“Well, I’m going,” I said.
“So, go,” said Bunny.
I turned and stomped away. I was angry, but frightened, too. I’d never seen her like this before. She was like another person—selfish, uncontrollable. Was this what it was going to be like from now on?
I decided to go back and wait in the car. Walking down a path, I passed a shooting gallery, another game where you tried to tip over three milk bottles with a baseball, another where the idea was to knock a furry doll off a shelf. People were standing around and playing in groups, I was the only person alone. The fair seemed dirtier than ever. Everything was cotton-candy sticky, and dust thickened the air.
The path ended suddenly at a tall, wire fence separating the fairgrounds from Banyon’s Woods. I’d taken a wrong turn. Aiming for the entrance gate, I followed the fence for a while and came to a sausage-shaped silver trailer that was set apart from the other exhibits. A big-lettered sign on a sandwich board out front said, SEE THE TWO-HEADED BABY. Smaller printing added, A MARVEL OF NATURE! A SCIENTIFIC EXHIBITION! I stopped. A picture of the baby, done in bright, cracking paint, hung on a canvas sheet draped from the side of the trailer. The baby was a girl, and in the painting she looked out with two fresh faces, each surrounded by a halo of curly brown hair. The faces looked happy, the eyes firm and direct. The heads seemed almost eager to talk about their condition: Yes, it’s complicated with two of us, I could imagine them saying, as they tripped over each other’s words. But it’s exciting, too, not at all what you one-headed people might expect. Think of the conversation, the companionship, everything shared.
Outside one end of the trailer, a woman sat in a ticket booth. She was reading a book and not paying attention to the people who stopped to stare. A bulb in a conical shade threw a spreading beam of light across the top of her head and over her book. The rest of the ticket booth was black. I dug into a pocket of my sundress and rolled around a few large coins.
I felt strangely excited, as if there were some useful secret, some kind of relief, inside the trailer. The two faces looked so open and willing. Elro had said the baby was kept in a jar, but, in the painting, she wore a pretty pink dress, with puffy sleeves and a flaring skirt. Two pink normal legs jutted out below.
I edged over toward the ticket booth. Nobody noticed me. People kept wandering by, shaking their heads at the trailer, uttering low words of disapproval, and then moving on. Walking sideways, I slipped up to the booth and placed a quarter in the cradle in front of the woman. She looked up only far enough to stare at the coin.
“It’s fifty,” she said in a scolding voice.
“Fifty?”
“Fifty cents.” The light above her head made deep, skull-like shadows over her eyes.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out another quarter. Nothing else at the fair cost fifty cents, but I paid willingly; the expense seemed appropriate. I pushed the two quarters toward her. A hand darted out quickly and scooped them up. Another dropped a green ticket into the cradle. Her eyes never left the book. “The man inside,” she said.
“What?”
“Give it to the man inside.”
I backed away. The trailer had an open door at one end. A bluish light spilled out from the inside, but there was no sign of a man. I walked a few steps closer, and he came into view. He was sitting on a stool, spooning ice cream out of a quart container. He saw me watching him and stopped eating for a moment to stare back. Then he returned to his ice cream. How could these people be so relaxed? I felt feverish, knowing what was just a few feet away, behind those silver walls.
I stepped toward the doorway, but at that moment, a woman behind me spoke up in a loud voice. “The parents who did that ought to be shot,” she said. I turned. She was about Bunny’s age, with graying hair and wearing a checkered dress. She glanced around to see who’d heard her, and her gaze fell on me. “Don’t you buy a ticket here,” she said. “This place should be boycotted. Imagine, selling your baby like that. They should run it out of town.”
I nodded hesitantly.
“They never used to allow things like that in the Katydid County Fair.” She turned to the man standing beside her. “We should complain,” she said. He stopped shaking his head and started nodding it. “You should complain,” she said to me. “The more people who complain the better.”
“Maybe I will,” I mumbled, stealing a glance at the woman in the ticket booth. She was still reading, as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
“Good,” said the woman who’d been complaining. She stood there, planted, her hands on her hips, ready to take on anyone who made a move toward the ticket booth. I slunk away, all the time feeling she was watching me.
What had I been thinking of? This wasn’t like me at all, I told myself. Being curious about the baby in a morbid kind of way was bad enough, but to give in to the feeling—that was unforgivable. Everything I knew, everything I believed in, had taught me to fight urges like that. Anger pounded at my stomach. Another mistake, another piece of bad judgment. What’s happening to me? I wondered frantically. I can’t trust myself anymore. Do I have to censor every mood and notion? How can you live like that?
I hurried past clumps of slow-footed people. I had to get Bunny, and we had to get out. It was ridiculous coming to the fair on the night before my trial. How do I let Bunny talk me into these things? I asked myself. She’s as much to blame as I am. I’m so busy watching out for her that I don’t have time to watch out for myself.
Almost at a trot, I passed the McCarthy family, strolling along with all six children. The four youngest were holding hands. “Hello, Martha!” yelled Jeannie, who’s six and who was thrilled to see me.
“Hello,” I said quickly, and hurried on, thinking of the look of disappointment on Jeannie’s face.
Since I’d left, the beer tent had filled with a group of men, who all seemed to know each other. I pushed my way through to the counter. Bunny wasn’t there. The men around me were talking loud and crowding me, holding their ground, as if they thought I wanted to butt in front.
“Mister, mister,” I called out, trying to get the attention of the bartender who’d offered me a beer before.
The man to my right didn’t like being jostled and frowned at me. “You’re a little young to be that desperate for a beer, aren’t you?” he said. He was wearing a shirt with parrots on it.
“I just want to talk to that bartender,” I said, pointing. “I have to ask him something.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He turned and yelled across the bar. “Hey! Jody!”
“Yeah?” said Jody, wiping his brow with his forearm. He was frantically filling cups with beer and handing them to other bartenders.
“Girl here wants to ask you something.”
“What is it?” He didn’t turn around.
I leaned across the bar and tried to talk clearly, without being loud. “Did you see where my mother went? She was here a little bit ago.”
He stopped filling the cups for a moment and turned to see who was talking. Sweat was pouring down his face and under his collar. “Oh, hi. She went off with some guy, some skinny guy.”
“The one who was here with her before?”
He stared at me and considered. One thing about Bunny, people always notice her. “No, a different one,” he said finally.
“Hey, let’s go,” said another bartender. “I got people waiting.”
The bartender named Jody turned back to the kegs.
“What did he look like?” I called out.
“Like I said, he was skinny,” Jody yelled over his shoulder. He drew some more beer, then added, “He didn’t have a shirt on.”
“Thanks,” I said softly, stepping back into the crowd of men. Eddie.
TWENTY-FIVE
An event in the arena let out, and a swarm of people, mostly farmers, came clamoring up a path between the tents. I slipped off down a smaller path to get away. On the side, a group of people was gathered, bending down. A woman w
as stretched out on the ground, her pocketbook for a pillow. Her eyes were open, but she was staring straight up. The people were trying to talk to her, but they seemed helpless. My heart raced, and I hurried on. Just get to the car, I thought. Bunny’s got to come for it sometime.
Here, in the center of the fairgrounds, noise came from all around: shouting, clanging, crying, bleating. Strings of bulbs hanging between utility poles cast a brown light over everything. I paused to get my bearings, and a man bumped into me, then moved silently on.
“Martha!” a voice called out suddenly. I caught a flash of yellow, a shiny-white grin. “Martha! Hey, look, it’s Martha Calhoun!”
Tammy Mirkov appeared in front of me. She seemed to step out of a brown fog.
“I haven’t seen you since the pool,” she said, smiling eagerly. “What are you doing here?”
“I came with Bunny,” I mumbled.
“Look, it’s Martha Calhoun,” she repeated, turning to two boys lurking behind her. One was Art Harrington, her boyfriend. I didn’t recognize the other. The boys nodded at her.
I started to walk away, but Tammy grabbed my arm. “No, wait,” she said. “Did you meet Muscle? He’s Art’s cousin from Emerson. Muscle’s not his real name, but that’s what everyone calls him. He’s on the wrestling team.”
Muscle was a shorter, stockier version of Art, with a bristly brown crew cut. He smiled quickly at me.
“How’s it going?” Tammy asked.
“Fine,” I said.
She looked at the boys, and her eyes sparked. “You’re kind of famous, in a way,” she said, turning back to me.
“What?”
“You know, famous.” She was smiling. I couldn’t look at her directly. My gaze kept floating up to the top of her head, where her blond hair was pulled back tight and shiny and sleek. “Hey,” she said, suddenly. “There’s a party. A big party. Do you want to come?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’ll be fun. Right, guys?” She turned again to the two boys. Art seemed to be shaking his head, but she ignored him. “You can’t pass up a party,” she said. “Come on.” She brushed past and gave my arm a tug, but let go when I resisted. She walked forward a few feet, then stopped and turned back. I pivoted to watch her. The boys were behind me now.
“Well, are you coming?” she demanded. She was talking to all three of us. I should have left, but her taunting manner held me there. She was being so open about it—she was testing me, and I suddenly felt that to walk away now would be to admit that everything they’d said about me, everything they’d imagined was true. I had to prove myself.
In the middle of the path, we engaged in a kind of tug-of-war, Tammy against me and the boys. I got the feeling that as soon as one side gave in by just a step, it would go sprawling toward the other. I stared at Tammy. She looked past me to the boys. For a few seconds the rope was absolutely taut, and I thought I saw her waver. But then, behind me, Muscle gave a little snort. “Well, okay,” he said, and pushed past me. Art followed, shrugging his shoulders. With them in tow, Tammy turned and walked on, certain that I’d follow. And, of course, I did. I’d let myself get trapped, and now I had to see this through.
Tammy twisted and dodged through the crowds of people, leading us on a jagged course across the fairgrounds, without ever looking back. Where do you get that kind of confidence? Of course, she had it years ago, as a little girl with ironed dresses and flawless hair, the only child in the neighborhood who dared defy Tom. She once told him she “detested” him, using a word that none of us understood and that sounded adult and truly horrible. I expected Tom to slug her, but he just crept away. I think he secretly hoped she’d be his girlfriend.
After a while, we came to the animal tents and, beyond, to the fence that circles the fairgrounds. The lights in the tents were low, and the area was dark, but Tammy knew exactly where she was headed. She walked along the fence for a few yards and stopped. At a spot by her feet, the wire had been sliced and bent back, making a hole just big enough for one person to crawl through. On the other side, Banyon’s Woods was black and cool. Tammy crouched and slid through the hole, moving on her hands and toes, like a small, four-legged animal, so she wouldn’t dirty her white pants. Once through, she stood and brushed her hands against each other impatiently.
Art and Muscle and I looked from the hole to each other. Finally, Muscle scrambled through the opening. I didn’t want to be last, so I stepped forward. The hole looked so small and so awkwardly placed, near the ground. I crouched, but I loomed hopelessly over the opening. I’m bigger than these people, I thought. I imagined I’d have to get down on my stomach and slither through, like a snake. “What are you waiting for?” said Tammy. I knelt and poked my head under the jagged wire. Then I pushed my shoulders through. I lowered my back and crawled. The dampness of the crushed grass pressed against my legs. I was ruining my dress. The wire scraped against my back. But in a second, I was through, standing on the other side, feeling as if I’d crossed some terrible distance and the fairgrounds was miles away.
“Aren’t you coming, Arthur?” said Tammy.
“Take it easy,” he groused. But he just stood there, eyeing the hole.
“We haven’t got all night,” she said. There was something familiar and resentful in the way they addressed each other. I remembered Mary Sue’s story of what had happened in Art’s car.
Art shook his head, but he dropped down and slipped effortlessly through the hole.
Before he was on his feet, Tammy had started into the woods, winding silently among the trees. Banyon’s Woods, also known as Bang ’em Woods, rates with the Ledges as a make-out spot, and Tammy knew her way. Muscle walked in front of me, holding branches back so they wouldn’t snap in my face. Roots twisted across the trail and once I stumbled, falling into Muscle’s back. “Oops, sorry,” I whispered.
Behind us now, the fair gave off a cheerful, jumbled commotion, pierced every now and then by a single, powerful sound—the strongman’s bell, a rooster crowing, a particularly loud, high-pitched scream from someone on a ride.
Art reached out and poked my shoulder. “Don’t pay any attention to this,” he said quietly. “It’s only some fun.”
“What is it?”
“Only some fun.”
Tammy heard us and looked back. “Don’t spoil anything, Arthur,” she said.
Ahead of us, the orange light of a fire flickered through the trees. Our procession moved silently forward, and I could see a bonfire with a group of dark figures huddled around it. Someone was talking in a slow, plodding voice. Tammy put up her hand, and we stopped in the trees, just beyond the circle of light. Art crowded up behind me, pressing against my shoulder.
In the fire’s throbbing glow, a few of the faces were familiar—boys I knew from school. The boy talking was Gunnar Nygaard, and he was telling a joke involving three morons and a monkey. The three of us stood listening. The joke went on for several minutes, punctuated by an occasional hoot or shout or laugh from around the fire. Everyone was drinking beer. Someone threw a bottle into the flames, and an explosion of sparks billowed up and drifted off into the night.
Gunnar took great care with his story. He’s a slope-shouldered, loopy boy, always slow on his feet. When we were young, people used to tease him and call him a moron; now, it seemed, he’d acquired a special attraction for the subject.
Finally, he came to the punchline. A great chorus of laughing and whooping erupted, and Gunnar stood awkwardly and took a bow. The celebration carried on for half a minute or so. Then a boy I didn’t know jumped up, almost stepping into the fire. He pumped his fist into the air again and again. “Circle jerk!” he screamed. “Circle jerk!” The boys around the bonfire hooted and yelled.
At that moment, Tammy marched into the light. Art’s hand tightened around my elbow, and I was guided out of the darkness.
Our entrance startled the group. In the sudden stillness, Tammy pranced up and back like a circus ringmaster. She
swung her arm toward me in an extravagant arc. “Look who’s here, folks!” she bellowed. “Look who I’ve brought! The girl you’ve all been talking about. The one, the only … Martha Calhoun!”
Art pushed me forward. I felt as if I’d stepped out of a doctor’s office into a crowded waiting room: Every face turned to me, every patient was part startled, part pleased, part hoping to see evidence of some hideous disease. Then, quickly, around the fire, the yelling started again, a great thunderclap of noise that didn’t abate. There was no place to go. I stood staring into the flames, letting the hypnotic flickerings close things out as much as possible. Beside me, Tammy was clapping and Muscle was waving his arms. Art had stepped away. The heat of the attention seemed to warm my skin and clothes. I wished it were possible to make myself die.
I don’t know how long I stood there. The noise reached a peak and then screeched steadily, as if it came from a giant machine that would only quiet when it was turned off. People got up and moved around, anonymous dark forms hugging the shadows. From behind me, a hand appeared and perched on my shoulder. Neither friendly nor unfriendly, it sat there for a few seconds without moving, then went away. Close by, in the dark, a dog was barking.
Suddenly, the woods exploded in light. The shouting cut off instantly. Two huge spotlights, the size of full moons, bathed the bonfire in a fierce brightness. A man shouted: “Stay right where you are. This is the police. Don’t move.”
Of course, everyone did. The boys jumped up and scattered, screaming and laughing, dropping bottles of beer and tripping over roots and logs and each other. Three uniformed policemen appeared from the woods and started wading into the confusion, grabbing at arms and shoulders. Art snatched Tammy’s hand, and the two of them tumbled off into the darkness. Muscle disappeared. A cop seized Gunnar by the neck and held him out stiff-armed, the way you’d hold a puppy that had got into mud. Another policeman, a big man, wrapped his arms around the necks of two boys, so they dangled from his chest like two enormous medals. I didn’t move. People darted and dodged around me. Screams and hollers floated up from the woods. Finally, someone grabbed my arm, squeezing it with a grip that cut off circulation. I looked back and into a face I recognized: George, the cop who’d given me the Coke at the stationhouse the week before. He’d grabbed me with his right hand. With his left, he was trying to hold on to a boy who was wriggling like a monkey. George had the boy by the shoulder and, in frustration, he gave him two powerful shakes. The boy went limp and started whimpering. Then George looked at me. “You!” he said. In his surprise, he loosened his grip. The fingers that had been pressing into my arm went slack. His eyes, squinted tight against the spotlights, turned gentle. “You,” he repeated, more softly this time.
Martha Calhoun Page 24
