of his sound-camera mind.
“Yes, dear,” said Zena patiently. “And what did you say to Huddie?”
“I went to feel the top of the stake inside the iron band, where it was all splintery. I said, ‘my, it’s all mashed!’ And Huddie, he said, ‘Jus’ think how mashed your hand’d be iff’n you lef’ it there while we-uns drove it.’ And I laughed at him an’ said, ‘It wouldn’t bother me for long, Huddie. It would grow back again.’ That’s all, Zee.”
“None of the others heard?”
“No. They were starting the next stake.”
“All right, Horty. Huddie had to go because you said that to him.”
“But—but he thought it was a joke! He just laughed… what did I do, Zee?”
“Horty sweetheart, I told you that you must never say the slightest, tiniest word to anyone about your hand, or about anything growing back after it gets cut off, or anything at all like that. You’ve got to wear a glove on your left hand day and night, and never do a thing with—”
“—with my three new fingers?”
She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Never talk about it,” she hissed, “to anyone but me. No one must know. Here.” She rose and tossed the dazzling kerchief on his lap. “Keep this. Look at it and think about it and—and leave me alone for a while. Huddie was—I… I can’t like you very much for a little while, Horty. I’m sorry.”
She turned away from him and went out, leaving him shocked and hurt and deeply ashamed. And when, very late that night, she came to his bed and slid her warm, small arms around him and told him it was all right now, he needn’t cry any more, he was so happy he could not speak. He burrowed his face into her shoulder and trembled, and he made a promise—a deep promise, to himself, not to her, that he would always, always do as she said. They never spoke of Huddie again.
Sights and smells were treasures; he treasured the books they read together—fantasies like The Worm Ouroborus and The Sword in the Stone and The Wind in the Willows; strange, quizzical, deeply human books, each the only one of its kind, like Green Mansions, Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles, Capek’s War with the Newts, and The Innocent Voyage.
Music was a treasure—laughing music like the Polka from the “Isle of Gold” and the cacaphonous ingenuities of Spike Jones and Red Ingalls; the rich romanticism of Crosby, singing “Adeste Fideles” or “Skylark” as if each were his only favorite, and Tchaikovsky’s azure sonorities; and the architects, Franck building with feathers, flowers and faith, Bach with agate and chrome.
But the things Horty treasured most were the drowsy conversations in the dark, sometimes on a silent fairgrounds after hours, sometimes bumping along a moonwashed road.
“Horty—” (She was the only one who called him Horty. No one else heard her do it. It was like a private pet-name.)
“Mmm?”
“Can’t you sleep?”
“Thinkin’…”
“Thinking about your childhood sweetheart?”
“How’d you know? Uh—don’t kid me, Zee.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.”
Horty said into the darkness, “Kay was the only one who ever said anything nice to me, Zee. The only one. It wasn’t only that night I ran away. Sometimes in school she’d just smile, that’s all. I—I used to wait for it. You’re laughing at me.”
“No, Kiddo, I’m not. You’re so sweet.”
“Well,” he said defensively, “I like to think about her sometimes.”
He did think about Kay Hallowell, and often; for this was the third thing, the light with a shadow. The shadow was Armand Bluett. He could not think of Kay without thinking of Armand, though he tried not to. But sometimes the cold wet eyes of a tattered mongrel in some farmyard, or the precise, heralding sound of a key in a Yale lock, would bring Armand and Armand’s flat sarcasm and Armand’s hard and ready hands right into the room with him. Zena knew of this, which is why she always laughed at him when he mentioned
“Yes, dear,” said Zena patiently. “And what did you say to Huddie?”
“I went to feel the top of the stake inside the iron band, where it was all splintery. I said, ‘my, it’s all mashed!’ And Huddie, he said, ‘Jus’ think how mashed your hand’d be iff’n you lef’ it there while we-uns drove it.’ And I laughed at him an’ said, ‘It wouldn’t bother me for long, Huddie. It would grow back again.’ That’s all, Zee.”
“None of the others heard?”
“No. They were starting the next stake.”
“All right, Horty. Huddie had to go because you said that to him.”
“But—but he thought it was a joke! He just laughed… what did I do, Zee?”
“Horty sweetheart, I told you that you must never say the slightest, tiniest word to anyone about your hand, or about anything growing back after it gets cut off, or anything at all like that. You’ve got to wear a glove on your left hand day and night, and never do a thing with—”
“—with my three new fingers?”
She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Never talk about it,” she hissed, “to anyone but me. No one must know. Here.” She rose and tossed the dazzling kerchief on his lap. “Keep this. Look at it and think about it and—and leave me alone for a while. Huddie was—I… I can’t like you very much for a little while, Horty. I’m sorry.”
She turned away from him and went out, leaving him shocked and hurt and deeply ashamed. And when, very late that night, she came to his bed and slid her warm, small arms around him and told him it was all right now, he needn’t cry any more, he was so happy he could not speak. He burrowed his face into her shoulder and trembled, and he made a promise—a deep promise, to himself, not to her, that he would always, always do as she said. They never spoke of Huddie again.
Sights and smells were treasures; he treasured the books they read together—fantasies like The Worm Ouroborus and The Sword in the Stone and The Wind in the Willows; strange, quizzical, deeply human books, each the only one of its kind, like Green Mansions, Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles, Capek’s War with the Newts, and The Innocent Voyage.
Music was a treasure—laughing music like the Polka from the “Isle of Gold” and the cacaphonous ingenuities of Spike Jones and Red Ingalls; the rich romanticism of Crosby, singing “Adeste Fideles” or “Skylark” as if each were his only favorite, and Tchaikovsky’s azure sonorities; and the architects, Franck building with feathers, flowers and faith, Bach with agate and chrome.
But the things Horty treasured most were the drowsy conversations in the dark, sometimes on a silent fairgrounds after hours, sometimes bumping along a moonwashed road.
“Horty—” (She was the only one who called him Horty. No one else heard her do it. It was like a private pet-name.)
“Mmm?”
“Can’t you sleep?”
“Thinkin’…”
“Thinking about your childhood sweetheart?”
“How’d you know? Uh—don’t kid me, Zee.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.”
Horty said into the darkness, “Kay was the only one who ever said anything nice to me, Zee. The only one. It wasn’t only that night I ran away. Sometimes in school she’d just smile, that’s all. I—I used to wait for it. You’re laughing at me.”
“No, Kiddo, I’m not. You’re so sweet.”
“Well,” he said defensively, “I like to think about her sometimes.”
He did think about Kay Hallowell, and often; for this was the third thing, the light with a shadow. The shadow was Armand Bluett. He could not think of Kay without thinking of Armand, though he tried not to. But sometimes the cold wet eyes of a tattered mongrel in some farmyard, or the precise, heralding sound of a key in a Yale lock, would bring Armand and Armand’s flat sarcasm and Armand’s hard and ready hands right into the room with him. Zena knew of this, which is why she always laughed at him when he mentioned
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