Bacchanal

by Veronica Henry

  As she donned her robe, she decided to find Liza. But a man, draped in enough shadow to conceal his face, blocked her path. Autumn looked to her left and right and was about to scream when the man moved into the light, removing his hat. Autumn’s wild eyes softened with recognition. Her heart pounded like she’d run a marathon, her breath ragged.

  “Daddy.” It came out barely a whisper.

  Her father held a rose in trembling hands. “You put on a real nice show. Classy, same as your mama.”

  Autumn took the rose but couldn’t conjure up any words to give in return. Her father ran a rough finger along her cheek, slipped his hat back on, and disappeared into the thinning crowd. She sniffed the rose and allowed a thin smile to spread across her face. It didn’t matter how he’d found her, only that he had. And in time, when she was ready, she, too, would seek him out again. She wore the smile all the way to the animal tent.

  Liza was closing the latch on Ikaki’s cage, while Uly was refreshing the hay in Sabina’s.

  “Good night?” Autumn asked, settling onto a bench.

  The beast girl was surprised to see her—she’d put bets on it. For all the time they spent together in their trailer, Autumn knew she never talked much, and she would clam up whenever Liza pried too much. She just didn’t like spilling her guts much. Women chattered about her behind her back enough; she felt no need to talk about it face to face.

  “Darned good night,” Liza answered as she came to sit on the bench. “Where’d you get that?” She pointed to the rose.

  “A customer,” Autumn said, tucking the rose into her hair, behind a pink ear. She still couldn’t believe her daddy had found her.

  “There’s different ways of being a star. Only some of them, a small bit, are in the movies. How many pitch cards you sell tonight?”

  “Ain’t counted them all up yet,” Autumn said, but she beamed. She supposed Liza was right: she was a bit of a star. “I only had a couple left on my table when Wendell left, though.”

  “And how many cities you been to?” Liza continued. “Nearly two years with Bacchanal? I seen you get two or three print runs since I joined. Yeah,” she said, rising. “I’d say you got about as many fans as those famous people in the wax museum.”

  Autumn batted her arm and let out a girlish giggle. “Not that many.”

  “Let’s get outta here,” Liza said. “Need some fresh air.”

  The cook tent was closed, but it was a warm night and many of the carnies had gathered around the picnic tables still set up in the large open tent. People had also dragged chairs around a few of the tables. Autumn and Liza drifted to the picnic table that Hope, Bombardier, and Ishe shared. Clay, Jamey, Wendell, and many others were at the next table. Malachi and Eloko had chairs in the center of it all.

  Even Zinsa and Efe stood at the fringe, looking uncomfortable.

  A carnie named Mosley was leading a story about the dumbest mark he’d ever seen.

  “. . . so I tell the big lummox,” he said with a chuckle, “that Bombardier is as weak as a church mouse. The secret to his strength is this here hooch.” He held up the bottle they’d taken to selling at the concession stand. “‘It’ll grow hair on your chest and increase your strength and virility by a factor of ten,’ he’d said. Told him, after takin’ a swig, that a lady, our very own Miss Autumn here, had pinned Bombardier like a shirt on a clothesline. And that if he, too, drank two bottles, he could whip the big man in a wrestling match.”

  Autumn blushed.

  “For only an extra nickel, too, I betcha!” somebody from the crowd called out.

  “Make that a dime,” Mosley corrected. “And I got two ace notes for our special tonic.” The crowd roared.

  “And I am watching this snake oil salesman the whole time,” Bombardier chimed in with a big grin. “And I’m thinking to myself, if he does not get this mark to pay up after painting me the picture of a chicken-livered cream puff, I will drag him into the ring and teach him some manners.”

  “Anyway,” Mosley continued as if a little rattled by the idea, “the mark downs two bottles like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Then he steps up into the little ring with our buddy here.” Mosley stood behind Bombardier and clasped his shoulders. “Our man Bombardier tussles with the guy for a while, even lets him take him down a couple a times.”

  “I saw the whole thing,” another carnie added. “The guy was getting hisself all worked up. Flexing his fat, flabby arms—you had to be there.”

  “Let ’em tell it, now!” another carnie called out.

  Mosley looked slightly annoyed by the diversion but didn’t miss a step in his storytelling. “The mark is standing over Bombardier, acting like he’s out of it on the ground. He lifts his foot like he’s intending to bring it down on our man’s chest. All the while playing to the crowd.”

  “And what did he go and do that for?” another carnie who couldn’t contain himself asked.

  “Bombardier grabs that foot midair,” Mosley boasted, “and flips our good mark outta the ring. He landed headfirst in a heap.” Mosley waved his hands now, animated. “That ain’t all! The mark—he, he lets out the loudest fart I ever did hear!”

  The carnies went wild. People doubled over laughing, waving their hats, even the normally brooding Eloko.

  “You’re making it up,” somebody said.

  “I swear before my maker,” Mosley said, making a cross over his heart. “Even sold outta the hooch!”

  “And I was not done with him,” Bombardier said, taking over. “I had to make this man suffer—the crowd demands such things. But the smell! Every time I touched the man, he erupted like a firecracker.”

  A carnie laughed and spit out a chunk of the apple he was chewing. Unfortunately, it landed on Zinsa’s foot. She plucked the short knife from its sheath at her waist and held it to the man’s throat before he could utter the apology on his quivering, wet lips. Her nostrils flared. Everyone tensed, holding their breath. Even Clay froze in midstep. Zinsa lowered the knife, snatched the apple, and sliced it in half. One half she tossed to the man; the other half she took a big bite out of. The crowd exploded in snorts and squeals of laughter.

  The stories of how they’d taken the locals in with this trick or that carried on into the wee hours of the morning. Autumn suspected some were true, some embellished, but it didn’t matter. The times the carnies got to spend in fellowship weren’t often, and even Clay stayed to take it all in. Zinsa and Efe did not take seats, but they had moved in closer, their stoic faces creasing with smiles like everyone else’s.

  Bacchanal was back on a winning streak.

  “All right, you lazy louts,” Clay announced finally as he stood. “We break camp by midday. Get a couple hours’ sleep if you can; then we pack it up and move out. By the way, anybody seen Denny? Got some bad wiring that needs fixing.”

  Eloko lowered his eyes and scampered away. When nobody answered, Clay said, “Good riddance—probably done run off. He was a half ass anyway.”

  Autumn rose and made her way back to her trailer, each step buffeted by the flutter of emotion she’d felt at seeing her father again after all these years. She imagined a new start for them, an honest-to-God father-daughter relationship thundering to life like a fledgling star.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SOMETHING LOST, SOMETHING GAINED

  “Nomad,” “vagabond,” “gypsy.” When Liza was growing up, all these scornful terms were slapped onto her family. The words had clung to them like heavy, condemning extra appendages, a summary judgment of the way they had chosen to live their lives.

  Her family were wanderers, clamoring to spread a little of themselves along the way. She’d never questioned her family’s choices again. And though that life had come with its own costs, it suited her.

  Mama was the most closemouthed person she had ever met. Even now, Liza struggled to remember the pitch and timbre of her voice, at once soft but husky. She was more broken and resigned than meek. It was as if whatever part
of her cared one bit for her life or those of her children had retreated to some unknown and little-accessed corner of her brain. Her behavior incensed Liza to no end.

  Twiggy was the opposite of them both. Her little face would scrunch up in concentration, straining to make sense of what her sister was talking about. She would let out a stream of nonsensical babbling noises, blinking and huffing at Liza like she was an idiot when it seemed she didn’t understand. She was so eager to be a part of the conversation. She’d learned to talk early, but the child had no sense of the word “tact,” couldn’t even mouth the word with coaching. And before long, her mouth had gotten her into trouble. One day, on the unsteady legs of a four-year-old, she’d marched up to one of the Gullah elders and told him that he acted simple when he drank and wanted to know why he bothered.

  Nights were tough for Liza’s family. Most of the shacks they called home didn’t have indoor plumbing, let alone separate bedrooms. The kids usually huddled together on one side of the room, their parents on the other. If they were lucky, a hastily drawn towel or sheet provided a flimsy scrap of privacy. But not seeing and not hearing were two totally different things.

  One night, irked by the muffled sounds of their parents’ late-night coupling, Twiggy had squirmed right out of Liza’s arms, dodged her attempt to grab her back, snatched down the curtain, and said, “What y’all doing over here? I can’t sleep with all this noise. You hurt, Mama?”

  On the day when Twiggy had been born and placed into Liza’s outstretched hands, Liza fell in love. She had fallen infinitely more in love every day after. Her heart had curled up and grown over with mold the day they’d been separated. The only thing that seemed to be coaxing it back to life was the family she’d found with the carnival. Where had her parents taken Twiggy? Would the child even recognize her after all this time? And if she did find her someday, what did she plan to do, take her with her in the carnival? There was no way Clay would allow that. Not with his “no kids” policy. Hope had confirmed as much when Liza had asked why Hope’s son didn’t visit. Liza could understand why kids couldn’t come on the road with them, but they couldn’t even visit? Didn’t make sense. And what about families? What if a kid was conceived while on the road?

  Jamey.

  “What about him?” Autumn asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You whispered ‘Jamey.’” Autumn turned serious. “Look, I know you like him, and he seems like a decent-enough guy, but carnival romances.” She whistled. “Bad idea. I mean, what kind of life would you have here?”

  “A life like Hope and Bombardier,” Liza answered, and then folded her arms in front of her like a shield. “But who says I want to marry him or anything? And who asked you, anyway?”

  The dancer rose. “You’re the one whispering his name and going all googly eyed. Do whatever you want. I couldn’t care less.” She exited the trailer in a huff. Liza flung her pillow at the door as Autumn slammed it shut.

  The carnival had been traveling north, eventually crossing the state line dividing the never-ending state of Texas from Oklahoma. The sky had taken on an ashen cast and ushered in a fine dust that clogged throats, settled into engines, and irritated eyes. Clay was set to go out scouting later in the day.

  Liza left the trailer after she was sure Autumn was gone. Mico’s head stuck out from her pants pocket. She made her way to Hope and Bombardier’s trailer to see if they were up and about. Liza didn’t want to admit it, but Autumn’s words were playing over and over again in her head. Hope’s son didn’t even live with her—she hadn’t seen him for a year, at that. The carnival sometimes wound its way up north, but not every year. Hope sent money home and peppered in telegrams with the rare phone call, but the truth was, Hope and Bombardier’s son would know them only peripherally.

  After losing Twiggy, Liza wasn’t sure she wanted kids anyway. Would Jamey? And why was she even thinking about all this? All they had between them were a few kisses, some hesitant groping, and a fading awkwardness, and already she was thinking about what their life would be like together. No, she’d make the call right then and there. She would not get too involved.

  “Looking mighty fine today,” Jamey said as he came up behind her. His smile, the drooping right ear; all Liza’s resolve melted.

  She patted at her hair, wondered if she’d removed all the dust. “Thank you.” He wore his usual overalls with a crisp white shirt, buttoned all the way to the top. He didn’t have on his cap, so his hair glistened with the pomade he sometimes used to slick it back. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she didn’t like the way it smelled.

  “Where ya headed?” he asked. These days he’d actually worked up the nerve to look her square in the eye.

  Liza watched him. “Do you like kids?” Why on earth would she say that? She wanted to slap herself. Instead, she chomped down hard on her tongue.

  Jamey blinked, and Liza could read him like a book in the look he gave her—First she acts like she could do with or without me; now she’s asking about kids? “Never thought about it,” he admitted. “But I suppose every man ought to have a son—”

  “And I suppose a daughter would be, what, chopped liver?” Liza snapped. The argument they’d had on their first meeting flooded back.

  Jamey looked flustered. “Now, that’s not what I meant at all—”

  But Liza had turned away from him and stormed off, sparing one spiteful glance over her shoulder in time to see Jamey pick up a rock and throw it hard at the wooden sideboard of a nearby trailer.

  “Hey!” somebody called from inside.

  “Hey!” Clay snapped his fingers in front of Liza’s face, bringing her out of her angry reverie. “If you don’t have nothing better to do than stare off and chew on your lip, do me a favor and find Malachi. Tell him the rest of his supplies are in.”

  Liza was about to protest, but Clay had already moved on to handle the next emergency. The man lived in perpetual motion; she suspected he woke up in sweats from all the running he must do in his sleep. People who tried to stay too busy were only running from something they didn’t want to catch up to them. I wonder what Clay is running from. She rolled her eyes and set off to find Malachi.

  He was right where Clay could have found him himself—outside his trailer, doing a series of stretches, movements she’d never recover from if she tried. Bent over at the waist, he stood slowly, as if he were stretching each bone in his back.

  “You have finally agreed to join me in my morning exercises.” He grinned, and as usual when she looked upon a face so serene, all her troubles slipped away. His gaze was calm yet intent. “Something’s bothering you,” he said, then gestured for her to join him. “Sit.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Liza protested. “Clay wanted me to tell you the things for your show have come.”

  Malachi swatted the information away like a pesky fly. “In a minute,” he said again. “Sit.”

  Liza complied like a sullen child hopeful that there might be a treat at the end of the sermon. When Malachi didn’t say anything else, only held his head back slightly and let the sun fall full on his face, she huffed—loudly. Well, she wasn’t going to say anything; he was the one who’d invited her to sit.

  Finally, he said, “You are uncomfortable with quiet?”

  “No.” Truth was, discomfort squirmed in Liza’s gut like week-old gumbo. “I don’t like to waste time.”

  Malachi opened his eyes. “Whatever time you can manage to spend alone with your thoughts is never wasted. Care to tell me what’s clouding that face of yours with such consternation?”

  Why should I? But something about Malachi wouldn’t let her turn her sharp tongue on him. She was surprised when she let the words spill out, explaining the amulet, her problem with sometimes killing the animals, her attempts at learning to control her talent with Ishe.

  “You believe that there is no separation between the spirit world and ours? That they are always around us?” Malachi rested his hands on his knees and regarded he
r without a hint of judgment in his eyes.

  Liza tugged on her braid. “My mother spoke of them . . . some.”

  “Then you must know that they influence us in ways we don’t always understand.”

  The man goes a long way around to making his point. She shrugged. “And what does that mean to me?”

  “It means,” Malachi said, stretching out the last word, “that I’ve studied myth and religion from many cultures, and they all have some form of that belief in common. Answers are often right in front of us; you just have to tune your mind to the right station to find them.”

  With this Liza perked up; she could almost see the path of where he was going. “And you know what the discs mean?”

  “No,” Malachi said, gesturing with his chin. “What animals are carved on there?”

  Liza recounted the elephant, the raven, and the badger.

  “Hmm. And of your African lineage, you know nothing?”

  She bit her lip in answer.

  “Let’s try this. You ever heard of ancient Kush?”

  Liza may not have read as many books as a man who’d been to college, but she’d read her fair share. “Ethiopia, Egypt, Sudan,” she said.

  Malachi beamed. “The birthplace of Kemetic meditation. Some say all meditation sprang from that practice.”

  “Meditation?” That hadn’t been in any book she’d come across.

  “Rest your hands in your lap and close your eyes,” he instructed. “Breathe deeply, count your exhales one to ten, then begin again. Let your mind wander, and if a thought intrudes, push it gently away until the image you want, what you seek, comes to mind.”

  Before Liza could say that she had no idea what she was looking for, Malachi added, “You’ll know when it comes to you.”

  Skeptical, she tried the exercise, breathing in and out, in and out. The stilt walker—what had that been about? She shoved that aside, only to have it replaced by an image of Jamey, the curve of his lips; she quickly pushed it away and started her counting over again. Mico—had she fed Mico? She pushed that aside as well. What kind of show would folks like? Ishe . . . she didn’t want to think about the way she felt around him.