Sideshow

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  Ruth nodded, listening, but not interjecting.

  “He was always so … earnest? I don’t know if that’s the right word, but when he talked about how no one on earth would ever love me like he did, well, I honestly thought he meant it. He may have meant it. That doesn’t make it true. Still, I believed him. So, when he left me for someone else …”

  Ruth gently patted Abby on the arm.

  “I fell apart, Ruth. I shattered. You would think that means that I loved him, but does it? Or did I just break like that because I believed him when he said he was the only one who’d have me?”

  Instead of answering, Ruth pulled her friend into a silent hug.

  “How did you know that you loved Constance? I mean, you’re both girls—” a memory played at the back of her mind, a feeling of freedom, but she couldn’t quite grab hold of it or recall where it came from, who it came from. “How could two girls know they love each other?”

  “Same as any two people. It’s different for everyone. I wish I could tell you how you know, but I could never distill into words how Constance makes me feel. It’s just, when I look into the future and I think about my life, it’s only right when she’s there. Anything else feels … like telling a lie.”

  “When I look into my future, all I feel is a lot of nothing. What does that mean?”

  “Like I said, it’s different for everyone. Some people feel a faster heartbeat, some sweaty palms, others, maybe a rush of excitement, or I’ve heard from a very reliable source, the opposite, a sense of complete calm.”

  Abby had to smile. She couldn’t help it. “What about a buzzing sensation right at the back of your skull?”

  A smile softened Ruth’s face. “I wouldn’t rule it out. When was this?”

  “It’s nothing. I’m just … throwing out hypotheticals.”

  “Of course.” Ruth nudged her shoulder playfully. “Well, I’ve got to get these lunches distributed before they get cold, and you’ve got some tickets to sell.” She left Abby alone with her thoughts; it wasn’t long before they drew an image of a statuesque woman with long, tousled, dark auburn hair.

  THAT NIGHT ABBY ONCE AGAIN attempted, in vain, to stitch the seams of Della’s costumes back together. The tight, glossy fabric that Abby couldn’t name kept slipping from her hands. The thread constantly escaped the needle and, in the dim light of the trailer’s single overhead fluorescent, Abby found it increasingly difficult to return it to its rightful place. When it happened yet again, she let out a cry of frustration, shoving the sea of fabric across the table and away from her.

  She had been working at the fruitless task since Della left for her performance earlier in the evening. She didn’t see how she was going to get anything accomplished, and she was sure that Della was catching on to that. So far, though, she hadn’t said anything more than pointedly mentioning how much she’d like to be able to wear the purple outfit again in Chicago.

  Outside, Abby heard a great cheer from somewhere in the camp. She lifted the blinds and looked around. Just over the top of the other nearby trailers, she could see the flames of a bonfire flicking their way toward the sky. Music started: a guitar, a saxophone, and perhaps a man’s voice, though the words were too muffled for Abby to hear clearly, drifted through the lot. It sounded magical. Without a second thought, she abandoned her sewing and hurried off to investigate the source of the music.

  The bonfire was impressive. Abby couldn’t imagine where they had found so much fuel for it. She stood off to the side, watching as the rest of the carnival reveled before her. It was quite the sight, and it made her heart soar to see so many people so happy.

  Distracted, she didn’t feel the tiny tug at her hand until she heard Phebe’s voice. “Come on, Aaabbyyy,” she begged, trying her best to pull her in the direction of the bonfire.

  Abby grinned down at the little girl. Now she sounded just like Annette. A wave of sadness brushed her at the thought of her baby sister, but she shook it off, following Phebe into the throng.

  A mixture of hay bales and chairs formed a haphazard half-circle around the gigantic fire, though most seats had been abandoned as people danced nearby, where Constance’s father crooned a lovely, mournful tune in a language Abby did not understand. She listened, transfixed, as Phebe happily swung her arm to the music.

  Near the musicians, she noticed that Vinnie had just unpacked an accordion and was gesturing wildly to her. “Ah! Si Maritau Rosa!” he mouthed.

  “He wants you to sing with him!” Phebe teased.

  Abby sucked in a breath. She knew exactly what Vinnie wanted. He wanted her to laugh and run up there to sing a tarantella with him, but she didn’t plan to do any such thing. She shook her head and mouthed, “No way!” back at him.

  Phebe, however, had different plans. She tugged hard on Abby’s arm, trying to drag her toward the musicians.

  “No, Phebe,” Abby begged, but Phebe did not listen. She pulled so hard that Abby had to walk with her or risk losing her arm.

  Vinnie beamed when they reached the musicians.

  “I don’t really … remember many of the words,” Abby confessed, feeling terribly sheepish. Her mother had sung this particular Sicilian folk song many times when she was little, but it had been quite some time since she had heard the tune.

  “I’ll start you off,” he said, playing a few random notes and seeming unconcerned. “It’ll come back to you.”

  Sure enough, the folk song did just that. More than that. Vinni la primavera li mennuli sù n’ciuri. Lu focu di l’ammuri lu cori m’addurmò. The words felt lively and lush, more at home in her voice than any opera song ever had. E ammezzu suli e ciuri, avvolunu l’aceddi. Tutti ‘sti cosi beddi mi fannu suspirà. The melody rushed through her, lending strength with every note and erasing all of her nervousness. Si maritau Rosa Saridda e Pippinedda e iù, ca sugnu bedda mi vogghiu marità. When she finished, she gasped for air, flush with the high the song had given her. Vinnie was still beaming.

  “Another?” he asked.

  “Let me catch my breath.”

  He nodded, and she stumbled away from the musicians. She was on top of the world. Her body soared as if, from this moment forward, she could accomplish anything.

  Her energy propelled her forward until she collapsed onto a hay bale. She breathed in her surroundings. It was a perfect night; everything around her seemed to glow in the firelight, and the night was as full of possibilities as stars. She gazed up at them. They seemed to have multiplied; there were never this many in Cleveland, and she had no idea how she had never noticed that. Still breathing deeply, trying to calm her body, she let her mind flit through Nonna Gaetana’s stories: tales of dancing, and firelight, and the lovelorn mysteries that took place among the stars.

  Seated not far away, she spotted Suprema nursing a soda bottle and watching the dancers’ feet as they spun and twirled. She felt a strange stillness and smiled to herself. A surge of bravery holding her usual fears at bay, Abby stood up and before she realized that she had done it, she was walking toward her.

  “Hi, Suprema?” she said, standing next to her with every nerve in her body firing fast and furious. The words came out sounding more like a question than an exclamation at seeing a friend. Mentally she kicked herself and was about to start again when Suprema looked away from the dancers.

  She glanced up, a sardonic smile on her lips. “I don’t even know why I bother coming out of my trailer when we do this.”

  Abby still wasn’t sure how to respond, but she barreled on, “Not having fun?”

  “Does it look like I’m having fun?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I mean look at them!” She gestured at the group of dancers. Abby recognized a few people, though she couldn’t say their names. They all spun and swiveled, throwing in wild acrobatics as one might expect carnival performers to do. Most striking, though, were Ruth and Constance. They weren’t dancing with any elaborate flourishes, but there was an elegant grace about the two of them. O
n one swung downbeat, Constance would nudge Ruth’s arm onto her shoulder with her elbow and take her by the waist. The next, Ruth would do the same. The two of them glided like nymphs made of pure flame, turning and sliding their feet and their bodies without thought or hesitation. Abby was mystified. She had never learned to lead, not with an older brother and a boyfriend like Frank, and the very thought of needing to be decisive with dance steps boggled her mind. Still, knowledge of steps didn’t seem to play the slightest role in the way Ruth and Constance danced, which seemed like a supernaturally seamless communication, as if they were reading each other’s minds.

  “How do they do that?”

  Suprema shrugged. “Wish I knew. Girls like me don’t get asked to dance.”

  Abby wanted to say, “I’m sure that’s not true,” but she managed to stop herself. Suprema, of all people, would know much better than Abby whether or not people asked her to dance. Still, she didn’t want her to feel that way, not tonight, not when she herself felt like rising into the sky. She stood for a while, watching the other couples. Then an idea struck her. Just as she had seen done by Fred Astaire in any number of movies, she held out her hand, palm up, with a flourish. “Could I have the honor of this dance?”

  Suprema stared blankly, her eyes narrowed, her shoulders turned in what almost seemed like fear. Abby held her ground, not moving her proffered hand from its position even when it started to shake. Her heart pounded in her ears, but she couldn’t take back her hand now, not when she wasn’t fully sure that she could move.

  Ever so slowly, the mixture of bewilderment and trepidation began to dissolve. “Is this some kind of joke?” Suprema asked, her voice still unsure.

  “Not even slightly.”

  “I’m a really bad dancer.”

  “Why would that matter to me? Does it matter to you?”

  A small smile tugged at the corners of Suprema’s mouth, but it didn’t fully form. Instead, she nodded and stood, taking Abby’s hand. “I’m honestly not very good,” she said in a resigned monotone. “Just warning you.”

  “Neither am I,” Abby answered. An electrical charge of excitement zipped through her as they walked to where the others were dancing. “I have no idea how to lead, but Natale always complained that I led him, so … maybe I can figure something out.”

  “No one ever bothered to teach me. Not even to follow.” Suprema blushed and looked at her feet.

  Abby shook her head. “My nonna says the key to dancing is just to feel the music and let go of everything else. You can worry about getting the steps right later. The more you think, the worse you’ll be.” She hoped that Nonna Gaetana was right.

  Vinnie started again on the accordion. Instead of a tarantella, he played “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” at a much more languid tempo than Abby had ever heard it. The juxtaposition of styles made both girls laugh. “See, who could not dance to this?” Abby teased.

  Suprema answered with a smile, and the pair began to twirl through the crowd. Though both had been worried that their lack of skill would draw mockery, no one pointed, no one laughed. Abby was enthralled, watching the smile on her dancing partner’s face. And for the first time, Abby was at one with the carnival, as though she finally belonged there. In that instant everything from the heat of the bonfire to Suprema’s hands in hers was perfect and right. It wouldn’t last. In fact, she was almost positive that come morning, she would feel as lost and desperate to get home as ever, but for this one night, she was willing to let go and feel the music.

  ~December, 1946~

  NOW THAT HE’S COME HOME from the war, Abby waits up every night for her Papa to come home from work. He had been gone so long that now, even though she knows where he is, she needs to see him before she can sleep. She needs him to ruffle her hair and say, “Topolina, are you still awake?” in his incredulous voice, as if he’s not expecting it. She needs this, or her dreams will be icy, and cold, and dark.

  Mama waits up too. She washes the dishes and sweeps the floor in silence, as if she is afraid to make a sound. She used to sing. Abby notices but does not understand. Mama does not notice Abby as she sits on the stairs and listens to the same silence.

  That night, Abby must have fallen asleep, because she does not hear Papa come home. Instead, she hears hushed voices in the kitchen. Mama and Papa are talking, but Abby cannot hear them. She sneaks farther down by inches, squinting as if that will keep the stairs from creaking. She has done this before, but that was different. That was before. Now, Papa is home and can protect them.

  “You’re so quiet now, cara mia. What has the war done to you?” Abby hears Papa ask. She peers into the kitchen to see him seated at the table, holding Mama’s hands. His eyes are sad and tired.

  Mama shakes her head. She whispers, and Abby has to strain her ears to hear her. She cranes her neck, though she doesn’t think it will help. “Nothing’s been the same since they made you go away,” are the only words Abby can make out.

  “Yes.” Papa lets go of her hands and rests them on the table. “You don’t sing and I worry … is it my fault?”

  Mama’s eyes flash, in the bright angry way they do when Abby and Natale come home covered in mud or bother the baby. Then the flash changes to the cold, frightened, rapid blinking that happens when people she doesn’t know approach them on the street. “It is hard to sing when you feel so alone.” Her words are louder, but slower, more stilted, spoken with more care to hide their usual melody.

  Papa stands and walks around the table to where she is seated. She wraps her arms around her chest as if to protect herself. Hidden on the stairs, Abby is almost afraid to breathe. “Even when you’re here, you’re not here,” her mama continues. “You’re a different man.”

  “Do you want me to go?” Papa asks. His voice is so sad, sadder than Abby can remember it being.

  He brightens a little when Mama shakes her head. Then she says something Abby doesn’t quite understand.

  “I’m expecting again.” Her words fight with each other, as if she is unsure how to feel.

  Papa hesitates. Abby thinks that he is about to throw his arms wide and lift Mama into the air. Maybe even spin her with joy. She remembers when they used to do this before he went away. He doesn’t, though. He stops halfway, watching her face to decide his next move.

  Tears begin to trail down Mama’s face, and it is all Abby can do to stay where she is hidden. “I want to be able to sing for my children, but I can’t do it anymore.”

  Abby wants to hug her. She needs to hold on to her mother and tell her everything is going to be okay, just as her mother does for her every time she has a nightmare, and she had so many nightmares when Papa was away. She starts to stand, eager to race to her.

  “Cara—”

  “I want to promise them a world full of beauty and music. How can I promise them that?” She sounds frantic and that makes Abby’s heart pound.

  “Mama?” she whispers, but they do not hear her. She isn’t surprised. She can barely hear herself. She takes a few creaky steps into the kitchen. Papa could see her now if he were to look away from Mama’s eyes. “Mama?” she says again.

  Abby’s does not know whether or not her parents see her standing there. Papa says, “Promises are something for weak men to hide behind. The only thing we can do is live.”

  Those words ring through Abby’s mind all night and will echo for years to come.

  Chapter Twelve

  TORRENTIAL RAIN AND MUDDY FIELDS greeted the caravan in Indiana. Setup had stalled almost immediately with no solid foothold for the rides, booths, or tents. After stepping out and sinking ankle-deep in a murky puddle, Della refused to leave the trailer until the whole of South Bend had dried out—even when Vivian arrived with an extra coat and umbrella.

  “What’s the point?” Della asked of the poor girl standing on her trailer steps, huddled as close as she could to the door, trying to stay out of the rain. “There’s nothing in this town except self-important university boys.”
<
br />   “You can’t stay in this trailer the whole week.”

  “If it rains all week, we’ll move on.”

  Abby listened, waiting for the right moment to jump in and take the offered umbrella for herself. She wanted to walk somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t Della’s cramped and cluttered trailer. The entire day, she had been pretending to sew clumps of tulle onto a skirt. If Della had taken it, she would have seen nothing but a rather fluffy ball of fabric and haphazard stitches, but Abby wasn’t about to let that happen, at least not until she was able to track down Thomas. Even if they weren’t putting on a show, they would have received some mail.

  “At least come play cards with me and the girls. No one else around here knows euchre.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. You girls can come here if you’re bored.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes and tried to force her way past Della into the trailer.

  “Watch it! You’re gonna get water on everything!”

  “Then keep the place cleaner!” Vivian cried, sticking the umbrella into the trailer as Della tried to shut the door on her.

  “None of your business!” Della pushed hard and cracked a few of the umbrella’s wire arms.

  “This is not accomplishing anything,” Abby muttered, but Della did not acknowledge her.

  “Stop being so stubborn!”

  Abby’s hand slipped, and she jabbed her finger with the sewing needle. She bit back a yelp, but Della and Vivian seemed to have heard it. They ceased their struggle at the door and turned to her. Embarrassed, she shoved the fluffy mess of tulle under her pillow and stood up. “I’m done with this. If you need a fourth, Vivian, I’ll play.”

  Vivian glanced at Della with a somewhat satisfied smirk. “You play euchre?”

  “I’m not good,” Abby said with a shrug. “But I can’t focus on sewing cooped up in here.”

  “You can’t focus on sewing ever,” Della said, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “I have half a mind to—” but she didn’t have time to finish her sentence. Abby had slipped past her without so much as a word, taken Vivian’s somewhat battered umbrella, and ducked out the door into the rain. Della wasn’t about to follow them.