“What difference does it make if they put on a good show?” Evelyn asked reasonably. “They don’t expect anyone to really believe it. They wouldn’t sell very many tickets if they advertised someone pretending to be Medusa, would they?”
The last wagon passed. Rose put her hands delicately over her ears to shut out the bellow of the calliope. They strolled leisurely in the wake of the wagons, unable to talk because of the music. Finney and Jack fell in beside them, their faces shining with wonder.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Finney shouted above the noise, barely able to keep inside his skin. “Didn’t I tell you? Look at that old calliope a playin’ by itself! It truly is a phantasmagorical wonder show!”
Rose dismissed the whole thing with a shrug. “Your player piano plays by itself, doesn’t it? That doesn’t send you off in a fit.”
“But this is different. This is truly different!” Finney and Jack ran on to catch up to the wagons.
“I’d better be getting home,” Evelyn said and stopped at her father’s ’27 Buick parked in front of Mier’s Dry Goods. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Say hello to Harold for me.” Rose grinned.
“Sure thing.” Evelyn grinned back and got in the car.
When she drove by the vacant lot on the west side of town, the Wonder Show had already pulled in. She slowed the car and watched the bustle of activity with mild curiosity. Some of the roustabouts, most of them now shirtless, pulled canvas and poles and rope and iron pegs from one of the wagons. Others unhitched and unharnessed the horses, pushing the wagons in a straight row across the front of the lot. Another shooed the kids from underfoot. The calliope had stopped playing and the rear of the wagon was folded in place again. She saw the handsome Mexican-looking man who had tipped his hat to them go into one of the wagons. Then she was past it and the car bumped over the railroad tracks and rattled across the bridge over Crooked Creek, where the pavement ended and the county road began.
5.
Haverstock’s wagon was partitioned into two rooms with a connecting door. The room opening to the outside was an office with a bunk against one wall where he slept. Louis had never been in the other room, but he knew that was where Angel stayed.
Haverstock looked up from the papers on his desk when Louis entered. “Did you take care of the talking pictures?”
“Sure thing. I—”
Haverstock waved his hand. “Don’t bother me with tiresome details. I’m sure you did a commendable job. Go wherever one goes for such things and have feed delivered for the animals. You know everything that must be done before we open tonight.”
“Right away, Boss.” Louis grinned and left. Haverstock looked after him for a moment, wondering if he had detected a note of sarcasm in the ‘Boss.’ Louis was an efficient, resourceful employee, but he sometimes got a little too big for his well-tailored britches.
6.
The gray 1929 Packard hummed along the road, leaving a comet tail of dust turned gold by the setting sun. The fields of wheat on either side of the road were burnished copper, completely motionless in the warm stillness. Sonny Redwine squinted at the huge sun which seemed to be squatting on the road directly ahead. He whistled tunelessly but the sound was periodically interrupted by the pleased smile that flickered on his lips.
He slowed the car and turned into a sunflower-bordered lane at the mailbox with “Bradley” and “Star Route” lettered on it and pulled to a stop before the house at the end of the lane. The Bradley farm seemed to be prosperous. The house and barn were newly painted and the barn had a new tin roof. The outbuildings were all neat and in good repair, but he wondered; he’d been hearing some very disturbing talk in the last few months.
He got out of the car, cleared his throat a couple of times, pulled his jacket down in back, and crunched up the gravel walk. The front door opened as he stepped up on the porch.
“Come in, Sonny,” Otis Bradley said. “Evelyn is just about ready.” Otis was a short man in his late forties, beginning to go bald, brown and burly from working in the fields. He was in his undershirt and carpet slippers with his braces hanging down.
“Thank you, Mr. Bradley. How are you this evening?”
Otis smiled slightly at Sonny’s nervousness and tried to remember if he had acted that way when he was eighteen. He wasn’t sure, but he probably had. “Just fine, Sonny. How are you?”
He held the screen door open and followed the boy into the house.
“Oh, very well, thank you,” Sonny said, looking around. The room was neat but comfortable, with good but not new furniture. It looked just about the same as his own parlor had looked before his mother had bought everything new last year. The only thing new in the Bradley parlor was a big Atwater-Kent softly playing gospel music.
Otis closed the screen door and returned to his chair and his newspaper. “That’s good. Sit down.” He motioned to another chair.
Sonny sat, a bit too quickly, and then grinned.
“Thought it might cool off a little, come evening,” Otis said, “but doesn’t look like it’s going to.” Sonny nodded and wished he hadn’t worn a jacket. Otis watched him, wondering if Evelyn and he were serious. He didn’t think they’d ever gone out before, but he wasn’t sure. He trusted Evelyn and left it up to his wife to keep watch on her boy friends, of which there seemed to be quite a few. It wouldn’t be a bad match, he thought. Sonny was a nice-looking, well-mannered boy who, as far as he knew, hadn’t been in any kind of trouble. The Redwines were well thought of and seemed to have plenty of money. He glanced out the window at the Packard. It wouldn’t be a bad match at all, he decided, the way the price of wheat had been falling. People had to be buried, no matter what.
“Your… uh… wheat seems about ready to harvest,” Sonny said suddenly.
“Yes,” Otis agreed. “As a matter of fact, the advance man for the combiners was here a couple of days ago to sign a contract. They’re about ninety miles north of Amarillo now. Should be here in a couple of weeks.” He wondered if it was worth it, if he would make enough off the wheat to pay the combiners, if he wouldn’t save money by just burning it in the fields.
“The weather is just about right.”
“Just so the hail doesn’t beat it down like it did six years ago. When the weather gets hot and still like this, you never know what’s going to happen.”
Harold Bradley came into the room, pulling down his varsity sweater. Harold was twenty-one and had just finished his third year of college. He was taller than his father, but just as brown and burly. He always spent his summers in Hawley helping with the farm, claiming he needed the exercise to keep in shape for the football team.
“Hello, Sonny.” He grinned.
“Oh. Hi, Harold.” Sonny stood up and then sat down again.
Harold looked in the mirror over the mantel and pressed his cowlick down with his fingers. He wondered if he should put more pomade on it.
The gospel song ended on the radio and a soft, cajoling voice came over the airwaves. “Don’t let your doctor two-dollar you to death. Take advantage of our compound operation. I can cure you the same as I did Clyde Atkinson of Fort Riley, Kansas… My dear, dear friends, the smoldering fires of the most dangerous disease may be just starting. Come while you’re still able to get about.”
Harold laughed. “Are you still listening to Dr. Brinkley and his goat-glands? When are you going up to Milford and get yours put in, Pop?”