Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

by Leslie Tall Manning

  The second Wendell stepped through the cabin door, Dad and Rebecca Lynn started in. He didn’t seem to mind answering their silly questions, even with Rusty focused on him most of the time. And Wendell’s answers were quick and funny, like a real old-fashioned boy with a good sense of humor. I got the feeling Mark Twain and Wendell Murphy would have gotten along pretty well.

  While I finished setting the table and lighting the candles, Dad said, “So, Wendell, how long has your family been in the mercantile business?”

  “As long as I can remember,” Wendell said, walking the fine line between lying and ignoring the question altogether.

  “Do you have any pets?” my sister asked. “We have a horse, a pig, some chickens, and a cow.” She put her hand under the table and patted Sully’s head. “And Sully.”

  “We have an old mutt named Edgar.”

  “What do you sell most of at the store?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  He paused like he was checking off inventory. “Lots of seeds and grain, jars for preserving, and newspapers. But recently, a lot of boots and rifles, too.”

  Placing the bowl of biscuits on the table next to the homemade butter, I said, “Soup’s on.”

  “It smells delicious,” Wendell said.

  I beamed like a brand new star as I scooped out four bowls of soup. This was so different than feeding those stinky men who helped Dad plow. And I knew that this meal was eaten mostly in silence because everyone liked my cooking.

  Afterward, as I poured after-dinner coffee into three tin cups, Wendell grabbed his satchel and pulled out a small package. “Straight from Switzerland.” He placed a box of chocolates on the table.

  I nearly died with ecstasy as the chocolate melted on my tongue and slid down my throat. It was as good if not better than a first kiss.

  Dad said, “I’ll clean up. Why don’t you go sit on the porch?”

  Rebecca Lynn jumped up and headed across the floor.

  “Not you,” Dad told her. “Just your sister and Wendell.”

  Wendell and I went outside with Rusty behind us. The night air was heavy and still. We sat on the top porch step and stared into the heavens. A gazillion stars covered the dark sky like a sparkly blanket.

  “Sometimes I feel like this is a place where I could stay,” Wendell said, “if I had to.”

  Stay in Sweet Sugar Gap? Now that was definitely something I had not considered.

  I wanted to say so many things to Wendell. In private. “Hey, Rusty,” I said, suddenly breaking the invisible fourth wall. “Could you get me a glass of water?” I rubbed the front of my neck with my hand. “My throat is super dry.”

  Rusty didn’t answer.

  “Pretty please?”

  He narrowed his eyes as he lowered his camera, then went into the house. The second the door shut, I grabbed Wendell’s hand.

  I yanked him across the property toward the barn. Once on the other side, we giggled as we stood like statues in the dark. I could smell the trash heap directly behind us. My dad had been burning our trash every few days, but now the table scraps and other decaying stuff rose into the air in waves. On the other side of the field, a large figure moved along the edge. If it hadn’t been for the moonlight reflecting on the camera’s glass eye, I would have mistaken Rusty for a bear. I put a finger to my lips as I led Wendell away from the barn and down toward the stream.

  It took quite a while in the dark as we stumbled and held onto one another to prevent us from face-planting on the trail, but we finally found the creek.

  “You’re crazy,” he whispered.

  “I just wanted some privacy, you know?”

  Wendell didn’t respond as I took off my shoes and socks and stepped into the water. Shivers ran up my legs and into my spine, and I giggled as he took off his shoes and socks and followed me. I nearly tripped on the rocks, and he caught me. Holding me there, in the moonlit woods, in the middle of the stream, I nearly lost my mind with how much I wanted to kiss him. I leaned into him, pressing my front up against his, tilting my head back just so, but he turned his head to the side.

  “No, Brooke.”

  I wondered if I stank; if maybe I was so used to my awful smell I had simply stopped noticing it. “Why not?” I asked.

  “This is 1861. Boys make the first move.”

  I didn’t force it. Some boys are like that, wanting to wait, whether from Yesterday World or Modern Land. But it didn’t matter. I had all the time in the world out here.

  Even though he didn’t want to kiss, I leaned more into him, and we wrapped our arms around one another. But as we stood there, silent except for the sound of water moving over rocks, and his quick but steady heartbeat in my ear against his chest, the thought of cameras and reality shows and money coursed through me, like a cluster of parasites that had been hiding in my bloodstream, but were now crashing into my brain all at once.

  I tried to keep my voice smooth, relaxed. “Wendell…how do I know this is all true?”

  “True?”

  “You. Here. With me. How do I know you aren’t just doing this for ratings?”

  “How do I know you aren’t with me for the same reason? Or because I’m the only guy in town your age?”

  He was right. If he could play the game, then I was capable of playing it as well. But I wasn’t playing a game. Was I? I really liked him. Didn’t I? I tried to picture us doing things together back in New Bern: taking a hayride at Christmas time, hanging out with Libby and her brothers in their FROG playing a game of Eight Ball, or watching a funny movie on a Saturday night. I wasn’t faking it, because I could picture us together, and we were having fun. And it made sense that if I wasn’t faking it, then neither was he.

  “I just worry a lot,” I told him.

  He took his arms from around my waist and tilted my head back, one hand behind my bonnet, the other against my cheek. “About what?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever like it out here as much as you. Or as much as the others. I work so hard all the time.”

  “You’re calling this work?”

  “What I mean is, you’re so good at this. It’s like you were born in this world. I feel so out of place compared to you. Compared to everyone. It’s like I don’t fit.”

  Funny thing was, I didn’t fit in back home either, especially after Mom died. I had become that oddly shaped block trying to squeeze into a small round hole.

  “Well,” Wendell said, “if it’s all the same to you, you make it look easy. Dinner was great tonight. And the cabin by candlelight was totally…I mean, really romantic.”

  “It was?”

  “You don’t want to admit it, but you’re pretty good at this yourself.”

  Was I really?

  “Brooke! Wendell!” My dad’s angry voice stormed through the trees.

  “Rusty is a big fat baby,” I whispered.

  Wendell didn’t respond. He never responded to my comments about the camera people. Never acknowledged them the way I did. We dried off our feet with the end of my apron and put our socks and shoes back on.

  Back at the cabin, after a stern lecture from my dad about our disappearing act, I walked Wendell to his wagon.

  “Drive safely,” I told him.

  “I will.” He lit the two large kerosene lamps that hung from the wagon’s front and climbed onto the seat. “I had fun tonight, Brooke.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay.”

  After he shook the reins and rode off into the dark, I turned to see Clyde rustling around in the plants by the fence. “Cuckoo Bird,” I said. Then I sang a song I remembered from my one short year as a Girl Scout: “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, merry, merry king of the bush is he. / Laugh kookaburra, laugh kookaburra, gay your life must be.” With his beady little eyes, the rooster stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

  As I walked up the cabin steps, I realized that hanging out with Wendell that evening made me think of hanging out with him once the
venture was over. Of the things we would do together. Of introducing him to Libby and her brothers. And this made me think about my Real Life still sitting out there in Modern Land, and that thought pushed me back into a sad stupor.

  Stop doing that, I scolded myself. The less I thought about what was going on in that other world without me, the less I would miss it. Besides, the circus was just around the corner, I had a beautiful gown to wear, and a hottie named Wendell Murphy was taking me as his date.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I had just finished my morning chores the following Wednesday when a set of angry cramps inched across my pelvis. My body had always been in sync with a twenty-eight-day clock, so, as much as I had foolishly prayed for it to hibernate for four months, here it was at last: my I-am-woman-hear-me-roar interlude, as my mom jokingly called it. I grabbed one of the sanitary napkins and the belt, (aka magician’s apparatus), stuffed them into my apron pocket, and headed to the outhouse. It took a few minutes of fumbling around, mainly because I had to hold up my dress and slip while arranging that dang belt around my waist, and pinning the napkin to the belt, and all of this while trying to breathe with a corset choking my middle, but I finally got everything in place.

  As I waddled uncomfortably to the front of the cabin, my sister jumped up from the rocker. In her hands she held a hoop skirt. “Nanny left this for you. She said she made it herself.”

  My fingers rubbed the lightly colored wood. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’ll make your dress really poufy.”

  I brought the hoop inside, tried it on, and let the dress fall over the bell shape. I showed it off for my sister, spinning like a ballerina on top of a jewelry box.

  “Are you going to wear it to the circus tonight?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “I think Wendell will like it.”

  I nodded, agreeing with my astute little sister, ignoring the cramps that ebbed and flowed like tiny waves of lava, smiling as I twirled in the center of the cabin.

  I had taken a strip of lace and tied it in a small bow on my right ring finger, and had stolen a smidge of coffee to camouflage the scuffs on my boots. I didn’t wear gloves or carry a parasol, but with my lemony hair twirled into buns beneath my bonnet and my cheeks pink from rose petals, I felt like a Parisian princess. Like true royalty, Dad let me sit on the front seat of the wagon so I could keep my dress fanned out. There was barely enough room for the three of us—my dad, me, and my hoop skirt. Rusty had to sit in the back, ha-ha-ha. He had a hard time keeping his balance while trying to film from the shaky wagon floor. No sympathy, my friend.

  A dozen or so wagons were already parked on the circus grounds by the time we arrived. Rows of torches lined the path leading to the tent. A red, white, and blue flag waved near the ticket booth with its circle of nine stars.

  I was nervous about seeing Wendell, but I was more nervous about running into Prudence. As Dad tied up the horse my eyes darted around, but she was nowhere to be seen. I spotted Wendell, standing near the booth with his brothers and his parents. I waved.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, as he helped me down. He wore a black bow tie with his white shirt, and a dark vest. His pants were tucked into his boots, and he wore a black hat.

  “You do too. I mean, handsome.”

  A large crowd was forming in front of the tent. Each person was dressed in 1860’s clothing, just like us. “What did the producers do?” I whispered. “Fly these people out here in private helicopters?”

  Wendell laughed. “Probably an ad in the paper. Now stay in character.”

  As we walked toward the circus tent, Wendell pulled a small brown package out of his pocket and handed it to me. “This came for you at the Post Office.”

  I hadn’t sent any more letters because we couldn’t afford the postage, so receiving a package was as exciting as winning the lottery.

  The return address was from Florida. The box inside had a little note glued to the top: “Dear Brooke, I know you can’t have any contraband, but I spoke with the producers, and they told me they had these in the 1860s. Love, Grandma.”

  Wendell leaned over my shoulder, his warm breath on my cheek. Inside the box in a piece of tissue paper lay a silver chain with a tiny silver heart dangling from it.

  “It’s a locket,” I said, clicking it open.

  “Whose photographs are those?” Wendell asked.

  “One is me when I was a little girl…the other is my mother. We’re both around five.”

  “You’re like twins.”

  I hadn’t shared my mom’s death with Wendell, but I could tell from the softness of his eyes that he understood. Holding back tears of joy and sorrow combined, I handed him the necklace and turned my back toward him. “Clasp it for me.” In a moment it was hanging around my neck. Rusty zoomed in on the locket, and I held it up for the camera.

  Rebecca Lynn ran up to Wendell’s brothers, and our families made our way past a peanut vendor and a lemonade stand. At the ticket booth, Dad pulled out three coins.

  “No, sir,” Wendell told him. “I’ll pay for Brooke.”

  “Daddy,” Rebecca Lynn said, “can I get a bag of peanuts?”

  Dad handed her a penny.

  Wendell’s little brothers asked their father for the same. He handed over a large coin. “Don’t forget to bring back my change.”

  When the kids came back, we stepped into the tent as a group. Already the bench seats were filling up. Above the crowd, the ceiling rose to a peak where light filtered in from open panels at the top. Oil torches were stuck in the ground around the perimeter. Most families were dressed like they were heading to the opera. Kids sucked on swirled lollipops or dug into their peanut bags. A band played from somewhere hidden, and six colorfully dressed circus members slipped in from a panel at the back of the tent. They took a bow. When they left again, the ring master, who wore a tall black top hat to match his handlebar moustache and suit, announced the show.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to behold the most amazing feats of strength, tenacity, and balance you will ever lay your eyes upon!”

  I had never been to a circus so up close and personal, where the audience is part of the show. The only things that made it feel modern were the six cameras on tripods located throughout the room. But the moment the show began, I forgot all about the cameras, and fell into the fun of the circus.

  The tightrope walker, a short stocky woman named Lady Regina, bounced up and down on a slack rope spread twenty feet across between two large saw horses. The rope was suspended only a few feet off the ground, but her balance was spot-on. It was hard to believe such a portly woman could be so steady. She twirled an umbrella, jumped rope, and sang funny songs, all while dancing back and forth along the rope. When she ended her routine, a drum rolled as she jumped to the ground and took a deep bow to the cheers of the audience.

  Gregory, “The fastest juggler east of the Appalachians,” was next. He started out by throwing five small leather balls into the audience. Wendell caught one. Gregory asked three of the people to throw the balls back, and then began juggling them. After a moment he asked the fourth person to throw back a ball. The juggler caught it, and it joined the spinning circle. Finally, the fifth ball was thrown back, and it went off to the side, but Gregory somehow caught it and tossed it into the air with the others. When he was done with the ball trick, he asked four men sitting in the front row if he could borrow their hats. Gregory threw them up so high they nearly hit the ceiling. But he never dropped one of them. He never almost dropped them. After tossing back the hats, he uncovered four shiny steel daggers under a cloth on the side of the stage. Into the air they went. All I could think was if something happened to him, like a dagger jamming through his skull, Doctor Hensel wouldn’t be able to save him. I held my breath as he threw them into the air and caught them by their pearly handles, over and over, as though they were no more deadly than bean bags.

  After his bow, I glanced around the room to wa
tch the spectators’ faces, and that’s when I spotted Prudence a few rows behind. She was not looking at the ring. She was staring at Wendell and me. I wrapped my hand around the locket.

  “Wendell,” I whispered. “Prudence is shooting daggers at me with her eyes.”

  “Maybe that’s her circus act,” Wendell said laughing, never taking his eyes off the round stage.

  When Bernard the fire-eater entered the ring, I hid behind Wendell’s profile. By the time Bernard had swallowed enough flames to light up a city, and the poodles pranced around in their funny ballerina tutus, I had forgotten all about Prudence.

  Prudence, however, did not forget about me.

  After the performers took their final bows, our families followed the stream of happy spectators outside. Rebecca Lynn and the Murphy boys ran over to the wagon where the poodles sat at their trainer’s feet, and Dad stood chatting with Wendell’s parents. Camera people roamed about, but Trusty Rusty stayed closest. To our right, the crowd moved in a large wave as Prudence pushed her way through.

  As if seeing me for the first time in years, she said, in a sugary-sweet Sugar Gap voice, “Oh, Brooke! How wonderful to see you. I do hope you enjoyed the show.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “And you, Wendell Lee Murphy?”

  “Yes, Prudence, thanks for asking.” He turned to me. “What was your favorite, Brooke?”

  “Definitely the tightrope walker.”

  “Really? Mine was the fire-eater.”

  Prudence’s eyes darted back and forth between Wendell and me. She said, “I do hope you like the dress I gave you, Brooke.”

  “Of course I do.”

  My thighs did a little shimmy, making the dress rock back and forth.

  “I have so many dresses, there aren’t enough parties in a lifetime to show them all off.” She suddenly put on a wide crazy grin. “Wendell, which of my dresses do you like most?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you like the purple satin one? I can wear it to church on Sunday.”