Homer is Where the Heart Is

When I was twelve or thirteen Willard the Wizard came to Homer and set up his sprawling, gigantic tent just a fraction of a mile down the hill from our home at 401 Keener Street. In the coming months Squirrel Brantly's parents would purchase that tract of land and build a nice brick ranch-style house there. I had always been fascinated by magic and the tricks and stunts of magicians. My favorite comic strip character at that time was Mandrake the Magician, whose hypnotic gestures took immediate effect and created hallucinative lions and tigers and anything else Mandrake could dream up and use to subdue his adversaries. This was before television had come to Homer, so, other than the Pelican Theater, there were few venues for entertainment. Willard stayed a couple of summer weeks, drawing healthy crowds during week nights and a full-house on weekends. Each night his family of wife and daughters, clad in appropriate habiliments, assisted him on stage with his acts. He was quite good and very professional, with the proud look of a Salvador Dali. Sort of a poor man's Copperfield without the flash. One of his family members caught my eye at once. Her name was Frances and she was simply breathtaking, the loveliest thing of beauty I have ever seen. In seconds, I completely absorbed her. Hair: brownish-blonde of medium length. Eyes: a darker brown than the hair, with a subtle reserve that I could not quite define. Skin: light olive. Nose: diminutive. Age: close to my own, probably a little younger. Personality: unknown. Close proximity and careful observation necessary to determine,. Each morning after breakfast I left home and descended the hill, with the fresh, pleasant fragrance of summer morning glories coursing through my senses, and bustled with increasing excitement across Highway 9 onto the sacred Willard soil. The nearness of the encampment allowed me numerous opportunities to be on location each day and do odd jobs for Willard's foreman, Hector. This endeavor provided me with free tickets for each show, where I would simultaneously gaze upon the girl of my dreams and enjoy the entertaining magic of her father. During slow work periods I stayed around and talked with various crew members about the life of traveling, and, as much as possible, watch Frances, who usually wore a freshly ironed sleeveless blouse and Amelia-like tan shorts, quietly wade barefoot in the cool stream of branch water that flowed unhampered under the road and across Keener and continued easterly, parallel to the highway. She never seemed conceited about her beauty; she just went quietly about her play with her older sisters. As the days of each week came and went, I burned with a desperate desire to approach her at the creek and ask her to put on her opened-toed sandals and walk to town to the Pelican Theater for a matinee picture show. My fantasy created a marvelous picture of my purchasing our twelve-cent tickets and bags of five-cent popcorn. How that would impress her, I thought, and for that alone, she would want to marry me. Each day I secretly rehearsed the words of this invitation and tried to muster the courage to deliver it. But whenever I got close enough for our shadows to momentarily cross, my tongue turned to solid lead and my quivering lips froze. I was unabe to utter a single word. One night during the middle of the second week, and with time running out to shed my cowardice in speaking to Frances, I volunteered from my choice seat in the audience to assist Willard the Wizard with a new act. Getting on stage would place me only mere feet from Frances. When I ascended to the platform, with klieg lights shining brightly in my eyes, I seemed to float across the stage on dreamy, surrealistic clouds. I stood next to Willard with revved excitement; I had never been this close to a man wearing a cape. Then for the first time, I noticed that Willard's dark hair was parted down the middle of his head and that he was wearing under his black coat a spotless white, collarless shirt with a matching silk bow tie. There was a trace of after-shave with a subtle oaken flavor. Willard began the skit with a rich timbre in his voice so that even those sitting in wooden, fold-up chairs at the back of the huge tent could easily understand each of his words. "Son, what will you have to drink?" Then he whispered to me out of the side of his mouth like Edgar Bergen speaking for Charlie McCarthy, "Say 'Whiskey.'" Only I could not hear it said. Being hard of hearing put me in panic mode and the fact that he whispered with his mouth nearly closed prevented me from using my fall-back strategy: reading lips. When I failed to respond Willard whispered a bit louder. I stared back at Willard like I was McCarthy. Willard kept trying, with each try increasing in resonance until those in the first seven rows surely were hearing those words continuously repeated. On his fourth or fifth attempt I finally got it. "Whiskey," I said meekly, feeling like a dodo. "Louder," Willard whispered back through clenched teeth. "Louder," I said at a suitable decibel, and as soon as I had spoken the word, realized that I was killing his script. Even without looking at them I could sense massive confusion in the audience. Willard squinted his eyes in anger, twitching his black mustache. When he did that I said, "Whiskey," in my strongest stentorian voice and sneaked a glance at the audience. They were looking at each other. Willard proceeded to pour me a small glass of stale cola and handed it to me. His hand was trembling and I could see the arteries throbbing in his neck. I downed the fake whiskey and when I handed the glass back my hand trembled a little, too. He was a magician; why didn't he just saw me in half and make me disappear? When the act was over I left the stage without looking at Frances, but I could feel her eyes following me with each step I took. There was little doubt that I finally had her attention.