Billy Creekmore

by Tracey Porter

  “Billy, you ask hard questions…. Truth is, I was afraid Agnes might take you away from me. She disapproved of me, you know. Never said so to my face, but I could feel it,” he said, pointing to his heart, “right here. I figured I’d tell her both you and your mother was dead, then I’d have the midwife take care of you till I got something steady. But it’s been a broken path for me. The years ran together, and things didn’t work out like I expected.”

  Pa looked away from me. He pulled out a little bottle from his hip pocket and took a long drink. I searched my mind for something cheery to say.

  “And here we are, Pa! Together, just like we always wanted, just like you planned.”

  This seemed to take the sadness out of him. He looked back at me and smiled. “You’re right, Billy! Here we are, together at last, off on an adventure!”

  He talked easy now, telling me ‘bout the carnivals and circuses he worked, taking another swig from his bottle every now and then. “I used to be ‘circus simple,’ which means a fella who loves the circus so much he don’t want no other kinda life. Only that’s no way to be at all, Billy, and you watch you don’t get circus simple yourself. No, it’s best to be free from all attachments in this world. Otherwise you make bad business decisions.”

  He told me the Graftin Circus was a low-class kinda circus, a regular fireball outfit, which was the name for a shoddy circus with second-and third-rate performers that had all sorts of dishonest things going on. Mr. Graftin didn’t mind any of his crew working the crowds picking pockets as long as they gave him a percentage of the take.

  “Oh, there’s lots of tricks for taking folks’ money, Billy. The ticket booth, for one. The Captain, for that’s what Mr. Graftin likes to be called and don’t you forget it, sets the booth about a foot higher than normal so folks can’t see their change when it’s laid down. He has the man at the booth hurry folks along so they don’t even know they’re shortchanged.”

  “That’s terrible, Pa,” I said. “It’s stealin’.”

  “It’s only pennies, Billy,” he replied. “Anyone who notices gets his back, and those that don’t count their change don’t need it. It’s just a little extra to feed the ponies.”

  It didn’t seem right to me, but I let it rest. “Any trick riders in his show, Pa?”

  “Used to be. Two Frenchmen, but they took off and joined another outfit.”

  Maybe my pa knew a thing or two ‘bout trick riding, I thought.

  It was a balmy night with milky stretches of stars. Every now and then a breeze lifted the leaves above us, and I should have been feeling drowsy and comfortable. But I wasn’t. My mind was restless with vague thoughts and feelings. I tried sorting them out, but I couldn’t. I gave up, figuring I was in shock. After all the postcards, the years of yearning and wondering, I knew I should be overjoyed. Instead, I felt sort of detached, like I was cut off and dangling in a different place. I didn’t have words to describe how I felt about finally being with my pa. He was sound asleep beside me, and I listened to him breathe till I finally tired out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  We Meet Up with

  THE GRAFTIN CIRCUS

  and

  I BECOME

  A MIT READER

  It was dawn when my pa woke me. He said we had to cover some miles before the heat of the day. We hiked a beaten path along the tracks. Pa got a move on, and I did my best to keep up while ignoring my hunger pangs. There’d be plenty of food once we caught up with the Captain, he said.

  Sometime around noon, we passed a sorry looking little depot, then soon enough Pa found the Graftin Circus camp. My heart kinda sank when I saw it. It warn’t nothing more than a few dirty tents. The horses were tied up to a post with a bag of feed strapped to ‘em. They was scrawny, angry looking beasts, twitching away flies. One was off to the side, sort of listless and weak looking. Pa said he had the shakes, which is a type of cold horses can get. Some folks were cooking over little campfires, while others were hanging up laundry or sitting on trunks playing cards. They was all men. There were no bally girls or lady acrobats, no fat ladies or lady tightrope walkers in sight.

  “Didn’t know you had a boy,” said one old fella sitting on a bench. He wore a crumpled black hat and was chewing on a toothpick. He looked at me with sad eyes that wrinkled down at the corners. His name was Hank, and he was the manager of the sideshow.

  “He’s named Billy after me, and he’s got a powerful way with words, just like his pa. You should hear the stories he’s been tellin’ me! Made me think he and I should work up an act—a mit reader show, only I’ll be the shill and he’ll be the palmist—the Boy Seer from the East! We could put him in a turban with a big old jewel at the front. We’ll paint his face and line his eyes so he looks like he’s from India.”

  Pa had it all worked out. I’d be sitting in a booth inside the sideshow with rows of benches lined up in front of me. One of the fellas from the band would play some Eastern type music, and once the benches filled, Pa’d be my first customer.

  “I could ask him if I should open up a hardware store, or whether I’ll get over the gout or not, or if my uncle was gonna leave me any money. Now, Billy, here’s where you get to use all your acting and storytelling talent. You gotta look at my palms for a while, then close your eyes and open your mouth a little, like you was receiving word from beyond. Then you speak in an accent and tell my fortune, only make sure it’s always a good fortune ‘cause folks won’t pay to hear bad news. Oh, Hank, it’ll be a wonderful show. Folks’ll love it, being how he’s just a boy….”

  Hank chewed away at his toothpick and listened. His eyes looked sad as ever, but he said it was a fine idea, just might bring in a good purse.

  “‘Course,” said he, “we’ll need a new poster with his picture on it. Got to get Norm working on that….”

  “Oh, sure, Norm’ll do a great job. If the paint dries in time, we’ll have the act ready for the next town.”

  Hank nodded and said okay, and go take a look through the costume trunk for that turban, then let Norm get a good look at me so he could get started on the poster, and so on and so forth.

  Well, we found the turban and a glass jewel to pin on the front. Pa went off to have a chat with some fellas, and while I was sitting still for Norm to sketch me, along come old man Graftin, only I remembered to call him Captain like Pa said I should.

  “And who are you?” he said. He was long and skinny, in a wrinkled black suit with tails and a tattered top hat. He had a beard along his chin like President Lincoln, only it was scraggly and white. He gave the appearance of an old man, only he walked quick and upright.

  “I’m Billy Creekmore, Captain,” I said.

  “Young Billy Creekmore. Billy Creekmore the Second—for are you or are you not the son of that brilliant, daring grifter William Creekmore?”

  He had the fanciest way of talking of anyone I’d ever heard. His voice trilled here and there, especially about the r and l sounds, just like he was on stage reciting Shakespeare. His manners were so fine, they made me forget some of my hesitation ‘bout reading and telling fortunes.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “A marvelous man! I’ve had the pleasure of knowing him these past three years. He’s made me many, many dollars, and for that I am exceedingly grateful…. Now, I understand you and your father are putting together a fortunetelling act. The Boy Seer from the East! Or something to that effect …”

  “That’s right, sir. The costume’s all figured out and Norm’s already workin’ on the poster.”

  “I am very pleased, very pleased. My advice, young Billy, is to work on your accent! Adjust your mannerisms! Become that young seer from the East! Feel it! Live it! If you do it right, you’ll be taking the suckers right and left!”

  Later that night, while he was cooking us some potatoes over a little fire, I told my pa about meeting the Captain, and how I didn’t want to cheat anyone out of his money.

  “Now, now don’t let the Captain b
other you. He’s awful singleminded about money. Makes him miss the finer points of things. Telling fortunes ain’t like what he says at all.” He went on, “You won’t be cheating folks, Billy, you’ll be helping by telling ‘em things they want to hear.”

  “How is that gonna help ‘em?”

  “You see, Billy, the world’s full of sadness and loss. You know that from your own life now, don’t you? When folks come to see you, they’re sick with suffering. Telling ‘em things is gonna work out eases their minds. It’s like passing out medicine.”

  I turned it over in my mind. It sounded right enough. What good was telling someone desperate or hopeful, that, no, the fates warn’t looking kindly on him? Why not pretend to know the future and tell folks that everything was gonna be rosy? It couldn’t do no harm. In fact, it might just do ‘em a world of good.

  The Graftin Circus was laid up for a few more days on account of that one sick pony, just long enough for the poster to dry. The painting showed me dressed in a spangled shirt with droopy sleeves wearing the jeweled turban. My eyes was half closed and I had a kinda wise and peaceful look on my face. The background was dark purple with swirly gold stars and fiery comets here and there. Pa and I practiced our act, working out the details. He had me work on the way I used my hands when I spoke, pointing up to the sky every now and then and making my hands kinda delicate like I’d never done a day of hard labor in my life, only meditating and reading fortunes, and talking to spirits from the Great Beyond.

  Pa was certain we’d be a great success. He got near wild with joy thinking up variations to our act. Depending on the crowd, he’d play his role joyful or hearty. If half the crowd was men, he’d pretend to be a businessman asking for advice about where he should set his store or what sort of thing he should import from China. If there was mostly women, he’d pretend to be the sweetheart of a girl whose parents were against him. He coached me hard, teaching me to talk in an accent and telling me to be sure to paint my arms past my elbows. There was a lot to keep in my mind, and, on top of that, I had to be ready to think on my feet. This warn’t ever a problem for me in the past, but I warn’t sure I could do it in front of a paying audience.

  Once the troupers nursed that horse back to health, we was hopscotching from one place to the next, doing our best to land in town the day before one of the bigger, glitzier outfits so we could steal their audience. Every advance crew at the Sparks Circus had been approved by the mayor or the sheriff long before it ever pulled in, but the Captain never bothered to ask permission to bring the Graftin Circus to town. Pa said only the rich shows could afford to do things on the up and up and still put on a quality show. The rest had to cut corners where they could.

  Somewhere in Missouri I put on my first show. The other sideshow acts and I were in our places. I could hear Old Hank outside the tent, barking at folks through his megaphone about the Mysterious House of Mirrors, Rolando the Snake Man of the Amazon, who was actually one of the roustabouts painted up to look like he had scales, and me, the Boy Seer from the East, fortune-teller to the Crowned Heads of Europe. I was, he said, due to return to the palace of the Raj and this would be my last performance in the States. By my side, dressed in harem pants and wearing a fez, was Mitch, one of the musicians, playing some slinky music on his clarinet. I was painted and costumed, sitting at a little round table before a crystal ball. Above me a chandelier of burning candles cast flickering shadows. Folks drifted in after seeing Rolando and getting lost in the maze. Once the benches were filled, Mitch introduced me to the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, behold Hadji, the Boy Seer from the East. Descended from a long line of sorcerers and clairvoyants, Hadji sees both the future and the past, both this world and the next. Would anyone here care to ask a question of the Boy Seer for the price of a nickel?”

  My pa, dressed in a Sunday suit and sitting toward the back, shot up his hand.

  “If only you could tell me,” he called out, “is my sweet wife finally at peace after her long illness? Does she miss me, her true love, and the darling life we shared together?”

  The question startled me. We hadn’t rehearsed this one. My own sadness about missing my mother came over me, and I nearly broke into tears. Why did he do this? I wondered. Was he trying to trick me into a good performance? Someone started to cough. A baby cried. The audience was growing restless, waiting for an answer. I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and opened my palms to the audience.

  “Your wife sends you her deepest love …” I took a deep breath before going on. “She wants you to know that her days with you in the little white cottage by the lake … were her happiest ever … on this earth. But do not worry for her, she says, for her pain is gone.”

  “Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy!” My pa could wail up a storm when he wanted. “Oh, I can see that cottage and remember those days like they was yesterday! What else does she say? What else?”

  “She wants you to know … that she is at peace … dwellin’ in Heaven among the angels, playin’ a harp, stoppin’ her music only … to look down from Heaven at you….”

  Every woman in the crowd broke into tears. Even the men got sentimental, blowing their noses and shuffling in their seats. My pa put a nickel in Mitch’s hand, saying thank you, thank you, and up shot a host of hands waving for attention. Mitch had to ask folks to please be patient, saying that everyone who wanted would get a chance to ask me a question. Old ladies wanted to know how their dead husbands was getting on, young men wanted to know if they should go prospecting in Alaska, and pretty young ladies asked me if their sweethearts was true. With all those yearning faces staring at me, my storytelling abilities took off. I didn’t have no problem at all coming up with forecasts and predictions for my customers. At first I felt uneasy, but soon enough it was just like the old days at the orphanage, when my tales could make the boys stop in their tracks and all eyes were on me. Truth be told, it was a powerful feeling, and I liked it.

  The act brought in quite a purse, which pleased the Captain considerable. He slapped us on our backs, slipped us a few coins, and gave my pa a bottle of whisky. In fact, the act worked so well that the Captain took me off the work crew and told me not to change my costume or take off my makeup till the last customer left the grounds. Some of the troupers got jealous since I didn’t help strike the tent or groom the horses like everyone else. They called me fancy pants and said I was highfaluting and full a frills, asking me who did I think I was not to be down in the dirt working with the rest of ‘em. Once Mr. Graftin overheard, and he marched over in his topcoat and hat, his coattails whipping about his legs.

  “This boy’s bringing me a passel of money, and I don’t want anyone recognizing him. All it’d take is one smart aleck to recognize him pulling out a stake with his makeup off and it’d blow the gaff. Word spreads, boys, word spreads.”

  And that was that. I didn’t get no more teasing or threats since folks was scared of the Captain, even though he was just a skinny old man. But I knew my days as the Boy Seer wouldn’t last. One night I heard the Captain arguing with one of the roustabouts, an angry guy who was used mostly for his muscle since he had no gift for con games or performing of any kind. He was angry and drunk, saying he was sick and tired of me lolling about while he was working like heck to keep up with the pace of the show, and it seemed like he was gonna heel it outta the show or else slug the Captain or anyone else he could get his hands on.

  “Ah, now, Mike,” crooned the Captain as he passed him a flask, “it’s a short run. He can’t be the Boy Seer forever.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Despairing Over

  a Question,

  I’m Forced

  TO

  TAKE

  A STAND

  Summer crept into fall, and the Graftin Circus kept moving on. There were good towns and bad towns, towns that turned out in full to see the show and towns that seemed to know it warn’t quality entertainment and gave us the cold shoulder. All in all
, I was losing enthusiasm for being the Boy Seer from the East. I could just imagine Clayton shaking his head with disgust at the whole shenanigans.

  “What’s the matter with you, Billy?” Pa had a pointed look on his face. He was straightening the lapels of his suit, ready to take on his role as a bereaved widower asking the Boy Seer the first question of the night. “You seem distracted.”

  “I guess I am,” I said. I was dabbing makeup on my arms and face. Early that morning, we pulled into a grim little town somewhere in southern Illinois. The roads was unpaved and the sidewalks was nothing more than broken railroad ties covered with dirt. All the buildings was sad-faced and dusty.

  “Folks’ll be coming to see you, Billy. They’ll be wanting answers to their questions, a word or two from their dearly departed. Don’t you want to help the folks forget their miseries?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then what’s wrong with you?”

  “I guess I didn’t sleep much,” I replied. “Got a crick in my neck.”

  “Well, get it uncricked,” he said. Then he opened the tent flap and left. For a second, just before the flap closed, I caught a glimpse of folks’ shoes. There was worn boots and scuffed heels, and a set of dirty bare feet running along. Kid’s feet. Probably a boy, I figured, though I couldn’t tell for sure. I hoped he didn’t step on a nail or a piece of glass, for Heaven knows there was plenty about.

  I was surprised so many folks in such a sad little town showed up for the circus. Every seat in the sideshow was filled, and folks were standing on tippy toes at the back, applauding when I made my entrance. ‘Bout a dozen hands shot up when Mitch asked if there was anyone who’d like to ask the Boy Seer from the East a question.

  “You, sir!” Mitch said, calling on my father. “You may ask Hadji the first question of the night.”