Goddess

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  A few yards away, two guys took shelter under the awning outside our local honky-tonk. Their laughter broke through the drumming of rain on rooftops and pounding of truck tires through puddles. Both guys were tall, dark and out of place in my town. Instead of jeans and boots, like cowboys or country singers, or the shorts and gym shoes of locals and tourists, this pair wore black pants and shiny shoes. Their matching V-neck shirts were equally out of place in St. Mary’s, West Virginia.

  The broader one noticed me first. His smile vanished and his posture stiffened. He locked his wrists behind his back and nodded. The short sleeves of his shirt nipped his biceps. The ridiculous breadth of his chest tested the limits of the thin black material. His clothes probably hid the grotesquely over-sculpted figure of a body builder.

  My feet slowed instinctively, weighing the merits of crossing the street to avoid them. Crossing meant moving away from my destination, staying meant eventually sharing a three-foot patch of cement with two guys already filling every spare inch.

  The leaner, younger looking one turned his face toward me. Black ink crawled up his neck from the collar of his shirt to his earlobe. A scar pierced one eyebrow and a thin silver hoop graced the corner of his mouth. Dad wouldn’t approve.

  I squared my shoulders.

  The broad one whipped a hand out as I stepped onto their patch of cement. “Miss.”

  I jumped back, wrapping my fingertips around the strap of my bag.

  His enormous arm blocked my path. He clenched a mass of silk flowers in his fist. “For the lady.”

  “Uh.” I pulled in a shallow breath. “No thank you.”

  The younger one’s eyebrows dove together. “I think you’re scaring her.” His dark eyes settled on mine. His voice was deep and low. “Is he scaring you?”

  The big guy handed the flowers to his friend and stepped back, palms up.

  The younger one offered the flowers to me, extending them slowly as if not to frighten a wild animal. “I’m Cross. This is Grant. Grant thinks he’s a magician.”

  I glanced over one shoulder at the church behind me before accepting the flowers. “Mercy.”

  Cross’ lips twitched. “He’s a lot to take in, but he’s a marshmallow.”

  I bit back an awkward smile as Grant protested the remark with a shove. “Mercy’s my name. It wasn’t a note of exaltation.”

  Cross relaxed his posture. “Good to know.” He shoved his fingers into his pockets. “Do you live here?”

  “Yeah. Not you, though.” I scrutinized their strange ensembles again. Their clothes were almost like costumes or what I imagined a mortician would wear in the nineteen hundreds. “What are you doing here?” I sidestepped them, exchanging my view of the distant willows for a view of the church.

  Grant and Cross answered in unison. Cross said, “Visiting.” Grant said, “Performing.”

  Cross narrowed his eyes on Grant.

  Interesting. A sign tucked into the corner of the honky-tonk’s window announced another round of live bands. Cash prizes and a guaranteed Nashville record executive in the audience meant lots of newcomers to St. Mary’s. Maybe these two really were country singers. “Performing what?”

  Again with the twin speak, Cross answered, “Nothing.” Grant answered, “Everything.”

  I frowned. “Well, that’s cleared up.” I waved the bouquet. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “You’re welcome,” they answered.

  Dad’s face appeared in the church window and I darted into the rain. “I have to go.”

  I stuffed the flowers into my bag as I jogged, putting distance between the street of shops and myself. Closing the space between the willows and me. Thunder cracked in the distance. The storm was passing for now. I stepped into the pavilion outside St. Mary’s Cemetery with a sigh of relief. Willow trees lined our small town along the river’s west edge. Their craggy branches swept the earth with every gust of wind. The town cemetery stretched fingers of marble graves into the distance, marking lives lost in the mid-eighteen hundreds beside others lost in my lifetime. Two of those graves marked the lives of Porter women, Faith and Mary Porter. My older sister and my mother.

  When the drops thinned to sprinkles, I made my way up muddy paths to their grave sites, sliding down as often as I moved forward. Dad said he’d chosen the spots at the top of the hill so Faith and Mom could look over our town. If they truly had a view, theirs was perfect.

  The sopping earth squished under my weight as I left the path. A week of relentless rain had ruined the dirt roads and flooded the lowlands mercilessly.

  I knelt before the headstones. “Hi. I bet you didn’t think I’d come in the storm.”

  Tears burned my eyes. “I’m sorry.” My nose stung. “I am so amazingly sorry.” I rubbed my wrist over each eye.

  Wind beat against the trees, shaking limbs and freeing wads of green leaves from their branches. “The storm’s gathering again.”

  I wiped pine needles and dirt off Faith’s name. Wind tossed sticks and tiny American flags across the thick green grass. A batch of grave flowers rolled down the hill toward the river, reminding me of the ones in my bag.

  “I have something today.” I unlatched my bag and pulled out the silk flowers. “Some very weird guys outside Red’s gave these to me. I think you should have them, Faith. I don’t bring you flowers enough. Maybe that’s why I ran into those two. You needed flowers.” I stabbed their plastic stems into the mushy ground and pressed the grass tight around them, anchoring them the best I could.

  “I miss you both. I wish you knew how much. Dad’s still trying to save the town. Pru’s still pretending she’s like everyone else. The color guard’s coming over for popcorn and movies.” I rolled my eyes. “I think she’s planning to sneak out tonight, but I’m not sure why. She’s always been okay with our rule about sleepovers and curfew. Don’t worry. I’ll look after her.”

  I settled in the wet grass and tilted my face to the sky. “I’ve never minded our summer storms. Remember when we used to dance in the rain until Dad begged us all inside? He’d laugh and say,” I mocked Dad’s deeper voice, “‘I guess the rumors are true. My girls don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain.’”

  A sound in the distance caught my attention. A rhythm. “Do you hear that?” Wind whipped through the trees, but the eerie sound of tinny pipes and organs floated to my ears. I rubbed my palms over gooseflesh-covered arms and an icy shiver slid down my spine.

  I stood on wobbly knees and moved to the hill’s edge.

  A line of black vehicles crawled along the river toward the campground. Each truck was marked with the symbol that once haunted my dreams. A fancy letter L, circled in curlicue lines and tiny words from another language. “The Lovell Traveling Sideshow came back?”

  After three years, it was back.

  I turned to my sister. “I bet they came for the River Festival. What should I do?”

  I sensed her presence and felt her voice in the wind, obscured by the ringing in my ears. My weary conscience screamed, “Leave it alone,” but my every curious fiber disagreed.

  I’d researched, cyber-stalked and obsessed over the Lovells off-and-on for two years before I backed off. I squinted at the caravan of trucks below. If one of them knew what happened to Faith, I needed to hear it. Maybe someone at their campsite could help me.

  Dad refused me the courtesy of knowing what happened to my sister. When I’d followed him through our home begging, he said I was too young. Faith was too young. I should pray for peace. I’d scoured the local paper and Internet for information. Three years later, the only things I knew for sure were Faith was dead and Dad blamed the Lovells. I’d heard him and Mom after Faith’s funeral. He hated them, but it didn’t make any sense. Faith drowned. When Mom followed Faith a few months later, Dad had sobbed in prayer. Dad believed the Lovells contributed to Faith’s death somehow, despite the coroner’s accidental drowning conclusion.

  I looke
d over one shoulder at Faith’s headstone. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back.” I rubbed wet palms against my jeans. My feet stumbled through the grass on autopilot. This was my chance.

  I sprinted toward home, formulating a plan. First, I needed a shower and change of clothes. Next, I needed a picture of Faith from that summer. The Lovells probably saw thousands of new faces every year and three years had already passed. Expecting them to remember one girl from a town as unremarkable as ours was asking the impossible.

  I slowed my pace on Main Street. Outside the honky-tonk, a fresh banner hung from the awning. A photo advertisement for the Lovell Traveling Sideshow. My mouth dropped open as my gaze swept over the ad. I missed the curb and planted one foot in ankle-deep runoff racing for the gutter. “Gross.” My palms hit the sidewalk, stopping me from a complete fall. The open flap of my bag dripped against my pant leg when I stood. I buckled the bag without looking, unable to drag my focus away from the banner. A woman covered in tattoos posed with a set of acrobats front and center. A shirtless strong man with a mask and endless muscles stood behind her. I tried to match Grant and his flowers to the masked man in the photograph. Was it possible?

  A man in tuxedo tails pulled fire from his hat and a woman in a ball gown swallowed swords. Animals in black tutus and studded collars pranced at her feet. Behind the others stood a brown-eyed guy with neck ink, a guitar and a frown. Cross was a performer all right. He was one of them. A Lovell.