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MINK ASSIGNED ME TO THE WAGON formerly driven by the bearded dwarf woman, who now rode discreetly inside with the alligator girl. A skinny fellow drove the giant, the human caterpillar, and the two-headed man. The muscular brute who had collected admission money drove Mink’s wagon. I had expected Apollo to ride with me, so I bristled when he chose to ride up front with his newfound friend, Dr. Mink. But I figured if I were him, I’d rather see the country ahead than the back of another wagon.
Two hours along the road, we stopped so the drivers could sleep, curled up under the wagons. The skinny fellow shook me awake at dawn and tossed me a packet of cheese and bread wrapped in brown paper for my breakfast. I hitched my team, climbed groggily into my seat, and followed the other wagons out, grateful that the horses seemed healthy and cooperative.
We traveled down dirt roads between windswept cornfields, and across stretches of green and purple prairie. The women in my wagon kept to themselves. The alligator girl seemed shy, and the dwarf was gruff, so I didn’t want to intrude. But I didn’t mind being left with my own thoughts. I thrilled with the excitement of a journey to unknown parts. The freedom that suffused me as I basked in the glorious smells on the warm July breeze made it easy to push aside worries. I felt sure that I would find Mr. Northstar’s missing child up ahead, but what I would do about that boy and Apollo would have to wait until I saw what circumstance offered me.
We traveled all day, with only a few comfort stops. On these occasions the women went first and then the men, spreading out into the bushes and trees. The human caterpillar rode under the arm of the giant—I tried not to dwell on that predicament—and the short, skinny driver led the two-headed man, who seemed to have problems navigating. Apollo trotted along behind Dr. Mink and babbled nonstop at the man. It stung me that he didn’t bother to see how I fared.
That evening we pulled into a stand of trees by a stream. I struggled from my perch and hobbled to the bank for a drink. The bumps and jars of the road had invaded my every bone. No one else seemed to suffer as much as I. They were used to traveling all day in a bouncing wagon, I supposed. I helped unhitch the horses, then the skinny fellow gathered sticks, and the tall, muscular man disappeared into the trees with a rifle over his shoulder. Apollo came out of Dr. Mink s wagon, still chattering, and Mink smiled at him indulgently and covered a yawn. Mink noticed me, and his smile twisted into a sneer. He clapped Apollo on the back and sent him toward me. Apollo hesitated, then watched the showman return to his wagon before he ran to me. I wanted to spit.
“Abel,” the puppy boy cried. “Dr. Mink has a lady in a box!” Apollo didn’t give me a chance to ask what on earth he meant by that. “Dr. Mink said I should be in charge of the children’s acts. He says I’m as smart as a steel trap.”
“Is that so?” I said. What a devilish judge of character Dr. Mink had proved to be. He knew how to capture Apollo’s devotion. I kicked at a clod of dirt. “And did he tell you anything about these children?” I asked. “How many are there? Are they girls or boys? What do they look like?”
“There’s the alligator lady,” Apollo cried, totally ignoring my questions, and ran to her as if she were a long-lost auntie. I followed, hissing with frustration.
The alligator girl beamed a smile at him. “How lovely that you could join us, my dear,” she exclaimed. She glanced shyly at me. “And your friend is an excellent driver.”
I nodded my head in acknowledgment. “How generous of you, Miss …”
“Ruby Lightfoot,” she informed me, now favoring me with a warm smile.
“I’m Apollo,” said my eager little friend. “This is Abel.”
“Abel Dandy,” I said. She seemed kind. Would she help me protect Apollo from harm if need be?
The skinny driver toppled a pile of twigs and branches before us and skittered off again to rummage in the back of a wagon. I helped Miss Lightfoot build a fire. The skinny fellow came back with a sack and a pot. “Thank you, Mr. Sweet,” she said, taking the pot. “Abel Dandy, this is Billy Sweet.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” the mousy man said with a grin, and pulled a big potato from his sack. “Who wants to help?”
“Apollo and I will,” I said. “We’ve had extensive training in such tasks.”
Apollo groaned, and I patted his back. He was a child, after all. I shouldn’t be vexed with him for enjoying a new friend. “I’ll peel, you chop,” I said.
“I’ll be off for the water, then,” said Mr. Sweet, winking at me. I didn’t trust people who winked for no discernible reason.
“There you are, Bess,” cried Miss Lightfoot.
The bearded lady fought with her long skirt and struggled from the back of the men’s wagon with a large, lumpy bundle in her brawny arms. Was it laundry? A sack of turnips? She leaned over and placed the bundle on the ground, where it commenced to wriggle through the grass toward the cook fire, and I recognized the caterpillar man.
“The giant’s still sick,” said Bess when she joined us. “Poor bastard’s getting worse.” She was much rougher than Miss Lightfoot, but she seemed concerned for the giant. Maybe she’d care about what happened to a boy like Apollo.
The caterpillar man banged her on the side of her leg with his bald head. “You pay ’im too much mind,” he complained gruffly.
Bess bent and tweaked his ear. “You’re dear when you’re jealous, Gunther,” she said. Her beard bristled with her efforts to repress laughter, and I decided that maybe I liked her despite her roughness.
“Mr. Dandy, I’d like to present Miss Tuggle and Mr. Bopp,” Ruby Lightfoot said.
“Bess will do,” the bearded lady replied.
“I likes Mr. Bopp just fine,” said the caterpillar man. Bess rolled her eyes.
In the distance I heard a shot fired and then another. We’d have fresh rabbit stew tonight, I guessed.
We sat around the fire to eat on what seats we could muster—a barrel half, a log, a folded blanket, and the like. I wasn’t surprised when Dr. Mink ate in his wagon with the big man I suspected to be his bodyguard, but where was the two-headed man?
“Why doesn’t Mr. Ginger join us?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s worried that Mr. Ginger number two will put us off our grub,” said Bess.
“He would,” said Mr. Bopp as he raised his dripping chin from his bowl.
“He doesn’t feed it, does he?” asked Apollo.
“No, my honey bun,” said Miss Lightfoot, “but it does drool dreadfully at the smell of the food.”
Apollo made a face. I wanted to also, but I stopped myself.
“Do you have a game?” asked Billy Sweet, changing the subject.
I must have looked blank, for Miss Lightfoot chimed in, “He means bunco, lovey pie. A swindle.”
I shook my head in quick denial.
“Come on,” Billy Sweet said. “A boy on the road like yerself? We all got a game to bilk the marks. Some of ’em uses their looks.” He tipped his head at Miss Lightfoot. “Some of ’em uses their skills.”
“He’s a knife thrower,” said Apollo, sounding prouder of me than I would have expected.
“There you go,” Billy Sweet said happily. “I run a mouse game, meself. The folks bet on which hole the mouse will go down.”
I had a hunch that the hole the mouse chose was not a random one.
“And if the pickings ain’t good there, I can fan a mark and weed a wallet in the blink of an eye. Yeah, they calls me Billy Sweet ’cause I always got the sugar.” He rubbed two fingers and a thumb together as if he were caressing money.
A pickpocket! I should have been appalled, but instead I was fascinated. I decided to keep my ring well hidden under my shirt nevertheless. I didn’t want it to disappear. And I didn’t want anyone to touch it, I realized. It might be coincidence, but situations became very odd when people touched that ring, and I didn’t want to risk it. I set aside that foolish fancy because it made me too uncomfortable. “What about that big fellow with Dr. Mink who took th
e gate at the performance?” I asked.
“That’s what he does, all right,” said Billy, “and he takes his privileges, too.” He winked. “But don’t you be accusing Al Bonfiglio of shortchanging the customers, else you’ll land in the middle of next Tuesday with a bloody nose.”
As if I would voluntarily challenge that bruiser.
Bess snorted. “At least you both see some money.”
“I see riches,” said Mr. Bopp, startling me by pushing his face under the hem of her skirt.
Apollo roared with mirth. I hoped he wouldn’t pick up any bad habits from these men.
“Stop that, you miscreant,” said Bess. She grabbed Mr. Bopp by the scruff and wrestled him into her arms. “Time for bed.”
“Aw, no,” complained Mr. Bopp, although he didn’t struggle.
“Ow!” Bess exclaimed as she staggered out of the firelight. “Don’t bite. You are such a heathen.” She sounded amused, however.
I heard muffled laughter from Mr. Bopp as they took off into the night.
“Love, ain’t it wonderful?” said Billy Sweet.
Well, yes, I thought. But I’d never seen it take quite that shape before.
Apollo and I slept on blankets under the wagon. Apollo must have been worn out, for he soon emitted gentle puppy snores. I followed his lead, lulled to sleep by insect chirps and the warm, sweet smell of grasses. My dreams thrummed with happiness, although I couldn’t put them into words when I awoke.
We ate our oatmeal in the silver light of morning. Dr. Mink took it upon himself to join us. He strutted up like a matchstick man in a black suit taken in as much as a seamstress could bear. He wore his usual stovepipe hat even while he ate. He put me in mind of an undertaker. “We’ll turn northwest today,” he said, and flicked a crumb from his wispy goatee. “We’ve a river to cross, and I know of a decent bridge. Make sure you follow.” He knocked invisible dust from his knees with a glove as he rose. “Come along, boy,” he said to Apollo. “I believe I’ve some gumdrops saved for a good little fellow.” He never looked at me.
“See you later, Abel,” Apollo cried, leaping to his feet.
I smacked my wooden bowl down in the dirt. I thought Apollo had left home to follow me.
That day commenced much the same as the last: more pancakeflat country, more grass, more corn, and more endless blue sky. I hoped that Apollo was royally bored. I hoped he drove Dr. Mink mad with nonstop questions. Still, the songs of chickadees and blackbirds filled the air above, sunlight gilded the tassel-topped grass, and I saw a fox slink after a quail through the purple-shot prairie. We traveled through two small towns, and eager boys ran beside the wagons, begging us to stop. I pitied their disappointment. We crossed the Spoon River near Galesburg.
That night the giant joined us for dinner. He perched, all knees and elbows, on a chest Billy Sweet pulled from a wagon for him. Dr. Mink and Bonfiglio, the bodyguard, stayed away once more.
Perhaps I should have felt at home with people more like those I had grown up with, but these were strangers, nevertheless, and I wasn’t sure of them.
Apollo shoveled down his plate of beans and sausage and excused himself. “Dr. Mink said I could read his notices,” he said by way of excuse.
“Mink’s playing his games again, isn’t he?” said the giant in a voice so deep and muffled it might have come up from a well. “Divide and conquer.”
So it wasn’t just my jealousy that saw manipulation in Mink’s ways.
“Doesn’t always work,” Bess said, and patted Mr. Bopp on his shiny head.
“Don’t you bad-mouth Dr. Mink,” said Billy Sweet to the giant, with a mean squint to his eyes.
“Don’t you threaten our giant,” said Bess, raising a beefy fist. My mouth fell open at the idea of a fistfight between the pair.
Miss Lightfoot agitated a napkin in front of her face like a fan. “I’ll take a plate to Mr. Ginger,” she said overloudly. She slopped spoon after spoon of beans from the pot in quick succession.
“Now you’ve gone and upset Ruby,” complained Bess, wiping her beard with her fingers.
“Please, let me,” I said, rising to my feet. I tried to take the plate from Miss Lightfoot before food overflowed the sides. I didn’t think of her comfort entirely; I was eager to talk to the two-headed man and find out more about him.
“I don’t know, sugar cake,” she said. “He’s a reserved gentleman.”
“Oh, let him, Ruby,” said Bess. “Abel’s a well-bred lad. Mr. Ginger may take to him.”
Miss Lightfoot sighed and let go the plate.
A blanket hung across the back of the wagon. I tapped on the wood of the frame. “Excuse me, Mr. Ginger. I have your supper.”
“Who’s that?” came a timid query. “I don’t know that voice.”
“I’m new,” I answered, “and an admirer of yours.”
“Admirer?” he whispered. “You admire me?”
“My parents raised me to respect the unusual,” I said.
“Then, they are unusual in themselves,” he answered.
I chuckled. “You have no idea.”
Rustling sounds came from inside. “Perhaps you could give me an idea,” he said. “Do come in.”
As I entered, he slid some sheets of paper into a portfolio on top of a small folding table. The draft from my entrance caused one sheet to fly. I caught it as it floated to the floor. It held a fine watercolor likeness of Miss Lightfoot, if she had no scales on her face.
Mr. Ginger stared at me aghast, in stark contrast to the second face attached to his forehead, which appeared to be fast asleep. “Please, don’t tell her,” begged Mr. Ginger. “I should be embarrassed.”
“But it’s excellent,” I told him. “I’m sure she would be flattered.”
He lowered his eyes. “The others would laugh,” he whispered. “I don’t care to be mocked.”
“Of course not,” I said. “No one does.” I knew then that if Miss Lightfoot became my ally, Mr. Ginger would follow. I found surprising comfort in this.
As Mr. Ginger reached for a tumbler of murky water and paintbrushes, the eyes of his second head opened. Mr. Ginger overshot the glass, and his sleeve almost knocked it over. “Drat,” he said. “Edward is awake.”
I tilted my head in question.
“We seem to have mixed-up vision,” he explained. “When Edward opens his eyes, my sight becomes confused. I don’t know what Edward sees, for he is incapable of telling me.”
“Why don’t you cover his eyes with your hand?” I asked.
“He nips,” said Mr. Ginger. “I do wear a hat sometimes, but that’s dreadfully hot in the summer.”
The second nose must have smelled food, for the little mouth below it dribbled. Mr. Ginger knew somehow and reached up to dab it with a handkerchief. The fluffy tuft of hair on the second forehead moved like a cockscomb in response to the wrinkling of the tiny face.
“If you will excuse me,” said Mr. Ginger. “I am more comfortable dining alone.”
I hated to see him so timid of me. “You know, I grew up with show folk like yourself,” I said. Maybe that would put him at ease with me. “May I come back to tell you about it?”
Mr. Ginger’s primary countenance brightened with a smile. “I should enjoy that,” he said.
“Honey pie,” said Miss Lightfoot when I returned to our campfire. She appeared quite recovered. “Would you do me a favor and come put cream on my back? I would ask dear Bess, but she has retired, and I’m itching out of my skin.”
“Urn …,” I said. What kind of invitation was that?
“Aw, I’d do it,” said Billy.
“I’m sure you would,” said Miss Lightfoot, “but I feel Mr. Dandy is more likely to stick to the task at hand.”
I followed her nervously. She comported herself like a lady, not a temptress, but what if she expected more than I was willing to give?
Inside her wagon Miss Lightfoot handed me a bottle of Hawley’s Corn Salve and turned her back on me. As I fumbled
with the bottle, she slid her bodice from her shoulders. My mouth dried.
“Don’t put too much on, sugar; I want to get rid of the itch, not ruin my act.”
I poured a dollop into my palm and smoothed it on her back, which was as cracked as a mudflat in summer.
“Oooh,” she sighed. “That’s much better. You have no idea.”
I tried not to venture too far around her sides. “Does this work?” I asked, for conversation’s sake.
“Well, I do prefer Wrinkleine,” she said. “It soaks in faster, but it’s much more expensive, and if I were an ordinary lady, I would be annoyed at them. I think I have proved without a doubt that they cannot live up to their guarantee to permanently remove all forms of wrinkles and blemishes.”
I had covered her back with lotion, and planned to take my leave, when she raised her hand to her shoulder and laid it over mine. I almost dropped the bottle. I took a deep breath while I searched for gentle words to let her down.
“Honey pie,” she said in a hushed voice before I could speak. “You and Apollo are gentlefolk. Are you sure you want that little friend of yours on the road with the characters Mink employs?”
I took her lead and answered quietly. “I haven’t had much choice.” I hadn’t expected this to be the topic of conversation. “He ran away from home to follow me, and I don’t know what to do with him.”
“You have no money, have you?” she said, removing her hand from mine.
“No, ma’am.”
“I believe I have the price of postage, if you’d care to send a letter,” she offered.
My fingers more certain now, I screwed the bottle cap on tight. I felt ashamed that I had considered her anything but virtuous—and felt truly relieved. “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “If I can find a place to leave Apollo so he won’t be able to follow me, I might send that letter.”
“Oh, precious biscuit. You don’t want them to take you home too, do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She was silent for a moment, as if she pondered this. Finally she spoke all in a rush. “Be careful of Billy Sweet. He seems friendly enough, but his loyalty is to Mink. Mink’s show is his bread and butter, and it is in his interests to keep the show well stocked with acts, no matter what the method employed.” She turned to me, her bodice clutched to her chest, tears in her eyes. “Mink is a villain, Abel. Do not trust him or any of his minions.” She stopped suddenly, as if stunned at her own statement, then spoke in her regular voice. “Now, get out of here before my reputation is as blemished as my skin.”
Freaks: Alive, on the Inside! Page 12
