Читать книгу Jonah Man - Christopher Narozny - Страница 11

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?