“That’s right,” the other one chimed in. “I saw her do it!”
Behind them, one of the prostitutes held up a bright-red satchel, mocking, and fell into a fit of giggles with her friend. Hope wrung her hands. It would do no good to accuse two white women, even if they were prostitutes.
The manager looked torn. Hope had been a good employee of over six years, but she knew he couldn’t rightfully accuse his white customers of lying, especially in front of a growing crowd. He stood looking between the groups. A tense hush moved through the crowd as, from within, Bombardier emerged.
The accuser came face-to-chest with the hulking man. His mouth worked, but no words came as his dwindling courage seemed to seep out. But with a nudge in the ribs from his buddy, he gathered himself. “Look here, boy, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll back on away from here while you still can. She stole, and I’ll see her pay for it.”
Bombardier pushed Hope back. “My wife is no tief.” Hope recalled how cute it was that he still pronounced the word “thief” without the h.
The accuser took a swing at Bombardier, having to leap up to do so. Hope screamed. Bombardier grabbed the man’s fist and crushed it in his own, the bones cracking as if they were being shoved through a meat grinder.
The man cried out, and Bombardier grabbed him by the collar and crotch and, with an upward press, launched the man into the crowd. Bodies fell back like trees bending to the wind and snapped forward in a unified motion, depositing the man on the concrete.
By now, his sidekick had jumped on Bombardier’s back and Hope had joined the fray, swinging her purse, heavy with coins from her tips. Bombardier bent over at the waist, flipped the man on his back onto the ground, and held him in a vise grip that had him sputtering, coughing, and clawing at the beefy arm wrapped around his neck.
By then, the manager had grabbed Hope and was holding her back. Let this blow over, he’d said. Soon, three other enraged white men had joined in the fray, and Bombardier dispatched them: one solid slap to the nose, a swift kick to a liquored-up liver. Other Negro men surged forward from the cluster of people and joined in, and soon the front of the hotel looked like a riot had broken out. Police whistles rang out.
But there was one man, tall with reddish hair combed back but for a single strand dangling down the right side of his face, who slipped through the crowd. Hope had been clutching Bombardier by the arm, ready to take up her purse swing if needed again, when the man produced a card and handed it to her.
“Clay Kennel,” he’d said. “If you don’t want your husband to spend the rest of his life in prison, I think I got a better use for his talents.”
The man’s hand had grazed Hope’s when he’d given her the card. She’d seen a swirl of darkness around him but the image of a child, a bloom of goodness, in his heart. She’d dragged her husband away, and they’d followed Clay, slipping away from the still-raging battle. They’d had time to gather a few belongings from their room and then piled into the man’s truck, headed south to join the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival.
Clay explained that he had been on a long road trip from DC through Virginia, and finally Maryland, on the lookout for new acts for his budding carnival. He knew of a pair of conjoined twins whom he wanted to talk to, but he had missed them by a few weeks. Neighbors told him that they’d been snatched up by P. T. Barnum’s outfit. It ticked off yet another loss, and Clay had been thinking he’d have to head back south when luck had placed him at the Baltimore Hotel, where he’d witnessed some of the best fighting he’d ever seen. Perhaps the trip hadn’t been a waste after all.
They stopped at a gas station far enough away from the city, and Hope had tearfully called her mother. Before she could even finish her recounting of the story, her mother had told her it would be best if she kept little Bombardier. Hope and Bombardier had avoided each other’s eyes but had not argued. Her mother was right. They had planned to stay with the carnival until things blew over up north and then head home. Clay had an act all worked up for Bombardier, and he brimmed over with excitement as he explained how the wrestling and strongman show could work.
When, at Bombardier’s urging, she told Clay about her readings, the man had been beside himself with glee. Said the carnival employed some old hack who didn’t know nothing about cards. Like that, they both had new jobs, paying triple what they’d made at the hotel. The money they were able to wire home took care of their son’s expenses and helped her mother take care of Hope’s still-broken brother. The hotel manager, feeling awful about what had happened, had sent the police on a wild-goose chase so as not implicate either Hope or her husband. They agreed to head back in a year, after they had saved up enough to buy a small house.
That had been two years ago, almost to the day.
Bombardier, as was his nature, had settled in easily, making friends. But Hope hadn’t found a friend in all that time, until Eliza had appeared. Sure, strange things went on with the carnival, but money, a meal, importance, and acceptance were powerful drugs.
Hope fingered the picture of her son, now four years old. Their child had her husband’s wide smile, his kind eyes, but her brooding nature. Behind the smile lurked that faraway look in his eyes, and she wondered if in a few years he, too, would have her gift. She closed her eyes and wished it not to be so. When she opened them, the tears ran freely. She missed him and cursed herself for not going back. But they were safe here, and he was safe there.
Next year, she said unconvincingly. Next year.
The godforsaken carnival had been the calamity she’d expected. The woman had swatted away her daughter’s outstretched hand as they’d hurried out of the animal tent with everyone else. Clingy little thing, that one. But now she couldn’t find her. She didn’t call out; that would be untoward, indecent. A woman stood by a trailer. FORTUNE-TELLER, the sign said. She sniffed. Charlatan.
“This way,” the charlatan said. “Over here.”
It was like the night pressed in as they walked. Where had that girl gotten off to?
The charlatan stopped and turned with a smile. She raised her hand. One of those crystal balls sat in her palm. If she’d lured her out here to try to swindle—
The ball splintered, shattered. She had no time to react. The charlatan flung the crystal shards into the air, where they swirled like glinting little ice picks and showered down over the woman.
She shrieked and hopped around, trying to brush them off. The whole thing was so improper. By the time she’d collected herself, the charlatan had gone and the carnival with her. The crystals rustled at her feet, flooded upward, and bound together again to form a mirror hovering there in the air. The glass sparkled. The frame throbbed and writhed like the darkest skin. Raised veins coursed through.
Instead of her reflection in the mirror, she saw an image of herself, much younger. She was at the county store with her father. When he turned to speak with the shop owner, she fingered the peppermint he’d denied her and slipped it into her sock. The self-satisfied grin on her face dissolved into the next scene.
An old maid at nineteen. The outrage she’d felt that nobody had asked her father for her hand. She and old Mr. Tate behind the church during the fall picnic. The fumbling, mad coupling. She’d felt no shame, only pride at having won the man’s affections over those of his too-perfect wife. Their daughter had his dimpled cheeks.
The woman clasped her hands to her mouth and bit back a sob. She couldn’t turn away as the last image coalesced. She was older, much older. Beds filled with people in near-catatonic states. A convalescent home, then. Her bed was soiled with her own feces. Eyes sunken, arms bruised from the nurse’s torturous pinches.
Tears streamed from her eyes as someone, she couldn’t tell who, hovered over her and slapped her slack face again and again. A fracture split the mirror in half, soon followed by others. Blood seeped from the cracks.
The woman sank to the ground in wordless shock. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, but she came back to
herself at the touch of her daughter’s hand on her shoulder. This time, she didn’t shrug it off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE TELLING
The last time Liza had experienced stillness was when she still lived under the watchful eye of Mrs. Margaret. It was the quiet of sitting in the library with her legs tucked beneath her in the high-back leather chair with a seat worn dull from overuse.
Liza had liked to swaddle herself among the great bulky tomes and weathered dime novels that lined the bookshelves, keeping a favorite novel resting in her lap. She liked to trace the gilded lettering on the cover, her fingers sliding along the binder. She wasn’t reading; she was only being. Enjoying the stillness. Finding a quiet place like that to think in a traveling carnival was impossible.
It didn’t help that Eloko seemed to be lurking around every corner. He had taken to standing outside the trailer, failing to look inconspicuous; was often a few steps behind her when she turned around; and always seemed to be within earshot when she sought out Malachi. She wondered, and not for the first time, how the little man with a snout, claws, and grass for skin could so easily hide in plain sight.
The carnival had stopped for the evening, and Liza shared a dinner with Jamey. This consisted mostly of her pushing her potatoes around on her plate and Jamey brooding. He stood finally and snorted at her. “Any other woman would be happy that a man, a good man, wants to marry her. But you sit here moping like somebody just stole your last dime. Well, forget the whole thing.” She caught him by the arm as he tried to stomp off and then ran the backs of her fingers down his face. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t pull away.
“Tulsa,” he said. “I expect your answer by then.”
As much as she hated to, she let him go without another word. Maybe Autumn was right: carnival romances weren’t meant to be. Besides, she had other matters to attend to.
Liza sought out Ishe at his trailer. At her knock, Ishe poked his head out and he held the door open.
“Come on in,” he said.
Liza took a step, stopped, glanced around. It was bad enough that she spent so much time with Ishe; if she was seen going inside his trailer, alone, Jamey might never speak to her again.
“Come on out—I need the fresh air.”
A look of disappointment clouded Ishe’s face when he stepped outside, but he quickly masked it with his normal blank stare. “Your shadow out and about?” he asked.
“Passed him on the way.” Liza gestured back the direction she’d come with her head. “I don’t know what he’s up to. I mean, what has Eloko got to do with anything?”
Ishe leaned against his trailer, and the flutter rippled through Liza’s stomach again. “What got ahold of you the other day? Why you let them women work you up?”
“It wasn’t me at all.” Liza joined him against the trailer wall, and their arms touched. “It was . . . it was the badger—I could feel it overtake me.” She stopped and shivered, running her hands up and down her arms. “I couldn’t control it, or myself.” She gazed up at him. “Ishe. I need help.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t got no experience controlling a demon, as you’ve seen for yourself.”
Her shoulders slumped.
He chucked her under the chin. “Who else besides me and you know what goes on with the dead, with spirits, with—”
“Hope!”
Hope was sitting outside the trailer in a wooden fold-up chair, with a pen and paper balanced on her lap. She glanced up and smiled at Ishe and Liza.
“Letter to my baby,” she said and then lowered her eyes but couldn’t hide the sadness. She lifted her gaze again; she must have caught Liza’s unease. “What? What is it?”
“I think we should go in.” Liza pointed at Hope’s trailer. “What we have to say isn’t for everybody to hear.”
They followed Hope into the trailer. She flicked on the overhead light and turned up an old oil lamp. The space was dominated by a full-size bed. Pictures of Bombardier Jr. were taped to the wall, alongside grade reports, drawings in a child’s hand, and a family photo of Hope and Bombardier with their infant son. Hope sat on the edge of the bed. Liza and Ishe scrunched together on the padded bench by the door.
“One of you gonna tell me what’s going on?”
Liza went on to tell Hope the entire story: Oya’s message, the vision of the carnival’s destruction, the badger, Eloko’s spying. Hope was wringing a corner of her dress in her hands by the time Liza was finished. “That first time you read my cards, you said something troubled you, didn’t you?” Liza asked.
“I didn’t say that.” Hope was defensive. “It doesn’t work the way you think. Sometimes what I see ain’t clear. Don’t make sense even to me.”
“Read them cards again,” Ishe said. “Tell us what you see. We can piece together whether or not it mean something.”
Hope stood and paced. Liza looked to Ishe and threw her hands up in frustration, a gesture he returned with a slight shrug.
“Honey, I’m afraid you stirring up something that could all be in your head,” Hope said.
Ahh, she’s scared for me. Liza walked over and took Hope’s hands. “Let’s see what the cards say, okay? If it turns out to be nothing, at least I’ll know for sure.”
Hope relaxed some. “I don’t even need them cards. They’re only for show, but—sit.” She pointed at the bed. “Sit here and try to relax. Breathe in and out . . . that’s it. Close your eyes if it helps.”
Liza had learned how to meditate from Malachi, so her breathing fell into a slower, steadier rhythm quickly. Hope took Liza’s hands and let her own eyes flutter closed. Liza felt Ishe inch forward, probably perched on the edge of the bench. Sweat had already begun to pool at her armpits and back. The first few seconds passed without incident, but when Liza peeked, Hope’s eyes were rolling backward, the dark-brown irises lifting like a curtain before a show. Ishe shot to his feet. Hope jerked away from Liza as if a bolt of lightning had seared her hands.
Liza gaped. Ishe had Hope by the shoulders, asking her if she was okay.
Hope brushed Ishe away, her lips thinned into a worried line. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense.” Liza rubbed her clammy palms on her thighs. “There is a man, an old and wise man. You must go to him.”
“But where—”
“Let her finish,” Ishe interrupted.
“The way he showed me is west from here, a large boulder with a carving, an image of his people. A mountain in the distance behind this boulder when I look up, and—” Hope turned around. “That way.” She pointed. Ishe and Liza followed the direction of her finger: north.
“At this boulder . . .” Liza stood and walked to the way Hope pointed. “I should see a mountain to the left, and that is where I will find this man?”
“That’s all he showed me.” Hope sank onto the bed. “But I ain’t sure you should try to go wandering off following one of my visions. We don’t know what it means.”
“I have to,” Liza said. Even now she could feel the spirits inside her, restless, trying to break through the surface. “Thank you, Hope. I’ll go first thing in the morning. I’ll catch up with the carnival later in the day.”
“How are you going to do that?” Hope said. “I don’t know how far it is. You can’t walk—what if it’s twenty miles from here? You can’t drive. And what if Clay decides to move out before you get back?”
“I’ll drive her.” Ishe stood. “Get some sleep; we set out at dawn. I’ll arrange for a car with Clay.”
“Wait,” Hope called. “Do you want a reading, Ishe?”
Ishe looked at both women, shamefaced and gloomy. “Naw,” he said with his hand on the door. “Ain’t no need. Set myself on this road, and I don’t need you to tell me how it’s gonna end.”
After Ishe and Liza left, Hope paced in the trailer. She had not told them everything. There was a shadow over Bacchanal. She’d felt it since she arrived and had never told even her husband. That shadow was evil, though its evil never s
eemed to be directed at the carnies, so it was easier for her to put it out of her mind. But now, that shadow flanked Liza.
Whatever Liza’s trouble was, it had something to do with Bacchanal. What brought tears to Hope’s eyes was the fact that though she was scared for her friend, she was more scared at what would become of her and Bombardier if they no longer had Bacchanal to rely on.
Hope’s vision had been of Liza’s grandmother destroying the carnival.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
IN SEARCH OF A MOUNTAINTOP
Morning in Oklahoma was unlike any Liza had seen before. The sun appeared filtered, as if it sought shelter behind a mask of dingy gauze. She had awoken to the taste of grit in her mouth, and her eyes burned with it. Even Mico had fallen into a sneezing fit that worried her now, as she dropped him off with Hope and Bombardier for the time she would be away. She’d given him her blanket, the one that he snuggled and got lost in.
It had taken some doing, but Ishe had secured the car for a few hours—no more, Clay warned. Nobody else was up as Liza and Ishe slipped into the cab and stole away. “How far do you think we’ll have to drive?” Liza asked Ishe, who hadn’t said a word since they’d left. She fiddled with the amulet.
“No way to know.”
The two rode in thick silence as the bleak Oklahoma countryside streaked past. Craggy and depleted, nothing moved. The land was largely empty of trees, and the few shrubs that clung to life seemed on the cusp of giving up the struggle. The sparse sunlight blended so well with the surroundings that the land seemed to be coated with a mask of dull beige that made everything run together. Worse, all they could see for miles in front of them was more of the same.
After a time, Liza glanced at Ishe from the corner of her eye. “Why are you helping me?”
“You helped me once,” he said.
Thinking back on that night, finding Ishe turned into a hyena, Liza wondered how he lived with such a presence inside him. The badger taking her over in the cook tent was one thing, but Ishe’s spirit was infinitely worse. She supposed that was why he kept everything about himself so close. She was glad that he hadn’t had another incident.
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