Mister Boots by Carol Emshwiller Page B

sneeze. But what about Mother! All the things she said not to believe in are true.
    I reach to take the flowers. Since they came out of thin air, why would he need them back when it’s so easy to get more? But he snatches them away and stuffs them in the saddlebag, so then I know they can’t be real or they’d be ruined in there. No wonder they smell bad; they’re old.
    Our father puts the magic wand in his belt beside the pistol. He’s pretty good when you think he’s doing all this with just one hand, and that I’ve wiggled all around and sneezed a whole half dozen times.
    My sister and Mister Boots are still in the doorway watching. I have to admit they look good together.
    â€œHold your horses,” our father says. (Does he know!) “Now everybody just go in and sit down.”
    We sit exactly as before. Our father lets go of my arm and holds me between his knees instead. “Watch,” he says. Then . . . One minute his hands are empty and the next a flame flies out—flies across the room and hits the far corner wall. We all jump, but Mister Boots shies practically out the door. You’d think he’d be ashamed, except he didn’t shy as much as most horses would from a flash of fire. Most would be gone.
    â€œNow,” our father says again. He lets me go and sits, legs as wide apart as before, the knees of his riding britches nice and snug, but his crotch drooping, the pistol and the magic wand tucked right out in front. He smiles around at everybody. “Now listen, I’m going to take this boy here along with me. All the way to Los Angeles. I need him. He’ll get to see the world. Get to ride real horses. Maybe drive my trotter. I’ll teach him all the tricks. He’ll wear decent clothes and eat decent food. Lots of oranges and no more beans.
    â€œBoy,” he says, and turns to me, “I’ll raise you up in the air, with, like they say, no visible means of support. Only you will know how it’s done. You’ll have a nice costume. Any color you want.” Then he says, “Lassiter and Son,” three times.
    All of a sudden I want to go. I don’t care that I don’t like him, or even that he’ll twist my arm behind me. I want to make flowers pop out of things. I want to throw fire. I want to go so badly I start feeling sick to my stomach.
    My sister shouts a great big, “No!”
    â€œI’ll go instead,” Mister Boots says. “I’m used to this kind of thing.”
    My sister shouts about a dozen no’s in a row.
    â€œThis boy’s wasting his life out here.” (Yes, I am. I always knew it.) “And he wants to come.” He turns to me. “You’ll like it. You’ll be around men. Now you go shake these clothes out real good for me, boy. I want to try them on. They’re high-quality clothes.”
    He takes the pistol from his belt, aims out the door, and shoots. Right through the screen. Outside a puff of sand flies up, and Mister Boots shies again. It’s good he’s not being a horse and nobody is riding him. They’d have fallen off for sure.
    â€œNervous fellow,” our father says. (Of course he’s nervous, what horse isn’t?) Then, “You just all sit quietly while I go get dressed.”
    When he’s gone, we look at one another. My sister shakes her head. “Like he says, we’ll all sit quietly. We don’t want anybody shot.”
    I say, “I want to throw fire.”
    My sister says, “Think, for heaven’s sake! Remember who you are!”
    â€œI am thinking.”
    When our father comes back, he does look impressive. “Now then . . . Mister Boots, is it? Now Mister Boots, I want to know how you did that trick earlier today? Projections? Mirrors? I didn’t quite catch it.”
    What if Boots doesn’t know what he’s not supposed to say? I have to change the subject.
    â€œI do want to go with