Work Song - Ivan Doig [63]
If memory serves me right, it was Balzac who believed that the human body has layers of self, and each time we are photographed one of those ghostly images is peeled off us irreparably onto the photographic print. In our case, Grace posed cautiously beneath the shelter of her hat, and I’m sure I looked as though I had too many things on my mind, which I did.
“Perfect!” cried the photographer as the flash powder went off with a poof.
He emerged from under his black cloth to hand me a numbered receipt. “Here you go, you can pick up your picture at the gate when you leave.”
Grace startled me by taking my arm again. “Now I have a surprise for you.”
Surprises come in two sizes, good and bad. Hers remained indeterminate while she steered me through the holiday throng toward the grandstand by the playing fields. The area was buzzing with activity as sporting events took shape; I could not help but notice two boxers going at it in the ring at a corner of the grassy expanse. After Eel Eyes, a boxing match appealed to me as restful. But Grace did not guide me up into the stands to spectate the various contests as I expected. With a flourish, she led me to the lip of the grass where the surprise came into sight.
I laughed helplessly. “Why didn’t I think of this?”
“You must be slipping,” she teased.
“I’ll try to make up for it. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
She frowned. “Has anyone ever told you, Morrie, you are restless company? ”
Off I went in search of a gnome that moved, and found him circulating in the vicinity of the men’s lavatory, as expected.
“What’s up, buddy?” the halfpint messenger, in Sunday suit and bow tie for the day, called out when he spotted me. “Hey, how about those White Sox? They’re burning up the league.”
I sighed. Chicago follows a person like a botanical name. “The Comiskey Cheap Sox,” I scoffed as I came up to him. “They’ll unravel.”
“You Cubs guys don’t know real baseball when you see it.”
“I shall keep looking.” I left it at that and got down to business. “Skinner, I believe you might know how a man could place a bet.”
“Think so?” He scanned the grounds. Satisfied that no strolling policeman was going to intrude on his working territory, he whipped out a much-used notebook. “What’s your pleasure? The boxing matches? The mucking contest?”
“The boys’ hundred-yard dash.”
Indignantly Skinner pushed away the money I held out to him. “You kidding me? Use your noggin, buddy. Not till I look this over. How do I know you’re not running some junior-size Jim Thorpe in on me.”
RUSSIAN FAMINE was shambling back and forth at the edge of the field of contestants like a stray keeping his distance from the herd. All the boys in the race wore jerseys cut down; the stenciled FARADAY BOARDING HOUSE practically wrapped around him.
I went over to lend encouragement. I needed some myself after a closer look at our entrant. His gangly arms and legs were as pale as if the bones beneath were reflecting through, the strawy hair had not been combed in days, and for lack of a handkerchief in his racing outfit he was busily wiping his nose with the tail of the jersey. I had to hope the rest of him was as runny as his nose. Bending down to him, I urged in a low voice: “When you’re in the race, Famine, just imagine the other boys are trying to catch you and beat you up.”
“Doesn’t take much imagination,” he said stoically.
“To the victor belongs the spoils, remember.”
“Huh?”
“Just run like the wind.” I patted him on a barely existent shoulder, then joined Grace on the sidelines. She looked worriedly at the bigger boys in the race. “You’re the one who told me he’s lightning on two legs. He’ll need to be.” She inclined her head indicatively at a lanky redheaded lad, Irish as Saint Paddy, wearing a jersey with PETERSON’S MODERN MORTUARY across his chest, and on the back: AND FUNERAL HOME. “Look at that one, he makes two of poor Famine. This had better be worth the five dollars,” she muttered, meaning the