The Nine Pound Hammer

by John Claude Bemis

  “Oh, just some Indian charm Redfeather wears on a necklace. Keeps you from getting burned. He doesn’t even need it! I’m the one that needs it. And this stinking filth! I can’t ever get clean of all this coal grease.” He frowned as he continued, “Pa says I’ve got to work my way up. Maybe to brakeman next if my brother ever moves on. Then one day … engineer, like Pa.”

  “Your father drives the Ballyhoo?”

  “Ox Everett,” Conker interrupted as he dropped an armload of blue painted poles. “That’s him over there.” Ray followed Conker’s nod toward a tall, portly man with a long walrus mustache. Mister Everett wore a shiny engineer’s cap and blue striped denim suit. He was talking to Peg Leg Nel and a young man a few years older than Eddie who was nearly a twin of the bakehead, if you scrubbed Eddie down in a bucket of hot water and dressed him in more suitable work clothes.

  Eddie and Ray put down the canvas roll at the entrance of the tent and began helping Conker put together the poles. Eddie explained, “That’s my brother, Shacks, and you met my ma, didn’t you?”

  “Not properly,” Ray said.

  “Well, she already’s taken a liking to you, but watch out for Pa,” Eddie said meekly.

  “Don’t listen to him, Ray,” Conker chuckled. “A little hard sometimes, but Ox Everett’s a fine engineer and an old-time friend of Nel’s. Fought in the war together. He and Nel love playing music. You’ll hear come showtime. Eddie and Shacks are hot shots, too. But couldn’t have the show without Mister Everett. He does all the arranging. Talks to the local officials, persuades or pays them. Whatever it takes to get things set proper.”

  “One day, the Ballyhoo will be mine,” Eddie added with a wistful expression as he started driving the metal poles in the ground. “She’s the greatest train around!”

  Ray looked again at the flaking paint and rust, the leaking oil from the axles, and the weathered wood paneling the cars. “Is she fast?” Ray asked, assuming her better qualities lay beyond appearances.

  The proud look faded slightly from Eddie’s soot-covered face. “Well, no. Not particularly.”

  Securing the framework of poles to the ground with guidewires, Conker smirked. “She breaks down all the time.”

  “So by greatest train around,” Ray said, “you mean the greatest train here … sitting right in front of us.”

  Conker roared with laughter as Eddie made a face.

  Then Conker added, “She may not look like much, Ray, but she’s home.”

  Steering the conversation away from the Ballyhoo so as not to offend Eddie further, Ray asked, “What do you do, Conker? Are you a performer or do you help on the train?”

  The giant turned around, dwarfing Ray in the shadow of his height and scowling face. “Can’t you tell? I’m the strongman.”

  “Oh,” Ray said, cowering a moment. But Conker broke again into his easy laugh and clapped a coal-shovel-sized hand on Ray’s shoulder.

  “Come on, I’ll show you my handiwork. Grab ahold of the other side of this roll and we’ll get it hung up at the front gate. Painted the sign myself.”

  After attaching the corners of the canvas roll to the framework of poles, Conker let it unfurl. Ray stood back with Eddie to admire the ten-by-twelve-foot sign introducing CORNELIUS T. CARTER’S MYSTIFYING MEDICINE SHOW AND TABERNACLE OF TACHYCARDIAL TALENT. If Conker hadn’t already found his calling as a performer, he could have been an artist.

  The spitting image of Peg Leg Nel, although with a few less wrinkles and not quite so wild-eyed to Ray’s mind, peered down from the center. Below the oval-framed portrait, a scrolling banner announced CORNELIUS T. CARTER along with the title ROOT WORKER.

  “That’s me.” Conker pointed to a bare-chested likeness of himself lifting a globe, like Atlas from the old myths. If anything, Ray thought Conker had been too humble in his self-portrait. The real Conker was much more imposing.

  Ray scanned the other images. He found the SNAKE DANCER, Marisol, her torso and arms covered in slithering pythons. Buck was there, too, sporting an outstretched pistol above the label BLIND SHARPSHOOTER. Below him was a young man in a turban swallowing a sword. SWORD SWALLOWER. There was an Indian with a feathered headdress. Flames encircled him. FIRE-EATER. A Chinese girl, who must have been Conker’s friend Si, was twisted in a knot and encased in a ridiculous number of locks and chains. She was listed as the ESCAPE ARTIST.

  “Think you’ll stick around, Ray?” Eddie asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Ray said.

  “Well, you ought to stay here with us,” Conker said. “We can use a hawker out front and help setting up and breaking down. Always plenty of work.”

  Ray looked around at the medicine show’s tent and the rickety train. Conker put his hand to Ray’s back, directing him toward the train. “Come on. Nearly lunchtime.”

  * * *

  Ray was greeted warmly. First by the rich smells coming from the makeshift dining room erected in the grass on the backside of the Ballyhoo. In the shade of a wide oak, a table was created from old doors and sawhorses. It took four mismatched floral tablecloths to cover the length. An assortment of chairs and benches from the train were set about, most of the medicine show already seated and scooping heavy servings onto their tin plates. Enormous cast-iron pots and pans were heaped with different steaming dishes: a buttery, yellow cornmeal cake, hissing pieces of fried chicken, dark oily greens flecked with cut potatoes and bits of fatback, gooey mounds of yams, and ears of corn, the husks blackened from roasting. Ray had no doubt the last had been stolen from the field that stretched out behind them.

  The next greeting came from Ma Everett’s warm arms enfolding Ray. “Glad you’re out and about, young one. Spent so much time with you in there, I feel I already know you.”

  Ray smiled at the small, pinched face he recalled from the brief windows of wakening from his feverish sleep.

  “I’m Ma Everett,” she chirped.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m Ray.”

  “You feeling better, dear?”

  “Yes. Much. Thank you for all you did.”

  “Nothing, nothing,” she said. “Take a seat, anywhere. Fix a plate. You still look a fair bit peaked. They haven’t been working you too much, I hope.”

  “He insisted,” Conker said, mashing Ray into a chair at his side. He began shoveling heaps on his plate. Ray imagined that Ma Everett could have cooked all day just to keep Conker alone fed, but serving himself from the enormous pans, Ray realized that there would be more than enough to feed the entire medicine show and half the town of Hillsboro.

  Ray noticed a strange object beyond the shade of the oak, toward the caboose of the Ballyhoo. It was a cedar pole stuck into the ground. The branches were stripped, and upturned bottles of ocean blues, ripe greens, fire reds, and golden yellows were fastened with wire to where the broken limbs had been. Looking around, he saw another one farther away, on the edge of the cornfield near the tent.

  “What are those poles?” Ray asked Conker over the clank of silverware and loud conversation swimming about the table.

  “Hmm? Oh, bottletrees,” he murmured.

  “Salutations to our bear-rider,” Peg Leg Nel called from down the table.

  Conker whispered, “Think Nel’s got you in mind for performing. What do you think of that?”

  “I think he’s mistaken,” Ray said, noticing that Si was listening discreetly. “I’m no showman.”

  Si glared at Ray from the opposite side of the table, sitting between Ox and Ma Everett. She sneered and looked away when their eyes met, returning to a book she was reading by her plate. Ray felt distinctly that she had something against him, but he wasn’t sure why. His eyes shifted to her hands, which he noticed were covered with red silk gloves.

  With a quick scan, Ray realized that the blind cowboy, Buck, was not there.

  A straw-haired boy sat down in the empty seat next to Ray, followed by an Indian boy with two sleek braids draped over his shoulders. Both wore dusty wool trousers and loose
cotton shirts not much different than Ray’s, although theirs were less threadbare.

  “Heard you were practicing a hootchy-kootchy routine for Marisol,” the straw-haired boy said, drawing snorts from the Indian boy at his side. “I should warn you we don’t have a burlesque act in this show. We’re wholesome entertainment.”

  “Leave the boy alone,” Ma Everett said sharply.

  “Just ribbing him, Ma,” he said. He gave Ray such a big smile that Ray decided it was best to laugh along. The boy snapped his fingers. “You’re all right. Ray, right? I’m Seth.”

  Ray nodded, reaching to shake the boy’s hand and then leaning over to the Indian, who said in a soft voice, “My name’s U’melth Hamatsa-Xalmala, but it’s too hard for most to pronounce, so everyone just calls me Redfeather.”

  “Where are you from, Redfeather?” Ray asked, taken aback by the incomprehensibly long name.

  “The northwest coast of Canada—a village off Vancouver Island,” Redfeather said, drooping his head so that his braids nearly fell in his food. “I’m Kwakiutl, although here I’m just the Fire-Eater.”

  “Yeah, I saw your picture on Conker’s sign. Are you the sword swallower?” Ray asked Seth.

  Seth snapped his fingers again and pointed at Ray. “That’s right. The star performer,” he added with a smug smile.

  “More like star imbecile,” Si muttered.

  Seth opened his mouth to reply, but Ray quickly asked, “How did you all learn to do these things?”

  While Seth glared at Si, Redfeather answered in his soft voice, “Some things you’re just born with.”

  Then Seth added, smiling churlishly at Si, “And some of us work hard to be this amazing.”

  Ray knew he was going to have a hard time remembering everybody—all these new names and strange faces. It seemed that the medicine show was made up of two groups. There were the performers: The pitchman and root doctor, Peg Leg Nel. The blind sharpshooter, Buck. Conker, the strongman, and Si, the escape artist. The snake dancer, Marisol. The two boys—Seth, the sword swallower, and Redfeather, the fire-eater.

  And then there was the Everett family: Ox Everett, the engineer. His wife, Ma Everett. Eddie, the fireman, and his older brother, Shacks, the brakeman. They operated the Ballyhoo, fixed meals, and helped to assemble the show, as well as providing music.

  The meal was unlike any that Ray had ever shared. In the breeze under the oak, Ray could scarcely finish his plate for simply enjoying the sense of being a part of something he could not quite name. What was it when people laughed and ate and shouted across the table to one another?

  “Where are you from, Ray?” Ma Everett called across the din. “Not from around here, I can hear.”

  The meal was slowly coming to an end and many of the faces around the table turned to listen, which made Ray self-conscious. Peg Leg Nel had removed his orange plaid coat and relaxed with his shirtsleeves rolled up his wiry, dark arms and his silk cravat loosened below his collar. He removed a small briarwood pipe from his shirt pocket. Across the table, the engineer, Ox Everett, was chewing something noxious-smelling that, when spit, looked like oily molasses.

  “From all over up north, I suppose. We moved around to a lot of cities.”

  “Your parents still living up there, Ray?” Ma Everett asked.

  “No, ma’am. Both my parents are gone. I have a sister somewhere down here. Hopefully she’s been adopted and has found a wonderful family.”

  Ma Everett wasn’t the only one whose face winced with sympathy at the understanding that Ray’s parents were dead. She gave him a gentle smile. “What are you going to do, dear? Are you looking for your sister?”

  “No. Well, I’d love to see her again, but she’s … better off for now. I’m not sure where I’m going.”

  Ma Everett cast a pitying look at Nel, who was eyeing Ray thoughtfully.

  Ray said to the pitchman, “I did think that—if you would, sir—you could give me some work to do today. Not for money or anything. Just to help repay you all for taking care of me.”

  “Well, certainly, son. Always appreciative of an extra set of hands. You’ll work the hawking stage with me. Two shows today. Should be bustling! I’ll situate you at the charge of collecting money—with me supervising, of course. Give Everett here a much-deserved respite so he can enjoy playing his devil’s box. See me at the stage in—let’s say half hour’s time.”

  At that, the table began to clear in a rustle of movement.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ray said. “Thank you all.” He nodded to Ma Everett and the others.

  As Ray dropped his plate with the others in the soapy bucket, Peg Leg Nel stood from the table and called out to him. He waved Ray over and leaned close as he spoke. “Ray. If you decide not to embark on other employment, you got work—something more long term—right here if you want it. I’m of the mind that, in time, you might want to take up the calling of … divertissement, i.e., entertaining. Never been one to badger the reluctant, but just thought I’d mention. My point is … we’ll have you if you’ll stay.”

  Ray’s hand brushed against the lodestone in his pocket. “Thank you, sir. I’ll think about it.” And as he looked once more at the empty table, Ray came upon the word that described Nel’s medicine show.

  Family. They were a family.

  Sitting on the edge of the stage stitching the hole in his cap, Ray counted the days since he had last seen Sally. It might as well have been years ago, for all the time he could gauge. The hungry days wandering in the strange wood and the fever left abysmal holes in his memory. A wave of longing crushed down upon Ray and briefly his eyes burned.

  Had she found a good home? And if so, where was it? Maybe the family would let him visit her, explain why he had left. But how could he possibly find her? She could be anywhere. There were hundreds of towns, thousands and thousands of houses across the South.

  Ray tied off the last stitch and bit the end of the thread off. Plopping his cap on his head, he took out the lodestone. It was still not moving. He wondered if it had led him here, to the medicine show. And if so, why? He put the lodestone back and kicked his heels against the stage as he looked around the tent.

  The performers were away, most likely cleaning up and getting dressed before the show. Ray noticed a few townspeople gathering beyond the entrance, reading the sign or at least looking at the pictures and casting curious glances toward the stage. He overheard a man say to another, “Won’t catch my God-fearing soul around no darkie hoodoo.” But as he stormed off, Ray saw the other man count the coins from his pocket while he waited for the show to start.

  Where was Peg Leg Nel? Hadn’t it been half an hour? Ray walked around, but saw nobody but Ma Everett, washing the plates with a long-handled brush. “Missus Everett, have you seen Mister Nel?”

  “No, dear. Probably getting ready in his car.”

  “Which one is that?” Ray asked.

  “You’ll get oriented to the train soon.” She pointed to the first car after the locomotive and tender. “That’s the sleeping car, where you’ll stay. Next is the mess car—the kitchen, dining room on the go, and storage. I leave out snacks there, in case you’re hungry before supper. After that one’s Buck and Nel’s car. Head on down there. You’ll find him.”

  Ray nodded a thank-you and walked down the gravel right-of-way beside the train. When he reached the mess car, he hopped up the steps on the vestibule and went in. On a normal passenger train, the car would have had tables for riders to sit and eat. This one had been modified for the Ballyhoo. The stationary tables were removed to make room for the show’s supplies. There was a cast-iron potbelly stove mounted to one wall and a simple wooden table, with biscuits and leftovers from lunch laid out on tin plates. Shelves were covered in jars of pickled vegetables and various preserved fruits. Several salted hams and strings of sausages swayed from the ceiling. The room smelled sweet and sticky with wood smoke and grease.

  Nobody was there, and Ray passed across the vestibule to the n
ext car—Nel’s car. His was another sleeping car that had also been altered. There was a short hallway with two doors and then an open area where the rest of the carriage rooms had been removed.

  This was obviously Nel’s workshop as well. In cabinets and shelves, filling crates, and hanging from pegs in the ceiling were the supplies for the medicine show’s tonics. Coils of dried snakeskins. Wide-mouthed bottles filled with earthy-brown roots. Tins holding various claws and teeth. Strings of fragrant herbs. Jars of bleached bones. Powders and liquids in a rainbow of colors. A table sat in the middle of the room, covered in all manner of bottles from tiny droppers to gallon-sized flagons.

  Ray knocked at the doors—calling out Mister Nel’s name—but got no reply. He crossed the vestibule to the next car and found the door locked. As he walked down the steps and continued around the side of the train, he reached a boxcar. The side was open and most of its contents emptied—apparently already set up for the show.

  Voices came from the opposite side of the boxcar. Nel was speaking to someone. Ray climbed up onto the vestibule connecting the locked car and the boxcar. As he came down the other side, what he heard gave him pause.

  “How’s our new arrival?” Nel asked.

  “Needs more time,” a hoarse low voice replied.

  Peeking around the side of the train, Ray saw that Nel was talking to Buck. Buck’s head nodded and turned in small loose motions. His eyelids were parted slightly, and Ray saw the ghostly white encompassing the iris, the pupil nothing more than a pinhole spot.

  Nel’s voice cracked with worry. “What if he finds … ?”

  “He won’t. He has no idea I was there or where we went. He’s still searching the Terrebonne wilderness, I’m sure. Why would he look on a train—and with a medicine show? He’d never suspect it. We’re safe for now. I’m certain.”

  “I’m not exactly comfortable with this, Buck.”

  “What would make you comfortable?” Buck’s voice was brisk and gravelly. “To let the Enemy have—?”

  “No, but I’m … we’re entertainers! Businessmen. Not …”