Ghost Dance: A Play of Voices: A Novel

VIII: The Voice Box

VIII THE VOICE BOX They came. Curry Gatlin and Virgil Langtry and Emmett Early, the jeweler, and Lucien Hake, the undertaker . They were all there with their wives. ExceptLester Pruitt, who was late or else had decidedagainst it. Bill Brodkeywatched them come indoors from the mild night air edged with a slight chill, enter the great living room, jokinglightly: Netta Gatlin, a woman with broad shoulders and a little neck and a tendency to blink, and the jeweler's wife, tall and elegant, in a lace blouse that teased the eye but gave nothing away, there being, Bill observed , not much to offer. Miriam, married to the undertaker, as affable and voluble as her husband. And Gretchen, small and mousy, who left sociability to the real estate agent. They liked sports and local politics,- they spoke of their kids and medical problems. They admitted to havingrelatives with nervousbreakdowns . But as Bill put the men together with their women and tried to gauge their loyalties, their choice of breakfast food, the quality of their living rooms and vacations, then paired them off differently and found no solace in the exchange, he felt his imagination go limp. He grew afraid. Pick up the threads of sociability and they petered out into the trivial. All the decency, all the energy, and there it went into the same drearyround. The loss of the world and the loss of force. He should have left with Walter and Sally and gone back where he belonged, in the traffic of failure and ambiguity. What was Peacock up to anyway? Specious nonsense and sheer bravadowould carryhim through. When the worldcracked at the seams and let through the whiff of sulfur and idiot laugh198 ter, then you found the crooks and the cranks and A. J.Peacock. Happy as dung beetles. Let there be some spot, Bill thought, a little space where he too could rampage with the freaks, twist ideas like pretzels, some Hyde Park of the mind, where he could join the crackpots and con men twitching at the edges of history . That or be bored to death. Joan appeared to be at the edge of excitement, as if she was in on the secret. He looked at her sharply, through the eye of envy because she was clearly enjoying herself, as though the next turn of events would reveal only more of what she had gathered in already. He envied her for that, and for a hint of something that lay maddeningly beyond him. The sort of show she and Peacock put on for each other. Dazzling flights of repartee, in which he threw in the air a lamp, a red nightgown, a basket full of apples, tangerines, and grapes, and she responded with strings of lights in the shapes of flowers, each one going off in a sharp explosion. The air was filled with colors and bells and sirens and a roll of drums. All fluid and sparkling. They could have been lovers. They dodged missiles and deflected arrows, then rubbed together like silk, gave off static, and laughed. Resisting, Bill knew that she aroused him, that in more ways than one he wanted her for himself. He was jealous of Bird. Who was maybe crazy. What did he want? He was wary of a man whose motives eluded him. Who was he anyway? Holder of the trick cigar lit by the trick match? Who promised to take you to the very dead. The guests acted as though the whole thing were a lark, laughing uproariously at stupid anecdotes and drinking up Bird's liquor . The mayor appeared to be in his element, smiling out of a great store of goodwill, waving a hand with a cigar as he proved and approved, as though he himself were putting on the show. He'd greeted Bill like an old friend and was obviously courting Joan. Since she'd found her home again, he was sure she'd come back. Bill too. He had plans for the town,- big things were going to happen. He gave them a significant look. One of your amiable asses, Bill concluded. Trying to put out like Peacock, only he had neither the delivery nor the equipment , just the urge. Meanwhile Bird was in and out. "Just a little longer," he 199 promised them. "Enjoy yourselves. Have another drink, Virgil, Curry. Just a few more adjustments/7 Then he was...