A Stranger in the Kingdom

by Howard Frank Mosher

  “Get down there, in under the tail,” she said. “Them johns’ll be pouring inside in a minute. Wait two, three more minutes till they all in. Then slip out and stand off to the edge. Old One-eye, he’ll be too busy up here to see youse. Just watch out for that cattle prod, zap youse right on youse asses.”

  “She doesn’t seem to like that new girl much,” I said to Nat as we scuttled in under the tailgate and hunkered down onto the stubbly ground.

  “She’s probably jealous of her,” Nathan explained. “Afraid the new girl will replace her.”

  After a minute he laughed softly. “Kinneson, tell me something. What in the bloody hell are you and I doing here?”

  I began to laugh too. This was so totally different from anything I’d expected or ever could have predicted. And at that moment, laughing together in the darkness under that battered show truck at the far end of the midway of Kingdom Fair, I think Nat and I were as close as we would ever be.

  “Alley oop!” the barker yelled from the entrance. “Show time!”

  In swarmed the paying customers, though all we could see of them was a shuffling forest of denimed legs from the knees down. Brass burlesque music blared out inside the tent. The tailgate above us vibrated furiously and a rousing cheer went up. The trousers and boots and sneakers pressed closer. I could smell the manure on a pair of barn boots scant inches from where I lay, and I had to fight back a trapped sensation. The tempo of the music increased. The men cheered again.

  “Okay, Kinneson. You sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Damn right,” I said, though my face felt unnaturally hot, as though I were coming down with summer flu, and my stomach was queasier than when I’d gotten off the octopus an hour ago. But the die was cast.

  Edging along crab-fashion on our knees and elbows, we sneaked out from under the tailgate, scurried back toward the dim recesses along the sidewall of the tent and looked up at the stage. Heaven and Little Piece were grinding and bumping away as naked as jaybirds!

  After a minute or so the two women plunked down and draped their legs over the tailgate. Yet another cheer went up as the one-eyed barker climbed onto the stage.

  “All right, boys,” he yelled. “Just two at a time, now, or I’ll give you a thrill you didn’t come in for.”

  As he brandished his electric cattle prod, the men pressed forward and began to lick and fondle those two great bovine women. Except to say that I was about equally shocked and fascinated, I cannot accurately describe my sensations. Outside, watching the girls’ come-ons, especially those of the limber young pros at the Club California, I had been aroused and excited. Now I was scared and confused. There was a brutal quality about the men and a dreadful grim yet cheery resignation in the submission of the women.

  “Okay, Kinneson,” Nathan said. “This is bloody disgusting. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Let’s get the hell out of this hogpen.”

  I was more than ready. By now I was afraid I was going to be sick right inside the tent. But the surging crowd of men had completely blocked the entranceway. For the moment, at least, we were trapped in the place we’d most wanted to be.

  At this point Bumper Stevens, who was pushing in behind us, spotted me. “Say now,” he said, “what have we got here. A young buck that ain’t had a chance at the ladies yet. Don’t be shy, Jimmy. Don’t hang back, now. That ain’t no way to get what you come here for.”

  Bumper seized my upper arm and began to steer me straight through the reeking crowd.

  “Let go of him,” Nat said, grabbing the old fool.

  Bumper shook him off. “Your turn next, Sambo,” he said and hauled me straight toward Little Heaven, who was spread-eagled on her back on the hard metal tailgate.

  I have no idea what effect this intended initiation might have had on me, then or later, had not the one-eyed barker chosen that moment to announce, “And now, gentlemen, what you’ve all been waiting for, the star of the Paris Revue, a girl not yet seventeen years old, in town for a one-night performance only, Saint Catherine of downtown Montreal!”

  On the stage above us, trembling like a frightened kitten, appeared a girl who seemed no more than two or three years older than me. Her rain-colored eyes were glazed over, as though in terror, and she had on a long red and blue and yellow dress, like some sort of costume, with a tear halfway up the side. Through the rent in her dress I could see one slender white leg, and it was shaking too, and not with the music.

  “Jesus!” Bumper said, letting go of me. “That’s just a kid!”

  At that moment a strong hand gripped my shoulder from behind and began propelling me toward the entrance. I twisted around and looked up into Charlie’s face. “Let’s go, boys,” he said. “I trust you’ve already seen what you came for.”

  Cousin Elijah must have told him that we had sneaked into the tent!

  As we moved through the crowd the barker made a grab at Saint Catherine, missed, grabbed again, and tore her dress down off her shoulder and front, revealing one small breast, which she instantly covered with her hands. She tried to retreat back into the truck, but the barker blocked her path and seized her arm.

  Charlie had stopped to watch what was happening on the stage. The young girl in the tom dress twisted and cringed away from the barker, who yanked her roughly toward the press of men.

  “LET GO OF HER, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

  My infuriated brother was up on the stage like a shot. The barker jabbed at him with the cattle prod. Charlie kicked it out of his hand. The barker grinned and swung at him and Charlie kicked him squarely between the legs as hard as a man can kick.

  At the same time that the barker went down, Saint Catherine flung herself into Charlies arms and screamed, “Monsieur Kinneson! Monsieur Kinneson!”

  I had never seen Charlie look so surprised. But before he could say a word, a whistle blasted out. It was followed instantly by two pistol shots.

  “It’s a raid!” somebody yelled. “We’re being raided, boys!”

  Sure enough, in the entranceway of the tent, not far from where Nat and I were being jostled back and forth by the excited crowd, his head nearly scraping the canvas tent roof, his revolver drawn and pointed upward, was High Sheriff Mason White, and beside him his deputy Pine Benson. Instantly Bumper Stevens grabbed Little Piece by the hair and yelled, “You’re under arrest, whore! I’ve got her, Mace. This one won’t get far.”

  The crowd was in an uproar. Heaven tried to bull past Pine Benson. Pine muckled onto her arm. She swung at him and missed. She swung at Mason and smacked him squarely in the stomach. Still holding the pistol, he bent over and gasped for breath like a stranded sucker.

  In the meantime the crowd was pouring through a gap in the rear of the tent, spilling outside into the midway. Nat and I were swept along with them, fighting to stay on our feet to keep from being trampled. Charlie overtook us, and before we were swept out into the night I looked back onto the stage, which was empty except for the supine barker. Saint Catherine, it seemed, had escaped through the truck.

  “All rise, please. This court is in session.”

  It was two-thirty in the morning. Judge Allen, as he strode into the courtroom for the arraignment of the Paris Revue outfit, looked as angry as I’d ever seen him. Above all, the judge hated to be disturbed when he was at his fishing camp, where he and my father had gone to spend the weekend. Hunkered down in the front row of the gallery above the room, where Charlie had agreed to let us watch the proceedings, Nat and I were still shaking.

  My father, who looked as little amused as the judge, sat in his customary spot in the back row nearest the door. (It seemed strange to see him in public in his fishing clothes.) Heaven, Little Piece, and the one-eyed barker stood at the defense table next to my brother as Zack Barrows read Mason’s affidavit. They were being charged with lewd and lascivious conduct in a public place, which carried a maximum fine of one hundred dollars and a sentence of up to thirty days. Zack was asking for a fine of fif
ty dollars apiece for the Misses Fontaine, one hundred dollars for Mr. One-eye Billy Carbonneau, and five days in jail for all three of them.

  “Misses Fontaine and Mr. One-eye Billy, how do you plead to these charges?” the judge inquired with ominous irony.

  “Innocent, your honor,” said all three.

  “Ah,” Judge Allen said, looking back toward my father as though to indicate that he should have expected this, too. “Innocent. Do your clients deny, then, Mr. Kinneson, that they were in that tent last night performing the antics alleged in Sheriff White’s affidavit?”

  “No, your honor. They were there, all right, along with what looked like about half of the male population of Kingdom County. They don’t deny that. What they deny is that they were performing in public. The Paris Revue is a private business, conducted out of the public view, with the full knowledge and blessing of the Kingdom Fair Board of Trustees, I might add. To read from the contract signed on June twentieth, 1952, between the board and Mr. Carbonneau: . . . for the sum of three hundred dollars per night, we hereby grant the Paris Revue Shows, Inc., owned and operated by William Carbonneau, the right to present a private dance exhibition on a leased section of the fairground’s midway.’”

  “Fine!” roared Zack Barrows, his face as red as a turkey gobbler’s. “I shall concede that the contract is in good order. Nevertheless, as the affidavit states, the ‘dancers’ of this show were apprehended in the act of performing lewd and lascivious acts that according to Vermont statutes are illegal in any setting, public or private, and are punishable by the fines and incarceration cited in the affidavit.”

  “You agree that the Paris Revue Show is a private enterprise?” Charlie said.

  “Whatever you say. Public or private. The act itself is illegal.”

  “May I see the signed writ of entry authorizing this raid on the agreed-upon private premises?”

  “Signed writ of entry?” Zack roared. “What do you mean, ‘signed writ of entry’?”

  “Perhaps Judge Allen would prefer to explain,” Charlie said.

  When the judge said nothing, Charlie added, “You’ve agreed, Zack, that the Paris Revue tent was private property. You and I and Sheriff White all know that you can’t just barge into someone’s private home or business, even if it’s a tent, without an entry warrant or search warrant signed by a judge.”

  “The judge was off fishing,” Zack shouted. “He wasn’t available.”

  “It’s my understanding,” Charlie said, “that in the absence of a judge, the local justice of the peace has the authority to sign entry warrants. Is that correct, your honor?”

  “Yes,” Judge Allen said wearily.

  “Well, the justice of the peace wasn’t available either,” Zack said. “I looked for him and he wasn’t available.”

  Judge Allen actually smiled. “This case is dismissed,” he said, and no more than five minutes later he and Dad were on their way back to the lake to fish the early morning rise, and Heaven, Little Piece, and One-eye Billy were on their way back to the fairgrounds and thence to their next engagement.

  It rained hard all the rest of that day. I took a long nap in the afternoon and spent most of the evening reading and visiting with my mother in the kitchen. Like Charlie before me, I had always been quicker to confide certain thornier kinds of problems to Mom than to Dad, yet I could hardly confess that I’d actually been inside the girlie tent when it was raided. When I told her that Nat and I had ran into Charlie and attended the arraignment, she listened attentively, then said that the fair people were much more to be sympathized with than condemned. To my surprise, she was glad that Charlie had gotten them off the hook.

  The driving summer rainstorm continued, and we left the porch light on for my father, who was covering a late meeting in the village. Just before I went up to bed in my loft chamber, Mom said, “I hope the Dog Cart Man’s warm and dry tonight, Jimmy.”

  I could barely remember the Dog Cart Man, though I had a fairly distinct recollection of his mongrel companions. It had been at least seven years, maybe eight or nine, since he’d come to the Kingdom but voicing concern for his well-being had become a family ritual on stormy nights.

  “What’s he look like?” I asked. “The Dog Cart Man, I mean.”

  “Well, he looks like the Pied Piper, I guess, all spattered with paint of every imaginable color. He doesn’t talk at all, of course, and can’t hear, either. I suppose that’s why he learned how to paint. Painting’s his special way of making himself understood.”

  My mother was an accomplished amateur watercolorist herself, but when I asked if the Dog Cart Man’s murals were as good as her nature scenes and portraits of Charlie and me when we were little kids, she laughed a little self-deprecatory, pleased laugh and said oh, my yes, he was a real painter.

  “I’ll never forget the first time I saw him, Jimmy. It was the summer your dad and I were married, and everything about Kingdom County was fresh and marvelous to me. One morning he just appeared in the dooryard. At first I actually thought he was a hobo. I was going to take him coffee and sandwiches. But your grandfather explained that he was a painter and was getting ready to paint a picture for us.

  “For a long time, he stood and stared at that faded old mural of the trout on the barn. Then before you could say Jack Robinson he began to paint, very fast, just slapping those amazingly bright colors up on the side of the barn. It didn’t take him an hour from start to finish!

  “Of course, I was terribly fascinated. I’d never seen anything remotely like him or his dogs, and I would have given a great deal to tag along with him for a day or two. I’ll tell you what, Jimmy. If he comes again, and I’m pretty sure he will, I hope you’ll spend some time with him. He’s the last of a kind, you know—sort of like Cousin Resolvèd and Cousin Welcome. When he’s gone, his like won’t be seen again in these parts or anywhere else. And if you get to know all these folks now, someday you’ll be able to write wonderful stories about them that won’t be like the stories anyone else is writing. So we’ll keep our eyes peeled and hope he shows up soon.”

  My own concerns on that rainy night in 1952 kept returning to the fair and the tent show and the scared girl on the stage. Something about her rain-colored eyes and the frightened way she’d looked at the audience haunted me. I hoped she was all right and safely away from One-eye and his rough bunch, but other thoughts kept crowding into my mind, too, fantasies of rescuing her from her plight myself and spiriting her off to some sequestered spot to console and . . . I was not sure what.

  After being up nearly all night the night before, I should have been exhausted. But for some reason, maybe because of my nap that day, I wasn’t. For a long time I lay awake listening to the rain on the metal. roof just outside my coffin window, and hoping it would blow over in time for Charlie’s ballgame the following evening in Memphremagog, which he’d promised to take me to see.

  When I finally drifted off to sleep, however, I did not dream of Saint Catherine but of the lunatic miller from Nat’s comic book. In my nightmare the miller was chasing me and I jumped onto the Dog Cart Man’s cart and he whipped up his dogs and off we sped along the River Road. The madman gained on us steadily, and when I turned to look at him, all white and floury, he bore a terrible resemblance to Frenchy LaMott. The dogs hitched to the cart howled like a ravening pack of wolves, and suddenly I was awake and someone was pounding on the kitchen door.

  It was pitch dark. The rain had stopped but the river was up and roaring. The knocking continued. Wearing just my pajama bottoms, I trotted down the loft stairs into the kitchen and opened the door.

  Standing on the top step of the porch, drenched from head to toe, was Saint Catherine from the Paris Revue girlie show.

  “This is the home of Monsieur Kinneson?” she said in a strong French Canadian accent.

  “Yes,” I said, barely able to believe that she was standing at our kitchen door.

  “I am Claire. Claire LaRiviere?”

  At first I
thought she might not be sure of her own name. Then from the way she was looking at me it dawned on me that she expected me to know why she was there.

  Unfortunately, I did not.

  “Well,” I said, “come in. Come in out of the wet, Claire.”

  Claire LaRiviere came inside and went immediately to the stove while I grabbed some kindling out of the woodbox and began to build the fire back up. As soon as it caught, I perched on the woodbox lid and stared at our strange guest with open curiosity.

  She looked a little older than she had looked at the fair. She had long hair, too wet to tell what color. Her rain-colored eyes had huge craters beneath them. A coffee-colored stain shaped uncannily like the state of Maine ran over the right shoulder and down the front of her colorful dress, which was badly tom and splashed with bluish mud all along the fringe, so that I knew she had been walking the back roads of Kingdom County. Where the dress was tom, material had been gathered into huge safety-pins. Despite the mud I could see that it was a very elegant, old-fashioned dress with lacework on the front and sleeves and hem. On her feet she wore sneakers that might once have been white. Clutched to her chest she held a black handbag as large as my camping knapsack. Her face was small and oval-shaped, her chattering teeth were small, and although she was taller than me by inches, she was slender nearly to the point of emaciation. Only her eyes were large, pretematurally so, and they looked terrifically tired and somewhat confused yet oddly determined as she examined her surroundings with a peculiar slow, exhausted intensity.

  “Here at last,” she said.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  She shook her head emphatically, shaking more water into the puddle forming around her sneakers. “No coffee, thank you. Coffee is make me shake. You have tea?”

  I nodded. I filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove just as my father padded into the kitchen in his slippers and bathrobe.