Dreaming Jewels (4 page)

The truck threaded its way behind the western row of midway stands and came to a stop by a long house-trailer with doors at each end.

“Home,” yawned Bunny. Horty was riding in front with the girls now, and Havana had curled up in the back. “Out you get. Scoot, now; right into that doorway. The Maneater’ll be asleep, and no one will see you. When you come out you’ll be somebody different, and then we’ll go fix your hand up.”

Horty stood on the truck step, glanced around, and then arrowed to the door of the trailer and skinned inside. It was dark there. He stood clear of the door and waited for Zena to come in, close it, and draw the curtains on the small windows before turning on the lights.

The light seemed very bright. Horty found himself in a small square room. There was a tiny bunk on each side, a compact kitchenette in one corner, and what appeared to be a closet in the other.

“All right,” said Zena, “take off your clothes.”

“
All
of ’em?”

“Of course, all of them.” She saw his startled face, and laughed. “Listen, Kiddo. I’ll tell you something about us little people. Uh—how old did you say you were?”

“I’m almost nine.”

“Well, I’ll try. Ordinary grown-up people are very careful about seeing each other without clothes. Whether or not it makes any sense, they are that way because there’s a big difference between men and women when they’re grown up. More than between boys and girls. Well, a midget stays like a child, in most ways, all his life except for maybe a couple of years. So a lot of us don’t let such things bother us. As for us, you and me, we might as well make up our minds right now that it’s not going to make any difference. In the first place, no one but Bunny and Havana and me know you’re a boy. In the second place, this little room is just too small for two people to live in if they’re going to be stooping and cringing and hiding from each other because of something that doesn’t matter. See?”

“I—I guess so.”

She helped him out of his clothes, and he began his careful education on how to be a woman from the skin outward.

“Tell me something, Horty,” she said, as she turned out a neat drawer, looking for clothes for him. “What’s in the paper bag?”

“That’s Junky. It’s a jack-in-the-box. It was, I mean. Armand busted it—I told you. Then the man in the truck busted it more.”

“Could I see?”

Worrying into a pair of her socks, he nodded toward one of the bunks. “Go ahead.”

She lifted out the tattered bits of papier-mâché.
“Two
of them!” she exploded. She turned and looked at Horty as if he had turned bright purple, or sprouted rabbit’s ears.

“Two!” she said again. “I thought I saw only one, there at the diner. Are they really yours? Both of them?”

“They’re Junky’s eyes,” he explained.

“Where did Junky come from?”

“I had him before I was adopted. A policeman found me when I was a baby. I was put in a Home. I got Junky there. I guess I never had any folks.”

“And Junky stayed with you—here, let me help you into that—Junky stayed with you from then on?”

“Yes. He had to.”

“Why had to?”

“How do you hook this?”

Zena checked what seemed to be an impulse to push him into a corner and hold him still until she extracted the information from him. “About Junky,” she said patiently.

“Oh. Well, I just had to have him near me. No, not near me. I could go a long way away as long as Junky was all right. As long as he was mine, I mean. I mean, if I didn’t even see him for a year it was all right, but if somebody moved him, I knew it, and if somebody hurt him, I hurt too. See?”

“Indeed I do,” said Zena surprisingly. Again Horty felt that sweet shock of delight; these people seemed to understand everything so well.

Horty said, “I used to think everybody had something like that. Something they’d be sick if they lost it, like. I never thought to ask anyone about it, even. And then Armand, he picked on me about Junky. He used to hide Junky to get me excited. Once he put him on a garbage truck. I got so sick I had to have a doctor. I kept yelling for Junky, until the doctor told Armand to get this Junky back to me or I would die. Said it was a fix something. Ation.”

“A fixation. I know the routine,” Zena smiled.

“Armand, he was mad, but he had to do it. So anyway he got tired of fooling with Junky, and put him in the top of the closet and forgot about him pretty much.”

“You look like a regular dream-girl,” said Zena admiringly. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked gravely into his eyes. “Listen to me, Horty. This is
very
important. It’s about the Maneater. You’re going to see him in a few minutes, and I’m going to have to tell a story—a whopper of a story. And you’ve got to help me. He just
has
to believe it, or you won’t be able to stay with us.”

“I can remember real good,” said Horty anxiously. “I can remember anything I want to. Just tell me.”

“All right.” She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking hard. “I was an orphan,” she said presently. “I went to live with my Auntie Jo. After I found out I was going to be a midget I ran away with a carnival. I was with it for a few years before the Maneater met me and I came to work for him. Now…” She wet her lips. “Auntie Jo married again and had two children. The first one died and you were the second. When she found out you were a midget too she began to be very mean to you. So you ran away. You worked a while in summer stock. One of the stagehands—the carpenter—took a shine to you. He caught you last night and took you into the wood shop and did a terrible thing to you—so terrible that you can’t even talk about it. Understand? If he asks you about it, just cry. Have you got all that?”

“Sure,” said Horty casually. “Which one is going to be my bed?”

Zena frowned. “Honey—this is
terribly
important. You’ve got to remember every single word I say.”

“Oh, I do,” said Horty. And to her obvious astonishment he reeled off everything she had said, word for word.

“My!” she said, and kissed him. He blushed. “You
are
a quick study! That’s wonderful. All right then. You’re nineteen years old and your name’s—uh—Hortense. (That’s in case you hear someone say ‘Horty’ some day and the Maneater sees you look around.) But everybody calls you Kiddo. All right?”

“Nineteen and Hortense and Kiddo. Uh-huh.”

“Good. Gosh, honey, I’m sorry to give you so many things to think of at once! Now, this is something just between us. First of all, you must never,
never
let the Maneater know about Junky. We’ll find a place for him here, and I don’t want you to ever talk about him again, except to me. Promise?”

Wide eyed, Horty nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Good. And one more thing, just as important. The Maneater’s going to fix your hand. Don’t worry; he’s a good doctor. But I want you to push every bit of old bandage, every little scrap of cotton he uses, over toward me if you can, without letting him notice it. I don’t want you to leave a drop of your blood in his trailer, understand? Not a drop. I’m going to offer to clean up for him—he’ll be glad; he hates to do it—and you help me as much as you can. All right?”

Horty promised. Bunny and Havana pounded just then. Horty went out first, holding his bad hand behind him, and they called him Zena, and Zena pirouetted out, laughing, while they goggled at Horty. Havana dropped his cigar and said “Hey.”

“Zee, he’s
beautiful!”
cried Bunny.

Zena help up a tiny forefinger.
“She’s
beautiful, and don’t you forget it.”

“I feel awful funny,” said Horty, twitching his skirt.

“Where on earth did you get that hair?”

“A couple of false braids. Like ’em?”

“And the dress?”

“Bought it and never wore it,” said Zena. “It won’t fit my chest expansion… Come on, kids. Let’s go wake the Maneater.”

They made their way among the wagons. “Take smaller steps,” said Zena. “That’s better. You remember everything?”

“Oh, sure.”

“That’s a good—a good girl, Kiddo. And if he should ask you a question and you don’t know, just smile. Or cry. I’ll be right beside you.”

A long silver trailer was parked next to a tent bearing a brilliantly colored poster of a man in a top-hat. He had long pointed mustachios and zig-zags of lightning came from his eyes. Below it, in flaming letters, was the legend

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Mephisto Knows.

“His name isn’t Mephisto,” said Bunny. “It’s Monetre. He used to be a doctor before he was a carny. Everyone calls him Maneater. He don’t mind.”

Havana pounded on the door. “Hey, Maneater! Y’going to sleep all afternoon?”

“You’re fired,” growled the silver trailer.

“Okay,” said Havana casually. “Come on out and see what we got.”

“Not if you want to put it on the payroll,” said the sleepy voice. There were movements inside. Bunny pushed Horty over near the door and waved to Zena to hide. Zena flattened against the trailer wall.

The door opened. The man who stood there was tall, cadaverous, with hollows in his cheeks and a long bluish jaw. His eyes seemed, in the early morning light, to be just inch-deep black sockets in his head. “What is it?”

Bunny pointed at Horty. “Maneater, who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” He peered. “Zena, of course. Good morning, Zena,” he said, his tone suddenly courtly.

“Good morning,” laughed Zena, dancing out from behind the door.

The Maneater stared from Zena to Horty and back. “Oh, my aching bankroll,” he said. “A sister act. And if I don’t hire her you’ll quit. And Bunny and Havana will quit.”

“A mind-reader,” said Havana, nudging Horty.

“What’s your name, kid sister?”

“My pa named me Hortense,” recited Horty, “but everyone calls me Kiddo.”

“I don’t blame them,” said the Maneater in a kindly voice. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Kiddo. I’m going to call your bluff. Get off the lot, and if the rest of you don’t like it, you can go along with her. If I don’t see any of you on the midway at eleven o’clock this morning, I’ll know what you decided.” He closed the door softly and with great firmness.

“Oh
—gee!”
said Horty.

“It’s all right,” grinned Havana. “He don’t mean it. He fires everybody ’most every day. When he means it he pays ’em. Go get ’im, Zee.”

Zena rippled her knuckles on the aluminum door. “Mister Maneater!” she sang.

“I’m counting your pay,” said the voice from inside.

“Oh-oh,” said Havana.

“Please. Just a minute,” cried Zena.

The door opened up again. The Maneater had one hand full of money. “Well?”

Horty heard Bunny mutter, “Do good, Zee. Do good!”

Zena beckoned to Horty. He stepped forward hesitantly. “Kiddo, show him your hand.”

Horty extended his ruined hand. Zena peeled off the soiled, bloody handkerchiefs one by one. The inner one was stuck fast; Horty whimpered as she disturbed it. Enough could be seen, however, to show the Maneater’s trained eye that three fingers were gone completely and the rest of the hand in a bad way.

“How in creation did you do a thing like this, girl?” he barked. Horty fell back, frightened.

“Kiddo, go over there with Havana, hm?”

Horty retreated, gratefully. Zena began talking rapidly in a low voice. He could only hear part of it. “Terrible shock, Maneater. Don’t remind her of it, ever… carpenter… and took her to his shop… when she… and her hand in the vise.”

“No wonder I hate people,” the Maneater snarled. He asked her a question.

“No,” said Zena. “She got away, but her hand…”

“Come here, Kiddo,” said the Maneater. His face was something to see. His whip of a voice seemed to issue from his nostrils which, suddenly, were not carven slits but distended, circular holes. Horty turned pale.

Havana pushed him gently. “Go on, Kiddo. He’s not mad. He’s sorry for you. Go
on!”

Horty inched forward and timidly climbed the step. “Come in here.”

“We’ll see you,” called Havana. He and Bunny turned away. As the door closed behind him and Zena, Horty looked back and saw Bunny and Havana gravely shaking hands.

“Sit down there,” said the Maneater.

The inside of his trailer was surprisingly spacious. There was a bed across the front end, partially curtained. There was a neat galley, a shower, and a safe; a large table, cabinets, and more books than one would ever expect to fit into such space.

“Does it hurt?” murmured Zena.

“Not much.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” growled the Maneater. He put alcohol, cotton, and a hypodermic case on the table. “Tell you what I’m going to do. (Just to be different from other doctors.) I’m going to block the nerve on your whole arm. When I poke the needle into you it’ll hurt, like a bee-sting. Then your arm will feel very funny, as if it were a balloon being blown up. Then I’ll clean up that hand. It won’t hurt.”

Horty smiled up at him. There was something in this man, with his frightening changes of voice and his treacherous humor, his kindness and his cruel aura, which the boy found deeply appealing. There was a kindness like Kay’s, little Kay who hadn’t cared if he ate ants. And there was a cruelty like Armand Bluett’s. If nothing else, the Maneater would serve as a link with the past for Horty—for a while at least. “Go ahead,” said Horty.

“That’s a good girl.”

The Maneater bent to his work, with Zena, fascinated, looking on, deftly moving things out of his way, making things more convenient for him. So absorbed he became that if he had any further questions to ask about “Kiddo” he forgot them.

Zena cleaned up afterward.

P
IERRE MONETRE HAD GRADUATED
from college three days before he was sixteen, and from medical school when he was twenty-one. A man died under his hands during a simple appendectomy, which was not Pierre Monetre’s fault.

But someone—a hospital trustee—made a slighting reference to it. Monetre went to him to protest and stayed to break the man’s jaw. He was immediately banned from the surgical theater, and rumor blamed it on the appendectomy alone. Instead of proving to the world matters which he felt needed no proof, he resigned from the hospital. He then began to drink. He took his drunkenness before the world as he had taken his brilliance and his skill—front and center, and damn the comments. The comments on his brilliance and his skill had helped him. The comments on his drunkenness shut him out.