“OK… w----ev….” She heard him say as the connection worsened.
“I’m losing you, Sandy. I think it’s my location.”
“Hey….Joh……., I’ll call la----. This connection s…ks.”
“OK, I’d really like that.” She said, absolutely meaning it. He was off the line, but her brain was still on him.
So, he had no idea with what to do with his time?
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It was only shortly after noon when the old brown Ram passed the first smattering of billboards touting the goings-on of Lincoln, Nebraska. Johnnie glanced at a couple of signs, thinking about lunch when she suddenly slapped her forehead. Lincoln was only an hour from Omaha. Typically a traveler would be jubilant to be so close to the day’s destination so quickly…but feeling more than oafish, she remembered that her brother wouldn’t be home from work till at least six o’clock. She could probably gain access to his home. He was in that league, after all; she knew he “had people” who likely tended to every aspect of his life, and with one call, they would undoubtedly let her and Betsy into his sprawling home to hang out till their benefactor came home.
No, she thought. She needed to back away from the constant pursuit of manic task accomplishment; this was also a vacation. She did not have to go straight to Omaha just because that was her goal for this day. Easing down to the actual speed limit, she scanned the signs with renewed interest. She’d never been to Lincoln and was certain Betsy hadn’t either.
Well, she could apparently see or eat buffalo considering how much signage sported images of the great beasts. There was a museum about Germans from Russia. Wow, in Nebraska? The things she didn’t know about her own country astounded her. There were wineries; nope, bad idea. The home of William Jennings Bryan might be intriguing if she could even remember who that was…besides, places like that wouldn’t allow pets.
Then she saw it, and knew.
On a far brighter, obviously newer marquee than the previous advertisements was a not-to-be-ignored invitation for “one and all” to see the Bachweister Circus Experience! The inclusive dates, she was delighted to see, included the current date so she knew they hadn’t missed this “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity…” It may not be a once in a lifetime thing for her, but it would be a first in her lifetime.
She’d never had an interest in circuses till reading the book, “Water for Elephants” just the year before. The whole concept intrigued her, and in some ways, she’d almost related to the nomadic group of characters. And here was a circus, and she actually had some time on her hands.
Having to weigh the only obvious limitation, which wasn’t Betsy, she considered that it was broad daylight, there should be lots of people. With absolutely no empirically based reason to think this would be an environment in which she would be safe from her “spells,” Johnnie was illogically certain she’d be safe from her spells. Besides, she had her protector; a perfect body guard fully equipped with three strong legs and a supply of drool that would shame even the most ominous of the dripping monsters from Alien.
“Beeeeetsy…” she sang, in a tune typically reserved for the task of waking a slumbering person. She rubbed the top of the dog’s flat head, causing the ears to alternately flip and drop.
Lids lifted and two irritated eyes found Johnnie’s face, although Betsy did not lift her head.
“Ever been to a circus?”
Less than an hour later the truck bumped into a large dirt parking lot. The “circus” sprawled in the close distance presenting a far less magnificent scene than the billboard had conjured in Johnnie’s mind. She parked amid what may have been a couple hundred (as opposed to the thousand or so she’d imagined) cars and cut the engine.
In the quiet of the cab, she could hear carnival music--a sound which confirmed her suspicions. This was a glorified carnival…probably with a token tired exotic animal or two and a couple of trick dogs.
Ah, she thought. A dog and pony show. Before she seriously considered revising their plans, however, she caught a whiff of carnival midway delicacies. The undeniable aroma of fried onions, burgers and probably mammoth turkey legs drifted through the open window, instantly causing her to drool almost as effectively as her friend.
With no further discussion, the hungry companions disembarked their ride and followed their noses.
Less than an hour later after gorging on a corndog the size of a billy club and mowing through a fresh ear of corn dripping in butter, Johnnie accepted a barely picked over fried turkey leg from a kindly older couple and gave the appendage to Betsy, who slobbered with gratitude. She was glad the dog couldn’t understand the elderly man’s quip as he handed over the leg, with his eye on Betsy’s smooth right hind-quarter, “I think your friend could use this more than us.”
Old fart, Johnnie thought, as she thought even harder about what she could have for dessert while Betsy devoured her gift. Twenty minutes later, she discarded the stick from her frozen chocolate covered banana; Betsy had finished her treat, including the bone. Feeling her shorts’ waistband cut into her distended stomach, Johnnie felt it wise that they take in the sights while walking off their indulgences.
Besides the typical carnival rides and money-sucking games, there were more animal displays and little shows than Johnnie had expected. A few human performances were available as well, although any given episode of “America’s Got Talent” probably exhibited more entertainment value than the sum total of these shows.
Johnnie spotted a cropping of booths and tents, proudly advertising an “Exhibition of Human Oddities and Extraordinary Rarities of a Less than Human Nature.” Nice way to say, “Freak Show.”
She had no intention whatsoever of patronizing those booths. Not only did she possess zero interest in what she considered to be gross exploitation of those less fortunate, but as irrational as her fear may be, she didn’t want Betsy to feel self-conscious about her own “oddity.” Upon realization of this last thought, she wondered, in earnest, if that made her just a little weirder than her dog. Lightly channeling Scarlet again, she decided this was something else she needed to worry about on another day.
All in all, they’d had a good time and when Johnnie noticed the sun had shifted to its halfway point, descending from high noon, she guessed it was about time to end their adventure.
Betsy, who had done quite well in her role as “walked dog” suddenly growled and pulled violently on the leash. Johnnie held fast and looked in the direction of the dog’s attention. A man was leading a loudly protesting child away from the animal petting area; the little girl’s cries were largely drowned out by the blaring carnival music, but her expression and the “O” shape of her mouth said the rest. Johnnie’s first thought the man was probably dealing with the repercussions of having overindulged his child. Her second thought was that she had never heard Betsy growl before. Her third thought was no thought at all.
___________________________________________________________
The blank sheet was quickly filled with her fourth thought; one populated with images, not words. Shapes of four or five individuals of various sizes formed in her view. Just as muscle becomes stronger with a fitness regimen, Johnnie’s mental facilities were now sculpted and strengthened in their ability to reason, observe, and make deductions with little to no “warm-up.” In the precise seconds it took her to focus on the individuals in the space around her, she quickly completed her checklist assessing her situation. She was at the circus-thing, it had been day time, and she was now in an enclosed area, so she didn’t know what time it was; she had been with Betsy…
“Where’s my dog?” She asked the question before she even clearly sized up the people, whose backs loomed above her sitting position on the ground. It did not occur to her she could be in the midst of her somewhat repetitive story because she had no sensation have having been asleep, had no headache, and, instead of worrying about her own hide, she was overcome wit
h the foreign feeling of a need to protect.
“Vell, look hooz yoined uzzzzzz!” announced a voice thick with an unfamiliar accent or an exotic sounding speech impediment. As weird as the voice was, it in no way prepared Johnnie for the menagerie populating her field of vision. Without a trip to the ticket booth, and no desire for admission, Johnnie was viewing at least half of the cast of the “Exhibition of Human Oddities and Extraordinary Rarities of a Less than Human Nature.” And, turning, one at a time, they viewed her.
________________________________________________________________
Byron’s slumber was quickly replaced by terror and confusion when he opened his eyes to see a large bangled arm in his lap…chubby hand dangerously close to the business end of his gender. He had been in a deep sleep, wrestling reptiles with the Crocodile Hunter and had initially thought the movement was a crock tail slapping his lap as he fearlessly unhinged its jaws from Steve Irwin’s head. Steve, of course, had been unfettered, commenting to his friend, Byron, “Crikey, Man…this one is a doosie!”
It was a sad state of affairs when the tail of a deadly reptile was less scary than the groping hand of a woman who was almost old enough to be his mother, and he was sixty two. Once aware of the true threat, he reflexively grasped the lady’s wrist, whipping his “what the hell?” expression to face her very surprised and embarrassed response. She yanked her hand back, saying, “I’m so sorry, Dear… my ball of yarn rolled into your lap and I just didn’t have the heart to wake you….but it seems I have. May I?” she asked pointing a beefy finger toward a fuzzy sphere attached to a thin piece of purple yarn connecting their too-close laps. It was indeed in the crevice between his thighs, although closer to his knees than the area he was certain she’d probed.
With a wary look, he handed her the yarn, thinking he would have preferred the crocodile…particularly when he noted that while she did have a small partially knitted piece in her own lap, she had no knitting needles.
Wait till Margie heard about this…only in his story, Grandma would be considerably younger, voluptuous and downright smitten with him, the kind, but regrettably devoted husband.
“You might want be a little more careful about reaching for balls….if you know what I mean, Granny.” He held her stare with far more intestinal fortitude than he felt, till she darkened and stuck her nose in the air with, “Well, I never!”
“I’ll bet!” He responded with an empathetic tone.
He looked out of the window at the thick cottony clouds, wondering how long it would be before they landed in Chicago. He glanced at his watch and calculated they had about one more hour in the air, if the flight was on time. He sincerely hoped it was, because his layover for the connection to Peoria would be brief and he had quite a hike to the part of the terminal where he could board the much smaller plane for his last short flight.
He’d have just enough time in Chicago to use the can…there was no way he was going to the plane lavatory; he’d have to wedge himself in front of Granny Horndog here…as if he could. Feeling a bit queasy with that thought, he refocused on the layover. He would call Marg while changing terminals. And as long as he had his phone on, he’d check to see if he had any messages.
A squadron of butterflies on steroids ripped through his stomach, replacing the queasiness with tension. By now, he could have a message from her. He was hoping against hope he’d said the right thing on Johnnie Carter’s voice mail. It was a message from her he desired and, to a degree, feared.
______________________________________________________________________
Johnnie stared, agape, while, as if in a wave, the short line of people – or rare human oddities, turned to face her. The very shapely woman on the right end of the grouping revealed an equally femme-fatal and buxom front as she turned, although her bosom was partially concealed by her long scraggly beard… ZZ-Top type beard; not at all feminine. Unable to speak, Johnnie’s eyes darted down the lop-sided line-up as her eyes dropped at least a foot to take in an incredibly muscled dwarf. Or was it “little person?” she crazily asked herself. With a quick blink as she scooted her back against a wall, she took in the tattooed mass which was apparently supported by a man’s body, then a fairly regular looking guy if you could overlook the large round hole in his forehead. The last to turn and face her was a werewolf…for real, only rather than the ripped and bloody clothing, he wore a Zac Brown T-Shirt and what appeared to be Adida sweatpants….and Air Jordan shoes. She had no idea to whom the original voice belonged. But she had to say something.
What to say...What else?
“Hi. I’m Johnnie. Do you know where my dog is?” This was apparently a good start, because they all smiled and opened the line between the little man, who was easily as broad in the shoulders as he was tall, and the hole-in-the head guy.
The apparent owner of the voice was revealed by the parting of the others and he was eye level with her spot on the ground because he had no legs. But he had Betsy, in a manner of speaking. He held a bucket filled with every carnival delicacy imaginable, and while the dog’s face was completely immersed in her smorgasbord; her body was unmistakable.
“Zhoo means zees dug?” the legless man asked, grandiosely lifting one arm, Vanna White style, as he virtually showcased her gluttonous pet.
Still feeling somewhat cautious, but becoming rapidly and unexplainably at ease, Johnnie raised her eyebrows, with a smirk, “Uh, yes. That would be my dug…” With that comment, the standing members of the crew burst out laughing, and after a very brief moment of a feigned hurt expression, Betsy’s server joined in, although not quite as boisterous.
“Betsy.” She finished as they quieted down. Leaning to pat Betsy’s rear, hole-in-the-head guy looked at Johnnie.
“Oh…well, we’ve been calling her Tri-Pod… she didn’t seem to mind, but she’s such a hero, we should have called her She-Ra!” Johnnie slowly stood, gathering her wits and brushing off the gritty seat of her pants. She questioned how the drooling wonder could be deemed in She-ra’s league, or considered a heroine by any stretch of the imagination. But now that she knew Betsy was fine – obviously more than fine—she wanted to tend to the basics before hearing the inevitable. She felt the pockets of her cargo shorts to find her phone…
“Um, could anyone tell me what time it is…”
Whipping a pocket watch from between her boobs, ZZ-Top lady popped the face open and announced,
“Looks like ten sharp.” Even her voice was girly… Johnnie may have pondered this fact without the intruding thought of her brother. He was probably very worried right now since she was hours late. Oh shit…or a day late…She’d located the phone and was flooded with relief when she saw the date. Same day…must have been a short episode. She had also missed a few calls, had four voice mails and a text.
When she looked up, she suddenly felt that they were the audience and she was the show. Wolfman pointed to her phone, and spoke with a very un-scary voice. In fact, he sounded like Jerry Seinfeld. “We heard it ringing, but you were out like a light, and even our lady here didn’t feel quite right about getting into your pockets while you’re still wearing them.”
ZZ-Top Lady piped in, “If you’d woken up while I was pilfering your pockets, I’m afraid we both would have needed counseling…” The smile hidden behind the wiry whiskers shone in her perfectly made-up eyes.
Johnnie held her phone suspended as she scanned the relaxed, albeit odd, faces before her. Betsy virtually snorted as she shoved her head as far into the bucket as possible. Safe and welcome were not the feelings she would have expected if this scene had been described three months ago. But that was then.
She put her phone in her left hand, and as she closed the gap in the small dirt covered floor between herself and the others, she wiped her right hand on her shorts. She then extended it, first to ZZ-Top, then worked down the line.
“Johnnie Carter.” It was their turn to be taken aback, but apparently pleasantly so. They each took her hand and int
roduced themselves in kind. The bearded lady’s name was Berta, the four-by-four muscle man was Arnold, Hole-in the Head guy’s name was Fore – a nickname she’d learn about later. The tattoo guy was apparently a girl, and her name was Loretta. At last, Wolfman was Jack, and the fellow who spoke strangely was Gunter…or “Gootah!”
After giving Betsy a quick pat, she asked them to please excuse her for a moment, explaining she had kept her brother waiting in Omaha and needed to clear things up. They looked at one another briefly, but nodded respectfully.
“I know you have things to tell me…” She acknowledged and their expressions showed appreciation for what was apparently an understatement.
The missed calls were from James and Sandy again as well as an extra call from a number she didn’t recognize with a 309 area code. The text was from her brother, telling her to listen to his second voice mail, it was very important.
As she listened to her mail, the others respectfully talked among themselves, lavishing attention on “Tri-Pod” now that she had cleaned the bucket.
Johnnie kept a poker face as she listened to her phone, but had independent and emotional, if not quizzical, reactions to three of the four messages.
The first message from James actually brought a degree of relief…he had been delayed on his trip home and wouldn’t make it back to Omaha tonight. He gave instructions as to how she could bypass the security at his home and his staff was expecting her. He noted that he’d be in touch with important follow up information.
As she waited for her “second unheard message,” she wondered what he meant by “follow-up information.” Sounded pretty business-like. The second message was from Sandy; he had follow-up information of his own. He’d met with the realtor and it looked like the deal was going to work; he said that the buyer was apparently a customer and he cracked that she might even know the mystery man. He asked that she call when she could.
The third call was very odd. Some guy named Brian Hoffstedder… he didn’t sound like a telemarketer, but he was clearly eager to talk to her although, as he professed, they were total strangers, but had mutual friends.
The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy) Page 20
