Jukey’s act was more complicated than most of the others. He used his feet and powerful legs to perform the intricate daily tasks those with arms took for granted. He could light and smoke a cigarette, comb his hair, and even juggle. Audiences oohed and ahhed, and Jukey was a man reborn. He had come to the show with a slouch and shifty eyes—remnants of a youth spent in terror and shame—but after so many audiences had given him ovations he had begun to walk taller, had begun to believe he’d awakened from a decades-long nightmare.
The caravan moved toward the small town of Bracken for a one-nighter. They’d never been to the town before, and McLean thought it might be worth a stopover. It was a two-day trip from Charleston, and overnight they camped in Hale County.
After camp was set up, Jukey played poker on an ox cart with Scales and the two pinheads, Randy and Miriam. He held his cards between his toes just as easily as a regular man might do the same, fanning them out like peacock feathers above his toes. With his other foot he pinched a brass flask. To look quickly, you would swear the man playing cards had arms.
The pinheads played poorly because they had the brains of children. Their sideshow act was mostly to be observed, much like Scales, though they performed comedic antics and simple sleight-of-hand to those standing in line or walking the midway. The current the game was five-card stud. All bets had been made and Randy had been called. He laid down his hand and smiled strangely. A pair of threes, though they weren’t placed together in his hand. Miriam laid down her hand. King high. Jukey laid down three tens. He offered a supreme smile. Scales snickered. “Lady luck has cursed you tonight, my friend.” He laid down three jacks.
Jukey’s smile flattened out. He watched as Scales drew in his jackpot pile of pennies, and he followed Scales’s sightline to Randy’s stake, which was down to one Indian-head.
“Who’s that over there?” Scales said, looking off over Randy’s shoulder. Jukey didn’t look, but the easily distracted pinheads did. While their heads were turned, Scales moved half his jackpot to Randy’s pile.
“Hey,” Miriam said, turning back to the game. “There was no one there!”
“Yeaaah!” Randy said.
“I’m sorry,” Scales said, shrugging. “I could have sworn I saw someone.”
“I see someone,” Jukey said. He lifted the flask to his lips, tipped it, and swallowed. In the distance walked Cecil Darton, the someone Jukey’s eyes always seemed to find. Darton was the show’s inside talker, the man who presented the performers, one by one, to the bug-eyed rubes Jack McLean corralled into the tent. Cecil’s slick hair was only outmatched by his impeccable clothing, his gleaming black shoes. Legend held that he had never once stuttered on stage, never once missed a line. Cecil’s every movement had a showman’s purpose. There was a story in the way he tipped his hat or rubbed his hands, like all the time he was preparing for grand events.
“Witness, ladies and gentlemen,” he’d said in Charleston, “the amazing feats of Jukey, The Armless Marvel.” When he said feats it was with a wink and a wry smile, and audience ate him up like sugared cream.
Backstage Jukey basked in the light of Cecil’s introductions. His ears soaked up the showman’s voice, his eyes urgent to every gesture. Some of the performers found it cute. Others sneered; Cecil was a vision of what none of them could admit they wished to be. Coveting him was coveting society. To a sideshow performer on a traveling circuit, loving Cecil Darton was hating yourself.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Jukey said. “I can’t keep hiding.” The nubs at his shoulders moved as though the boy were throwing up phantom arms in despair.
Scales smirked. He picked up the cards and stacked them for shuffling. “Trust me,” he said, “your feelings are well in the open.”
The pinheads looked back and forth between the two men, uncomprehending this new conversation.
Jukey rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.” He laid his chin and cheek down against his collarbone. “I never knew anything like this. I never-”
“Reckoned how bad it would hurt?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Well,” Scales said, “how many times we been over it?”
Jukey sighed. The answer was in the dozens, and Scales’s advice was always the same. Do something about the way you feel. Though he had left the Corktown Inn drunk, and with a spotty memory, Jukey was aware of the night Scales had shared with Jesse. Scales had confided in him the secret, and Jukey had sworn to keep it dry. He’d done a pretty good job of it, too, save for the fact that he’d told Camilla. In any case, he knew Scales could stand behind his advice, as he had taken great risk when he accepted Jesse’s advances.
“I’m not as brave as you are,” Jukey said.
“Plenty of bravery in that copper,” Scales said, nodding toward Jukey’s flask while tapping the playing cards into a stack.
Jukey pretended not to listen. He looked around for prying eyes or listening ears, found none. He leaned close to Scales. The pinheads mimicked him, bringing all four together in conspiracy. He whispered, “You had the benefit of knowing you were wanted.”
“Wanted by Samson’s girl, need I remind.” Scales said. He dealt a new hand.
As they picked up their cards Cecil Darton paraded by the game, his tilted head lolling gracefully with each proud step, his nose level with his eyes. It was Jukey’s turn to bet, but he was no longer paying attention. Again he lifted the flask and drank.
“Time to play!” Miriam said.
“Yeaaah!” Randy said. It was his response to everything. You could tell him you were going to feed him worms and he’d gleefully cheer, yeaaah!
Both pinheads started clapping and chanting, “Time to play! Time to play!”
Jukey slammed a powerful heel on the ox cart floor. “Quiet, you fools!”
The pinheads hung their heads in shame. In a moment they would forget what they were ashamed about. It was a glorious existence.
Scales said, “We should all be so lucky.”
“I thought Lady Luck had cursed me tonight?”
Scales shrugged.
Jukey drew in a breath. He laid down his cards, face up. He’d been dealt a flush. He used both feet to close the cap on his flask and set it atop his cards. He stood and followed Cecil to his wagon, catching up with the inside talker just as Cecil was coming to his door. “Excuse me, Mr. Cecil?”
Cecil Darton stopped. He held Jukey in thinly veiled contempt.
“Could we talk for a minute?” Jukey said.
Cecil closed his eyes. He released a long, exaggerated sigh. It was said he didn’t like to use his voice when he wasn’t performing. Had to save it. Had to preserve it.
“In private?” Jukey said.
Cecil scowled. Allowing a performer into his wagon was beyond his tolerance, but it seemed he knew better than to say no. The sideshow’s performers were just as much his livelihood as their own. He pushed open the wagon door and theatrically waved Jukey inside.
Jukey climbed the steps and scanned the inside of Cecil’s wagon. Immaculate. Clothes were pressed and hung, drawers were closed, the bed was two-bits tight. There were velvet curtains and an exotic scent, not quite cinnamon. He locked his eyes on a music box on the desk. It was carved from dark wood, and intricately designed with silver inlays. The seam between the top and bottom was almost undetectable.
“May I?” Jukey said.
Darton shrugged.
Jukey reached up with one toe and gently flipped the box open. The inside was green velvet, folded around the centerpiece in a beautiful presentation. The figurine was mother of pearl, a banjo player in a straw hat. The machinery clicked alive and played Oh Susanna with plinking, metallic notes. Jukey closed his eyes to the music. He hummed along with the tune and moved his muscular legs in a slow, awkward dance.
Cecil removed his cufflinks and carefully placed them in a black, wooden jewelry case atop the dresser. He set an elbow on the dresser and leaned on it. He watched Jukey dance for a moment, and
then clacked the jewelry case closed.
The sound pulled Jukey out of his trance. He spun to face Darton. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just… being in here with you… I-”
“You what?”
Jukey smiled. His eyes found the oriental rug beneath his feet. He cocked his head and looked up at Cecil with a sidelong glance. “I love you, fella. That’s what.”
Neither man moved. The music box’s tinging notes pierced holes in the expanding silence.
Oh Susanna…
Cecil’s tilted head came forward. A smile opened up on his face.
…now don’t you cry for me…
Jukey held his breath.
…for I come from Alabama…
Cecil tried to stifle his laughter, but could not. His chuckles burst forth one at a time, each following closer than the last until he was in an all out, belly gripping fit.
… with a banjo on my knee.
A single vein pulsated on Jukey’s forehead. His risk was not rewarded, but punished. His love would not be full, but empty. He closed his eyes and fell to his knees, head down.
Cecil laughed to the point of tears while Jukey knelt before him.
Once he was able to compose himself, Cecil wiped his cheeks and patted Jukey’s head. He made that ohh sound people can’t help but make after laughing so hard.
“You pet me as though I were an animal,” Jukey said.
Cecil waved him off. He opened his mouth to reply, but lost the chance. Jukey sprung up and kicked the showman’s sternum. The performer’s cue-ball heel on the end of a fire piston leg dropped the inside talker to the floor.
Roy turned the handle on Bracken’s town well, pulling up a bucket of water. He recalled Jukey running from Cecil’s wagon, tripping and terrified. Jukey came to him and begged him to follow, blubbering something about Cecil being hurt. Roy followed him. As they went he caught a glimpse of Samson standing in the shadows between the wagons. At the time it merely seemed strange to Roy that Samson was there, but in hindsight he wished he’d paid more heed.
They stepped inside the wagon to find Cecil lying on his back in his perfect white suit, cuffs unlinked, not breathing. A music box struggled to plink out the notes of Oh Susanna. It needed winding. Roy dropped to a knee and felt Cecil’s neck for a heartbeat, noting that the man would have been repulsed by his touch had he been conscious.
There was no heartbeat. He checked Cecil’s wrist. Again, nothing. He slapped Cecil’s face. Hard. He enjoyed the sound, the sting on his palm, but there was no response.
He slapped again.
Nothing.
Cecil was dead. He had been pretty and he didn’t stutter or miss any lines, but he met the great equalizer all the same.
“Kill me,” Jukey said.
Roy looked into the boy’s eyes. He saw familiar pain. The look of a man who wanted nothing more from this world. Roy knew the look. He’d seen it in his own reflection more times than he cared to recall.
“We’re animals to them,” Jukey said, searching Roy’s face. “And now I’m a murderer? You know what they’ll do.”
Roy thought to tell Jukey it would be okay, but he couldn’t let the lie pass his lips. Jail for Jukey was as certain as the sunrise, and it would be nothing more than a torture chamber before death.
Jukey deftly plucked a goose feather pillow from Cecil’s bed with his foot. He pushed the pillow into Roy’s hands. He lay himself down next to Cecil and closed his eyes.
Roy clutched the pillow in trembling hands. “It doesn’t have to be like this. There’s time. We can find a way.”
Jukey opened his eyes. He picked up his head and looked serenely at Roy. He moved a foot to touch Roy’s shoulder. “You poor man.”
Roy raised his bald eyebrows.
“Don’t you know?”
“Apparently I don’t,” Roy said.
Jukey closed his eyes and let his head fall back softly to the floor. “Your skin will never be forgiven.”
“But you can run,” Roy said, “you can hide.”
“I can survive?” Jukey said, his eyes still closed.
“Yes.”
“I can continue to exist?”
“You can live.”
“My sweet friend,” Jukey said, “existing is not living.”
The music box plinked slowly on.
now… don’t… you…
Roy sat down on top of Jukey’s muscular legs. He pressed the pillow over his friend’s head. He clamped his right hand over Jukey’s face like a spider. Beneath the pillow he could feel the boy’s eye sockets. At first Jukey remained calm, but soon he began to buck and squirm. Roy held hard, thankful that Jukey had no arms to pry him from his task. It occurred to him if Jukey had arms there would be no task. James Corr might have been a New York lawyer or a Virginia farmer, maybe the first mate on a big ship. He’d at least be somewhere else. He’d at least be using his real name.
At length Jukey’s body stopped bucking. His chest rose and fell for the last time, shuddering before it came to rest. Roy released the pillow. It stayed on Jukey’s face. He lifted his hands up to his eyes.
The music box struggled on.
for… I… come.
Cecil Darton jolted into a sitting position, coughing and hacking. He gripped his chest and winced. Alive.
Roy pulled the pillow from Jukey’s face, revealing the horror.
The bucket reached the top of the well. Roy dipped in his waterskin and filled it. He dumped the rest of the bucket over his head. Music and conversation wafted from inside the Imperial, along with the scent of ale and roasted pork. Two strips of jerky and a quarter of the crunchy hardtack had helped his shrunken stomach, but the scents remained tantalizing. He found an alley corner and sat down against the wall. Feeling safe in the shadows, he opened a tin of salve. The scent was clinical and sweet. He peeled off his shirt and began at his left elbow, rubbing in the ointment. He worked his way across his chest, over the word carved there, and to his other arm, liberally coating his skin while a conversation spilled from the window above his head.
“I’m gonna pick up the train in Colfax,” a voice said. The word train piqued Roy’s interest. “From there it’s overnight to Chicago.”
The sideshow generally passed through Chicago twice a year, once for the north side, once for the south. If Roy could make it to Chicago he’d certainly find a red placard. And then he’d be, at most, six months behind, probably less. He could continue to chase, or he could await them there.
“You really think people in Chicago will want these spoons?” a second voice said.
“Oh yes, sir,” the first voice said, “and not just the spoons, but the forks and knives, too. I’d be surprised if I didn’t sell them all within a week.” His voice dropped in volume. “No one around here has any interest in anything so fine, but in Chicago, sir, in Chicago they know a thing or two about-”
“We’ve been at this long enough,” the second voice said. “Where are the rest?”
There was a silent moment, and then the first voice said, “They’re safe.”
Roy continued with his salve, reaching across his back and then down his legs. The silence above him lingered. Roy slowed his hands and eventually stopped.
The second voice said, “I can get you to Chicago and back, but the loan is due in a month. Ten percent interest.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dillon,” the first voice said. “You won’t regret it.”
“Just be careful,” Dillon said. “And don’t be late. I’ll have your money in the morning. Come by the bank.”
“Yes sir,” the first voice said. Roy heard a chair scrape wood. “Again, I thank you.”
Roy pulled his shirt back on. It stuck to the salve on his skin. He leaned back against the wall for some rest while the town fell asleep.
Hours later the Imperial closed its doors. The last drunk staggered away from the saloon and down the road, singing a song about a horse. Roy figured it to be four a.m. He moved back through the e
mpty town to the signboard. Underneath some ads there was a faded map made readable by the moon’s light. Bracken was marked in the center with a black X. Charleston was forty miles due east and Colfax was ten miles to the northwest. The scope of the map didn’t quite reach Chicago, but stitched train track markings went away from Colfax in the big city’s direction.
Roy looked in a northwesterly direction to see the dark hills cut by logging trails. What had the shopkeeper called them? The Ledger boys. He touched the revolver on his waist. Best to start moving before the zealots got restless.
He set out of Bracken like a ghost, soundlessly passing Earl’s Goods, the bank, and the Imperial. His hunger was sated. His skin felt good. His eyes were cool. His feet felt light as he walked the road out of town. After dawn he’d have to move into the safety of the trees, but for now the road was his. He walked down the center, breathing the night air evenly. His eyes caught a lightning flash in the distance. He began counting and got to six before he heard thunder.
14
“He can’t go to school with you,” Paul’s mother said. It was midnight. She had awakened him to talk in hushed tones as Roy slept nearby. “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks, but you boys are so inseparable.” She smiled weakly.
Young Paul rubbed sleep from his eyes. He looked around the small room of their bayou home, trying to recall if he’d ever been awake so late. The fire was almost to embers and the silence of the hour was deeper than during the day.
“Do you understand?” his mother said.
Paul did. It saddened him. He knew Roy was different, had known it all along. He knew the kids at school would make humor of his friend. He knew it would be hard for Roy, but he hoped the others would grow to know him as he did. He hoped they could accept him as just another kid.
His mother’s secrecy assured him he was wrong.
“We’ve been kind to him,” she said, “and he’s been so good for you, Paul. I don’t know how that boy brought you out of your shell, but by God he did. I’ll forever be grateful.”
Paul looked at the sleeping Roy. The dying firelight danced across the boy’s diamond scales, making him look like an animal in the night. Paul had never thought of Roy as dangerous, but he could see how others might.
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