by Lisa Samson
“You work out?” I ask as he raises Joseph to his feet.
“Yeah. Some. I don’t obsess about it. Just like to work out extra angst.”
That night I talk about it with Lella. “He seems kinda strong, doesn’t he?”
“He surely does.”
“But he’s still a little chubby; nothing major, just not the kind of guy you’re dying to see in swim trunks. Notice I didn’t say a Speedo. Those should be outlawed, all remaining pieces gathered up and thrown into a big Speedo bonfire in front of which a million thankful women dance in happiness and relief that they’ll never again have to wonder if ‘that guy’ will be around when they step onto the beach.”
“Oh, Valentine, you always make me laugh.”
“It’s what makes it all bearable.”
“Surely. That and other things too.”
“Thanks for helping, Augustine.”
He cuts up bread for my sausage stuffing. He’s pulled his gray dreads back into a blue rubber band, the kind that holds broccoli stalks together at the grocery store.
“So you know your way around a kitchen, Val. How’d that happen?”
“Before I went on the road, I was a cook at an elementary school in Lynchburg. I learned to make things tasty there, I suppose.”
“Obviously you’re not scared of cooking for a crowd.”
“You kidding me? It’s easier cooking for a crowd.”
He scoops up some bread cubes in both of his hands and deposits them in a big aluminum bowl. Five silver rings encircle his fingers. Blaze told me he has a Harley he hardly ever uses.
“So these walks you take at night. You and Lella ever want company?”
“Not really. I mean, we go at midnight, Augustine. That should clue you in on things.”
“True. True.”
I set a saucepan on the range to heat up the chicken broth, into which I’ll melt two sticks of butter. On the back burner five pounds of sausage browns in Blaze’s prehistoric cast-iron skillet. “Love the smell of sausage frying.”
“So would you mind if I came along sometime?”
Man, this guy is persistent. “Why do you even want to?” He deposits more cubes in the bowl. “Right. That’s enough bread. Go ahead and dice up some onion. Really little pieces. I’ll brown those in some more butter. I’m not shy about butter.”
“As far as I’m concerned, butter is the true lubricant of life.”
“You’re obviously smarter than you seem.”
“Back to your question, Val. I’d like to come just ’cause I’d like to come.”
“You’re still not trying to ‘reach out’ to me, are you? Because I swear I’m just fine.”
He lays his knife on the table. “Do you find yourself that unworthy of other people’s time? I mean, can’t I just want to be with you two? I like you. You’re both independent women in your own way.”
“Lizard Woman and Lella the Human Cocoon.” I can’t help it, I laugh out loud.
“Don’t laugh. There’s more to offer people than good skin and arms and legs. I mean, how many times do you make a friend based on their skin, or if they have arms and legs?”
“You’re a trip.” He deserves a bone. “Hey, we’re working a benefit show tomorrow night for the local theater’s fund-raising gala.” I stir the sausage. Getting nice and crispy. “The dinner’s by invitation only, but you could come for the show. That would be no problem.”
“Sure I’ll come. Thanks for asking. Where is it?”
“Elysian Heights Educational Center.”
He raises his brows. “Really? That’s weird.”
I roll my eyes. “I heard they’re doing more stuff for the community. Letting the place out on off nights. Maybe they’re not trying to hog everything for themselves like they used to.”
Augustine winces. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “Honestly?”
“Okay, they deserved that, I guess.”
“Especially during the Drew Parrish days. I hated that guy.”
“He was a little plastic.”
“A little? It was worse than a sideshow, that show. And that poor Daisy woman!” I lean forward. “I’ve been on the freak show circuit for five seasons now, Augustine, and I’ve seen what they call Skeleton People. You know what I’m talking about?”
He shakes his head.
“Isaac Sprague, The Living Skeleton, was probably the most famous of these guys. He lived in the eighteen hundreds, was five feet, four inches tall, and weighed forty-eight pounds.”
“Did he have an eating disorder?”
“Nah, he had a good appetite. He worked as a cobbler, then a grocer, but despite seeing doctors and all, he continued to lose weight. And so”—I spread my arms wide—“the sideshow took him in. Because we’re the place for folks who don’t have a chance in the real world.”
I stir the sausage again.
“Sounds like my kind of people.”
“And you know what? That church, that guy, weren’t they supposed to be like the sideshow too? Accepting and all? And yet, even that woman, Daisy, she wasn’t accepted for who she was. She changed and changed and changed. And then, when she was finally formed into some freakish image, guess what? She disappears!”
“How do you know so much about her?”
“I like to read about sideshows, circuses, and television preachers.”
He sets down his knife. “Well, it doesn’t take a genius to see the connection.”
“And anyway, you’re not that kind of minister so that’s a mark in your favor.”
“There are some good people at that church, Val.”
“Well, they’re not beating down my door, that’s for sure.”
We finish up the dressing, spoon it into gallon bags, and store it in the freezer to be used in a week’s time for Christmas dinner.
“You know, Valentine, you don’t have to wear that scarf in front of me if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Roland’s Wayfaring Marvels and Oddities isn’t the greatest show on earth. Not by a long shot. We don’t even begin to compete with The Brothers Grim. Now they’ve got it going on with The Enigma and Pumkin Head. And Zamora the Man of Torture, real name Tim, can shove all sorts of sharp things, needles and skewers and such, through his arms and legs. Even down under his tongue to come out of the bottom of his neck. I literally threw up when I saw him the first time. I—Lizard Woman—went running out of the tent with my hand clapped over my mouth, cheeks flared under the promise of the inevitable. Thank goodness we were at the edge of a wooded area.
I haven’t watched him since.
I can’t say anybody’s thrown up upon seeing me, and I am glad for it.
Our show may be smaller than Grim, but we demolish them in the sparkle factor. We’re a little classier if you want to know the truth. Seems crazy to say, like saying Melanie Griffith is classier than Madonna, but there you go.
Lella sits on Blaze’s easy chair as I prepare our costumes for tonight’s benefit show, the hand steamer burbling nearby.
I pull out my gown covered with sequins of various greens laid out in a reptilian, scaly pattern.
“These are works of art, Valentine,” Lella says. “I just adore those gloves.”
Full-length green satin evening gloves. “On anybody but Lizard Woman they’d be sexy.”
“Oh, now, hush.”
I turn the dress inside out and run the steamer head over the fabric. Next, Lella’s suit based on Starry Night.
“I think that one’s my favorite,” she says.
Lella’s suits, sort of swimsuit affairs, are sequined too, and I get really creative on those. One is a rather cubic, geometric number, another winsome and floral. It all depends on my mood when I sit down with my needle and thread. I always design the neckline with great attention to detail in the needle-work, a frame for her beauty. And they’re always in pale, neutral shades—ivory, beige, ecru—to go along with the cocoon th
eme.
“Starry Night in neutrals. Only you could get away with that, Lella.”
She smiles, her dark eyes glittering as I steam her costume and hang it next to mine.
Rick’s new stretch suit is tasteful in black and brown with cream-colored striping down the outside of his arms and legs. It really shows off his configurations.
“You did a fine job with that one, Valentine.”
“I didn’t want him looking like a girly male figure skater.”
“Oh, surely not! Some of those get-ups are downright embarrassing to watch a grown man skate around the ice in.”
“Who do they think they are, Freddie Mercury?”
“What are the twins wearing tonight?”
“The twins are on their own.”
I wouldn’t risk venturing near enough to take measurements. Especially after last week when they made Lella cry. I’ve started taking their dinner up to their room so they don’t have to distribute their misery amongst the rest of us.
Lella and I get ready along with the other women in one of the side rooms in the Education Center, which doubles as a school during the week. Judging by the age level of the toys and the height of the tables and chairs, it’s a toddler room.
I’m ready to perform tonight. Of course I don’t use makeup, other than false eyelashes—green false eyelashes and glittery green eye shadow.
I apply the final touches of Lella’s makeup, a few stick-on sparkles. “My goodness, Valentine, your hair looks especially beautiful tonight. So lovely and thick. And dark. Did you put a rinse on it?”
“Nah. I just tried a new shampoo Rick brought in.”
“It’s even more gorgeous than usual.”
“Well, when you’re a giant Drano burn, you have to accentuate the positives.”
“It reminds me of my Aunt Dahlia when she was young. She’d pile her hair up on her head in those big soup can curls.”
“That’s what I was going for. If Chubby Checkers starting singing The Twist, my hair would dance right along and with all the right moves.”
“Oh Val, you’re exactly right. Aunt Dahlia called me this afternoon while you were working on your jewelry. She’s visiting soon! Isn’t that delightful news?”
“Delightful.”
I adjust my gloves and turn away.
“I was looking at house kits online this afternoon,” I say over my shoulder as I lift her earrings from their box.
“Oh yes?”
“Uh-huh.” I turn back around. “What kind of house style do you like, Lell?”
“Surely it doesn’t matter what I think. Any place is fine with me.”
“Because we could go modern.” I thread the heavy Zirconia dangles through the holes in her lobes.
“That might be a little stark now that you mention it.”
“Or cottagy. A little seaside cottage?”
“Perhaps with a Victorian spindled front porch?”
“Exactly. Like that.”
She smiles into my eyes. “You pick, Valentine. I know you well enough to know it will be homey and good.”
I turn away and mumble, “I wish I could get the money together before Dahlia comes.”
“What, Val?”
“You must be excited about Dahlia coming.”
“Oh yes, I surely am.”
I slide my feet into bright green, high-heeled satin pumps. Sexy shoes.
Who am I trying to kid? Just who am I trying to kid?
Some sideshow acts perform their oddities and wonders: fire eaters, glass eaters, people with piercings galore from which they suspend great weights or worse, have themselves suspended. There aren’t as many people like Lella and me on display anymore. We remind the populace that not everything is a choice. When Johnny Eck was asked by a reporter whether or not he was being exploited, he replied, “No. They pay to see me. You’re the exploiter. You’re not giving me a dime for this interview.”
I lift Lella onto her platform.
We normally line a stage approaching the tent. Me, Lella, and sometimes a woman named Cyndi Hayes who weighs six hundred pounds and can fire off the greatest insults you’ve ever heard. People walk by and try to put her down, and she cuts them to size in five seconds. It’s her schtick and everybody loves it. Her outfits are a challenge. We go for the Little Lotta look. Bloomers, puffed sleeves, a baby cap. Not original, but practical.
Inside, the performers do their acts. Rick does his contortionist moves; Clifford does his blockhead stuff; RayAnne Foley, who I have yet to mention, walks on glass and eats light bulbs. She calls herself Impermeable Me. But she’s more ticklish than a toddler. She winters down in Alabama with her parents who run a photo development company.
Lella and I are the only displayable human oddities on tonight. Rick’s twisting and turning near the drink table. We sit upon our displays at the back of the gymnasium. Mine, well, I hate to brag, but it’s beautiful, a shimmering jungle scene, lush, with stunning hoards of flowers that seem to advance from the backdrop and around my seat. I made it myself three years ago with Rick’s help and improve it a little bit every winter. The only thing not beautiful about my display is me. I remain silent the entire time, taking stock in that old phrase, “A picture paints a thousand words.”
Lella’s display, all angel hair and twinkle lights, further locks in the cocoon idea. She says nice things to all the passersby. “What a lovely little girl!” or “Oh my, that sweater is gorgeous.” Or “Now you, sir, you must be a judge, you look so distinguished.” Or “Madame, I’ll wager people approach you all the time and ask you to be in television commercials, don’t they?” They blush at first, extremely uncomfortable at the sight of her, two velvet pillows supporting her head. I’m so careful to lay her down just so and arrange her hair like a cloud around her. She turns her head to the side, eyes sparkling, expression friendly and open. At some shows a group will form around Lella, because a true optimist, someone who only sees the good in people, is more rare than a Human Cocoon.
Tonight holds no exception in my MO. I remain frozen, staring with haughty eyes as people pass silently by, too polite to gawk for long, a line like a slithery snake sliding on past. Every once in a while I’ll bestow a wink to the kids. Okay, most of the kids get a wink. But only when their parents aren’t looking.
One woman looks right at me. “That’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen. Did you make it?”
I nod a queenly nod and she smiles at me, moving on.
Augustine stops in front of me. Looking almost as out of place as us freaks, he holds up a hand. “Now, now, I noticed you don’t talk to the people going by and that’s okay. I want no special privileges. But I just gotta say, Valentine, you look wonderful.”
Okay, so I laugh.
“I mean it. That dress is beautiful, and your arms and legs are really shapely. Do you exercise regularly?” He says it so matter-of-fact I have to laugh. Besides, the man is b-lind!
Lella overhears. “I’d surely take them in a heartbeat.”
I laugh again and I can’t help myself. “This is not the way it’s all supposed to go, Augustine.”
He winks. I wink back. He leans forward, whispers, “I’m glad you took off that scarf,” and sidles on by to talk with Lella, who says right away, “I must say you have the prettiest tattoos I’ve ever seen.”
Augustine turns to me. “You could learn a thing or two from Lella, Valentine.”
Beautiful, sweet Lella.
Like I could ever be like Lella.
I curl my hands into fists. “And you need to mind your own business.”
He zones for a sec.
“D’you hear me? I don’t need some crazy preacher telling me what to do. You got that?”
“Yeah, I heard you. Sorry.”
“Move along, bub. You’ve seen all there is to see.”
“Valentine, I didn’t mean—”
“Get moving. You’re ruining my act.”
The man actually mists over and says, “Oh. Ok
ay, Valentine. That’s fine.”
He hurries over to the drinks table.
“You were awful to him, Valentine.”
“I know it, Lella. But where does he get off telling me what to do?”
Lella’s already speaking to the next customer.
After another round of apologies, Augustine helps me carry the costumes to my camper. I open the back and he climbs in after me. “Nice digs!” He looks around him. “Okay, I get it. The traveling around, place to place, there must be something to say for it. Especially in this sweet little deal.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it? My dad bought it for me when I told him I wanted to go on the road.”
“He must be pretty understanding.”
“He’s a good guy. So what did you think of the whole show?”
“Most people seemed a little uncomfortable tonight.”
“Yeah. To be expected. Although you must be used to that, being a pastor and all.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s kinda like a non-Christian walking into a worship service or a healing service or something. That must be pretty freaky to them.”
“I see your point. Have a seat.” I turn on the heater. “I love my little home. Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”
“Sure! This place is fully equipped?”
“Yep. Everything I need right here.”
“And you sleep in that loft? Does the mattress have enough support?”
My heart warms. “Yeah. Yeah it does, Augustine.”
I grab the coffee and a bottle of water from the cupboard and set a pan of water on the stove. And then the plastic filter holder that sits right on top of the cup.
“Hey, that’s nifty.”
“I don’t need a coffeemaker with this little thing. Space is at a premium, obviously.”
“No kidding. I can imagine. So how did it go for you tonight? They filed past pretty quickly.”
“It’s okay. These people weren’t our usual sideshow aficionados. They don’t want to offend us. I can definitely understand it, but this is how we make our living, Augustine.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “We need the curious in order to make ends meet, to keep us in our sheltered community, to save up their willingly paid fees so that in the winter I can sew costumes, make jewelry, read comic books, take Lella for walks, and research other freaks. And religious nuts.” I pretend I’m shooting a gun at him.