Читать книгу Jonah Man - Christopher Narozny - Страница 8

Chicago to Sioux City, Iowa

September 8, 1922

The night train is quiet. I have a compartment to myself. It’s rare to get a full bench, but now I have two, facing each other, and a door to block the sounds of people moving past. I stack my luggage overhead, cover a bench with a pillow and blanket. Before I’ve closed my eyes, the door jolts open, and Jonson’s standing there silhouetted by the hall light.

Thought you might like some company, he says, holding out a bottle.

I was asleep, I say.

To hell you were. Can’t nobody but my boy sleep on these things, and that’s only ’cause he was raised on them.

Neither of us mentions the museum.

Listen, he says, I come in friendship. We started on the wrong foot.

I didn’t think we were on any foot at all.

You can play it that way, he says. I’m trying to make things right.

He sits on the blanket at my feet. I pivot, press my back straight against the bench. Jonson’s ogling my hacked arm.

Ain’t seen the stump before, he says.

No need to cover it when I’m sleeping.

Might lose an eye, he observes.

I lean forward, pull my prosthetic from where I’d wedged it between two suitcases. Jonson watches me work in my stump, smiling. A number of his top teeth are gone.

He screws off the cap, hands me the bottle. Even as I put the mouth to my lips, I know he wants something in return.

I heard you done that yourself, he says.

Done what? I say, passing him the bottle. He taps his wrist, gestures like he’s sawing.

Why would I’ve done that?

There’s a juggler on every bill, he says. Ain’t but one with his hand cut off.

I don’t say anything. The compartment’s lit by a weak bulb, the window black save the occasional flicker from a gantry crane or farmhouse porch. I shut my eyes, feel myself warm to the whiskey.

Ain’t you had enough? Jonson asks.

Of what?

Split weeks and sleeper jumps. Dickering over your slot on the bill. How old are you, Swain?

Old enough.

I’d say older than that. What’s going to happen for you that ain’t already happened? Maybe it’s time to say die.

And do what?

He pulls his grouch bag from under his shirt, takes out a vial and lifts it into the light coming through the compartment door. The vial is filled with silver-blue liquid. Jonson watches me close.

Thought you was careful? he says.

I look him up and down. I hadn’t seen the signs, but Jonson, all gums and jaundice, had seen it in me. It’s clear now what his boy was doing in that store.

He balances the bottle between his knees, pulls the stopper from the vial. Using one hand to steady the other, he lets two drops fall into the whiskey.

I’ll fill this up later, he says, replacing the stopper, tucking the vial into his shirt pocket.

Business must be good, I say. Two of us working the same bill.

Must be.

He swells his cheeks with whiskey, holds the liquor in his mouth until his eyes start to glow.

Let it seep in, he says, passing me the bottle. I don’t hesitate.

Truth is, he says, we do them good by skimming. The more we skim, the more people got to buy.

It burns my throat, cuts into my chest from the inside. Jonson takes away the bottle.

You’ll be fine in a minute, he says. Whiskey makes it all go faster.

He’s right about that much. The pain is gone as quick as it came. Specks of blue break through my vision.

How long they got you for? he asks.

A while.

And then? You think the circuit will keep you on?

I’m not worried.

Cream don’t always rise.

What does that mean?

Means you’ll want to keep the right people happy.

Is that a warning?

Advice.

Yours, or someone else’s?

It’s worth heeding either way. Your second profession might end up your first.

He pulls a rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket, holds it between his lips and strikes a match against the heel of his shoe. He keeps striking until the match lights. He does all of this one-handed.

How was that? he asks.

I breathe in the smoke, slump my head against the bench. There’s no pain anywhere in me.

Tell me something, he says. Why’d you take that first taste?

He’s timed it right. The part of me that knows to stay quiet is undone.

All right, I say. I did a turn at the Majestic once.

Like hell.

I wasn’t much older than your boy is now. Back then I had a slack wire act. Juggling was the smallest part of what I did.

It ain’t easy to picture, Jonson says. Not now.

Have you ever walked a wire?

You ever danced on a barrel?

Most people bow out before they take the first step. They get to the top of the platform and that’s it. It’s like being on a horse that bucks. Once it knows you’re afraid, you’ll never ride that horse again.

I’ll bet you didn’t scare.

No, I didn’t. I had a turn with a unicycle. I’d ride back and forth from one platform to the other. The first time it was simple coasting. The second time I’d be blindfolded. The third, blindfolded and juggling. The fourth blindfolded, juggling, and pedaling backwards. I’d get house boys to shake the platforms. The trombone would play notes that sounded like falling, but I never fell.

Sounds better than what you got now.

It was no shut act.

So why are you here with me?

I don’t know.

You know.

All right, I say. I know.

Any chance you’ll share?

You first, I say.

I reach out my hand and he gives up the bottle. It’s a good while before I pass it back.

Some performers can see their act play out in their mind, I say. For them it’s as good as done on the boards. Others can see up to a point before their minds stick. Maybe they freeze at the final flip. Maybe they hear the punch line but not the laughter. Your boy is the first type. I used to be.

You took a spill?

Yeah.

Bad?

Bad enough.

Might have been a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

Let me guess, he says. A taste from the vials and you can see any damn thing you like?

Uh-huh.

Just not when it counts.

No. But it feels right at the time.

He smiles. Maybe we need a little more, he says, taking the vial back out of his pocket. When he’s done he hands the bottle over. For a while he lets us sit in quiet. I hunch forward, listening to the train’s gears. Soon I’m at the Majestic, my scalp slick under the calcium spot. I rise up on the pedals, spread my palm over the seat, lift myself into a handstand, a good ten feet off the stage. I stay balanced like that, buttressed by the applause. I’m about to dismount with a flip when Jonson whistles in my ear. He slides his hand up my shoulder, closes it around my throat. Before I have my balance, he’s straddling my body, pinning my prosthetic down. The applause stop short.

Listen you dumb son of a bitch, he says. I want you thinking on this while that shit settles in—stay clear of my boy. You hear me? Stay away.

He tightens his grip. I do what I can to nod.

That works for us both, he says.

In the morning, the conductor finds me lying on the floor between the benches, my face hidden in the crook of my good arm.