Freaks: Alive, on the Inside!

by Annette Curtis Klause

  I had really heard someone in the corridor behind me after all.

  “I kept quiet because you’d have sent me back, wouldn’t you? I heard you talking to that dotty Miss Dibble in the kitchen, so I went out the side door and waited for you.”

  “Why on earth would you do that? You didn’t know where I was going.”

  “Why should you get all the fun?” he answered. He knit his furry brow. “Abel, how could you leave me behind with him?”

  “Where’s this note from Phoebe?” I asked gruffly. It wasn’t my fault that his father beat him.

  He rummaged inside his shirt and shoved a fist at me. I retrieved a crumpled, sticky envelope from his grasp. It was too dark to read, so I put the letter in my hip pocket for the morning.

  “You know, Phoebe won’t be happy you’re making eyes at that trapeze girl,” Apollo said.

  “But you’re happy to be here meddling in my business,” I complained.

  “Yes, I’m glad I came,” said Apollo, sticking out his chest. “I wouldn’t have met Rosie if I hadn’t. Isn’t she grand?” He waved a hairy arm toward the nearest stall, where an interested eye surrounded by gray wrinkles peered out from between the slats. My eyebrows shot up. “You’re the one who takes the elephants for walks?”

  “Aren’t they lovely?” Apollo said, and sighed.

  “How could you not get caught?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s surprising what you can do when everyone is busy,” he said.

  I thought of asylums and beatings, and that made me so scared I yelled, “Do you know what they’ll do if they catch you?” The elephant snorted.

  “I don’t want to be sent home,” wailed Apollo. He didn’t understand. “It’s wonderful here! I love the animals—they’re so friendly! I had no idea.”

  I tried to calm down. “How have you fed yourself?”

  Apollo’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Oh, that’s easy. There’s hampers of fruit and vegetables all over the place—for the animals—and I raid the cookhouse when no one’s looking.”

  “You’re the escaped monkey!” I didn’t know whether to scold him or laugh.

  Apollo frowned. “I am not a monkey!”

  I didn’t argue the point. “Have you been making my bed and leaving me fruit?”

  He nodded and grinned. “I wanted to look after you.” I groaned. “What am I to do with you?”

  “You can’t let them send me home,” Apollo insisted. “You need me. What if I hadn’t been here to grab you?”

  We settled down in the pungent hay beside the food bin at the far end of the car. “There’s supposed to be men here,” Apollo said, “but they socialize a lot. They must be jolly sorts. They always talk about smiling with their friends.”

  I hadn’t the heart to tell him that smile was another word for drink.

  Apollo produced a torn and stained rag of a blanket from behind the bin and offered it to me, but I eyed the unknown hairs on it and shook my head. “Too warm,” I said.

  What am I to do? I wondered as I fidgeted in the prickly straw. I couldn’t take him home; how would I explain my absence to the Marvels? I’d lose my job, and why should I have to give up my quest for Lady Adventure?

  Apollo had to leave this place—who could tell what might happen if he was discovered?—but if I wired the colonel, he would probably make me come home too. Could I put Apollo on a train and hope he stayed on it until he got home? Could I even afford the fare? I would be furious if I had to take him back myself. If I took Apollo back, could I deposit him at the door and leave again without being caught? Damn the dog boy’s father. If he weren’t such a scoundrel, Apollo would have stayed at home and I wouldn’t have this problem.

  “How am I supposed to keep you hidden?” I grumbled. “They don’t take kindly to deadheads around here.” How could I tell him they would consider him less than human? Despite his father’s temper, he had been brought up to believe himself one of God’s children, with a rightful place in the world. I prayed that I could get him away from here before he learned anything different.

  Apollo laughed. “I’ve done a good job of it this far, haven’t I? There’s lots of places to hide, like the storage boxes under some of the cars. They call them possum bellies. Isn’t that a caution? And there’s a crawl space over the ceiling of this very car, with a trapdoor I use to get on the roof. It’s fun to ride up there.”

  I sat up. “The train roof! Are you plumb crazy?” I remembered the hint of a face I’d seen at my window that first night. I had thought it was a dream.

  Apollo inflated with outrage. “I practiced with the acrobats back home; I’ve got great balance. Maybe that will be my act.”

  “Your act?” What was he blithering about?

  Enthusiasm replaced his indignation. “Yes. I’ve been staying out of sight until I figure out what my act is. As soon as I show them all how clever I am, they’re bound to let me stay.”

  “You shouldn’t have followed me,” I said. “You really shouldn’t have.”

  Apollo sounded surprised. “Why not, Abel? You’re my friend. I love you.”

  How could I argue after that?

  The fellows were mighty surprised to see me when I came through the door that morning.

  “We thought we’d lost you,” said one of the acrobats, shamefaced.

  “Oh, I knew he was all right,” said the vulgar clown, although I didn’t see how he could be so sure.

  I edited the truth and told them I had spent the night with the elephants.

  “Whew! And you smell like you did,” said one of the lads.

  Right after I freshened up, I followed the tracks to the train depot and enquired what the train fare to Maryland was. I was shocked. One ticket was a week’s salary, and I hadn’t even had my first pay envelope yet. If I took Apollo home, we would have to wait twice as long for me to have the fare for both of us. That left more time for Apollo to be discovered. I’ll have to think about this some more, I decided.

  Brightly colored posters covered every available flat surface I passed on my walk back. Sometimes several layers were stacked up—posters of past shows covered over, or maybe those of rival shows still on their way. I knew that the advance men made a war of this; each show tried to obliterate all evidence of the competition. Someone had been sloppy, however. On a wooden fence the edge of a black-and-white notice still peered over the top of a luminous lithograph. DR. MINK’S TRAVELING MONSTER MENAGERIE, the gothic letters proclaimed. All the way up the path to the circus I wondered what those monsters might be. I took a professional interest in such things, and I liked animals, even those that nature had chosen to play tricks on. We had a dear five-legged goat at Faeryland who behaved sweetly with children. I hoped I might have the opportunity to see Dr. Mink’s show.

  As I passed the office, I noted with curiosity a well-dressed gentleman of color hustled out the door by Mr. Geoffrey Marvel himself.

  “We don’t hire freaks,” said the circus owner. He slammed the door.

  The man scrambled backward down the steps and almost fell. He lost his hat in the process. I hurried to pick it up. Did the Marvel brothers consider Negroes freaks? I was not so naive as to be blind to the common scorn heaped upon the Negro race, but this didn’t usually go as far as to term them sports of nature. We had people of color on our staff at home and in the troupe, and I had yet to remark upon any particular handicap. When there were those among us who were set off from the common man in such exceptional ways, skin color seemed the least of considerations.

  “Your hat, sir,” I said, and handed him his bowler. He appeared to be no older than my uncle Jack, if that. I smiled and met his eyes, for I most honestly hoped that he wouldn’t judge all show folk based on Mr. G. Marvel.

  He brushed his hat off with the sleeve of his coat and placed it on his head. “My thanks,” he said. “That is most gracious of you.” He returned my smile, but it didn’t wipe the sadness from his eyes.

  He sounds like an educated man, I
thought with surprise as I watched him go. While intelligence was common to his race, the opportunity for education was not. I wondered what act he had to offer.

  I peeked into the elephant car on my way to change for the performance but found two men in blue jeans and whiskers there cleaning out the stalls. I hoped Apollo would stay out of sight until I could get him out of this predicament.

  When I took off my trousers, paper crinkled in my pocket, and I remembered the letter from Phoebe. I hesitated. Did I care to read words that berated me for my cruelty? Curiosity got the better of me, however, and I opened the dirty, smudged envelope.

  Dear Abel, I read, I wanted my father to present you with this news, as it seemed appropriate and polite, given your interest in me, but perhaps someone has already alerted you to my situation, because your treatment of me of late has been so cold.

  News? Situation? Fear clutched my chest. I had only kissed her. I was prepared to swear to that. Maybe my fingers had strayed once or twice, but she had nipped that in the bud.

  I read on breathlessly:

  I admit, then, the news is true. My father has affianced me to Mr. Thomas Robinson, known in the business as the Monkey Man of Baltimore. If only you had spoken for me, but I am afraid that our love is not to be and all tenderness between us must cease. My father considers this a most promising personal and business engagement. Mr. Robinson will join our act, and if there is any issue of our union (I blush), the chances are the family business will continue into the next generation. I beg your forgiveness….

  “Well, damn you and your furry little children,” I snapped as I crumpled the letter. I had thought that I was the apple of her eye, and now she was consorting with monkey men. There I was, running off into the night, and she had no designs on me after all. It stung.

  All through the act I either stewed about Phoebe or chewed at my problem with Apollo. I didn’t notice if Mr. Rose came close to sticking me or not. Worn out with thinking, I stayed by the back door after my turn to watch the rest of the show and take my mind off my cares.

  A spiral track had been raised in the center ring while Mr. Rose and I performed in the front-end ring and the jugglers entertained at the back. Now a cart drawn by Shetland ponies, driven by a pretty girl in riding skirts, brought in a large, colorful wooden ball. Two of the biggest clowns lifted the heavy sphere and laid it at the foot of the track. The crowd hushed in expectation, and people craned their heads looking for the performers, but none arrived. Instead, as if by magic, the ball moved, and the audience inhaled audibly.

  The ball edged up the track. I knew the man inside was on his hands and knees and must move the center of gravity forward but not side-to-side, else he would lose control. This acrobat was clumsy. The ball wobbled ferociously at times; once it even rolled backward, and I didn’t think it would stop. I had never seen the act performed so awkwardly.

  The bicyclist next to me mumbled an oath. “LaPierre had one too many glasses of wine with dinner tonight,” he said to no one in particular.

  That’s when a horrible idea hit me. I could barely draw breath as the ball made its hesitant ascent around the track. Perhaps they wouldn’t guess. Perhaps he’d roll it up and down again safely. Perhaps he wouldn’t emerge at the end to take his bow. But Apollo wanted to impress the Marvels. He would take his bow, and all tarnation would break loose.

  All tarnation didn’t wait until Apollo’s bow, however; it came in the form of Monsieur LaPierre through the back-door flaps, his leotard legs smeared with mud. He shook his fists in the air and babbled in French. The elephant trainer followed close behind him.

  LaPierre skidded to a halt when he saw the ball near the apex of the ramp, and his arms fell to his sides. Those around him backed away, for he smelled to blue blazes.

  “Who ees in there?” he demanded in a voice on the edge of hysteria.

  Mr. G. Marvel stalked up. “Keep your voice down,” he growled. “I’m glad to know it isn’t you I am about to kill. How could you allow this?” His aristocratic nostrils pinched in disgust, although he made no comment on the smell.

  “I was trapped,” Monsieur LaPierre exclaimed. “There was an elephant in front of the outhouse door. I tried to climb over the transom, but I slipped ….” Here he lapsed into colorful French and gestured wildly once more, and I tried not to look at the stains on his legs.

  “Rosie wandered off,” said the confused elephant trainer. “She usually stands in line with the others, quiet as you please. She don’t need no watching.”

  The crowd burst into applause. The ball had reached the platform. It trembled there like an egg before it hatched. Pop! Two hairy arms emerged from holes in the sides and waved flags.

  The audience, who knew no better, cheered.

  “Haw! Haw! A monkey can do your act, Frenchie,” mocked the vulgar clown.

  “Get it. Get it,” Monsieur LaPierre demanded.

  Mr. Marvel gestured a boy over and sent him outside with a message. Within seconds roustabouts closed in toward the ring. My heart raced with fear. How could I bear to see Apollo beaten? I would have to run to his aid. I would die right there beside him—and I didn’t want to die.

  The ball inched down the ramp, slowly, slowly, but then something went wrong. The ball lurched forward. Apollo must have turned head over heels inside. He lost his balance. The ball careened around the curve. It flew off the track. The men ran forward, but the ball hurtled over their heads. The audience screamed; some fled their seats.

  The ball crashed into a tent pole and shattered. Apollo splayed upon the ground. He sat up, rubbing his head and blinking. The first thing he must have seen was a wall of thugs headed his way.

  “Run!” I cried. I prayed that he wasn’t hurt.

  He staggered to his feet, shimmied up the tent pole, grabbed a rope, and swung over their heads to land in the front ring, then raced for the exit.

  “Send in the clowns! Send in the clowns!” screamed Mr. Marvel above the panic. His face bloomed purple with rage as he followed his bullies.

  I chased after Apollo, the roustabouts, and the ringmaster and heard a shriek from outside.

  I arrived just in time to see Marika pointing at a nearby painted wagon. “It was a giant monkey. It went under there.” She flung herself into the arms of one of her brothers.

  A burly roustabout dived under the wagon. The others surrounded it so there was no escape; behind them some of the audience who had followed us outside gaped and gawked.

  “The little bastard bit me,” roared an uncouth voice from under the wagon, and a lady near me gasped. The roustabout emerged from between the crimson wagon wheels. He dragged a thrashing, crying Apollo by his shirt collar. Apollo’s nose was bloody.

  “Let him go!” I pushed through the onlookers, but before I reached Apollo, rough hands clutched my arms.

  “Abel, Abel,” my little friend called. “He hit me!”

  “What is it?” a man exclaimed.

  “It’s a freak,” cried someone else. “A dirty freak!”

  A woman squealed.

  “He’s not a freak,” I yelled. “He’s a boy.” I struggled to free myself and ran to defend my friend.

  “Get them to my carriage,” ordered Geoffrey Marvel in a voice as cold as doom.

  9

  FOR THE FIRST TIME I SAW ALL THREE Marvel brothers together. The two older ones were strapping, big fellows with large mustaches, interchangeable; the fellow from the office was also big but probably a decade younger than the other two. They towered over Apollo and me like outraged Olympic gods in suits. A roustabout guarded the door of Mr. Geoffrey Marvels magnificent Wagner Palace car; another two were posted outside.

  “What are we to think of this, Jacob?” asked Mr. G. Marvel.

  “I do not know, Geoffrey, I do not know at all,” answered Mr. J. Marvel.

  Mr. G. Marvel scowled at me. “What is the meaning of these shenanigans? Have you been harboring this creature?” he demanded.

  “He’s not a cre
ature!” I cried.

  “He didn’t know I was here,” said Apollo simultaneously.

  “Quiet!” roared the equestrian director. He came much too close to me for comfort and stuck his face in mine. “We hired one person, sir, not two, did we not?”

  I tottered back and didn’t hazard an answer.

  The equestrian director rose to his full height once more. “Yet you bring along this stowaway, this deadhead, to steal our hospitality.”

  “He didn’t know,” said Apollo. “I followed him from home. He just found out yesterday, and he was very angry with me.”

  “Why did you not inform us when you discovered him?” Mr. G. Marvel asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” I mumbled. What was I to say—that I didn’t trust them?

  “Meanwhile, he steals our food,” said J. Marvel.

  “And frightens our ladies,” said young Mr. A. Marvel.

  “Imprisons a respected performer and ruins his act,” said Mr. G. Marvel.

  “Endangers the audience,” added the middle brother.

  “Destroys property,” said the youngest.

  “What kind of home do you come from where beings such as this are raised?” asked Mr. G. Marvel.

  “A very fine home indeed,” I proclaimed, drawing myself up.

  “A place that instills no moral character,” said the equestrian director, ignoring me. “A place that teaches stealing and lying.”

  “What are we to do with them?” asked J. Marvel. “Call the law?”

  “But this boy needs help,” said the youngest brother, gesturing at Apollo. “How can a degenerate creature be held responsible for his actions? He hasn’t the wits or moral sensibilities of normal men. He needs guidance and care.”

  The noises that Apollo made at that statement didn’t do much to correct anyone’s assessment of his wits. “Be quiet,” I whispered, and put my arm around him. Apollo shut his mouth, but his face remained crumpled and sulky.

  “I doubt if Mr. Rose will have you back,” said Mr. G. Marvel to me. “There’s no room for plug-uglies and street Arabs around here, but you owe us money for the magic ball and stolen food and must work it off.”