6
The blaring horn and skidding tires chilled them to the bone—they found themselves suddenly staring straight into a pair of headlights.
“Truman! There you are!”
Truman blinked and saw a shadowy figure standing up in the convertible, peering at him through the flurry of red dust that had been kicked up by the tires.
“Daddy?” he said, in shock.
Nelle let go of his arm. She’d wet her pants.
While she stood there red-faced and unsure what to do next, Truman walked around to the passenger side, and there was his father, sporting a straw Panama hat and grinning ear to ear.
“Daddy,” he said breathlessly.
“Come on, son,” he said, opening the passenger door for him. “We got to go. Now.”
Truman climbed into the car and dove into his father’s arms.
His dad squeezed him tight as he glanced around nervously. “I wanted to surprise you. Are you surprised?”
Truman nodded, unable to believe his eyes. He hadn’t seen his father in two months.
“I’ll say he’s surprised!” said Nelle, turning her embarrassment into ire. “Just where have you been? Why, if my daddy ever left me alone for so long, I’d just—”
“Who’s your charming friend, Truman?” he asked. “He’s quite a feisty kid.”
Nelle’s face turned even brighter red. “I’m a she, darn it! Just ’cause I don’t wear a dress don’t mean I ain’t fit ta wear one!”
Truman’s daddy tipped his hat. “Well, you must be queen of the tomboys, aren’t ya, darling?” He nudged Truman. “Never mess with a feisty woman, Tru. I learned that from your mother. Now, we really got to go—”
Truman jumped up, excited. “Is Mother here too?”
His father started up the car, grinding it into gear. “More or less . . .”
Truman looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes. “Does that mean we’re all going home together?”
The color drained from his father’s face. “We’ve got family business to discuss, Truman. Let’s go back to the house.”
The man tipped his hat to Nelle once again. “Nice to have met you, little fella. Name’s Archulus Persons.”
Nelle blinked. “Wait a sec . . . Archulus?”
He gunned the engine and left Nelle standing in the road.
“Glad to see you’re making friends,” Arch said as he quickly steered off the main road and headed up an empty alleyway. He seemed nervous.
“Are you taking me home?” asked Truman.
Arch hemmed and hawed. “Truman . . . I know it’s been hard on you, son. If your mother wasn’t so stubborn, we’d all be back together again. But she has all these ideas of moving to an expensive big city like New York . . . she thinks we’re millionaires!” He moaned. “Oh, I just don’t know what to do.”
They drove in silence. Truman had so many questions. But this one popped out: “How come you were wanted in court?”
Arch raised his eyebrows. “What are you talking about, son? Why would they want ol’ Archulus in a court of law?”
“That’s what I thought. But when the judge called your name in the courtroom—”
Arch’s face turned beet red. “Oooh . . . that. That was nothing. Simply a disagreement that happened over in Burnt Corn—or was it Cobb Creek? Was there a woman there who was dressed like she was from India?”
Truman thought about it and remembered such a woman. “With gold and black robes?”
“That’s the one. She was the Great Hadjah’s widow, unfortunately,” he said, nervously looking over his shoulder. “God rest his soul.”
“Who’s he?” asked Truman.
Arch acted incredulous. “You mean you’ve never heard of the Great—” He slapped his forehead. “No, of course not. He passed before we had a chance to perform here in town.”
Truman’s eyes lit up. “You ran a show?”
Arch grinned. “Show is selling it short. Extravaganza is more like it. ‘Buried Alive!’” he proclaimed, just like P. T. Barnum himself. “The greatest miracle of modern times!”
“You buried him alive?”
“You should’ve seen it, Tru. See, I found this Egyptian fella over in Mississippi. Could hold his breath for long periods. He’d slow his heart rate down until he went into a state of hibernation for hours!”
“Really?” said Truman, amazed.
“Well, for one hour, at least. He’d show up dressed like an Indian prince and we’d bury him for an hour in a coffin right in the town square! People ate it up, betting he couldn’t last the whole sixty minutes, but he always did. Made a fortune!”
“So what happened to him?”
Arch wiped his brow. “Well, the last show, we drew such a huge crowd that by the time I took everyone’s money and wrote down their bets, almost two hours had passed . . . and so, sadly, had the Great Hadjah.”
“You mean . . . he died?”
Arch nodded glumly. “Turned out an hour was about as long as he could go. Who knew? Poor fella. Unfortunately, I lost everything too. And now this woman is trying to sue me for her husband’s share. Ridiculous! He was the one always bragging about how long he could last underground. But who’s always left holding the bag in the end? Old Arch, that’s who.”
He pulled up by the animal-bone fence behind Cousin Jenny’s house and shut the engine off; the car rattled to a stop. He sat there a moment looking at the house. “Now, Truman, not a word of this to your mother. She’s mad enough at me as it is. I don’t need her knowing we might lose even more. But I’ll make it up to her. I’ve another scheme in mind. There’s this boxer—”
But Truman was already out and running toward the house. He had this overwhelming feeling that if his mother just saw his face, she’d realize how much she missed him, and the family might come together once again.