Needless to say, Billy was enthralled.
—But why is it cursed?
—Why is it cursed! Have you never heard the tale of Macbeth? The black-hearted Thane of Glamis? What? No? Well then, my boy, make some room, and I shall bring you into the fraternity!
Professor Applenathe’s Compendium was set aside. And as Billy got under the covers, I switched off the light—just as my father would have when he was about to tell a dark and grisly tale.
Naturally enough, I began on the fen with the three witches bubbling, bubbling, toil and troubling. I told the kid how, spurred by the ambitions of the Missus, Macbeth honored the visit of his king with a dagger through the heart; and how this cold-blooded act of murder begot another, which in turn begot a third. I told him how Macbeth became tormented by ghostly visions, and his wife began sleepwalking the halls of Cawdor while wiping the specter of blood from her hands. Oh, I stuck the courage to the sticking place, all right!
And once the trees of Birnam Wood had climbed the hill of Dunsinane, and Macduff, that man of no woman born, had left the regicide slain upon the fields, I tucked Billy in with a wish of pleasant dreams. And as I retreated down the hall, I took a bow with a gentle flourish when I noted that young Billy had gotten out of bed to switch the light back on.
* * *
Sitting on the edge of Emmett’s bed, what struck me immediately about his room was all that wasn’t in it. While there was a chip in the plaster where a nail had once been lodged, there were no pictures hanging, no posters or pennants. There was no radio or record player. And while there was a curtain rod above the window, there were no curtains. If there had been a cross on the wall, it could well have been the cell of a monk.
I suppose he could have cleared it out right before going to Salina. Putting his childish ways behind him, and what have you, by dumping all his comic books and baseball cards in the trash. Maybe. But something told me this was the room of someone who had been preparing to walk out of his house with nothing but a kit bag for a long, long time.
The beams from Mr. Ransom’s headlights swept across the wall again, this time from left to right as the truck passed the house on its way to the road. After the screen door slammed, I heard Emmett turn off the lights in the kitchen, then the lights in the front room. When he climbed the stairs, I was waiting in the hall.
—Up and running? I asked.
—Thankfully.
He looked genuinely relieved, but a little worn out too.
—I feel terrible putting you out of your room. Why don’t you take your bed and I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch. It may be a little short, but it’s bound to be more comfortable than the mattresses at Salina.
In saying this, I didn’t expect Emmett to take me up on the offer. He wasn’t the type. But I could tell he appreciated the gesture. He gave me a smile and even put a hand on my shoulder.
—That’s all right, Duchess. You stay put and I’ll join Billy. I think we could all use a good night’s sleep.
Emmett continued down the hall a few steps, then stopped and turned back.
—You and Woolly should switch out of those clothes. He can find something in my father’s closet. They were about the same size. I’ve already packed things for Billy and me, so you can take what you want from mine. There’s also a pair of old book bags in there that you two can use.
—Thanks, Emmett.
As he continued down the hall, I went back into his room. From behind the closed door, I could hear him washing up, then going to join his brother.
Lying down on his bed, I stared at the ceiling. Over my head were no model airplanes. All I had was a crack in the plaster that turned a lazy curve around the ceiling lamp. But at the end of a long day, maybe a crack in the plaster is all you need to trigger fanciful thoughts. Because the way that little imperfection curved around the fixture was suddenly very reminiscent of how the Platte River bends around Omaha.
Oh, Omaha, I remember thee well.
It was in August of 1944, just six months after my eighth birthday.
That summer, my father was part of a traveling revue claiming to raise money for the war effort. Though the show was billed as The Greats of Vaudeville, it might just as well have been called The Cavalcade of Has-Beens. It opened with a junkie juggler who’d get the shakes in the second half of his act, followed by an eighty-year-old comedian who could never remember which jokes he had already told. My father’s bit was to perform a medley of Shakespeare’s greatest monologues—or, as he put it: A lifetime supply of wisdom in twenty-two minutes. Wearing the beard of a Bolshevik and a dagger in his belt, he would lift his gaze slowly from the footlights in search of that realm of sublime ideas located somewhere in the upper right-hand corner of the balcony, and thence wouldst commence: But soft, what light through yonder window breaks . . . and Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . . and O reason not the need! . . .