallyopenedonDecember31,1937,itwasathingofsumptuousperfection.IlauncheditwithoneofthegreatNewYear’sEvepartiesinChicagohistory,andbythefollowingmorningMr.Vertigo’swasonthemap.ForthenextthreeandahalfyearsIwasthereeverynight,strollingamongthecustomersinmywhitedinnerjacketandpatentleathershoes,spreadinggoodcheerwithmycockysmilesandquick-tonguedpatter.Itwasaterrificspotforme,andIlovedeveryminuteIspentinthatraucousemporium.IfIhadn’tmessedupandblownmylifeapart,I’dprobablystillbetheretoday.Asitwas,Ionlygottohavethosethreeandahalfyears.Iwasone-hundred-percentresponsibleformyowndownfall,butknowingthatdoesn’tmakeitanylesspainfultoremember.IwasallthewayatthetopwhenIstumbled,anditendedinarealHumptyDumptyforme,aspectacularswan-diveintooblivion.

Butnoregrets.Ihadagooddanceformymoney,andI’mnotgoingtosayIdidn’t.Theclubturnedintothenumber-onehotspotinChicago,andinmyownsmallwayIwasjustasmuchacelebrityasanyofthebigwigswhocameinthere.Ihobnobbedwithjudgesandcitycouncilmenandballplayers,and

whatwithalltheshowgirlsandchorinestoauditionforthefleshparadesIpresentedatelevenandoneeverynight,therewasnolackofopportunitytoindulgeinbedroomsports.DixieandIwerestillanitemwhenMr.Vertigo’sopened,butmycarryings-onworeherpatiencethin,andwithinsixmonthsshe’dmovedtoanotheraddress.ThencameSally,thencameJewel,thencameadozenothers:leggybrunettes,chain-smokingredheads,big-buttedblondes.AtonepointIwasshackedupwithtwogirlsatthesametime,apairofout-of-workactressesnamedCoraandBillie.Ilikedthemboththesame,theylikedeachotherasmuchastheylikedme,andbypullingtogetherwemanagedtoproducesomeinterestingvariationsontheoldtune.Everynowandthen,myhabitsledtomedicalinconveniences(adoseoftheclap,acaseofcrabs),butnothingthatputmeoutofcommissionforverylong.Itmighthavebeenaputridwaytolive,butIwashappywiththehandI’dbeendealt,andmyonlyambitionwastokeepthingsexactlyastheywere.Then,inSeptember1939,justthreedaysaftertheGermanArmyinvadedPoland,DizzyDeanwalkedintoMr.Vertigo’sanditallstartedtocomeundone.

Ihavetogobacktoexplainit,allthewaybacktomytykehoodinSaintLouis.That’swhereIfellinlovewithbaseball,andbeforeIwasoutofdiapersIwasadyed-in-the-woolCardinals’fan,aRedbirdrooterforlife.I’vealreadymentionedhowthrilledIwaswhentheytookthe‘twenty-sixseries,butthatwasonlyoneinstanceofmydevotion,andafterAesoptaughtmehowtoreadandwrite,Iwasabletofollowmyboysinthepapereverymorning.FromApriltoOctoberInevermissedaboxscore,andIcouldrecitethebattingaverageofeveryplayeronthesquad,fromhotdogslikeFrankieFrischandPepperMartintothelowestjourneymanscrubgatheringsplintersonthebench.ThiswentonduringthegoodyearswithMasterYehudi,anditcontinuedduringthebadyearsthatfollowed.Ilivedlikeashadow,prowlingthecountryinsearchofUncleSlim,butnomatterhowdarkthingsgotforme,Istillkeptupwithmyteam.Theywonthepennantin‘thirtyand‘thirty-one,andthosevictoriesdidalottobuckupmyspirits,tokeepmegoingthroughallthetroubleandadversityofthattime.AslongastheCardswerewinning,somethingwasrightwiththeworld,anditwasn’tpossibletofallintototaldespair.

That’swhereDizzyDeanentersthestory.Theteamdroppedtoseventhplacein‘thirty-two,butitalmostdidn’tmatter.Deanwasthehottest,flashiest,loudest-mouthedrookieevertohitthemajors,andheturnedacrummyballclubintoaloosey-gooseyhillbillycircus.Bragandcavortashedid,thatcornponerubebackeduphisboastswithsomeofthesweetestpitchingthissideofheaven.Hisrubberarmthrewsmoke;hiscontrolwasuncanny;hiswindupwasawondrousmachineofarmsandlegsandpower,abeautifulthingtobehold.BythetimeIgottoChicagoandsettledinas

Bingo’sprotégé,Dizzywasanestablishedstar,abig-timeforceontheAmericanscene.Peoplelovedhimforhisbrashnessandtalent,hiscrazymanglingsoftheEnglishlanguage,hisbrawling,boyishanticsandfuck-youpizzazz,andIlovedhim,too,Ilovedhimasmuchasanyoneintheworld.Withlifegrowingmorecomfortableformeallthetime,IwasinapositiontocatchtheCardsinactionwhenevertheycametotown.In’thirty-three,theyearDeanbroketherecordbystrikingoutseventeenbattersinagame,theylookedlikeafirst-divisionoutfitagain.They’daddedsomenewplayerstotheroster,andwiththugslikeJoeMedwick,LeoDurocher,andRipCollinsaroundtoquickenthepace,theGasHouseGangwasbeginningtojell.’Thirty-fourturnedouttobetheirgloryyear,andIdon’tthinkI’veeverenjoyedabaseballseasonasmuchasthatone.Dizzy’skidbrotherPaulwonnineteengames,Dizzywonthirty,andtheteamfoughtfromtengamesbacktoovertaketheGiantsandwinthepennant.ThatwasthefirstyeartheWorldSerieswasbroadcastontheradio,andIgottolistentoallsevengamessittingathomeinChicago.DizzybeattheTigersinthefirstgame,andwhenFrischsenthiminasapinchrunnerinthefourth,thelummoxpromptlygotbeanedwithawildthrowandwasknockedunconscious.Thenextday’sheadlinesannounced:XRAYSOFDEAN’SHEADREVEALNOTHING.Hecamebacktopitchthefollowingafternoonbutlost,andthen,justtwodayslater,heshutoutDetroit11–0inthefinalgame,laughingattheTigerhitterseachtimetheyswungandmissedathisfastballs.Thepresscookedupallkindsofnamesforthatteam:theGallopingGangsters,RiverRowdiesfromtheMississippi,theClatteringCardinals.ThoseGasHouserslovedtorubitin,andwhenthescoreofthefinalgamegotoutofhandinthelateinnings,theTigerfansrespondedbypeltingMedwickwithaten-minutebarrageoffruitsandvegetablesinleftfield.TheonlywaytheycouldfinishtheserieswasforJudgeLandis,thecommissionerofbaseball,tostepinandpullMedwickoffthefieldforthelastthreeouts.

Sixmonthslater,IwassittinginaboxwithBingoandtheboyswhenDeanopenedthenewseasonagainsttheCubsinChicago.Inthefirstinning,withtwodownandamanonbase,theCubs’cleanuphitterFreddieLindstromsentawickedlinedriveupthemiddlethatcaughtDizzyinthelegandknockedhimdown.MyheartskippedabeatortwowhenIsawthestretchergangrunoutandcarryhimoffthefield,butnopermanentdamagewasdone,andfivedayslaterhewasbackonthemoundinPittsburgh,wherehehurledafive-hitshutoutforhisfirstwinoftheseason.Hewentontohaveanotherbang-upyear,buttheCubsweretheteamofdestinyin1935,andbyknockingoffastringoftwenty-onestraightwinsattheendoftheseason,theypushedpasttheCardsandstoletheflag.Ican’tsayImindedtoomuch.ThetownwentgagafortheCubbies,andwhatwasgoodforChicagowasgoodforbusiness,

andwhatwasgoodforbusinesswasgoodforme.Icutmyteethonthegamblingracketsinthatseries,andoncethedusthadsettled,I’dmaneuveredmyselfintosuchastrongpositionthatBingorewardedmewithadenofmyown.

Ontheotherhand,thatwastheyearwhenDizzy’supsanddownsbegantoaffectmeinafartoopersonalway.Iwouldn’tcallitanobsessionatthatpoint,butafterwatchinghimgodowninthefirstinningoftheopeneratWrigley—sosoonaftertheskull-clunkinginthe’thirty-fourseries—Ibegantosensethatacloudwasgatheringaroundhim.Itdidn’thelpmatterswhenhisbrother’sarmwentdeadin’thirty-six,butevenworsewaswhathappenedinagameagainsttheGiantsthatsummerwhenBurgessWhiteheadscorchedalinerthathithimjustabovetherightear.Theballwashitsohardthatitcaromedintoleftfieldonafly.Deanwentdownagain,andthoughheregainedconsciousnessinthelockerroomsevenoreightminuteslater,theinitialdiagnosiswasafracturedskull.Itturnedouttobeabadconcussion,whichlefthimwoozyforacoupleofweeks,butaninchorsotheotherwayandthebigguywouldhavebeenpushingupdaisiesinsteadofgoingontowintwenty-fourgamesfortheseason.

Thefollowingspring,mymancontinuedtocurseandscuffleandraisehell,butthatwasonlybecausehedidn’tknowanybetter.Hetriggeredbrawlswithhisbrushbackpitches,wascalledforbalkstwogamesinarowanddecidedtostageasit-downstrikeonthemound,andwhenhestoodupatabanquetandcalledthenewleaguepresidentacrook,theresultingfracasledtosomefinecowboytheater,especiallyafterDizrefusedtoputhissignatureonaself-incriminatingformalretraction.“Iain’tsignin’nothin”’waswhathesaid,andwithoutthatsignatureFordFrickhadnochoicebuttobackdownandrescindDean’ssuspension.Iwasproudofhimforbehavinglikesuchatwo-fistedasshole,butthetruthwasthatthesuspensionwouldhavekepthimoutoftheAll-StarGame,andifhehadn’tpitchedinthatmeaninglessexhibition,hemighthavebeenabletoholdoffthehourofdoomalittlelonger.

TheyplayedinWashington,D.C.,thatyear,andDizzystartedfortheNationalLeague.Hebreezedthroughthefirsttwoinningsinworkmanlikefashion,andthen,aftertwoweregoneinthethird,hegaveupasingletoDiMaggioandalonghomeruntoGehrig.EarlAverillwasnext,andwhentheClevelandoutfielderlinedDean’sfirstpitchbacktothemound,thecurtainsuddenlydroppedonthegreatestright-handerofthecentury.Itdidn’tlooklikemuchtoworryaboutatthetime.Theballhithimontheleftfoot,bouncedovertoBillyHermanatsecond,andHermanthrewtofirstfortheout.WhenDizzywentlimpingoffthefield,noonethoughttwiceaboutit,notevenDizzyhimself.

Thatwasthefamousbrokentoe.Ifhehadn’trushedbackintoactionbeforehewasready,itprobablywouldhavemendedinduetime.ButtheCardinalswereslippingoutofthepennantraceandneededhimonthemound,andthedumb-cluckyokelfoolassuredthemhewasokay.Hewashobblingaroundonacrutch,thetoewassoswollenhecouldn’tgethisshoeon,andyethedonnedhisuniformandwentoutandpitched.Likeallgiantsamongmen,DizzyDeanthoughthewasimmortal,andeventhoughthetoewastootenderforhimtopivotonhisleftfoot,hegutteditoutforthewholenineinnings.Thepaincausedhimtoalterhisnaturaldelivery,andtheresultwasthatheputtoomuchpressureonhisarm.Hedevelopedasorewingafterthatfirstgame,andthen,tocompoundthemischief,hewentonthrowingforanothermonth.Aftersixorseventimesaround,itgotsobadthathehadtobeyankedjustthreepitchesintooneofhisstarts.Dizwaslobbingcanteloupesbythen,andtherewasnothingforitbuttohanguphisspikesandsitouttherestoftheseason.

Evenso,therewasn’tafaninthecountrywhothoughthewasfinished.ThecommonwisdomwasthatawinterofidlereposewouldfixwhatailedhimandcomeAprilhe’dbehisoldunbeatableselfagain.Buthestruggledthroughspringtraining,andthen,inoneofthegreatbombshellsinsportshistory,SaintLouisdealthimtotheCubsfor185,000incashandtwoorthreewarmbodies.IknewtherewasnolovelostbetweenDeanandBranchRickey,theCards’generalmanager,butIalsoknewthatRickeywouldn’thaveunloadedhimifhethoughttherewassomespitleftintheappleknocker’sarm.Icouldn’thavebeenhappierthatDizzywascomingtoChicago,butatthesametimeIknewhiscomingmeantthathewasattheendoftheroad.Myworstfearshadbeenborneout,andattheripeoldageoftwenty-sevenortwenty-eight,theworld’stoppitcherwasahas-been.

Still,heprovidedsomegoodmomentsthatfirstyearwiththeCubs.Mr.Vertigo’swasonlyfourmonthsoldwhentheseasonstarted,butImanagedtosneakofftotheparkthreeorfourtimestowatchtheDizmeistercrankoutafewmoreinningsfromhisbatteredarm.TherewasanearlygameagainsttheCardsthatIrememberwell,aclassicgrudgematchpittingoldteammatesagainsteachother,andhewonthatshowdownonguileandjunk,keepingthehittersoff-stridewithanassortmentofdipsy-doodlefloatersandchange-ups.Then,lateintheseason,withtheCubspushinghardforanotherpennant,ChicagomanagerGabbyHartnettstunnedeveryonebygivingDizzythenodforado-or-diestartagainstthePirates.Thegamewasagenuineknuckle-biter,joyanddespairridingoneverypitch,andDean,withlessthannothingtooffer,ekedoutawinforhisnewhometown.HealmostrepeatedthemiracleinthesecondgameoftheWorldSeries,buttheYanksfinallygottohimintheeighth,andwhentheassaultcontinuedintheninthandHartnett

tookhimoutforareliever,Dizzyleftthemoundtosomeofthewildest,mostthunderousapplauseI’veeverheard.Thewholejointwasonitsfeet,clappingandcheeringandwhistlingforthebiglug,anditwentonforsolongandwassoloud,someofuswereblinkingawaytearsbythetimeitwasover.

Thatshouldhavebeentheendofhim.Thegallantwarriortakeshislastbowandshufflesoffintothesunset.Iwouldhaveacceptedthatandgivenhimhisdue,butDeanwastoothicktogetit,andthefarewellclamorfellondeafears.That’swhatgalledme:theson-of-a-bitchdidn’tknowwhentostop.Castingalldignityaside,hecamebackandplayedfortheCubsagain,andifthe’thirty-eightseasonhadbeenpathetic—withafewbrightspotssprinkledin—’thirty-ninewaspure,unadulterateddarkness.Hisarmhurtsomuchhecouldbarelythrow.Gameaftergamehewarmedthebench,andthebriefmomentshespentonthemoundwereanembarrassment.Hewaslousy,lousierthanahobo’smutt,noteventhepalestfacsimileofwhathe’doncebeen.Isufferedforhim,Igrievedforhim,butatthesametimeIthoughthewasthedumbestyahooclodonthefaceoftheearth.

ThatwasprettymuchhowthingsstoodwhenhewalkedintoMr.Vertigo’sinSeptember.Theseasonwaswindingdown,andwiththeCubswelloutofthepennantrace,itdidn’tcausemuchofastirwhenDeanshoweduponecrowdedFridaynightwithhismissusandagangoftwoorthreeothercouples.Itcertainlywasn’tthemomentforaheart-to-hearttalkabouthisfuture,butImadeapointofgoingovertohistableandwelcominghimtotheclub.“Pleasedyoucouldmakeit,Diz,”Isaid,offeringhimmyhand.“I’maSaintLouisboymyself,andI’vebeenfollowingyousincethedayyoubrokein.I’vealwaysbeenyournumber-onebacker.”

“Thepleasure’sallmine,pal,”hesaid,engulfingmylittlehandinhisenormousmittandgivingacordialshake.Hestartedtoflashoneofthosequick,brush-offsmileswhenhisexpressionsuddenlygrewpuzzled.Hefrownedforasecond,searchinghismemoryforsomelostthing,andwhenitdidn’tcometohim,helookeddeepintomyeyesasifhethoughthecouldfinditthere.“Iknowyou,don’tI?”hesaid.“Imean,thisain’tthefirsttimewe’vemet.Ijustcan’tplacewhereitwas.Waybackwhensomewhere,ain’tIright?”

“Idon’tthinkso,Diz.Maybeyoucaughtaglimpseofmeonedayinthestands,butwe’venevertalkedbefore.”

“Shit.Icouldswearyouain’tnostrangertome.Damnedestfeelingintheworlditis.Ohwell,”heshrugged,beamingmeoneofhisbigyapgrins,“itdon’tmatternone,Iguess.Yousuregotaswelljointhere,mac.”

“Thanks,champ.Thefirstround’sonme.Ihopeyouandyourfriendshave

agoodtime.”

“That’swhywe’rehere,kid.”

“Enjoytheshow.Ifyouneedanything,justholler.”

I’dplayeditascoolasIcould,andIwalkedawayfeelingI’dhandledthesituationfairlywell.Ihadn’tsuckeduptohim,andatthesametimeIhadn’tinsultedhimforgoingtothedogs.IwasMr.Vertigo,thedowntownsharpiewiththesmoothtongueandelegantmanners,andIwasn’tabouttoletDeanknowhowmuchhisplightconcernedme.Seeinghiminthefleshhadbrokenthespellsomewhat,andinthenaturalcourseofthingsIprobablywouldhavewrittenhimoffasjustanotherniceguydownonhisluck.WhyshouldIcareabouthim?WhizzyDizzywasonhiswayout,andprettysoonIwouldn’thavetothinkabouthimanymore.Butthat’snotthewayithappened.ItwasDeanhimselfwhokeptthethingalive,andwhileI’mnotgoingtopretendwebecamebosombuddies,hestayedincloseenoughcontacttomakeitimpossibleformetoforgethim.Ifhe’djustdriftedoffthewayhewassupposedto,noneofitwouldhaveturnedoutasbadlyasitdid.

Ididn’tseehimagainuntilthestartofthenextseason.ItwasApril1940bythen,thewarinEuropewasgoingfulltilt,andDizzywasback—backforyetanotherstabatrevivinghistumbledowncareer.WhenIpickedupthepaperandreadthathe’dsignedanothercontractwiththeCubs,Inearlychokedonmysalamisandwich.Whowashekidding?“Theol’soupboneain’tthebuggywhipitusedtobe,”hesaid,butChrist,hejustlovedthegametoodamnedmuchnottogiveitanothertry.Allright,dumbbell,Isaidtomyself,seeifIcare.Ifyouwanttohumiliateyourselfinfrontoftheworld,that’syourbusiness,butdon’tcountonmetofeelsorryforyou.

Then,outoftheblue,hewanderedbackintotheclubonenightandgreetedmelikealong-lostbrother.Deanwasn’tsomeonewhodrank,soitcouldn’thavebeenboozethatmadehimactlikethat,buthisfacelitupwhenhesawme,andforthenextfiveminuteshegavemeanall-outdoseofherkimer-jerkimerbonhomie.Maybehewasstillstuckontheideathatwekneweachother,ormaybehethoughtIwassomebodyimportant,Idon’tknow,buttheupshotwasthathecouldn’thavebeenmoredelightedtoseeme.Howtoresistaguylikethat?I’ddoneeverythingIcouldtohardenmyheartagainsthim,andyethecameoninsuchafriendlywaythatIcouldn’thelpbutsuccumbtotheattention.HewasstillthegreatDean,afterall,mybenightedsoulmateandalterego,andonceheopeneduptomelikethat,Ifellrightbackintothesnareofmyoldbedevilment.

Iwouldn’tsaythathebecamearegularattheclub,buthestoppedbyoftenenoughoverthenextsixweeksforustostrikeupmorethanjustapassing

acquaintance.Hecameinaloneafewtimestoeatanearlysupper(dowsingeverydishwithgobsofLea&Perrinssteaksauce),andI’dsitwithhimshootingthebreezewhilehechompeddownhisfood.Weskirtedbaseballtalkandmostlystucktothehorses,andsinceIgavehimacoupleofexcellenttipsonwheretoputhismoney,hebeganlisteningtomyadvice.IshouldhavespokenupthenandtoldhimwhatIthoughtabouthiscomeback,butevenafterhemuddledthroughhisfirststartsoftheseason,disgracinghimselfeverytimehesteppedontothefield,Ididn’tsayaword.I’dgrowntoofondofhimbythen,andwiththesadsacktryingsohardtomakegood,Icouldn’tbringmyselftotellhimthetruth.

Afteracoupleofmonths,hiswifePatpersuadedhimtogodowntotheminorstoworkonanewdelivery.Theideawasthathe’dmakebetterprogressoutofthespotlight—afranticployifthereeverwasone,sinceallitdidwassupportthedelusionthattherewasstillsomehopeforhim.That’swhenIfinallygotupthenervetosaysomething,butIdidn’thavethegutstopushhardenough.

“Maybeit’stime,Diz,”Isaid.“Maybeit’stimetopackitinandheadhometothefarm.”

“Yeah,”hesaid,lookingaboutasdejectedasamancanlook.“You’reprobablyright.Problemis,Iain’tfitfornothin’butthrowin’baseballs.Iflunkoutthistime,andI’mupshit’screek,Walt.Imean,whatelsecanabumlikemedowithhisself?”

Plentyofthings,Ithought,butIdidn’tsayit,andlaterthatweekheleftforTulsa.Neverhadagreatonefallensofarsofast.Hespentalong,miserablesummerintheTexasLeague,travelingthesamedustycircuithe’ddemolishedwithfastballstenyearsbefore.Thistimehecouldbarelyholdhisown,andtherinky-dinksandMickeyMouserssprayedhispitchesalloverthelot.Olddeliveryornew,theverdictwasclear,butDizzywentonbustinghischopsanddidn’tlettheroughtreatmentgethimdown.Oncehe’dshoweredanddressedandleftthepark,he’dgobacktohishotelroomwithastackofracingformsandstartphoninghisbookies.Ihandledanumberofbetsforhimthatsummer,andeverytimehecalledwe’djawforfiveortenminutesandcatchuponeachother’snews.Theincrediblethingtomewashowcalmlyheacceptedhisdisgrace.Theguyhadturnedhimselfintoalaughingstock,andyetheseemedtobeingoodspirits,asgabbyandfullofjokesasever.Whatwastheuseofarguing?Ifigureditwasonlyamatteroftimenow,soIplayedalongwithhimandkeptmythoughtstomyself.Soonerorlater,hewasboundtoseethelight.

TheCubsrecalledhiminSeptember.Theywantedtoseeifthebush-leagueexperimenthadpaidoff,andwhilehisperformancewashardlyencouraging,

itwasn’tasdreadfulasitmighthavebeen.Mediocrewasthewordforit—acoupleofclosewins,acoupleofshellackings—andthereinhungthefinalchapterofthestory;Bysomeditsy,screwballlogic,theCubsdecidedthatDeanhadshownenoughofhisoldflairtowarrantanotherseason,andsotheywentaheadandaskedhimback.Ididn’tfindoutaboutthenewcontractuntilafterhelefttownforthewinter,butwhenIdid,somethinginsidemefinallysnapped.Istewedaboutitformonths.Ifrettedandworriedandsulked,andbythetimespringcamearoundagain,Iunderstoodwhathadtobedone.Itwasn’tasifIfelttherewasachoice.Destinyhadchosenmeasitsinstrument,andgruesomeasthetaskmighthavebeen,savingDizzywastheonlythingthatmattered.Ifhecouldn’tdoithimself,thenI’dhavetostepinanddoitforhim.

Evennow,I’mhard-pressedtoexplainhowsuchatwisted,evilnotioncouldhavewormeditswayintomyhead.IactuallythoughtitwasmydutytopersuadeDizzyDeanthathedidn’twanttoliveanymore.Statedinsuchbaldterms,thewholethingsmacksofinsanity,butthatwaspreciselyhowIplannedtorescuehim:bytalkinghimintohisownmurder.Ifnothingelse,itproveshowsickmysoulhadbecomeintheyearssinceMasterYehudi’sdeath.I’dlatchedontoDizzybecauseheremindedmeofmyself,andaslongashiscareerflourished,Icouldrelivemypastglorythroughhim.Maybeitwouldn’thavehappenedifhe’dpitchedforsometownotherthanSaintLouis.Maybeitwouldn’thavehappenedifournicknameshadn’tbeensosimilar.Idon’tknow.Idon’tknowanything,butthefactwasthatamomentcamewhenIcouldn’ttellthedifferencebetweenusanymore.Histriumphsweremytriumphs,andwhenbadluckfinallycaughtupwithhimandhiscareerfellapart,hisdisgracewasmydisgrace.Icouldn’tstandtolivethroughitagain,andlittlebylittleIbegantolosemygrip.Forhisowngood,Dizzyhadtodie,andwasjustthemantourgehimintomakingtherightdecision.Notonlyforhissake,butformysakeaswell.Ihadtheweapon,Ihadthearguments,Ihadthepowerofmadnessonmyside.IwoulddestroyDizzyDean,andinsodoingIwouldfinallydestroymyself.

TheCubshitChicagoforthehomeopeneronApriltenth.IgotDizonthehornthatsameafternoonandaskedhimtostopbymyoffice,explainingthatsomethingimportanthadcomeup.Hetriedtogetmetocomeoutwithit,butItoldhimitwastoobigtodiscussonthephone.Ifyou’reinterestedinapropositionthatwillturnyourlifearound,Isaid,you’llcome.Hewastiedupuntilafterdinner,sowesettheappointmentforeleveno’clockthenextmorning.Heshoweduponlyfifteenminuteslate,saunteringinwiththatloose-jointedstrideofhisandrollingatoothpickaroundonhistongue.Hewaswearingaworstedbluesuitandatancowboyhat,andwhilehe’dputonafewpoundssinceI’dseenhimlast,hiscomplexionhadahealthytintafter

sixweeksintheCactusLeaguesun.Asusual,hewasallsmileswhenhewalkedin,andhespentthefirstcoupleofminutestalkingabouthowdifferenttheclublookedinthedaytimewithoutanycustomersinit.“Remindsmeofanemptyballpark,”hesaid.“Kindacreepylike.Stillasatomb,andahelluvalotbigger.”

Itoldhimtotakeaseatandfixedhimupwitharootbeerfromtheiceboxbehindmydesk.“Thiswilltakeafewminutes,”Isaid,“andIdon’twantyougettingthirstywhilewetalk.”Icouldfeelmyhandsstartingtoshake,soIpouredmyselfashotofJimBeamandtookacoupleofsips.“How’sthewing,oldtimer?”Isaid,settlingbackintomyleatherchairanddoingmybesttolookcalm.

“Sameasitwas.Feelslikethere’sabonestickin’outofmyelbow.”

“Yougotknockedaroundprettyhardinspringtraining,Iheard.”

“Them’sjustpracticegames.Theydon’tmeannothin’.”

“Sure.Waittillitreallycounts,right?”

Hecaughtthecynicisminmyvoiceandgaveadefensiveshrug,thenreachedforthecigarettesinhisshirtpocket.“Well,littleguy,”hesaid,“what’sthescoop?”HeshookoutaLuckyfromhispackandlitup,blowingabiggustofsmokeinmydirection.“Fromthewayyoutalkedonthephone,itsoundedlikelifeanddeath.”

“Itis.That’sexactlywhatitis.”

“Howso?Yougotapatentonanewbromideorsomethin’?Christ,youcomeupwithamedicinetocuresickarms,Walt,andI’llgiveyouhalfmypayforthenexttenyears.”

“I’vegotsomethingbetterthanthat,Diz.Anditwon’tcostyouacent.”

“Everythingcosts,fella.It’sthelawoftheland.”

“Idon’twantyourmoney.Iwanttosaveyou,Diz.Letmehelpyou,andthetormentyou’vebeenlivinginthesepastfouryearswillbegone.”

“Yeah?”hesaid,smilingasifI’djusttoldamoderatelyamusingjoke.“Andhowyouaimin’todothat?”

“Anywayyoulike.Themethod’snotimportant.Theonlythingthatcountsisthatyougoalongwithit—andthatyouunderstandwhyithastobedone.”

“You’velostme,kid.Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkin’about.”

“Agreatpersononcesaidtome:‘Whenamancomestotheendoftheline,theonlythinghereallywantsisdeath.’Doesthatmakeitanyclearer?Iheard

thosewordsalongtimeago,butIwastoodumbtofigureoutwhattheymeant.NowIknow,andI’lltellyousomething,Diz—they’retrue.They’rethetruestwordsanymaneverspoke.”

Deanburstoutlaughing.“You’resomekidder,Walt.Yougotthatwackosenseofhumor,anditdon’tneverletup.That’swhyIlikeyousomuch.Thereain’tnooneelseinthistownthatcomesoutwiththeballsythingsyoudo.”

Isighedattheman’sstupidity.Dealingwithaclownlikethatwashardwork,andthelastthingIwantedwastolosemypatience.Itookanothersipofmydrink,sloshingthespicyliquidaroundinmymouthforacoupleofseconds,andswallowed.“Listen,Diz,”Isaid.“I’vebeenwhereyouare.Twelve,thirteenyearsago,Iwassittingontopoftheworld.IwasthebestatwhatIdid,inaclassbymyself.Andletmetellyou,whatyou’veaccomplishedontheballfieldisnothingcomparedtowhatIcoulddo.Nexttome,you’renotallerthanapygmy,aninsect,afuckingbugintherug.DoyouhearwhatI’msaying?Then,justlikethat,somethinghappened,andIcouldn’tgoon.ButIdidn’thangaroundandmakepeoplefeelsorryforme,Ididn’tturnmyselfintoajoke.Icalleditquits,andthenIwentonandmadeanotherlifeformyself.That’swhatI’vebeenhopingandprayingwouldhappentoyou.Butyoujustdon’tgetit,doyou?Yourfathickbrain’stoocloggedwithcornbreadandmolassestogetit.”

“Waitasecond,”Dizzysaid,wagginghisfingeratmeasasudden,unexpectedglowofdelightspreadacrosshisface.“Waitjustasecond.NowIknowwhoyouare.Shit,Iknoweditallalong.You’rethatkid,ain’tyou?You’rethatgoddamnedkid.Walt…WalttheWonderBoy.Christalmighty.MydaddytookmeandPaulandElmerouttothefaironedayinArkansas,andweseenyoudoyourstuff.Fuckin’outofthisworlditwas.Ialwayswonderedwhathappenedtoyou.Andhereyouare,sittin’rightacrossfromme.Ican’tfuckin’believeit.”

“Believeit,friend.WhenItoldyouIwasgreat,Imeantgreatlikenobodyelse.Likeacometstreakingacrossthesky.”

“Youweregreat,allright,I’llvouchforthat.ThegreatestthingIeversaw.”

“Andsowereyou,bigman.Asgreatastheycome.Butyou’reoverthehillnow,anditbreaksmyhearttoseewhatyou’redoingtoyourself.Letmehelpyou,Diz.Deathisn’tsoterrible.Everybodyhastodiesometime,andonceyougetusedtotheidea,you’llseethatnowisbetterthanlater.Ifyougivemethechance,Icanspareyoutheshame.Icangiveyoubackyourdignity.”

“You’rereallyserious,ain’tyou?”

“YoubetIam.AsseriousasI’veeverbeeninmylife.”

“You’reoffyourtrolley,Walt.You’refuckin’loopedoutayourgourd.”

“Letmekillyou,andthelastfouryearswillbeforgotten.You’llbegreatagain,champ.You’llbegreatagainforever.”

Iwasgoingtoofast.He’dthrownmeoffbalancewiththatWonderBoytalk,andinsteadofcirclingbackandmodifyingmyapproach,Iwaschargingaheadatbreakneckspeed.I’dwantedtobuildupthepressureslowly,tolullhimwithsuchelaborate,airtightargumentsthathe’deventuallycomeroundonhisown.Thatwasthepoint:nottoforcehimintoit,buttomakehimseethewisdomoftheplanforhimself.IwantedhimtowantwhatIwanted,tofeelsoconvincedbymyproposalthathewouldactuallybegmetodoit,andallI’ddonewasleavehimbehind,scaringhimoffwithmythreatsandhalf-bakedplatitudes.NowonderhethoughtIwascrazy.I’dletthewholethinggetoutofhand,andnow,justwhenweshouldhavebeengettingstarted,hewasalreadystandingupandmakinghiswayfortheexit.

Iwasn’tworriedaboutthat.I’dlockedthedoorfromtheinside,anditcouldn’tbeopenedwithoutthekey—whichhappenedtobeinmypocket.Still,Ididn’twanthimpullingontheknobandrattlingtheframe.Hemighthavestartedshoutingatmethentolethimout,andwithhalfadozenpeopleworkinginthekitchenatthathour,theruckussurelywouldhavebroughtthemrunning.So,thinkingonlyaboutthatsmallpointandignoringthelargerconsequences,Iopenedthedrawerofmydeskandremovedthemaster’sgun.Thatwasthemistakethatfinallydidmein.BypointingthatgunatDizzy,Icrossedtheboundarythatseparatesidletalkfrompunishablecrimes,andthenightmareI’dsetinmotioncouldnolongerbestopped.Butthegunwascrucial,wasn’tit?Itwasthelinchpinofthewholebusiness,andatonemomentoranotheritwasboundtocomeoutofthatdrawer.PullthetriggeronDizzy—andthusgobacktothedesertanddothejobthatwasneverdone.MakehimbegfordeathinthesamewayMasterYehudihadbegged,andthenundothewrongbysummoningthecouragetoact.

Noneofthatmattersnow.I’dalreadybotcheditbythetimeDizzystoodup,andpullingoutthegunwasnomorethanadesperateattempttosaveface.Italkedhimbackintothechair,andforthenextfifteenminutesImadehimsweatalotmorethanI’deverintendedto.Forallhisswaggerandsize,Deanwasaphysicalcoward,andwheneverabrawlbrokeouthe’dduckbehindthenearestpieceoffurniture.Ialreadyknewhisreputation,butthegunterrorizedhimevenmorethanIthoughtitwould.Itactuallymadehimcry,andashesattheremoaningandblubberinginhisseat,Ialmostpulledthetriggerjusttoshuthimup.Hewasbeggingmeforhislife—nottokillhim,buttolethimlive—anditwasallsoupside-down,sodifferentfromhowI’dimaginedit

wouldbe,Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Thestandoffcouldhavegoneonallday,butthen,justaroundnoon,someoneknockedonthedoor.I’dleftclearinstructionsthatIwasn’ttobedisturbed,butsomeonewasknockingjustthesame.

“Diz?”awoman’svoicesaid.“Isthatyouinthere,Diz?”

Itwashiswife,Pat:abossy,no-nonsensepieceofworkifthereeverwasone.She’dcomebytopickupherhusbandforalunchdateatLemmele’s,andofcourseDizzyhadtoldherwhereshecouldfindhim,whichwasyetanotherpotentialsnagI’dneglectedtothinkof.She’dbargedintomyclublookingforherhenpeckedbetterhalf,andonceshecollaredthesous-chefinthekitchen(whowasbusychoppingspudsandslicingcarrots),shemadesuchanuisanceofherselfthatthepoorsapfinallyspilledthebeans.Heledherupthestairsanddownthehall,andthatwashowshehappenedtobestandinginfrontofmyofficedoor,poundingonthewhiteveneerwithherangrybitchknuckles.

ShortofplantingabulletinDizzy’shead,therewasnothingIcoulddobutputawaytherevolverandopenthedoor.Theshitwassuretohitthefanatthatpoint—unlessthebigguycamethroughformeanddecidedtoplaymum.Fortensecondsmylifedangledfromthatgossamerthread:ifhewastooembarrassedtotellherhowscaredhe’dbeen,he’dkeeptheimbrogliotohimself.Iputonmywarmest,mostdebonairsmileasMrs.Deansteppedintotheroom,buthersnivelinghusbandgavethewholethingawaytheinstantheseteyesonher.“Thelittlefuckerwasgonnakillme!”hesaid,blurtingoutthegoodsinahigh-pitched,incredulousvoice.“Hewasholdin’aguntomyhead,andthelittlefuckerwasgonnashoot!”

Thosewerethewordsthatknockedmeoutofthenightclubbusiness.InsteadofkeepingtheirreservationatLemmele’s,PatandDizzytrampedoutofmyofficeandheadedstraightforthelocalprecincttoswearoutacomplaintagainstme.Pattoldmetheyweregoingtodoasmuchwhensheslammedthedoorinmyface,butIdidn’tstiramuscle.IjustsatbehindmydeskandmarveledathowstupidIwas,tryingtocollectmythoughtsbeforethebullsshoweduptocartmeaway.Ittookthemlessthananhour,andIwentoffwithoutapeep,smilingandcrackingjokeswhentheyputthecuffsaroundmywrists.IfnotforBingo,ImighthavedonesomeserioustimeformylittlestabatplayingGod,buthehadalltherightconnections,andadealwasstruckbeforethecaseevercametocourt.Itwasjustaswellthatway.Notonlyforme,butforDizzytoo.Atrialwouldn’thavebeengoodforhim—notwithalltheflakandscandal-mongeringthatwouldhavegonewithit—andhewasperfectlyhappytoacceptthecompromise.Thejudgegavemeachoice.PleadguiltytoalesserchargeanddosixtoninemonthsatJoliet,or

elseleaveChicagoandenlistinthearmy.Ioptedtowalkthroughtheseconddoor.Itwasn’tthatIhadanygreatdesiretowearauniform,butIfiguredI’doutstayedmywelcomeinChicagoandthatitwastimetomoveon.

Bingohadpulledstringsandpaidbribestokeepmeoutofthecan,butthatdidn’tmeanhehadanysympathyforwhatI’ddone.HethoughtIwasnuts,ninety-nine-point-nine-percentnuts.Bumpingoffaguyformoneywasonething,butwhatkindofdimwitwouldgoafteranationaltreasurelikeDizzyDean?Youhadtobestarkravingmadtocookupathinglikethat.That’swhatIprobablywas,Isaid,anddidn’ttrytoexplainmyself.Lethimthinkwhathewantedtothinkandleaveitatthat.Therewasapricetopay,ofcourse,butIwasn’tinanypositiontoargue.Inlieuofcashforservicesrendered,IagreedtocompensateBingoforhislegalhelpbysigningovermyshareoftheclubtohim.LosingMr.Vertigo’swashardonme,butnothalfashardasgivinguptheacthadbeen,notatenthashardaslosingthemaster.Iwasnobodyspecialnow.Justmyoldordinaryselfagain:WalterClaireborneRawley,atwenty-six-year-oldG.I.withashorthaircutandapairofemptypockets.Welcometotherealworld,pal.Igavemysuitstothebusboys,Ikissedmygirlfriendsgood-bye,andthenclimbedaboardthemilktrainandheadedforbootcamp.ConsideringwhatIwasabouttoleavebehindme,IsupposeIwaslucky.

Bythen,Dizzywasgone,too.Hisseasonhadconsistedofonegame,andafterPittsburghshelledhimforthreerunsinthefirstinningofhisfirststart,he’dfinallycalleditquits.Idon’tknowifmyscaretacticshadknockedsomesenseintohim,butIfeltgladwhenIreadabouthisdecision.TheCubsgavehimajobastheirfirst-basecoach,butamonthlaterhegotabetterofferfromtheFalstaffBrewingCompanyinSaintLouis,andhewentbacktotheoldtowntoworkasaradioannouncerfortheBrownsandCardinalsgames.“Thisjobain’tgonnachangemenone,”hesaid.“I’mjustgonnaspeakplainol’pinto-beanEnglish.”Youhadtohandittothebigclodhopper.Thepublicwentforthefolksygarbagehespewedoutovertheairwaves,andhewassuchasuccessatitthattheykepthimonfortwenty-fiveyears.Butthat’sanotherstory,andIcan’tsaythatIpaidmuchattentiontohim.OnceIleftChicago,ithadnothingtodowithmeanymore.

IV

Myeyesweretooweakforflightschool,soIspentthenextfouryearscrawlingthroughthemud.Ibecameanexpertinthehabitsofwormsandothercreatureswhoslitheralongthegroundandpreyonhumanskinfornourishment.Thejudgehadsaidthearmywouldmakeamanofme,andifeatingdirtandwatchinglimbsflyoffsoldiers’bodiesisproofofmanhood,thenIsupposetheHonorableCharlesP.McGuffincalleditright.AsfarasI’mconcerned,thelesssaidaboutthosefouryearsthebetter.Atfirst,Ithoughtseriouslyaboutswingingamedicaldischargeformyself,butIcouldneverfindthecouragetogothroughwithit.Myplanwastostartlevitatingagaininsecret—andbringonsuchviolent,cripplingattacksofpainthatthey’dbeforcedtosendmehome.Theproblemwas,Ihadnohometogotoanymore,andonceI’dmulledoverthesituationforalittlewhile,IrealizedthatIpreferredtheuncertaintyofcombattothecertaintortureofthoseheadaches.

Ididn’tdistinguishmyselfasasoldier,butIdidn’tdisgracemyselfeither.Ididmyjob,Iavoidedtrouble,I,hunginthereanddidn’tgetkilled.WhentheyfinallyshippedmebackinNovember1945,Iwasburnedout,incapableofthinkingaheadormakingplans.Idriftedaroundforthreeorfouryears,mostlyupanddowntheeastcoast.ThelongeststretchwasinBoston.Iworkedasabartenderthere,supplementingmyincomebyplayingthehorsesandsittinginonaweeklypokergameatSpiro’spoolhallintheNorthEnd.Itwasonlymedium-stakesaction,butifyoukeeponwinningthoseonesandfives,itbeginstoaddup.Iwasjustonthepointofputtingtogetheradealtoopenaplaceofmyownwhenmyluckturnedsour.Mynesteggdribbledaway,Iwentintodebt,andbeforemanymoonshadpassed,IhadtosneakoutoftowntosloughofftheloansharksIwasinhockto.FromthereIwenttoLongIslandandfoundajobinconstruction.Thoseweretheyearswhensuburbsweresproutinguparoundthecities,andIwentwherethemoneywas,doingmybittochangethelandscapeandturntheworldintowhatitlooksliketoday.Allthoseranchhousesandtidylawnsandspindlylittletreeswrappedinburlap—Iwastheguywhoputthemthere.Itwasdrearywork,butIstuckwithitforeighteenmonths.Atonepoint,forreasonsIcan’texplain,Iletmyselfgettalkedintomarriage.Itdidn’tlastmorethanhalfayear,andthewholeexperienceissofoggytomenow,Ihavetroublerememberingwhatmywifelookedlike.IfIdon’tthinkhardaboutit,Ican’tevenrememberhername.

Ihadnoideawhatwaswrongwithme.Ihadalwaysbeensofast,soquicktopounceonopportunitiesandturnthemtomyadvantage,butnowIfeltsluggish,outofsync,unabletokeepupwiththeflow.Theworldwaspassing

meby,andtheoddestthingaboutitwasthatIdidn’tcare.Ihadnoambitions.Iwasn’tonthemakeorlookingforanedge.Ijustwantedtobeleftinpeace,toscrapealongasbestIcouldandgowheretheworldtookme.I’dalreadydreamedmybigdreams.Theyhadn’tgottenmeanywhere,andnowIwastooexhaustedtothinkofanynewones.Letsomeoneelsecarrytheballforachange.I’ddroppeditalongtimeago,anditwasn’tworththeefforttobenddownandpickitup.

In1950,Imovedacrosstherivertoalow-rentapartmentinNewark,NewJersey,andstartedmyninthortenthjobsincethewar.TheMeyerhoffBakingCompanyemployedovertwohundredpeople,andinthreeeight-hourshiftswechurnedouteverybakedgoodimaginable.Thereweresevendifferentvarietiesofbreadalone:white,rye,wholewheat,pumpernickel,raisin,cinnamonraisin,andBavarianblack.Addintwelvekindsofcookies,tenkindsofcakes,sixkindsofdoughnuts,alongwithbreadsticks,breadcrumbs,anddinnerrolls,andyoubegintounderstandwhythefactorywasinoperationtwenty-fourhoursaday.Istartedoutontheassemblyline,adjustingandpreparingthecellophanewrappersthatwentaroundthepre-slicedloavesofbread.IfiguredI’dstickaroundforafewmonthsatmost,butonceIcaughtthehangofit,itturnedouttobeadecentplacetoearnaliving.Thesmellsinthatfactoryweresopleasant,andwiththearomaoffreshbreadandsugarwaftingcontinuallythroughtheair,thehoursdidn’tdragasheavilyastheyhadonmyotherjobs.Thatwaspartofitinanycase,butevenmoreimportantwasthelittleredheadwhostartedmakingeyesatmeaboutaweekafterIgotthere.Shewasn’tmuchtolookat,atleastnotcomparedtotheshowgirlsI’dhorsedaroundwithinChicago,buttherewasabemusedflickerinthosegreeneyesthatstruckachordwithme,andIdidn’twastemuchtimeingettingtoknowher.I’vemadeonlytwogooddecisionsinmylife.ThefirstonewasfollowingMasterYehudiontothattrainwhenIwasnineyearsold.ThesecondonewasmarryingMollyFitzsimmons.Mollyputmetogetheragain,andconsideringthekindofshapeIwasinwhenIlandedinNewark,thatwasnosmalljob.

HermaidennamewasQuinn,andshewasthissideofthirtywhenwemet.She’dmarriedherfirsthusbandstraightoutofhighschool,andfiveyearslaterhewasdraftedintothearmy.Byallaccounts,Fitzsimmonswasafriendly,hardworkingmick,buthiswarhadbeenlessluckythanmine.HetookabulletatMessinain‘forty-three,andsincethenMollyhadbeenonherown,ayoungwidowwithoutanykidslookingafterherselfandwaitingforsomethingtohappen.Godknowswhatshesawinme,butIfellforherbecauseshemademefeelcomfortable,becauseshebroughtoutmyoldwise-crackingselfandknewagoodjokewhensheheardone.Therewasnothingflashyabouther,nothingtomakeherstandoutinacrowd.Passheronthe

street,andshewasjustanotherworkingstiff’swife:oneofthosewomenwithpudgyhipsandabroadbottomwhodidn’tbothertoputonmakeupunlessshewasgoingouttoarestaurant.Butshehadspirit,Mollydid,andinherownquiet,watchfulway,shewasassharpasanypersonI’veeverknown.Shewaskind;shedidn’tbeargrudges;shestoodupformeandnevertriedtoturnmeintosomeoneIwasn’t.Ifshewasabitofaslobasahousekeeperandsomethinglessthanagoodcook,thatdidn’tmatter.Shewasn’tmyservant,afterall,shewasmywife.ShewasalsotheonetruefriendI’dhadsincemydaysinKansaswithAesopandMotherSioux,thefirstwomanI’deverloved.

Welivedinasecond-floorwalkupapartmentintheIronboundsectionofNewark,andsinceMollywasn’tabletobearchildren,itwasalwaysjustthetwoofus.Imadeherquitherjobafterthewedding,butIstuckwithmine,andovertheyearsIrosethroughtheranksatMeyerhoff’s.Acouplecouldgetbyononesalarybackthen,andaftertheypromotedmetoforemanofthenightshift,wehadnomoneyworriestospeakof.ItwasamodestlifebythestandardsI’doncesetformyself,butI’dchangedenoughnottocareaboutthatanymore.Wewenttothemoviestwiceaweek,weateoutonSaturdaynight,wereadbooksandwatchedthetube.Inthesummer,wedrovedowntotheshoreatAsburyPark,andnearlyeverySundaywegottogetherwithoneofMolly’srelatives.TheQuinnswerealargefamily,andherbrothersandsistershadallmarriedandbegottenchildren.Thatgavemefourbrothers-in-law,foursisters-in-law,andthirteenniecesandnephews.Foramanwithnokidsofhisown,Iwasuptomyelbowsinyoungsters,butIcan’tsayIobjectedtomyroleasUncleWalt.Mollywasthegoodfairygodmother,andIwasthecourtjester:thechunkylittleguywithallthosequipsandslapstickgags,RootieKazootierollingdownthestepsofthebackporch.

Ispenttwenty-threeyearswithMolly—agoodlongrun,Isuppose,butnotlongenough.Myplanwastogrowoldwithheranddieinherarms,butcancercamealongandtookherfrommebeforeIwasreadytoletgo.Firstonebreastwent,thentheotherbreast,andbythetimeshewasfifty-five,shewasn’tthereanymore.Thefamilydidwhatitcouldtohelp,butitwasanawfulperiodforme,andIspentthenextsixorsevenmonthsinanalcoholicstupor.ItgotsobadthatIeventuallylostmyjobatthefactory,andiftwoofmybrothers-in-lawhadn’thauledmeofftoadrying-outclinic,there’snotellingwhatmighthavehappenedtome.Istayedforafullsixty-daycureatSaintBarnabasHospitalinLivingston,andthat’swhereIfinallystarteddreamingagain.Idon’tmeandaydreamsandthoughtsaboutthefuture,Imeanactualsleepdreams:vivid,movie-showextravaganzasalmosteverynightforamonth.MaybeithadsomethingtodowiththedrugsandtranquilizersIwastaking,Idon’tknow,butforty-fouryearsaftermylastperformanceasWalttheWonderBoy,itallcamerushingbacktome.Iwas

backonthecircuitwithMasterYehudi,travelingfromtowntotowninthePierceArrow,doingmyactagaineverynight.Itmademeincrediblyhappy,anditbroughtbackpleasuresI’dlongsinceforgottenIcouldfeel.Iwaswalkingonwateragain,struttingmystuffbeforegigantic,overflowingcrowds,andIcouldmovethroughtheairwithoutpain,floatingandspinningandprancingwithallofmyoldvirtuosityandassurance.I’dworkedsohardtoburythosememories,hadstruggledforsomanyyearstohugtothegroundandbelikeeveryoneelse,andnowitwasallsurgingupagain,blastingforthinanightlydisplayofTechnicolorfireworks.Thosedreamsturnedeverythingaroundforme.Theygavemebackmypride,andafterthatIwasnolongerashamedtolookatthepast.Idon’tknowhowelsetoputit.Themasterhadforgivenme.He’dcanceledoutmydebttohimbecauseofMolly,becauseofhowI’dlovedherandmournedher,andnowhewascallingouttomeandaskingmetorememberhim.There’snowaytoproveanyofthis,buttheeffectwasundeniable.Somethinghadbeenliftedinsideme,andIwalkedoutofthatdrunktankassoberasIamnow.Iwasfifty-eightyearsold,mylifewasinruins,andyetIdidn’tfeeltoobadaboutit.Whenallwassaidanddone,Iactuallyfeltprettygood.

Molly’smedicalbillshadwipedoutwhatevercashwe’dmanagedtosave.Iwasfourmonthsbehindontherent,thelandlordwasthreateningtoevictme,andtheonlythingIownedwasmycar—aseven-year-oldFordFairlanewithadentedgrilleandafaultycarburetor.AboutthreedaysafterIleftthehospital,myfavoritenephewcalledmefromDenveraboutajob.Danwasthebrightoneinthefamily—thefirstcollegeprofessorthey’deverhad—andhe’dbeenlivingouttherewithhiswifeandsonforthepastfewyears.Sincehisfatherhadalreadytoldhimhowhard-upIwas,Ididn’twastemybreathtellingfibsaboutmybigbankaccount.Thejobwasn’tmuch,hesaid,butmaybeachangeofscenerywoulddomegood.Whatsortofjob?Iasked.Maintenanceengineer,hereplied,tryingnottomakeitsoundtoofunny.Youmeanajanitor?Isaid.That’sit,hesaid,amopjockey.Apositionhadopenedupinthebuildingwherehetaughthisclasses,andifIfeltlikemovingtoDenver,he’dputinawordformeandswingthedeal.Sure,Isaid,whythehellnot,andtwodayslaterIpackedsomethingsintotheFordandsetofffortheRockyMountains.

IneverdidmakeittoDenver.Itwasn’tbecausethecarbrokedown,anditwasn’tbecauseIhadsecondthoughtsaboutbecomingajanitor,butthingshappenedalongtheway,andinsteadofwindingupinoneplace,Iwoundupinanother.It’sreallynothardtoexplain.Comingsosoonafterallthosedreamsinthehospital,thetripbroughtbackafloodofmemories,andbythetimeIcrossedtheKansasborder,Icouldn’tresistmakingashort,sentimentaldetourtothesouth.Itwasn’tsofaroutoftheway,Itoldmyself,andDan

wouldn’tmindifIwasalittleslowingettingthere.IjustwantedtospendafewhoursinWichita—andgobacktoMrs.Witherspoon’shousetoseewhattheoldplacelookedlike.Once,notlongafterthewar,I’dtriedtolookherupinNewYork,buttherewasnolistingforherinthephonebook,andI’dforgottenthenameofhercompany.ForallIknewshewasdeadnow,justlikeeveryoneelseI’devercaredabout.

Thecityhadgrownalotsincethe1920s,butitstillwasn’tmyideaofagoodtime.Thereweremorepeople,morebuildings,andmorestreets,butonceIadjustedtothechanges,itturnedouttobethesamebackwaterpancakeIremembered.Theycalleditthe“AirCapitaloftheWorld”now,anditgavemeagoodlaughwhenIsawthatsloganplasteredonbillboardsaroundtown.Thechamberofcommercewasreferringtoalltheaircraftcompaniesthathadsetupfactoriesthere,butIcouldn’thelpthinkingaboutmyself,theoriginalbirdboywho’doncecalledWichitahishome.Ihadsometroublefindingthehouse,whichmademytourabitmorethoroughthanI’dplannedWaybackwhen,ithadbeenlocatedontheoutskirtsoftown,sittingbyitselfonadirtroadthatledtoopencountry,butnowitwaspartoftheresidentialhub,andotherhouseshadbeenbuiltaroundit.ThestreetwascalledCoronadoAvenue,anditcamewithallthemodernaccoutrements:sidewalks,streetlamps,andablacktopsurfacewithawhitestriperunningdownthemiddle.Butthehouselookedgood,therewasnoquestionaboutthat:theshinglesgleamedwhiteunderthegrayNovembersky,andthelittletreesthatMasterYehudihadplantedinthefrontyardtoweredovertherooflikegiants.Whoeverownedtheplacehadbeentreatingitwell,andnowthatitwassoold,ithadtakenontheairofsomethinghistoric,avenerablemansionfromabygoneage.

Iparkedthecarandwalkedupthestepsofthefrontporch.Itwaslateafternoon,butalightwasoninafirst-floorwindow,andnowthatIwasthere,IfiguredIhadtogothroughwithitandringthebell.Ifthepeopleweren’togres,theymightevenletmeinandshowmearoundforoldtime’ssake.ThatwasallIwashopingfor:justaglimpse.Itwascoldoutontheporch,andasIstoodtherewaitingforsomeonetoappear,Icouldn’thelpthinkingbacktothefirsttimeI’dcometothishouse,half-deadfromlosingmywayinthatinfernalblizzard.IhadtoringtwicebeforeIheardfootstepsstirringwithin,andwhenthedoorfinallyopened,IwassowrappedupinrememberingmyfirstencounterwithMrs.Witherspoon,ittookacoupleofsecondsbeforeIrealizedthatthewomanstandinginfrontofmewasnoneotherthanMrs.Witherspoonherself:anolder,frailer,morewrinkledversiontobesure,butthesameMrs.Witherspoonforallthat.Iwouldhaveknownheranywhere.Shehadn’tgainedapoundsince1936;herhairwasdyedthesamesnazzyshadeofred;andherbrightblueeyeswereasblueandbrightas

ever.Shewasseventy-fourorseventy-fivebythen,butshedidn’tlookadayoversixty—sixty-threetops.Stilldressedinfashionableclothes,stillholdingherselferect,shecametothedoorwithaburningcigarettewedgedbetweenherlipsandaglassofScotchinherlefthand.Youhadtoloveawomanlikethat.TheworldhadgonethroughuntoldchangesandcatastrophessinceI’dlastseteyesonher,butMrs.Witherspoonwasthesametoughbroadshe’dalwaysbeen.

Irecognizedherbeforesherecognizedme.Thatwasunderstandable,sincetimehadtakenamoredrastictollonmylooksthanonhers.Myfreckleshadallbutvanishednow,andI’dturnedintoasquat,dumpysortofguywiththinninggrayhairandasetofCoke-bottlelensesperchedonmynose.Hardlythedashingsmoothyshe’ddinedwithatLemmele’sthirty-eightyearsbefore.Iwasdressedindullworkadayclothes—lumberjacket,khakipants,cordovanshoes,whitesocks—andmycollarwasturneduptowardoffthechill.Sheprobablycouldn’tseemuchofmyface,andwhatshecouldseewassohaggard,sowornoutfrommystrugglewiththebooze,therewasn’tanythingtobedonebuttotellherwhoIwas.

Therestgoeswithoutsaying,doesn’tit?Tearswereshed,storiesweretold,wegabbedandcarriedonuntiltheweesmallhours.ItwasauldlangsyneonCoronadoAvenue,andIdoubttherecouldhavebeenabetterreunionthantheonewehadthatnight.I’vealreadygiventhegistofwhathappenedtome,butherstorywasnolessstrange,nolessunexpectedthanmine.InsteadofparlayinghermillionsintomoremillionsduringtheTexaswildcatboom,she’dsunkherdrillsintodrygroundandgonebust.Theoilgamewaslargelyguessworkbackthen,andshemadeonetoomanybadguesses.By1938,she’dlostnine-tenthsofherfortune.Thatstilldidn’tqualifyherasapauper,butshewasnolongerintheFifthAvenueleague,andafterfloatingafewmoreventuresthatdidn’tpanout,shefinallypackeditinandreturnedtoWichita.Shethoughtitwouldbeonlytemporary:afewmonthsintheoldhousetotakestockandthenontothenextbrightidea.Butonethingledtoanother,andbythetimethewarcameshewasstillthere.Inwhatcanonlybecalledastartlingabout-face,shegotcaughtupinthepatrioticfervorofthetimeandspentthenextfouryearsworkingasavolunteernurseattheWichitaV.A.Hospital.Iwashard-pressedtoimagineherdoingthatFlorenceNightingalebit,butMrs.W.wasawomanofmanysurprises,andifmoneywasherstrongpoint,itwasbynomeanstheonlythingshethoughtabout.Afterthewarshewentintobusinessagain,butthistimeshestayedinWichita,andlittlebylittleshebuiltitintoaniceprofitableconcern.WithLaundromatsofallthings.Itsoundsfunnyafterallthathigh-stakesspeculationinstocksandoil—butwhynot?Shewasoneofthefirsttoseethecommercialpossibilitiesofthewashingmachine,andshegotajumpon

hercompetitorsbyenteringthefieldearly.BythetimeIshowedupin1974,shehadtwentyLaundromatsscatteredaroundthecityandanothertwelveinneighboringtowns.TheHouseofClean,shecalledthem,andallthosedimesandquartershadturnedherintoawealthywomanagain.

Andwhataboutmen?Iasked.Oh,lotsofmen,sheanswered,morementhanyoucouldshakeastickat.AndOrvilleCox—whatabouthim?Deadandgone,shesaid.AndBillyBigelow?Stillamongtheliving.Asamatteroffact,hishousewasjustaroundthecorner.She’dbroughthimintotheLaundromatbusinessafterthewar,andhe’dworkedashermanagerandright-handmanuntilhisretirementsixmonthsago.YoungBillywaspushingseventynow,andwithtwoheartattacksalreadybehindhim,thedoctorhadtoldhimtogoeasyonthepump.Hiswifehaddiedsevenoreightyearsback,andwithhiskidsallgrownandgone,BillyandMrs.Witherspoonwerestillinclosetouch.Shedescribedhimasthebestfriendshe’deverhad,andfromthewayhervoicesoftenedwhenshesaidit,Igatheredthatrelationsbetweenthemwentbeyondsimpleshoptalkaboutwashersanddryers.Ahha,Isaid,sopatiencefinallywonout,andsweetlittleBillygotwhathewanted.Shethrewmeoneofherdevilishwinks.Sometimes,shesaid,butnotalways.Itdependsonmymood.

Itdidn’ttakemucharm-twistingtogetmetostay.Thejanitorthingwasonlyastopgapmeasure,andnowthatsomethingbetterhadturnedup,Ididn’thavetothinktwiceaboutchangingmyplans.Thesalarywasonlyasmallpartofit,ofcourse.IwasbackwhereIbelonged,andwhenMrs.WitherspooninvitedmetostepinandtakeoverBilly’soldjob,ItoldherI’dstartfirstthinginthemorning.Itdidn’tmatterwhattheworkwas.Ifshe’dinvitedmetostayontoscrubthepotsinherkitchen,Iwouldhavesaidyestothat,too.

Isleptinthesametop-floorroomI’doccupiedasaboy,andonceIlearnedthebusiness,Ididallrightforher.Ikeptthewashingmachineshumming,Ijackedprofitsup,Ipersuadedhertoexpandindifferentdirections:abowlingalley,apizzajoint,apinballarcade.Withallthecollegekidspouringintotowneveryfall,therewasademandforquickfoodandcheapentertainment,andIwasjustthemantoprovidethosethings.Iputinlonghoursandworkedmybunsoff,butIlikedbeinginchargeofsomethingagain,andmostofmyschemesturnedoutprettywell.Mrs.Witherspooncalledmeacowboy,whichfromhermouthwasacompliment,andforthefirstthreeorfouryearswegallopedalongatasprightlyclip.Then,verysuddenly,Billydied.Itwasanotherheartattack,butthisonetookplaceonthetwelfthfairwayoftheCherokeeAcresCountryClub,andbythetimethemedicsgottohim,hehadalreadybreathedhislast.Mrs.W.wentintoatailspinafterthat.Shestoppedgoingtotheofficewithmeinthemorning,andlittlebylittlesheseemedto

loseinterestinthecompany,leavingmostofthedecisionsinmyhands.I’dbeenthroughsomethinglikethatwithMolly,butitwasn’tmuchgoodtellingherthattimewouldtakecareofit.Theonethingshedidn’thavewastime.Themanhadworshipedherforfiftyyears,andnowthathewasgone,noonewasevergoingtoreplacehim.

Onenightinthemidstofallthis,IheardhersobbingthroughthewallsasIlayupstairsreadinginbed.Iwentdowntoherroom,wetalkedforawhile,andthenItookherinmyarmsandheldheruntilshedriftedofftosleep.Somehoworother,Iwoundupfallingasleep,too,andwhenIwokeinthemorningIfoundmyselflyingunderthecoverswithherinthelargedoublebed.Itwasthesamebedshe’dsharedwithMasterYehudiintheolddays,andnowitwasmyturntosleepbesideher,tobethemanshecouldn’tlivewithout.Itwasmostlyamatterofcomfort,ofcompanionship,ofpreferringtosleepinonebedratherthantwo,butthatisn’ttosaythesheetsdidn’tcatchfireeverynowandthen.Justbecauseyougetold,thatdoesn’tmeanyoustopgettingtheurge,andwhateverqualmsIhadaboutitinthebeginningsoonwentaway.Forthenextelevenyearswelivedtogetherlikehusbandandwife.Idon’tfeelIhavetomakeanyapologiesforthat.OnceuponatimeI’dbeenyoungenoughtobeherson,butnowIwasolderthanmostgrandfathers,andwhenyougettobethatage,youdon’thavetoplaybytherulesanymore.Yougowhereyouhavetogo,andwhateverittakestokeeponbreathing,that’swhatyoudo.

Shestayedingoodhealthformostofthetimeweweretogether.Inhermid-eightiesshewasstilldrinkingacoupleofScotchesbeforedinnerandsmokingtheoccasionalcigarette,andmostdayssawherwithenoughspunktodollherselfupandgooutforaspininhergiantblueCadillac.Shelivedtobeninetyorninety-one(itwasneverclearwhichcenturyshe’dbeenbornin),andthingsdidn’tgettooroughforheruntilthelasteighteenmonthsorso.Towardstheendshewasmostlyblind,mostlydeaf,mostlyunabletogetoutofbed,butsheremainedherselfforallthat,andratherthanputherintoahomeorhireanursetotakecareofher,Isoldoffthebusinessanddidthedirtyworkmyself.Iowedherthatmuch,didn’tI?Ibathedherandcombedherhair;Icarriedheraroundthehouseinmyarms;Iwipedtheshitfromherassaftereveryaccident,justasshehadoncewipedmine.

Thefuneralwasabang-upaffair.Imadesureofthatanddidn’tstintontheextras.Everythingbelongedtomenow—thehouse,thecars,themoneyshe’dmadeforherself,themoneyI’dmadeforher—andsincetherewasenoughinthecookiejartokeepmegoingforanotherseventy-fiveorhundredyears,Idecidedtothrowherabigsend-off,thebiggestbashWichitahadeverseen.Ahundredandfiftycarsjoinedinthemotorcadetothecemetery.Trafficwas

tangledupformilesaround,andoncetheburialwasover,mobstrampedthroughthehouseuntilthreeo’clockinthemorning,swillingliquorandstuffingtheirmawswithturkeylegsandcakes.I’mnotgoingtosayIwasarespectablememberofthecommunity,butI’dearnedsomerespectformyselfovertheyears,andpeoplearoundtownknewwhoIwas.WhenIaskedthemtocomeforMarion,theyturnedoutindroves.

Thatwasayearandahalfago.ForthefirstcoupleofmonthsImopedaroundthehouse,notquitesurewhattodowithmyself.I’dneverbeenfondofgardening,golfhadboredmethetwoorthreetimesI’dplayedit,andatseventy-sixIdidn’thaveanyhankeringtogointobusinessagain.BusinesshadbeenfunbecauseofMarion,butwithoutheraroundtoliventhingsup,therewouldn’thavebeenanypoint.IthoughtaboutgettingawayfromKansasforafewmonthsandseeingtheworld,butbeforeIcouldmakeanydefiniteplans,Iwasrescuedbytheideaofwritingthisbook.Ican’treallysayhowithappened.ItjusthitmeonemorningasIclimbedoutofbed,andlessthananhourlaterIwassittingatadeskintheupstairsparlorwithapeninmyhand,scratchingawayatthefirstsentence.IhadnodoubtthatIwasdoingsomethingthathadtobedone,andtheconvictionIfeltwassostrong,Irealizenowthatthebookmusthavecometomeinadream—butoneofthosedreamsyoucan’tremember,thatvanishtheinstantyouwakeupandopenyoureyesontheworld.

I’veworkedoniteverydaysincelastAugust,pushingalongfromwordtowordinmyclumsyoldman’sscript.Istartedoutwithaschoolcompositionbookfromthefive-and-ten,oneofthosehardboundthingswithablack-and-whitemarblecoverandwidebluelines,andbynowI’vefillednearlythirteenofthem,aboutoneamonthforeverymonthI’vebeenworking.Ihaven’tshownasinglewordtoanyone,andnowthatI’mattheend,I’mbeginningtothinkitshouldstaythatway—atleastwhileI’mstillkicking.Everywordinthesethirteenbooksistrue,butI’dbetbothmyelbowstherearen’tahellofalotofpeoplewho’dswallowthat.It’snotthatI’mafraidofbeingcalledaliar,butI’mtoooldnowtowastemytimedefendingmyselfagainstidiots.IranintoenoughdoubtingThomaseswhenMasterYehudiandIwereontheroad,andIhaveotherfishtofrynow,otherthingstokeepmebusyafterthisbookisdone.Firstthingtomorrowmorning,I’llgodowntowntothebankandputallthirteenvolumesinmysafe-depositbox.ThenI’llgoaroundthecornerandseemylawyer,JohnFusco,andhavehimaddaclausetomywillstatingthatthecontentsofthatboxshouldbelefttomynephew,DanielQuinn.DanwillknowwhattodowiththebookI’vewritten.He’llcorrectthespellingmistakesandgetsomeonetotypeupacleancopy,andonceMr.Vertigoispublished,Iwon’thavetobearoundtowatchthemugwumpsandmoronstrytokillme.I’llalreadybedead,andyoucanbesureI’llbelaughingatthem—

fromaboveorbelow,whicheverthecasemaybe.

Forthepastfouryearsacleaningwomanhasbeencomingtothehouseseveraltimesaweek.HernameisYolandaAbraham,andshe’sfromoneofthewarm-weatherislands—JamaicaorTrinidad,Iforgetwhich.Iwouldn’tcallheratalkativeperson,butwe’veknowneachotherlongenoughtobeonfairlycozyterms,andshewasagreathelptomeduringMarion’slastmonths.She’ssomewherebetweenthirtyandthirty-five,aroundblackwomanwithaslow,gracefulwalkandabeautifulvoice.AsfarasIknow,Yolandadoesn’thaveahusband,butshedoeshaveachild,aneight-year-oldboynamedYusef.EverySaturdayforthepastfouryears,she’sparkedheroffspringinthehousewithmewhileshedoesherwork,andhavingwatchedthiskidinactionformorethanhalfhislife,Icansayinallfairnessthathe’sonemonumentalpainintheass,ajuniorhooliganandwise-talkingbratwhosesolemissiononearthistospreadmayhemandbadwill.Totopitoff,YusefisoneoftheugliestchildrenI’veeverseteyeson.Hehasoneofthosejagged,scrawny,asymmetricallittlefaces,andthebodythatcomeswithitisapathetic,sticklikebundleofbones—evenifpoundforpoundithappenstobestrongerandmoresupplethanthebodiesofmostfullbacksintheNFL.Ihatethekidforwhathe’sdonetomyshins,mythumbs,andmytoes,butIalsoseemyselfinhimwhenIwasthatage,andsincehisfaceresemblesAesop’stoanalmostappallingdegree—somuchsothatMarionandIbothgaspedthefirsttimehewalkedintothehouse—Icontinuetoforgivehimeverything.Ican’thelpmyself.Theboyhasthedevilinhim.He’sbrashandrudeandincorrigible,buthe’slitupwiththefireoflife,anditdoesmegoodtowatchhimasheflingshimselfheadlongintoamaelstromoftrouble.WatchingYusef,Inowknowwhatthemastersawinme,andIknowwhathemeantwhenhetoldmeIhadthegift.Thisboyhasthegift,too.IfIcouldeverpluckupmycouragetospeaktohismother,I’dtakehimundermywinginasecond.Inthreeyears,I’dturnhimintothenextWonderBoy.He’dstartwhereIleftoff,andbeforelonghe’dgofartherthananyoneelsehasevergone.Christ,thatwouldbesomethingtolivefor,wouldn’tit?Itwouldmakethewholefuckingworldsingagain.

Theproblemisthethirty-threesteps.It’sonethingtotellYolandaIcanteachhersontofly,butoncewegotpastthathurdle,whatabouttherest?EvenI’msickenedbythethoughtofit.Havinggonethroughallthatcrueltyandtorturemyself,howcouldIbeartoinflictitonsomeoneelse?Theydon’tmakemenlikeMasterYehudianymore,andtheydon’tmakeboyslikemeeither:stupid,susceptible,stubborn.Welivedinadifferentworldbackthen,andthethingsthemasterandIdidtogetherwouldn’tbepossibletoday.Peoplewouldn’tstandforit.They’dcallinthecops,they’dwritetheircongressman,they’dconsulttheirfamilyphysician.We’renotastoughaswe

usedtobe,andmaybetheworld’sabetterplacebecauseofit,Idon’tknow.ButIdoknowthatyoucan’tgetsomethingfornothing,andthebiggerthethingyouwant,themoreyou’regoingtohavetopayforit.

Still,whenIthinkbacktomydreadfulinitiationinCibola,Ican’thelpwonderingifMasterYehudi’smethodsweren’ttooharsh.WhenIfinallygotoffthegroundforthefirsttime,itwasn’tbecauseofanythinghe’dtaughtme.Ididitbymyselfonthecoldkitchenfloor,anditcameafteralongsiegeofsobbinganddespair,whenmysoulbegantorushoutofmybodyandIwasnolongerconsciousofwhoIwas.Maybethedespairwastheonlythingthatreallymattered.Inthatcase,thephysicalordealsheputmethroughwerenomorethanasham,adiversiontotrickmeintothinkingIwasgettingsomewhere—wheninfactIwasneveranywhereuntilIfoundmyselflyingface-downonthatkitchenfloor.Whatiftherewerenostepsintheprocess?Whatifitallcamedowntoonemoment—oneleap—onelightninginstantoftransformation?MasterYehudihadbeentrainedintheoldschool,andhewasawizardatgettingmetobelieveinhishocus-pocusandhigh-flowntalk.Butwhatifhiswaywasn’ttheonlyway?Whatiftherewasasimpler,moredirectmethod,anapproachthatbeganfromtheinsideandbypassedthebodyaltogether?Whatthen?

Deepdown,Idon’tbelieveittakesanyspecialtalentforapersontolifthimselfoffthegroundandhoverintheair.Weallhaveitinus—everyman,woman,andchild—andwithenoughhardworkandconcentration,everyhumanbeingiscapableofduplicatingthefeatsIaccomplishedasWalttheWonderBoy.Youmustlearntostopbeingyourself.That’swhereitbegins,andeverythingelsefollowsfromthat.Youmustletyourselfevaporate.Letyourmusclesgolimp,breatheuntilyoufeelyoursoulpouringoutofyou,andthenshutyoureyes.That’showit’sdone.Theemptinessinsideyourbodygrowslighterthantheairaroundyou.Littlebylittle,youbegintoweighlessthannothing.Youshutyoureyes;youspreadyourarms;youletyourselfevaporate.Andthen,littlebylittle,youliftyourselfofftheground.

Likeso.

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