“Fleas?” Roland repeated in surprise. “You mean real, jumping fleas?”
“Don’t use nothin’ else, only mine don’t jump. I heard of flea circuses that use tricks with magnets and the like, but my fleas are real enough. Nothing rigged going on in my tent. Come by sometime, and I’ll give you a free show.” He grinned. “You’re not asking, but I see the question in your eyes: Why fleas? Well, it’s like this: I like things small, in detail, and I like insects. My grandfather, he owned a flea circus at the turn of the century and taught me all he knew. But not to worry. Taking care of my fleas won’t be on your list of duties,” he joked.
“That’s a relief. I may know the difference between a carnival and a circus, but to be blunt, I know little about taking care of animals—though the horse owner came in here a few minutes before you did and informed me to keep away from his.”
Chester nodded. “Stan Hollar. Very particular about his property and who comes in contact with it. Those beautiful grays are Andalusians, some of the best horses you can find, and one of the top acts the carnival can boast. A member of the family checks in a few times a day, usually Cassie. I guess you could say Mahoney & Pearson counted themselves lucky when the Hollars signed on. They’re one of the star attractions of the carnival.” The wistful note to his voice led Roland to believe Mahoney wasn’t the only one counting himself lucky.
“You about finished here?” Chester asked.
“I have no idea where to start. Mahoney just said to bed the animals down for the night.”
“I grew up on a farm, so I’ll give you a hand. Mama Philena usually comes to help out. Been with the carnival over thirty years. Mahoney’s mama and like a mama to us all. She’ll turn up eventually and show you the ropes.”
Roland worked alongside Chester, grateful for the man’s help and company. He didn’t have friends or, rather, those associates he would call friends: men and women who were honest, loyal, and honorable. Most of the moral class, once they learned his name, assumed his family reputation went along with the label, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Rather than destroy a possible friendship before it had a chance to build, Roland chose to keep silent about his identity. Angel knew, but he didn’t think he’d have a problem convincing her not to share what she’d discovered.
That was, if she would talk to him at all once she realized he was here.
five
Angel woke up, found herself alone, and hurried to dress.
She met Cassie on the midway. “Sorry I overslept.”
“That’s okay,” her bunk mate effusively greeted her. “Come on, I’ll take you to the cookhouse tent.” Soon they approached a structure composed of a canvas roof tied to poles. Two long tables stretched beneath, where the workers ate their meals.
“This is Angel,” Cassie said in introduction to the few clusters of people who’d taken seats along the benches. “Say hi, fellow showmen and carnies, but you better be nice since she’ll be preparing your breakfast in the future.”
A sudden thumping shook a screen of canvas hanging beyond the tables as if a spoon had been whacked against it. “I’m still here, too, ya know!” came an unseen woman’s grumpy voice.
A few of the men laughed. “As if we could forget,” one of them muttered dryly. “Hello, Angel,” more than several intoned, like a classroom of obedient schoolchildren.
“Hello,” she said a bit shyly, darting a curious look toward the suspended canvas.
“Angel, my dear girl,” a man said in a heavy British accent. “What a lovely name for a lovely face. As you are the latest connoisseur of food preparations, I should like to mention that I prefer my toast deeply browned and not blackened as the last girl chose to make it. I prefer the black to remain in my name.”
A pretty, thickset woman with bleached hair and dark roots lightly slapped the wisecracking, balding man on the skull. “Be nice, Blackie. You heard Cassandra. She’s new to the family.” The woman turned a big, toothy grin Angel’s way. “Hiya, honey. I’m Ruth, and this here’s my ball and chain, Blackie Watson.”
“Now there’s a spectacular idea, Buttercup. Incorporating a ball and chain into the act. A balloon that looks like a cannon, perhaps? Yes? Or even better, one bigger than a cannon. I would carry it like a deadweight then throw it at the children and set them to squealing.”
“Whatever you think, dear.” Ruth shook her head in mock exasperation, holding her hand straight out beside her mouth as if in confidence to Angel but hardly whispering, “Anything sets him off. Be careful what you say.” She winked and lowered her hand. “We dress as clowns and perform up and down the midway, selling balloons to the kiddies.”
Angel smiled in reply at the outgoing couple. Cassie took her beyond the sheet of hanging canvas that hid where food was being prepared. The delicious scent of warm oats she smelled upon arriving at the tent grew stronger.
“You’re late!”
Angel winced, but Cassie smiled. “Millie, this is her first day. Be nice. Angel, meet Millie. Don’t let her boss you around.” She spoke to Angel with a teasing wink to Millie. “She’s known for throwing her weight far and wide.”
“You better just watch yourself, girlie.” The grated tone belonging to the rail-thin woman didn’t come across as amused. “Or you might find sand in your coffee ‘stead of sugar.”
Angel regarded the older woman with shock, but Cassie laughed. “We all joke with one another around here. You’ll get used to us soon enough.”
“Humph,” the taciturn cook responded, but before Millie turned away, Angel thought she detected a smile on the worn brown face.
Cassie disappeared beyond the canvas. Angel wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never lived in an environment that tossed around banter as a means to entertain and not hurt feelings. At her aunt’s, she kept her thoughts to herself to avoid being criticized or having her feelings crushed. Still unsure of her footing in such a strange, new world, she kept silent, observing her fellow carnies.
Millie went back to work scooping creamy hot oats from a huge black pot and ladling the porridge into bowls. Angel was put in charge of making toast on a wire tray over the fire as Millie showed her. Since that was the sum total of food products Nettie had taught her to make, Angel felt relieved she wouldn’t seem totally ignorant at her new job.
“We don’t have a lot of the usual kitchen fare, as you can see, since you cain’t very well pick up an oven and the pipes that go with it and move them ‘round from place to place,” Millie explained in her raspy voice. “There’s a small stove on the train, but I do most of my cookin’ over a slow fire. Like the rich flavor it brings. I can make any meal that goes in a pot. Cabbage stew. Potato soup. You name it; I can cook it. And when we have meat or poultry, they clamor for my pies.” She beamed with pride as she poured coffee into tins that Angel then set on a tray to disperse among the carnies. As Angel worked, her initial nervousness dissipated, and she relaxed, enjoying her first morning there, even if she had yet to sit down and take her first bite.
She returned to the preparation area, tray empty, and refilled it with platters of toast, a rich golden brown, she noted with satisfaction. Concentrating on the success of her labors as she walked, she set the platter in the center of one end of the table.
“There you go, Blackie. Golden brown and not one speck of black, just the way you like it.” She lifted her smiling gaze from the platter to where Blackie should be sitting… and inhaled so fast she thought she might choke, nearly swallowing her tongue.
The tall, dark stranger sat in Blackie’s spot. Amusement danced in his rich dark eyes.
Blackie waved in acknowledgment to her from farther down the bench, where he’d taken another place at the table next to an extremely tall, bearded gentleman.
“Wh–what are you doing here?” she asked her persistent follower once she found her voice.
“And a good morning to you, Miss Mornay.” Roland’s straight white teeth flashed in a charming smile. “The toast looks
delicious. Deep golden brown. And you’re right—that’s just the way I like it.”
“I asked what you’re doing here. This is where the workers eat. You shouldn’t be here.”
At her soft, insistent words, gritted through her teeth, those at that table quieted in curiosity.
“Actually, I should. I’m doing what every other carny is. Enjoying a hearty breakfast before taking on my duties.”
“Your duties?” she gasped in mounting horror. For the first time she noticed his fine three-piece suit was missing. In its place he wore common clothes: a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, suspenders, and trousers like the other men, his lean, muscular build now apparent. But even with the change in clothing, he stood out from everyone else.
The gleam in his eyes was full of mischief. “Like you, Angel, I’ve joined the ranks of Mahoney & Pearson’s traveling troupe. I’m a bona fide carny now.”
Roland watched without surprise as Angel made a quick excuse of being needed in the kitchen and hurried away as swiftly and gracefully as a kitten with a wolf in pursuit.
“She sure is jumpy,” Chester observed from beside him. “You two have a history?”
“Not much of one and not like you mean it. A case of mistaken motives that started out in a series of awkward missteps. Truth is, I’ve known Miss Mornay less than twenty-four hours.”
“You’re joshing. With the way you two were staring at one another? No history whatsoever?”
“No history.”
“Humph. Could’ve fooled me.”
Roland decided it was high time to shift the focus off his life. “I happened to notice your eye wandering over to that pretty little blond sitting at the end of the bench.” He glanced at the girl, who talked with another woman, similar to her in coloring and features, then looked back at his bunk mate.
Chester winced, and Roland noticed the flea man turn a shade red. “Cassandra Hollar. Part of the top act I was telling you about. That’s her mother with her. And like her mom, Cassie’s a bareback rider.” His words grew wistful. “Best there is in all of New England, I imagine. All the world.”
“I assume it’s safe to say you two have a history together?”
“Nope. Her parents won’t hear of it.” Chester frowned, unusual to see on his effusive features. “They consider a flea trainer beneath them and unsuitable for their daughter.”
“Tough break. She feel the same?”
“Hard to tell.” Chester ducked his head, taking interest in his coffee. “Mahoney wants me to show you around after breakfast. Let you get a feel for the place.”
“I’d like that.” Roland looked toward the canvas, where Angel had disappeared. He thought she was taking a considerable amount of time to bring the next platter out and wondered if she was hiding from him.
“This is ridiculous,” Angel chastised beneath her breath. “You can’t hide behind this curtain forever.”
“You say something?” Millie wanted to know.
“No, nothing.” She gave her instructor a bright smile to hide her embarrassment at being caught talking to herself.
“Humph. You gonna take them bowls of porridge out or what?”
Angel straightened her backbone. She had escaped being trapped in an unfortunate marriage, had fled the everyday cruelties of her severe aunt and cousins, and had jumped aboard a train bound for a destination unknown to her in the dark of night. Surely she could muster up enough courage to again confront the grandson of the legendary crime boss who ruled half of New York City.
She swallowed hard. Then again, when she thought of it that way…
“Those bowls ain’t gonna sprout wings and fly to the tables.”
Angel nodded, determined. “I’m on my way.”
The next few minutes went unpredictably well. Every now and then she sensed Roland watching her, but she avoided looking in his direction overly much. She would have preferred not to notice him at all, but his deep laugh as he talked with a couple of the carnies was both appealing and distracting and caught her attention more than once.
“Why does he have to be so disgustingly handsome?” she muttered as she sneaked a glance at him while gathering empty bowls as Millie had told her.
“Were you talking to me?” Cassie asked from behind.
“What?” she gasped, nearly dropping the dishes in shock. “No. I’m afraid it’s a bad habit I acquired. Talking to myself, that is.”
“If that’s your only bad habit, Angel, you’re as good as your name around here.” The blond laughed. “As soon as you finish with breakfast, I’ll take you on a tour of the midway to help you get acquainted with your new home.”
“I’d like that, but I don’t want to interfere with your work. You’ve already helped me so much. And I imagine I should find my way to the ticket booth soon, whichever one Mahoney wants me at. I noticed there are a number of them all around.”
“Oh, we have plenty of time. Relax. You need to eat, too.”
Angel nodded and gathered her own food, taking a place far down the table from Roland and out of sight of him. Once she ate the bland but filling fare and the dishes and dining area were cleaned to Millie’s satisfaction, Angel joined Cassie, who waited outside.
“Do you have anything casual to wear?” Angel’s bunk mate asked.
“Will this not do?” She glanced at her navy skirt then at Cassandra’s own denim trousers, knotted with a length of rope around her slender waist. “I don’t own anything like that. My aunt wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I have a spare. I only wear them for manual labor—and you’ll find there’s a lot of that before the customers start arriving. Save your nice clothes for then.”
“When is ‘then’?”
“Early evening. Not much sense performing while the kiddos are in school and the parents at work, those lucky enough to have jobs. We spend the mornings and afternoons rehearsing and working on new acts. On weekends we open in the early afternoon. I’ve found that every circus or carnival is different, each employing their own set of rules. And about those men you’ll be working for—Pearson’s a bit of a stickler, but Mahoney’s a peach.” She grinned. “He can be all bark and bluster, but he’s really a sweetheart once you know him.”
Inside their railcar, Angel changed into the denim trousers Cassandra lent her. She rolled them up at the ankles and belted them around her waist with a rope. Cassandra also lent her a man’s work shirt. “Father gives me his cast-offs. No sons to bequeath them to.” Cassie laughed, also tossing Angel a pair of flat-heeled shoes she had an extra pair of, which fit Angel surprisingly well.
As they left the railcar, Angel acknowledged the change felt better, warmer, and she didn’t feel so out of place wearing men’s clothes with Cassie dressed the same. Of course, had Aunt Genevieve seen her in anything other than a skirt or dress, she would have had a conniption fit. Angel smiled a little rebelliously at the thought, a smile that disappeared as both girls suddenly came face-to-face with Roland and a shorter man with laughing eyes.
Roland glanced at Angel’s changed attire but didn’t say a word. She wasn’t sure if he approved or not, not that she cared.
“Hey, Cassie,” the other man said. He stood as tall as she.
“Chester.” Her greeting seemed shy.
“I was just taking Roland on a tour of the grounds.”
“Funny. I was doing the same with Angel.”
Barely glancing at Angel, he nodded in greeting. His eyes seemed hopeful as they again went to Cassie. “Well then, how about we go as a group? That way if one of us forgets something, the other can fill in.”
Cassie darted a quick look around then nodded with an open smile. “Let’s do that.”
Angel’s stomach dropped to her toes at this new arrangement. She couldn’t exactly protest, since she did need to know the area and Cassie obviously wanted Chester to walk with them. During the next few minutes, however, the two leaders gravitated several feet ahead, walking together and leaving Roland and Angel to follow.
“I think they forgot about us,” Roland said in amusement after minutes passed without either Cassie or Chester pointing out some attraction or sideshow tent along the midway, giving the new workers no more information.
“It does look that way.” Her words came guarded.
He gave her a sideways glance. “I solemnly swear, on a stack of Bibles if you’d like, that I had nothing to do with this.”
“No need to. This isn’t a courtroom.” She couldn’t help but see the irony, though. No matter which direction she chose to run to rid herself of his company—a closed door, storming away, sneaking off a train—somehow she always ended up back in his path. “But you can’t say the same about finding work here. You meant to choose this place.”
In Search of a Memory (Truly Yours Digital Editions) Page 6