Wonder Show

by Hannah Barnaby

  As the lot purged itself of customers after the late show, Portia drew closer to the midway and the waiting colony of trucks and trailers. Most of the performers were already tucked into their dens, but a few were sitting outside, chatting across the narrow gaps between the metal bodies of their homes. They had booked an extra day here—Portia could not remember the name of the town—so there was none of the hushed buzzing of activity that preceded a move. The night was calm, and the air had cooled kindly.

  Anna was sitting on the steps of the trailer she shared with Marie, the glossy painted image of her sister watching over her. She smiled when she saw Portia approaching. “Are you all right?” she asked. Her voice was so soft, it was almost lost as soon as it left her body.

  “Fine, thank you,” Portia replied. She thought of Anna’s face, twisting at Pippa’s use of that forbidden word. “I’m sorry about that. About before.”

  Anna’s smile wavered a bit but did not fade. “There is a lot that’s hard to understand here. A lot of rules. All of us had to learn them, and all of us made mistakes.”

  It was the most Portia had heard Anna say since she’d arrived. Even more astonishingly, she went on.

  “I’m sorry about Violet. You were friends.”

  “I thought so,” Portia said, more bitterly than she meant to.

  Anna bobbed her head. “She knew you’d be upset. She knew her family would be devastated. But she made herself leave anyway. She was afraid, if she didn’t, that she’d have to stay forever.”

  “Did she tell you that? Did she talk to you before she left?”

  “No.” Anna stood, running her hands up and down her arms. The night was cooling rapidly now. “I just know how she feels.”

  Then she nodded once, stepped into her trailer, and closed the door.

  Portia’s own trailer was empty. She had her own place to sleep, for the first time in years, and it felt like the biggest empty space in the world. Bigger than the Grand Canyon. Bigger than the craters on the moon. Bigger than the ocean’s bed without the ocean in it.

  She avoided going to sleep as long as she could. Her nightly ritual of remembering Max and the family stories had lost its power and did not comfort her anymore. Instead, she invented tasks to keep herself awake. She explored every corner of the trailer (which took about fifteen minutes). She put on her lipstick and made movie star faces in the mirror until she got embarrassed and wiped it off. She imagined she was on a train to California. She turned the train around and headed for New York. She made it into a boat and departed for Italy.

  She stood in the hallway and put her hands out to touch the sides, to remind herself that this was, in fact, quite a small space and not empty at all.

  But when she finally lay down, alone, the trailer walls seemed to breathe and swell outward, away from her, threatening to split themselves apart and drop her into the earth where she was sure a cavernous hole had formed so that she would fall into it and keep falling and fall straight down to hell, where Mister was waiting to roast her like a pig on a spit.

  Portia launched herself out of bed and down the hallway to the trailer door, which she flung open and jumped through as if the flames were already licking at her nightgown. Which she imagined they were. Which made her start to run.

  She didn’t look at the ground, didn’t see what tripped her. So she screamed, and she kept screaming until a rough, warm hand wrapped itself over her mouth.

  “Shh,” Gideon said. “Shh. It’s just me.”

  She felt her heart kicking in her chest, heard her own rapid breath. She let Gideon hold her still until her body began to calm. Neither one of them moved for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Portia broke the spell.

  “Mmph.”

  “What?” Gideon pulled his hand away.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  His face was barely visible in the darkness. She could only just make out the line of his nose, his chin like a rock breaking the surface of water.

  “I thought . . . you might be lonely,” said Gideon.

  Portia felt around with her bare foot and found the blanket on the ground, still warm from where Gideon had been sleeping.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “So,” he said.

  They stood silent for an excruciating moment, until Gideon cleared his throat and said, “Good night, then.”

  “Good night,” Portia answered. She stepped backwards and turned to go inside, then paused in the doorway and whispered over her shoulder: “Thank you.”

  She did not wait for a response. She trusted he had heard.

  Gideon

  I know she’s in trouble. I’ve seen people in trouble before. But I don’t know if I can help her. I’ve never been able to save anyone before. I said I’d give up trying to save anyone else. I promised myself.

  I know. It’s stupid. You can change, but not that much.

  I want to erase whatever happened to her.

  She keeps telling me she’s happy here. I don’t think she’s lying. But I’m not sure happiness is what matters. It’s a luxury, happiness. It’s something like a falling leaf or a certain shape in a cloud. It lands. It changes. It can’t last.

  It’s a gift, sure. But it can’t last.

  Anyway, if she won’t tell me what she’s going to do, how am I supposed to help her? A man’s got trouble, he’ll either talk about it or he won’t. He’ll either tell it to you or keep it to himself. Women, though. They’ll tell you a little piece and keep the rest, and no matter how many ways you try to dig the rest of it out, you can’t get any more of the story.

  Maybe if I’d had sisters I’d understand.

  I just wish I knew what was haunting her.

  Maybe then I could do something.

  Joseph

  I thought the new girl would leave, but Violet did instead.

  Mother has been crying for two days, and Mosco had to change the sign on the stage to say FATHER AND SON instead of FAMILY because if Mother was up there crying, people would think she was being mistreated. Father says Violet will be back but I don’t think he believes it. He sounds very empty when he says it, like he is a tire and someone has let all the air out of him. She always talked about leaving and none of us thought she really would because she didn’t really have anywhere to go. She doesn’t know anyone we don’t know. Does she?

  Violet is gone and the new girl is still here. Sometimes she tries to talk to me but I don’t want to hear her say “I’m sorry” again, so I just ignore her. It doesn’t matter if she is sorry. Violet is gone and no one will play cards with me now.

  I wish I had my elephant. I would stomp that new girl and then I would find Violet and bring her back. We would ride my elephant together like a prince and a princess and I would never think Violet’s black hair was ugly again.

  Punks

  Portia was suspicious when Joseph offered to show her his favorite place, but she knew he’d been lonely without Violet, and she decided that even if he was up to something, she felt sorry for him just enough to go along with it.

  “It’s this one,” he said. He’d led her to a trailer she’d never noticed before, one that looked older than the rest. It was made of wood instead of aluminum, and it was plain, painted a dark red, without any decoration. It sat alone at the edge of the cluster.

  “Who lives here?” Portia asked.

  “The punks,” said Joseph.

  “Who are the punks?”

  “They’re the oldest part of the show,” he said. “They were here before Mosco came, and he had to keep them because it’s bad luck to leave them behind. Come on.”

  The door was unlocked.

  “They won’t mind us just walking in?”

  Joseph laughed. “The punks don’t mind anything. Come on.” He skipped up the steps and beckoned impatiently for her to do the same. He was practically hopping up and down, he was so excited. Portia sighed and f
ollowed.

  “Close the door,” Joseph said.

  She was getting more suspicious by the second, but she was also getting curious, so she closed the door behind her. She could barely see anything, it was so dark inside. It was as if the whole interior of the trailer had been painted black, as if there were a wall in front of her. It was incredibly hot. She couldn’t imagine anyone living in here.

  “This is it,” she heard Joseph say.

  “This is what? I can’t see a thing. Can you turn on the lights?”

  “No lights,” he said. “I’ll open the curtains.”

  There was the sound of him stumbling, and then sunlight flooded the room. The first thing Portia saw was the dust in the air, like a blizzard, and then she saw the jars.

  Huge glass jars. Lined up like soldiers. Full of liquid and blobby shapes that didn’t look like anything, until she got closer and saw they had arms and legs and faces.

  Faces with dead, open eyes.

  Portia screamed.

  “Do you like them?” Joseph hissed. “I think they like you.”

  The tone in his voice, the sheer satisfaction, sliced through her horror and held her scream fast. She wanted to close her eyes and feel her way out of the trailer blind, so she wouldn’t have to see the rest of the jars and their gruesome contents, but instead she forced her hands to her sides and looked straight at Joseph. He blinked uncomfortably, edged away from a thick ray of sunlight cutting into the room. His hand itched at his pants pocket where his sunglasses were nestled.

  Portia had a choice. She could outdo him in cruelty, pretend to enjoy her surroundings, and thank him for bringing her. Or she could act scared, run away, and give him some small measure of power. Even if neither of them believed in it. It was a concession she was willing to make.

  But before she could do anything, Joseph threw her aside and lunged for the door. He opened it with one hand while the other struggled at his pocket. Portia heard the sound of fabric tearing as Joseph wrenched the glasses out of their hiding place and slapped them onto his face.

  He slammed the door behind him.

  “Well,” Portia told the punks, “that’s that.”

  She tried to open the door, halfheartedly, and found what she had expected: it was locked. The trailer immediately felt smaller, the glass jars more numerous, the air tighter around her like a tourniquet. She pulled the curtains closed again, bathing herself in darkness, so at least she wouldn’t have to look at the punks watching her, bobbing in their individual oceans, waiting to see what she would do next. She sank to the floor and stretched her legs in front of her.

  No one knew she was here. No one except for Joseph, and it was clear to her now that he would never be her friend.

  She thought of Delilah then, and of Caroline, and of all the girls she had known at Mister’s. How many of them would call her a friend? How many had wondered where she was? They each existed so separately, despite sharing the same space and the same fearful hatred of the same man. How many of those girls would come to her rescue at a time like this, when she was trapped in a small, dark place?

  But she knew the answer, felt it pricking the back of her skull.

  She could not wait for anyone else to save her.

  She could only save herself.

  What Comes After

  They were obvious when they arrived, because they were dressed in dark suits and driving a dark car, and they were not dusty. They were strangers, but not strange. They did not look away from anything. Their eyes were not on the ground. Two men, one taller than the other by a head (just one head, a normal- size head), both of them wearing hats and ties that looked as if they had never been undone.

  Marie was the first one they spoke to.

  “We’re looking for this girl,” the taller man said, and held up a photograph. He did not attempt to hand it to her.

  It was not unusual for men in suits to come looking for someone at the carnival. Marie had been presented with photos before, but usually they were mug shots of hard-looking men, and if she ever recognized them, it didn’t matter because they were roustabouts who had collected a couple of checks and were already long gone, and she could only say, “Yes, he was here. I don’t know where he is now.”

  So Marie did not expect to see Portia’s eyes, her face, Portia’s hair, under the man’s fingers where he pinched the photograph so it wouldn’t fly away in the breeze. Even though he had said “this girl,” she wasn’t prepared. She faltered.

  “Yes . . . er, no. I don’t think I’ve seen her. But we go through so many towns . . .”

  “She isn’t traveling with you?”

  “With me? Oh, no.”

  “She isn’t part of your show?”

  “Not unless she has flippers or a tail.” Marie forced herself to laugh and fluttered her eyelashes at the shorter man, who remained silent.

  “Mind if we look around?” the taller man asked.

  Marie scanned the midway and saw Gideon hunched next to the bally stage, tapping on the wood as if he were hunting for treasure. Surely the men had seen him too, and if they showed him the picture and his poker face was no better than Marie’s, they would know more than enough. Too much by far.

  “I’d be happy to show you—” Marie started.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the man said. “We’ve done this before.”

  “Well, good luck, then,” she said, and turning to go, she tangled her feet and fell to the ground.

  Luckily, the men were not without compassion, at least the shorter one, who immediately crouched down to help Marie stand. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was surprisingly gentle, even kind.

  Marie looked over his shoulder and saw Gideon running toward her. “Oh, yes,” she said, more loudly than necessary. “It’s difficult to keep my balance sometimes. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” said the man. He tipped his hat and went to stand next to his partner again just as Gideon arrived and said, “What happened?”

  “Oh, it was nothing, you know how I take a wrong step sometimes, Gideon, perhaps you could help me to my trailer, lovely to meet you, gentlemen, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “But—”

  “Come along!” Marie said. “I haven’t got all day!”

  Looking utterly perplexed, Gideon did as he was told.

  “You’ve never taken a wrong step in your life,” he said. “Did one of those guys knock you down?”

  “Where’s Portia?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because,” Marie said over her perfect and swiftly moving shoulder, “they’re looking for her. And I don’t think they mean well.”

  Joseph

  There were two men. One was tall and one was short. I thought maybe they were a new act—they looked like normals, but they could have been rubber-skinned men or contortionists. With marvels, you can’t tell until you see what they can do. Freaks, you know as soon as they walk by you.

  Marvels get to hide if they want to. Blend in with the normals. I used to think of ways I could do that, too—makeup, maybe, or some kind of costume—but I gave up eventually. Not because I stopped wanting to blend in. It just started to seem, I don’t know, like wishing on pennies in a fountain. You make a wish and throw your penny and then you realize that it’s just going to sit there under water until someone takes it out. It’s a penny. There’s no magic to it.

  I keep my pennies in my pocket now.

  I watched the men for a while, to see if they did anything interesting, but they were just walking around and showing something to people. I couldn’t see what so I got closer and then I could see it was a picture, and then I got a little closer and I could see it was a picture of a girl, and when I got close enough to see it was a picture of her, the tall man said, “Holy shit.” Which meant he saw me, too.

  The short man had the picture and he held it up and asked me, “Have you seen this girl?” I didn’t know what they wanted
but I don’t believe in lying so I said, “Yes.”

  Except that’s a lie. I lie all the time. When Mother asks me if I’ve been near the elephants again, I lie. When Mosco accused me of being the one who switched Marie’s knives around, I lied then, too. (I didn’t really mean to switch the knives, though. I was just looking at them and then I guess I put them back wrong. It wasn’t really my fault—they all look the same.)

  I could have lied to the short man, too.

  But I wanted her to go away. She made me miss Violet too much. And maybe if she went away, Violet would come back and things would go back to the way they were before.

  So I told the short man, “Yes, I’ve seen her.”

  I guess I’m sorry.

  Caught

  She was alone when the men found her. Portia had never seen them before, but she recognized them. The dark of their suits was the same dark that came from the windows of Mister’s house, the same dark that hung in Mister’s eyes. They looked like they’d been made out of shadows.

  She was not with anyone.

  She was wearing a red dress.

  She was reading the list of names in her notebook.

  She was thinking of Gideon’s face.

  She was alone.

  She watched the two men coming for her, and she did not move.

  But then she heard them. Faraway voices, coming closer, all of them calling her name. And then she saw them: Mosco, Marie, Gideon, and Jackal, running. The two men in suits did not run—they walked steadily and did not look behind them at the approaching pack of voices. They were coming for her, and she could not move.

  Everyone got to her at about the same moment.

  Portia stood up.

  “How did you know where to find me?” she asked Short.

  Tall answered, “The little boy told us.”