I don’t remember all of the details, but the article was an obituary for my mother. According to the paper, she died seventeen years after I did. She got cancer. The rest is history. The article said the only known survivor was my sister, Millie. I wrote down the name of the cemetery and promised myself I’d pay my mother her final respects.
My mother was a good woman. She took care of me and she took care of Millie. She made the meals, mended the clothes when there wasn’t enough money for newer outfits, and she made sure we got to church every Sunday morning. That’s the way it was when I was a kid.
She was not confrontational, but neither was she weak.
Sometimes, I think she wanted to kill my father. Sometimes I think she loved him. It depends on the day and the memory. She was not a fighter, but she also didn’t allow the man to walk all over her. She had a quiet strength.
I can remember one time when he came home after a bad day in the fields and started yelling at my mother. The old man liked to yell when he was under pressure and he was almost always under pressure.
She took it. She let him have his piece. But only one wall separated my parents and me when I was a kid and I heard the quiet argument that happened after Millie and me were supposed to be asleep.
He didn’t win that part. Before it was done, he was the one apologizing.
Ruth Ingrid McArthur Phelps. She died at the age of sixty-three. Her last name in the obituary wasn’t Phelps any longer. I assume that means she got married and lived happily ever after until the day she died.
John was good enough to find something else to do for a few minutes as I read the article and got teary-eyed. That was good of him. I owe him for that. I always pay my debts; you can go to the bank on that.
The second article mentioned little Millie getting married. That was unsettling. It shouldn’t have been, because in my mind I hoped and prayed that she had a good life and was still having one. In my heart, however, she was still a child of ten. She’d gotten married at the age of nineteen. The man she married was a doctor.
I always knew Millie would be a heartbreaker. There was a very grainy picture that hadn’t come across too well. It showed a woman with most of her face hidden by her veil. What I could see of her was beautiful. Her husband looked well to do and the wedding itself was a posh affair if you can judge by the decorations.
The last article mentioned the birth of the family’s first child. A girl named Cecilia. There was no accompanying picture for that one, but my heart swelled anyway.
Cecilia. Not that far off from the name of her uncle.
I took the address I was given and I thanked John for his time. He was very good to me and there was no reason for it. Oh, you can chalk it down to good customer service, but I know better.
John the librarian was just one of the good people. The sort we tried not to rob too blind back in my carnival days. There were always a few of them. They made up for the ones we milked dry.
I miss the carnival. I miss the lights and the sounds and the screams of excitement from the mouths of children and adults alike.
I was missing them then, too, and knew I’d have to find one soon enough, but first I had a few clues to work with, solid links to Millie.
I intended to see my little sister again, and the Lord help anyone who tried to stop me.
***
There were always problems with following a murderer across state lines, but they were made worse when the possible suspects were traveling. Because of the unusual nature of the case, the police were bogged down with arguments about jurisdiction and state laws.
Add in the fact that Elizabeth Montenegro was a celebrity—she’d been interviewed in multiple magazine and newspapers and her face had graced the cover of US Weekly and People Magazine alike. There were even tales that Playboy had offered her a very tidy sum to be a centerfold—and things got a lot uglier and very fast, at that. There were arguments aplenty to go around and in the end it was decided that the FBI might be the best group to handle the situation.
The paperwork was gathered and the questioning began.
And in the meantime, the Carnival de Fantastique kept making money. They moved up the east coast slowly, and settled in for a stay in Arlington, Virginia. The shows were sold out. They’d been sold out months in advance.
As was almost always the case, advertisements were placed in the local newspapers. Laborers were needed. The stars got paid well for their parts in the show, but behind the scenes the roadies just barely made due. It was easier to hire new help than it was to keep begging the same old work hands to stay around.
That’s where Kyle Cummings came into the picture. Kyle was in charge of the whole set up. In the long run, he took care of dismantling and assembling the sets and made sure the packages got where they needed to go. He’d have preferred to keep everyone happy, but understood that what he paid wasn’t always going to be enough to convince people to leave their hometowns and go on the road for six months or more. So it was time to hire some new blood.
The interviews were the worst part. Every damned one of the kids who came through wanted to be a star and thought they could make it in the back door. At least half of them he sent away. Why the hell would someone who couldn’t even figure out the business end of a hammer want to work backstage?
Still, there were a few hopefuls. The kid standing in front of him had potential. A little skinny, but he claimed to have experience.
“What sort of work have you done?”
“Well, I worked a carnival for a few years. Had to help with pitching the tents, putting up the booths, that sort of thing. And I did some work as the backstage manager back at my high school, you know, making props.”
He looked the man over a second time. Tall, lanky, didn’t seem too interested in the spotlight, which was a plus.
“You have any problem with traveling?”
“Like I said, I worked a carnival. I get it. Lots of moving and lots of packing. I even have my own tools.”
The kid had a slightly crooked smile but he was relaxed about it.
“Let me see your hands.”
The kid held them out and Kyle looked them over. Sure enough, there were calluses, hard ones, from hard labor.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We have a show starting tomorrow. There’s a lot of work to be done. Pays by the hour, fifteen dollars an hour as you have experience. I’m going to give you a trial run. Let’s see what you’ve got. If you don’t disappoint me, you’ve got a job as long as we’re still going, and this show never really shuts down.”
John Booker smiled back at him. “I’ve been looking to be around a circus again. Close enough for me, and the pay is better.”
“Great. You’ll need to fill out some paperwork, but after that I think we’re set.”
Booker held out his hand to be shaken and Kyle took it. “Looking forward to it. Thanks for the opportunity.”
Kyle watched the man walk back out of his office and frowned. There was something about his accent that was puzzling. It was familiar, but not common. In the long run he let it slide. There were more interviews to take care of. Even as he thought it, another kid came in with the graceful walk of a dancer. The boy was practically walking on his toes and from ten feet away he could smell the cologne on the kid.
“You know this isn’t try outs for the show, right? This is for working on building the sets.”
The kid immediately looked disappointed.
It was going to be a long day.
***
Tia met up with the producers and had a long, long talk. She listened as intently as she could, wanting to absorb every detail of what they wanted from her. Mostly, they wanted her to work her ass off, which was exactly what she’d expected.
They were paying her outrageous amounts of money, too. Crazy money, though part of it would have to go to covering her expenses on the road. That part they made clear. They would make reservations for the performers, but the cost of a hotel room was hers
to foot. Just to make sure she could cover it, the first payment was delivered to her bank account by electronic transfer five minutes after she’d finished filling out the paperwork.
Tia was the understudy for the main female lead, a character named Ramona. According to the story they’d printed in the program book, Ramona was a run away who’d hooked up with the circus and taken on the duties of a proper mystic. She read tarot cards and told people their fortunes. Unfortunately, in the story, Ramona also starts having visions of an icy death for the Carnivale de Fantastique and while she tries to warn people, no one wants to listen. The story didn’t make much sense, but as there were no spoken parts, except for the narrator, it didn’t really much matter.
The first thing they wanted her to do was relax and enjoy the show. She’d be watching from the front of the stage the first night and already had a seat reserved for her. While she was excited, she’d also been warned in advance that the special treatment was a one-time thing. Enjoy the show now, because she was going to be in the show the next night. Unless and until she was needed for the leading part, she was going to be an extra, dancing several small numbers in the background. She was out front to observe and the next day she’d start rehearsals.
As soon as the meeting was over and the papers had been signed, Tia was taken to meet the cast. There were a lot of people to meet and she hoped she wasn’t supposed to memorize any names. Three people stood out for her. The first was Leslie Dobbs, a tall, willowy girl with dark brown hair and light skin. If she’d had to guess, Tia would have put the girl at no more than a couple of years older. Leslie was currently playing the part of Ramona. She’d only taken the role over a few weeks earlier, when Elizabeth Montenegro disappeared.
One look at the girl and she knew they’d be friends. Leslie was from Canada, and had been professionally trained. Tia was from New York and had also been professionally trained. They spent fifteen minutes comparing notes on the teachers they’d had and how much they missed being at home. Neither of them would have gone back on a bet though. This, the show, the dancing, the traveling, was what they’d been working toward for years.
Leslie was the one who introduced her to everyone else.
She was right, there were too many people to meet and not nearly enough time to meet them. It wasn’t a social so much as a chance to see what happens backstage.
The performers were all getting ready, some in their regalia and others still stretching out for the night on the stage. In less than an hour, the matinee performance would be taking place.
The choreographer, a short, manic man with a crew cut and exactly no body fat on his body, grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to the side.
She didn’t even have a chance to catch his name before he was talking even faster than the average New Yorker in a bad mood. “Okay, Tia, right? Right. Here’s the thing. I know you’re good. That’s why you’re here. I don’t pick anyone but the best. Now that we have that out of the way, I want you to enjoy the show tonight, because when it’s done, you and me are going to go over every scene.”
“I-Okay.”
He shot her a look that shut her up before she could start talking.
“Leslie’s going to join us and we’re going over ever scene. It won’t take all that long, and as soon as we’re finished, you can go back to your room and relax, but it’s crucial that we get you up to speed as quickly as possible. I don’t like the idea of ever going on without a back up performer. Believe me, honey, it’s best to learn it now instead of trying to learn it after there’s been an accident, God forbid!”
He kept talking a mile a minute as he lead her toward the actual auditorium where the people would soon be gathering for the show. “You’re not dressed as well as you could be for the show, but screw it, it’s Arlington. Go grab your seat while you can, and relax.”
Without another word he was off, moving like a rabbit on crack cocaine and already calling to one of the performers.
Tia sat down and stared at the stage. Her mind was a whirlwind and her body felt almost as energized as the choreographer had been.
It took a while for her to realize she was grinning from ear to ear.
The smile lasted throughout the show as she drank in the performances on the stage before her. The reviews hadn’t done the Carnivale justice. She’d never seen anything like it in her life.
Life on the Road: Part Three
I had stumbled unknowingly into my second family, just for the record. Alexander Halston’s Carnival of the Fantastic, which promised, among other things, the most amazing freak show ever seen, and thrills and chills to delight the entire family.
It looked to me like a big farm field, a lot of lumber and canvas, and a lot of people breaking their backs to make it into something else. Of course, that was before the magic could start. It was just people working.
The short man I met—I think he just missed technically being a “dwarf”—introduced himself as Carter Seward. He was a jack-of-all-trades and as I learned in due time, a damned good one, too. He’s the one who convinced me to hang around for a while.
While we ate together, he prodded me with a few questions. “Where are you coming from, kid?” His voice was higher than I expected, but not really feminine. More like puberty forgot to change his voice.
“Chicago.”
He nodded and cut a slice of apple for himself. “Why are you running?”
“I’m not. I’m looking for work. I need to help my family out.”
I remember him looking at me hard, reading me, I guess and finally nodding his head.
“So what can you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what are you good at? You have to be good at something before you can make money at it.”
“I want to be an escape artist, like Harry Houdini.”
“Tough call. You any good at it?”
“I’ve been practicing a long time.”
“Yeah?” He looked at me again. “We could maybe use an escape artist. We can always use a couple of strong hands. Want to try your luck?”
“You mean audition for you?”
“Well, I could just tie you up and see if you got out, but maybe showing what you can do to the boss would be a better way to see if he’s in a hiring mood.”
“Well, I was on my way to New York, to see if I could get work.”
He was good to me. He didn’t laugh in my face.
“One step at a time, kid. Why don’t you see about getting some work here, and save up some money on your way to Broadway, okay?”
“Is the pay good?”
He chewed a piece of apple before answering. “No. It’s shitty. But we’ll get to New York sooner or later and maybe you can make a little dough on the way, instead of stealing apples from a farm or two and trying to ride the rails all the way to the east coast.”
I nodded my head and we finished our meal in silence. When we were done, Carter stood up, gathered his rucksack together and motioned for me to follow him.
Alexander Halston was an unusual man. He was the boss, sure, but he was right in the middle of things, dirty and covered in sweat, and working just as hard as the people around him to get the big tent pitched.
He wiped the dust from his hands with a handkerchief and shook with me. His grip was strong as steel. He was as tall and lean as me, and his hair was just as dark and curly, but that was all we had in common. His nose was long and hawkish, his jaw tapered down to a point, with a cleft at the base. His eyebrows were thick to the point of looking ludicrous and his mutton chop mustache was in need of a good trimming.
He also had crooked teeth.
He was also a pleasant man when he was by himself and not doing business. When it came to me giving a demonstration, he put that on hold until the tent was done and didn’t ask me, but rather ordered me to get my hands dirty. The work was hard, and before it was done I was sweating along with everyone else.
When it was done, Halston pulled up a fol
ding chair and settled himself in the spot that would later be the main ring of the circus. He lit his pipe and blew a thick plume of smoke into the stifling air.
All around him other members of the circus sat on the ground and talked quietly until he cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentleman,” his voice was deep and melodious, and every head turned to him when he spoke. “We have with us today one Cecil Phelps of Chicago. He’d like to join us.”
No one spoke. Instead, they merely waited for him to say something else, or watched me as I stared at the lot of them.
“Bert, Carter, do us a favor and help Mr. Phelps get ready for his demonstration.”
Without another word Carter and a heavyset man who had to be close to six and a half feet tall came forward and showed me the rope they planned to use. For the next four minutes I stood still while they tied the rope around my waist, my hands, my ankles and knees. Before they were done, I was all but cocooned in heavy netting designed solely to keep me from escaping.
Just to make things fun, they laid me down on the ground and tied another thick rope around my ankles. Two minutes after that, they were hauling me into the air and I was looking down at Halston and everyone else as they watched me.
My little sister tied tighter knots.
Five minutes after they’d lifted me up, I was done unraveling the puzzle they’d made and the audience was cheering me on.
It was a good feeling, doubly so because I hadn’t been sure until they had me up there that I could possibly escape without killing myself.
Alexander Halston himself welcomed me aboard, but only after he got the approval of several other people. We discussed how much I would be paid, which was minimal, and what was expected of me, which was a lot. That night was too soon for me to work out a routine for escapes, so something else had to be done with me.
Bert Calhoun and Carter Seward sat me down in front of a mirror and handed me a box of grease paints. Until I could work out a full routine for the escapes, I was going to be a clown.
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