said, “Okay, honey.”
Captain Bart poured out every detail of July 6, 1944. But they were the usual details: the wild animals; the apparition-like
moment of the Wallendas’ appearance; the fire; the panic to get out. He said he grabbed two kids around their waists, tucked
each one under his arm like they were footballs, and crawled out under the tent. Captain Bart was from Arkansas, where they
were used to tents. City folk aren’t, so the citizens of Hartford headed for the entrance they’d come in, no matter that it
was blocked by iron bars. That you could go under the walls of a tent had never occurred to them.
He told them that the brigade passing the bodies from over the chute to the blankets laid out on the grass lasted just a minute
or so—just a dozen or so children were all that Hermes Wallenda could manage to pull up and over the chute before the heat
forced him back. Charlie would have given plenty for Hermes Wallenda’s testimony but Margie could well imagine why the youngest
Wallenda had refused. The last thing he must have seen before he jumped down off the chute would have been the choking mothers
holding their children up to him. All the witnesses from inside the tent said there was no smoke. They could see it all just
like they were watching a movie. The smoke didn’t come until everyone was either out or forsaken.
Captain Bart had stood on the ground on the other side of the chute and caught the children Hermes Wallenda dropped down to
him and then passed them on to an army private behind him. He said a big surge of heat suddenly came through the bars, pushing
at him like a great invisible burning hand. Then Hermes Wallenda jumped down and faced him, their eyes inches apart. Captain
Bart said that it was the same as looking into hell. “I saw hell in his eyes,” he said. The twang was almost entirely gone,
not quite, but his Bible-thumping roots lingered. Then they ran, Captain Bart off to see where he could be of more help, Hermes
Wallenda to his trailer.
Captain Bart paused for just a second before he said, “Thank God for that wall of heat, though. There is just no question
in my mind that those people up against the chute died in an instant.” He knew that was what must have happened because even
though no fire touched him, his uniform had been burned black, and the hair of his arms was singed off. He’d been leaning
against the chute, and when he took off his pants that night there were the beet red imprints of the vertical bars against
his thighs. Margie looked over at Chick. Little Miss 1565 had been barely touched by the hand of heat Captain Bart spoke of;
she had been protected from it by the crazed people climbing on top of her, fatally crushing her. Captain Bart looked at Margie
sitting next to him and said, “You were just a tiny baby. A piece of burning canvas must have fallen on your back. I remember.…”
Then he started crying again. Jack Potter from his wheelchair said to him, “Now, son, you just take it easy. Everything’s
fine now” Martha caught Margie’s eye.
Captain Bart, a career air force officer but still a farm boy from the Bible Belt, wiped his nose on his immaculate khaki
sleeve and said, “Thank you, sir. I thought… the baby…“ He raised his hands, palms up, and looked at them, and then at Margie.
He said, “I thought you were dead.”
Jack Potter said, “No, son, she was unconscious.”
Margie put down her coffee cup. “Well wouldn’t you know it wasn’t one of those famous Wallendas who’d left a thumbprint in
my back? Just some kid from Arkansas.” Margie smiled at him.
She saw Charlie roll his eyes.
Captain Bart managed a smile back at her. She said, “You know, Captain, the thing you have to tell yourself is that I don’t
remember any of it. It’s like you’re telling me a story of someone else.” What she always said.
Her father said, “That’s true, Captain.”
Then Jack
Captain Bart poured out every detail of July 6, 1944. But they were the usual details: the wild animals; the apparition-like
moment of the Wallendas’ appearance; the fire; the panic to get out. He said he grabbed two kids around their waists, tucked
each one under his arm like they were footballs, and crawled out under the tent. Captain Bart was from Arkansas, where they
were used to tents. City folk aren’t, so the citizens of Hartford headed for the entrance they’d come in, no matter that it
was blocked by iron bars. That you could go under the walls of a tent had never occurred to them.
He told them that the brigade passing the bodies from over the chute to the blankets laid out on the grass lasted just a minute
or so—just a dozen or so children were all that Hermes Wallenda could manage to pull up and over the chute before the heat
forced him back. Charlie would have given plenty for Hermes Wallenda’s testimony but Margie could well imagine why the youngest
Wallenda had refused. The last thing he must have seen before he jumped down off the chute would have been the choking mothers
holding their children up to him. All the witnesses from inside the tent said there was no smoke. They could see it all just
like they were watching a movie. The smoke didn’t come until everyone was either out or forsaken.
Captain Bart had stood on the ground on the other side of the chute and caught the children Hermes Wallenda dropped down to
him and then passed them on to an army private behind him. He said a big surge of heat suddenly came through the bars, pushing
at him like a great invisible burning hand. Then Hermes Wallenda jumped down and faced him, their eyes inches apart. Captain
Bart said that it was the same as looking into hell. “I saw hell in his eyes,” he said. The twang was almost entirely gone,
not quite, but his Bible-thumping roots lingered. Then they ran, Captain Bart off to see where he could be of more help, Hermes
Wallenda to his trailer.
Captain Bart paused for just a second before he said, “Thank God for that wall of heat, though. There is just no question
in my mind that those people up against the chute died in an instant.” He knew that was what must have happened because even
though no fire touched him, his uniform had been burned black, and the hair of his arms was singed off. He’d been leaning
against the chute, and when he took off his pants that night there were the beet red imprints of the vertical bars against
his thighs. Margie looked over at Chick. Little Miss 1565 had been barely touched by the hand of heat Captain Bart spoke of;
she had been protected from it by the crazed people climbing on top of her, fatally crushing her. Captain Bart looked at Margie
sitting next to him and said, “You were just a tiny baby. A piece of burning canvas must have fallen on your back. I remember.…”
Then he started crying again. Jack Potter from his wheelchair said to him, “Now, son, you just take it easy. Everything’s
fine now” Martha caught Margie’s eye.
Captain Bart, a career air force officer but still a farm boy from the Bible Belt, wiped his nose on his immaculate khaki
sleeve and said, “Thank you, sir. I thought… the baby…“ He raised his hands, palms up, and looked at them, and then at Margie.
He said, “I thought you were dead.”
Jack Potter said, “No, son, she was unconscious.”
Margie put down her coffee cup. “Well wouldn’t you know it wasn’t one of those famous Wallendas who’d left a thumbprint in
my back? Just some kid from Arkansas.” Margie smiled at him.
She saw Charlie roll his eyes.
Captain Bart managed a smile back at her. She said, “You know, Captain, the thing you have to tell yourself is that I don’t
remember any of it. It’s like you’re telling me a story of someone else.” What she always said.
Her father said, “That’s true, Captain.”
Then Jack
Similar Books
