by Molly Macrae
“What’s that say?” I asked, nodding at the shirt.
He spread his arms so we could read it more easily. It was navy blue, bearing a picture of an old-time handbill that read Dr. Carlin’s Incredible Tent of Wonders.
“Any relation to Aaron?” I asked. Aaron Carlin was a character I’d run into a time or two. Ardis referred to the whole family dismissively as the Smokin’ Smoky Carlins, because of the delight a few of them took in setting fires in the national forest.
“It is Aaron. His tent’s facing yours in the parking lot.”
“Did Ardis know he was going to be there?”
“Not until this morning. She says she’s glad for the chance to finally observe a Carlin up close. I told her she should step across and introduce herself, take a look around. You should, too, if you get the chance. The place is definitely full of wonders.”
“He isn’t really any kind of doctor, is he?”
“Snake oil, maybe, otherwise not so you’d notice. He’s going to have a genuine six-foot-tall man eating chicken over there at four o’clock.”
“Right. And are you planning to see that freak of nature?”
“He gave me this shirt. How could I refuse?”
And how could I argue with that? I turned to Ernestine and John. “Thanks for coming in, guys. It might be a madhouse out there, but it’s been quiet in here. Lunch is coming at one. I’ve got my phone with me. Holler if you need anything.”
“Aye-aye,” Ernestine said.
Joe held the door for me. I stopped on the porch and looked up and down Main Street. In a colorful mix of historical periods, a man in buckskins rode a high-wheel bicycle down the street, a woman in crinolines with a parasol led a walking tour, and two members of the Chamber of Commerce, wearing bowler hats and sleeve garters, sold fresh-squeezed lemonade from one pushcart and coonskin caps and sunbonnets out of another. Children towing parents, parents pushing strollers, and couples and happy gaggles wandered everywhere. The sun was warm without being hot, and the air was filled with the smell of fried food, the strum of banjo and mandolin, and the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith who’d set up outside the historical society. How could Ardis not love jolly old Blue Plum Preserves?
At the bottom of the front steps, I was knocked sideways off my feet.
Chapter 8
Joe caught me. He held me for a moment, his arms around mine, his breath in my hair, and then he made sure I was steady and my feet were back under me. One of his hands stayed on my shoulder. I didn’t mind.
“Ma’am, I am so sorry.” A bearded face peered into mine. “Clearly my feet are running ahead of my brain and they about ran right over you. I do apologize. I hope you’re okay.”
“Is that a fake beard?” I asked. I couldn’t help staring at it. Maybe I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t actually landed on the ground, though. Was only a little shaken up. In more ways than one. Joe’s hand was still on my shoulder.
“Oh, hey, Dunbar,” the man said. “Is this your little lady?”
That’s when I knew I was okay. “Little lady” was a knee-jerk fighting phrase for me. I tried to stand taller and look this guy in the eye, wishing I could do a Geneva-like billow to show my irritation, and then I realized he really was wearing a fake beard. Part of it was peeling off along his jaw. In fact, he wore an entire getup—the pseudowhiskers, collarless shirt and suspenders, tall boots, and felt slouch hat—probably trying to look mid–nineteenth century, right down to the rifle crooked in his arm.
“Are you in the pig skit?” I asked. Hoped. “That thing isn’t loaded, is it?” Those questions and my first one about his beard were abrupt and veering toward rude. Maybe that was why he didn’t answer them or even look at me after asking if I was okay.
“Dan, I’d like you to meet Kath Rutledge,” Joe said. “Kath, Dan Snapp.”
Well, snap my mouth shut. Reva Louise’s husband. I don’t know why I hadn’t expected anything so presentable, but except for the fake beard Dan Snapp was good-looking in a tall, blond, floppy-haired kind of way. He looked fit and he looked . . . nervous? On edge? When Joe introduced us, he still didn’t really look at me. He glanced at me, nodded, and then looked down the street toward the courthouse where he obviously longed to be going. Maybe he was late for a final pig skit practice or had opening day jitters. A phone tweedled in his pocket and he pulled it out.
“Yeah? Yeah, I know it,” he said. “On my way.” He dropped the phone back in the pocket. He tipped his hat to me. “Catch you later, Dunbar.”
He looked toward the courthouse again, then turned and headed in the opposite direction. We watched him go. Me, Joe, and Joe’s hand still on my shoulder. And an interesting, narrow-eyed look on Joe’s face.
• • •
The parking lot looked like a miniature open-air market. Under a red canopy, next to our royal blue tent, was Sprinkle’s Old-fashioned Woodworking. Opposite the Sprinkle’s, under a white canopy, a Mennonite family from down in Greene County was selling a variety of homemade breads, pastas, snack foods, and bars of homemade soap. Our tent and Dr. Carlin’s Tent of Wonders were twice the size of the other two. The length of ours, about twenty feet, ran along the street side of the parking lot.
Because the day was so fine, the woodworkers and the Mennonites had all four sides of their tents open. We had three sides open facing the other tents and a rear wall along the street. Ernestine’s grandsons had hung a banner with our name on the street side. Only the Tent of Wonders was completely enclosed.
Sprinkle’s Old-fashioned Woodworking was operated by a pair of teenagers in denim overalls who appeared to be brother and sister. The boy, lanky and all angles, sat astride a shaving horse using a drawknife to round and smooth what looked to be a five- or six-foot length of sapling. The girl, her long, thick hair pulled through the back of Chicago Cubs baseball hat, treadled something that looked like a three-way cross between a sewing machine, a spinning wheel, and a loom, that turned out to be a foot-powered lathe. Thin curls of wood spiraled to the ground from the tip of her sure and steady—and lethal-looking—tool.
“This here’s hickory I’m working,” the boy told their audience as he continued drawing his double-handled blade smoothly toward himself. “Cuts like butter. It’ll be a pitchfork by the time I’m done with it.”
“What’s she making?” a child asked.
“A mess,” the boy said, ducking as his sister winged wood shavings at him.
The Weaver’s Cat might have set the tone by being first, but the Tent of Wonders was the most . . . There was no other word for it; it was wonderful. The four canvas sides were exactly that—canvases. Each side was painted with a different view of the same vibrant, verdant scene, making the tent a pocket of Upper East Tennessee deep woods transplanted into the parking lot—flora, fauna, trout stream, and all. A black bear peeked from behind a tree on the door flap. A pileated woodpecker perched in the branches over the bear’s head. Mayapples carpeted the forest floor, rhododendrons bloomed . . .
“Jealous?” Joe asked as I stood gaping.
“Absolutely. He didn’t buy it like this, did he?”
“Customized. You want to take a look inside?”
It was tempting. An old-time sandwich board with a more detailed version of the design on Joe’s T-shirt stood out front. It claimed that Dr. Carlin was exhibiting curiosities and relics from the six corners of the globe, including three identical snowflakes, vials containing famous waters of the world, and other sights the likes of which you never thought you’d pay to see, including the six-foot-tall man eating chicken Joe mentioned. I could see it all for a dollar or attend one of Dr. Carlin’s educational presentations at one o’clock, four o’clock, or seven for a mere two dollars.
“Have you seen his show?” I asked.
“Not to be missed,” said Joe.
“Maybe I can catch the show at four or seven.”
Debbie caught my eye then, with a wave. She’d obviously been waiting for me to show up, and I felt bad for
dawdling.
“Ardis says check to see if the spinners need anything. Gotta run,” she said, dashing past. “Thanks for taking over!”
“Business looks good,” Joe said. “You can hardly see the spinners for their flocks.”
He was right. The four spinners, demonstrating their wheels and spindles under the left half of the canopy, were each surrounded by a dozen or so rapt spectators. Two of the spinners were young women wearing long skirts and aprons, going with the Blue Plum Preserves look. They sat on modern plastic folding chairs, working the treadles of their traditional spinning wheels. One of them had mastered the art of talking while drafting from her cloud of natural brown fleece and she maintained a steady rate of treadling as she answered questions from the crowd. The other woman, working from roving dyed in wide bands of saturated red, orange, magenta, and canary yellow, was producing a beautiful variegated yarn no spinster a hundred and fifty years ago ever saw. A boy of about four, caught up in the rhythm of the treadles and the whirring purr of the wheels, rocked in time like a metronome.
The third spinner was a sixtyish woman in blue jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt with a red bandanna worn as a kerchief to keep her graying hair back. She had a wheel to match her retro hippie look made with PVC pipe and a bicycle wheel. As Joe and I passed, a couple of men were telling her they’d been watching and they’d figured out how the whole thing worked.
“Would you like me to explain it for you?” one of them asked.
“I’d love to hear,” she said, smiling and continuing to spin.
“That’s Jackie,” Joe told me. “She made that wheel. She teaches auto mechanics and physics at the high school, but she’s too polite to let on. She can fix their chain saws or tractors. Probably their chain reactors, too, if they had them.”
“Hello, you two,” Ardis said when she finished ringing up a sale. She pointed at the fourth demonstrator who was mesmerizing a circle of children with a drop spindle. From her black hair to the black toes of her Doc Martens, she was Goth, but she gave a nod to the festival with a snowy white mob cap on her head. “Abby is selling more drop spindle kits for us than you can shake a spindle at. I don’t know if it’s her technique or her tattoos, but I’ll be sorry when her shift is over. She really connects with the kids and it’s those seven-, eight-, and nine-year-olds who pick it up so fast.”
“We can’t talk her into staying for the afternoon?”
“She’s got work,” Ardis said. “Serving meals at the nursing home. That’s all right. Business will slack off during the pig skit, anyway. Are you sticking around, Joe? I can put you to work.”
“Sorry. Need to see a man about a chicken,” he said. He slipped past her and disappeared around the back wall of the tent.
“I haven’t heard that excuse before,” Ardis said. She watched him go, turned to shrug at me, and said something indelicate.
“Ardis!”
“Pardon my French and Indian War, but I’ll bet my daddy’s best teeth and the glass he keeps them in that here comes the reason Joe went.”
I looked over my shoulder. Reva Louise.
“Well, hey, you two,” she called, pushing her way past the people watching the spinners. “I just thought I’d stop by and see if you need anyone to take over one of the demonstrations.”
“No,” Ardis and I said as though we’d rehearsed for a synchronized response team.
Reva Louise didn’t blink or miss a beat. “And I’m also here to take orders for those box lunches I promised. You get a choice of sandwich—beef and cheese or roasted veg; choice of side—spinach salad or slaw; Mel’s triple chocolate chunk cookies for everyone; and choice of drink—soda or bottled water. How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful, Reva Louise,” I said. “Thank you.”
“The least I can do. Oh, but hey, you two. Why aren’t you dressed in the spirit of Blue Plum Preserves? Come on, girls, you’re letting our side down. I mean, look at me.” She twirled to give us the full effect of her costume. “Doesn’t my dress capture the flavor of the period? Wouldn’t the customers appreciate seeing you joining in the fun? Next time, you ask me for help with a getup of your own.”
It was true that neither Ardis nor I had gone “Preserves native.” From my point of view, it was too bad Ardis hadn’t, because I would have liked to see her six-foot frame in hoop skirts. But her usual mode of loose top and drawstring pants made more sense for the bending, stooping, and general workout of keeping shop. Especially keeping shop in a tent with a chance of variable weather.
My own reason for opting out was a classic wardrobe cliché. There we were, celebrating Blue Plum’s history back to the late seventeen hundreds, with two solid centuries of fashions and accessories to choose from, and I didn’t have a thing to wear. Sure, I could have tossed on a long skirt. I could have pinned a mob cap to my auburn waves. I could have tucked a bustle on my behind and made buckles for my shoes out of cardboard, covered them with foil, and stuck them on a pair of plastic clogs the way Reva Louise had. But my internal authenticity meter would have shorted and sent a jolt like lightning up and down my spine. I’d spent too many years working with historical textiles and clothing. I would want—I would need—to get anything I wore accurate down to the undergarments and all the hand stitching involved no matter how uncomfortable to wear or laborious to make. I looked down at my shirt and pants. No, polo shirt and khakis was the only way to go for me.
“Shall I go write down the lunch orders for you, Reva Louise?”
“No, ma’am. You take care of business here and I’ll take care of everything else.”
“In that case, I’ll have the roasted vegetable sandwich, spinach salad, and a Coke. Ardis?”
“Beef, slaw, and Diet Dr Pepper.”
“Got it,” Reva Louise said. “And you’ll have them in your hands within the hour.”
“It really is nice of her to do this,” I said to Ardis as we watched her taking orders from the spinners.
“Mm-hmm,” Ardis said, that being her all-occasion word of doubt and dismissal. “We’ll see.”
• • •
We stayed busy after that. The drop spindle kits were the hot sellers, but our other starter projects, packaged to attract children and history buffs, sold well, too. Roving in a range of natural and dyed colors attracted serious spinners and crafters into felting, and we did a brisk trade in handspun yarn, crochet hooks, knitting needles, and other notions.
The faces of the people watching the spinners changed; the questions they asked followed a pattern: “What’s your favorite fiber?” “Do you have to kill the sheep to get the wool?” “Does the dog smell like dog when it gets wet?” “Can I try?”
In addition to her PVC and bicycle wheel, Jackie had brought a traditional wheel for the brave or inspired souls who wanted to sit down and try their hand. Many of them didn’t get beyond trying their feet because learning the rhythm of the treadles took more coordination than one might think. For those who “felt it” and then “got it”—managing to treadle, draft the fiber, feel the pull, and see a shapeless mass become yarn winding around the bobbin—the “aha moment” was a joy to witness.
“Future fiber fanatics,” Ardis said, nodding with satisfaction. “Creating customers despite our lack of costume finery.”
“It’s nice to hear you feeling more kindly toward the Preserves, Ardis.”
“There’s still room for a disaster or two,” she said, “but I’m willing to allow that so far we are doing an excellent day’s work.”
“Granny would’ve been happy?”
“She would.”
“Good.”
The Tent of Wonders was doing a steady business, too. Every time I had a chance to look, people were moving in and out. Then, as one o’clock approached, a line formed for the first show. But I hadn’t caught sight of “Dr. Carlin.”
“You haven’t said anything about that.” I nodded at the Tent of Wonders.
“Gaudy,” Ardis said. She tried to mak
e her face look sour so I would believe she meant it, probably because the tent belonged to a Carlin. She couldn’t pull the sour look off, though, and admitted her defeat gracefully. “I love it.”
“And here comes something else you’ll love—Sally Ann with a boatload of box lunches. I guess Reva Louise came through.”
“Amazing,” Ardis said. “Astounding. Wonders never cease. I’d go on but I don’t want to be rude in front of Sally Ann. And as much as I hate to agree with Reva Louise, a sandwich truly does taste better when someone else is buying, and I expect these will taste especially good, considering who that someone is.”
Sally Ann, carrying two large canvas tote bags, threaded her way through the visitors. She wore a coonskin cap and hadn’t taken her Mel’s on Main apron off before leaving the café. One of the men made a joke about coon and possum burgers.
“Double yellow line special,” Sally Ann said with a smile. “Mm-mm. Always fresh; always tasty.” When she reached us, she hoisted the totes onto the table we were using for a sales counter. “Eight deluxe box lunches with eight bottles of water. That’ll be sixty-eight dollars even.”
“Um,” I said, “all water and no soda?”
“Water comes with the plain box lunches,” Sally Ann said. “Anything else is extra.”
“And there’s a ‘ha-ha’ tacked onto the price tag, right?”
“‘Ha-ha’ what?” Sally Ann asked. “Mel said to let you know she cut you a deal. I guess that’s kind of a ‘ha-ha’ because that’s something that doesn’t happen too often.”
Ardis looked at Sally Ann, apparently at a loss for words, something else that didn’t happen too often. But when she turned to me, I swear I saw thin jets of smoke streaming from her ears.
“Ardis,” I said, “dear Ardis.” I took her by the elbow, pulling her toward the end of the table and then giving her a push toward the demonstrators. “Go see if the spinners need . . . something, anything, doesn’t matter what. I’ll take care of any errors or nuttiness occurring just now.” I gave her a bigger push, which didn’t really propel her but got her moving.
