The King Bowed In Kearney With Every String Accounted For

By the morning of our first show, the old company had closed.

Ruth had sent the final filings and the paid claim records. All eight duplicate bookings had been canceled or settled. No other deposits appeared in the completed accounting, and none of the twelve spring prospects had paid a cent.

The false sale sheet stayed in the closed case file beside its signed withdrawal. My ownership order stayed in the blue case with the workshop ledgers.

Those were different kinds of paper. I kept them both.

Russell had lost his company office, his booking authority, and the money he had taken. Della had repaid her fee and signed away any right to collect or speak for the old company.

Their power over our work had ended in signatures they could not brush aside.

I had seen Russell once during the final equipment count. He had asked whether I might rent him the horse for a summer promotion.

“No,” I had said.

He waited for a longer answer. I gave him the receipt for the last company key instead.

That was our last business together.

Now Ben backed our rented van to the Kearney hall. The air was cold enough to sting my fingers, though the afternoon promised sun.

“Nobody unloads until I check the outlet,” Alma said.

“Good morning to you too,” Tess told her.

“Electricity doesn't care how friendly I am.”

Inside, rows of folding chairs faced a low stage. We had paid $240 for the hall. Our fee covered two shows, and the organizer handled tickets under a contract all five of us had read.

There was no second unit. There was one van, one crew, and enough time between towns to sleep.

I opened the first case.

The king lay under his cotton cover, his repaired thumb curled toward his palm. I checked the finger line, the wrist joint, and the small knot under his sleeve.

Eli stood beside me with his own repair roll.

“I fixed the horse's ankle stop,” he said. “Entry's in the ledger.”

I tested the foot. It stopped cleanly.

His entry gave the date, the wood used, and the hour it took. Under that, he had drawn a crooked little ankle.

“Good work,” I said.

He tried to hide his smile by checking the other foot.

Nora and her brother came before the doors opened. I had invited them after the settlement. They had returned the old banner and confirmed that none of our photographs remained in their own sales material.

They were building a show with their flat figures under their own name.

“The trees still look like cabbage,” Nora said.

“Trees take practice.”

She offered to pay for their seats. The organizer had already set aside two guest tickets.

Their work had been used as somebody else's excuse. It pleased me to see them sit down simply as guests.

At eleven, Alma dimmed the room.

I stepped behind the rail and lifted the king. His feet settled on the painted dock. One child gasped when he turned his head toward a wooden gull.

That sound reached me more clearly than any applause.

The storm began. Ben rolled the wind drum. Tess drew the sea cloth higher. Eli sent the horse running along the dock, its repaired ankle taking each small step.

The king lost his crown, caught the rope, and climbed.

When he offered his hand to the frightened gull, the new thumb held.

Afterward, children lined up to see the controls. I showed them the shoulder bar and the knee strings. One boy asked whether the king was alive.

“He needs all of us,” I said.

Alma, standing beside the light board, nodded once.

Between shows, I opened the payroll file on the table by the coats. The first transfers had cleared that morning. Each crew member checked a statement, then went back to lunch.

No one had to ask when they would be paid.

Mavis had mailed a card from Aurora. Her repaired screen was back in use. The other venues had confirmed their refunds in the final folder. I put her card beside the new route sheet.

Kearney, Minden, Lexington, Broken Bow. Four towns were plenty for our first run.

I sat by the stage window and mended the king's cuff. Outside, late sunlight lay across the bare cottonwoods. Inside, I could hear the crew arguing gently about where to buy supper.

I pushed the needle through with my thimble. Its brass rim clicked against the control bar, a small, steady sound.

Then a little girl arrived at the open door, holding the evening's first ticket. I slipped the thimble into my pocket, lifted the king's bar, and let him bow her in.