A Spotlight for Harry (5 page)

“Hold me right here!” Harry called to Dash. While Dash held the rope in place, Harry raised himself with both arms until his mouth was level with the loop. He leaned forward and took the rope between his teeth.

Ugh! Harry hadn’t thought about what it might mean to take that old rope into his mouth. The bristles felt like sandpaper. They scratched his tongue and lips. He tasted dust, moldy hay, and mice. Disgusting!

But Harry held on. He was determined to prove he could do whatever Monsieur Weitzman could do. A bad-tasting rope wouldn’t stop him.

Harry sank his teeth into the bristles. His mouth filled with spit. It dribbled down his chin until his neck and the whole front of his shirt were wet. This was the moment. Harry was ready. He braced himself, took a deep breath. He let go with his hands.

Harry swung in midair, suspended only by the grip of his teeth. His body turned first to the right, then to the left. He felt as if he were trying to hold on to a moving train. His body bent backward to balance the pull, as if he were a bow that an invisible archer was using to shoot an arrow. His teeth ached. His eyes teared. Buckets of spit ran down his chin, but his mouth felt dry and dusty.

This was horrible, much worse than he
had ever imagined. And yet, he’d been hanging for less than a minute. How had Monsieur Weitzman hung for so long? How had he made it seem so easy?

Harry couldn’t answer those questions. But he did know the answer to the most important one. How long was he going to hang here?

Until I count to a hundred
, Harry told himself. He began counting. He couldn’t speak, but he could say the words in his mind.
One … two … three … four …
At the same time, he focused on one single idea. Hold on!

“Harry! That’s enough. How long are you going to do this?” Dash called.

Harry ignored him.
Thirty-six … thirty-seven …

Dash became worried. “Come on, Harry. I’m going to let you down.”

Harry looked up into Dash’s face. Harry couldn’t speak the words. He couldn’t talk. Instead, he brought all his determination into one thought. It passed between Harry’s eyes and those of his brother.
Don’t give up, Dash! Don’t quit on me! If I can hold on, so can you. Don’t let me down!

Dash understood. “You’re crazy. I don’t like this one bit. But I won’t let you down until you tell me to,” he promised.

Harry forced as much of a smile as he dared. Then he waved his arms to signal to Dash.
Pull me higher!

“No! Harry, why? What are you trying to prove?” Dash protested.

Harry waved his arms again.
Higher!

Dash began hauling on the rope. Whether it made sense or not, Harry was calling on him to do his part. They were more than brothers. Harry and Dash were a team. They
had always counted on each other. This time would be no different.

The rusty pulley squealed. Harry rose above the stalls. He was almost to the roof of the barn. His head was only a few feet below the rafters.

Harry closed his eyes. He felt like a sponge that had been wrung dry. His spit stopped flowing. The bristly rope tasted worse than ever. He felt as if his teeth were being yanked out of his jaws. But, despite all that, he had kept the count. He was almost there.
Ninety-three … ninety-four …

A few seconds left! If he could only hold on a little longer. Harry dug his teeth into the rope. He threw back his head.
Yes … yes … yes!
he told himself.
Only a little more. I’m almost home. I can do this.
He kept repeating those words in his mind over and over again.

I can … I can … I can …

Harry tasted something wet and salty gushing in his mouth. It wasn’t spit. He couldn’t taste the rope anymore. He felt as if his jaws were being forced open with a crowbar. He bit down, trying to hold on to the rope. But it wasn’t there.

There was only the gushing salty taste overflowing his mouth. He heard someone scream. Was it Dash? And then he was flying backward, like another barn swallow, down away from the shadowy rafters at the roof of the barn.

Down … down … down.

I
f Harry could have seen himself, he would have screamed, too. He lay on his back on the thick pile of hay and straw where he fell. Floods of that salty liquid filled his mouth.

Harry thought it was bad-tasting spit from the rope. He tried to swallow it, but there was more and more. Harry raised his hand to his lips. He stared at his fingers. They were covered with blood—his own blood. It poured from his mouth.

“Harry! You’re alive,” Dash was shouting as he climbed down the ladder. “I thought you were dead. Stay right there. Don’t move. I’ll run and get help.” Dash turned and ran out the barn door.

“Don’t scare everybody. I’ll be okay,” Harry tried to call after him. He discovered that his mouth didn’t work right. It wasn’t just that he kept spitting blood. His words sounded strange. They hissed and whistled so badly that he could hardly understand himself.

Suddenly, he realized what was wrong. Harry brought his tongue to his lips and felt for his two front teeth. There was only an empty space. His two front teeth were gone!

“My teeth!” Harry groaned. The words came out “My feef!”

He felt sick to his stomach, and not from swallowing dust and rope and blood. He
wasn’t okay. He would never be okay again. Now he realized why he had fallen from the rope. His strength hadn’t given out. His teeth had. His weight on the rope had torn them out of his mouth.

Harry tried to stand up, but he became dizzy and had to sit back down. He tried again. This time he struggled to his hands and knees. His teeth lay somewhere in the heap of hay and straw scattered over the barn floor.

Harry had to find them. The doctor might know how to stick them back in. Or Mama could sew them in, just as she fixed the holes in his socks and trousers. Maybe Papa knew special prayers that would help a boy grow new teeth.

Harry tried saying prayers himself as he scrabbled in the straw. He had never thought about his teeth at all until he lost them. Now
they had become the two most important things in his life.

“Somebody help me,” Harry groaned. What came out sounded more like “Fombody hep me.”

Help was on its way. Dash had run all the way home, screaming at the top of his voice. “Help! Harry’s hurt!” Dash’s cries alerted the whole town.

Heads popped out of stores and houses to see what was wrong. A man came out of the barbershop with his face half shaved. The barber chased after him, still holding his razor. Sheriff Lennon came running from the jail. Mr. Hanauer dashed into the hardware store. He grabbed a crowbar in case Harry had gotten stuck and something needed to be pried loose to free him.

Trainmen from the rail yard, clerks from the telegraph office, and students from the
college all came to help. The performers and workers from the circus came running, too. Dr. Reeve grabbed his black doctor’s bag and climbed into his buggy. He passed Miss Purdy as he drove down the street.

“Get in,” he said. “Some boy’s in trouble down by the old barn at your place.”

“Oh, dear!” Miss Purdy cried. “I hope it isn’t Harry!”

Sheriff Lennon and a man passing by on the street had already carried Harry out of the barn by the time Dr. Reeve and Miss Purdy arrived. They set him down on the grass. Harry was still in a daze, and he could hardly speak. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He blinked. Dash kneeled down next to him to shade Harry’s eyes with his cap.

Dr. Reeve pushed through the crowd, carrying his doctor’s bag. Rabbi and Mrs. Weiss followed him. Mama Weiss cried out when she saw Harry lying on the ground with blood all over his face.

“My son! My poor Harry is dead!” she shrieked in German.

Rabbi Weiss comforted her. “No, Mama. Harry is still alive. We won’t know how badly he’s hurt until Dr. Reeve examines him. Pray that he will be all right.”

Mrs. Weiss’s lips moved quietly. She
whispered a prayer for Harry. Everyone in the crowd waited to hear what Dr. Reeve would say.

Harry looked up at the doctor. “Will I be all right?” he tried to say. His mouth was so swollen that he could hardly get the words out.

“Lie still. Don’t try to talk,” the doctor said. He moved Harry’s arms and legs, looking for broken bones. He checked his eyes and examined his head. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked Harry.

“Three,” Harry tried to say.

The doctor nodded. “That’s right. What’s your name?”

“Harry Weiss.”

“Where do you live?”

“Appleton, Wisconsin.”

“What day is today?”

“Thursday. July seventh.”

“Very good,” said Dr. Reeve. He turned to Harry’s parents. “He’s had a knock on the head, but there are no bones broken. I can’t find any serious damage. He’ll be all right.” The doctor turned back to Harry. “Now open your mouth so I can see what’s going on in there.”

Harry opened his mouth wide. The doctor frowned. “You knocked out your two front teeth! How did you do that to yourself?”

Harry couldn’t answer. He felt too dizzy to speak. Dash answered for him.

“We were teaching ourselves how to walk a tightrope. We did it, too. Then after that, Harry wanted to learn another trick. He wanted to hang from a rope with his teeth.”

“That solves the mystery,” Dr. Reeve said. “Where did you boys get a crazy idea like that?”

“It’s not crazy!” said Dash. “We saw Monsieur Weitzman do it in the circus. Harry wanted to learn how to do it, too.”

Some of the people in the crowd began laughing. Even Dr. Reeve found it hard not to smile. Mama Weiss burst into tears. Rabbi Weiss became angry.

He scolded the boys in German. “And you, Dash, went along with such a foolish idea! Must you boys do everything you see? What will you try next? Swallowing swords?
Eating fire? Climbing into a cage with lions and tigers? I’m sorry I took you to the circus. Unless you two start showing some sense, we’ll never go again.”

“That would be a pity,” someone answered in German. Rabbi Weiss turned around to see who it was. Harry looked up, too. He saw Monsieur Weitzman. He wore an ordinary coat and tie and carried a bucket. “I’m terribly sorry this happened,” he said in English. “I brought some cold water from the well. It may help.”