The Easter House. David Rhodes
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as though made from number-ten wire. An olive sexual organ, shaped like a piece of corn smut.
“My God,” said Glove. “What are you doing with this? Why do you carry it around? Get rid of it.”
Cell took it back and replaced it devoutly in its hiding place, snapping the gold plastic heart shut on it. “It’s to remind me,” she said, “that there are such things in the world.”
“I should think you could just remember.”
“Maybe I could, but, anyway, your grandfather stood there with these other two men looking at Ernie.”
“Ernie!”
“Ansel named him Ernie.”
“Named that thing a human name! Ernie!”
“Stop interrupting. If you don’t want to hear the rest, just say so.”
Glove was quiet.
“Anyway, again, those other two men stood there until a fly lighted on Ernie’s shoulder, and despite the stretch of the skin, the whole covering of his shoulder flinched over his bones, the way a horse’s does. The fly fluttered away, but settled back again. And again the olive skin flinched. The two men shoved their hands in their pockets and stood with both legs close together, staring. The fly was buzzing back over the spot, and Ernie turned his head slightly towards it and his tongue snapped out of his mouth, his feet jerking a little, and stopped it in mid-air, carrying it back towards his mouth. Then he rubbed his feet together. One of these younger men made a heaving motion, but gagged successfully instead, and both went back outside and hurried off away into the sultry heat.
“‘Why do you let them do that to you?’ Ansel asked the thing. The canvas walls were hot and the sunlight came through in streaks of dust. Ernie’s eyes snapped from their gaze at the floor to meet your grandfather’s eyes.
“‘Nothing should live like you do,’ Ansel said.
“Into the dirt-filled showroom came the barker, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. From his stashing place behind a fold of canvas he pulled a gallon water jug wrapped in a dripping, badly worn towel, a precaution he had taken against the heat. He unwound the metal cap on top and, not bothering to use it as a cup, drank directly from the round mouth of the jug, and water ran down both sides of his chin. His thick-brimmed hat fell off. There was not much water left.
“‘That thing can’t talk, Mister,’ he said. ‘He’s stupid.’ He took another swallow and replaced the cap, holding the water for a minute in his mouth.
“‘He’s not,’ said Ansel. ‘How can you keep him here like this?’
“‘He’s not that stupid,’ the barker said and picked up his hat, not bothering to dust it off, ‘like a rabbit, that’ll chew its foot off to escape. He’ll eat when you throw food in and will even use a blanket to keep warm on cold nights. I even see him picking at the locks as though he were trying to open them . . . he’s smart, for an animal.’
“‘He understands talking,’ said Ansel. ‘It’s a man.’
“‘That’s crazy,’ said the barker as he looked outside at the dust and the blinding light and the three or four people still standing far away, watching. Things were not well with him. He had not made good money since Kansas City, where some people came back to pay three and five times for another look. He didn’t like the Midwest. He didn’t like anything about it. Everywhere there were flies. It was useless to return outside; he would sell no more admissions today.
“‘Look at his eyes,’ said Ansel. ‘He understands.’
“The barker came over to the cage and looked in absent-mindedly. He pointed his finger. ‘You call that understanding?’”
“‘Yes,’ said Ansel. ‘I do.’
“‘Down South, where I got him, people were hunting him with dogs. But he was a good climber and could lose them in the creek willows and live oaks. I got a glimpse of him one night eating out of a garbage pail and decided to trap him. Because of the way he looked, most people thought he was like a human.’ The barker sat down on a box. ‘But I just thought to myself—Now, where would something like that be safe in the daytime? So then I knew he’d have to live up high—not wanting to be bothered by the large ground animals, or the dogs. He’d also have to be up high to see from a long distance when the wolves were out, because they could run him down on a flat, even ground. At first I figured he’d be in trees. The people down there thought like you, that he might be human-like, because he could move along on his two legs, and had eyes that didn’t fill up the entire eye socket. Naturally, because of thinking like that, they also thought he was some kind of a supernatural thing, with powers and abilities beyond the comprehension of normal people. Further, they thought these powers and abilities were not good and attributed murders and pillages, most unexplained, to them. That, and they couldn’t catch him.
“‘But I reasoned again he would have to live up high in the daytime, but not always in trees. Cross-over trees—trees that he could use to escape—weren’t tall enough to give him cover. So I knew he’d have to be up high, with a clear view, but not always in trees.’
“Your grandfather hadn’t taken his eyes off the cage, but was listening closely to the barker, knowing that they liked to talk by the nature of their work.
“‘But I noticed one thing that no one else’d taken into consideration. While he was leaning over the garbage pail, taking out and sifting through the heap, I noticed his hide, and, as you can see, there was no fur. He was shivering in the morning air, his breath misting down from his nose. This thing needs heat, I told myself.’ Inside the cage Ernie hadn’t taken his eyes away from Ansel. Ansel’s hands twitched unconsciously.
“‘So where could he be safe and warm? I wondered. It was winter and I began looking. I knew the thing would be too stupid to burn wood itself, and would have to use the heat of people. So I knew it would be in an attic somewhere, half sleeping in the daytime, watching through a window for dogs and danger.’ Ansel sat down and waited for the end of this. The barker continued talking with no regard for time.
“‘I couldn’t find him. I knew he was in an attic somewhere, but I supposed that he had several to choose from, and people weren’t overly friendly about letting me into their houses. So what I was finally forced to do was rent an old place near the woods, jack the heat up, and wait in a darkened corner of the attic. Nothing, for a long time. Then I heard him early one evening scrambling up the side of the house like a spider. I saw his head looking in through the window. Then he was gone again. I knew he’d be back and sat quietly, wrapped in a wool blanket, eating dried fruit. I’d been there for so long by then that the rats and mice roamed freely across the attic floor. Later that night he came back again for another look and I saw his head outside the window because it was dark against the sky. Then he scrambled back down the side.
“‘The next time, opening the window by sliding his fingers in through the crack and flipping the latch open, he came onto the floor without making the slightest noise. The rats fled into the walls. He left the window open and began walking cautiously in a circle along the walls, covering the room. I think by the time he was almost to where I was he knew something was wrong, but by then it was too late and I had the net over him. Nearly as strong as two men, he was.’ The barker stopped talking.
“‘You got to let him go.’
“‘I might be persuaded to sell him,’ said the barker. ‘But I’ll never just let him go . . . though this would be fine country for him.’
“‘He can understand words,’ said Ansel. ‘He can think. He’s a man.’
“‘No, he isn’t. That’s crazy. Have you ever seen anyone else like him? Look at his feet. Look at his organ, man.’
“‘He may have been distorted, by birth, or by chance . . . but to keep him like this is against God.’
“‘Even if what you say is true—about the birth—even so,