IT MUST BE THE HEAT, I THOUGHT as I sat down carefully on the crate and wiped my brow with the back of my hand. What a fool I was. “My apologies, madam,” I said to the mummy. “The sight of your beauty quite overcame me.”
I strained my eyes to read the faded copperplate writing on a yellowed card pasted inside the box near the feet of the mummy: UNKNOWN FEMALE, SECOND INTERMEDIATE PERIOD, EGYPT. I examined her face and tried to imagine what she had looked like when alive. “You do have lovely, high cheekbones, but I’m sure you were not so tanned.” I smiled at my own joke.
How odd to see an Egyptian mummy in a tent in Iowa. A peculiar little shiver danced up my throat like fluttering wings, and my hand went to the ring, which formed a lump beneath my undershirt. No odder than to be given an Egyptian ring by a Siamese twin in Maryland. I frowned. I had the strange sensation of almost understanding something. I shrugged it off. The universe held many a fantastic and meaningless coincidence. I untied my shirtsleeves from around my waist and shook the garment out. Heat or not, if an audience was on the way, I could at least not greet them in my undershirt.
The hubbub of the crowd outside quieted as Mink launched into his pitch, inviting all to the “attractive, instructive, and elevating exhibition” inside the tent. This time he extolled the marvels of the children as well as the adults—all of them “alive, on the inside.”
“Frightened by a bear while carrying her child, a mother gave birth to a baby more ursine than human,” Mink said to describe Bertha. Willie, according to Mink, descended from natives who had mated with leopards to celebrate their god. I didn’t think Mr. Northstar would be amused. Mink called Little Beauty an amazing Oriental creature. He assured the audience that as she grew, she would develop incredible mind-reading skills because of the exceedingly large size of her brain. I chuckled. What balderdash.
I examined the jars set up on planks across trestles to my right. They were of the type used by doctors to preserve specimens, and when I saw the contents, I understood why. Within each floated a baby—waxy, pale, and distorted like a nightmare doll.
In the first jar was something labeled a mermaid—the lower two limbs were melded into one and had a single foot that faced backward like a flipper. The second jar contained what one could argue were two babies, except they had nothing from the waist down but each other. They were joined at one pelvis, with a head on either end instead of legs. The label called this a playing-card freak. I found the final baby the most disturbing, however. It had merely a dent between the shoulders where the head should have been; instead one could see the beginnings of a face peer out from its chest.
They were fine examples of lusus naturae, nature’s mistakes, and I understood why people would be fascinated, but they made me feel squeamish nevertheless. I know many would argue otherwise, but it seemed sad and disrespectful to display dead children, even if those children had never had one breath of life in them.
Outside Mink introduced Cecil-Cecilia, “the single true half man-half woman on the northern American continent at this time.” The gentlemen who doubted his words could come back for a special viewing this evening. The ladies were not invited, of course.
Soon I heard the rattle and ching of money in the box, and the first of the townies chattered as they came into the tent, the men in white shirtsleeves with suspenders holding up their canvas pants, the women in summer calicoes. Every kind of straw hat imaginable graced their heads. They milled and exclaimed and pointed and laughed. Some ladies averted their eyes from the babies, and who could blame them? The tent filled up and still more entered, so I urged them on. “Step through, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, gesturing to the next section. “There are wonders, alive, on the inside.”
Finally, Dr. Mink ushered the last of this audience in. Outside, the burly Al Bonfiglio would put a silk rope across the entrance and post a time for the next show as a new audience gathered. Ceecee would mince about and give them something to wonder at while they waited, and Billy Sweet would run his mouse game to amuse and beggar those who played.
Mink led his audience through to the main tent, leaving a few curious stragglers behind with me.
“What is it?” asked a potato-nosed girl, peering in at the mummy.
I couldn’t resist. “An Egyptian princess who died three thousand years ago,” I said. “She was bound in bandages and placed in a desert tomb. She lay there for centuries until discovered by explorers last year.”
“So, what’s she doing here?” asked the astute Miss Potato Nose.
A scream saved me from having to answer.
The stragglers hurried through the curtain. I followed in time to see a couple of gentlemen help a lady with closed eyes to her feet while another lady fanned her with a hat. Moses Quick, the Frog Boy, squatted on his stool above her and watched. As soon as she opened her eyes, he popped his. She screamed and went down again. The audience roared with laughter.
I could see by Mink’s face that this hadn’t happened before, and I could see from Apollo’s face that he had engineered the incident. Good showmanship, I thought, and grinned. Mink wasn’t about to let the audience think he had lost control. He came to assist the lady and offered her a ticket to the next show for being a good sport. Once he saw her return with a few more paying guests, Apollo would be out of trouble.
Mink noticed me and waved me back to my post, so I took my seat by the mummy once more.
Was it real? I wondered again, looking at the leather-brown face and clawlike hand. And how had Mink come to possess such a thing if it was? By thievery, a voice inside of me suggested. My heart skipped a beat, for that didn’t quite feel like my voice. I laughed at myself. I suffered from the heat still, that was all. “If you were stolen,” I told the mummy, “you aren’t alone. There are children here who were taken from their parents. The adult performers can’t help—they depend upon Dr. Mink for their livelihood—and Mink has his roughs and his crooked lawmen. What am I supposed to do?”
Why did I talk to this thing as if it were alive? The petite form lay rigid, but even so, the delicately crossed arms and the curve of the tightly bound hips exuded an innate feminine presence.
“Perhaps you were a princess,” I said. “Fed on honey and figs. Dressed in the finest linen. Cooled by peacock fans. How rude of someone to peel back your bandages and expose you to the world.”
Barks and growls came from the tent next door, then titters from the audience. Apollo’s mother would be mortified. She would much prefer he use his beautiful voice for singing.
I half dozed in the stuffy tent as I listened to the questions from the audience, answered by Miss Lightfoot’s gentle explanations of her alligator skin or the gruff replies of Bess about the care of her beard. Earle Johnson, the fat man, revealed his weight and listed the items in his daily menu—I’m sure he exaggerated—and our giant gave his height at various ages and told his shoe size. He sounded quite disinterested, but giants were never known for their showmanship. I didn’t hear Mr. Bopp speak, which I deemed wise, considering the blunt nature of the caterpillar man.
It was very hot. A bee buzzed close by on the other side of the canvas, the smell of warm hay wrapped me in a delicious cocoon, my eyes closed.
I faced a stone wall built to the scale of giants. The sun beat on my back, and the pale rock reflected shimmering light into my face, almost blinding me. The dry air scorched my lungs. Water splashed somewhere far behind me, and large birds cried. Something lay beyond the wall that I had to reach, something I yearned for with all my being, something lost I would never have again. I stood, near tears and in misery.
I raised my hand to caress the stone with longing and felt a shock from palm to shoulder. The bones within my hand lit up and faded again, and a thunderous crack came at once from the wall and from inside me. The stone crumbled to dust at my feet and left a cavernous hole. Foul smells drenched me but were gone in moments, as if evil, banished, fled past on carrion wings.
I detected movement in the d
epths within, and my heart beat in my throat.
Slowly a figure walked from the shadows into a pool of light. Sunshine traveled up the form like dawn ascending an obelisk. First small bare feet were revealed, exquisitely shaped, then robed limbs. Finally only the face remained hidden by shadow, and I saw she was a woman wrapped in filmy gauze that accentuated voluptuous curves—no, the woman, for all others were as nothing compared with her. The white of her attire set off the tawny color of her rounded arms and delicate hands. The scent of sandalwood drifted on the newly arisen breeze. My breath was held hostage in my chest; I dared not exhale.
She took another step, and the veil of darkness lifted entirely. She tossed back a glistening torrent of inky hair and raised a languid hand to shield her eyes from the sun, but the sun should have shielded itself from her glory, for her face was a hymn of praise.
Joy shot from my breast like a homing bird. It was my love, who had been torn from me. It was my love returned.
“I have waited for you,” she said in a voice made of hot, liquid honey, “and now you are here.”
I jolted awake. Someone tugged my arm.
“You won’t be bored for the next show,” Apollo said, “I’m improving the act. Come help.”
I blinked stupidly until foolish disappointment set in. I had half expected to see a beautiful foreign lady happy to see me.
The audience had left, and Dr. Mink strutted once more outside, drumming up another. I accompanied Apollo into the next tent, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Why did I always wake up at the good part? I was doomed to stay innocent even in my sleep. Apollo’s improvements soon dispelled my dream, however.
First Willie the Piebald Boy demonstrated some very wobbly tumbles and somersaults, then Bertha the Bear did a little dance on all fours as she hummed “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It appeared rather ungainly but had a certain charm.
“What do you think?” Apollo asked.
“Very entertaining,” I said. “Much better than sitting like a lump. But I’m not sure you have found the perfect talent for Willie as yet.”
“Minnie neither,” Bertha said.
“Can you think of what Minnie could do?” asked Apollo.
Minnie gazed at me expectantly. A little smile blessed her rosebud lips, and her large head wobbled on her neck. I saw no reason why she couldn’t trade on what Mink had already set up. “Tell people’s fortunes, Minnie,” I said. “Do you think you can do that?”
She stared at me, her smile unchanged; perhaps she was too young to understand.
“Say nice things to people, like ‘You will have much love in your life’ and ‘You will come into money.’”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because that makes people happy,” I said. “It gives them something to look forward to.”
“I’ll help you think of nice things,” said Willie.
Minnie closed her eyes and toppled sideways. Willie caught her before she fell. When she opened her eyes again, they seemed distant even though she stared right at me. “A darkhaired lady loves you,” she said.
I laughed. “That’s the ticket.” She understood after all. I was a little startled, however. It was uncanny—almost like she knew my dreams.
“Hey!” Earle Johnson gestured me over. “I think I’ve got an act too.” The fat man leaned over and whispered.
“Well,” I said. “I hear it’s been done on the French stage.”
“Really?” Earle wheezed with the effort it had taken him to bend.
“But I would suggest you build your repertoire,” I said.
I peered through the curtain to watch the second show. The audience loved the dancing, they squealed in delight at Apollo’s growls, and Minnie informed several young ladies that they would have pretty children or handsome beaus. Dr. Mink appeared puzzled by the increased activity of his performers but did not show displeasure—that is, until Earle Johnson tilted his bulk forward and tooted two verses of “Pop Goes the Weasel” by means of his own flatulence.
“I have tolerated your shenanigans today because you entertained the audience,” Mink said after the show, “but I draw the line at farting songs. You’re not the only fat man in the world, Earle Johnson. You can be replaced.”
“But he got applause,” Apollo pointed out.
“And eight people departed,” said Dr. Mink. “Yiss. Eight people who will complain to others. I want no more surprises like that. Hear me.”
The children gathered around Earle after Mink had stormed off.
“Now, don’t that cap the climax? How did you learn that?” asked Moses.
“There’s not much to do when a feller can’t get around,” answered Earle, looking pleased at the attention.
“It was powerful funny,” said Willie.
“It was an aeronautical ballad, a fancy in flatulence,” aped Apollo.
“It stunk up the place,” called Mr. Bopp, but his mouth gaped open in a silent laugh.
“Good show, fat man,” Bess said, and strained up to pat his hand.
Dr. Mink needn’t have worried about bad publicity; enough people arrived for several more shows, and I actually saw Mink beam at Apollo and tousle his hair.
“Dr. Mink says I’m a smart manager for thinking up those acts,” said Apollo between shows. “He says to keep it up.”
I groaned inwardly. Here was another reason for Mink to hang on to the dog boy.
When the audiences dwindled, Mink ordered us to pack up everything except the end tent. The children trouped past on their way out. Minnie waved and left the tail end to come over.
The tiny girl stood on her tiptoes to look in at the mummy. A smile lit her face. “Lady T. is pleased you’re here,” she said. “She looks so pretty when she’s happy.” I would have to find Minnie a doll more her size.
The giant hunched through the curtain door from the center tent. “Good-bye,” Minnie said to the giant, her expression solemn, and he spared her a small smile. I found it odd she should bid him farewell, for she followed right after him. Still, she was a small child, with a small child’s logic.
It grew dark, and we had packed up all except for one small tent lit eerily from within, when men from the town appeared again on the lot. Mink, lamp in hand, welcomed them through the canvas door. He left his lamp outside, where Al Bonfiglio loomed, arms akimbo—a warning that there should be no trouble. My curiosity got the better of me. Bonfiglio leered at me as I approached, and I almost turned back, but he motioned me in.
The dimly lit interior smelled of sweat, tobacco, and whiskey. Men pressed around a small platform in front of dark curtains. A sinuous piping began, an oboe perhaps, but I couldn’t see the musician. Ceecee slid through the curtains, now clothed in diaphanous veils that hinted of curves.
Ceecee commenced a snaky foreign dance of insinuation, and there were murmurs and embarrassed coughs. As Ceecee undulated, the veils swirled to suggest but never reveal the truth of what lay beneath. The dance disturbed my senses, for I knew him to be a man, but my eyes kept on forgetting. His gyrations were a distorted reflection of the dancer in my dreams—a lie wrapped in silks and candlelight. I looked nervously at those around me. This was dangerous fare. Someone could take strong offense if disgust overwhelmed desire. But the audience was swept up in the illusion. Men whistled and called encouragement. Lust hung in the air like a mist.
Ceecee slowly peeled away veils and dropped them to the floor. Finally no more than a filmy skirt surrounded his hips and two scarves crisscrossed his chest. He ran his hands up and down his body, taunting the audience with their unvoiced question. I squirmed, aware of the breathing around me. He slid the gauzy sliver from his left shoulder—and revealed a man’s smooth chest. Someone laughed, and the man in front of me groaned, but before discontent could turn to anger, Ceecee stepped back into shadow and drew the other scarf aside. Perhaps it lay in the way he hunched his shoulder, or maybe it was a trick of light, but beneath the scarf I could make out the beginnings of a snowy mound.
Ceecee narrowed his eyes and smiled spitefully as he let the scarf slip into place again. He made a moue at the audience, twirled, and bowed.
“Is that all?” a man cried harshly, and I feared for the worst, but Ceecee smirked, then slowly drew his skirt past his knees and swayed his hips, revealing one shaved leg and one hairy. I realized I had leaned forward with the others—repulsed yet unable to look away.
The skirt rose past his thighs, and I clenched my fists, fearing a fight, but the audience gasped.
The lantern went out.
“Thank you for coming,” announced Mink. “Please follow the outside light to the door.”
I stumbled after the rubes, as stunned by the ambiguity I had seen as they.
“How does he do that?” I asked Bess when we pulled over to sleep miles away. Everyone else had gone to bed, and we were alone by the fire. “It was a trick, right?”
“Oh, there’s tricks of the trade, all right,” she said as she combed out her beard. “I wager you didn’t know that half of all cooch dancers you see are men.”
That was a shock. I lowered my voice. “Is he a homosexual?” I couldn’t believe I had asked a lady that question, but Bess wasn’t an ordinary lady.
“I wouldn’t care if he was a nancy-boy,” she said. “They love other men, that’s all. Pain is what he loves. Pain and laudanum.”
“Laudanum!”
“Laudanum was why he was a geek when I first met him,” she said.
“It’s true?” I asked. “He earned a living biting the heads off live chickens and rodents?”
“Yes, being a he-she is a step up for Theodore Spittle,” Bess answered. “Back in New Jersey, when it was just Mink, a mediocre sword swallower, and me, we joined a cheap tent show for a spell. There we met Theodore Spittle, enslaved to laudanum so bad that he sat in a pit, drooling, and killed chickens with his bare hands for dope money. He hates it that I saw him like that. He fancies himself a slick and dangerous creature, and he prides himself on terrifying others, but every time he starts to scare me, I remind him of those days and how pathetic he really is.”
Freaks Page 15
