Young Writers Society

21 BARTIMEUS CATCHER III

Each evening for several days, it went this way. Christian arrived home at six, ate dinner, and went across the street to open the balloon-cart. He always brought a book with him, expecting to read between customers, but there was no between. From the time he opened the cart until Celadon Park closed, he had a steady stream of people visiting him—not just children, but adults who had seen him with Conrad on Saturdays and knew or guessed he lived in the Book House. Questions about Conrad he answered again and again with tales of an illness incapacitating but not life-threatening; questions about himself were more difficult. He was not used to telling his life story, not used to people even asking about it. He never knew how much to say.

The most frequent questioner was Bartimeus Catcher III, the older gentleman who had spoken to Christian on his first day as substitute balloon-artist.

“How old are you?” he would ask. “Do you read much? Have you a family?”

To which Christian would reply: thirty-seven, a little, and no more than anyone else has. It was all he felt like saying. Through the course of more questions, Mr. Catcher found out that Christian’s parents were both gone, but not that his mother had died after undergoing chemo that did nothing but make her hair fall out; that Christian had been collecting books for years, but not that he loved all of them too much to have a favorite; that he had known Conrad for several years now, but not that he worked with the balloon-artist’s wife.

Today was no different.

“We feel like we hardly know you,” Mr. Catcher said.

Christian concentrated on the poodle he was making. He could never be sure, on the occasions when Mr. Catcher spoke this way, whether the old gentleman was using the royal “we” or if he felt he spoke for all the people of the Town, particularly anyone in the crowd gathered around the balloon-cart.

“You say very much without revealing anything at all,” Mr. Catcher said.

That was certainly true. Christian couldn’t understand why they were all so interested in him anyway. He wasn’t an interesting person.

“Tell me,” Mr. Catcher said, “have you a girl in your life?”

Christian paused in the middle of twisting the end of the balloon into the poodle’s head, thinking of Minerva.

“No,” he said.

“No? Heavens,” Mr. Catcher said. “It’s not good for a man to be so alone in the world.”

Christian said nothing but handed the completed poodle to the little boy who’d asked for it. Then he practiced a butterfly as Mr. Catcher kept talking.

“There was this girl, when I was a young lad like yourself…”

Mr. Catcher always referred to him as a young lad. He was older than the Smithsons, and he looked his age: owlish glasses, a rotund figure, and a bushy white mustache that put the sprinkling of hair on his head to shame. Christian nodded at appropriate moments in the story, but he gave himself over to the making of the butterfly.

Mr. Catcher was still talking when the butterfly was done, so Christian set it on the cart for display and preoccupied himself with a lumpy turtle. He hadn’t gotten the hang of turtles yet.

“…she was beautiful, and my, did she love me! But I’m a self-made man, you know, and back in those days I wasn’t anything wealthy…”

He was impatient to see Minerva, but even after he closed the balloon-cart it would be a while until he saw her: he would wash up, choose a new book for them to read together, and sit with Conrad a bit before making his way to the rose garden. He could picture her standing amidst the rose bushes when he arrived, her tunic shining white in the darkness like a beacon, the earthen pitcher balanced on her shoulder with a delicate hand.

“…but I ended up marrying my dear Winifred, of course, so all’s well that ends well,” the old man concluded.

“Indeed,” Christian said.

“So you find yourself a girl, young Abernathy. You’re a good-looking lad. I’m sure you can catch one.” The old man winked, as he often did, because he delighted in giving advice to young lads. “Plenty of time for you to be married, yet, but there’s no time like the present.”

“Indeed,” Christian said again, and he watched Mr. Catcher stroll off for an evening in the park. He gave little heed to the old man’s words, except to turn pink whenever Mr. Catcher felt a need to offer him personal advice, but he felt a twinge of envy as the gray suit disappeared into the cool dimness of the park wall.

He closed the balloon-cart up early, grabbed a book, and went into the park to wait for nightfall.

22 SNEAKING

This was the first time Christian had come into Celadon Park during open hours. In the light of the early evening, the wood was filled with a friendly silence, all smooth grey pillars and sun- dappled the grass. Even the people in this section of the park were quiet, occupied with reading or sketching, or simply lying on their backs and watching the leaves move in the breeze. In the clearing, scads of children ran about, flying kites with their parents or chasing after balls and discs, but compared to the crowds of the Fair it was nothing.

Yet, for the first time, the sheer size of the park struck the accountant with awe. From the outside, Celadon Park seemed hardly bigger than the average municipal garden, but when he thought of all it held within it—the wood, the Fairgrounds, the gardens and the maze—he was astonished. It was like walking into Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. The only reason he could think for his not having noticed its size before was the fact that its enormity didn’t seem at all out of place in the midst of its nighttime magic.

Christian made his way to the gardens to wait for darkness. Even in the sunlight, the trees here seemed darker and quieter than the woods across the clearing. The fairy lights were invisible, the gas lamps off; but every pedestal held a statue. The sight of so many figures was daunting where there were normally empty slabs of marble or stone. Christian’s skin prickled as he thought he saw a head turn, a fist close—but when he looked again, he saw sculptures frozen in place.

In the center of the maze, there was a statue on the stone pedestal with the plaque that said in memory of Morrow, the king and his steed. The huge black horse that grazed near the pedestal at night was frozen in place, with a heroic lift of its hoof and proud arch of its neck, and upon its bare back sat a man. He, too, was larger than life. He had a hard, proud face and long hair that swept back from his forehead and flowed down to his shoulders. His clothes were not that of a king, a simple vest and shirt over even simpler pants and tall boots, but (Christian reminded himself) Morrow had been a nomadic king, not a high king of Europe sitting on a throne in a palace.

The rose garden was deserted except for a middle-age couple sprinkling seed on the ground for the birds. Christian sat on the bench to wait, scuffing the cobblestones with his toes as he opened his book.

The courtyard seemed quieter than usual, and it unnerved him. Then he realized it was because the mermaid who splashed about in the pool at night was now fastened to the pedestal in its center, not dusky mauve with lilac eyes but smooth stone. Water sprayed out from between her hands, which were raised above her head as if in supplication, and her tail was folded beneath her so it looked like she was kneeling. Christian wondered if it was uncomfortable to sit that way all day or if she couldn’t feel anything until nightfall.

He had the unpleasant feeling someone was watching him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and fell off the bench, disturbing the birds and the middle-age couple feeding them. But he did not apologize—there was someone there—a statue. Just a statue, a tall marble woman with a pitcher on her shoulder, gazing coldly eastwards.

He realized with clarity this was Minerva as she was in the daytime, a garden statue, her long tunic and soft curls hard and unmoving, her dark eyes white and dead, her fair skin pale with a whiteness whiter than the pages of a book. His heart sank. But only for a moment, for after all (he told himself), it didn’t matter that she was a garden statue. She was Minerva. They could read together and talk together, water the roses and laugh and walk through the rose beds, even if it was only at night. He picked himself up and reseated himself on the bench, comforted by the thought she was with him, though he wished it wasn’t in this strange frozen form.

The sky had just become streaked with the blue-grey of dusk when a uniformed man came sauntering down the cobblestone path.

“The park is now closing,” he announced to the middle-age couple. “The park is now closing,” he said to Christian. “Time to be moving off, sir, so we can lock the gate for the night.”

Of course they weren’t going to let him stay here until darkness fell. Christian had not thought of that. His heart fluttered as he crept after the guard and middle-age couple until they reached the maze. Then he fell back and hid in the rose bushes, crouching behind a statue of two lovers until the footsteps had died away.