Stanley Elkin - George Mills

He tried again but couldn’t budge it. “It’s stuck,” he said.

“Here, let me,” Prettyman said. George watched as he came noiselessly from where he’d been standing. Though Prettyman walked as other men did, it was as if he moved on air. When the man was almost beside him he suddenly stumbled and fell. He made no sound when he hit the floor. “I’m that tree in that forest when no one is by,” he said. “Help me up,” he said. “I’m too big for these pratfalls.”

“You’re bleeding,” George said.

“Yeah? Am I?” he said, and raised a finger to his lips. “Hush. Hush then and listen.”

George could just make out a faint sloshing sound, like soda splashing into a glass.

“I ain’t got you yet, do I?” Prettyman said. “You’re some tough customer. I thought I asked you to help me up.” The boy took hold of the big man’s suit coat and helped him stand. “That’s seersucker. My clothes don’t crinkle. That drawer still stuck?” He pulled on it with all his heavy force. The boy knew how he operated now, not how he did it, but the pattern, something of his magician’s preemptive sequences. He knew there would be no sound as the drawer came suddenly unstuck. He even anticipated the noiseless crash Prettyman would make as he was thrown off balance against the wall, the drawer still in his hands.

“Haw,” Prettyman said, watching him narrowly. “Haw?” It was a question. It was like the cocked, sidelong glance of an animal who has just fetched or performed unbidden some difficult trick. The boy had the power now. The coached and lectured, instructed, explanationed boy did. He looked blankly as he could at Bennett Prettyman, still off balance and clumsied uncomfortably against the wall by his hunched shoulders. Prettyman held the drawer out to him. It was filled with nails, wax paper, gravel, marbles, broken glass, sandpaper, cellophane and a small brass bell.

“Haw,” Prettyman said softly, “haw.”

George Mills started to cry.

“You ain’t crying ’cause you’re scared,” Prettyman said. “You’re crying ’cause you think I tricked you.”

“I don’t,” George said.

“You don’t?” Prettyman said. “Then you ought to,” he said softly. He was being scolded, shouted at in that strange, unamplified, timbreless, infant’s voice. “What is it if it ain’t tricks? Look at me. Look at me. You can’t hear me, look at me.”

“I hear you.”

“Don’t sass me. Don’t you be fresh.

“Because I don’t know how them other folks do it, the ones that claim to fly and the ones that have the dead over to supper like they was cousins from out of town. Prophets better than the newspapers or wire services who fix where the spring earthquake in China will be and know which movie stars will come to grief and what will happen to the presidents. I don’t know how they do it. I don’t know how they touch her handkerchief and know where the little girl’s body is buried, or tip off the cops where the kidnapper is. (There’s men on that chain gang that your daddy laid off — did you know this? — there’s men on that chain gang who’d still be at home if it wasn’t for clues that a crystal ball give.) I don’t know how they do it, the ones that know the future from arithmetic or give you your character from the salt in the sea. Hell, I don’t even know how the fella at the fair does it, how he can tell you your weight before you step on the scale.

“So you better start thinking is it a trick, and wondering what it means if it ain’t. We’re in big trouble if it ain’t, kid, cause the universe won’t be through with us even after we’re quits with it. Forget God. God ain’t in it. Forget God and Satan, too. We got enough to worry about just from the folks in Cassadaga. Between them and our widows we stand to be horsed around the afterworld from now till the cows come home. So you better hope it is a trick, cause if it ain’t, if it ain’t, ain’t no one ever lived who’ll know a minute’s peace or get a good night’s sleep!

“And I’m telling you all this for nothing. I can afford to ’cause I do a single. I can’t use you, I don’t need you. Them others are after your ass. They got some idea that one kid is worth two red Indians or nigger slaves. They—”

“That’s why?” George said.

“Pardon?”

“That’s why they tell me this stuff?”

“Sure that’s why. Didn’t Kinsley already make you an offer? Sure it’s why. Didn’t you already know that? Didn’t they tell you? Then the joke’s on them, ain’t it? You got even less extrasensories than them phony injuns and old Pullman porters they work with now. But you think about it. Because if they ain’t fakes then maybe you got a calling, vocation, a proper apostolate. Death is the only legitimate work for a man if there isn’t any. It stands to reason. Death is just good business if there ain’t no death.”

Prettyman stopped talking, closed his eyes. George rose to go. “So I don’t know,” the big man said. George sat back. “I don’t know how they do it. I don’t even know how I do it. Gift or trick?

“How did I come by my mute body or ever get to be this soft-shoe dance of a man? Because the voice is put on, trained. I do the voice like bel canto. A lot of the rest of it’s real.

“I’ve always been big. I’ve always been graceful. My pop thought I was stealthy, a kid like a cat burglar. And one time he slapped me and it didn’t make noise. Or if it did, then the noise was in his fingers, in his palm. I hadn’t learned to control it then. (So some of it’s trick. What ain’t gift is trick.) I wasn’t this athlete of silence then. I hadn’t learned all there was about balance, even keel, equilibrium. I couldn’t deadlock the marbles or stalemate the stones. I hadn’t learned to walk on eggshells. I do that. I walk on eggshells at my sessions. (They aren’t seances, I don’t draw the curtains or turn out the lights. The eggshell stunt kills them, stops the show cold. Come by sometime, you’ll see. Well, you have to give them something, after all. You have to give them something you don’t show them their dead or put their voices in your mouth like fruit. Come by. Come by sometimes. Bring your lovely mother if you can tear her away from the others. But don’t build up her expectations. Tell her it’s just a show.) I hadn’t discovered how to control it, maneuver my muscles like so many lead toy soldiers or send my weight through my body as if it was blood. Lift my pinkie.”

He removed a marble from the drawer and placed it on top of the desk. He put his little finger on the marble. “Go on,” he said. “Try to lift it.”

“My mother?”

Prettyman folded his hands. “Never mind,” he said, “you wouldn’t be able to anyway. I transfer all my weight to the first joint of my little finger.”

“My mother?”

“She goes to the seances. To see your sister. She even came to me once. She’s quite a beautiful woman, isn’t she? She would have given me money. A very sweet woman, very beautiful. You’re quite the lucky young man. I told her I couldn’t.”

He stood abruptly and walked over to a pail that had been set down in a corner of the room. He scattered sand from the pail onto the cement floor. “Hey, d’ya ever see this one?” he asked him. “I got to give them something. Hell, the dead don’t talk to me. ”

He had begun to dance on the coarse sand which lay on the cement like one of those portable floors used by roller skating acts in close quarters. He tapped on it soundlessly in his big cleated bluchers. He closed his eyes, speaking as he danced in that soft, frictionless voice which was like that of a baby.

“If Mom asks you,” he said, “tell her that death is only pieces of life. Why shouldn’t I come and go there so long as I make no noise?”