Sideshow

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  “My brother competed,” she said.

  The change in Constance’s eyes was almost imperceptible. Behind the calm veneer a brief flash of enlightenment flickered, and she glanced at Ruth, who frowned slightly, but nodded. “Look, I don’t mean to pry into your business,” Constance said. “I know most folks around here aren’t too big on sharing their stories, but if you’re who we’re thinking, then I wouldn’t go after Suprema. She’s strong, and she can be a bit abrasive at times, but no more so than your friend Della. And besides, that wasn’t her fault.”

  “But I wasn’t—”

  “Everyone here has a reason and a story and their own motivations. Suprema’s is …”

  “Sad,” Phebe’s small voice piped up. She had gone over to the food box, dug up a few of the remaining tidbits and held a still-warm calzone out to Abby, who took it gratefully. “She definitely has a sad one. She didn’t tell me, but I hear things. Only Boleslaw knows all about it, and that’s ‘cause he’s her uncle.”

  Constance nodded once to acknowledge Phebe and added, in a protective but still eerily calm voice, “I’ve seen her break a man’s arm with her bare hands. I really wouldn’t try messing with her about something that wasn’t her fault, all right?”

  Abby nodded. She hadn’t actually been considering anything of the sort. She remembered the look of horror on Suprema’s face the night before. She hadn’t known what was going to happen any more than Abby or Natale had. That wasn’t why Abby wanted to know about Suprema. It had more to do with the way she captivated her attention every time she entered the room and left a void when she departed. Still, there was no use arguing with Constance. It seemed like something that would be difficult to explain. She wasn’t even able to explain it to herself.

  “Is there anything else we can get you?” Ruth changed the subject. “The first couple days are always a little rocky, but you’ve got help, so anything you need …”

  Abby’s gut instinct was to say, “No, I’m fine,” but then her eyes happened to settle on the frayed hem of her cotton skirt. “Actually, um, this is the only outfit I have.”

  Ruth and Constance exchanged glances. “We can probably scrounge something up,” Ruth suggested. “If not from either of us, then somewhere. There’s plenty of people around, performers, workers, wives. We’ll get you fixed up.”

  A swell of relief drifted over Abby as the idea of wearing the impossibly small red polka-dotted dress vanished from her mind. “I’m an 18 in the Sears catalog. If that helps at all.”

  Chapter Six

  WHEN RUTH AND CONSTANCE DROPPED her at Della’s trailer—with her meager, newly acquired collection of clothes—Abby found the door locked. She rapped hard on the aluminum door and it vibrated. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Della answered, emphasizing her fake accent, but when she opened the door and saw Abby standing before her, she sighed with relief. Then she forced her features into a frown. “Oh. I thought you’d run off,” she said, the accent gone.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Abby replied, slipping inside. The explosive mess of clothing seemed to have gotten worse since the morning. She kicked a pile of feathered boas aside so that she could step through to the table and set her own bundle down.

  Della shrugged, sighing theatrically. She grabbed one of the white and silver boas from the ground, wrapped it around her neck, and plopped down at the small table across from Abby. “You’re lucky you caught me. I’ve got a show in a half hour. You would have had to wait out there in the rain.”

  “It’s not raining.”

  “It could start. You never know. Makes for a more dramatic story.”

  Abby considered her for a long moment, unsure whether or not she should laugh. She wanted to ask how things went with McClure, whether or not she was going to be allowed to eat breakfast tomorrow, if this whole thing was going to work, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  “You gonna come to the show, then?” Della asked, breaking the silence. She pulled on a pair of bright red pumps, pointed her foot, and admired her ankle.

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon. It’s not like you’re gonna have to demean yourself by actually performing or anything.” Though her tone was sarcastic, Abby could sense resentment.

  “It’s not that, I just … wasn’t I meant to be hiding out?”

  Della raised a skeptical eyebrow. Abby couldn’t blame her. She had, after all, spent the whole day wandering around the carnival with the sideshow performers. Surely, by now, most everyone had seen her. “You’ve never been to a burlesque, have you?” she asked.

  Abby wasn’t sure how to respond. She had walked into a minefield, and no matter whether her answer was, “No I haven’t,” which was the truth, or, “Yes I have,” which wasn’t, Della had the perfect sarcastic retort planned. She let Della’s words hang in the air and pretended, badly, not to have heard.

  “I figured as much.” Della smiled; her features turned warm and motherly as she took Abby by the arm. The expression looked out of place on her, somehow. “We can’t have this. If you’re going to feel at home here at McClure’s Traveling Amusements, then you’re going to have to truly experience it.”

  Abby wanted to protest, but part of her did concede that point. “I suppose—”

  “It’s settled then.” Della stood, tugging Abby to her feet as well. “I promise you won’t—well, no, I can’t promise that. You might regret it, but isn’t life really all about taking chances?”

  THE “GIRL SHOW” TENT WAS dark when Della led her inside. “Looks like we’re the first ones,” she said brightly, kicking around on the floor. “There should be a cord down here somewhere.”

  Though Abby wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be looking for, she glanced back and forth, at least pretending to be helpful. Seconds later, the tent came to life, and Abby gasped. Hundreds of fairy lights were strung between the tent poles. They gave the space an ethereal glow.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Della said. “We were using big theater lights on the poles, but they make everything too bright and they really washed me out, so then I saw something like this in a picture of some place in Rome and I went straight to Mrs. McClure.”

  Abby nodded as Della went on, detailing her other aesthetic choices, from plants in turquoise pots at the edge of the audience seating area to the red drape pinned up in front of the stage. A voice inside her doubted that Della had come up with all of these things, but she tried hard to force it down. She had known Della for less than twenty-four hours, and, while she did seem rather scattered, her desire for style was clear from her costumes.

  “So this is where you dance, then?” Abby asked, if only to stop Della from describing the artistic value of the straw-covered ground.

  Della paused, looking somewhat sardonic. “I don’t really dance. What I do is better.”

  Abby’s stomach squirmed. “Never mind then.”

  It seemed Della could sense this discomfort, as she grinned in triumph. “You should stop thinking you know what to expect around here, Abigail. It’s not becoming.”

  Abby didn’t bother to correct her about her name.

  “Some of the other girls dance. They should be here any minute. No time to meet them though, ‘cause so should the crowd. Maybe after?”

  A woman in a crisp suit dress, pillbox hat, and pumps, all of which were purple, pulled back the curtain. She studied Abby, then gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Done with the tour, Della? We’re just waiting on you and Vivian.”

  Della glanced around. Feet could be seen shuffling about just outside the tent. She looked embarrassed. It was the first time Abby had seen such an emotion on Della’s face. “Oh, wow, look at the time. Sorry, Mrs. McClure.”

  “Tell your friend to have a seat.” She smiled elegantly at both Abby and Della in turn, and then stepped behind the curtain with the kind of flourish Abby had only seen in movies.

  “That’s Mrs. McClure?” Abby whispered, eyes wide. “She could be Vivian Leigh!�
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  Della nodded. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She’s stunning.”

  Again, Della nodded, her eyes clouded. “She used to be a burlesque dancer, too. Took me in after I ran off and found a way for me to work in the show. No questions asked about anything.” She laughed in an odd, bitter way. “Taught me better than my let’s-have-eight-babies-just-cause-the menfolk-are-finally-home mother would have ever managed.”

  Abby forced a smile, because she knew Della was attempting to tell a joke. “My family’s pretty much the s— “

  “Anyway, neither here nor there. You should sit down. You’re in for a real treat.”

  Before Abby could ask any further about Mrs. McClure or even inquire as to where she should sit, Della had vanished behind the curtain and a slow but steady stream of people was filing into the tent.

  Hoping not to be noticed, Abby shrank into a seat near the back corner. The crowd was small, but the people all seemed riled up and fully able to cause plenty of trouble. One man had begun throwing popcorn at the stage before he even sat down. She tried not to think of them, but focused on the stage like a horse with blinders and imagined herself enveloped in her own cocoon. She longed for the safety of the diner.

  The first act, a young woman with bright red hair introduced as Trixie Rose, performed a comedic routine reminiscent of I Love Lucy, except that her movements were more explicitly sensual and her circle skirt always seemed to fall just above her thighs when she sat or pretended to faint. Abby was surprised by how amusing she found the whole routine.

  After she rushed off the stage, darkness fell. It seemed to chasten the crowd, which had been whistling and chanting raucously. Without introduction, a young woman who could have been the twin of Lena Horne, carrying only a single candle, walked to the center of the stage. She looked like a goddess, draped in white linen. “Vivian,” someone nearby whispered. The whisper rippled through the room like an announcement.

  When the rustle of her name died down, she began to speak, reciting poetry, both romantic and erotic. No one spoke. The audience barely dared to move. Then, just as she had come onto the stage, she exited—only stark naked, leaving the linen drape behind.

  Music jarred everyone out of the mystical spell Vivian had created: a tinny-sounding record, probably playing on an old player offstage. It was a lively tune, but it took Abby almost a full minute to pinpoint the voice as belonging to Perry Como. Two girls scurried onto the stage, Trixie Rose and a brunette Abby hadn’t seen before, both moving their hips in a mockery of the hula. They were clad as Della had been, in barely visible skin-tight leotards covered in strategically placed sparkles and spangles of red and white, but they lacked her feather boa.

  The song went on with the girls shimmying provocatively and blowing kisses to the hoots and hollers of the audience, until, almost as if a wind had changed, Perry Como’s voice stopped beckoning for a mambo, and a booming voice echoed, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, our one and only Princess of the Sky, Miss Adelaide!”

  A single violin began to play a mournful melody. The wolf whistles died away as the girls stepped to one side and Della walked to center stage from the back. A ring lowered from the ceiling. With a wink to the audience, she strung her feather boa through the ring and held on tight as it slowly lifted high above the stage. Abby held her breath. She had once panicked on a stepladder. The entire room was silent, except the violin.

  Abby stared. Speechless.

  “Something, isn’t she?” asked a woman’s voice from behind her. Abby spun quickly. There, leaning against a pole, sipping from a small silver flask, was Mrs. McClure. Suddenly, Abby felt guilty, though she couldn’t say about what.

  “Yes, yes she is.”

  Mrs. McClure held the flask in Abby’s direction and took a seat next to her. Without a second thought, Abby took a drink from the flask and handed it back. The whiskey burned in her throat. She watched as Mrs. McClure took a long drink while appraising the reaction of the crowd with a satisfied look. “They all are. Honestly. Very talented. And not just for this show. For the whole thing. We don’t take on the mediocre.”

  There it was. Abby recognized her guilt with a rush of heat. Mrs. McClure knew who she was, that she was freeloading with Della. “I—I’m sorry, Mrs. McClure …”

  Shaking her head, she pressed a finger to her lips.

  High above the stage, Della had kicked off her pumps and begun to propel herself in circles. Those below were still utterly silent. As she spun, in tighter and tighter circles, the violin’s song grew faster and more frantic. Then, as it reached a fever pitch, she let go. The entire room held its breath. She somersaulted once, then hit the stage with a bow.

  Abby couldn’t help herself. As the room erupted into applause and shouting, she joined in, carried away by it. Roses were thrown onstage, and Della picked them up, cooing in her fake accent, “Oh, thank you. It was nothing. Honestly, nothing. I was not good today. You should see the act tomorrow. Now that will really be something.” Then she blew a kiss and left the other girls to their record—this time Peggy Lee.

  Chapter Seven

  AFTER THE SHOW, ABBY GLANCED around for Mrs. McClure, but she had drifted away. The thrill of seeing the show fled her mind as she rushed through the exiting crowd to find Della, hoping against hope that she could get back to the trailer before Mrs. McClure had her thrown out.

  The girls were behind the tent. Trixie Rose and the brunette were wrapped under a wool navy blanket, taking turns with a single cigarette. Vivian and Della, however, were both already dressed for a night out in matching yellow and purple sheath dresses with sweetheart collars. If Abby hadn’t been so frantic, she would have found this amusing. Della did not seem to be the sort of person who would allow anyone to wear a dress that matched hers if she had any say in the matter.

  “There you are!” Della called out. “I was worried you got lost.”

  Abby shrugged off the warm reception. “We have to go,” she said, taking Della by the wrist.

  Della just smiled, looking amused. “Not even gonna tell us how good we were?”

  “Mrs. McClure—”

  “Thinks you’re very pretty and will be quite a draw for the bally,” Della finished, patting Abby’s hand until she let go of her wrist.

  “I—”

  The other girls burst into a laugh that sounded cruel to Abby’s ears, and Della shook her head. “I told them you were a touch excitable.”

  “I’m not—” but Abby stopped trying to defend herself.

  Again, the four of them laughed. Abby had the distinct feeling that she was backstage at the opera, listening to the other girls laugh over an inside joke directed at her. Her stomach squirmed. Her stomach had been doing an awful lot of squirming today, and she didn’t like it at all.

  “We’re going for drinks. We always go for drinks,” Della said as the laughter died away. “And you’re coming.”

  Abby wanted to shake her head, but she knew nothing she said would dissuade Della. It would be “Are you coming to my show?” all over again. So she took a deep breath and forced a smile. Della seemed to take this as an encouraging sign. She linked her arm through Abby’s and started to lead her away.

  “We’ll meet you there!” Vivian called after them. “Someone’s got to look after these two.”

  Della waved to acknowledge her.

  “And where are we going?” Abby asked.

  “Could you not have a cow in front of the girls, please?” was all Della would say.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL TWO COCKTAILS in that Abby got up the courage to mention how impressive she found Della’s act.

  Della scoffed, though her eyes sparkled. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal?” Abby asked. “I could never do something like that.”

  “Well, I should say not.” Della waved to a passing busboy and raised her empty glass. He seemed to get the hint. “You were born on the ground like most. Not your fault, just your lot in life.”

&
nbsp; Normally, Abby would have brushed this off. She had been brushing off Della’s jabs all day. However, she was getting quite tired of trying to be a bigger person. “And you were born in the sky, I take it?”

  Della watched her face, and Abby wondered if she had stepped over some invisible line. Then Della burst out laughing. “Pretty much!” Taking a glass from the busboy and drinking a quick swig, she beamed. “My mother was on trapeze with Ringling! She was the best of her day.”

  Abby didn’t know what to say. This was clearly something Della hoped would impress her, but hadn’t Della said her parents were on the vaudeville circuit when she was growing up? That her mother had had eight children? Still, Della was letting Abby use her tab and it seemed rude to question. Instead, she tried to come up with a reaction that Della would find suitable. “We went once, I think … in Chicago, but I was very little. It was impressive though.”

  “Still would have been before your time, probably. She died when I was tiny. Didn’t exactly stick her landing, if you catch my drift.”

  This Abby found all the more jarring. She watched Della’s face, trying to pinpoint what to say, but she found it hard to read. Her eyes were light, and her smirk challenging. It almost seemed as if she were using this story of her mother’s death to shock Abby more than to relate to her. In an attempt to be sympathetic, Abby reached across the table to touch Della’s arm, but she snatched it away.

  “Look! The other girls got through!” She waved toward the door, where the group of three had just arrived. Abby recognized Vivian, but the other two looked quite different without their costumes and stage makeup. Trixie’s hair was still red, but she had brushed out the tight ringlets, and without the heavy foundation and bright red rouge on her cheeks Abby could see the freckles that covered her face. The brunette’s eyes appeared to have changed color now that they were no longer heavily lined and shadowed, and her brows had doubled in size.

  “I’ve got to order them a round. It’s tradition, ‘cause I’m paid better. Excuse me.” Della dashed toward the cluster at the door, leaving Abby nursing her drink alone.