by Oliver, Tess
I glanced out the flaps of our tent. For most people, a carnival was a wondrous site, with a storm of color and flapping canvas and dramatic signage that drew the gaze in from every angle. For me, it was my neighborhood, my home. A place where the sounds, smells and sights were as familiar and commonplace as the reflection staring back at me in the mirror.
A bottle fell behind me. “Damn it,” Rose complained. “This trunk is still not sitting level. I don’t know what Buck was thinking.” We’d learned to make tables and vanities from our traveling trunks and crates. We slept on foldout cots and brewed coffee over an open fire. But, still, on a warm summer night, after the crowds had left and only the faint smell of hot dogs and cotton candy remained, and after the generator was shut down and the lights had faded, the night sky provided the most amazing ceiling anyone could ever ask for. I’d lived under a solid roof for the first seven years of my life. My real father died of a heart attack when I was five. Two years later, my mother married Buck Starfield. I’d been on the road ever since, with only my mother and all the unique characters who traveled with us as my teachers and companions. I was sure I’d learned far more from them than I ever would have learned in a stuffy classroom. Occasionally, I dreamed of ending the nomad life to live in a comfy, stationary house, and other times, the thought of it made me gasp for breath, as if living within walls would be suffocating.
Emma leaned down into the mirror propped on her trunk to check her lipstick. “I’m just tired of feeling grit between my teeth. Feels like I’m chewing on salt.”
I sat on my cot and picked up the shimmering gold top half of my costume. It was really just a slightly elongated brassier to go with the matching bottoms, which were scandalously small. All of our costumes, mine included, had evolved from flouncy, loose fitting, modest apparel, where there had always been more fabric than skin, to skimpy, revealing patches of shiny, sequined fabric. Buck was willing to sacrifice anything, even our modesty, to make money. ‘Either you’re show girls or you’re not’ he’d bark if we complained. For Emma and Rose it was not a big problem considering that by the end of their performance they were down to naught but their pasties and a sequined string and patch of cloth. But my performance was on a motorcycle and hardly required the exposure of skin. In fact, for safety reasons, it would have been far better to have the protection of fabric. Like the clothing and helmet I wore during practice. But safety wasn’t something that ever crossed Buck’s mind. Especially when it cut into profit. ‘What’s the use of having a beautiful stunt rider if you can’t show her off to the crowds?’ Another favorite chant of Buck’s.
I pushed the needle and thread through the impractical fabric. It was nearly impossible to sew without causing the material to bunch. “Damn it, this cloth is no sturdier than a veil of gossamer.”
“What are you fixing?” Rose asked as she applied rouge to her lips.
“The strap is too loose, and with both hands on the handlebars of my motorcycle, I have no way to keep it from sliding down. Almost revealed an entire breast at our last show.”
Emma laughed. “Maybe you should just ride in pasties. You won’t have to worry about straps then. I’ve got a real pretty pair that will match the bottom of your costume.”
“No thanks. Although, I imagine we could charge more per ticket if The Enchantress came out in nothing but her birthday suit.”
“And I imagine the cops would be in pretty quick to shut us down,” Rose said. “After they watched, of course. Still remember that show up near Boston where some of the town’s womenfolk made a big stink about our show. Those ruddy-faced policemen came in and stood at the back of the tent with their arms crossed and their faces stern and watched the whole darn show before telling us we had to shut it down.”
“I remember that.” I laughed. “Buck told them, official business or not, they needed to buy a ticket the next time.”
The tent flap opened. There was no such thing as knocking when you lived under canvas. Sadie, who performed stunts on Gypsy, the gray dapple Percheron and only remaining ring stock, stepped inside. She looked down at the brassier in my lap. “Strap problems? I need to do that too. If our costumes get any skimpier, we might as well just rename the whole darn show as Starfield’s Traveling Burlesque.” Sadie had auburn hair, fair skin and wore enough bright red lipstick to make her visible from hundreds of yards away. “Charli, were you still thinking of taking Gypsy off for a ride? She’s not been herself since the other animals left. Lonely, I think. She’s been pacing in the box like a wild animal.”
“Sounds like she’ll be fun on a ride,” I said. “I’m happy to get away from the hammering and shouting for awhile. I just need to finish this and fish out my boots.”
“Thanks, Charli. I’d take her out myself, but I promised to help Francine set up her tent.” Sadie left.
Francine was our snake charmer, and, while she had no problem letting a six foot long serpent wrap itself around her scantily clad body, she acted completely helpless when it came to simple things like arranging her tent. I’d bunked with her for several years, but I grew tired of having to wait on her like a servant. That’s when I’d decided to move in with Rose and Emma. And, while I wasn’t afraid of Rusty, the boa constrictor, I hadn’t really loved the idea of having him curled up in a box just five feet from my pillow.
I finished my task and yanked my clothing trunk out from under the cot. When I was twelve, my mother had saved up enough money to buy me a slick pair of riding boots with embellished leather like they wore in the Wild West shows. They still fit, but now they reached mid-calf instead of below my knee. And since they’d lost that crisp sparkle that comes with new leather boots, they were considerably more comfortable.
When I was young and my mom was still alive, I’d been part of the horse act. My frisky pony, Butterfly Princess, was a spotted pony with a mane that stretched to her knee and a tail that dragged the ground when it wasn’t braided properly. Butterfly Princess had been like a best friend, something I’d lacked growing up in a traveling show. But when money was tight, a rich man had come to the show with his daughter. She fell in love with the pony. Her father offered so much money for Butterfly Princess, Buck just couldn’t say no. I cried for a week. A month later, my mother died in a stunt. Since I no longer had a horse to ride, I was the logical choice to take her place on the motorcycle.
The boots had sunk to the bottom. I pulled them out. A flash of red caught my eye. It was an old poster, the special handbills printed for my mother’s show. I stared at the picture, and she smiled back at me from beneath the wavy cloud of dark red hair. She was wearing a blouse with puffy, cumbersome sleeves and long bloomer style pants to match. Back when she rode, a woman wasn’t allowed to show skin in public without it being scorned. Women couldn’t smoke or drink in public either. It was completely ludicrous. My mother could race a motorcycle around a sphere and glide upside down in dangerous stunts, but if she’d sipped gin or shown her knees in public, it would have been considered shocking.
I placed the handbill back in my trunk and pulled on the boots. The tents provided intermittent shade as I hurried across the lot to the box constructed to stable Gypsy. The horse stuck her giant head out of the opening and snorted in greeting. She knew when I rode her there would be no work or performance involved. Gypsy much preferred to trot along with no real purpose and no ring to confine her. I pulled her bridle and reins off the hook, and she gladly lowered her head for me to put it on.
I was looking forward to getting away from the bustle of carnival construction. Gypsy and I both preferred a bareback ride. I walked her to a bench set up in front of the lemonade stand, hitched my dress up mid-thigh and threw my leg over her broad back.
Buck came out of the main tent with Joey, the boss canvas man, the man in charge of setting up tents. Buck looked disapprovingly at my exposed legs. “Wish you’d get yourself some women’s trousers if you
’re going to ride that horse, Charli.”
I snorted derisively. “You can’t be serious, Buck. My show outfit is as skimpy as underwear, yet you have no qualms about me wearing that.”
“That’s different. People are paying to see you then. They’re expecting to see The Enchantress.”
“Let me get this straight. As long as people are paying to see my naked legs, then I can parade them around as much as I like. Just not for free.”
“That’s right. And where are you off to? We’re having a meeting at two.”
Aggravated that we weren’t moving, Gypsy pawed at the ground with her front hoof, kicking up an impressive cloud of dust. I tugged at the reins to stop her. She snorted in frustration and plunked her hoof down hard. “I’ll be back by then. What’s the meeting about?”
“Bunce, Charli. Good ole profit. Hector has decided to open up the challenger’s ring again.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? As I recall, his last few fights ended horribly, with one man’s jaw broken so badly he couldn’t shut it. Then there was the incident with the man who left the ring on a stretcher.” Hector was the Starfield strongman. He was built like an ox and had the strength of three. Normally, his show consisted of lifting massive barbells or the front end of a car or any other heavy object that made for good showmanship. But there’d been a time when his challenger’s ring had brought in a lot of extra cash. Unfortunately, Hector didn’t know how to hold back, and too many poor saps were too delusional about their own strength to realize stepping into the ring with Hector was nothing short of crazy. Anyone could volunteer to challenge Hector to a boxing match. A tin was passed around for donations. If the volunteer managed to stay conscious and on his feet for three rounds, then he won the collection. Otherwise, it went to the carnival with a little extra for Hector. I couldn’t remember a time when the challenger had won the money.
Buck waved off my concern. “It’ll be fine. Don’t be late and don’t get lost.”
After being cooped up for several days, Gypsy trotted for the first few miles. We traveled along the road for a while, but a long stretch of trees running parallel to the path gave the promise of shade. I turned Gypsy that direction. Late spring was a beautiful time of year in most places, but our newest location was exceptional. Deep pinks and bright reds dotted a wall of forest green foliage, and the last wildflower blooms of the season swayed on thin, green stalks like frail dancers dressed in rainbow-colored silk.
It wasn’t long before the mossy smell of running water permeated the air. Gypsy and I seemed to have the same plan. She headed through the trees and toward the rushing river. A cool mist clung to the air as we neared the bank. The wide stream would be our guide. Otherwise, it would, indeed, be easy to get lost in the maze of trees.
We walked along a good distance. Gypsy’s muzzle turned toward the water, and she stopped to take a drink. I lifted my face to the sun to feel the warmth of the few rays of light that poked through the overhead canopy. A groaning sound rolled down from somewhere above the riverbank, somewhere in the dense underbrush. It had been faint enough that at first I convinced myself I’d imagined it. Then I heard it again, a long, low moan as if someone was in distress.
I pulled Gypsy’s head from the water and turned her away from the river. I squeezed my legs and coaxed her up the steep embankment. Another sound followed but I couldn’t quite make it out. As Gypsy reached the top of the slope, I pulled her to a stop. The man’s strong naked back was lined with several scars, whip marks, it appeared, and yet, they didn’t take away from the magnificent broad shoulders and long, sinewy muscles that led across his back and down to his naked bottom. Another finely chiseled body part. I hadn’t stumbled upon someone in distress. Quite the opposite, in fact.
A warm blush rose up from my belly to my face, but for a moment, which went way beyond decency, I couldn’t look away. Holding my breath and biting my lip to keep from making a sound, I watched as the muscles in his shoulders, back and bottom moved in rhythm with the woman beneath him. He was physical perfection, and I felt a moist tingle between my thighs as I watched him writhe erotically between the woman’s long, naked legs.
My highly unconventional upbringing, living on the road with only loosely flapped tents and the backseats of box trucks for privacy, I’d been exposed to far more than the average twenty-one-year-old girl. And with the traveling life came the occasional bouts of melancholy brought on by the loneliness of never being attached to anything secure. There were times when I’d caved to the natural needs of wanting to be in a man’s arms. When I was seventeen, Gregory, a ‘first of May’ as we called the workers who came during spring to work but rarely stayed past one season, walked onto the lot looking for a job. He was tall and incredibly handsome, and he rarely spoke. He was a good five years older than me. He had me mesmerized. That spring, I lost my virginity to big, beautiful, silent Gregory. For four weeks, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Then the show ended and Gregory moved on. I was only slightly heartbroken. There had been a few others like Gregory, although none as handsome or skilled. I’d resigned myself to the idea that my romantic life would never consist of anything more than some heated trysts with men I hardly knew in the back of a tent or box truck.
I pulled the rein to turn Gypsy back in the other direction, and the horse released a rubbery snort. The man looked quickly back over his shoulder. It was him, the blue-eyed man we’d met on the road. The woman beneath him lifted her face. A dark ring of hair fell over her forehead, and her mouth dropped open.
I urged Gypsy forward, and we headed back down to the river. My cheeks still hadn’t cooled. It had been the second time I’d interrupted the man in one of his amorous activities.
Gypsy walked along at a slow, plodding pace, obviously just as reluctant as me to get back to the noise and confusion. The men finally had the massive wood and steel sphere erected and stabilized, and I knew it was time for me to practice. But I just wasn’t ready to start yet. As much fun as it was performing for crowds, the inherent risk and constant pressure to up the excitement level was always there chipping away at my confidence. Six months earlier, I’d been practicing in the sphere, defying death, as it were. As I rumbled out of a loop, the engine stalled. The centripetal force was lost, and I dropped, along with my heavy, unwieldy cherry red Indian motorcycle. My arm caught the brunt of the fall. The bike landed off to the side just enough to only bruise my legs. But my arm snapped. I’d spent the winter months recuperating. The moment the plaster cast was sawed off, Buck had me back on the bike. Stepdaughter or not, a non-working performer was a drag on the economy of the show.
“Hey,” a deep voice called from above. I peered up to the top of the bank. He was jogging along next to us, once again with an open shirt. But this time he had no gun holster, and he hadn’t taken the time to pull his suspenders up or put on his shoes. A bright white smile, that was as appealing as his smooth, clear voice, sparkled from beneath the shade of his hat brim.
I felt the blush return to my cheeks. “Forgive me. I heard the— sounds— and I thought someone was in trouble. I hadn’t meant to spy.”
He stomped down the slope.
“Whoa.” I pulled Gypsy to a halt.
He was definitely a man and not a boy, but he was young, early twenties like me. He walked closer and gazed up at me. “In trouble, eh? Trying to decide if I should be insulted or not.”
“I believe there’s only a fine line of distinction between groans of pain and groans of pleasure,” I said confidently, but suddenly I felt thoroughly ashamed that I’d stopped to watch.
He laughed. The sound was as rich as his deep voice. “And you know this because—?”
“That is none of your business, Mr.— uh, Jarrett, correct?”
“Yes, but you can call me Jackson. And you are—?”
“I’m Charli.”
He
grinned up at me. “Short for Charlotte?”
“Nope. Just Charli. My mom’s dad was named Charles.” I glanced back in the direction we’d just come from. “Did you leave her alone up there?”
“She had a car parked up on the road. She had to get back home.”
“You didn’t feel the need to see her home safely?”
“Her pa doesn’t care much for me.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I said with a smile. “I thought she was blonde.”
“Yeah, well.” Lines creased alongside his mouth as it turned up in a grin. Everything about the man was appealing. Even those damn creased lines. He took off his hat and smoothed back the dark hair on top of his head. It was shaved short along the sides in the popular gangster undercut style and, with the roguish twinkle that seemed permanent in his blue eyes, it fit him perfectly. He reached up and patted Gypsy’s neck. The mare turned her muzzle his direction and pressed it against his arm.
“I must warn you, Gypsy is a notorious flirt.”
He stroked her nose. “She’s a beauty. Percheron, right? Is she yours?”
“No, she belongs to Sadie, the woman who performs with her in the show. I just take her out for rides occasionally.”
I looked pointedly at his naked chest. He started buttoning his shirt. Although, he seemed just as inclined to stand in front of me half-dressed.