Next morning, Jonson and his boy are standing a few feet away on the platform, Jonson smoking a cigarette that won’t stay lit, the boy leaning against his barrel, singing softly to himself. The train is delayed; no one will say for how long. The rain comes and goes. Jonson flicks his cigarette onto the tracks, starts toward me.
You look like shit, he says. Even for a cripple.
His eyes are yellow beneath the pupils, his jaw line spotted with swollen pimples.
I got something to tell you, he says.
Yeah?
He starts rolling a second cigarette. He hunches over the paper, holds the tobacco close to his chest. His back looks near breaking; his arms are all bone, his stomach bloated. He’s been reduced to shuffling in his act—nothing but a steady beat for the boy.
A man came to see me, he says. About my son.
A man?
A browser. All the way from New York City.
About the boy?
None other.
What did he want?
Said he had a part only my boy could play.
In New York?
On a street I figure you heard of.
No surprise, I say. Like you said, the boy’s got talent.
True, but talent will keep. He ain’t ready. Not yet.
He might be.
You mean the way you was ready?
He walks back to where he’d been standing. The boy doesn’t seem to notice that he’s returned or that he’d ever gone. Jonson flicks his cigarette onto the tracks.
Cut that singing, he says. I hear the train.
I understand now why he keeps his son tied to a hinterland circuit. Watching them gather their gear as the train arrives, I start to imagine two lives for the boy: one with his father, and one without.
Osgood, Indiana
September 15, 1922
I walk down wide residential streets, cut through a park, come out in a neighborhood that’s been stripped bare and abandoned, all squat brick shells and broken glass. The cash in my pocket rubs against my thigh. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ll never get there, as if I’m walking in place, passing the same damaged facade, the same busted bicycle again and again. I quicken my stride, start to run.
There’s no sign naming the shop, just a number painted in black on the brick beside a tin mailbox. I ring the bell and the door opens inward. The old man has trouble getting out of its way. He’s dressed in sockfeet and frayed pajamas. Liver spots cover the backs of his hands, shade the peaks in his hairline.
Please enter, Mr. Swain.
I’m sorry to wake you.
Not at all.
Inside, the only light comes from a dim lamp clamped to a drafting table. A burlap scrim cuts the room in two.
Wait here while I fetch it, he says.
I watch him walk away, his heels rising off the ground, exposing the black bottoms of his white socks. He parts the curtain, lets it fall shut behind him. The front room is crowded with objects of his trade—a sewing machine with a cracked treadle, a mannequin torso dressed in lace jabot, teetering stacks of mismatched cloth. Near the center of the floor there’s a heap of dust that he’d swept into a mound but hadn’t bothered to discard. There are no family portraits, no upholstered chairs, no magazines or toys. The room smells like months of the old man’s breath and sweat.
I’ve found it, he calls through the curtain. Get yourself ready.
I unbutton my shirt, unbuckle my belt, remove my hook and strip to my underclothes.
This is it, Mr. Swain, he says, backing his way through the burlap. I trust you will be pleased.
He flicks on the overhead light, raises the suit to his chin. It’s studded with counterfeit gems, the fabric white, blue stripes sewn down the sleeves, glitter glued over every stitch. The collar is lined with rhinestones, the right sleeve wider than the left.
Please, he says. Try it on.
He wheels a mirror to the center of the room while I dress. I bend my knees, roll my shoulders, feel the fabric start to conform to my body. The tailor is grinning, applauding his own work. I slip my stump back in the socket. He takes my shoulders, turns me toward the mirror.
Every bit of me shines. Onstage, under the calcium spot, with sparkles stickered to the balls, I’ll look like fireworks exploding up a blind alley.
Jonson’s rolling his barrel offstage as I walk on. He claps his lips together, then whistles through the gaps in his teeth. The lights go down; a single beam spots me from top to bottom.
I start my routine, but something’s not right. The balls seem far away. I feel myself reaching for them. I move closer, deepen the bend in my arms. My eyes strain, maybe from the single light and the surrounding dark, maybe from the glint off the gems.
I make it through the first set, move to the edge of the stage, throw the balls up, hide my good hand behind my back. My hook spears loop after loop. I’m feeling steadier; faces in the front row seem to be smiling. One woman holds up her hands, fingers splayed, shielding herself.
I’m nearing the end but decide to keep going. I squat down, start the balls spinning faster. I hear people whispering. Everything is happening almost without me. But then one of the rhinestone cufflinks catches the light, deflects it in a sharp line that finds my eye. I jerk my head away, feel my hook scrape against the surface of a ball, watch the ball spin toward the audience, picking up speed in the air. It strikes the shin of an old woman in the front row, doubles her out of her seat. The audience stands as I back into the wings.
The manager fines me twice what I paid for the suit.
I’m feeling for the rag in my pocket when Jonson rattles my door.
Swainee, he says. I know you’re in there. You got nowhere else to be.
I swipe the vials under my pillow, pull the covers up the bed.
A minute, I say.
That’s right, he says. Make yourself decent.
I open the door; he doesn’t wait for me to invite him inside.
Want to talk some business, he says.
Yeah?
Come to make you an offer—discreet like. I got some you can buy.
How’s that?