Evelyn smiled and took her mother’s hand. “I know,” she said. “Well…” she stood up “… I guess I’ll have to keep an open mind about Sonny. Aren’t you going into town this afternoon?”
Bess shook her head. “Dad has work to do, and so do I—and so do you.”
Evelyn went to the phone in the parlor, gave the crank a couple of quick turns, took down the receiver and put it to her ear. She pulled the mouthpiece down a couple of inches so she could reach it. She always had to if Harold had used the phone last.
“Hello, Reba,” she said, still having to stretch her neck a little. “Would you ring the Willets, please?” She smiled. “Fine. How are you?… Yes, I saw it last night. It’s really good. I think you’ll enjoy it… Thank you, Reba… Hello… Who’s this?… Finney? What are you doing there?… Is the judge paying you enough to see both shows again tonight?” She laughed. “Is Rose there? This is Evie… Yeah, it was really terrific all right. How was it the second time?… That’s good… Bye, Finney… Rose, Mama said you called… Probably. I’ll have to ask.”
She turned her head toward the bedroom and put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Mama?” she called.
“Yes,-, dear?”
“Rose is having a slumber party tonight. Is it okay if I go?”
“I suppose so, if you get all your chores done.”
“Thanks, Mama.” She turned back to the phone. “It’s okay, Rose… I don’t know if I can make it in time for supper or not. I have quite a few chores stacked up because we goofed off so much yesterday…Well, I’ll make it if I can… Bye, Rose.”
Evelyn hung up the receiver and looked thoughtfully out the window, her mind not on Rose’s slumber party.
12.
On the other side of the partition in Haverstock’s wagon, on the side opposite his office, was the room where Angel slept and where he and Haverstock spent their afternoons. The four sides of the room were almost solid with books. Only a space against one wall where Angel’s cot sat; the door in the partition; a small high window opposite the cot, closed against the outside heat; and a panel through which communication with the driver was possible: only those spaces in the comfortably cool room were not covered with books and locked cabinets.
Angel and Haverstock sat in facing chairs beneath the window in a little island of light. As the time neared midday, the sun’s rays entered at an oblique angle, sparkling dust motes in the air, giving silver fire to Angel’s hair and glistening the perspiration on his face.
Haverstock sat with his arms akimbo and his hands on his knees. He leaned forward into the shaft of sunlight and looked hard into Angel’s face. Angel was in an uneasytrance, his eyes like pink agates, his hands lying limp and palm-up in his lap.
“You’re fighting me, Angel,” the older man said softly. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve never behaved this way before. Stop fighting me!” he barked, then his voice softened again. “If only you could talk, my beautiful Angel.”
He leaned back in the chair, his face moving into shadow. “If you could talk, we would have finished all this years ago. It’s very slow with you sitting there like a dummy. If you could talk, you could tell me what the hell’s the matter with you.”
He leaned forward suddenly and slapped his knees. “Stop fighting me!” he said, his voice grating angrily. Angel’s body trembled, his muscles contracting as if an electric current ran through them. His jaw locked and his neck corded. New perspiration popped oat on his flushed face. His breath gurgled in his throat.
Then his body slumped. He closed his eyes and breathed with difficulty. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the other man with fear. He was out of the trance.
Haverstock sighed and sat back. “I’m sorry, Angel. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you do vex a body.” He took a pencil and pad from a shelf and handed them to Angel. Angel hesitantly took them.
“I’m about to ask you some questions and I want you to answer them. I want you to answer them truthfully and in full.” His voice smoothed into cream. “I don’t like to hurt you, Angel. You’re fighting me, my boy. You’ve never fought me before. You’ve always been as malleable as damp sand, as resistant as pudding. Tell me, Angel, my boy. Tell me why you are resisting me now.”
Angel looked at him in confusion, not knowing. He looked helplessly at the pencil and pad he held loosely in his hands. He raised his eyes to the other man and shook his head, frowning.
“Angel, do not aggravate me further. I asked why you are resisting my control. I want an answer!”
Still confused, Angel wrote I don’t know on the pad and held it up for Haverstock to see. Haverstock growled. His face flushed with anger.
Angel’s body jerked. His head flew back and a silent scream rattled in his throat. His elbows clamped to his sides. Then his muscles went limp. He slumped in the chair. The pencil and pad dropped from his flaccid hands.
“You see what your stubbornness has caused me to do?” Haverstock asked in martyred tones. “Angel, Angel, why do you make me do this? I am not a hard-hearted man. All I want from you is cooperation; the same cooperation you’ve always given me.” He smiled and patted Angel’s knee. “Now, we’re going to try once more. Pick up the pencil and the pad and tell me what is bothering you.”
Breathing heavily, Angel reached to the floor and retrieved the pencil and pad.
“We must resolve this, Angel, before we can continue with our work. I do not like this impasse. What has happened to cause this resistance? What little adventure have you had to bring this about? Have you had a tiny revelation? Have you learned something you would be better off not knowing? Where have you gotten this unexpected strength? Tell me, Angel.”
Angel looked at Haverstock, then drew a line underneath the words he had already written. He held up the pad.
His fingers writhed. The pad fluttered to the floor. He doubled up in the chair, clamping his arms across his stomach. His eyes bulged in his reddening, damp face. Spittle glistened on his slack lips. A rivulet of blood ran from his nose. His body shivered uncontrollably in the shaft of golden sunlight. The clock in the courthouse tower lazily began to strike eleven o’clock.
13.
The people came to town—in automobiles, new and old, in wagons, on horseback, they came to see the Wonder Show. The shopkeepers looked out their windows and rushed to finish lunch. They quickly telephoned sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters to drop what they were doing and hurry to the shop to help. The people were coming sooner than expected, in numbers not seen since the county fair.
Mr. Mier watched the crowds and then looked across the square at the closed Majestic. He sniffed.
The town geared for a busy afternoon.
They already stood in small groups on the courthouse lawn in the shade of the sycamore trees, sat on the benches in the sun. The women talked of new babies, clothes, hints of scandal, and the tent show. The men cussed the falling farm prices, cussed the Republicans, cussed Hoover, and chuckled at the tent show nonsense.
The children raced around the square like perpetual motion machines, rolled on the grass, got chiggers and scratches, explored shops to see if anything new had appeared since last Saturday, looked sadly at the closed picture show, ate ice cream and candy. But mostly they stood before the line of painted circus wagons, staring at the pictures, whispering among themselves, daring each other to sneak in right now, looking ahead with dread at the long, endless afternoon before the Wonder Show opened.
In Bowen’s Drugs & Sundries, Mrs. Bowen washed dishes while Sonny Redwine waited on the counter. Mr. Bowen filled prescriptions and tried to handle the people coming and going, getting their shopping done before time to go to the tent show.