One night at a time, she told herself. The world is smaller than it seems.
As Anna gathered her sister Marie’s knives and exited the stage, the rubes whispered and shuffled nervously, unsure of what they would see next.
And Jackal went to work.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, friends and neighbors,” he bellowed, “allow me to change your lives!”
It was key to have an opening line that was just this side of unbelievable. Did the rubes think their lives would really change because of what was in the tent? Of course not. Did they want to risk missing out, just in case it was something truly spectacular? Of course not.
Portia saw the midway crowd draw almost imperceptibly closer. Elevated above them, in his blinding white suit and bowler, both hands on the podium as if he were just barely able to contain his excitement, Jackal looked every bit like the preacher salesman that he was.
“That’s right, folks, change your lives, that’s what I said. For inside the tent behind me sits a stage full of the strangest people you have ever seen. Seeing is believing, folks, but you won’t believe your eyes. It’s the most marvelous collection of human oddities this side of the equator.”
A murmur rippled across the crowd, equal parts doubt and interest. This was the balance Jackal wanted to upset in his favor. “It’s like making cheese,” he’d told Portia. “You want to skim the bad stuff off the top and get to the parts that’ll give you what you want.” The first to go: anyone with young children.
“Not for the faint of heart, folks,” Jackal warned. “If you’re prone to nightmares or you’ve got a weak ticker, you’d best move on.”
A few mothers clucked their tongues and gathered their offspring immediately. “Let’s go see the elephants again,” one said.
“I wanna see the freaks!” her son wailed.
The woman gave Jackal a disapproving look over her shoulder as she led the disappointed boy away by the arm. Portia smiled a little, thinking of the mothers of Brewster Falls calling their children away from the road when she came flying by on the red bicycle.
“That’s okay, son,” Jackal called after them. “You come back by yourself next year!”
Some of the men in the crowd chuckled.
“Listen up, folks. We’ve got a six-in-one to beat the band. This is what your neighbors will be talking about at the grocery store and the dancehall, and even”—Jackal winked—“at the church social. This is what you’ll tell your grandkids about when they ask you for your best stories. They’ll say, ‘Tell me a story,’ and you’ll say, ‘Have I told you about the time I saw the fattest woman in the world and The Wild Albinos of Bora Bora?’ Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. This is where it’s at.”
He lowered his voice just a bit, hitting a conspiratorial tone. “And would you believe you can see every one of these marvelous marvels for only a quarter?”
The next to go: anyone without a quarter. Or the willingness to spend it.
There was still a decently large crowd, though, and Jackal gestured to the podium, where Anna waited to collect the money in a tin can while he went inside to wait for his audience.
Portia stepped off the side of the stage and joined the slow herd of spectators entering the six-in-one.
It was hot.
It smelled like sawdust.
The crowd inched forward as if they had been set to slow motion.
It was darker than the waning day outside, and the sounds dimmed, too. None of the happy chatter, the vendors calling out, the music, the animals. There was only the low buzz of urgent whispers, the occasional stifled laugh. And then, before Portia’s eyes had even adjusted, Jackal began to speak. “Step in, step in, folks! Plenty of room for everyone!”
Portia could see now that the tent was much bigger than it needed to be. It was mostly empty, even with Jackal’s voice pouring into every corner. There was one long stage laid down the middle, like a giant dining room table, with room on all sides for walking around. Room for the rubes to see the freaks from every angle. The entrance brought them to the front of the stage, where Mrs. Murphy sat in a plush blue wingback chair.
Portia knew she should be listening to Jackal—that was why he had let her in, so she could witness his ballyhoo—but something about seeing her new companions at work, lined up on the stage like a buffet, made it difficult to concentrate.
Mrs. Murphy was looking very intently into her lap, and as Portia was drawn forward, she saw the woman’s hands moving steadily, rhythmically. Needlepoint. She was working on her needlepoint.
Portia thought of the dozens of needlepoint pillows in Mrs. Murphy’s trailer and began to feel a little ill.
There was a small placard fixed to the front of the stage. EMMELINE MURPHY, it said. BEARDED LADY.
The man in front of her elbowed his friend. “Her beard’s better-looking than yours, Fred!” They both barked with laughter.
He’s right, Portia thought. Mrs. Murphy’s beard was red and gold, so silky it glowed like an oil painting.
Still, Mrs. Murphy did not look up.
Mrs. Collington, on the other hand, smiled and waved so the flesh under her arm danced hypnotically. No one waved back, so Portia raised her hand to say hello, but the expression on Mrs. Collington’s face didn’t change, even a little bit. Then Portia realized that she wasn’t waving to the crowd. Or at least, she wasn’t looking at the crowd. She was looking over their heads—giving the appearance of being happy to see them, of being the friendly, jolly fat lady they expected and had paid to see.
MRS. COLLINGTON, her placard said. 800 POUNDS.
Jimmy and Jim were, of course, next to each other, labeled WORLD’S SMALLEST MAN and IRISH GIANT. Portia wondered if Jim was in fact the tallest man in the world but had to admit she’d never seen anyone taller and probably neither had anyone else in the crowd, so who were they to argue? He looked rather sad and resigned to sitting there and letting people stare at his ankles, which showed because his pants were never long enough. Even though he made them himself. He always underestimated how tall he really was.
Jimmy could have had the opposite problem, out of wishing to be taller, but his clothes fit him flawlessly. He was very distinguished from toe to neck and all scowls above the collar. He gave Portia an especially fierce glare, and she glared back until the crowd forced her to keep walking.
Move along, the crowd was saying. Let us be done with this. And get a good long look while we’re here.
So on they went, past the WILD ALBINOS OF BORA BORA, who stood like dignified statues. Even Joseph. On they went, whispering, pointing, laughing nervously, until they came to the end of the stage and found themselves at a dark curtain. Jackal was waiting.
“Behind this door,” he said, low so everyone had to strain to hear him, “is the sixth and greatest act in our distinguished display. A true wonder of nature awaits you. The sight is yours for a single dollar. One dollar, folks. That’s all it’ll cost you for a once-in-a-lifetime experience. But I warn you: you will never be the same after this. Enter. If. You. Dare.
“Otherwise,” he added in a flat tone, “you may exit to my right.”
About half of the crowd had had enough wonders of nature already. No one complained about having paid a quarter and seeing only five freaks. They simply extracted themselves and walked silently, carefully out of the tent, back to the evening light and the midway and the normal things of the normal world they lived in. There was a burst of noise when the tent flap was lifted, and then it dropped and the close quiet of this other realm was restored.
“Now,” Jackal said, grinning, “we see who the real men are.”
For it was only men who remained. Except for Portia.
Perhaps they had heard the stories of other carnivals, had heard about the blowoff, the final act in the freak show that cost extra and often involved some half-naked exotic woman. A woman with a tail or a third breast. A woman who was somehow both a woman and a man, top half and bottom half or, even stranger, divid
ed down the middle.
Portia knew better, though. Because she hadn’t seen Polly and Pippa on the stage with the rest of the cast. And they had to be somewhere.
Portia waited until all the men were through and stepped up to Jackal. He gave her the eyebrow again.
“End of the line for you,” he said.
“Jackal,” she said. “Let me through.”
“Not a bloody chance,” he replied. There was something behind his smile, a secret behind a steel door. He would not relent, Portia could see that. But she had rarely come to a door and not tried to open it.
“But you want me to know,” she reminded him. “You want me to bring the customers back here. I have to know what I’m talking about, don’t I?”
“Go,” he told her. “Walk around. Blend in. Listen up. See what they’re seeing, how they’re seeing it. You’ve got to know your audience.”
“I’ve seen the lot. I know it already.”
“Not at night, you don’t. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen the lot at night.” Jackal pointed at the exit and smiled again. “It’s that way.”
Then, as she turned to go, he spat, “And they’re not customers. They’re rubes. Don’t ever forget that.”
Brotherly Love
Joseph Lucasie was a strange boy. Even though his skin and hair were utterly white, aside from his dark glasses and his sun umbrella, he was strange. In the five days since her arrival, Portia had never seen him speak to anyone except Violet, not even his parents, and she frequently caught him glaring at her for no apparent reason.
“I don’t think your brother likes me,” Portia told Violet. They were wearing lost-and-found sunglasses, sitting in lost-and-found lawn chairs in front of their trailer, trying to keep from falling through the worn-out fabric. The heat was like a blanket. Violet fanned herself with a movie magazine.
“He doesn’t like anyone,” Violet said. “Only me. Lucky, lucky me.”
“Doesn’t he have any friends?”
“There aren’t any kids around except the ones who come for the circus, and they’re not going to make friends with someone like Joseph. They might talk to me, but he always shows up and scares them off. It might not be so bad if he made an effort, but he just stands there and stares and doesn’t say anything. It spooks people. I’ve tried to tell him. People are going to think he’s touched in the head or something.”
Portia blushed. That was exactly what she’d thought.
“Anyway,” Violet said, “he’ll have to learn to fend for himself sometime. I’m not here to spend my life being his only friend. I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what?” Maybe she could give Portia a few ideas.
“Anything. Everything. I want to be an actress. I want to learn to fly a plane. I want to take a train from one coast to the other and see the whole country.”
“I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot more of the country than I have,” Portia said.
“We mostly go in circles around the middle,” Violet said. “I want to see it all at once. And not from a broken-down truck hauling a broken-down trailer. I want to see it whiz past me like a shooting star. Then I’ll know I’m really moving. And I want to see it on my own.”
“Why do you have to stay in the middle?”
Violet adjusted her sunglasses. “The big shows have the rest of it staked out, and we’re not allowed to get too deep into their territory. They’ve got better acts than we do, too. Elephants and big cats, plus the best freaks in the business. It’s really not fair.” She sighed deeply. “It was better when the Wonder Show was a ten-in-one.”
“A what?”
“A sideshow with ten acts. Ten freaks inside the tent, that’s a ten-in-one. Then Edwina the Lobster Girl ran off with Rafael the Rubber-Skinned Man, and The Human Torso went with another show, and The Human Skeleton died.”
“How’d he die?”
“Food poisoning. Bad meat or something.” Violet sounded almost on the verge of laughter. “Anyway, now Mosco’s only got a six-in-one. He’s still got some good acts, but competition’s stiff, and The Human Torso was really something special. He rolled cigarettes with just his lips, and he did it faster than most men do with their hands. Good and tight, too. Mosco sold ’em as souvenirs.”
Portia shifted carefully in her chair. “Wouldn’t you miss your family? If you left?”
“I don’t know,” Violet said vacantly. “I’ve never had a chance to be away from them.”
Portia tried to imagine it for her then, pictured Violet riding in a train all alone, flying past the towns she’d been through with the caravan. Maybe she’d see the carnival on the road somewhere along the tracks. Maybe Joseph would look out the truck window at the same time Violet looked out the train, and they would see each other for an instant. Portia wasn’t sure she liked Joseph, but it was rather sad to think of him having to watch his only friend hurtling away from him on a speeding train.
As if she’d summoned him with her mind, Joseph came around the trailer and called for Violet. It was the first time Portia had heard his voice—it was surprisingly high and sweet. It didn’t match his scowl when he saw Portia sitting there.
“What are you talking about?” Joseph demanded.
“None of your business,” Violet replied. “It’s girl talk.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me with my multiplication tables.”
“Fine. What’s five times six?”
Joseph crossed his arms. “Not in front of her.”
Violet rolled her eyes, but Portia said, “That’s all right. I told Jackal I would help him paint the stage.” She stood up and said, “Here, Joseph, you can have my seat.”
“What do you say, Joseph?” Violet prodded.
“You know I can’t sit out here,” he snapped.
It took all of Portia’s self-control not to snap back. He’s just a kid, she told herself. “I didn’t know,” she said.
“He can’t be in the sun.” Violet swatted Joseph with her magazine. “This is what I have to deal with. I’m telling you, the minute I get the chance, I am gone.”
The change in Joseph was instantaneous. He dropped to his knees and his umbrella tipped, exposing one ear to the sun. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I’m sorry I was rude, Violet, I’m sorry!” He looked as though he might actually cry, even though Portia was still standing there. She knew something about not letting yourself cry in front of certain people, what it took to keep your chin steady and your eyes clear.
“God, Joseph,” Violet said, “you’re so dramatic. Just forget it, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Now, what’s five times six?”
Portia could hear their voices carrying on the wind as she walked away, Violet’s gruff and Joseph’s sweet, like instruments harmonizing. They were family, parts of the same orchestra. But when she looked back at them over her shoulder, she saw how different they were, too. Violet’s black hair and dark skin made Joseph look even more like a ghost. Portia looked down at her own arms, brown from working in the sun, and she saw them as if they belonged to someone else. They were regular arms. Strong, young, normal arms, the kind that Marie might have had in another life.
But here, in this place, normal meant nothing. No one paid money to see normal, no one made a living from it. Portia had seen the freaks making a fuss over Joseph, the only young one among them, telling him how special he was while Violet stood by the pie car, the sun shining on her golden skin.
Violet could have things that Joseph and their parents could not have. The world outside would welcome her, but only if she left her family behind. And from what Portia could tell, Violet was perfectly willing to pay that price.
She wondered what Max had been thinking the day he drove away on the road of dust. Was he watching the land fly past and the horizon at the end of the sky, coming to meet him? Was he glancing in that rearview mirror every now and then, or was he looking straight ahead and thinking about a whole new life?
It shouldn’t be so easy
to leave a place, Portia thought. But then she realized that if it weren’t so easy, she’d still be at Mister’s. Caroline tapped at the edge of her memory, and Sophia, and Quintillia, and all the others. The ones who left, and the ones who were left behind, everyone in motion like startled birds, trying to find a place to land.
Girl on the Inside
Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors,” Portia called.
“Louder! Drop your voice!”
She made her voice deep and bellowed, “Ladies and gentlemen—”
“Louder!”
“LADIES—”
Jackal trotted back from where he’d been standing. “It seems I’ve made a cardinal error.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I neglected to check your qualifications before I gave you the job.”
“But I know all the lines. I’ve learned everything you told me to say.”
Jackal nodded. “That is true, and for that, I commend you. However, no one gives a whit what you’re saying if they. Can’t. Hear. You.”
Portia imagined waking up one morning and finding herself alone on the lot, abandoned by the Wonder Show. “I can do it. Go back over there and let me try again.” She pushed at Jackal’s shoulder, but he stood solid as a closed door and gazed thoughtfully into the air.
“No,” he said. “It won’t work. Your voice simply isn’t strong enough.”
Portia crossed her arms and pinched the insides of her elbows to keep herself from crying. Or shouting. She felt she might do either at any moment. “Jackal, please.”
He tilted his head and smiled wickedly. “Why, darling, I do believe your heart has leaped onto your sleeve. Have you grown so attached to me already?”
“Forget it,” she said, and turned to walk away.
“Now, now,” Jackal said. “I’m only teasing.”
“It’s not funny,” she mumbled. But she turned back, and Jackal bowed in exaggerated apology.
“I am deeply sorry,” he said.
“I can see that. Get up. Come on.”
Wonder Show Page 9
