Stranger in a Strange Land

Mike smiled gently. “Now, Pat, you don’t have to kid us. It stinks. We know it.”

“No, it doesn’t, dearie. Oh, maybe it needs a little something to give it some zing. A few jokes. Or, well, you could even cut down on Jill’s costume a little. You’ve got an awful cute figure, hon.”

Jill shook her head. “That wouldn’t do it.”

“Well, I saw a magician once that used to bring his assistant out dressed for the Gay ’Nineties—the eighteen-nineties, that is—not even her legs showing. Then he would disappear one garment after another. The marks loved it. But don’t misunderstand me, dear—nothing unrefined. She finished… oh, in almost as much as you wear now.”

“Patty,” Jill said frankly, “I’d do our act stark naked if the clowns wouldn’t close the show.” As she said it, she realized that she meant it—and wondered how Graduate Nurse Boardman, floor supervisor, had reached the point where she could mean it?

Mike, of course—And she was quite happy about it.

Mrs. Paiwonski shook her head. “You couldn’t, honey. The marks would riot. Just a touch more ginger ale, dear. But if you’ve got a good figure, why not use it? How far do you think I would get as a tattooed lady if I didn’t peel off all they’ll let me?”

“Speaking of that,” Mike said, “you don’t look comfortable in all those clothes, Pat. I think the aircooling in this dump has gone sour again—it must be at least eighty.” He himself was dressed in a light robe, his concession to the easy-going conventions of carney good manners. Extreme heat, he had learned, affected him slightly, enough so that he sometimes had to adjust consciously his metabolism—extreme cold affected him not at all. But he knew that their friend was used to the real comfort of almost nothing and affected the clothes she now wore to cover her tattoos when out among the marks; Jill had explained it to him. “Why don’t you get comfortable? ‘Ain’t nobody here but just us chickens.’” The latter, he knew, was a joke, an appropriate one for emphasizing that friends were in private—Jubal had tried to explain it to him, but failed. But Mike had carefully noted when and how the idiom could be used.

“Sure, Patty,” Jill agreed. “If you’re raw under that dress, I can get you something light and comfortable. Or we’ll just make Mike close his eyes.”

“Uh… well, I did slip back into one of my costumes.”

“Then don’t be stiff with friends. I’ll get your zippers.”

“Let me get these stockings and shoes.” She went on talking while trying to think how she could get the conversation around to religion, where she wanted it. Bless them, these kids were ready to be seekers, she was certain—and she had counted on the whole season to bring them around to the light… not just one hurried visit before they left. “The point about show business, Smitty, is that first you have to know what the marks want… and you have to know what it is you’re giving them and how to make ’em like it. Now if you were a real magician—oh, I don’t mean that you aren’t skillful, dear, because you are.” She tucked her carefully rolled hose in her shoes, loosened her garter belt and got out of it modestly, let Jill get her dress zippers. “I mean if your magic was real like you had made a pact with the Devil. That’d be one thing. But the marks know that it’s clever sleight-of-hand. So you give ’em a light-hearted show to match. But did you ever see a fire eater with a pretty assistant? Heavens, a pretty girl would just clutter his act; the marks are standing around hoping he’ll set fire to hisself—or blow up.”

She snaked the dress over her head; Jill took it and kissed her. “You look more natural, Aunt Patty. Sit back and enjoy your drink.”

“Just a second, dearie.” Mrs. Paiwonski prayed mightily for guidance—wished that she were a preacher… or had even the gift of gab of a talker. Well, her pictures would just have to speak for themselves—and they would; that was why George had put them there. “Now this is what I’ve got to show the marks… this and my snakes, but this is more important. Have either one of you ever looked, really looked, at my pictures?”

“No,” Jill admitted, “I guess not. We didn’t want to stare at you, like a couple of marks.”