“ ‘I can give you fifteen weeks back to back between Thanksgiving and the middle of March. Circus goes out again in April, but I got to have some time off before rehearsals start up that last week in March. Oh yeah, I don’t know if you’re Christian or not, Reverend, but Christmas week’s mine.’
“ ‘Christmas week?’
“ ‘I take the Mrs and the kids to their grandma’s in Memphis Christmas week.’
“ ‘The Mrs? Their grandma’s?’
“ ‘The Mrs, yeah. The little woman. The little ones, sure. Their grandma in Memphis. Right, the little old lady.’
“ ‘You’re married?’
“ ‘Fourteen years next June. Oh, and listen, I ain’t never worked double before. I always worked single or with the ensemble but.’
“ ‘The ensemble?’
“ ‘The ensemble, the troupe. Yeah. In the Grand Parade.
The Big Finish!
’
“That’s the upshot. That’s how the midgets came to work with us for a time. Only a few winters, really.
They
called it off. Anyway, a midget always sounded a little like a record speeded up on a gramophone.
“But mostly, mostly they didn’t like coming all the way out here to work. To this joined caravan of a town. To us. To Cassadaga.”
And C. L. Gregor Imolatty was an authority on ectoplasm. He had converted his spare bedroom into an ectoplasm museum, the only one, he said, in central Florida.
“I couldn’t have done it,” he told George as they stood just outside the museum’s black door, “if it hadn’t been for my wife’s cooperation. Sylvia’s support has been invaluable. I tell all my visitors that. It gets them involved. Here’s what we’ll do. When we go inside I’ll give you the same talk I give my clients. I’ll deliver it just as I always do. I won’t change a word, but you have to stop me whenever you hear me say something you think might be fake. You got that? If you think I’m lying, stop me. Just go ahead and interrupt. Isn’t that a good idea, Sylvia? Isn’t that a wonderful way for the boy to learn?”
“We tried that with the Mortons,” Mrs. Imolatty said.
“You know you’re right?” Imolatty said. “I forgot about the Mortons, but the Mortons were afraid to interrupt me. I think they thought they’d hurt my feelings. You mustn’t be afraid you’ll hurt my feelings, George. You’re here to learn. You chime in now if you think I’m making believe. Just call out ‘Lie!’ or ‘Fake!’ or ‘Cheat!’ Cry ‘Stop!’ or anything else that occurs to you. All right. Here we go then. Oh. Usually I pause for a moment outside the museum.
“ ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I say, ‘we’re going inside now. You’ll notice that the door is painted black. In the museum itself the door, walls, ceiling and floor are all painted black. There’s a reason for that. Light is a stimulus, a reagent. It excites ectoplasm and, if sufficiently bright, could cause seepage. So we like to keep it a little on the dark side. You’ll be able to see the exhibits perfectly well, but if any of you is carrying a flash camera I must ask you please not to use it.’ “
“Stop,” George said.
Imolatty gave him a puzzled look. “Why did you stop me?” he said. “It is dark inside. It
is
painted black. I
don’t
permit flash cameras.”
“Not that,” George Mills said, “the stuff about bright light making ex——exto——”
“Ectoplasm.”
“Ectoplasm seep out.”
“Excellent!” Imolatty exclaimed. “He’s very smart, isn’t he, Sylvia?” He turned to George. “You’re absolutely right. We keep it dark for other reasons. Light has nothing to do with it. What would happen to ectoplasm in the daytime if it did? What would happen when the sun rises, or even at night during an electrical storm? Let’s go in then.”
It was very hot in the dim room. “Thank you, Sylvia,” Imolatty said when the woman had flicked on the wall switch. He looked toward George again. “I couldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for my wife’s cooperation. Sylvia’s support has been invaluable,” he said.
“It’s long been acknowledged,” he went on, “that the ancients sought the so-called philosopher’s stone in order to transmute base metals into gold. What is perhaps less well known is that the alchemists’ researches drew them down
other
paths of the physical sciences and metaphysical arts. On this table, ladies and gentlemen, you may see some of the results of their experiments with crude, or secondary, ectoplasm. Naturally, I don’t pretend that these masses you see before you are the original work of those early experimenters. It would be remarkable indeed if such flimsy stuff endured over long centuries while whole cities have faded from the face of the earth, but——Did you say something, George?”
“No.”
“You didn’t? All right then.——but their writings
have
been preserved and are available to anyone who will simply take the trouble to look for them in our great public libraries. Working then from their original formulas, Sylvia and me have been able to duplicate their results in our lab. The three piles in front of me are various forms of crude, or secondary ectopl——”
“Stop.”
“George?”
“They’re not.”
“Not what?”
“Ectoplasm.”
“What are they?”
“I don’t know. They’re not crude ectoplasm.”
“Cobwebs! They’re cobwebs, George! Ordinary cobwebs! All scrunched and rolled like a fine, thin dough. Do you remember, Sylvia, how we collected this stuff?”
“Oh, those filthy rooms!” Mrs. Imolatty said.
“They
were
dirty.”
“The rubbish was all over my dress, in my hair, everywhere.”
“It was a mess all right,” Imolatty admitted. He turned back to George. “Good for
you,
George!” he congratulated him. “You’re not letting me get away with a thing. You’re a clever boy. The alchemists
never
experimented with ectoplasm. No, they were too greedy. I doubt if they gave a thought to ectoplasm.
“That low box on your right, the object rather like a foot bath at a public swimming pool, is a sort of ‘planter’ for ectoplasm. The woolly, grayish substance you see there—just a minute, George—is not itself ectoplasm, but is latent with a dormant
form
of ectoplasm which may sometimes be released through the process of agitation or ‘bruising’. Watch the planter. Look closely now.”
Imolatty stepped into the box and began a silent shuffle in place.
“Stop.” George said.
“Are you watching closely?” Imolatty said. “Can you see what’s happening?” he asked breathlessly.
A silverish froth had begun to bubble up in the ectoplasm planter, a queer chalk brew.
“Stop!” George cried. “
Stop!
”
“There,” Imolatty said. “You may try it yourselves, ladies and gentlemen.”
“I told you to stop,” George said.
“So you did. Why?”
“Because it’s not true.”
“What’s not true, George?”
“Everything. It’s not true that stuff’s ectoplasm.”
“Brillo pads, George! Soaped Brillo pads! I wear crepe soles moistened beforehand. That’s very good, George. The folks on the tour never catch on.”
“What if they touch it?” George Mills asked angrily. “Supposing they touch it?”
“Isn’t he smart, Sylvia? He’s smart as a whip. ‘Better let it calm down, folks,’ I say. ‘Agitated ectoplasm’s dangerous, too hot to handle.’ ”
“Stop!” George said.
“Caught out again, by golly!” Imolatty said. “Right you are, George. It
isn’t
too hot. All right, ladies and gentlemen, suppose we turn our attention to some of the museum’s major acquisitions.”
He led George and the woman through the black, hot room, not a guide now, a curator, with the curator’s furious pride, his curious, almost fanlike, supportive stake, his enthusiasm intimate reciprocity between speaker and topic, scholar and subject. He revealed background, rattled off commentary, footnote, marginalia, joyous gloss——all enthusiasm’s inside information, George Mills all the while muttering then practically shouting, “Stop, Stop!
Stop!
”
“Yes? Was there a question, George?”
“That glass case is empty. There’s nothing in it.”
“Yes?” Imolatty said.
“You said it’s pure ectoplasm.”
“Pure
primary
ectoplasm. Yes?”
“It’s empty.”
“No, George. I’m afraid you shouldn’t have stopped me that time. I get that one.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“Nothing but pure primary ectoplasm, no.”
“I can’t see it.”
“That’s right. Because it’s pure. It doesn’t have that faint yellowish cast primary ectoplasm sometimes gets. Do you remember, Sylvia, that batch we had once?” He turned back to George. “We’d gone after some stuff—incidentally, ‘stuff’ isn’t slang in this instance but a perfectly acceptable, even scientific, term for primary ectoplasm—to bring back to the museum. This was in the early days and we didn’t always understand what we were doing. We set out before breakfast and had gathered the ectoplasm before noon——”
“Oh, Clement,” the woman said, “you’re not going to tell
that
story, are you? The boy will think we’re fools. I declare, whenever Clement wants to embarrass me he trots this story out.”
“We were
kids,
Sylvia. What did
we
know? Besides, I was as much the goat as you were. Anyway, to make a long story short, we’d collected all that we needed——”
“More than we needed.”
“All right,” Imolatty said. “More than we needed. As it turned out more than we needed. Our mistake, you see, was to gather the stuff while it was still light. You can’t see the yellow cast of impure primary during the day. It just looks like more sunlight.”
“Stop,” George said lamely.
“It’s true,” Imolatty said. “It just bleeds into the sunshine. It’s like trying to show movies outdoors on a bright afternoon.”
“Stop,” he said mechanically.
“I’ll never forget it,” Mrs. Imolatty said.
“Stop,” George told the woman.
“Sylvia trying to drain off that yellow cast,” Imolatty said, “running it through her sifter like it was a cup of flour.”
“My hands cramped,” she said.
“ ‘You think it’s any paler now, Clement?’ ” Imolatty mocked his wife.
“Well, you were the one thought that maybe if we washed it,” Mrs. Imolatty said. She looked at George. “You know what Mr. Imolatty did?” she said. “Just went and carried all five bushels and dumped them into the tub one at a time and filled it to the top with piping hot water every time he emptied a bushel, that’s all.”
“Stop.”
“Well, not piping hot
every
time he filled the tub. After the first two times the water was tepid. The fourth and fifth times it was outright cool.”
“I thought if I let it soak a spell. We were kids,” Imolatty said.
“What do kids know?” Mrs. Imolatty said.
“Stop,” George said. “Stop. Stop.
Stop.
”
“Not at all,” Imolatty said. “I’m telling you about ectoplasm. That’s what you want to know about, isn’t it? Because it isn’t all brick in the world, it isn’t all mortar or bulk or whatever it is that’s material reality’s equivalent of fundament, firmament. The heart has its atoms, too. Its monads and molecules, its units and particles. Soul has its nutshell grain of integer morsel. Instinct does, will. And ectoplasm is only the lovely ounce and pennyweight of God.
“You’re not as smart as I thought, George,” Imolatty said. “You should have called me more often. My wife’s name is Sonia, not Sylvia. The Mortons constantly interrupted.”
Imolatty turned away, moved to another part of the room to stand beside a neat mound of earth like a stack of cordwood. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is pure unprocessed primary. Me and Sonia thought you’d like to see what first-quality ectoplasm looks like before it’s been treated. This high-grade ore comes directly from ectoplasm mines in extreme northern Florida. You’re welcome to take a handful with you as a souvenir of your visit to the ectoplasm museum. We’re sorry that we have no bags for you to put it in, but you’ll find that it keeps just as well in your pocket or purse. This concludes our tour, folks. Sonia and me thank you very much. Sonia?”
She flicked off the wall switch.
“Stop!” George shouted. “
Lie!
” he screamed. “
Cheat! Fake!
” he called in the dark.
He hadn’t seen his sister yet. Reverend Wickland hadn’t yet shown her to him, but at this time his relationship with their landlord was the most important thing in his life. Only Wickland (and his mother of course, though his mother’s silence the boy took for granted; she had, he supposed, nothing to say) did not bother to instruct him, all the others coming at him like coaches with a pupil of genius, one talented at piano, say, or blessed with a great, undeclared voice—George’s had only recently begun to change—their attitude—the coaches’, the mentors’—not only feigned but even the limits of their sternness fixed, established by custom and principle and the laws of cliché. Even George knew this, wondering at the seemingly boundless gift adults had for the servile vicarious and fawning reflexive. Without understanding such investment and at the same time peeved that his docile, silent mother hadn’t seemed to make it. Taking his case to Wickland.
“They keep bothering me.”
“Bothering you?”
“Telling me stuff.”
“They have a lot to say.”
“They tell me about their powers. They like to talk about the stuff they have to fake.”
“I see,” Wickland said.
“In Milwaukee one time my dad took me to see wrestling. There was a wrestler who was crazy. He was big, a real mean ugly guy. The guy he wrestled was big too, but normal, you know? The mean guy wouldn’t fight fair. Everybody booed him. I booed him too. Sometimes the crazy guy would poke his fingers in the regular guy’s eyes or pull his hair or choke him. The referee didn’t always see this and that’s when we booed. My father said it was fake, that they rehearsed all this junk, that probably they were even friends. He said the crazy guy sent the normal guy birthday presents. One guy was supposed to act mean and the other decent, my father said. He said it’s all fixed, that they already know who’s going to win. He said the good guy would do something terrific just when it looked like he was in his worst trouble. Only he didn’t. The bad guy licked the good guy. My father said that that was fixed, too, that they did that to make it more exciting. The bad guy could have beat the good guy anyway. He was so much bigger than the normal guy even though the normal guy was big too. He could have licked him anyway. He didn’t have to pull hair or bite or choke or do any of that stuff.”