Sideshow

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  Copyright © 2016 Amy Stilgenbauer

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-01-6 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-02-3 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  http://interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover Design by CB Messer

  Source Art & Photography for Cover ©depositphotos/

  massonforstock/fyletto/Dubova

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interlude Press, New York

  For Alvie.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  THIS NOVEL BEGAN SEVERAL YEARS ago with an attempt at flash fiction: one thousand words about a carnival worker falling in love with an opera singer in the 1950s. I knew even at the time that the characters had more story than I could include in a thousand words, so I set it aside, thinking that one day, when the time was right, I would come back to it. Like so many things in my “I’ll come back to this idea when I’m ready” drawer, it slipped completely from my mind.

  Then in 2014 my best friend, Rachel, sent me a “Call for Submissions” from a small press that I did not yet have on my radar: Interlude Press was seeking stories of “Summer Love.” I was excited about the anthology’s concept and after brainstorming decided there was nothing else on this earth that screamed summer to me, having grown up in my small, festival-obsessed hometown, than a carnival. From there, I wrote the short story, “The Fire-Eater’s Daughter,” published in the Summer Love anthology, which tells the tale of Ruth and Constance.

  Immensely pleased with the people I was lucky enough to work with on Summer Love, I knew I wanted to work with them again on a full length novel and that I wanted to continue working in the world of “The Fire-Eater’s Daughter.” I outlined and outlined, but then I remembered the flash fiction piece, also about a carnival, languishing away in my “I’ll come back to this” drawer. I rescued the story and began to flesh it out with historical research and new details, slowly expanding it into the story you are about to read.

  Chapter One

  ~CLEVELAND, OHIO. 1957. LATE JULY.~

  THAT TIME, JUST AFTER SUNSET, when the lights inside blocked out the darkened streets and turned the diner into a cocoon, that was Abby’s favorite time. She felt safe, locked away, as if all the trouble in the world had to be left outside. Outside were her vocal instructor’s angry pronouncements that she would never get anywhere in the opera world unless she improved her Italian, followed by Abby’s insistences that she had grown up speaking Italian, so her pronunciation should be fine, thank you very much. Outside were the stuck-up girls in the chorus who told her she would never be a real singer because she was far too ugly. Outside were her nonna’s encroaching senility, her four younger siblings, and her father, who spent all his time either working at the steelyards or sleeping. The diner, however, was a cozy island in the vast sea of Cleveland at night.

  Of course, the world inside the diner had its own fair share of troubles: unreasonable customers, tip-stiffers, Sal getting it into his head to make the plates look gourmet so wait times skyrocketed. Most of the time, though, its challenges were simpler than those of the outer world. Inside things, Abby could handle.

  She hummed along to the jukebox as she wiped up a strawberry milkshake spill and tried to ignore the oblivious couple responsible for it. Their fingers interlaced as they walked out of the diner with hands locked just as their eyes were. Neither seemed to have noticed their waitress. As far as Abby was concerned, that was just as well.

  Being so close to the Cedar Lee Theatre, the diner was a popular date spot, serving an overwhelming share of Coventry neighborhood couples each Friday night. Abby wasn’t jealous. Sal and Roman, the cooks, heckled her from time to time about being a single girl in a land full of couples, but it only really bothered her when they brought it up. When her friends came in with their boy or girl du jour, she might feel a twinge of loneliness, but it never lasted long. Abby kept herself too busy working and saving for her opera classes to worry about dating anymore, at least since her last boyfriend had cheated on her twice.

  “Abigail!” Roman called from the kitchen with a mischievous ring in his voice.

  “It’s just Abby,” she replied, turning around and taking the basket of fries he had just set in the pass-through window.

  “Your favorite song’s on the jukebox.”

  Abby stared at him, her nose wrinkled, somewhat puzzled until she heard Rosemary Clooney’s fake Italian accent begin to drift through the diner. Noting the expectant smile on Roman’s face, Abby rolled her eyes, then casually put down the fries and threw a towel at the jukebox. “You wanna be-a me, ah?” she mocked.

  Roman and Sal laughed. She knew they had convinced someone to put the song on because they liked to see her reactions to it, but Abby didn’t mind. She liked it when they laughed, even if it was at her. Theirs were hearty, thick, genuine laughs. So many customers laughed insincerely, as if trying to impress her or assuage their own guilt over paltry tips.

  Shaking her head, she picked up the fries again. “You know I only do that for you.”

  “We love you, Abby!” both cooks chorused as one.

  Once again, she rolled her eyes. Then she stepped away to deliver the fries.

  As she made her way out from behind the counter, a hand took her by the elbow. Abby spun around to see Frank Butler, Coventry neighborhood’s own Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, and her very-ex-boyfriend. Practically every girl from Euclid to Shaker Heights had wanted him, but Abby had claimed him. Much to her later dismay. “Abigail Amaro,” he trilled.

  “It’s just Abby.” She jerked her elbow forward, trying to wrench it from Frank’s grasp, but he held tight.

  “My apologies, Abby Amaro. Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I work here, Frank; you know that.” Still trying not to spill the tray of food, she jerked her elbow again. “Speaking of which, can you let go? Table six needs their fries.”

  “Table six can wait. I’ve got a question for you.”

  Abby took a deep breath, then stepped hard on Frank’s foot. He let go of her elbow. She hurried to deliver the fries and get back behind the counter before Frank could cause any further trouble.

  Too late.

  The second she stepped behind the counter, she saw Frank seated at the end, waiting with an expectant grin plastered on his face and flanked by two other young men with muscular builds. Abby bit her lip; her job as a waitress was to ask for their order, but she didn’t want to speak to them. She glanced at the pass-through window. Sal had his eye on her, as if waiting for confirmation that she wanted him to take care of it. She shook her head. As much as she wanted to dive into the
kitchen and hide there for the rest of the night, she wasn’t willing to actually do it. At least here, in the diner, there would be plenty of witnesses. Again she took a deep breath and steeled herself for the approach.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked, not looking up from her notepad.

  “Three chocolate malts,” Frank said, keeping his voice low and smooth. “And three burgers. With pickles.”

  “Right.” Abby nodded, slipped her pen behind her ear, and turned to go.

  “One more thing, Miss Amaro.”

  Abby hated the way Frank said her name. His singsongy voice made it sound more like a schoolyard taunt than a name. “And that is?”

  Frank dropped his voice to a pleading whisper. “Abby, look at me. This is kinda serious, and you know I don’t do serious well.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Abby muttered.

  “That’s fair.” Frank looked at each of his pseudo-bodyguards, then back at Abby. “I haven’t always been great or faithful, I admit, but … things are starting to look up for me.”

  “Congratulations, Frank.”

  “No, I mean, I’m moving up in the world. In the next few years, I just know things are going to take off, and I think I want a good strong girl by my side when they do.”

  Abby stared, unsure how to process what he meant.

  “Will you marry me, Abby?”

  Abby couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She simply stared, unblinking. “What?”

  Frank reached across the counter to take her hands, but she pulled them back. “Will you marry me?” he repeated.

  The whole diner seemed to have gone still. Even though Frank had spoken quietly, Abby felt as if every eye were turned to look at her. Her stomach lurched. She wanted to ask a million questions, respond with a million no’s, but the only word that came out of her mouth was a very small “Why?”

  The smirk once again dancing on his lips, Frank leaned back in his chair a little as though examining her. “I say, Abby, do you think you’re not worthy of me?”

  Indignation rose in her throat. “No. Why on earth would I want to marry you?” She untied her apron and started into the kitchen, where Sal and Roman were both trying to pretend that they had not been listening and doing an incredibly poor job of it.

  “C-can one of you get me a glass of water?” she asked, leaning against the back door, trying to catch a bit of the nighttime breeze.

  Sal nodded. “On it.”

  Roman wrapped her in a bear hug. Her tension melted away into the hug, and she was grateful for it. “When’s Natale coming?” he asked in a barely audible whisper.

  Abby shook her head against Roman’s shoulder. She didn’t know.

  “You want to give him a call? I can ask Marjorie to cover for you until close. She’ll understand.”

  Sal held out a glass of water, and Abby drank it down in two gulps. “I can’t,” she said. “I should be able to handle this. He’s nothing to me.”

  “He did a number on you, Abby. It takes a while to come back from something like that.”

  The floor became unstable, but Abby refused to acknowledge it. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then nodded slowly.

  THE SILENCE IN NATALE’S CAR was deafening. He didn’t say a word when he picked her up, but Abby could see from the look on his face that he was worried. That look had appeared many a time since the two of them were children. Whenever something troubling happened, Natale’s eyes would take on a glassy, faraway quality, as if whatever he was seeing was miles down the road, and his lips would press together so tightly it would have taken a crowbar to pry them apart. Guilt roiled in Abby’s stomach; she knew that this time the look was because of her.

  “Nate,” she whispered, only daring to break the silence in the quietest voice she could muster. “I’m fine, you know.”

  Natale nodded, but did not say a word.

  “Frank just rattled me a little. You know how he can be.” Not wanting to press the matter, she let silence fall; but then Natale spoke.

  “Yeah, I know exactly how Frank Butler can be, Abby. That’s why I told you not to go steady with him in the first place.” His tone had an authoritative edge that Abby didn’t like, though she agreed with him.

  “You’re my brother, Nate, not my father.”

  They sighed dramatically, almost at the same time.

  “What did he do, Abby? Did he threaten you? ‘Cause I swear, if he did—”

  “Nothing like that.” Abby shook her head and glanced out the car window at the lights of the city rushing by. “He was just trying to rattle me. Told me he was coming up in the world and that he wanted me to marry him.”

  Natale stayed very quiet, but Abby could feel his eyes upon her. “And what did you say?” he finally asked, as he pulled the car to a stop on the street in front of their house.

  “No! Of course,” Abby said. “Look, Nate, he may have blinded me before, but I see Frank for what he is now: a rat.”

  “Good.” Natale sighed. Abby knew her brother well enough to sense that the sigh was equal parts relief and concern. “Just be careful, okay? He may be a rat, but he’s a pretty dangerous one.”

  The house was dark when Abby and Natale went inside. Natale kissed her cheek and departed for his room. As she made her way down the hall to the room she shared with her two younger sisters, Carla and Annette, Abby noticed a light coming from under one of the other doors: the one belonging to Nonna Gaetana.

  Abby knocked lightly on the door, hoping that her grandmother had simply forgotten to turn off the light.

  “Cui?” a woman’s voice called out, sounding chipper despite the hour.

  “É Abby, Nonna.”

  There was a pause, and then a joyous voice responded, “Entra! Entra!”

  Abby slipped inside. Seated at her writing desk was Abby’s grandmother—her father’s mother—a petite older woman of about seventy. Her hair was still thick, but had turned from black to gray thanks to years of raising seven children and then assisting with six grandchildren. Her smile, though, had not been dimmed by time. “Abigaille,” she cooed, holding out her hands. Abby crossed the room and took them.

  “What are you doing up, Nonna?” she asked in her grandmother’s native Sicilian dialect. Nonna Gaetana spoke English well enough, but she did not prefer it and, with age, she found it much easier to use the language she’d learned in childhood. She had pressed Abby to learn it as well, and, now that Nonna slipped into it so often, Abby was grateful that she had.

  She squeezed Abby’s hand, then let go, gesturing toward the papers and photographs laid out on the table. “I was writing to my family back home. I miss them.”

  Abby tried not to frown at the pictures. So many of the people in them were dead and gone now, but Abby had no way of knowing which, so she nodded. “I’m sure they miss you too.”

  With great care, Nonna Gaetana folded the paper in front of her and slipped it into an envelope, which she set off to the side. “But how is my Abigaille today?”

  “Wonderful, Nonna,” Abby said, sitting down on her grandmother’s bed. During earlier days, she would have told her grandmother about everything from the spilled milkshake to Frank Butler’s proposal, but now she didn’t know if she could. There was a distance between them that Abby didn’t know how to cross.

  Nonna Gaetana beamed. “And your vocal classes? Am I going to see you in an opera soon?”

  Abby didn’t want to lie. Her classes weren’t going particularly well, and the closest she would get to a role was somewhere in the back of the chorus. About to confess her frustration, she took a breath, but when she looked at the hopeful expression on her grandmother’s face, she didn’t think she could tell the truth either. “Any season now, Nonna,” she said. “My coach has me working on an aria from La sonnambula right now.”

  “Ah, Bellini.” Nonna Gaetana sighed. “He was Sicilian, you know.”

  “Yes, Nonna, you’ve mentioned that before.”

  “Don’t
you scoff at me, Abby. You have a gift and you have a duty to use it. When I was a little girl back home, we poor folk weren’t even allowed in the opera houses. Now, my granddaughter will be one of the finest sopranos that this world has ever known.”

  Abby’s face turned a fierce shade of scarlet. “Nonna …” She trailed off as her grandmother once again took her hands and held them tightly.

  “My precious Abby. You are such a wonder. Promise me you will never give in to what the world expects from you. Live the life that you want to live and be strong and never ashamed. It took me too long to learn this, but promise me …”

  Abby’s eyes welled up with tears. Just a few weeks ago, her grandmother was pushing for her to get married, and to Frank of all people; this pronouncement was a complete reversal. What had caused the change? There was something final about her grandmother’s words, and that terrified her. “Of course, Nonna. I promise.”

  Chapter Two

  THE NEXT MORNING, ABBY WOKE to a tugging on her arm. “Aaabbbyyy!” Annette’s shrill five-year-old voice burst through any remnants of sleep Abby might have had left.

  She reached with her free arm for a pillow to throw at her youngest sister, but came up empty-handed. She groaned. “Ugh, Annette, what do you want?”

  “Natale promised we’d go the carnival today!”

  Abby pulled the covers over her head to block out the light and, she hoped, Annette’s voice. “Natale was mistaken.”

  “Pleeeaaase, Abby,” the little girl begged, drawing out her syllables like a master manipulator. “It’s the laaast day. And the flyer said there would be poonnniiiieees!”

  “Good God!” Abby exclaimed in exasperation, throwing the covers off and climbing out of bed. There would be no sleeping now. She glared at her baby sister contemptuously. The little girl knew how to get what she wanted. “You,” she began, shaking her head to clear the grogginess. It didn’t work as well as she had hoped. “You have got a pair of lungs on you there, Annie. How about you put them to use and ask Natale to make your big sister some coffee?”

  “And then the carnival?” Annette asked, her eyes large and hopeful.