She walked around the table, hands fitted to her hips talking to the beds, the walls, the table, talking it all out of her. And he thought: Or did I know? Who made this picture, me or the witch? Who formed it? How?
Do I really want her dead? No! And yet. . . .He watched his wife draw nearer, nearer, he saw the ropy strings of her throat vibrate to her shouting. This and this and this was wrong with him!
That and that and that was unspeakable about him! He was a liar, a schemer, a fat, lazy, ugly man, a child. Did he think he could compete with the carny boss or the tentpeggers? Did he think he was sylphine and graceful, did he think he was a framed El Greco?
DaVinci, huh! Michelangelo, my eye! She brayed. She showed her teeth. “Well, you can’t scare me into staying with someone I don’t want touching me with their slobby paws!” she finished, triumphantly.
“Lisabeth,” he said.
“Don’t Lisabeth me!” she shrieked. “I know your plan. You had that picture put on to scare me. You thought I wouldn’t dare leave you. Well!”
“Next Saturday night, the Second Unveiling,” he said. “You’ll be proud of me.”
“Proud! You’re silly and pitiful. God, you’re like a whale. You ever see a beached whale? I saw one when I was a kid. There it was, and they came and shot it. Some lifeguards shot it. Jesus, a whale!”
“Lisabeth.”
“I’m leaving, that’s all, and getting a divorce.”
“Don’t.”
“And I’m marrying a man, not a fat woman—that’s what you are, so much fat on you there ain’t no sex!”
“You can’t leave me,” he said.
“Just watch!”
“I love you,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Go look at your pictures.”
He reached out.
“Keep your hands off,” she said.
“Lisabeth.”
“Don’t come near. You turn my stomach.”
“Lisabeth.”
All the eyes of his body seemed to fire, all the snakes to move, all the monsters to seethe, all the mouths to widen and rage. He moved toward her—not like a man, but a crowd.
He felt the great blooded reservoir of orangeade pump through him now, the sluice of cola and rich lemon pop pulse in sickening sweet anger through his wrists his legs, his heart.
All of it, the oceans of mustard and relish and all the million drinks he had drowned himself in in the last year were aboil; his face was the color of a steamed beef. And the pink roses of his hands became those hungry, carnivorous flowers kept long years in tepid jungle and now let free to find their way on the night air before him.
He gathered her to him, like a great beast gathering in a struggling animal. It was a frantic gesture of love, quickening and demanding, which, as she struggled, hardened to another thing. She beat and clawed at the picture on his chest.
“You’ve got to love me, Lisabeth.”
“Let go!” she screamed. She beat at the picture that burned under her fists. She slashed at it with her fingernails.
“Oh, Lisabeth,” he said, his hands moving up her arms.
“I’ll scream,” she said, seeing his eyes.
“Lisabeth.” The hands moved up to her shoulders, to her neck. “Don’t go away.”
“Help!” she screamed. The blood ran from the picture on his chest.
He put his fingers about her neck and squeezed.
She was a calliope cut in mid-shriek.
Outside, the grass rustled. There was the sound of running feet.
Mr. William Philippus Phelps opened the trailer door and stepped out.
They were waiting for him. Skeleton, Midget, Balloon, Yoga, Electra, Pop-eye, Seal Boy. The freaks, waiting in the middle of the night, in the dry grass.
He walked toward them. He moved with a feeling that he must get away; these people would understand nothing, they were not thinking people. And because he did not flee, because he only walked, balanced, stunned, between the tents, slowly, the freaks moved to let him pass. They watched him, because their watching guaranteed that he would not escape.
He walked out across the black meadow, moths fluttering in his face. He walked steadily as long as he was visible, not knowing where he was going. They watched him go, and then they turned and all of them shuffled to the silent car-trailer together and pushed the door slowly wide. . . .
The Illustrated Man walked steadily in the dry meadows beyond the town.
“He went that way!” a faint voice cried. Flashlights bobbled over the hills. There were dim shapes, running.
Mr. William Philippus Phelps waved to them. He was tired. He wanted only to be found now. He was tired of running away. He waved again.
“There he is!” The flashlights changed direction. “Come on! We’ll get the bastard!”
When it was time, the Illustrated Man ran again. He was careful to run slowly. He deliberately fell down twice. Looking back, he saw the tent stakes they held in their hands.
He ran toward a far crossroads lantern, where all the summer night seemed to gather: merry-go-rounds of fireflies whirling, crickets moving their song toward that light, everything rushing, as if by some midnight attraction, toward that one high-hung lantern—the Illustrated Man first, the others close at his heels.
As he reached the light and passed a few yards under and beyond it, he did not need to look back. On the road ahead, in silhouette, he saw the upraised tent stakes sweep violently up, up, and then down!
A minute passed.
In the country ravines, the crickets sang. The freaks stood over the sprawled Illustrated Man, holding their tent stakes loosely.
Finally they rolled him over on his stomach. Blood ran from his mouth.
They ripped the adhesive from his back. They stared down for a long moment at the freshly revealed picture. Someone whispered. Someone else swore, softly.
The Thin Man pushed back and walked away and was sick. Another and another of the freaks stared, their mouths trembling, and moved away, leaving the Illustrated Man on the deserted road, the blood running from his mouth.
In the dim light, the unveiled Illustration was easily seen.
It showed a crowd of freaks bending over a dying fat man on a dark and lonely road, looking at a tattoo on his back which illustrated a crowd of freaks bending over a dying fat man on a . . .
The end
