The Thunder of Giants Page 4
“Do we have to wait?” asked Gabriel. “The game is going to start.”
“Don’t you want to say good-bye to me?” asked Andorra.
“Good-bye to you!” snickered Gabriel.
“Good-bye to you!” snickered Gabriella.
“Oh, just give me a hug.” Andorra crouched and opened her arms. Her great body was built for twins; even at sixteen they fit perfectly inside her. “Stay out of trouble,” she said.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Her son winked.
Gabriella laughed as the pair scampered away. They’re really their own universe, thought Andorra. You could separate them, but it would be like tearing a hole in the world.
She took the yellow slip off the lamp, returning the room to its proper shade. Rowena continued to skulk over her notebook, her red bangs falling low over her eyes.
“They lost their father,” said Geoffrey. “Now they’re losing you, too.”
“It’s one movie,” said Andorra. “I’ll be back in a few months.”
“You’ll have to stand in front of film crews and actors and say all those lines,” warned Geoffrey. “You think you can do that? Have you forgotten how you get?”
Andorra had not forgotten; the last time she had stood in front of a crowd, she had been fifteen and had fainted dead away. But there was no point in thinking of that now. She could only hope that when the time came she would find that she had either outgrown her fear or that her particular brand of stage fright was reserved strictly for the stage.
“Someone has to do something,” said Andorra. “We’re all going to end up sleeping in the rain.”
It was the right thing to say; it made her escape completely practical. But Andorra knew logic had nothing to do with why she said yes to Rutherford Simone.
Geoffrey wandered to the window, chewing the inside of his mouth. With Rowena absorbed in her notebook, Andorra was able to quietly reach beneath the pillow and remove a blue shirt. A man’s shirt. A husband’s shirt, though no one would know that but her. She had slept with it every night since she became a widow. Geoffrey saw no shame in wearing a mourning band for sixteen years, but it embarrassed Andorra that she still needed this shirt just to fall asleep. She slipped it under her blouse, even as she shut her eyes and forced her imagination west.
Hollywood. She knew nothing about it. At the occasional movie, condemned to the back row, Andorra had only been mildly impressed by the black-and-white wonders of the screen. Her husband had been the same way. A theater actor, he had decreed that the cinema lacked the enchantment of the stage. They seemed to have passed this disinterest on to the children: the twins rarely spoke of Hollywood stars or the latest cartoons. As for Rowena, the few times she had seen a picture, she always had the same complaint: “They’re not very well written.” All this meant that her family was unimpressed with the fact she was going to Hollywood. Andorra was equally unimpressed. She didn’t care that she was going to Hollywood; she was going, and that’s what mattered. They were collecting emptiness in that house. Empty purses, empty cupboards. She was out of things to pawn and trade and sell. She couldn’t bear to be here. And even if she could, even if her weak heart (or possibly weak heart) could withstand the void, there was a deeper truth she had been aware of ever since she had killed her husband two years, six months, and eleven days ago: she did not deserve to be here.
“You should bring this,” said Rowena. She reached into her mother’s nightstand and pulled out the May 1929 issue of the North American Review. “Show them what real writing is like.”
Andorra could barely glance at the magazine. She had hoped to be a writer once upon a time—she herself was the wellspring for Rowena’s aspirations. But that May 1929 issue contained the only story she had ever published. In the days just after the war, Katharine moved through the plague-ridden city just to give her future husband a shave … Like her eldest daughter, Andorra had stolen everything from the world around her. That story in the May 1929 issue had the resonance of a photograph: the names had been changed, but every sentence was still a perfect snapshot of the past.
“You better keep it,” she said. “It’s the only copy we have.” She swept those crimson bangs out of her daughter’s eyes. “You’re going to write about today, aren’t you?”
“I kind of have to,” said Rowena.
“So? How would it begin?”
Rowena showed Andorra the notebook. My mother ran away on the first day of the baseball season; she was gone by the opening pitch. Andorra envied that sentence. She envied the handwriting, too. Her own writing was terrible—the pens were always too small.
“I’m not running away,” Andorra said. “Runaways don’t come back.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Well, let’s see. It’s opening day of the season. What if I’m back by the end of the World Series? That would have a nice poetry to it, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure,” said Rowena. “But life isn’t really all that poetic.”
Rowena was right. Life isn’t all that poetic. Andorra wouldn’t be back by the end of the World Series. She would miss the entire season; she wouldn’t even be there when it started to snow.
PART TWO
Discovery
FOUR
The Ambassador of Goodwill
Tatamagouche, 1861
THIS WAS SOMEONE ELSE’S WORLD; it had not been designed for the likes of her. Her mother continued to produce children, but since all of them were of average size, Anna Swan grew up under the impression that she was an aberration. Loneliness became a second skin. At the schoolhouse, she sat on the floor. When she walked into church, she thought she heard a distinctive break in the congregants’ song. What could she do but retreat? In search of refuge, she turned to books, one of the few pleasures where her size couldn’t get in the way. But even in the sanctuary of literature, the truth of her existence found a way to break through. In Greek myth, the Titans devour their children; in British stories, Jack defeats a giant who eats cows. This is how people see me, thought the not-so-little girl. They think I’m going to swallow them whole.
She prayed for something to arrest her growth, but she had only to visit the tailor to see that her prayers were being ignored. For this reason, she came to loathe Johnson Clarke, the diminutive thing who worked tirelessly to renew her wardrobe throughout the years. Famed for both his skill and the terrible assortment of blackheads splashed across his face, he broke into an ugly grin each time she appeared in his shop: she was his one connection to notoriety. Anna came to hate that smile. She wanted to connect him with normalcy; she dreamed of making the ugly tailor frown.
One rough April morning—it was 1861 and she was almost fifteen—Anna trailed her mother into Johnson Clarke’s shop. Having slept badly, she was full of petulance and was prepared to make the next round of measurements as difficult as possible for the ugly tailor. But instead of blackheads and a bald head, she found only smooth skin and a mop of shaggy hair. A young man was struggling with a bolt of fabric. He emitted a wonderful string of curses; when he saw Anna, he emitted even more.
“Damn and double damn!”
“Language!” snapped Anna’s mother.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the young man. (He was clearly not sorry.)
“Where’s Mr. Clarke? Annie needs a new dress.”
“I always thought Pa was making it up,” said the young man, who continued to gape.
“Don’t gape!” snapped Anna’s mother.
“Sorry,” said the boy. He said it to Anna—and he clearly was sorry.
It was hard to see the resemblance between the boy and his father. Barely eighteen, Gavin Clarke was long and smooth, resembling something that might be used to push a gondola down a Venetian canal. He only knew a little about tailoring. He had been living with his mother in Toronto, but she had fallen to cholera, and he had been brought to Tatamagouche to be his father’s apprentice. “Pa’s gon
e to measure a funeral suit,” said Gavin. “He might be back by tonight.”
“At least take her measurements,” said Ann. “That way your father can get started when he returns.”
“I think we have her measurements written down.”
“They’re probably out of date,” sighed Anna’s mother.
“My measurements are always out of date,” sighed Anna.
Reluctantly, Gavin led her to a curtained stall at the back of the store. He released the sash and brought the curtain down around them, effectively hiding them from her mother (or rather, hiding him; Anna’s head was clearly visible over the top). It was musty and dank: he bore the rich smell of shaving soap and sweat. When he approached her with the measuring rope, she saw that his hands were shaking. His eyes moved away from her enormous bust, but seconds later he was staring at her again. He seemed to have no control over his own gaze. A small thrill went through her. She was accustomed to making people uncomfortable—but this was a discomfort of an entirely different sort.
“Perhaps you’d feel better if you took some of the measurements yourself,” he said.
“Do you think I can do it properly?”
“It’s the easiest thing in the world.”
“If it’s so easy, why are tailors always doing it themselves?”
“An excuse to touch girls. I’d reckon that’s why they invented tailoring.”
Anna laughed. She took the rope and wrapped it around her body. Her hands were precariously close to her own breasts, and she thought she saw him blush.
“Well?” he asked. “Are your measurements out of date?”
“Definitely.” Anna returned the rope. She had kept her thumb on the new number so that he would have no choice but to brush the top of her hand.
Gavin made notes in his father’s ledger, an impressive record that chronicled Anna’s history one millimeter at a time. “Incredible,” he murmured.
“Maybe to you. I just wish it would stop.”
“It will.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Anna shrugged. “I might keep growing until I burst.”
Gavin almost laughed. But he must have seen that she was serious. He examined the ledger with a studious air. “If you want my professional opinion, you’re already slowing down.”
She decided not to mention that he was only an apprentice; he was hardly experienced enough to have a professional opinion. He knelt and slipped the slipper off her foot—Cinderella and her prince but in reverse. There was a tear in her stocking, allowing the soft place at the crest of her foot to poke through. In taking the measurements, it seemed to her he touched this spot more than was needed. At one moment he even rested his hand over the tear so his skin was touching hers. Was this on purpose? She felt a surge of lust, not quite understanding it. His skin was hot, a warming pan fresh from the stove.
Right then, Ann Swan pulled back the curtain. Anna recoiled and drew back her foot. (The moment looked innocent enough, but she was absurdly struck with shame.)
“We’re leaving,” said Ann Swan.
“We’re not done,” said Anna.
“There’s no time,” said her mother. “He’s here.”
“Who?” said Anna.
“The New Yorker. He’s back. Hurry up—before your father drives him away.”
At once, Anna pushed her foot back into her shoe. She grabbed her bonnet and fled the shop, pausing just long enough to send a slight curtsey Gavin’s way. She pictured him standing in the tailor shop, measuring rope in hand, clinging to the sensation of her soft foot for as long as he could. She was certainly clinging to the memory of his slender hands; her foot, she imagined, still pulsed from his touch. Distracted by the return of the New Yorker, Anna did not spend much time wondering what any of this might mean. But her heart knew. It had begun to quiver in her chest, as if in preparation of all that was to come.
* * *
FOR THE LAST ELEVEN YEARS, H. P. Ingalls had returned like clockwork; for the last eleven years, the spring thaw produced the New Yorker along with his dappled horse. Like Gavin Clarke, H. P. Ingalls had his own professional opinion about Anna’s future—but as far as he was concerned, she was not done growing at all.
Alexander Swan had continued building signs in the vain hope it would keep the New Yorker away. Ann Swan, meanwhile, had continued to have her enormous daughter tear them down. This had become part of the clockwork, too. Spring came. Alexander built a sign. Ann and Anna tore it down. On this particular spring in 1861, they were halfway through the routine. The sign was still standing; its message was the longest it had ever been:
ALL PILGRIMS, NEW YORKERS, AMERICANS, MANAGERS, AGENTS,
ENVOYS, SCOUTS, REPRESENTATIVES, AND BUSINESSMEN
WILL BE SHOT.
Coming home from the tailor shop, Ann Swan was terrified this might be the day the sign drove H. P. Ingalls away. She needn’t have worried. Nobody obeys anything in New York, and New Yorkers carry this habit wherever they go. Both H. P. Ingalls and the dappled horse walked on by—the horse was a New Yorker, too.
“Still haven’t learned to read,” grumbled Alexander.
“I’m just an ambassador of goodwill,” said the New Yorker.
“I’ll add it to the sign. How do you spell ambassador?”
Just then, Ann Swan and Anna returned in their carriage, out of breath as if they had been pulling it themselves. “Mr. Ingalls!” Ann exclaimed, and she let the man help her to the ground. This was another part of the clockwork. Whenever the New Yorker came, Alexander was rude while his wife was gracious. Since losing her money to the Reverend Blackwood, she was hesitant to trust the smiles of men. But she trusted H. P. Ingalls.
The New Yorker had been returning for eleven years, but it had only been in the last three that he had learned of Anna’s weakness. Achilles had his heel and Goliath had the divot between his eyes; as for Anna, she did not have the strength to withstand the kindness of strangers. She weakened as H. P. Ingalls thrilled her siblings with toys and clothes; she blushed when he handed her mother a pair of golden candlesticks. She became speechless when she herself was presented with a brand-new book. In that isolated patch of Nova Scotia, there were few books. Except for her stories of ogres and giants, Anna had only the Bible and Ivanhoe, and each had been read dozens of times.
“It’s called Jane Eyre,” said H. P. Ingalls. “My sister can’t get enough.” He presented it to her wrapped in old copies of The Toronto Globe. Anna tore off the wrapping and turned the book over in her hands. It was a first edition, and its spine was hardly worn.
While Anna turned the book over in her hands, her mother brought the New Yorker into the house to fix some tea. Alexander, anticipating the usual heated conversation, sent the rest of the children out into the yard. He did not exactly go for his rifle, but he positioned himself beneath the place on the wall where it hung. If the New Yorker saw this, he blithely ignored it. Ann Swan was his ally; he focused all of his attention on her.
“So how’s Annie getting along?” he asked.
“Still growing,” said Ann.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Actually, I haven’t grown all that much,” remarked Anna. “Gavin Clarke seems to think I’m done.”
“Who’s Gavin Clarke?”
“The tailor’s son.”
H. P. Ingalls laughed. “Well, I guess he should know.”
“We’re still not interested,” said Alexander wearily.
“You just aren’t being practical,” said the New Yorker. “Every time I come here, you have more children.” On that day in 1861, Anna had four sisters and a pair of brothers; unaware of his real purpose, they each considered the New Yorker a favorite uncle who came and disappeared at whim. “What exactly are your measurements, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Of all the nerve!” said Alexander.
“Sit down,” said Ann Swan.
“It’s all right,” said Anna. She told him the numbers. H. P. Ingalls whistl
ed. She had sprouted almost three inches since the previous spring.
They drank tea while Anna sat on the floor and stared reverently at her copy of Jane Eyre. Not daring to crack that virgin spine, she turned instead to those pages from The Toronto Globe. To wrap his gift, the New Yorker had used the editorial page, which was giving some very strong opinions on the matter of a few shots that had been fired at a place called Fort Sumter.
“Your country’s at war!” exclaimed Anna.
“War’s a strong word,” said the New Yorker. “It’s just a skirmish that’ll be done by the first snow.”
“I wouldn’t be comfortable sending Annie to a country at war,” said Ann Swan.
“Good thing it’s not a war.”
“We’re not sending her anywhere,” said Alexander. “Annie’s going to teachers’ college in Truro.”
“Is that a fact?”
The New Yorker turned to Anna, who gave an unhappy nod. At home, she was a strain on the family’s resources. It was time she started to prove her worth. Other women could hope to marry, but Alexander wanted Anna to find good, solid work. He probably doesn’t think I’ll ever be a wife, Anna thought with disdain. In his world, women have few options—and giant women have even less.
“This isn’t some sideshow,” H. P. Ingalls said. “Barnum has nothing but the utmost respect for propriety. His museum is a celebration of the extraordinary. That’s your Annie. Do you think I’d be here if she were anything less? We already have three giants, and they’re wonderful things, but they’re all men. I really do think she might be the only lady giant in the modern world.”
Anna glanced up. She wasn’t sure what had startled her more—that Barnum had three giants or that he had three giants who were men. Her heart, already quivering from her encounter with Gavin Clarke, now shook like a trembling fist.
“Three giants?” she said. “Is that all there is? Or are there more?”
“Oh there are plenty more,” said the New Yorker. “I’ve seen a handful with my own eyes over the years. Right now there’s just the three, but that’s enough. Get them all together and they become a thunder.”