The Image Seeker

by Amanda Hughes

  “It’s my favorite pastime,” Billie replied.

  “Me too!”

  “Tell us about yourself. Where are your people from?” Florence asked.

  “Minnesota,” Billie shouted over the roar of the bus.

  “Uh huh, we’ve been to Minnesota several times. Ain’t we, girls?”

  They nodded.

  “What part?”

  “Central,” Billie replied.

  “Lots of Swedes up there. You don’t look like a Swede.”

  Billie was ready with her usual answer. “No, I’m French.”

  “Me too, but you’d never know it by looking at my girls. Their daddy was a Negro preacher. Met him in a Christian revival show. Handsomest man you’d ever seen. Had to give him the heave-ho, though. He liked the ladies too much, and they liked him. So, you’re really only French, Miss Billie?”

  “Well,” she hesitated, “I’m Chippewa Indian too.”

  “Thought so,” Florence said with a laugh. “Lots of Indians with our carnival here. Have you noticed?”

  “No, I only just signed on a few days ago.”

  “You’ll get to know everyone soon,” Opal said, taking off her glasses and wiping them. “Everybody is very nice.”

  “You a photographer?” Ruby asked, leaning forward wide-eyed. She had on a print dress and dusty high-button shoes. A cluster of Kewpie dolls was on her bed.

  “No, just his assistant. Someday, I will be, though.”

  “Well, settle in, Miss Billie,” Florence said. “We have a long ride ahead.”

  It was a late summer day, and the sun baked the bus. Even with the windows open, it was stuffy. They took turns riding in the front where the breeze was better. When it was Billie’s turn, Florence asked, “You drive, honey?”

  “Never tried.”

  Wanna learn?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re stopping to gas up,” she said, down shifting. The bus started to whine. “We’ll switch then.”

  It was a rundown little filling station out in the middle of nowhere. Merely a shack with a porch, the structure looked as if a strong breeze might blow it down. A man in greasy overalls and gray stubble came out and started putting gas into the trucks. One by one, they pulled up to the pumps.

  “Girls, you go in and use the toidy. I’m going to teach Miss Billie how to drive.”

  The girls jumped out and ran to the station.

  “Now, the hardest part is getting going,” she said as Billie crawled into the driver’s seat. “Let out the clutch slowly while you press easy on the gas. Too fast on anything, and it will either kill the engine or slam us into George ahead of us.”

  Billie swallowed hard.

  The first few tries, they jerked forward, and the engine died, but eventually, Billie mastered it, and they moved up in line toward the pump.

  “Good!” Florence said, patting her on the shoulder. “You’re a quick learner. Here are the girls. Was the line long?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it was.”

  “Alright, I’m going to go, and then it’s your turn, Miss Billie.”

  All afternoon, Billie drove the bus while Florence smoked and looked out the window. “Desolate country,” she commented. “Used to be mile after mile of corn and wheat but now nuthin’ but dust. Everyone’s leaving. You been through here?”

  “Yes, on the rails.”

  Florence’s eyebrows shot up. “You rode the rails? Ain’t that dangerous for a girl?”

  “I had friends protecting me.”

  “Praise the Lord you weren’t hurt,” Florence said, taking a puff and looking back outside over the empty, flat land. At last, she said, “Their livelihood is just blowing away.”

  “I’ve been reading about it in the papers,” Billie said, taking a sip of ginger ale she bought at the station. “There’s more and more on the road looking for work, and I met a lot of them.”

  “As a matter of fact, here are some now,” Florence said as they passed an old pickup truck loaded with household goods. She sighed and put her foot up on the dashboard, shaking her dress for air. “Don’t know if we’ll make a dime here. But it will see us through until we can get out West where there’s hopefully a little money. It’s our first time out there, you know.”

  Suddenly, the bus started losing power.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Billie shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m pressing on the gas, and there’s nothing.”

  Florence leaned over and looked at the gauges. They started coasting. “Pull over to the side,” she instructed.

  Billie moved off the road, and eventually, the entire caravan stopped. Florence got out as several men walked up. One of them tried to start the engine as another opened the hood. The bus would not start.

  A bald, corpulent man strode up, puffing on the stub of a cigar. He was the carnival manager. “Get Virgil,” he ordered in a gravelly voice.

  “Virg is the head mechanic,” Florence said to Billie, fanning herself. “If anyone can help Clara Bow, he can. A carnival is only as good as its machines, and that man can fix anything from a bus to a Ferris wheel. Here he is.”

  A young man walked up with a toolbox. He had large brown eyes and thick black hair brushed back in a crew cut. Tattoos lined his arms.

  “He’s Indian like you,” Florence added.

  When he saw Billie, a smile folded his face into creases, and he exclaimed, “What d’you do to my Clara Bow?”

  “Nothing, nothing!” Billie protested. “She just rolled to a stop!”

  He laughed as he walked by, and Billie noticed she was almost a head taller than he was. Taking out a wrench, he stepped up on the bumper and bent over the engine. She watched him adjust this and that. At last, Clara Bow was running again.

  “All right!” the manager roared. “We’re back at it.”

  That night, they set up camp outside of Salina, Kansas. Billie was amazed at the efficiency of the carnies. The roustabouts hoisted tents and set up rides as everyone else unloaded supplies. The Hicksons set up fryers, cotton candy machines, and iceboxes while Billie helped Mr. Marzetti carry photographic equipment to their studio.

  “I can’t believe everyone is almost done,” she said, setting down a tripod.

  “They have done it a thousand times, Miss Billie. But as quick as they are, they never get the darkroom right.” He showed her a room at the back of the tent. “Light always gets in. Work on that first thing in the morning. Now to bed. We rise before the sun.”

  As Billie walked across the camp, she noticed workers in the cookhouse tent. She heard laughter and a scratchy copy of “Bend Down, Sister” playing on the phonograph. Shadows of people drinking and dancing darted across the canvas.

  She stopped and watched. During the day, Billie’s attention was diverted, but at night, she grew lonely. She had to push back her grief and learn to live with the realization that she was all alone in the world. A knot in her stomach kept her awake many nights, and she would stare into the darkness, wondering where everyone had gone.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you dance?” she heard someone say.

  Billie jumped.

  It was Virgil Sims. He was leaning against a truck, smoking a cigarette.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Cigarette?” he offered. “Or don’t you smoke either?”

  Feeling awkward, Billie consented. She didn’t like smoking. It made her sick to her stomach, but she didn’t want to look like a goody-goody.

  When Virgil lit it for her, she stifled a cough.

  “The wholesome type, huh?” he said with a smirk. “Not for long with this bunch of bums.”

  “I been around a little.”

  “Oh, I know you didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. Miss Florence told me you rode the rails. Them guys are as rough as carnies.”

  She nodded. “Some of them.”

  “How in hell did you stay alive?”

  “I had good people around me.”
>
  He nodded and held out his hand. “I’m Virgil Sims, New York City.”

  Billie shook his hand. “Billie Bassett from Minnesota.”

  “Indian boarding school?”

  “Yes,” she replied, taking a puff.

  “How d’you like it?”

  “It was good and bad.”

  “That’s the way for me too. Some of my friends just hated it and ran away.”

  She nodded. “That’s how I ended up on the road.”

  “Let’s go have a drink and talk about it.” He jerked his head toward the tent.

  “Thanks, some other time,” Billie said and stepped on her cigarette.

  “All right, Miss Billie,” Virgil replied, “another time.”

  * * *

  And there was another time. In fact, every evening, they sat by the carousel and talked after the carnival closed. Billie knew, if she frequented the cookhouse drinking, she could be fired, so they sat by themselves near the carousel.

  Virgil was eager to know everything about Billie. Reticent at first, she opened up, eventually telling him about her childhood, boarding school, the death of Hazel, and the loss of her road family.

  “But I’m tired of talking about me,” Billie said one night. “What about you, Virgil? You told me there were nine children in your family. How did your father feed all those kids?”

  They were sitting on one of the wooden carousel benches, passing a pint of bootleg. Virgil took a swig and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “He was an ironworker. You know, the kinda guy who builds skyscrapers.”

  Billie gasped. “Holy cats, that takes guts.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what I did too before the stock market crash.”

  “You too?”

  “Yes, all the men in our family do it. It’s our way of life. You don’t know anything about the Mohawks, do you?”

  “No.”

  “We was the first ones erecting New York City. We are known as the best and the most fearless ironworkers in the world. There ain’t no construction we won’t take on, no expanse we won’t cross. Heights don’t bother us.”

  Billie laughed with amazement. “You are like the ultimate tight-rope walkers, but the stakes are higher.”

  “That’s right,” Virgil chuckled. “They call us ‘Skywalkers’. We’re never happier than when we are walking the beams.”

  “So, you miss it?”

  “Ya,” he said, throwing the empty whiskey bottle in the bushes. “The work at the carnival feeds me, but that’s all. I feel like only half a man here. It’s only a matter of time before they call me back. I wire my brothers every week to see if they need help. There’s talk of starting something called, ‘The Rockefeller Center’.”

  “They’d miss you here, Virgil.”

  A smile flickered on his lips. “Would you miss me, Billie?”

  She looked down and nodded. “Guess I would.”

  * * *

  Virgil’s company was a balm for Billie, dispelling her loneliness, and gradually, she felt happiness returning. Every day, she would soak up lessons from Mr. Marzetti, and every night, she would meet Virgil at the merry-go-round. One night, she climbed onto a golden palomino and said, “Some afternoon, I’m going to buy a ride on this carousel.”

  “You’ve never been on a carousel?” Virgil asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, that ends tonight.” He ran to the machine room.

  “No, don’t, Virgil!” Billie cried. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  There was no response.

  “Virgil?”

  “Hold your horses!”

  Billie grabbed hold of the pole, and the carousel started to glide with the lights and music off. Her eyes grew wide, and she gasped as she moved up and down.

  “Virgil!” she cried, grabbing the reins. “It’s wonderful!”

  He stepped out and watched her coast by, the breeze lifting her long hair. “Damn, ain’t she beautiful?” he muttered.

  Smoking a cigarette, he watched her ride around and around. At last, he called, “You had enough?”

  “Okay!” she called back. But in reality, she would have stayed there all night.

  Virgil returned to the machine room, and the carousel rolled to a stop.

  Billie slid off and walked up to him, grinning. “That may have been the best moment of my life!”

  “Me too,” he said and pulled her into a kiss.

  Chapter 12

  “How about, when we get to Californie, I give you a fashionable haircut,” Florence said as Billie drove down the road one afternoon. “Maybe even see if we can get you some more clothes.”

  “Oh, do it, Miss Billie!” Ruby exclaimed from the back. “You could be as pretty as Loretta Young.”

  “What sort of haircut?” Billie asked as they bounced along.

  “Not like this mess,” Florence said, grabbing a lock of her dishwater brown hair. “A longer bob, sort of like Garbo’s.” She showed her a picture in a movie magazine. “Your hair has a little body, so you wouldn’t need a finger wave.”

  “Good, because I couldn’t afford it.”

  “You would indeed look sophisticated,” Opal said in an affected tone, putting her book down. “This is really a must.”

  “Knock off that high hat stuff, Opal,” Ruby barked. “Talk normal.”

  “I merely speak in an educated manner,” Opal replied, putting her chin in the air, “unlike others.”

  Ignoring the girls, Florence said, “Well, it’s settled then. In Californie, we’ll reveal the new Miss Billie.”

  * * *

  Billie watched as volumes of black hair dropped onto the bus floor as Florence cut her tresses. The troupe had arrived in Monterey that afternoon, and after setting up, Florence started on the makeover.

  Billie swallowed hard.

  Florence cocked her head, nodded, and snipped again. “Done!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s beautiful!” Ruby gushed, her round face glowing.

  “Bravo!” Opal said.

  “Where’s the mirror?” Billie asked.

  “Not yet. We need makeup,” Florence stated, yanking open a drawer.

  Billie’s eyebrow’s shot up. “You have makeup? How did you get that? The department stores want a fortune for it.”

  “I have showbiz connections,” Florence said with a wink. “I get it for cheap through Eleanor.”

  “Isn’t she the clown that sells balloons?”

  “That’s right.”

  Billie groaned.

  “You’re not going to look like Emmett Kelly,” Florence scolded, putting down her cigarette. “Now put your head back, honey, and don’t move.”

  “Just a little,” Billie said.

  “Of course, dear.”

  After dabbing here and blending there, Florence was done and handed Billie a mirror. Her jaw dropped. No longer was she a disheveled, homeless waif. Her hair fell in soft waves around her cheeks, framing her face and softening her bone structure. Florence had shaped her eyebrows into high arches, smoothed out her amber skin tones, and accented her almond-shaped eyes with mascara.

  “I never knew I had eyelashes!” Billie exclaimed.

  “Look how long they are now,” Opal said, leaning forward. “They must have been light on the ends.”

  “Now just a little red on those full lips,” Florence said, putting on lipstick. “And voila!”

  Billie looking the mirror again. She was pleased.

  “Virgil is going to love it!” Ruby blurted and then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Billie looked at Florence.

  “The cat’s out of the bag,” Florence replied. “You may as well know.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Everyone knows about you two. Everyone but your boss.”

  Billie frowned.

  “Now don’t you worry that pretty little head,” Florence assured her. “You know how much that old Italian keeps to himself. No one talks to him, anyway.”


  Billie nodded uncertainly.

  “Virgil’s the one to worry about. Men don’t like it when girls cut their long hair.”

  “Too bad!” Billie exclaimed, holding up the mirror again. “I like it.”

  * * *

  Virgil mustered a smile when he saw Billie that night, but she could tell he didn’t like her new look.

  “You’ll get used to it,” she said.

  “You are beautiful anyway I can get you,” he said, pulling her close. “I have the blanket, and it’s a nice night. Shall we take a walk?”

  Billie pulled back. “No, not tonight.”

  “Why not?” he said, kissing her neck and running his hands down her back.

  “Well, it’s that time of the month.”

  He stopped kissing her. “Oh, I get it.”

  Billie retired early that night. She was exhausted from agonizing about pregnancy, and now that her monthly flow had begun, she could relax and rest. Virgil was the first man Billie had taken to her bed, and she had so many questions. She knew women had ways to keep from getting pregnant, but what were they? It’s not like they taught it at St. Matthew’s, and she was completely in the dark. Her only companions for the past several years had been men.

  She wondered if she was in love. What else could this feeling be? She so enjoyed Virgil’s company. He made her laugh, and when he touched her, he ignited a passion she had never felt before. She approached Florence the next morning at the concession stand. The girls were busy setting up the cotton candy machine.

  “What is it, honey?” Florence asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “You look worried.”

  Billie told her.

  “Go see Lila Hobart. You know that big redhead who runs the ticket booth?”

  “Yes, I know her.”

  “She sells raincoats on the side,” Florence said.

  Billie gave her a blank look. “Raincoats?”

  Florence looked over her shoulder. “Raincoats, rubbers, condoms,” she whispered.

  “Oh!” Billie said and blushed.

  Billie crossed the grounds to the ticket booth, hoping to find Lila. She was at the stand, and Billie purchased a box of condoms from her. Stuffing them in a popcorn bag, she returned to the bus to look at them. The box was bright orange, with an Arab on the cover. He was in white robes and looked like Rudolf Valentino. The brand name was Sheik.