Freaks: Alive, on the Inside!

by Annette Curtis Klause

  Home. I had avoided thoughts of home up until now. Were they looking for me there? I wondered. Or did they assume I would show up when good and ready?

  A brassy fanfare sounded.

  Through the curtains came the band, playing a rousing overture to lead the grand entry. A squadron of performers on horseback followed, welcomed by thunderous applause. Behind the equestrians acrobats tumbled and leaped; next came a pair of camels ridden by the brothers I had met earlier, then men in tights, aerialists perhaps, shadowed by a fleet of bicyclists. On and on marched the performers around the hippodrome track, grouped by the color of their clothes or the items they juggled or the banners they carried, while a motley array of clowns in striped stockings dashed here and there, throwing confetti and hitting one another with oversize pillows.

  This was a very different show from the one I had left. How perfect in form all the participants were. Nothing less beautiful than a tubby clown graced the arena. All limbs were present, all flesh firm, and the costumes were cut to display this pulchritude. A man could become dizzy with the display of legs. No wonder the audience teemed with awestruck men. Ah, but those men hadn’t been graced with dreams like mine. I smiled.

  As the elephants came into the tent, the front of the parade completed the circuit, and the whole show met in a glittering circle of wonder. At the last moment the band peeled off and took seats on the bandstand to play the rest of the parade out, then the equestrian director, a strapping man in top hat and red coat, strode into the center ring, and the band hit their final chord and fell silent.

  The equestrian director blew a blast on his silver whistle. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began to the hushed crowd. “Welcome to our scintillating cavalcade of marvels, acrobats, and wild beasts.” The broadsheet I had been given as I entered identified the master of the ring as Mr. Geoffrey Marvel, one of the three brothers who owned the circus. He was a more mature version of the young man in the business office and had a walrus mustache.

  “Derring-doers from every corner of the globe are gathered here to thrill you,” he boomed. “Children, may you laugh with the antics of our beloved animals and clowns. Ladies, let your hearts flutter for the handsome strong men who will risk their lives to entertain you. And gentlemen, we bring you pretty and accomplished girls aplenty.” This last was received with laughter and applause. “Now, to begin our program, I present to you, straight from the court of the emperor of Japan, where their family has entertained for five hundred years, those amazing Asian artistes, those Nippon nimbles, the Rising Sun Jugglers!”

  The audience burst into applause as the band played an Oriental tune.

  Such an astounding array of animals, aerial acts, ground acts, and thrillers followed that even I, a seasoned hand, sat amazed. Sometimes the performers used one ring while the others were set up for the next acts; sometimes all rings were in use at the same time. The knife thrower, Mr. Rose, dapper now in a suit with his waxed mustache symmetrical, competed for attention with a team of jugglers and some acrobats. I judged his throwing not as accomplished as that of my uncle Jack, but perhaps his act was more exciting when he had an assistant.

  As they had ended the parade, the elephants also ended the show. I clapped as hard as anybody as all twenty pachyderms exited on their hind legs, each, except the leader, with its huge feet on the back of the elephant in front.

  I hurried out the back door as soon as the show ended, eager to meet and congratulate my new compatriots. I would have introduced myself to Mr. Geoffrey Marvel first, but he was conversing with a gesticulating man.

  “It’s not one of my monkeys,” the man bellowed. “Mine are all accounted for. Blame this on someone else.”

  I was pleased to see one of the trick riders, a handsome brunette woman who had bewitched me with her exquisite figure as much as her skill. She held a horse’s bridle while a blacksmith inspected a horseshoe. This was no dream but a real beauty. I decided to make my first conquest and grinned as I walked toward her.

  “Madam,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind if I say you are quite the most accomplished horsewoman I have ever seen.”

  “Why, thank you, young man,” she said, hardly looking at me. “Do you have a picture for me to sign?” I had intended to introduce myself, but my words died on my lips and my cheeks flamed. She didn’t wait long for me to answer, but thrust the reins of her horse into the hands of a waiting groom and left without a word.

  The groom and the blacksmith laughed.

  I could feel my lower lip tremble, and I turned hastily away. She thought I was a townie, and not worth a glance at that. The ladies at home had always called me a good-looking fellow, but perhaps the ladies at home were not qualified to tell. I kicked a clod of dirt, shamed by my quick dismissal of those who loved me. Still, what if I wasn’t beans compared with the sturdy young men of the circus? Was I a fool to think that romantic adventures awaited me? Was I optimistic to think I could fit in here at all?

  The roustabouts were already dismantling the tent, and five of the elephants had been stripped of their fancy blankets and harnessed to chains, ready to bring down the poles. Performers packed up props left near the exit, and the clowns folded up Clown Alley. The tents in the backyard were gone.

  Slowly I made my way back to my new sleeping quarters.

  I felt lost and useless, with nothing to do in the midst of this hustle and bustle. For the first time in my life I was a stranger, and I hated that.

  6

  THE MEN IN THE DORMITORY WERE young, and all were performers. Some were clown apprentices, some were older sons who wanted independence from the family quarters, and others were part of an acrobatic act that didn’t earn enough yet to afford a compartment in the fancier cars. There wasn’t much room in the crowded carriage, but they put up with the situation with good cheer, and everyone tried to do his best to keep his belongings stowed and his elbows in. There existed a comfortable camaraderie between them that made me ache for the old friendships I had left behind.

  That night, when we had all climbed into our bunks and the train rumbled under way, I discovered an evening ritual.

  “It’s your turn, Georgie,” said the fellow who had settled me in. “What have you got? A story? A song?”

  “Anything to drown those elephants out,” said another fellow. “They’ve been all-fired noisy lately.”

  Georgie did not have a good singing voice, but he made up for that with enthusiasm as he launched into a popular song. The others drowned out his wavering voice when they joined in for the chorus:

  “My Jeanne, my Jeanne, she’s my little circus queen.

  She’s just seventeen, fairer you’ve never seen.

  All dressed up in spangles and gold,

  She’s a beautiful sight to behold.

  Sweet as a dream; bright as any sunbeam,

  And she’s my little circus queen.”

  I sighed. I’d like to find my own little queen someday, someone like that beauty who had been popping up in my dreams lately. “Find me,” she had said in that vision in the field. I would have loved to think she was out there waiting for me, but that was foolish. There were fortune-tellers, however, who said that the objects in one’s dreams often stood for something else. What was it I was looking for when I left home? Adventure and fortune, that was what. Perhaps this dream girl was the personification of my search for adventure, luring me on to find her.

  I didn’t pay much attention to the story that came next, for I lingered deep in my own thoughts, where a dark-haired woman with luminous eyes undulated in a dance full of promises. I will find you, Lady Adventure, I silently vowed. Before I knew it, I woke up to daylight and jolly roughhousing all around me. My life with the circus had begun.

  The vibrations I felt through my bunk, and the gentle tickitytack I heard, told me the train was still in motion. The other train, which carried the cookhouse, the canvas, and the poles, probably sat at its destination already, and the cooks and roustabouts would be scurrying
about their duties. My stomach rumbled. By the time we arrived, breakfast would be prepared, the tent pegs hammered in, the canvas laid out, and the poles ready to be raised.

  I felt fuzzy headed. Perhaps the excitement had disturbed me, or the strange bed, but many times throughout the night I had come awake in a haze where the purrs of lions turned into the rumble of metal wheels. Sometimes my unexpected surroundings blended so quickly back into dreams that I barely knew I was conscious. Once I even thought I saw a blurry face peer in at me through the window—impossible, since the train was moving. All through my dreams wafted the smell of pungent spices and a voice that called my name, only it wasn’t my name.

  While I put on my shirt, I wondered if I should wear my ring on my finger now, but something told me it would get me nothing but jokes from these boys, so I left it hanging from the chain around my neck. As I buttoned the last button, the train squealed to a stop in a new town.

  On my way to the cookhouse I stopped to watch the teams of elephants and men haul cables and raise the canvas of the big top. Crews of roustabouts hurried around the perimeter of the tent, tightening guy ropes and lashing them into place. Local people had come to watch. Their children ran after the elephants with handfuls of hay for them to eat. I smiled. Apollo would love to do that. I hoped he’d forgive me for leaving him behind.

  In the cookhouse I lined up and received a breakfast of ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and fresh-baked bread. The cooks were squabbling with one another because the monkey on the loose had raided their stores of fruit and vegetables. I was surprised to see linen on the tables and real silverware, although the long trestles decked in checkered cotton that I glimpsed on the other side of the dividing curtain showed me the laborers had simpler accommodations.

  I spotted the Arabian brothers, now dressed in jackets and trousers, and asked if I might join them. They welcomed me jovially.

  “I’m Frank Bridgeport,” said the younger.

  “I’m Eddie Bridgeport,” said the elder.

  The brothers were lively, talkative fellows, which saved me from having to think of conversation. I enjoyed their banter and was content to listen. I must admit, I also was proud to be seen in their company—they were well built and handsome, and I hoped this reflected upon me. Here I am, girls, I announced silently. I’m just like them. There’s nothing up my sleeve but a regular arm.

  After we’d eaten, the brothers said they would show me where the parade would start, before they went off to change. As we rounded the big top, I noted that small tents and cages again formed a midway in front of the large tent.

  “What kind of sideshows have you?” I asked Frank.

  “Sideshows!” he exclaimed. “Oh, no—Marvel Brothers doesn’t approve of sideshows. Much too common. Gives the place a bad name.”

  “All those dancing girls doing the hootchy-kootchy,” Eddie joined in. “Terrible, terrible. Morally corrupt.”

  “Dash, I’d like a few dancing girls,” said Frank.

  Eddie laughed. “Dash, me too. All we’ve got is a menagerie. Much more wholesome.”

  “What about games?” I asked.

  “Even if the games are honest, every time someone loses, it perpetuates the idea that we’re all thieves and criminals,” said Eddie.

  “Anyway, it’s gambling—Marvel Brothers doesn’t approve of gambling,” said Frank.

  The Marvel brothers didn’t approve of much. I wondered that they went into this line of business. “So, there are no human oddities?” I asked.

  “The proprietors of the Marvel Brothers Circus do not approve of people with physical differences who exhibit themselves,” said Frank.

  Eddie put on a pompous voice. “God’s creatures should not be gawked at for their imperfections.”

  “That’s kind of them,” I answered. “I’m sure that many people with differences would prefer a regular job instead.”

  “Oh, that’s not in the Marvel Brothers philosophy either,” Eddie said.

  “I hear some poor woman once tried to sell her baby to Geoffrey Marvel,” said Frank. “It had webbed feet, didn’t it?” he asked his brother, who shrugged. “Mr. G. Marvel had her arrested for white slavery.”

  “What about the baby?” I asked. I almost agreed with Mr. Marvel about the mother.

  “Had it put in an asylum, I think,” Frank answered, shattering any sympathy I might have had for the Marvel point of view.

  “But that’s for mad people,” I protested.

  “Well, those with deformities like that don’t usually have their wits about them, do they?” said Eddie. “It was the kindest thing to do.”

  My heart ached to think of that poor child—as smart as any, probably—brought up as an imbecile, if someone in the madhouse didn’t kill it first. I opened my mouth to contradict and then shut it again. Would it do any good to disagree? Perhaps in time, when they knew me better, I could set them straight.

  I supposed that the Marvel brothers wouldn’t approve of human oddities having children, either. They wouldn’t approve of me. How dare they? I thought, and then it hit me. If I were to keep my job, I would have to be quiet about my family. That didn’t sit well. I had left my family, yes, but I wasn’t ashamed of them. Or was I? I had just been basking in the reflected normality of the Arabian brothers because it gave me a chance with the girls. I flushed uncomfortably.

  Eddie pointed out where a crowd had formed to watch the workers run here and there between wagons, harnessing the horses, camels, and elephants for the parade. Frank waved cheerfully as the brothers headed back to their car. I joined the knot of observers and marveled at the wonderful, ornate tableau wagons, bursting with primary colors and etched in gold. Scenes from mythology and the Bible enhanced the flat panels; creatures of story grew out of the carved adornments. A few of the wagons had plate glass sides—dens, I heard someone call them. One contained the largest lion I had ever seen, another offered a nest of live serpents, according to its painted sky board. I could make out something mottled and thicker than my thigh, twined around a tree limb propped within.

  Riders on every sort of mount joined the assemblage, including Frank and Eddie on their camels. They waved me over to join them. Mr. Geoffrey Marvel stalked up and ordered the procession. Another big man acted as his lieutenant and looked so much like him that I could only assume him another Marvel brother. I no longer wanted to introduce myself. I had an uncomfortable feeling that they would divine my flaws and condemn me on the spot.

  The band arrived and took its place on the lead wagon, creating a jumbled cacophony as they tuned their instruments. When the trumpeters raised a fanfare, the loose ribbon of gaudy participants took on a tighter discipline, then the Grand Street Pageant of Glorious, Gorgeous Cavalcade moved off. I trotted along beside the camels, as excited as the town boys who whooped and cheered and turned cartwheels in the street. I loosened my collar. Darn this being a grown-up. I missed the baggy shirts and bare feet of childhood. Clowns ran in and out of the crowd that lined the street, pinching the boys, pretending to kiss the girls, and throwing buckets of confetti at one another. I laughed with the townies and nodded to all who caught my eye, including a few blushing local girls. If I stopped to think, however, I amounted to neither fish nor fowl, with no clear place in the parade or out. How I wished I could be on a camel beside the Arabian brothers.

  I imagined myself high above the street on a leggy beast. Behind me sat a dusky beauty, her arms around my waist. I waved to the crowd, and they cheered. The girl whispered in my ear that I was wonderful and what rewards she would give me.

  Then I tripped over a curb and almost fell.

  I must get that phantom girl out of my head, I thought, else I’ll do myself some damage. I grinned. I should know better than to let a fortune-teller’s tale of love and foreign ladies turn my head and give me dreams, but now that dancing girl was even haunting my waking hours. Ah, well, the feelings that accompanied her were delicious and worth indulging.

  In a little ove
r an hour we were back at the circus lot, and I hurried to the Happy Times carriage to meet Mr. Rose for our first rehearsal. I felt the sweat on my brow as I stood in front of the target. I swore not to let Mr. Rose see me flinch, no matter what, but as it happened, the practice session went well. Although a few hits were a little snug for my taste, none actually touched me.

  “Perhaps you could give me some tips on my technique now, sir,” I said, which was a little deceitful on my part, for I really wanted to show off. But you catch more flies with honey, so they say.

  The smooth practice must have mellowed Mr. Rose. “Oh, go ahead,” he said.

  “Wait, I’ll get my knives,” I said, almost bouncing like a child.

  “Well, make it snappy,” said Mr. Rose. “I want some luncheon.”

  Uncle Jack’s gifts were splendid. They flew from my fingers like cupid’s arrows headed straight for love, and I hit the target from much farther away than I had ever done before. I bowed to Mr. Rose with a flourish and couldn’t keep a grin from my face.

  “Quite good,” said Mr. Rose. The words were delivered like an offhand slap and drove my smile away. “You have a rather plain style, though.”

  “But I got excellent distance, did I not?” I asked, dismayed to hear a quaver in my voice.

  “Distance isn’t what they want; they want thrills. Thrills and not kills. You can’t get the accuracy you need to trace a live target from that far away.”

  “Perhaps I can,” I answered, my dander up.

  “You’d best learn how not to hit your subject at a sensible range before you try that sort of grandstanding,” Mr. Rose said. “Now, find yourself a good evening suit so you can look presentable with your back to the target.”