by Annie Harper
“It makes me feel trapped,” Ruth said, looking at the floor of the car.
Constance smiled wryly, but said nothing else. She simply squeezed Ruth’s hand once again as the car lurched higher.
When they reached the top, the car stopped, allowing riders to enjoy the view. Below, the festival seemed to be populated by tiny dolls rushing in and out of booths and tents. The band setting up at the amphitheater looked like fairies carrying miniature instruments. Beyond lay the town of New Philadelphia, its buildings all arranged in neat rows, looking just as small, if not smaller. Ruth felt her stomach spasm. At first she thought it was due to panic, a newly developed claustrophobia, but then she recognized it: an urge, a need, to do something.
“Constance,” she whispered, her voice so quiet and nervous she was momentarily worried Constance didn’t hear it. When the other young woman turned, Ruth kissed her.
Constance returned the kiss with an immediate, almost desperate enthusiasm. Her mouth felt warm, like the still smoldering coals of a long-burning fire, but there was a sweetness, a tang and even a savory quality as well. The taste, the sensation, spread through Ruth’s body, filling her again with such an overjoyed lightness that she knew instinctively she must cling to Constance or risk floating to the top of the car. Constance clung back as if she knew this fact as well, pressing her hand into the small of Ruth’s back, not allowing the smallest space between their two bodies. Her other hand found its way into Ruth’s hair, entwining there, not allowing their lips to separate until time stopped and they breathed as one.
The car lurched into motion, breaking the spell, and the pair parted reluctantly. Ruth could not pull her eyes from Constance. Her face seemed to have a magnet behind it and Ruth’s attention could go nowhere else. Neither spoke. They sat, stone-faced, hands almost touching.
The car made another circuit. It had barely gone halfway up, when once again, they seized one another. The kiss was more fevered. Ruth felt as though the warm smoldering in Constance had turned to a frenzied flame. It intoxicated her and she responded in kind: kissing harder, pressing closer, grasping tighter. She felt her blood racing through her veins. It felt hot, burning like Constance, and every cell begged for it to never end. When they finally reached the top once more, Ruth thought that should she spontaneously combust, it would an appropriate end to her life.
They separated again on the descent. This time it was Constance who would not look away. She locked Ruth in such an intense gaze that Ruth found it hard to keep a blush from overtaking her face. When they left the car, Ruth had to stare at her shoes lest she turn a poodle-skirt shade of pink.
“Did you do some kind of magic on me?” Constance asked as the two ventured up the hill and into a patch of trees away from the bustling festival below.
“Me?” Ruth laughed. “No. I’m not the one that can do magic.”
Constance laughed as well. “You think I can do magic?”
“Well…”
After turning away for a brief second, Constance turned back, appearing to have produced a tiny flame at the end of her pinky finger. “I can do this, but it’s only a trick.” She touched the flame to her lips and it was gone. “You, on the other hand, you have me spellbound.”
Ruth didn’t know what to say. She had been hoping since the previous year that Constance’s feelings mirrored her own, and here was her confirmation, but her mouth was a desert, devoid of words. “How—?”
“It’s just a trick,” Constance replied. “Papa shows me all kinds of tricks. It’s all about being able to handle pain really—”
“No, I…” Ruth shook her head. The fire performance was impressive, but she didn’t want to talk about that. She didn’t know the words for what she wanted to talk about, though, or where to begin. “How have you been… since last year?” she asked instead.
“Traveling,” Constance replied breezily. When Ruth did not respond, she went on. “We spent most of the winter in Florida. It’s a whole other world down there, Ruth. You wouldn’t believe…”
Ruth tried to stop herself, but her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. She squeezed her eyes shut, a last ditch effort to fight the droplets back. But Constance saw.
“Your cat eyes are running,” she said.
“Sorry…” Ruth wiped her eyes, trying to brush the tears away, but only smeared the makeup.
“Don’t… don’t…” Constance took a handkerchief out of her pocket and gently dabbed at Ruth’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to go with you,” Ruth found herself saying before she even realized it was what she wanted. “I want to travel with you, see everything, instead of waiting for you to come back.”
“Ruth—”
“I don’t want to just go to secretarial school and hold my breath waiting for the summer.”
“I want that too, but Ruth… I…”
Ruth took a deep breath and turned away. She sat on a small rock and smoothed her skirt in a slow, deliberate way. It calmed her. “You have others in other towns. I know… I understand.”
Constance’s eyes widened, then clouded over. “Where would you get an idea like that?”
“Isn’t that how it works? I mean… you’re only in a given town for—and you’re so—”
“Damn, Ruth. You really think that?”
Ruth shook her head. She didn’t know what she thought anymore. All she knew was that Constance coming back had been her only thought for the past year. She couldn’t imagine a world in which scores of other people didn’t feel the same way.
“I wish you could come too, Ruth. I thought about you every day… but this life isn’t for you.”
“Why not?”
“Ruth…” She gestured around at the small town festival.
It all looked perfectly fine to Ruth, who watched Constance with a puzzled expression. “You think I’m boring? Like my town that doesn’t change… or… what?”
She thought about her hometown; how the same man had been mayor her entire life, and how the grocer’s had a plaque proudly proclaiming that the store had been run by the same family since the 1840s. There were similar plaques at the bank, the newspaper office and even the school. Maybe everything in her town did stay the same. But then, didn’t that mean that she didn’t belong there? After all, she certainly felt changed.
“No. It’s not that at all, Ruth. Listen…” She seemed to be searching for words, so Ruth waited, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. All she wanted was to be with Constance for more than the brief time the festival allowed them. It didn’t seem all that much to ask. “Carnival folk… we’re different. That’s why we’re here in the first place. That’s why we start.”
Still, Ruth didn’t understand. “I can learn to do something—”
“I wish it were that simple.”
Ruth felt a strange anger, an urge to rage back at Constance’s rejection, growing inside her. She didn’t like it and tried smoothing her skirts again to rid her brain of the thought. It didn’t work. The words began spilling out unbidden. “How are we supposed to be together if we can only see each other one week a year? Do you care about that?”
Constance sat on the wall next to her, taking her hands to still them. “I don’t want to think about that right now—”
“When do you want to think about it?” Ruth could feel the heat of the fresh tears flowing down her cheeks.
“I just want to enjoy our time together. How are we supposed to do that while mourning the time we don’t have?” Constance took out her handkerchief again, but Ruth wrenched away.
“How am I supposed to enjoy our time when you tell me I’m not different enough to be with you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
But Ruth was not finished. Shouting now, she stood up and paced, unable to look back at the young woman watching her with such a confused and concerned expression. “You really think I’m not different, Constance? You think I’m like all of them d
own there? Well, let me tell you something then. My mother and I, we came from Poland when I was two years old and NOT ONCE, not even for a day, have those people down there let me forget exactly how different I am.” She took a long deep breath, trying once again to calm herself. “You and your Tata ran away from something because you were different; well, so did we, and I still am, Constance. I am still different. Am I not allowed to run away again? Not even to be with the person I love?”
Constance looked shocked. She sat watching Ruth for a long moment, making Ruth, who didn’t know if she was angry or simply absorbing the information, very uncomfortable.
“That was too much. I’m sorry… my temper…” Ruth trailed off as Constance jumped up and kissed her.
In the front window of the little apartment off Front Street, the lamp still glowed dimly. Ruth could see the curtain had been pulled back to watch who might be coming or going, but at some time during the evening, it had begun to shift back into place. To Ruth, these were all very clear signs her mother had tried to wait up, but had fallen asleep. She was probably still in the chair by the window.
Taking great care not to make a sound, Ruth made her way up the outer stairs, unlocked the door and slipped inside. There she found her mother, exactly where she had expected her: slumped over, fast asleep in the rocking chair next to the window. Ruth felt a pang in her heart when she considered her mother, far too thin and frail, looking at least a decade older than her true age. Gently, trying her best not to disturb her, Ruth picked up the quilt that had pooled at her mother’s feet and draped it over her shoulders. “A gute nakht, mamele,” she whispered in Yiddish before kissing her cheek.
As she slipped into the bedroom, Ruth’s mind reeled, filling with second thoughts. Her mother was so helpless. If she left her mother here alone, who would look after her? Who would talk to the utility company and make sure the water stayed on? Who would work with her on her English? Who would make sure she fed herself? She was so helpless, and the thought sent a wave of guilt over Ruth, who had to sit down on the bed until it abated. She felt so ashamed. How could she have forgotten about her mother? When the thought occurred to her to leave, it had felt so natural, so perfectly right, but now she was torn. If she ran away with Constance, her mother would be all alone. If she stayed, she knew she would regret it, every day.
“Ruth?” Her mother’s voice called from the bedroom doorway. Ruth brushed at her eyes before turning to face her. In the doorway stood Hannah Pasternak, petite and pale as ever. Her thinning black hair fell down to her shoulders; her nighttime head wrap had fallen off sometime during her fitful sleep. The tiny woman had wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and looked for a moment as though she carried more bulk.
Ruth stood up quickly and started forward to help her toward the bed. “Mama! I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Nonsense. I was waiting for you to get home.” She eschewed her daughter’s assistance, tottered across the floor on her own and sat down, then motioned for Ruth to join her. “I want to hear all about the festival.”
Ruth sat down obediently, but shook her head at the thought of telling her mother about the day. “You don’t want to hear a—”
“Of course I do. You were very excited this morning. Dancing around here like a princess on the way to a ball.” As she took Ruth’s hand, a knowing expression passed across her mother’s face. Ruth wondered exactly how much she knew or thought she knew. “What’s his name?”
“I—”
“Don’t be tight-lipped with your mother, Ruth. I remember acting very similarly about your father.”
Ruth’s blush intensified to a very deep crimson, almost the same color as the lipstick Constance wore. “I’m not trying to be tight-lipped. It’s just—”
“Ah, you think I won’t approve.” Ruth was further taken aback by the look on her mother’s face. It was almost playful. She had never once seen her mother wear this expression, and it was unsettling.
“Mama, listen to me. There is no—”
“It would have to be someone who worked for the festival. I haven’t seen you out with anyone since you graduated.” She shook her head somberly. “You spend far too much time taking care of me—I don’t make arrangements for you like I should. It can be hard to meet people in this town. Perhaps we should have gone elsewhere years ago. Somewhere more open.”
Ruth squeezed her mother’s hand. “Mama. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.”
“You’re my daughter. Worry about you is what I do.”
The pair sat in silence for a long while. Ruth watching her mother. Her mother watching her. Initially Ruth’s plan had been to come home, pack and be gone before she was noticed, but now that was impossible. She couldn’t go tonight. She didn’t know if she could go at all. Worst of all, Constance would probably be very understanding. Ruth didn’t want to see her calm look as she nodded and said something like, “Of course, well, it’s probably for the best.”
Part of her wanted to tell her mother everything, but at the same time, a nagging doubt stayed her.
She continued to watch her mother’s face, searching her eyes for some sign, some indication that she knew more than she was letting on. What she saw were loving, determined eyes; eyes that had already given up more than their fair share of her own hopes and dreams to keep her daughter safe, to give her a good life. Eyes that carried a heavy history of leaving her home and family. Eyes that struggled still to find meaning in the world around her. Ruth wanted to be the one to give her what she needed now. She wanted that more than anything, more even than Constance’s fiery kisses. She couldn’t bear to give her mother any further sorrow by leaving.
“Mama,” she began, about to say something about secretarial school, when another idea came to her. It was a gamble, perhaps too much of a gamble, but she knew deep down that she had to try. “Mama, her name is Constance.”
“Constance.” Her mother seemed to roll the name around in her mouth as she said it, tasting every letter, prodding to see if they had nutrients and substance. “Constance—”
“She’s a fire performer,” Ruth said, uncertain how to proceed with her plan and already doubting herself. “Well, a fire performer in training. Her father is a fire performer—”
“So, she does work for the carnival?” Ruth waited for the disapproval, but her mother’s face was a mask.
“Yes.”
“Fire performance… that sounds dangerous.”
“It’s splendid. You should see.” Ruth took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Perhaps, you could come tomorrow?”
“Constance,” her mother said once again, still sampling the letters. “Yes. I think I would like that very much.”
* * *
The next morning, Ruth could not eat her breakfast. Her stomach churned at the thought of her foolish actions the night before.
Her mother, however, seemed oddly chipper as she took Ruth’s untouched bowl of oatmeal. She even smiled when she asked, “What’s the matter, Ruth? Are you ill?”
Ruth wanted to ask her mother the same question. “No, Mama, I…” She trailed off, her stomach churning again and feeling worse than it had on the Miss First Town Days podium.
“When are we going to the festival then?”
Any hope that she had forgotten about their discussion vanished. Ruth felt her ears begin to ring in tandem with the empty lurch in her gut.
“I don’t know, Mama, maybe—” But she knew there was no getting out of it, and she couldn’t put it off. If she wanted the plan to work, it was now or never. “When do you think you’ll be ready?”
Her mother grinned, a rare gem of a smile. “I’m ready now.”
Ruth took a deep breath and nodded.
A moment later, Ruth’s mother was wrapped in a shawl, even though the newspaper said it would be almost ninety degrees that day. Ruth tried to hide her trembling nerves, lest her mother offer her a shawl, too.
As they maneuvered along the fairway, R
uth refused to so much as glance from side to side. She could no longer hear the vendors and barely took notice of the fried food smells that had so intoxicated her the day before. She had one goal: to get this over with as soon as possible. Then she would know, once and for all, what to do.
The crowd at the sideshow tent was much as it had been the day before. Ruth watched her mother’s face, looking for any sign of disapproval, disgust or worse, but nothing of the sort appeared. She seemed to be taking it all in without comment or change in expression. Ruth couldn’t imagine what might be going through her mind as they watched a woman bite the head off a live rat. She looked up at her mother’s eyes, trying to study her face, but her expression was blank.
“I suppose you expect me to be sick?” she asked Ruth, as the woman disappeared behind a screen. “How little you know me, Ruth. I have seen far more disturbing things in my life than rats.”
Ruth didn’t know what to say.
The fire-eater stepped up next. He carried two thin flaming torches, which he spun wildly between his fingers, sending the flames whirling into long arms. Ruth could see the blank expression on her mother’s face shift a little and hoped that had more to do with awe than anything else. She glanced around, searching for Constance, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The crowd gasped. Ruth turned back; her eyes went wide as soon as she saw Constance, who was dressed in billowing white pants that matched her father’s. Hers were cinched tightly just above her hips with a metallic belt that seemed to be made of bells. Instead of a replica of her father’s loose tunic top, Constance wore one that was very tight and left her midriff exposed. Ruth found it hard not to stare.
She strolled up to her father and took one of his torches. In perfect unison, the two tilted their heads back and swallowed the still-burning flames. A moment later, they spit the flames back out. As usual for his act, the fire-eater relit his torch, but his daughter used her fire to light a hula hoop.
