tent was a corral. A small black horse knelt in a bed of dirty hay beside a bowl of dirty water. The brothers watched the horse pant for a moment.
“He isn’t that small,” Charles said.
“He’s a little bit small,” James agreed, “but not that small.”
They left. Carter felt irritated, as he’d been keen on seeing a much smaller horse. The next tent promised Dangerous Reptiles, which made his heart jump with anticipation, but when they entered, there were simply three boa constrictor snakes, each—or so the man who took their nickels said—diabolical, though it was hard to tell, since they wouldn’t come out from under the rocks on the other side of the glass.
As this exhibit had been a gyp, the brothers avoided the next two tents: the Florida alligator and the Fat Lady. Charles was unsure of what to do next—he wanted more badly than ever to be taken over by genuine wonder, and he felt that some tent somewhere would provide what he wanted, but still he decided to avoid the entire pavilion of oddly shaped fruits and vegetables. He was in fact prepared not to enter another tent all afternoon. However, James insisted they see the world’s tallest man.
The sign outside the tent declared: Stretch Sullivan: 8 Foot 5 Inches of Fighting Irish.
“It might be a gyp,” Charles cautioned. But since they still had time before the cattle auction was over, Charles agreed to enter. They paid and they walked together past the canvas flap, into the mildewing tent.
It was gloomy inside. Where the tent’s seams had given way, shafts of light made faint ovals on patches of dead grass. There was a tent pole in the center and leaning against it was Joe Sullivan. He was reading a newspaper. He glanced at the boys, then went back to his paper, licking a thumb and turning a page.
James reached out and held his brother’s hand. At the touch, Charles, who’d been staring for several long seconds, realized he had neither blinked nor breathed since entering. He inhaled quietly. Sullivan’s black and scuffed shoes were the length of shotguns. He could pick up a mature pumpkin one-handed. As Charles tilted his head back he felt like he was in the nave of a church; Sullivan’s head nearly touched the ribbed vaulting of the canvas tent.
Charles walked a few paces back and forth, bumping into James as they each toed an imaginary line. They kept their distance not from respect, but from a vague fear of being eaten. In fairy tales, giants ate little boys. Charles was old enough to know that these were only stories, but not old enough to dismiss the possibility completely.
Sullivan was dressed in a black wool suit, a bolo tie and a huge tan Stetson. His grim expression—hooded eyes, a mouth as straight and plain as a ruler—looked less like flesh than a waxy kind of stone. He didn’t seem in a fighting mood. Still, Charles’s unease began to outweigh the wonder he felt.
“Well, we’ve seen him,” Charles said, taking his brother’s hand. James, however, wouldn’t budge.
“How tall are you?” James asked.
Without looking away from his newspaper, Sullivan jerked his thumb at the pole he was leaning against. “Like it says there,” he murmured. He had a soft voice, as if the air were thinner up where it came from. The pole’s hashmarks indicated feet. There was an exclamation mark at 8 feet 5 inches, which, because he was slouching, Sullivan did not quite meet.
Charles said, “Well, we’ve seen him,” again, but James still had his stubborn look.
James put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you have a chair?”
“What’d you say?” Sullivan continued reading.
“Why don’t you have a chair?”
“No one wants to see me sitting down.”
“Oh. What’s your name?”
“Joe Sullivan.”
“Oh. I’m James Carter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Oh. I’m almost seven.”
“That’s dandy.” Sullivan flipped his paper over.
Because James never talked to strangers,
“He isn’t that small,” Charles said.
“He’s a little bit small,” James agreed, “but not that small.”
They left. Carter felt irritated, as he’d been keen on seeing a much smaller horse. The next tent promised Dangerous Reptiles, which made his heart jump with anticipation, but when they entered, there were simply three boa constrictor snakes, each—or so the man who took their nickels said—diabolical, though it was hard to tell, since they wouldn’t come out from under the rocks on the other side of the glass.
As this exhibit had been a gyp, the brothers avoided the next two tents: the Florida alligator and the Fat Lady. Charles was unsure of what to do next—he wanted more badly than ever to be taken over by genuine wonder, and he felt that some tent somewhere would provide what he wanted, but still he decided to avoid the entire pavilion of oddly shaped fruits and vegetables. He was in fact prepared not to enter another tent all afternoon. However, James insisted they see the world’s tallest man.
The sign outside the tent declared: Stretch Sullivan: 8 Foot 5 Inches of Fighting Irish.
“It might be a gyp,” Charles cautioned. But since they still had time before the cattle auction was over, Charles agreed to enter. They paid and they walked together past the canvas flap, into the mildewing tent.
It was gloomy inside. Where the tent’s seams had given way, shafts of light made faint ovals on patches of dead grass. There was a tent pole in the center and leaning against it was Joe Sullivan. He was reading a newspaper. He glanced at the boys, then went back to his paper, licking a thumb and turning a page.
James reached out and held his brother’s hand. At the touch, Charles, who’d been staring for several long seconds, realized he had neither blinked nor breathed since entering. He inhaled quietly. Sullivan’s black and scuffed shoes were the length of shotguns. He could pick up a mature pumpkin one-handed. As Charles tilted his head back he felt like he was in the nave of a church; Sullivan’s head nearly touched the ribbed vaulting of the canvas tent.
Charles walked a few paces back and forth, bumping into James as they each toed an imaginary line. They kept their distance not from respect, but from a vague fear of being eaten. In fairy tales, giants ate little boys. Charles was old enough to know that these were only stories, but not old enough to dismiss the possibility completely.
Sullivan was dressed in a black wool suit, a bolo tie and a huge tan Stetson. His grim expression—hooded eyes, a mouth as straight and plain as a ruler—looked less like flesh than a waxy kind of stone. He didn’t seem in a fighting mood. Still, Charles’s unease began to outweigh the wonder he felt.
“Well, we’ve seen him,” Charles said, taking his brother’s hand. James, however, wouldn’t budge.
“How tall are you?” James asked.
Without looking away from his newspaper, Sullivan jerked his thumb at the pole he was leaning against. “Like it says there,” he murmured. He had a soft voice, as if the air were thinner up where it came from. The pole’s hashmarks indicated feet. There was an exclamation mark at 8 feet 5 inches, which, because he was slouching, Sullivan did not quite meet.
Charles said, “Well, we’ve seen him,” again, but James still had his stubborn look.
James put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you have a chair?”
“What’d you say?” Sullivan continued reading.
“Why don’t you have a chair?”
“No one wants to see me sitting down.”
“Oh. What’s your name?”
“Joe Sullivan.”
“Oh. I’m James Carter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Oh. I’m almost seven.”
“That’s dandy.” Sullivan flipped his paper over.
Because James never talked to strangers,
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