of there so he wouldn’t harm any of yours.”
The boy whispered, “Will he… Will he come back?”
“No,” said Roosevelt gently. “No. Once he’s gone, he’s gone. He doesn’t come back. He never has.”
“I just never seen a man’s face look like that. He was so happy and so crazy. All over a heart.”
“You say he went to the southwest from your farm?” said Connelly.
“Yes.”
“Where’s that at?”
The boy told them.
“And he’s going by foot?”
“Yes. He may hitch a ride, I don’t know. Ain’t a real popular road, but you never know.”
“What’s southwest of your farm?” said Pike.
“Farmland, mostly. Odd town or two. Cutston is down that way, I think. Drought’s hit them pretty bad, though. Just like the rest of this place.”
“I see.”
“Can I get my nickel now, mister?”
“Sure, sure,” said Roosevelt, and he flipped him the coin.
“Thanks much,” the boy said.
“Take care, now.”
He stood and walked away across the fields and into the night.
“He ate a heart,” said Hammond quietly.
“I think he would have eaten the damn thing alive if he could’ve,” said Roosevelt. “Jesus. This guy’s crazier than a rat in a tin shithouse.”
“Watch the language,” said Pike absently.
“So he’s mad?” said Connelly.
“It would seem so,” Pike said. “You heard the boy. He was overcome. He had to take a bite, like a naughty boy stealing goodies. He has no control over himself. Whatever drives him does so whether he wants it to or not.”
“And he’s worked in a slaughterhouse before,” said Roosevelt.
“The world is his fucking slaughterhouse,” snarled Connelly.
The men stopped, unsettled by his fury. They watched his rage mount and then dissipate.
Hammond said, “Why did he come to the slaughter in the first place?”
“He’s attracted by things like that, I’d guess,” said Pike. “I expect he enjoys the experience. After all, they say porkflesh is the closest to a human being’s.”
Hammond shivered. “Jesus.”
They didn’t speak for a while, thinking to themselves.
“Let’s make camp while we can and get some sleep,” said Pike. “We’ve got a long walk in the morning.”
They withdrew into the fields, away from what was left of the carnival, and began to bed down without a fire. Roosevelt walked off into the brush and came back with a handful of sticks and reeds. Connelly watched as he sat down and began to weave something, setting the twigs together and then wrapping the reeds around the joints. He worked quickly, and soon Connelly saw that he was constructing a little man-shape, a small idol with spindly legs and a fat grass body and a small, blank thumb of wood for its head. He took a handful of earth in his palm and spat in it and smeared it about until it was a black paste. He rubbed some of the paste into the little idol’s head and then blew on it until it was firm and then he scraped out two eyes. He nodded and pressed the little figure into the earth next to where he lay so it stood upright.
“What is that?” asked Connelly.
“It’s my watcher,” said Rosie.
“Your what?”
“My watcher. It watches over me in the night. Then if anything bad’s going to happen it’ll happen to him instead of me.”
“What?”
“It’ll take my suffering for me. In my place.”
Rosie rolled over and soon was asleep. Connelly stayed up, looking at the little idol. It seemed strange, but the idol appeared different now that the mud had dried. Its face had more detail and its limbs were not as spindly. It looked more solid. More alive.
Connelly lay back and slept. In the morning when they awoke the idol was in ruins, limbs broken and its body frayed and the mud that made its face scratched and patched. Connelly thought about asking Roosevelt about it but did not.
CHAPTER SIX
They made their way southwest along the road. Trucks and jalopies drove by but none offered rides and soon they stopped hailing them. Each time they passed Connelly saw the dirty faces of young children staring out at them before they disappeared in a cloud of dust and exhaust.
The dust was getting worse, as was the drought. It was like they had landed on the moon. Everything was red and brown and the dust got finer. Simply walking kicked up dust that went up to their shoulders, and it stained everything the color of clay.
One night they walked off the road and camped in a field next to an old tank. They ate chicken and beans they had traded for along the road and Roosevelt produced a harmonica and proved himself to be an enthralling player. They listened as they warmed themselves by the fire.
“How’d you learn to do that?” said Connelly.
“In the stir,” said Roosevelt. “They tossed me in for a nickel spot back in Chicago for assault. Just a barfight, some guy’s leg got broke. Got out in a year, things were too crowded and I was on good behavior. But then, everyone’s spent at least a little time in the clink.”
“No,” said Connelly.
“I haven’t,” Hammond said.
“Or I,” said Pike.
“Oh,” Roosevelt said, frowning. “Well, I guess, um, in certain circles in certain cities it’s just common.” And he went back to playing softly.
“I had a neighbor who could play like that,” said Connelly. “Maybe he learnt it in jail. We’d hear him playing at night through an open window, and we’d sit and just listen. I like to think he knew we were there. Like he waited for us to get ready for dinner and chose that time to play.”
“Do you miss it?” asked Pike.
“Miss it?” said Connelly.
“The stationary life. Home. Do you miss it?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course I do, yes.”
“I can’t remember mine, sometimes. It was so long ago. I was just a boy, fresh out of the army and hopping around to revivals. I remember girls with pigtails and eyes like honey. I remember the smell of bread baking. But everything else is lost to me. What else do you remember, Connelly?”
He thought. “Laughter.”
“Laughter?”
“Just laughter. And my daughter’s eyes. They were green.”
“What happened to your wife?”
“Nothing. I still have her. She’s waiting on me. I’m going to go back to her, if she’ll take me back. Once this is
