Clay negotiated a fair deal with the local law. As he saw the small but bustling city during the day, he was more hopeful that Waco could become a distant, if unpleasant, memory. They’d set up for two weeks—a little longer than he wanted, but if customers kept coming, then it would be worth it.
Because of the bad roads they’d traveled, many of the trailers needed repairs. The crew was handy, though, and Jamey would make sure everything got done; still, Clay walked around barking orders.
“All right, you lazy bums. Shake a leg. We got a show to put on tonight.” He marched around rallying his troops. “And you, Denny, if I see you slackin’ off one more time, I’ll bounce you outta here right on your hide.” Denny was good at two things: electrical work and drinking himself under a table—not the best mix of skills.
Clay continued on his way and ran into Malachi. “Wendell making sure you got everything you need?” he said.
Malachi put a finger to his chin. “I think I have most everything except—”
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence, as Efe appeared at Clay’s side.
“A word,” she said in her light voice. Geneva had told him that, often in battle, men had mistaken Efe’s lithe body and the sweetness of her face and voice. Clay had never made such a mistake. Malachi, being himself, ignored the menacing look in her eye.
“The Human Pincushion,” he said to introduce himself. “Malachi—”
Efe curled her lip and moved away a few paces. She left Malachi standing with one confused hand in the air and beckoned Clay to follow.
“The mistress is back,” she whispered when Clay joined her. “She would like to see you.”
Clay kept his face steely; he’d figured this would be coming. Silently they wove through the carnival, and soon the red trailer loomed ahead. It sat there, seemingly innocuous. Soft, muted light cascaded from the windows, giving the place an eerie glow that sent an unbidden shiver up Clay’s spine.
“If it is not the big man.” Zinsa was standing on the right side of the stairs leading up to the trailer door. “We will see after the mistress is done with you.”
“Every day that passes,” Clay said, walking past her and then knocking on the door, “you grow more loathsome. Mighty lucky that Geneva took pity on you. Hear tell, no man would have you.”
Zinsa’s eyes shot murderous spears, sticks, and rocks at Clay. “And no woman, man, or lonely goat would have you.”
Clay took the short flight of stairs two at a time. He steadied his breathing, rapped once on the door, then opened and closed it behind him.
In all these years, Clay had never seen Geneva in any clothes other than those she wore now. Her customary headband wrapped skillfully around her head, long black braids peeking out. The bracelets covered both arms, and her skirt was of colorful rags. Instead of her normal lounging spot on the plush chaise lounge, she stood near the rear of the trailer, fussing over the black curtain.
Her hands wove something in the air, but Clay couldn’t make out what it was. With a soft blow of breath, she sent the glowing thing between her palms forward. It inched toward him, growing bigger until it was the size of a human head.
Clay gasped, and the veins in his forehead and neck bulged with his pointless struggle to escape. The glowing green ball was a writhing mass of worms, twisting and turning on each other. They had enormous mouths that they used to bite and tear at their own heads and tails. Geneva poised the abomination precious inches from his face. The worms turned to Clay, snapping at his sweat-covered face.
Clay stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, certain that the mass would settle on his face and destroy it, but with a gesture from Geneva’s elegant hand, the mass of worms disappeared and the invisible hold on him dissolved. One of the fading snake-worms sprang out and nipped the tip of Clay’s nose. He called on every muscle in his body and will to hold him up.
His clothes must have looked as if he’d pulled them on after a run through a river. He swiped his forearm over his face. “Some employers would dock a man’s pay a day or two for a screwup,” he managed to say, but he couldn’t prevent his voice from cracking.
Geneva smiled and sauntered over to the lounge, where she lay down like an Egyptian queen. “When I saved you, most employers wouldn’t have you. Even your wife looked upon you with shame, not with the love of a woman.”
She knew where to hit him, this one. Clay swallowed hard, his bravado deflated. “It was one bad stop,” he said, trying to find something to do with his hands. “Nobody gonna go hungry.”
“Because I will not let that happen,” Geneva said. “The least you could have done was to bring me a child. You ignore my needs and those of the carnies.”
“I didn’t think you were due—”
“And I hear that electrician you hired is a lazy drunk.”
Clay’s previously liquefied backbone was finding its way back to solid form. “Unless you tell me different, all worker personnel decisions are under my purview. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll handle it my way.”
Geneva turned her head in dismissal. “Send Zinsa and Efe to get whatever we lack the money for.”
Clay lifted his chin and turned to leave.
Geneva called, “And Clay, I hope this date turns out to be a prosperous one. After Tulsa, I’ll have a new route for us to explore, so we need to be solidly in the black before then.”
He stopped, then exited the trailer short of a run, but he caught himself quickly.
“We’re good on food,” he said to the women outside. “But the carnies need some toys. Their magazines are old; maybe some hard candies.” He paused, considering. “Think they could use some new linens, too, a few European soaps for the ladies.”
Clay stormed off without a backward glance. He didn’t know how Geneva told them to go about getting the things that they did, and he didn’t care. It was one less thing he had to worry about. He didn’t even stay to trade barbs with Zinsa.
He waited till he was out of their line of sight, commanding the taut muscles in his legs to carry him with an aura of calm authority he no longer felt. When he was far enough away, he tore off into the surrounding fields, plowing through knee-high grass until he found a clearing. Settling on a rock, Clay slipped out the simple silver cross he kept tucked away from prying eyes and kissed it.
He lit a match. His right arm was still tender from the last time, so he rolled up his left sleeve, bit down on a strap of leather, and let the flame do its work.
Eloko kept to the shadows on his way to see Ahiku. Along the way, he spied Jamey and Liza standing outside her trailer and watched as they shared a kiss.
It seemed an awkward thing, a mingling of lips, saliva, and inexperience. They’d hurried off from the rest of the carnies after supper like a couple of schoolkids; such had become their pattern. Eloko contemplated them as if their clumsy coupling were a new sideshow oddity.
“You lost something?”
Eloko bristled and nonchalantly turned to face Autumn. Had he been so wrapped up in Liza that his senses had gone numb? People didn’t creep up on him; it was the other way around. “Besides all the time I’ve lost wondering why such a chaste lady such as yourself chooses to show her body to strange men?”
Autumn flushed a deep red that matched the polka dots on her blouse. “Don’t go taxing what little brain you must have worrying about me.” She pushed past him and slammed the trailer door behind her, startling Jamey and Liza, who quickly composed themselves. Liza joined Autumn inside.
Slipping back into the dusky gloom, Eloko pressed on. Zinsa and Efe at first stiffened, then relaxed, when he suddenly appeared, he so well blended into the surroundings.
“You keep sneaking up on us . . . ,” Efe began.
“. . . and you may find yourself gutted like a fish,” Zinsa finished.
“You ladies try too hard,” Eloko said. “You should settle into your role; you don’t have to appear on the verge of a murderous rampage at every moment. A more subtle
approach is sometimes called for. In case you had not noticed, the war is over.”
“Maybe for you,” Efe said with a far-off look in her eye. “Never for us.”
Eloko understood, for he, too, had lost every last one of his people. Zinsa and Efe were the last of their kind, warriors with no war left to fight and no spoils to revel in, no home to return to.
“Our good Mr. Kennel exited. I assume Ahiku has come back to the world of the living?” he said.
“I will ask if she will see you.” Efe disappeared behind the door and quickly returned. “You may enter.”
Eloko took in the African masks, swaying a bit to the drum music emanating from a source he couldn’t identify. He inhaled deeply through his pulsing snout, for the place even smelled of home. The demon lounged on her blessed chair like a leopard. Beautiful, majestic, but were one to peel back the spotted coat, the claws and fangs of the afterlife would be clear. He walked to her and knelt.
Ahiku rested a palm on his head, petting him like an animal. He hated the gesture so much, and his closed lids did little to contain the flash of red behind them.
She chuckled and lifted her hand. “Our friend Mr. Kennel trembles when he sees me. He tries to hide it, but I smell the fear on him like a lion’s musk. But you . . .” She sat up. “You war with your anger and, what is that, admiration?”
“A monk cannot go about without his robes.”
“And a dwarf cannot forever suppress his hunger for human flesh.”
Eloko turned his back and moved to the window farthest away from her. He was an open book to the demon. He wondered how she could justify denying him when she had never forsaken her own urges. Demons were given to odd, unpredictable behaviors, none of which could be categorized as logical or fair.
“Forgive me, mother of demons, for I have sinned.”
“My taste is for souls, yours for human flesh.” Ahiku came up behind Eloko, reached a hand out to stroke his grassy mane.
“That is not why I’m here.” Eloko would not apologize unless she demanded it. He had eaten only a few humans since he’d come to America. It took great effort to retrain one’s tastes to cooked animal flesh and green things. She ought to give him more credit. “It is about the girl.”
“The one you ate back in Florida?” Ahiku looked genuinely curious.
Eloko folded his arms and spun around. “No, no.” He stopped short of stamping his foot. “The one your good Mr. Kennel picked up in Baton Rouge, the one who speaks to beasts.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What about her?”
“You felt nothing when you checked her out?” Eloko asked.
“The taint of Oya’s touch was not upon her,” the demon said. “She has not always done the right thing, has impure thoughts, even wishes badly on her parents for leaving her. But she is not the one I seek.”
Eloko rubbed at his grassy chin. “But there is something about her. And she and that Nigerian bush dog have begun spending a lot of time together.”
“Ah.” Ahiku tilted her head. “The man who has remained faithful to a wife he will never see again has finally given in. Such a strong soul, that one. I had taken him for one of those who would not bend.”
“Not in that way,” Eloko countered. He will not have her. “He is helping her somehow. You know she can kill as easily as she can cajole the beasts.”
“Well, then it will be your job to watch her. You can see the wrongness even in good people. I cannot. That is why I have added you to my little collection.” Ahiku walked back to the dark curtain. “I must return to the underworld for a time. I don’t expect you’ll find much other than some harmless coupling, but you can give me a report upon my return.”
As Eloko turned to leave, she called out, “And to show that I, too, have a heart, you may eat that loafing electrician—Denny.”
Eloko waltzed away from the trailer with a renewed spring in his step. He wondered whether, if he were to find something amiss with Liza, Ahiku would let him eat her as well. Saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth in twin slimy strings. Eloko two-stepped his way to find Denny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AUTUMN IN THE SUMMER OF 1939
Autumn had lit up like primed and ready wood tinder when sullen Zinsa and Efe appeared at their trailer toting the latest issues of Vogue and Life magazines for her. They then dug deep in their sack and tossed out copies of Argosy Weekly, Black Mask, and Astounding Stories for Liza. They added a bar of lavender soap and new toothbrushes. Autumn had been glued to her magazines ever since.
“You better get your nose out of that magazine.” She glanced up and found her roommate standing at their door, all ready for another night of her animal show. As the days marched on, Amarillo’s townsfolk had been coming out in droves.
“I’m coming.” Autumn tucked the magazines atop the wooden shelves that Ishe had installed above their bunks. Both were now filled with stacks of magazines and Liza’s new copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Ishe had been hanging around quite a bit since Liza had moved in. So had Jamey, come to think of it. Autumn smiled—that girl was working it with the best of them.
“Gotta pull on my stockings.” Autumn was draped in a skin-hugging, sheer material that sparkled with intricate beadwork. Her shoes were of the baby doll variety, with a keen strap across the top of the foot and a good two-inch heel. She’d had Liza try them on once, and the girl’d nearly turned an ankle, then barked on about how Autumn could possibly dance in them.
She pulled on the silk robe, and both ladies gave each other the once-over, twirling in the small space before they left.
“May your tip cup be overflowing,” Liza called out.
“And yours,” Autumn returned. Her tent was set up near the rear of the midway, and she walked slowly, thinking about all the beautiful models and celebrities in her magazines. At another time, so long ago that she couldn’t remember where the idea had first caught fire, she had believed she could be one of them.
It was her mama. The way she told it, five minutes into Autumn’s first tottering steps, she’d danced her first jig. Her mama had proclaimed Autumn a wunderkind right then and there. Told her that one day she’d be like all the stars in the big movies. Mama had acted in small community theater—such as it was in Chicago—before she’d married Autumn’s daddy. She’d dressed her only child impeccably, like a little mirror image of herself. Autumn learned to walk like a lady before she could count to one hundred. Could recite a poem before she learned the alphabet. All that grooming was supposed to set her on a path to the pages of those magazines she read so much.
But tuberculosis had stolen her mother. Like one brutal swipe of an eraser across a chalkboard, the illness had wiped away her present and her future.
“I’m sorry,” her daddy had said with his hat in his hand as they stood on the porch of his mother’s house in rural Alabama. “I ain’t never been no good with little girls.” Daddy had taken her hand and coaxed her into the dim, close, ramshackle house that smelled of stale bread and blight. He had deposited their suitcases in a back room, plopped down onto the worn sofa, and picked up a bottle of whiskey. It was a rare, special occasion when she would see him without a bottle again.
Somehow, he managed to hold a job, even met a real nice lady once. But his drinking buddies convinced him that any woman would put too much of a damper on their fun. The lady was gone. And when one of her daddy’s drinking buddies groped her, she and Grandma put such a whupping on the drunkard (Grandma was surprisingly nimble with a rolling pin), the drinking buddies were soon all gone too.
When the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival came to town, ten years of broken dreams and backwoods squalor propelled Autumn toward it. She’d walked into the audition with Clay with a straight back, her head held high. She danced a number she’d learned with her mother, a tamed version of something she’d read Josephine Baker had made famous. Clay had welcomed her in but asked if she could dance a little differently.
Like everybody who joined the G. B.
Bacchanal Carnival, Autumn recalled her first and only trip to the red trailer. With Zinsa and Efe appraising her, the experience was about the same as standing before her grandmother that first time. The touch of something unseen fluttered across her skin.
Now she pictured herself in the magazines she treasured, dreaming of the life that should have been hers but accepting the one that was. She had been firm with Clay. She wasn’t all too keen on the type of dancing he needed her for, but if she could make the show classy, make it her own, she’d do it. She didn’t have to make it as raunchy as some of the magazine clips he’d shown her. And she would never turn any tricks afterward. Clay respected her and her decision. He’d since found other girls to do that.
Slipping through the back entrance of her tent, Autumn noticed the large crowd of men gathering and, as usual, pushing and shoving each other out front. Wendell was there—her bodyguard. Sometimes men got rowdy, wanting a little bit of the show after the show. He’d club a few of them over the head, and the rest would fall in line.
“Evenin’, Miss Autumn,” he said.
It pained Autumn to see that puppy-dog look in his eyes. If she ever married, it wouldn’t be to another carnie. Some small part of her, growing quieter every day, hoped that perhaps she could still have a career like Greta Garbo did.
“Wendell,” she said, and she accepted his hand as she shed her robe and mounted the steps leading up to her stage.
She gestured back down to Wendell, and the curtain slid open and the music began. The crowd whooped and hollered. Autumn danced easily on the balls of her feet, twirling and spinning into a pirouette. Clay had prodded her to add in a few more suggestive moves, and she’d complied grudgingly. When she launched a kick in the air, spun around, and then dropped into a split, a man in the audience surged toward the front of the stage.
“I’ll pay ya good money if you show me that move out back,” he slurred.
Wendell came to her rescue, dragging the man away, and she continued the dance. She would do two more shows before the night was over. But the take was beyond even her hopes. She gave Wendell a sizable tip that he tried to give back to her.
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