And Charles Halloway pulled faces, popped his eyes, mashed his nose, winked, cavorted like chimpanzee-ape, waltzed with the wind, tap-danced the dust, threw back his head to bay at the moon, dragging Will with him.
”Death’s funny, God damn it! Bend, two, three, Will. Soft-shoe. Way down upon the Swanee River—what’s next, Will? … Far far away! Will, your God-awful voice! Damn girl soprano. Sparrow in a tin can. Jump, boy!”
WM went up, came down, cheeks hotter, a wincing like lemons in his throat. He felt balloons grow in his chest.
Dad sucked the silver harmonica.
”That’s where the old folks—” Will spoke.
”Stay!” bellowed his father.
Shuffle, tap, bounce, jog.
Where was Jim! Jim was forgotten.
Dad jabbed his ribs, tickling.
”De Camptown ladies sing this song!”
”Doo-dah!” yelled Will. “Doo-dah!” he sang it now, with a tune. The balloon grew. His throat tickled.
”Camptown race track, five miles long!”
”Oh, doo-dah day!”
Man and boy did a minuet.
And in midstep it happened.
Will felt the balloon grow huge within him.
He smiled.
”“What?” Dad was surprised by those teeth.
Will snorted. Will giggled.
”What say?” asked Dad.
The force of the exploding warm balloon alone shoved Will’s teeth apart, kicked his head back.
”Dad! Dad!”
He bounded. He grabbed his Dad’s hand. He raced crazily, hollering, quacking like a duck, clucking like a chicken. His palms hit his throbbing knees. Dust flow off his soles.
”Oh, Susanna!”
”Oh, don’t you cry—”
”—for me!”
”For I’m come from—”
”Alabama with my—”
”Banjo on my—”
Together. “Knee!”
The harmonica knocked teeth, wheezing, Dad hocked forth great chords of squeeze-eyed hilarity, turning in a circle, jumping up to kick his heels.
”Ha!” They collided, half-collapsed, knocked elbows, cracked heads, which blew the air out faster. “Ha! Oh God, ha! Oh God. Will, Ha! Weak! Ha!”
In the middle of wild laughter—
A sneeze!
They spun. They stared.
Who lay there on the moonlit earth?
Jim? Jim Nightshade?
Had he stirred? Was his mouth wider, his eyelids quivering? Were his cheeks pinker?
Don’t took! Dad swung Will handily round in a further reel. They do-si-doed, hands extended, the harmonica seeping and guzzling raw tunes from a father who storked his legs and turkeyed his arms. They hopped Jim one way, hopped back, as if he were but a lump-stone on the grass.
”Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah! Someone’s in the kitchen—”
”—I know-oh-oh-oh!”
Jim’s tongue slid out on his lips.
No one saw this. Or if they saw, ignored it, fearing it might pass.
Jim did the final things himself. His eyes opened. He watched the dancing fools. He could not believe. He had been off on a journey of years. Now, returned, no one said “Hi!” All jigged Sambo-style. Tears might have jumped to his eyes. But before they could start, Jim’s mouth curved. He gave up a ghost of laughter. For, after all there indeed was silly Will and his silly old janitor dad racing like gorillas knuckle-dusting the meadows, their faces a puzzlement. They toppled above him, clapped bands, wiggled cars, bent to wash him all over with their now bright full-river flowing laughter that could not be stopped if the sky fell or the earth rent open, to blend their good mirth with his, to fuse-light and set him off in a detonation which could not stop exploding from ladyfingers to four-inchers to doomsday cannon crackers of delight!
And looking down, jolt-dancing his bones loose and delicious. Will thought: Jim don’t remember he was dead, so we won’t tell, not now—some day, sure, but not … Doo-dah! Doo-dah!
They didn’t even say “Hello, Jim” or “Join in the dance,” they just put out hands as if he had fallen from their swung pandemonium commotion and needed a boost back into the swarm. They yanked Jim. Jim flew. Jim came down dancing.
And Will knew, hand in hand, hot palm to palm, they had truly yelled, sung, gladly shouted the live blood back. They had slung Jim like the newborn, knocked his lungs, slapped his back, shocked joyous breath to where it made room.
Then Dad bent and Will leaped over him and Will bent and Dad jumped him and they both waited crouched in a line, wheezing songs, deliciously tired, while Jim swallowed spit, and ran full tilt. He got half over Dad when they all fell, rolled in the grass, all hoot-owl and donkey, all brass and cymbal as it must have been the first year of Creation, and Joy not yet thrown from the Garden.