Sideshow

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  “But I never said—”

  “No need.” Vinnie took her hand and squeezed it. “I can read people better than they think I can. Now, Miss Amaro. This has been a lovely evening. I appreciate that you didn’t run screaming. I might have, in your shoes.”

  Abby shook her head. “No. This was fun. I haven’t had Chianti in forever.”

  Vinnie kissed her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Amaro.”

  He disappeared into the darkened trailer lot, and Abby watched as he left. She couldn’t imagine her own life playing out as his had, and yet there was something about him, something sweet and kind. Could she be sweet and kind after losing someone who meant that much to her? Would anyone ever mean that much to her?

  Della’s trailer door creaked open, spilling light out into the lot. “Abby? Is that you? Are you home?” Della called out into the darkness. Abby took that as her cue to hurry up and get inside. There she found Trixie Rose, Vivian, and Celia all crammed around the tiny table. They looked up at her expectantly.

  “How was your date?” Della asked, a smirk dancing on her lips as she latched the door behind Abby. An amused giggle rippled through the other three.

  Abby stared at the three other girls and then looked back at Della. Their eyes were all trained on her, waiting for her to get mad and yell at Della, or cry, or something. Abby simply shook her head and went to the bench Della had made up for her bed. Abby curled up and turned to face the wall, though she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She was sick to her stomach and certain it had nothing to do with the chicken livers or the wine.

  “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s just a little hazing,” Celia said, her inflection rising at the ends of her sentences. When Abby didn’t answer, she turned to Della with the same tone. “Della…”

  Della stayed quiet, though Abby listened hard to hear her response. She could hear her heels click against the linoleum as she paced and the rustle of fabric, as if she were rummaging through it or pinning something new to her dummy, which usually seemed to soothe her.

  After a long while she sighed. “You guys should go.”

  “Del—” Vivian began, but Della cut her off.

  “Nah, she’s sleeping, and it’s late. I’ve got some letters to write anyway.”

  “If you’re sure.” Skirts shuffled and heels clicked as the girls went out into the trailer lot.

  “I know you’re awake,” Della said when they’d gone.

  Abby still didn’t answer her.

  “It was just supposed to be a joke.”

  “I get that,” Abby answered, still not turning to face her. She couldn’t distill what she was feeling into words for Della.

  “Are you really that mad?”

  “No,” Abby answered, sitting up. “I’m not mad. I just… How much do you know about Vinnie?”

  Della shrugged. “He’s a clown. He’ll put up with a lot of nonsense if you offer to pay for his dinner. Why? Did he get fresh with you? He’s never—”

  “We just had a nice talk.”

  “Hmm,” was Della’s only response. She went back to her dress dummy and fluffed the skirt.

  Abby frowned and attempted another tactic. “You love my brother, right?”

  Della fluffed the skirt again and did not answer.

  “Okay. Goodnight then,” Abby said, lying back down. She closed her eyes and listened a little while longer to Della fidgeting with the clothes on the dress dummy.

  ~June, 1957~

  ABBY STARES UP AT THE darkened house on Murray Hill Road. Exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes have passed since her curfew, and not a single light has been turned on. She knows because she has been waiting.

  In the driver’s seat next to her, Marjorie lights another cigarette. “If you don’t want to go in, we can drive around a little more,” she suggests after taking a drag.

  Abby smiles. Nothing appeals to her more than driving away from the house, with Marjorie’s brand new FM radio blaring whatever WHK chooses to play. She reaches out and turns up the volume. Elvis croons, and Abby laughs. “Just drive.”

  Marjorie flicks cigarette ash out the window, then glances over at Abby. One eyebrow is cocked. “You sure?”

  “Miles from here. Far away. Just keep driving and don’t stop.”

  Marjorie laughs nervously. “We could go to New York.”

  Excited that she is playing along, Abby grabs her free hand and grins. “Yes! New York! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Yeah.” Marjorie’s tone is wistful and Abby actually thinks that a plan might be unfolding. “We could get an apartment in the village. I could sell my paintings—” Then the dreamy smile that has formed on her pale pink lips fades. “What about the opera?”

  “New York has great opera,” Abby says, not willing to give up on the rush of freedom just yet.

  “But you’re in school for opera here.” She takes one last long drag off the cigarette and tosses it out the window. “Besides, I don’t have the gas money to drive that far.”

  Abby deflates as Elvis sings “uh huh” one last time. A light comes on in the house, and Abby sighs. “And, there’s my cue.”

  “Sorry. Maybe we’ll go to New York next weekend?” Marjorie teases.

  “Sure,” Abby smiles and slips out of the car. The light looks like it’s coming from Nonna Gaetana’s window, which is unlucky. Abby has to pass that room to get to her own. She swallows hard and glances back at Marjorie, who gestures toward the house encouragingly before starting her car. Abby frowns as Marjorie’s car pulls away, then, silently hoping that her grandmother merely needs a drink of water and will be back to sleep before Abby turns the corner, steels herself to make her way through the mostly darkened house.

  No such luck.

  When Abby turns down the hallway toward her room, she sees that Nonna Gaetana’s door is ajar. She is waiting. Beneath Abby’s feet, a floorboard creaks, sealing her fate.

  “Abigaille?” her grandmother’s voice calls from her room.

  Abby sucks in a deep breath and holds it, not daring to move even an inch.

  “Abigaille, I know you’re out there.”

  Ever so slowly, she lets out the breath and slips into her grandmother’s room. Nonna Gaetana sits on her bed, clutching an envelope full of pictures. She does not look at the pictures, but Abby knows what is to come. This has happened before. “Nonna,” Abby says softly, going to her side. “Nonna, it’s late. You should get back to sleep. You need your rest.”

  Nonna shakes her head. “I’m not tired.”

  Abby knows better than to argue. Instead, she nods, accepting that it may be a long night. “Would you like to tell me about the people in the pictures, Nonna?”

  “Pictures?”

  Gingerly, Abby touches the hand holding the envelope. The hand is delicate and thin, and Abby does not like to touch it because she is reminded of how fragile her grandmother’s health has been of late.

  “Oh,” Nonna Gaetana says, her eyes resting on the envelope. “No, we’ve talked about them plenty of times, haven’t we?”

  They have. Many, many times. Always as if it were the first time. “Yes, Nonna,” Abby admits, not sure what this change means. “I thought it helped you get to sleep.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “All right.” Abby stays silent, waiting. The stillness is too heavy, like dead air on the radio. She expects words, but none come. She fidgets, rubbing at a hand with her thumb.

  “Where were you tonight?” Nonna Gaetana finally asks.

  Abby finds it easier to answer this question now that she is no longer going steady with Frank. “Went to a drive-in with Marjorie. There’s a new Cary Grant movie out.”

  “Marjorie…”

  “From the diner,” Abby explains patiently. Her grandmother has been apt to forget names lately.

  “I know who Marjorie is,” Nonna Gaetana protests. “You talk about her all the time lately.”

  Abby blushes.

  “You two have been s
pending an awful lot of time together.”

  Her grandmother’s critical tone takes Abby by surprise. It is a few moments before she can defend herself. “We… work together, Nonna. At the Cedar Road Diner. Remember?”

  “Don’t you talk to me as if I’m going senile, Abigaille Giovanna Amaro. I see more than you children realize.”

  “Nonna…”

  “You need to spend less time with that girl. If you go to drive-ins, go in a group like Natale does. He is a sensible boy.”

  “Nonna, I don’t understand what you’re talking about!” She is shouting. She hates shouting at her grandmother. She scolds Natale for doing it, for being impatient when Nonna can’t remember things or tells the same story twice, but this is different. Her grandmother is angry with her, but she can’t wrap her mind around why. “Are you all right?”

  Nonna Gaetana stares at Abby’s face. “How old are you? You should get married. That is what girls your age are supposed to do.”

  “Nonna!”

  “Whatever happened to the Butler boy?”

  Abby grimaces. “We split up,” she says as quickly as possible. It’s the best way to pull off the Band-Aid.

  Nonna Gaetana says nothing. Then she stands and looks at Abby, holding out her hands. “Why would you do something like that?”

  Abby takes her hands and attempts to gently steer her back to sitting. She doesn’t want to hurt her grandmother, who is suddenly stronger than she remembers, but she is confused. She lets Nonna Gaetana pull away and pace over to the writing desk. She stands and takes tentative steps toward her. “I thought you didn’t like him? You complained all the time that he wasn’t Italian, that he didn’t have a real job, that he was lazy and pompous—”

  “By the time I was your age, I was married with a baby on the way.”

  “I don’t want to marry Frank!” Abby insists. She wants to run away, to slam the door on her grandmother and shut out this conversation. “He cheated on me! He hurt me!”

  Nonna Gaetana waves a hand as if swatting away a fly. “That’s men. Good girls still marry them.”

  Abby shakes her head and starts for the door. There is no more she can do. “I can’t accept that, Nonna, I’m sorry.”

  Nonna Gaetana presses her face to her hands as if praying. Abby closes the door behind her as quietly as she can.

  Chapter Ten

  AS SETUP BEGAN IN KALAMAZOO, Abby sat on the step outside Della’s trailer, waiting for the advance man to bring the mailbag. She was supposed to be trying to mend several burst seams in Della’s costumes, but she had already stabbed her finger with the needle four times in the past ten minutes. Her mind was elsewhere. She was desperately searching the crowds of people slipping in and out of the trailer lot for any sign of Natale. He’d said he’d pick her up in Kalamazoo or Chicago. That had been weeks ago, but it was the only thing she had to go on as she hadn’t heard from him since.

  When the mail finally came around, Abby called out, but Thomas frowned and shook his head, passing her by. Not even a letter from one of Della’s admirers. Her heart sank. Seconds later, anger had replaced despair. Her brain whirled through a myriad of un-Natale-like actions. Had her brother forgotten about her? Did he have better things to do? Abandoning her never seemed like something he would do, but neither did dating a girl like Della. Incensed, she stood and, Della’s costumes still clenched in her fist, marched off in search of a pay phone.

  She found one near the front of the lot. Under normal circumstances, she would have been embarrassed to have this conversation in front of so many people, but setup kept them distracted and anger pushed away any thought of embarrassment.

  She tried the Amaro house twice, but there was no answer. Panic rising in her chest, she dialed the only other number she could think of: the diner. The phone rang four times before she heard Sal’s voice, “Cedar Road Diner. Our hours are—”

  “Sal!” Abby hissed into the phone, keeping her voice low for reasons she didn’t fully understand.

  “Abby?! Is that you?”

  “Yes, Sal.” She glanced around nervously, but no one, not even the crew, appeared able to hear. “It’s me.”

  “Where are you? Where have you been?” His voice sounded frantic.

  “It’s complicated, Sal. Natale—”

  “Fed us all some line about you being sick, but when Roman went to take you some soup, he got all cagey about how contagious you were, and no one was allowed in.”

  “Oh, well …” Abby faked a cough. “That is—”

  “Bullshit, is what it is. We asked Leon, and he was pretty clear about the fact that no one in your whole family has seen you in over a month. A month, Abby!”

  “I know how long it’s been, Sal.”

  “Then where are you? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I get back. It’s just … have you seen Natale? Recently, I mean?”

  “Abby—”

  “What about my dad? The kids? You said you’d talked to Leon—”

  “Like a week ago, Abby. And those circumstances—”

  “What circumstances? You haven’t seen them?”

  “It’s not that. How about you just tell me what’s going on?”

  “What about Frank? Have you seen him? Has he been in the diner?”

  “Abby!” Sal shouted, sounding confused and frustrated. “Don’t flip your wig. Just tell me what’s happening. Are you in trouble? Are you hurt?”

  Abby took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing mind. “I just want to know if everyone’s okay.”

  “I need to know if you’re okay first.”

  She didn’t like the word “first” at the end of that sentence. Her brain was already concocting a million terrible scenarios for why Sal needed her to be “okay first” before he told her about her family. Her father had lost his job. They had lost their house. The house had been set on fire. One of her siblings had been hurt. Killed. Suddenly, she gasped and slammed down the receiver. Telling herself that she would apologize to Sal later, she forced herself to breathe. Unable to bring in a full breath, she turned and rested her back against the pay phone.

  The temp workers Della called roughies were continuing their setup, directed by Boleslaw and a few other men Abby didn’t know. They were oblivious to her presence. Abby had seen setup a few times now, and it was beginning to lose whatever novelty it had once held. This time, however, something about the setup ritual seemed strange. Their faces, even those of the men drafted from the townies who hung around setup, men she had definitely never seen before, looked oddly familiar. She stared, trying to determine the source of this familiarity, but it was hard to get a good look at anyone. They moved swiftly, too swiftly, almost as if they were shadows, shadows with a very particular face: Frank Butler’s face. Logically, she knew it was impossible for each one of these men to be Frank, but she still felt herself seize up with terror that seemed to descend from her head down through her whole body. When it reached her feet, all logical thought vanished, and she ran blindly through the booths and tents, ducking and swerving until she reached the trailers.

  She wasn’t looking for Della. Della would perhaps understand, but she would certainly make a joke or two and then send her back out for one reason or another. The Lambrinos family, however, they would let her hide out for a while. In her panicked state, she couldn’t remember any distinguishing characteristics of their trailer. Seeing a hula hoop resting outside a door, she threw it open and rushed inside, hoping she’d chosen correctly.

  She hadn’t. For starters, the trailer was much smaller; smaller even than Della’s. Where the Lambrinos’s trailer had separate sleeping areas and even a living room of its own, this trailer could barely house a table. On that table, the radio hummed away. Whatever station it had been tuned to, though, had devolved into static. Behind a curtain to the left, someone stirred. Ever so slowly, Abby backed up, inching toward the door, when suddenly the curtain was pulled back to reveal Suprema. Abby stopped mov
ing, transfixed partially by fear and partially by the sight of Suprema’s mahogany hair. Much longer than Abby had realized, it had been loosed from its elaborate bun and tousled by sleep. A strange buzzing started in the back of her mind. She couldn’t pinpoint its origin or why it had begun, but she knew that was the loveliest hair she had ever seen. She couldn’t move an inch. She could only stare.

  Suprema stared back. “What are you doing here?” she asked after a long, tense moment.

  Abby didn’t remember how to form words. She stayed silent, forcing her brain to comb through the last several minutes and drag out whatever it could come up with. “I just … got lost … I guess,” she finally said after a great deal of mental effort.

  Suprema cocked her head and continued to stare, the confusion on her face seeming to grow with each passing second. “Lost? What were you looking for?”

  The words still weren’t coming, and the buzz was far too loud. Abby felt as if she were taking an oral exam and hadn’t studied for it. “Well, I …” she began before trailing off, unable to come up with an explanation that didn’t make her sound as though she had lost her mind.

  This lack of explanation was obviously not good enough for Suprema, who was on her feet in an instant. “Della Adamson sent you in here, I suppose. One of her first-of-May hazing rituals?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you—” Abby took a few steps back toward the door and fumbled for the handle.

  Instead of chasing her out, as Abby had expected, Suprema began to pace. She could only move a few steps in each direction, but judging from the worn vinyl flooring in that spot, she did this often. “Little Precious thinks she’s so special. But you know, you don’t have to do what she says. You don’t have to be part of her club. She’s a total Veronica, and Vinnie says you’re nice, you don’t need to be around a Veronica—”

  “There was a hula hoop,” Abby said meekly.

  Suprema looked at her more closely. “What?”

  “There was a hula hoop,” Abby repeated. “I was looking for Constance and I wasn’t thinking straight. I… I guess.”

  As she uncrossed her arms, Suprema seemed to soften. “You don’t have to cry. Please don’t cry.”