Black and Blue Magic (2 page)

Harry went back to the rolled-up rug and sat down to think. That’s when he decided the whole thing must have been a dream. Of course, it had seemed awfully real and there
was
the fact that Harry almost never went to sleep in the daytime; but what other answer
could
there be. He stretched out on the rug again just to see how it would be for sleeping and, sure enough, it was soft and comfortable, and there was something very drowsy about the warm and slightly stuffy attic air.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. That was it, of course. He’d gone to sleep looking at the poster and was dreaming until his chin slipping off his hands woke him up. Right at that moment, Harry was positive he’d found the answer, but just the same he couldn’t help turning around quickly to grab a sneaking glance at the poster just before he went out the attic door.

He was still thinking about the dream as he went looking for Mom so as to get the money and prescription for Miss Thurgood’s medicine. He found her on her knees scrubbing the tub in the second-floor bathroom. The water splashing into the tub was making a lot of noise, so he just leaned against the door frame and waited, admiring the quick, efficient way Mom did the scrubbing. She did everything that way; fast, and with no waste motion. With a mother like that, and a father who had been a magician, with all the “hand is quicker than the eye” stuff, you’d think a guy would just naturally be well coordinated. You’d think he’d have extra good control of his hands and feet, instead of being the kind who usually couldn’t make it to first base without falling all over himself. The kind who gets nicknamed things like Cement Hands, or Humpty Dumpty Harry.

Of course Mr. Brighton, who knew a lot about sports and things, said that Harry was big and strong, and once he quit growing so fast he’d probably stop being so clumsy. But it didn’t look too hopeful. Here he was almost twelve years old, and things didn’t seem to be improving very fast.

Mom sighed, sat back on her heels, and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. She turned off the water and stood up before she noticed Harry. “Well, hi!” she said. When she smiled, she didn’t look so tired any more.

“Hi,” Harry said. “I’m all through except going to the drugstore for Miss Thurgood.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Mom said, digging into her pocket for the money and prescription. “I’m glad you remembered. I was thinking about something else so hard I’d almost forgotten about it.” As Harry started to leave, she went on. “I’m almost afraid to mention it, but you know what I’ve been thinking about? I’ve been wondering if maybe we’d finally be able to take that trip this summer. If we can just keep our steady boarders, and nothing expensive needs fixing, it looks as if we ought to be able to make it this time. At least for a week or two.”

“Hey!” Harry said, forgetting all about everything else; gloomy moods and crazy dreams included, “That’s great. Do you suppose we could go out in the country somewhere? Like on one of those farms or ranches that take boarders, sort of. What do they call those places?”

“I guess they’re called guest ranches,” Mom said. “We can look into it, I suppose, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do. I’ve heard those places are pretty expensive, but it won’t hurt to inquire. Maybe we can find one that’s not too expensive.”

Harry made like a cowboy riding a horse and swinging a lasso over his head. “Yippee!” he yelled.

Mom laughed. “Now don’t go getting your hopes up too high,” she warned. “You know how quickly things can go wrong around here. We mustn’t really count on it. But it does begin to look like a possibility.”

Harry had started out the door but that turned him around with a jerk. “Did you say a ... possibility?” he asked.

As Harry got out his old bike for the trip to the drugstore he was thinking it was too bad Mom happened to use that particular phrase. And just when he’d gotten the whole thing nicely settled in his mind, too. Of course, he was still positive that it had all been a dream. But you couldn’t help wondering about things like—possibilities!

B
Y THE TIME HARRY
got to Brown’s Drugs and Notions, he’d quit worrying about possibilities and was busy planning his two weeks on a guest ranch. In fact he was so busy he didn’t even take time out to look over the selection of new funny books while he waited for Mr. Brown to fill the prescription.

Ordinarily, the funny book situation was the only good thing about having Miss Thurgood as a boarder. Mr. Brown was touchy about people who came in his store just to read the funny books. Sometimes he even made sarcastic comments in a loud voice about not running a lending library. But he didn’t mind at all if an actual customer picked up something to browse through while he waited for a prescription to be filled. Miss Thurgood took just about enough medicine to keep Harry up-to-date on his favorite funny book characters.

But today he had other things to think about. For years Harry had wanted to live in the country. He had a favorite daydream about how he’d get a lot of money somehow—by winning a contest or getting a reward for some brave deed—and then he’d buy a ranch way out in the country. That way, he’d have the kind of life he wanted, and Mom wouldn’t have to work so hard running a boarding house to make a living. Of course, two weeks wouldn’t be as good as really living in the country, but it would be great while it lasted.

“Here you are, Harry,” Mr. Brown said. “That will be three dollars and seventy-five cents.” This time Miss Thurgood’s medicine was red and syrupy and came in a great big bottle. It wouldn’t fit in any of Harry’s pockets so it would have to ride home in the bicycle basket. That meant that Harry had better get his mind off the country and put it very firmly on what he was doing. The last time he brought Miss Thurgood’s medicine home in the bike basket something awful had happened. He’d forgotten the bottle of pills and ridden right over a curb with a big thump, and the bottle had flown out and smashed all over the street. At least it
had
been pills that time so Harry was able to find most of them and take them home in his pocket; but Miss Thurgood hadn’t been very happy about her pills being “rolled around a dirty street and then stuffed into a boy’s pocket.” Miss Thurgood always said the word “boy” in a slightly disgusted tone of voice.

This time Harry rode very carefully and missed all the bumps, and the medicine was still all right when he came in the back door and put it on the kitchen table. Mom was working at the sink. They’d just started a very interesting discussion about how soon Mom was going to get around to writing letters to the guest ranch places, when Miss Thurgood’s screechy voice called from upstairs.

“Oh dear,” Mom said. “You’d better run up and take her medicine to her. She seems to be in a big hurry for it. She’s called down three times to see if you were back from the drugstore.”

Miss Thurgood was standing at the head of the stairs looking very impatient. When she saw Harry she said, “At last!” and shut her mouth firmly. When she felt like it, Miss Thurgood could close her mouth in a way that always made Harry expect to hear a clanking noise. Besides that, she could make her eyebrows come down almost to her nose. Harry never could understand how she could do that when her hair was pulled back so tight into the bun on the back of her head. Miss Thurgood’s hairdo was one of the things Mr. Brighton had a saying about. He said with a hairdo like that one, you’d have to stand on your tiptoes to spit.

But Miss Thurgood was a good reliable boarder, and they were hard to come by, so it was important to keep her happy. Harry decided to run up the stairs to make it look as if he’d really been hurrying. It would have been a good idea, too, if anybody else had had it. Anybody except Humpty Harry—the World’s Clumsiest Kid.

He was almost to the top of the stairs when all of a sudden one of his feet didn’t get out of the way of the other one, and the next thing he knew his elbow hit the top stair with a crash that knocked the bottle of medicine right out of his hand. The next few minutes were almost too painful to talk about, in more ways than one.

Dinner time that night was pretty grim, too. Miss Thurgood kept having coughing spells behind a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and then explaining, in a gasping sort of voice, how hard it was for her to keep going without her wonderful medicine.

Mr. Konkel looked concerned, and every time Miss Thurgood disappeared behind her handkerchief for another coughing spell, he would gaze at Harry accusingly. Mrs. Pusey and Mr. Brighton seemed to take it pretty calmly, though.

Mrs. Pusey was a quiet grandmotherly lady, with gray hair and sad eyes. She didn’t talk very much, and it was hard to tell what she was thinking. You wouldn’t know she was even interested in kids, except that once in a while she brought Harry a doughnut from the bakery shop where she worked.

On the other hand, Mr. Konkel was very interested in kids—too interested. Mr. Konkel was the kind of person who seemed to feel that it was up to him personally to keep every kid he met from going to absolute rack and ruin. He had a million little lectures about what you should and shouldn’t do, and he was always talking about juvenile delinquents and looking at Harry pointedly. He loved to tell little stories about what he did when he was a boy. Some people who do that are pretty interesting, but Mr. Konkel must have been just about the most boring kid who ever lived.

Anyway, Mr. Konkel listened very seriously to Miss Thurgood’s story about how Harry had charged up the stairs and hurled the medicine bottle at her left ankle. According to Miss Thurgood it was only because she stepped aside so quickly, that the bottle missed her and smashed on the wall instead. Mr. Konkel kept looking at Harry and nodding his head as if it was just what he’d been expecting all along.

Mom was out in the kitchen when Miss Thurgood told the other boarders her version of the story. So it was up to Harry to set them all straight. But every time he got started Miss Thurgood drowned him out with another coughing fit. So, finally, he just gave up.

He was feeling pretty miserable until he glanced at Mr. Brighton. As soon as he caught Harry’s eye, Mr. Brighton gave a wink and a grin that said he thought the whole thing was a big joke. And if you thought it over, it really was funny, except Miss Thurgood might move out; and if she did—there went her room-and-board money. And without Miss Thurgood’s room-and-board money—there went the vacation trip.

T
HE NEXT MORNING HARRY
was on his way to Wong’s Grocery to get two loaves of bread for Mom when he noticed the sunshine on the porch swing. The early morning sun was slanting onto the veranda making an inviting glow across the padded seat. Two days in a row of early morning sunshine right at the beginning of the vacation. It occurred to Harry right away that such an unusual circumstance ought not to be wasted.

He arranged himself on the warm pillows, being careful not to bump his sore elbow on the back of the swing. The elbow was pretty tender. After he was comfortably settled, and the swing had slowed to a gentle swaying, he twisted the arm around to get a better look. Sure enough, there was an ugly-looking purplish-red spot as big as a silver dollar. Harry examined it with a certain satisfaction. He was an authority on bruises, and this was going to be an impressive one. He thought briefly of showing it to Miss Thurgood to prove he really hadn’t thrown the medicine at her on purpose, but on second thought he decided not to bother. He had a feeling that if Miss Thurgood wanted to believe something, there wasn’t any use showing her evidence to the contrary.

In a mood of scientific curiosity, Harry decided to test his diagnosis. Lifting his right foot, he pulled up the leg of his jeans. Just as he expected, the bruise on his shin, although larger, didn’t have nearly the color and quality of the elbow one. It hadn’t hurt as much, either, although it had been just about as embarrassing. It had happened on the Sutter Street bus when he was hurrying to get off. He’d tripped over something—or maybe, over nothing, just as like as not. He’d staggered forward, grabbed a hand hold, spun around and wound up sort of sitting in a fat lady’s lap. Afterwards, his shin had begun to hurt, although he couldn’t remember bumping it on anything. He had a hunch, though, that the fat lady had kicked him. She’d looked as if she wanted to, anyway.

Examining your wounds is a good way to start feeling sorry for yourself, and it wasn’t long before Harry had worked himself up into a very melancholy frame of mind. When you stopped to think it over, what did he have to be happy about? Here he was, probably the clumsiest kid in ten states, practically an orphan—at least, halfway one—living on a crummy old street where there was nothing but shops and stores and grownups. It was enough to give anybody the blues.

When Harry was really in the mood to feel sorry for himself he usually thought about his father. It wasn’t just that his father was dead, either. It was sad, of course, that his father had died when Harry was only six years old, but that had been long ago, and time had dimmed the memory. Nowadays, Harry could feel even more miserable by thinking about what a disappointment he would be to Dad if he were still alive.

Harry could still remember just how Dad had looked; tall, and dark and slender—just right for a magician. There was a swift certainty about everything he did, and his hands could move so fast it made you dizzy trying to keep track of them. But most clearly of all, he could remember how Dad had planned and counted on Harry’s becoming a great magician, too. Even when Harry was a little tiny kid, Dad used to try to teach him things: like how to handle cards and do tricks with handkerchiefs. Dad always said that Harry’s clumsiness was only because he was so young, but Harry could tell he was disappointed.

And then, there had been the time that Dad took him to see the Great Swami. Harry grinned thinking about his crazy dream the day before in the attic. He had to admit he’d been a little scared there for a minute, but not nearly as scared as he’d been the time when he really met the Swami.

By the time Harry was born, the Great Swami was such an old man that he didn’t do a stage act any more. But he’d once been famous for mind-reading and foretelling and Dad wanted the old Swami to tell Harry’s future. Partly, Harry had been scared because the old man looked like a shriveled up old lizard in a turban, but mostly he’d been afraid of what the Swami might say. He just didn’t know how Dad would take it if the Great Swami said that magic was always going to be a problem for Harry.