Sideshow

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  He puffed his chest out proudly. “No, but that’s where I have an advantage. I set up right when we arrive. No matter how late it is. No rest for the wicked. Plus,” he said, eying her as if she made his point by standing there, “there’s always one or two townies that mill about early. It pays to be the only one running.”

  “That it does.” She dug a few coins out of her skirt pocket and bought herself a ticket. The operator began the ride and saluted as the train chugged into its tunnel. “Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” he called out as the outside world disappeared from view.

  She had hoped for a diner-like effect, but to no avail. The inside of the ride looked darker and gloomier than Abby remembered. She had ridden the train twice the day before and could easily anticipate the robotic zombies and motion-activated chain rattles, so it wasn’t exactly frightening. Rather, it made her feel cold and empty. The rubber spiders that hung from the ceiling of the tunnel seemed more obviously fake than they had when Carla had been cowering from them in the bottom of her train car. A feeling of disappointment came over her as she watched sheets meant to be ghosts drift by. She experienced no distraction at all from her real-life problems. Then, toward the end of the ride, a series of flashing strobe lights rendered her practically blind. She had barely noticed them yesterday. She had been too busy comforting her younger siblings. Today, however, they terrified her.

  Abby screamed and ducked her head into her lap, trying to blot out the sensation that accompanied not being able to see. It didn’t help.

  The ride screeched to a stop. It was over. Now, she was outside and safe. Still, her heart pounded wildly.

  “Scary, huh?” the ride operator teased, holding out a hand to help her from the train car.

  She avoided his hand but nodded, not wanting to explain how she really felt about the ride. Instead, she gulped down air and attempted to walk away with as much dignity as possible. That dignity didn’t last long. After she had walked a few steps, a sudden, blistering-hot wave of dizziness and nausea came over her. She would either faint or be sick. She raced forward, forgetting her pride, simply trying to get away from people, but there were people everywhere. Everywhere she turned, someone else was assisting with a booth or carting around a large tub of potatoes. Overcome, she dropped onto a picnic bench. The tears came before she could stop them.

  “Are you all right?” a young woman’s voice, one with a familiar-sounding eastern Ohio accent, asked.

  Abby nodded, wiping furiously at her eyes. She didn’t want to be caught crying.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  The young woman didn’t leave. Instead, she sat down on the bench next to Abby, and, though she didn’t dare look, Abby could tell her eyes were watching her. “It can be a lot to take in. I’ve been with the troupe for a while myself, and I still have days …” She trailed off, and Abby finally risked looking at her. She was soft-featured, with dark brown eyes that reminded her of Nonna Gaetana’s. There was a warmth there, a welcoming expression that seemed to say, “It’s okay if you don’t fit. I don’t either. That’s the point.”

  “How do you know I’m not just some—what was it Della called them? Lot lice?”

  The young woman laughed. Abby was pleased to hear honesty in it. “My name’s Ruth,” she said, standing up and holding out a hand.

  Abby took it and got to her feet. “And I’m Abby. Just Abby. Not Abigail.”

  “Noted. Now, did you say that you were friends with Della?” She paused; her face looked as if she were searching for a word. “What’s her last name, Adamson?”

  “‘Friend might be a strong word,” Abby explained. “I suppose I’m more her ward.”

  Ruth looked briefly both puzzled and disappointed, but did not comment. “Come along then. Let’s get you better acquainted with the place.”

  Chapter Five

  AS RUTH LED HER THROUGH the maze of games and concessions, Abby’s dizziness decreased ever so gradually. “If you ever hear anybody refer to someone else as a ‘jockey,’ they mean a ride operator,” Ruth explained, gesturing toward a group of people attempting to hammer into place a track of spinning carriages shaped like strawberries. “I’m not sure why. Probably has something to do with carousels, but don’t hold me to that.”

  Abby nodded, taking it all in. Finally, she felt able to take a full breath and look around at the carnival as it unfurled before her.

  “The McClures are the owners. They pick the route, but it’s up to the advance man, his name is Thomas, to arrange everything, find an appropriate lot, set up a post office box to get mail, make sure we’re good with local law enforcement, and all that. Then there’s the lot managers. Boleslaw is the one I’m most familiar with. He’s in charge of the sideshows, but there are other managers for rides and concessions and …” She trailed off watching Abby’s face, which Abby was sure looked more than a little overwhelmed. It was as if she were back in high school and about to be tested on something she would never be able to commit to memory. “It’s not as complicated as it seems, but it can take some getting used to. Don’t worry. You’ll be in orbit before you realize it.”

  They stopped off at a few food vendors, and Ruth collected sodas, fried vegetables, bratwurst, and calzones which she carefully added to a box. Abby waited patiently, listening as Ruth introduced each vendor by name and hoping she wouldn’t notice how wobbly the smells made her feel. “How did you know I wasn’t a townie?” she asked after they had been walking for a while. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing Della would tell everyone.

  Ruth didn’t answer. She gestured toward a large open space in front of them. As they approached, and almost as if it sensed their presence, a tent of black-and-red-striped canvas began to rise from the ground.

  “That’s the show tent,” Ruth said, as if it needed explaining.

  Abby nodded. Even if she hadn’t seen it just yesterday, she would have known it in an instant. The red and black spiral of stripes screamed out a secret code, one that Abby didn’t fully understand yet, but even a town girl could get the gist. It said, “Step right up! Something unique is to be seen here! This is your only chance!”

  “Come on in then. You should meet everyone.”

  “No,” Abby said, without knowing why. “I can’t.”

  Ruth stared at her. Her expression—head cocked, eyebrows narrowed but eyes widened—could really only be described as one of offended bewilderment. “You’re going to have to meet them if you’re going to do the bally.”

  Abby felt terrified at the prospect of meeting the other performers. Ride operators and concessions sales folk were one thing, but this was a different breed. Her mind kept flying back to Boleslaw and his face full of pins, how if it hadn’t been for him, she wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place. Or would she? Sooner or later, she would have had to deal with Frank’s demands. If it hadn’t been the scene at the athletic show, it could have been something much worse.

  “Just don’t tell them how boring I am,” Abby muttered.

  Ruth smiled, but said nothing as she took her hand and led her inside the tent.

  JUST AS THE REST OF the carnival had, the crowd inside the tent looked busy. In the front, a group pieced together the raised platform that had acted as a stage. Others held lights to help with this process. Still others arranged seats and hung garlands.

  “I brought lunch!” Ruth called out, setting her box on a nearby bench. Countless unfamiliar faces turned and hurried forward.

  “Ruuuth!” a shrill child’s voice, much like Annette’s, cried from among the throng. Abby turned to see a flash of red-orange hair hurtling toward them.

  “Miss Phebe, what are you doing out of the trailer? I don’t think Papa will be pleased.” Ruth gathered the girl into her arms and stroked her curls back from her forehead. As she did so, Abby could see that the girl’s face was covered in downy hair, which was cut back everywhere except her chin where it had been al
lowed to grow into a long auburn beard. Abby’s eyes widened, but she tried her best not to show surprise. She had not seen this little girl yesterday.

  “It’s boooriiing there,” Phebe whined. “Mr. Lambrinos says I’m not allowed to touch anything. Not even the playing cards!”

  Her tone and inflections sounded so much like Annette’s that Abby had to stifle a laugh. When the little girl heard it, she shrank back in Ruth’s arms.

  “No, no, baby,” Ruth said, cooing and stroking the little girl’s curls. “Abby wasn’t laughing at you.” Though she did flash a look back at Abby, as if to say, “You weren’t, were you? Because we can no longer be friends if you were.”

  Abby shook her head, stooping to the little girl’s level as Ruth set her down. She hesitated, then said, “It’s just that you remind me of my little sister.”

  “I remind you of your little sister?” Phebe asked, her voice skeptical, betraying a world-weariness that Abby found hard to believe was issuing from a girl no older than eight.

  “Well, sisters. There are two of them. Annette and Carla. Carla’s closer to your age, but Annette …” Abby’s voice caught. A hollow feeling wormed its way through her stomach as she thought of her sisters. Mentally, she scolded herself. It had been less than a day since she last saw them: far too soon to miss them.

  Phebe touched Abby’s arm and looked carefully at her face. Abby swallowed hard to quell any tears the little girl might be seeing there. “You miss them?”

  Abby allowed herself to nod.

  “It’s okay to miss them. Mr. Lambrinos says we’re allowed to miss people. Even the ones who abandoned us.”

  The word “abandoned” struck Abby hard. Before she knew what she was doing, she had wrapped her arms around Phebe and pulled her into a hug. She herself hadn’t been abandoned; she had done the abandoning. Still, hearing Phebe say it made her feel more alone than she had when her mother died.

  Eventually, she felt Phebe gently, awkwardly pat her on the shoulder and whisper “There, there.” Flushed with embarrassment, she let go and stood, brushing herself off. Activity in the tent had stopped. All eyes were on her. Only two words popped into her mind: Damn it.

  Her vision began to narrow, as if the world were growing dark around the edges. The terror that had crept over her in the haunted train was coming back. There were no strobe lights, but the same blindness descended quickly. What had she done? She’d walked away from her family, from her sisters and brothers, from her father in his lonely little world, from her grandmother, even from the career that her grandmother had led her to. Now where was she going? The train had gone off onto a new course.

  She wanted to flee, to turn and run from the tent as fast as her feet could carry her, but no matter how many times she sent her legs the signal to run, they stayed firmly rooted.

  “Is she all right?” another young woman’s voice asked behind her. Ruth made a small noise of uncertainty. Still, Abby couldn’t turn to face them. “Do you need anything to drink?” the voice continued. “It is a little hot out today.”

  Abby closed her eyes and counted slowly. Una, dui, tri, quattru, cincu. She turned to face Ruth and another young woman, whom she instantly recognized as the girl with the burning hula hoop. She was dressed in work clothes, baggy green denim overalls and an even baggier grey blouse. Her black hair was tied back in a bandanna, but Abby had seen her put out a fire with her hand; it would have been hard to forget her face.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, trying to sound poised and calm.

  Though neither of them seemed to believe this, Abby was relieved that they didn’t press the matter.

  “This is Constance, by the way,” Ruth said, slipping her arm around the other girl’s waist.

  Abby looked at them and couldn’t help but smile at the way they seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces. Abby wondered if they were sisters, but then she noticed the look in Ruth’s eyes. The love there wasn’t sisterly. It was a much more fiery affection. Abby had seen that look many a time before, over malted milkshakes and French fries at the diner and between Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. She hadn’t expected to see it exchanged between Constance and Ruth, and yet, the moment she recognized it, the love was obvious. Abby tried not to blush. “Yeah, the fire dancer. I remember you.”

  “So you’ve seen the show?” Constance asked. She sounded excited, like when Sal was about to ask Abby how she liked a new dish that he had invented.

  “Well, part of it …”

  “She’s Della’s friend,” Ruth explained. “I heard her talking to McClure about getting her on the bally.”

  “That’s wonderful! It would be great to have a woman out there.”

  Abby watched the two of them, the ease with which they talked, the sweet gentle way they touched and looked each other in the eye. For the first time in a long time, something inside her whispered, “I want someone to look at me like that.” She blinked at the thought, forced it down, and allowed herself to ask, “I’m sorry, but no one’s told me yet … what’s a bally?”

  Constance laughed, and Ruth gently tapped her on the forearm. “Don’t,” she said. “I didn’t know either.”

  “The ballyhoo!” Constance said, with a bright smile. “The one who gets them in the tent. You’re the one who stands outside and says ‘Step right up and see sights that will delight and amaze!’ and things of that sort.”

  Instead of responding with the excitement she was certain Constance expected, Abby whispered, “Oh, no—”

  “It’s just talking, really.”

  “Oh, no,” Abby repeated, shaking her head. Her brain filled with images from the opera: stepping to the edge of the stage to audition her pieces; her voice going flat and hoarse, though a moment before it was fine; and, worst of all, the grim, annoyed expressions worn by the music directors.

  “I’m a waitress. I’m just a waitress.”

  “I think she may faint,” Ruth whispered to Constance. She took Abby by the arm and guided her toward a chair. “You need to get some food in you. Did you have any breakfast?”

  “What seems to be the trouble?” asked yet another voice, male, older, with a heavy Eastern European accent.

  Abby groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to be the subject of this much attention.

  Then, the voice seemed startled. “Miss Amaro?”

  Abby jerked her head up and saw Boleslaw holding Phebe by the hand. It looked as though the little girl had dragged him over to help.

  Abby shook her head, not to deny who she was, but simply to clear the cobwebs. Part of her knew that she should have expected to see Boleslaw sometime, but she didn’t expect the memories of the night before to flood back. At least it wasn’t Gregor, though he was surely around as well.

  “Miss Amaro, what are you doing here?” he asked again. The heaviness in his voice seemed to have dissipated.

  Abby didn’t want to answer. She knew it wasn’t fair, but she didn’t trust Boleslaw. He had brought her brother into the sideshow. The outcome wasn’t his fault, yet part of Abby wasn’t willing to accept that.

  Constance answered for her. “She’s traveling with Della Adamson.”

  Boleslaw still looked puzzled, but seemed willing to take Constance at her word. He opened his mouth, but before Abby heard any words yet another voice rang out.

  “There you are!”

  For a terrible second, Abby’s mind concocted an image of Frank bursting into the tent; however, that image faded quickly. From the other side of the stage came the referee from the night before. Rage burned behind her eyes. Abby appreciated seeing it. Though her own rage had been smothered by nerves and confusion, it made that angry part of her that didn’t want to talk to Boleslaw feel validated.

  “Suprema,” Boleslaw said in a placating voice as he intercepted her. “I’ve been here the whole time. You know this.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest and held Boleslaw in an intense glare. “I have things we need to discus
s.”

  “Of course. Let me just finish with Miss Amaro here—”

  “Now!”

  Boleslaw flashed an apologetic glance at Abby, then nodded toward Suprema. “We can talk outside.”

  He started toward the exit, but Suprema hung back. She glanced at Abby, then at Constance and Ruth, with a sneer that seemed to yearn to make someone else as angry as she felt. “You’ve really got to stop collecting the lot lice, Lambrinos,” she said, disdain hanging in her voice. “It’s starting to look, frankly, pathetic.”

  “Don’t you talk to her like that!” Ruth protested, immediately on her feet. Abby squirmed. Suprema could probably snap Ruth’s neck without breaking a sweat, but the look on Ruth’s face seemed fierce enough to knock Suprema out on its own.

  However, she calmed immediately when Constance touched her elbow. “Not worth it,” she whispered.

  Suprema smirked and continued on her way. Abby looked quickly at Ruth and Constance: Ruth was still seething. Constance, however, had a perfectly serene expression, despite having been the one insulted.

  “Who… who was that?” Abby asked hesitantly, not wanting to break the silent communication that seemed to be passing between Ruth and Constance, but eager to know.

  “Suprema,” Constance said. Nothing in her face indicated, in any way, how she felt about her. Abby marveled at the skill. “She does a Wonder Woman-type act. Weight lifting, arm wrestling, that kind of thing.”

  “And she’s the referee for the athletic show,” Abby whispered.

  Constance and Ruth seemed taken aback. “Yes, she is,” Constance said. “How did you—”

  “It’s not important.”

  Constance regarded her with an appraising air. The calm in her eyes actually gave Abby a small fright. She suddenly wanted very much not to disappoint her.