Saint Louis had been turned into a phantom city for me, and a little more of it was vanishing every day.
One afternoon that spring the weather became inordinately hot, boiling up to midsummer levels. The four of us were working out in the fields, and when the master removed his shirt for greater comfort, I saw that he was wearing something around his neck: a leather thong with a small, transparent globe hanging from it like a jewel or an ornament. When I approached him to have a better look—merely curious, with no ulterior motive—I saw that it was my missing pinky joint, encased in the pendant along with some kind of clear liquid. The master must have noticed my surprise, for he glanced down at his chest with an expression of alarm, as if he thought a spider might be crawling there. When he saw what it was, he took hold of the globe in his fingers and held it out to me, smiling with satisfaction. “A pretty little widget, eh Wait?” he said.
“I don’t know about pretty,” I said, “but it looks awful familiar to me.”
“It should. It used to belong to you. For the first ten years of your life, it was part of who you were.”
“It still is. Just because it’s detached from my body, that don’t make it any less mine than before.”
“It’s pickled in formaldehyde. Preserved like some dead fetus in a jar. It doesn’t belong to you now, it belongs to science.”
“Yeah, then what’s it doing around your neck? If it belongs to science, why not donate it to the wax museum?”
“Because it has special meaning for me, sport. I wear it to remind myself of the debt I owe you. Like a hangman’s noose. This thing is the albatross of my conscience, and I can’t let it fall into a stranger’s hands.”
“What about my hands, then? Fair is fair, and I want my joint back. If anyone wears that necklace, it’s got to be me.”
“I’ll make a bargain with you. If you let me hold on to it a little longer, I’ll think of it as yours. That’s a promise. It’s got your name on it, and once I get you off the ground, you can have it back.”
“For keeps?”
“For keeps. Of course for keeps.”
“And how long is this ‘little longer’ going to be?”
“Not long. You’re already standing on the brink.”
“The only brink I’m standing on is the brink of perdition. And if that’s where I am, that’s where you are, too. Ain’t that so, master?”
“You catch on fast, son. United we stand, divided we fall. You for me and me for you, and where we stop nobody knows.”
This was the second time I had been given encouraging news about my progress. First from Mother Sioux, and now from the master Himself. I won’t deny that I felt flattered, but for all their confidence in my abilities, I failed to see that I was one jot closer to success. After that sweltering afternoon in May, we went through a period of epic heat, the hottest summer in living memory. The ground was a caldron, and every time you walked on it, you felt that the soles would melt right off your shoes. We prayed for rain at supper every evening, and for three months not a single drop fell from the sky. The air was so parched, so delirious in its dessication, you could track the buzzing of a horsefly from a hundred yards away. Everything seemed to itch, to rasp like thistle rubbing against barbed wire, and the smell from the outhouse was so rank it singed the hairs in your nostrils. The corn wilted, drooped, and died; the lettuce bolted to grotesque, gargantuan heights, standing in the garden like mutanttowers. By mid-August, you could drop a pebble down the well and count to six before you heard the water plink. No green beans, no corn on the cob, no succulent tomatoes like the year before. We subsisted on eggs and mush and smoked ham, and while there was enough to see us through the summer, our diminishing stores boded ill for the months that lay ahead. “Tighten your belts, children,” the master would say to us at supper,
One afternoon that spring the weather became inordinately hot, boiling up to midsummer levels. The four of us were working out in the fields, and when the master removed his shirt for greater comfort, I saw that he was wearing something around his neck: a leather thong with a small, transparent globe hanging from it like a jewel or an ornament. When I approached him to have a better look—merely curious, with no ulterior motive—I saw that it was my missing pinky joint, encased in the pendant along with some kind of clear liquid. The master must have noticed my surprise, for he glanced down at his chest with an expression of alarm, as if he thought a spider might be crawling there. When he saw what it was, he took hold of the globe in his fingers and held it out to me, smiling with satisfaction. “A pretty little widget, eh Wait?” he said.
“I don’t know about pretty,” I said, “but it looks awful familiar to me.”
“It should. It used to belong to you. For the first ten years of your life, it was part of who you were.”
“It still is. Just because it’s detached from my body, that don’t make it any less mine than before.”
“It’s pickled in formaldehyde. Preserved like some dead fetus in a jar. It doesn’t belong to you now, it belongs to science.”
“Yeah, then what’s it doing around your neck? If it belongs to science, why not donate it to the wax museum?”
“Because it has special meaning for me, sport. I wear it to remind myself of the debt I owe you. Like a hangman’s noose. This thing is the albatross of my conscience, and I can’t let it fall into a stranger’s hands.”
“What about my hands, then? Fair is fair, and I want my joint back. If anyone wears that necklace, it’s got to be me.”
“I’ll make a bargain with you. If you let me hold on to it a little longer, I’ll think of it as yours. That’s a promise. It’s got your name on it, and once I get you off the ground, you can have it back.”
“For keeps?”
“For keeps. Of course for keeps.”
“And how long is this ‘little longer’ going to be?”
“Not long. You’re already standing on the brink.”
“The only brink I’m standing on is the brink of perdition. And if that’s where I am, that’s where you are, too. Ain’t that so, master?”
“You catch on fast, son. United we stand, divided we fall. You for me and me for you, and where we stop nobody knows.”
This was the second time I had been given encouraging news about my progress. First from Mother Sioux, and now from the master Himself. I won’t deny that I felt flattered, but for all their confidence in my abilities, I failed to see that I was one jot closer to success. After that sweltering afternoon in May, we went through a period of epic heat, the hottest summer in living memory. The ground was a caldron, and every time you walked on it, you felt that the soles would melt right off your shoes. We prayed for rain at supper every evening, and for three months not a single drop fell from the sky. The air was so parched, so delirious in its dessication, you could track the buzzing of a horsefly from a hundred yards away. Everything seemed to itch, to rasp like thistle rubbing against barbed wire, and the smell from the outhouse was so rank it singed the hairs in your nostrils. The corn wilted, drooped, and died; the lettuce bolted to grotesque, gargantuan heights, standing in the garden like mutanttowers. By mid-August, you could drop a pebble down the well and count to six before you heard the water plink. No green beans, no corn on the cob, no succulent tomatoes like the year before. We subsisted on eggs and mush and smoked ham, and while there was enough to see us through the summer, our diminishing stores boded ill for the months that lay ahead. “Tighten your belts, children,” the master would say to us at supper,
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