No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt Page A

pinch him to punish his stupidity. The kids loved it, because, as Emily explained to me, they saw Edward C. and the Blegans as being little like themselves, and seeing a grown-up clown outwitted by the childish-looking dwarf men was not only funny but satisfying to the young.
    Personally I could have clouted the little monsters, and I told Emily so, but she only smiled and asked me to think of the clowns I had once laughed at and to remember what it was that made me laugh. She was right. I had been a little monster too; I had been gleeful when the silly clown fell flat or was punished for being stupid. But that was long before I knew a clown named Emily.
    Each day’s work was long and strenuous for her. She was on the grounds constantly, mingling with the crowds, bumping and tumbling in a continuous effort to win a few laughs from people who were not too ready for laughter. At closing time she would gather her three sleeping children from Pete Harris’s tent and would walk wearily outside the gates and over to the boxcar which was their home. She nearly always stopped beside my piano to say good-night; I would wait for her there if my chores were finished first. Emily’s good-night came to be a small spot of joy for me in a day that was often tedious and monotonous.
    She always ate breakfast with us before she put her makeup on for the day. After that I seldom saw her except at a distance during working hours, but there were a few times when the crowds were nearly gone and the lights dimmed that Emily had a chance to stand beside my piano and listen as I played the way I wanted to play. Then I would improvise some of the melodies that were in my mind, trying out variations in minor keys, softly and with a tenderness that was all for her. Eventually I’d return to the original major key with a lot of fanfare which was my way of boasting to her of my skill. Mostly she would just stand and listen, smiling to herself, but saying nothing. One night, though, she leaned forward and spoke to me softly. “You have a gift, Josh; don’t let these times make you lose sight of it.”
    I was restless during these weeks. Joey and I kept waiting for Lonnie to return, and when he didn’t, we knew that he must have lost his job as he had feared. I took three dollars out of the precious ten that Pete Harris had given me after my first two weeks of work and put them in a letter to Lonnie. Joey added a dollar of the money he had earned at running errands, and we wrote Lonnie that this was the first installment on the money we owed him. We felt good when we mailed that letter.
    We bought one another gifts for Christmas and were so excited about buying something other than food that we opened our packages days before Christmas arrived. I bought a bright blue shirt for Joey with a chocolate bar slid in the breast pocket. And he gave me an imitation leather wallet to hold my newly acquired wealth. I don’t know when a gift had ever pleased me so much. That wallet gave me a sense of well-being when I put it into my hip pocket; moreover, it had several interesting compartments as well as an identification card which I filled out proudly. There was a line which stated, “In case of accident, please notify _______.” I started to write “Stefan Grondowski” on that line; then I thought better of it and wrote “Lon Bromer” and added the Omaha address he’d given us.
    Still, in spite of the unforgiving streak in me, I kept thinking of home as Christmas drew near. On the warm, gentle nights when the noise of the carnival had subsided, I would often take long walks, wondering as I walked if there were still the lines of men in front of employment offices back in Chicago, wondering if Kitty had managed to get a job, wondering a hundred things about Mom. When Joey wrote a note home to tell them of my job, to let them know we were well, I gave him a dollar to add to the one he was placing in the