Sideshow

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  Della stepped aside and gestured grandly. “See for yourself.” Abby cringed and pressed as far under the table as she could.

  She had called his bluff. Somewhat deflated, the officer stepped out of the doorway and went on to the next trailer with Boleslaw following close behind.

  Della ducked under the table and looked Abby in the eyes. “I won’t bother to ask what that nonsense was about, but you will tell me later. In the meantime …” She kicked open a small bottom panel that would have held a plumbing system if the trailer were ever parked at an actual campground with running water. “I need you to get to the Lambrinos’s trailer and tell them to keep the ankle-biter safe. That one’s got a look about him. He’ll cart her right off if he lays eyes on her.”

  Abby shivered as the realization of what Della meant dawned on her. “But I don’t know where—”

  “The red double-decker with the orange awning at the far end. Farthest from action. There’s always a mess of hula hoops and playing cards on the fold-out table next to it. Now go!” She shoved Abby out the plumbing hatch. “Hurry!”

  Abby raced through the caravan, ducking in and out of rows of trucks and trailers, trying not to be seen. An angry crowd with Boleslaw at the head still followed the policeman. They provided enough distraction for Abby to get ahead of the group. She glanced back and caught Boleslaw’s eyes. He gave an urgent nod, and she raced on even faster.

  The Lambrinos’s trailer was exactly as Della had described it, and Abby saw Ruth and Constance sitting at the table playing rummy.

  “Gin!” Ruth cried, triumphantly laying out her cards.

  Constance smiled, but a laugh died on her lips when she noticed an out-of-breath Abby. “Ruth,” she hissed; Ruth turned, her eyes widening.

  “Abby!” she exclaimed, rushing to help her to the table. “Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”

  Abby shook her head. “No time,” she forced herself to say. The words came with difficulty as she clutched the stitch in her side. “Police—tell you—Phebe.”

  Both girls jumped to action immediately. “I hate Michigan,” Constance spat.

  Ruth took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll take her. We’ll just go collect flowers in the woods for a bit. She won’t even know.”

  “She knows why this happens,” Constance said with a frown, but she nodded and let go of Ruth’s hand.

  Ruth nodded in wordless understanding and hurried into the trailer to gather up Phebe. Abby waited with Constance and tried to stop her heart pounding as the noises of the crowd came closer.

  “Does this happen often?” she asked.

  Constance shrugged. “Depends on the town. Depends on the year. Depends on whether any crimes have been committed locally or if somebody’s chickens got eaten by coyotes. We’re easy scapegoats for all that. It’s not as bad as it used to be, though. Least not how Papa tells it.”

  “My Nonna tells it the same.”

  The pair stayed silent, listening to the complaints and protests as they drew closer. Then Constance spoke again, her voice tense and stilted, but also urgent. “Why are you really here?” she probed.

  “What?”

  “I mean, you’re not Della’s sweetheart. I asked around.”

  Abby shook her head and felt a blush rise at the thought of Constance asking about her and Della in that way. “It’s complicated.”

  “Are you hiding from someone?” Immediately, Abby understood the look in Constance’s eyes. It wasn’t a look meant for gossip; it was a sincere desire to help. Constance wanted to know if she should be in the woods with Ruth and Phebe. “If we need to hide you from them, I need to know now.”

  “I’m not what they’re looking for today,” Abby whispered. She wanted to hide, but for no reason other than the insistent pounding of her heart.

  Constance gave a solemn nod. Abby had seen that expression before, on her grandmother, her mother, her father, Natale. It was a look of anxious resignation, the expectation that something was likely going to go wrong and that there was nothing to be done about it. Abby hated that expression.

  The crowd turned the corner. Constance stood up; her expression hardened as if someone had just painted it with shellac. Though her entire body begged her to flee, Abby stayed right where she was, watching Constance’s rigid face.

  “This is the last trailer,” Boleslaw said, gesturing toward the two of them. “As you can see …”

  The officer strode past him to Constance. With a look of annoyance at Boleslaw and the others who had followed him, he began speaking in a strained voice. “I am simply here to check that this organization is compliant with the local laws and that nothing untoward is being done here. I like to think that shouldn’t be an inconvenience.”

  Constance locked her jaw before she spoke. Her words were slow, steady, and calm, but Abby could hear a venomous warning in them. “I’m sure you understand that people in our situation and line of employment can be sensitive about these matters.”

  “Because you have a reputation.” He glanced at Abby, then back at Constance. “We’ve seen quite a few young women around and, to look at you—how can we be sure there isn’t some sort of … riding academy going on here?” Abby didn’t understand the phrase, but she could tell from the smirk on the officer’s face and the way Constance’s fist clenched that it didn’t have anything to do with horses.

  Constance took a deep breath, releasing the tension in her hand. Abby was impressed. “I can assure you, sir, that all proper permits have been pulled, as I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. McClure, as well as Mr. Wolski, our lot manager, have already shown you and I’m sure countless others have already explained.”

  The look on his face was murderous. Constance’s poise, unlike Della’s, only seemed to aggravate him. “Gypsy trash,” he muttered audibly.

  “I’m sorry, sir, what was that?” Constance asked, not even blinking at the insult.

  “You heard me,” he said. He eyed the trailer, his eyes spinning over possible violations, but not settling on any one thing. “That’s, uh, quite the trailer you’ve got there. I imagine a girl like you doesn’t drive it herself. You got a husband? Kids? Other stowaways?”

  “My father assists.”

  “You need that much space for you and an old—”

  The trailer door flew open, interrupting. “Is there some kind of trouble out here?” Called a rail-thin man from the doorway. His accent had a dancing quality, making the words flow together almost like a song, but he looked groggy and half asleep.

  “I got it under control, Papa,” Constance said, her tone much sweeter now.

  The officer spun away from her and started for the trailer. “Sir,” he began. “Your ‘daughter’ here was just informing me that you and she alone occupy this massive trailer.”

  Constance’s father nodded. “That is correct. We make a fair wage. Our skills are unique and in demand.”

  The officer smirked, taking in Mr. Lambrinos’s haggard looks. “Skills like opium dealing? Or maybe you’re spies?”

  His eyes narrowed. “We had a long drive last night and only finished setup a few hours ago. You would begrudge a man a nap?”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Alejo Lambrinos. And what is yours?”

  The people gathered around Boleslaw were hushed. They barely seemed to breathe. Abby was terrified that the officer would take Constance’s father, and possibly Constance herself, away in handcuffs. And what would she tell Ruth?

  Just as the officer seemed ready to move forward, Boleslaw intercepted him. “Sir, as you can see, we are a plenty tame group of nomads. How about you step off to my tent and I’ll get you a hot coffee.”

  Still Abby could not breathe.

  He paused, watching Boleslaw with piercing eyes. He glanced toward the crowd and, in an instant, deflated. “I’d prefer lemonade.”

  “I think that could be arranged.” Boleslaw wrapped an arm around the officer’s shoulders and, with a wink back at Abby and Const
ance, led him away and through the crowd.

  As soon as he was gone, Constance let out a long slow breath. “I’ll go get Ruth and Phebe,” she said.

  Abby stood up to follow, but thought better of it. She stayed in place, watching Constance go. Her stride was confident and determined even after the demeaning confrontation. A small worm of envy climbed through Abby’s gut. She had been terrified. She didn’t know if she could move at all.

  “Were you afraid, Miss?” Constance’s father asked.

  Abby nodded, still not sure if she could speak.

  “Oh, don’t you worry. Boleslaw is the best lot manager we’ve ever had. He’d never let anything happen to any of us. I’ve known him for many years.”

  Again, Abby nodded. She was glad Mr. Lambrinos had that trust, but wasn’t quite sure that she shared it.

  Chapter Nine

  THE RESTAURANT HAD A NICE look about it. It wasn’t the Ritz by any means, but it was clean and hardly the dive Abby had expected Della to have chosen. In fact, though she was trying hard not to think about Cleveland, the facade made her mind drift back to the diner. It was Wednesday night. Back home, the special would be chopped sirloin with stuffed tomatoes. The milkshake flavor of the day would be chocolate, unless Sal got it in his head to be fancy, in which case he would show up with a crate of pineapples and spend half the night trying to cut them up fast enough for excited Coventry teens until Roman gave up and opened the canned pineapple that had been hidden away for the next day’s ham steaks.

  Thinking of Sal and Roman brought another memory: the top-hatted ride jockey she had met on her first day at the carnival. He had been swept from her mind until this very moment, lost in the excitement, confusion, and anxiety of the days that followed. She wracked her brain trying to remember his name. Perhaps he could be Vinnie? She had been too preoccupied to feel any attraction to him, but he had been nice, friendly, and kind. If she was going to be set up with one of the carnival folk, well, she figured that she could do worse.

  She adjusted the far-too-tight yellow bell dress that Della had insisted she wear and pushed open the door. Immediately an eager hostess stepped toward her. The restaurant looked practically deserted; Abby knew well how bored she must be. “Slow night?” she asked, as if talking to a coworker.

  The hostess nodded enthusiastically. Abby watched her face. Her eyes had a hopeful quality that offset the weariness the heavy bags under them suggested. “Wednesday’s not a big night for us. Chicken liver special.”

  Abby laughed. “I actually like chicken livers, believe it or not. I’ll have to buy out your supply.”

  The hostess beamed. “Chicken liver table for one?”

  Abby was about to agree. It would be the first decent meal she’d had in longer than she wanted to admit. Did she really want to be forced to share it with a stranger? Still, it was rude to bail on a date, and it made the other person involved feel terrible. She should know; Frank had bailed on her often enough. “Actually, I’m meeting someone. Ah, Vinnie … something.”

  Her eyes narrowing a little, the hostess peered at her list. After a long moment, she pressed her lips together and nodded. “Right. This way, please.” She led Abby toward the back. In a fancier restaurant in a larger town, Abby might have assumed the location was meant to provide privacy, but she knew enough about the restaurant business to know that a table hidden behind a small wall near the kitchen meant something quite different in a place like this.

  Seated at the table with a half-finished glass of beer in front of him was an older, balding gentleman wearing a shabby suit. He stood as they approached. “You must be Abby,” he said, extending a hand.

  Abby wanted to recoil. She looked to the hostess for assistance, but she was already hurrying back to the lobby. Abby simply nodded, not shaking his hand. “And you’re Vincent?”

  He sat and took a swig of his beer. “I am. I’m the poor old drunk Della Adamson and her posse like to set up on dates with new girls to embarrass them. Don’t worry; you’re not the first one they’ve done this to and you won’t be the last.”

  Abby stared hard at him. She was angry. This whole blind date nonsense had been done to embarrass her? So much for new friends. They were exactly like the girls at the opera. She didn’t know why she had expected anything else.

  “Excuse me,” Abby said, trying to maintain her composure. “I have to go.”

  “Sit,” Vinnie said, still sounding a little bitter, but somewhat more cordial. “Pick out the most expensive bottle of wine they’ve got and whatever you want for dinner.”

  “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “I know this isn’t a real date,” he said and gave a hearty laugh. “And don’t worry; you’re not even close to my type. But Adamson gives me the money for this nonsense, so seriously, if you want to get back at her, go to town. Order expensive things.”

  Still, Abby stayed on her feet. “Why are you here if you knew what they’re up to?”

  “You really want to eat either concessions or the slop they try to pass off in the food tent every night?”

  It didn’t take any more convincing. She sat and took the wine list in hand. “I don’t care if French wine is more expensive. Can we get something Italian? I’m feeling a little homesick.”

  Vinnie’s eyes lit up. “È così?”

  Abby bit her lip. She knew what Vinnie was thinking. Whenever she talked about her family or spoke Italian, people assumed that, rather than being the child of immigrants, she herself was from Italy. “I mean …”

  “Che città?”

  “I, uh, Palermo?” She shifted in her chair and looked to the floor. Now she’d done it. This had happened a few times when she worked at the diner. Less and less these days, of course, as Italy was gradually morphing into a place that people in Abby’s world visited rather than a place that they were from. Still, every time, she was struck with the sensation that she was an imposter, claiming something that she, herself, didn’t actually have any right to own, and yet it was still part of her.

  “No need to be ashamed. It’s too beautiful a home to be ashamed of. In fact, I would have kicked you out of my table if you had said anywhere north of Naples.”

  “No, I’m not ashamed. I just don’t want you to misunderstand. I’ve never … actually been there, myself, you know,” Abby explained. “My parents were younger than I am now when …”

  Vinnie nodded and waved a hand, attempting to summon a waiter. At first they seemed to ignore him, but, after a moment, one took their order. “So you’ve never been home?”

  “My home is Cleveland,” Abby explained. “I was born there.” She examined Vinnie’s face. It was a brilliant red color, as if he spent hours a day scrubbing his skin. She wondered what his act might be that would require that.

  “Cleveland,” Vinnie muttered, a hint of distaste in his voice. “I remember Cleveland. Whyever would you leave?”

  An unexpected feeling of protectiveness rushed through her. Hearing a stranger imply that there was something wrong with the place she grew up, the place her family lived, perfect or not, hurt. “I didn’t really have a choice,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t have gone if I did.”

  With a bemused smirk, Vinnie took another sip of beer. He didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve been with McClure’s Amusements for almost ten years. Never seen ‘em force anybody to join the caravan. Doubt they’ll start anytime soon.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You mean you have a sob story?” Vinnie asked. “We all do. Doesn’t mean it’s not a choice.”

  Abby pondered this. Part of her still wanted to punch him, but another appreciated his frankness.

  “That’s the trouble with you kids,” he continued. “You’re all convinced that no one else has ever struggled like you do.”

  “You have a sob story then?” she challenged.

  “Of course I do. I’m a clown. Our stories are the saddest of all.”

  Abby fought back a laugh, unsure whether or not he
had meant to be amusing. At least being a clown explained the overly-scrubbed state of his face. She took a deep breath and attempted to arrange her features into a look of sincerity. “Would you tell me?”

  Vinnie seemed skeptical, almost as if he could read the laugh still hiding in Abby’s eyes, but then he nodded. “We’ve got to stick together, don’t we?”

  Abby didn’t know what to say. She waited patiently as her wine was poured. After a few more sips of his beer, Vinnie began. He told her a long and detailed tale about running away from his home in Salerno to New York when he was just a teenager and how hard travel had been just after the first World War; about becoming an autoworker in Detroit, then becoming a hobo after the drink caught up with him; about joining up with the carnival; and finally, after he had almost finished another glass of beer, about why he had run away in the first place: the love of his life, a young man named Gianni.

  “We were supposed to run together, you know. Both of us. He never showed. Then, a couple months later, I get a little note from his sister—he was dead. I took it harder than I like to admit.”

  Abby stared blankly at his face, unsure of what to say.

  “What, do I shock you?” Vinnie asked. “Completely disturbed by the degenerate clown?”

  “No,” said Abby immediately. “It’s just—I can’t imagine.”

  She had never felt that desperate love that would be strong enough to carry you away from everything you’d ever known. Not for Frank. Not for anyone. She was running from Frank. That was quite different.

  “What was Gianni like? Do you still …?”

  “Think about him every day.” Vinnie smiled wistfully into the amber liquid in his glass, and Abby knew he wasn’t seeing his own reflection there.

  VINNIE WALKED ABBY BACK TO Della’s trailer around ten. The lights were on inside. She sighed. “I was hoping she’d still be out.”

  “Adamson is harmless,” Vinnie whispered. Abby thought his hushed tones contradicted this statement, but said nothing. “She’s a sad, lonely little girl who misses a mother who died too young, just like you.”