Chapter 8
"Pat, no!" I heard
Charlie cry and I stood up to see the older boy grabbing a pitchfork from a
small pile of hay and coming my way.
"Wait a second," I said. "I'm just..."
"Pat!" Charlie said, latching on to his arm.
"Who are you and what are you doing in our barn?"
Pat asked. He was about eight or ten inches taller than I was. He had on
overalls and a plain white, long-sleeved shirt without a collar. It was more
gray than white. His hair was curly and red.
"I'm... I'm... I'm..." I said and Charlie looked at
me and violently shook his head "no."
"He's just visiting," he said.
"I'm just visiting," I said.
"Just got here."
"I just got here."
"Came from town."
"I came from Culver City."
"Run away."
"I ran away."
"From the stage show that pulled out earlier this
week."
"From the stage show..."
"Let him speak for himself," Pat said to his
younger brother but he put down the pitchfork. "Come over here," he
said.
I took a couple of steps toward the bigger boy.
"Sometimes Charlie here is like Tom Sawyer and he has a little trouble with
stretchers," he said. "You got any problem with stretchers?"
Do I have any problems with what? On the other hand, if
Charlie did, maybe I should, too.
"Well," I said, "as a matter of fact,
sometimes I have just about the most horrible time with stretchers in the whole
wide world."
"Is that right?" Pat said.
"Oh, yeah. Horrible time. I just... Just a horrible
time." That was when I saw Charlie shaking his head again.
"No?" I said. "I mean, no. No way, Jose! Not
me. Huh uh."
"No way, who?" Pat asked.
"I... I never have a problem with stretchers. Never
have, never will. Not me. I see a stretcher, I just nuke it. On the spot."
"Does he ever talk English?" Pat asked Charlie.
"Not much," Charlie said. "That's why..."
"Now it seems to me," Pat said, "if you say
you have a horrible time with stretchers and then you say you never tell
stretchers, well, then I guess that makes you someone who, for sure, does tell
them, doesn't it?"
"A stretcher is a lie?" I asked and Pat hooted.
"He's not too bright, is he?" he asked.
"That's why it took him so long to find the farm,"
Charlie said.
"It took him days?"
"You saw for yourself," Charlie said and he touched
his right index finger to his right temple. "Got a few bats in his
belfry."
Hey, now, wait a minute...
"Maybe he escaped from some asylum!" Pat said,
eyeing the pitchfork again.
"Or a convent center," Charlie said.
"What's that?"
"You know. A convent center."
"Oh," Pat said, looking confused. "Of course.
A convent center."
"But look at his funny clothes," Charlie said and
his brother nodded. "He's gotta be from the circus or the stage, eh?"
"I guess so."
Now what did they mean by that? I had on my baseball jacket,
a clean sports shirt, good blue jeans, white socks and regular old shoes. White
with blue slashes. The kind every kid wears.
"So he's a clown?" Pat asked.
"That's what I thought at first," Charlie said.
"That's a good guess, all right. But no. You go ahead and tell my brother
what you are."
"Me?" I asked.
"No, your Aunt Tilly," Pat said. "Of course
you."
"Oh, that's right," Charlie said. "He doesn't
really speak English. I'll tell you."
I nodded.
"He was on the stage," Charlie said.
"Vaudeville. Traveling from town to town. A show every night plus a matinee
on Saturday and Sunday."
"What's he do?" Pat asked.
"I'm a juggler," I said. "I juggle."
"He means he worked for a juggler," Charlie
jumped in. "He was a juggler's assistant. You know, making sure all the
balls and pins and rings and things were in their right place and..."
"No," I said. "I was a juggler."
"An apprentice," Charlie argued. "Just
starting out."
"All right," I said, "an apprentice. But a
darn good one."
Pat was half listening but he was staring at my shoes. There
were awful nice. I had gotten them a week ago. I mean, I had gotten them 87
years and 51 weeks from now.
"Those shoes sure are white," Pat said.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Town is over seven miles from here."
"Yeah."
"And you came all that way in the rain and the mud and
your shoes are all white. And your clothes are dry."
"Oh, that," I said. "I got a ride. Some car
stopped and picked me up."
"There's no railroad line between here and Culver
City," Pat said.
Who had said anything about a railroad?
"A car," I said. "I got a ride in a car."
"He means a wagon," Charlie said.
"Right," I told Pat. "A Volvo wagon."
"A what?"
"A four-door, Volvo..."
"Never mind," Pat said. "You come with me. Pa
will want to talk to you."
"Sure," I said. "That's no problem."
"And he'll want to ask you some questions."
"I suspect he would."
"And he'll want to see you juggle," Pat said.
"We're all going to watch you do that."
Go to Chapter
9.
