The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks

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The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks Page 35

by Harington, Donald


  Phil was right: when Hank went into the Big Top for the first time, he discovered that there weren’t more than fifty people in the audience, and none of them were Stay Morons. Although there were three rings in the circus, only one of them was being used. With the other clowns, Hank went around the ring, doing his elbow-touching and juggling act. Nobody laughed, although the younger members of the audience giggled and pointed. Hank was disappointed; it hadn’t been much of a thrill. He suffered the sourhours while waiting for the evening performance. The attendance at the night show wasn’t much better, and again there was no one from Stay More. Hank knew it had been a bad drought summer and people didn’t have much money, and his own folks didn’t have any money at all. But he wished that at least one of his uncles or brothers would show up in the audience and recognize him. Maybe tomorrow. But when the evening performance was over, Phil assembled all the circus people and said to them, “Okay, let’s blow this morgue. Everybody up at dawn and tear down the rags.” Hank was surprised to discover that his friend Phil was apparently the boss of the whole circus, and he asked him if he meant that they were leaving in the morning, and Phil said, “Yeah, kid, this town is a total blank,” so Hank asked him if he could go with them to whatever next town they were going to, and Phil said, “Sure, kid, but the pay is lousy.” Hank realized that he hadn’t been paid anything for his two performances so far, but he’d had plenty of free food. He went to bed early on the grass and had dreams of doing his act in front of big crowds in the cities.

  He was awakened just before dawn by a hand on his shoulder. It was the World’s Oldest Man. “Get up, Ingledew,” he said. Hank rose quickly to his feet. “Let’s go home,” the old man said. “The circus is over.”

  “But I’m a-gorn with ’em. Phil said I could,” Hank protested, then remembered he would have to speak loudly for the old man to hear him. He began to repeat himself loudly, but the old man hissed “Sshh!” and put a finger to his lips and clamped the other hand over Hank’s mouth. “Wait ’till we’re out of here,” the old man said and took his arm and began to lead him out of the circus lot. Hank couldn’t understand why the old man intended to go with him. Or maybe the old man just intended to escort him out of the circus. If the old man was so old that he knew everything, even Hank’s last name, then maybe the old man knew some reason why Hank should not join the circus for keeps and go with them to the next town. Suddenly Hank remembered his mule, and by mute sign language or pantomime he tried to convey this to the old man, and was finally required to whisper loudly in the old man’s ear, “My mule,” and the old man let him go and get it. Then the old man slipped into a tent and got a fifty-pound sack of peanuts and hoisted it up onto the back of the mule. Hank led the mule and they left the grounds of the circus. When they were out of earshot of anyone in the circus, Hank raised his voice and said to the old man, “I was fixin to jine the circus fer keeps. Phil said I could. Aint he the boss?”

  “Philip Foogle and his brother Charles own the circus, yes,” the old man said. “But he isn’t the boss, and neither is Charles.”

  “Who is?”

  “I am. Or, rather, I’m an agent of the boss.”

  “Why won’t you let me jine the circus? I don’t want to go back to Stay More.”

  “You don’t? That’s dreadful. You shouldn’t have left it in the first place. Didn’t anyone ever tell you the story of your great-great-uncle Benjamin Ingledew?”

  Hank had heard of the story of his great-grandpap’s older brother Benjamin, who had headed for California to hunt for gold and died in the Mountain Meadows Massacre, but he didn’t understand what that had to do with his joining the circus, and he wondered how the old man knew about Benjamin Ingledew, but realized that the old man was so old that he knew everything. They were well outside of Jasper by now, halfway to Parthenon, and the old man was still hobbling along beside him. Was he actually going all the way to Stay More with him? It would sure wear him out.

  “You wanter ride the mule?” Hank offered.

  “Thank you,” the old man said. “I would be very grateful.” Hank helped him to climb up on the mule’s back, and they went on. The sun was rising.

  Hank indicated the fifty-pound sack of peanuts on the mule’s shoulders, and asked, “You aim to sell them goobers in Stay More?”

  “If I can,” the old man said.

  They walked on, and passed through Parthenon. They did not talk much, because the old man would only speak if Hank asked him a question and although there were many questions which Hank could have asked him Hank didn’t know which one to start with, so he remained silent. Hank wondered if the old man was quitting the circus for good, or maybe he just intended to sell his peanuts in Stay More and then catch up with the circus later on. Maybe in the meantime Hank could persuade him to let him join the circus, if he really was the boss.

  It was almost noon when they reached Stay More. Hank began to worry if his folks would give him a licking for sneaking off from home and taking the mule with him. He had a feeling that maybe the old man could protect him, so when the old man asked to get down from the mule at Willis’s store, Hank asked him if he didn’t mind staying with him until he took the mule home, and the old man smiled a small smile and nodded his head. Thus, the old man did not get off the mule until they reached Hank’s house, where Hank’s father and brothers were sitting on the porch waiting for dinner, and Hank’s mother came running out of the kitchen as soon as Bevis Ingledew telepathically informed her that their errant son had returned with the mule and that an unbelievably old man was sitting on the mule.

  “Boy, whar on earth have ye—” Bevis Ingledew started to demand of Hank but then he stared fixedly at the old man for a long moment and exclaimed, “Strike me blind! If it aint ole Eli Willard! But it caint be! I’ve not laid eyes on ye since I was ’bout twenty, and I’m past forty now, and back then you was already senile.”

  “He’s the World’s Oldest Man,” Hank declared proudly, as if he had invented, or at least discovered, him. But he had heard stories about Eli Willard and knew that he had already been in Stay More again and again and again long before Hank was born.

  “Jist in time for dinner,” Emelda remarked, and invited Eli Willard into her kitchen, where she served him and Bevis and the boys a frugal but filling lunch. During the meal, Eli Willard was brought up to date on the current condition of Stay More: who had died, who had been born, the opening and closing of the bank, the closing of the mill, the coming and going of the city-women homesteaders, the Unforgettable Picnic, the making and selling of corn-husk dolls, the failure of crops, and so forth.

  Eli Willard showed no particular interest or emotion at any of this news, although he remarked that he was happy to have noticed that there was now a gasoline pump standing in the road beside Willis’s store, which implied that there was now an abundance of horseless carriages in the neighborhood. He asked if there had been any more lawsuits against hapless motorists whose vehicles had frightened livestock. The Ingledews were embarrassed at his bringing up the subject, and they apologized on behalf of the departed Uncle Denton, and said that there was a legend in the Ingledew family that Uncle Denton had a peculiar sense of humor and had intended the lawsuit only as a joke. Eli Willard smiled a wan smile. Then he thanked them for the dinner and asked Hank to take him back to the general store. Eli Willard’s reappearance had caused so much excitement to Bevis and Emelda that they forgot to reprimand Hank for running away from home, or even to ask where he had been. Hank helped Eli Willard up on the mule’s back once again and took him and his fifty-pound sack of peanuts to Willis’s store, where Eli Willard attempted to buy a hundred small paper sacks from Willis, who was so astonished and delighted to find the Connecticut peddler still among the living that he refused to accept payment for the tiny sacks, but, when Eli Willard had transferred the contents of the fifty-pound sack of peanuts into one hundred half-pound sacks, with Hank’s help, Willis accepted the gift of one sack free gratis. Then Eli Willa
rd sat on the store porch and attempted to sell peanuts at five cents a bag.

  Business was not very brisk. Willis tactfully pointed out to Eli Willard that the word “bag” means scrotum throughout the Ozarks, and that instead of saying “Fresh roasted peanuts! A nickel a bag!” Eli Willard should say “Fresh roasted peanuts! A nickel a poke!” Therefore the peanut peddler altered his pitch, but business did not improve. Willis offered the further opinion that the word “peanuts” itself was suspect, because it suggested not only the testicles but also micturition. “Goobers” also suggested the male genitals, but was not as suggestive as peanuts. So Eli Willard began to say, “Fresh roasted goobers! A nickel a poke!” whenever anyone came along, which wasn’t often. He sold a few pokes. Hank decided that maybe Eli Willard intended to rejoin the circus as soon as he had sold all of the peanuts. To test this notion, he casually asked the old man if he knew where the circus was going after it left Jasper. Eli Willard nodded. Hank left the store and went around from house to house in Stay More, telling everybody that old Eli Willard was back in town, and offering a whole half-pound of goobers for just five cents. Soon the store porch was crowded with people cracking and eating peanuts, and before long they were up to their ankles in peanut shells. As the afternoon waned, Eli Willard sold his last poke of peanuts. Willis Ingledew swept the peanut shells off the store porch, and closed his store and went home to eat supper. Eli Willard and Hank were alone. The profits from the sale of peanuts had come to exactly five dollars, which Eli Willard gave to Hank, saying it was payment for the ride from Jasper to Stay More.

  “How you gorn to git back?” Hank wanted to know.

  “I’m not.”

  “Huh? You aint givin up on the circus fer good, air ye?”

  Eli Willard nodded.

  “Wal, will ye tell me whar they went, so’s I can fine ’em?”

  Eli Willard shook his head. Then he asked, “What’s your name, Ingledew?”

  “John Henry. Everbody calls me Hank.”

  Eli Willard seemed to be only thinking about that, without comment. Then he unbuttoned his left sleeve and removed from his wrist a dazzling gold wristwatch; even the band was gold. He handed it to Hank. “It’s a chronometer,” he explained. “Keeps perfect time. Never loses a second. Not a fraction of a second. But it isn’t for you, except in trust. Keep it for your son.”

  “My son?” Hank said. “Heck, I ain’t but ten year old.”

  “Yes, but you’ll have a son some day.”

  Hank thought about that. He realized that in order to have a son you first had to find a girl and sweet-talk her into marrying you, and then you had to persuade her to get into bed with you and let you do it to her, and more than once if it wasn’t the right time of month. Hank could never do anything like that, and he told Eli Willard so, but the old man just laughed and assured him that he would indeed eventually do all of those things, and more.

  “But what if it aint a son but a daughter?”

  “Try again. And again. And when your son is old enough to appreciate, give him that chronometer and tell him my story.”

  “What’s your story?”

  “Four score and ten years ago, I sold a clock to your great-greatgrandfather, who, as you probably know, was the first white settler of Stay More. It wasn’t a very good clock, I must confess…” Eli Willard went on, and told Hank the whole long story of his many many returns to Stay More, what merchandise he had offered if not sold, the experiences he had had, not excluding the humiliations and the boredom. He talked through and past suppertime, and Hank was getting mighty hungry, but he figured the least he could do in return for such a fine gold watch, even if he couldn’t wear it himself but only keep it for his son, was to listen carefully to the old man’s story and try to remember it so that he could tell it to his son on the day that he would give him the fine gold watch, and maybe his son could make some sense out of the story even if Hank couldn’t.

  It was a very interesting story, Hank thought, although he didn’t see any particular significance in it, unless it was just about time in general, time passing, time coming and staying awhile and going away forever not never to come back anymore. It was kind of sad, he thought. It was almost like not knowing whether or not you really existed because in order for you to have been born your mother and father had to speak to one another and go to bed together, and as far as he knew his mother and father never had. Eli Willard seemed to be a very wise old man, and Hank decided that when the old man got finished telling his story Hank would ask him for his opinion on whether or not a person could exist if his parents had never spoken to one another or gone to bed together.

  It seemed to be getting late. The lightning bugs had all come out and filled the air. The old man’s voice was becoming weak and hoarse, but he seemed to be near the finish. He was at the part where he drove the first horseless carriage into Stay More and Uncle Denton sued him for it and he went away and joined a circus and didn’t come back again for twenty years.

  He’s almost done, Hank realized, and then Hank could ask him some questions. He had to strain his ears to hear what the old man was saying in his weak, hoarse voice. And then he could not hear him at all. The old man’s lips were still moving, but Hank couldn’t catch a word. Hank put his ear up close to the old man’s mouth and managed to catch one feeble word that sounded like “peanuts” but then he couldn’t hear anything else. Eli Willard’s lips went on moving. “I caint hear you!” Hank hollered into his ear, but Eli Willard just closed his eyes, and his lips went on moving for a while and then stopped moving, and his chin fell to his chest. Hank gave his shoulder a shake and Eli Willard fell over.

  Hank ran up the road to Doc Swain’s place and fetched Doc Swain, who came and inspected Eli Willard and declared that it looked as if he had been dead for many years. Doc Swain took his shoulders and Hank took his legs and they carried him over to E.H. Ingledew’s dentist shop, where E.H., who was a mortician as well as a dentist, carefully embalmed him. The next day the people of Stay More assembled and discussed the situation. They didn’t know where to ship the body, and even if they did they couldn’t afford it. A search of the dead man’s pockets had produced just a tiny amount of cash, not even enough for a box coffin. Hank Ingledew didn’t tell anyone about the gold wristwatch, which rightfully belonged to his future son; he wrapped the watch in flannel and put it into a tin lard pail and buried it in a place that not even I know. Eli Willard was not buried. The Stay More cemetery, after all, was for Stay Morons, and Eli Willard was not a Stay Moron. Willis Ingledew offered in place of a coffin an unused glass showcase in the rear of his general store, and Eli Willard’s well-preserved body was laid to rest in this showcase, and all of the Ingledews, at least, gathered around it and sang:

  Farther along we’ll know all about it,

  Farther along we’ll understand why;

  Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine,

  We’ll understand it, all by and by.

  One day Hank Ingledew laboriously hand-lettered a sign, “WURL’S OLDISS MAN,” and took it into the store and, with Willis’s permission, placed it on top of the showcase. Hank brooded sometimes because Eli Willard had not lived long enough for Hank to ask him the question about whether or not Hank could exist if his parents had never spoken to one another or slept together. Sometimes when Willis was sitting out on the store porch, Hank would slip into the rear of the store and sit down beside the showcase and make believe that he was talking to Eli Willard and asking him questions. In this way, over a period of time, he came to understand the power of make-believe, and this was a consolation to him.

  Eli Willard rested in peace in the showcase for several years, and people came from all over Newton County to see him, and while they were in the store they would usually buy a candy bar or a plug of chewing tobacco or something, and this business helped Willis Ingledew survive the lean years of the Great Depression and even to make modest loans to all the other Ingledews to help them survive.


  Willis was totally forgiven for whatever errors of credulity he had made long ago; people began to believe him; they believed anything he said; they even believed, all of a sudden one day, that he actually possessed an automobile. On the day they believed he possessed an automobile he was driving it into Jasper for repairs when he lost control on a sharp curve and plunged down a steep embankment, totally wrecking the car. He died instantly and they buried him, singing “Farther Along” over his grave. He was the last male of his line.

  His niece Lola, whom nobody realized was secretly his daughter, inherited the general store, and her first act as proprietress was to insist that the other Ingledews kindly remove the glass showcase with the body of Eli Willard in it. She said she would not set foot in the store until they did. So she did not set foot in the store, which was all right with just about anybody, because nobody had any money to spend there, although unfortunately the post office was also inside the store. But Lola did not inherit the postmastership, because U.S. government positions are not inheritable. When Willis Ingledew died, the Beautiful Girl, who had returned to Stay More after a long and mysterious absence and had purchased Bob Cluley’s little general store up at the other end of Main Street, purchased it with money that nobody knew how or where or why she had obtained, now applied to the U.S. government for the post of postmistress, and was granted it, much to the chagrin of Lola, who could only watch helplessly as Tearle Ingledew loaded the cabinet of post office boxes into a wagon and hauled it up Main Street to the Beautiful Girl’s general store. Lola and the Beautiful Girl had in common that they were spinsters and that they were general store proprietresses, but they had absolutely nothing else in common.

  The Jasper Disaster ran a feature story on the corpse of Eli Willard under the title, “Connecticut Itinerant Has No Final Resting Place, Even in Death.” One of the national wire services picked up the story, and soon it was running in papers all over the country. A family of Willards in Rhode Island wrote to the Newton County coroner, claiming that Eli Willard was their longlost great-grandfather, but the coroner replied that Eli Willard was a lifelong bachelor who had no kin or descendants. The students of Yale University took up a collection for the purpose of having the showcase shipped to Yale’s Dwight Chapel, but the university administration vetoed the idea. The Governor of Connecticut wrote the Governor of Arkansas suggesting that something ought to be done, and the latter replied that his staff was investigating, with the main problem being to locate Newton County in general and Stay More in particular. Meanwhile a man drove up to Lola’s store and introduced himself as Philip Foogle and asked to be allowed to view the remains. Lola said she wouldn’t set foot inside the store, but she would unlock it for him, and did, and the man went in and later came back out and said that the deceased had been, when last seen, wearing an extremely expensive gold chronometer wristwatch which was not now on the deceased’s person. Foogle claimed that he had loaned a considerable sum of money to the deceased, who had spent it on the wristwatch. In short, he, Foogle, wanted the wristwatch. Lola said she didn’t know nothing about no wristwatch. Foogle asked who had been with the deceased at the time of his deceasement, and Lola told him Hank Ingledew, and gave him directions to Hank’s house, and Foogle went there and was mildly surprised to discover that Hank Ingledew was a grown-up version of the same ten-year-old kid whom he had almost converted into a permanent clown several years before.

 

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