his thumb. As Charles reached for it, Sullivan grabbed it with his other hand, and made a fist, which he opened. It was empty. The coin was gone.
“Hey,” Charles said feebly. Sullivan tipped his hat and returned to the tent pole.
“Give it back,” Charles said.
“Give what back?”
“My nickel.”
Sullivan’s face showed it could indeed change expression: he smirked. Then he opened up his newspaper.
Charles looked at James, who was shaking his head gravely. “Daddy said never show anyone the coin. You’re in trouble.”
“Give it back,” Charles yelled. “That’s not fair.”
Sullivan murmured, “Get used to it, squirt.”
“I want it back!”
It had happened so fast Charles couldn’t believe it. His stomach hurt. He stood there, speechless, as the simplicity of having lost his coin—having given it away with no possibility of return—welled up in him. He burst forward and pounded on the giant’s leg. “Give it! Give it!”
He felt a snag on the back of his collar and suddenly he was propelled into the air; Sullivan had picked him up and heaved him close to the dirty yellow cloth of the carnival tent. Charles could feel his shirt buttons straining, and the huge, rough fingers against the flesh at theback of his neck as Sullivan turned him so he was but inches from his mouth.
And then Sullivan whispered into Charles’s ear, “I should make you disappear, too, brat.” Sullivan’s hand flapped open and then closed into a fist the size of a turkey and Charles remembered a picture in Tales for Tots of a pearl diver engulfed by a deep-sea clam. He blubbered, and let out a low, awful moan, which seemed to startle the giant.
“Shhhh.” Sullivan looked toward the tent flap quickly. “I said ‘Shhhh.’” But Charles could not stop his crying. As if weighing several poor decisions, Sullivan lowered Charles a couple of feet, and then casually tossed him toward his brother like he was a softball. Charles hit the ground hard, and broke into a run, pulling James out of the tent.
Charles’s first impulse was to run to their father for help, but as they got closer to the auction, James’s chant of “You’re in trouble, you’re in trouble” began to get to him.
They stopped a hundred yards from the livestock pavilion. Charles felt his face, which was hot and stiff in places with dried tears. There was no way he could tell their father what had happened. So he attended to his brother, brushing at his clothing, rubbing the hand he’d pulled on so hard. “Do you want more taffy?”
“No!” James cried.
“Are you sure?”
James coughed, fingers by his mouth. “No.”
They found the taffy booth. Having something to do, someone to take care of, calmed Charles. He’d never heard of anyone disappearing, and he began to get mad at the giant. But where had the coin gone? There was no one he could ask. The adult world refused to give straight answers to so many questions, and this was sure to be one of them.
Charles didn’t know if James could actually keep a secret, and was convinced he would eventually have to thrash him for telling. But when they saw their father, James said nothing about the coin, and he was just as silent on the ferry ride. Charles, too, was quiet, as he was feeling awful. For a few brief moments, he’d felt the Midway Plaisance was going to welcome him, and then he’d been tricked. He spent the remainder of the carriage ride home imagining a gold coin tumbling in space, alone.
Their father, however, was bubbling with an excitement he didn’t explain.
Reins in hand, he exclaimed, “I shouldn’t jinx it,” which was so unusual for him to say that Charles remembered it on Christmas day, when his father explained what he meant.
CHAPTER 3
It was a gloomy sort of Christmas. There were the usual laurel wreaths lining the walls, and candles burning in the front window, and bowls of penny candy left out for St. Nick, and James and Charles dutifully joined their father
“Hey,” Charles said feebly. Sullivan tipped his hat and returned to the tent pole.
“Give it back,” Charles said.
“Give what back?”
“My nickel.”
Sullivan’s face showed it could indeed change expression: he smirked. Then he opened up his newspaper.
Charles looked at James, who was shaking his head gravely. “Daddy said never show anyone the coin. You’re in trouble.”
“Give it back,” Charles yelled. “That’s not fair.”
Sullivan murmured, “Get used to it, squirt.”
“I want it back!”
It had happened so fast Charles couldn’t believe it. His stomach hurt. He stood there, speechless, as the simplicity of having lost his coin—having given it away with no possibility of return—welled up in him. He burst forward and pounded on the giant’s leg. “Give it! Give it!”
He felt a snag on the back of his collar and suddenly he was propelled into the air; Sullivan had picked him up and heaved him close to the dirty yellow cloth of the carnival tent. Charles could feel his shirt buttons straining, and the huge, rough fingers against the flesh at theback of his neck as Sullivan turned him so he was but inches from his mouth.
And then Sullivan whispered into Charles’s ear, “I should make you disappear, too, brat.” Sullivan’s hand flapped open and then closed into a fist the size of a turkey and Charles remembered a picture in Tales for Tots of a pearl diver engulfed by a deep-sea clam. He blubbered, and let out a low, awful moan, which seemed to startle the giant.
“Shhhh.” Sullivan looked toward the tent flap quickly. “I said ‘Shhhh.’” But Charles could not stop his crying. As if weighing several poor decisions, Sullivan lowered Charles a couple of feet, and then casually tossed him toward his brother like he was a softball. Charles hit the ground hard, and broke into a run, pulling James out of the tent.
Charles’s first impulse was to run to their father for help, but as they got closer to the auction, James’s chant of “You’re in trouble, you’re in trouble” began to get to him.
They stopped a hundred yards from the livestock pavilion. Charles felt his face, which was hot and stiff in places with dried tears. There was no way he could tell their father what had happened. So he attended to his brother, brushing at his clothing, rubbing the hand he’d pulled on so hard. “Do you want more taffy?”
“No!” James cried.
“Are you sure?”
James coughed, fingers by his mouth. “No.”
They found the taffy booth. Having something to do, someone to take care of, calmed Charles. He’d never heard of anyone disappearing, and he began to get mad at the giant. But where had the coin gone? There was no one he could ask. The adult world refused to give straight answers to so many questions, and this was sure to be one of them.
Charles didn’t know if James could actually keep a secret, and was convinced he would eventually have to thrash him for telling. But when they saw their father, James said nothing about the coin, and he was just as silent on the ferry ride. Charles, too, was quiet, as he was feeling awful. For a few brief moments, he’d felt the Midway Plaisance was going to welcome him, and then he’d been tricked. He spent the remainder of the carriage ride home imagining a gold coin tumbling in space, alone.
Their father, however, was bubbling with an excitement he didn’t explain.
Reins in hand, he exclaimed, “I shouldn’t jinx it,” which was so unusual for him to say that Charles remembered it on Christmas day, when his father explained what he meant.
CHAPTER 3
It was a gloomy sort of Christmas. There were the usual laurel wreaths lining the walls, and candles burning in the front window, and bowls of penny candy left out for St. Nick, and James and Charles dutifully joined their father
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