The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  “What’s that?”

  Papa ducked inside and peered at the two small whitish objects lying in the sawdust. He moved them with the toe of his boot.

  “Looks like . . . teeth.”

  Momma backed away and said, “Good Lord.”

  Papa bent down and raked them into his hand. He went out and threw them near the line of trees while Momma put her hands on her hips, silent again. I went into the smaller tent beside Momma and Papa’s and Laci followed. Once my eyes got used to the dim interior, I could see two cots, like Momma and Papa’s, and also like theirs, a small wooden table with a bowl and pitcher. Laci plopped herself down onto one of the beds and a puff of dust rose and made her sneeze. I exited the tent. Momma was whispering to Papa, and she stopped when I come out. It was a lot to get used to, and some of my earlier excitement was overshadowed by little things I’d noticed; the lack of sounds I was used to like rushing water from a mountain stream, and the wind rustling through the trees. Birdsong was only faint and sporadic from some distant limb, and there was a strong odor of dung from the animal waste. Horses, mules, a few goats, along with a couple elephants and a camel ambled about in an area where they’d been staked out or grouped together in corrals.

  Even more than the carnival’s chaotic look and smell was the idea of working with the likes of a tattooed man I’d seen called Edmond, and another man who’d been performing a fire-eating trick, with a sign stating he was La Diablo! There was a bearded woman, with a sign saying she was called Lucille, a magician called Morty, and I’d seen a tent for the two-headed sheep Clayton spoke of. Everyone and everything was so unusual, and I couldn’t see how we’d fit in.

  “Papa, what you reckon folks at home will think when they hear we done took up with a carnival?”

  He shrugged and said, “Don’t matter long as we’re earning our keep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re lucky. That Cooper fella said long as they draw in good crowds, they’ll stay put. I’d just as soon not end up in Florida.”

  This was the furthest I’d ever been, and though I wondered what Florida looked like, I won’t inclined to go either. I went and looked inside the buckets sitting beside the tents. Both was full of clear, clean water, and had been set on the side that got the most sun. I went inside mine and Laci’s tent and got our pitcher and filled it from one of the buckets. I moved the other bucket into the shade for drinking.

  “Momma, you want me to put some of this water in your pitcher for washing?”

  Momma spoke with a gloomy tone. “I suppose.”

  A large woman with black hair, lots of eye makeup and clothes colorful as a rainbow swayed by near our tents and stopped when she seen us. “You the new singers?”

  Momma shot a look at Papa what said We don’t belong here, before she answered the lady. “Yes.”

  The fat lady wiggled ringed fingers in a greeting. “How do. Name’s Nancy Cole, but you know, for show purposes (she said it like poi-puses) they call me Big Bertha.”

  Momma cleared her throat, and said, “Which do you prefer?”

  Nancy Cole or Big Bertha laughed, and everything about her moved the way water moves, with a lot of ripples and waves.

  She said, “Big Bertha’s what most everyone calls me, so you can too.”

  Momma was cordial, yet distant. “Nice to meet you, Big Bertha.”

  Big Bertha cocked her head, and said, “Ya know, I got just the thing for ya. Wait here.”

  She sure could move good and fast for a woman her size. She weaved through the tents, and Momma stared after her with a worried frown. “I can’t imagine what she’s got we could use.”

  I couldn’t either but I was still curious. When Big Bertha returned a minute later, she pressed two bars of soap into Momma’s hands.

  “It’s French milled. A sort of welcome to the show gift from me to you.”

  Momma’s mouth curved up as she took the soap. “Why, thank you so much. How generous!”

  Big Bertha said, “My husband, Walter, had it made for me in a little shop down in Georgia. I got more than I’ll ever use. It’s all he ever give me, back when he was alive, God love ’im.”

  Momma said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Big Bertha flipped a nonchalant pudgy hand. “It’s all right. He’s been dead a few months. Keeled over one day and that was that.”

  “What a terrible thing.”

  Big Bertha sighed. “I think it was the stew I made, but who knows? God rest his soul.”

  Momma’s eyes widened. “The stew?”

  Big Bertha put a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Could’ve been that. I look like I like to cook, but I really don’t know how.”

  Papa made an agitated sound in his throat, maybe wishing she’d move on, only Momma took it as a hint to make introductions.

  She gestured towards us and said, “This is my family. William, my husband, Laci, our eldest, and Wallis Ann. We had us another chap, a boy . . .”

  A horn sounded and Big Bertha cut her off. “Pleased and all, but I got to skedaddle to my perch. Break’s over. See ya around.”

  We watched Big Bertha moving as quick and agile as someone half her size.

  Once she was out of sight, Momma spoke with a thoughtful tone. “She didn’t seem too put out at her husband’s passing.”

  Papa said, “She didn’t.”

  I was most interested in the soap she’d brought. “Can I have a bar of soap?”

  Distracted, Momma handed me one and said, “I wonder why she mentioned stew?”

  Papa shook his head, and I took the soap and went inside the smaller of the two tents. I stood with my head over the basin, pouring water from the pitcher and letting it run through my hair. I rubbed the soap through it and washed my face, inhaling the scent of roses. I picked up the pitcher again, and this time I poured slower, letting the clean water stream through my hair, and watching as the water in the basin turned murky from my soiled head. I thought about Clayton, and what he might think if he seen me in a set of decent clothes, with my hair and face clean. At least I could do this, and when I finished, I dumped the filthy water out, and then Laci took her turn, washing hers clean as mine. I picked up our camp stools, we exited the tent, our heads still wet. We sat by the fire Papa built, finger-combing our slick, wet strands. Him and Momma had went and washed up too, and with everyone’s faces and hair clean, the improvement was amazing.

  After a while, Papa said, “Well, let’s go find us something to eat.”

  The chips and other things we’d eaten earlier was long gone. We walked until we come to a long tent where the smell of food lingered in the air like smoke. I didn’t know what was cooking, and it didn’t matter. We went inside and stood a minute, getting our bearings. Tables and chairs sat in the center with a few scattered off to the side. Towards the back was a covered wagon of sorts, and a short, skinny little man who stood over several steaming pots, stirring something in one of them. A few workers sat at tables, but they seemed too tired or too intent on eating to pay us much mind.

  We approached the small cook, who wore a dirty apron with a strap hanging off his shoulder. He saw us coming and began pulling tin pans out from under his counter and piling food into the plates. He loaded them with beans, these funny-looking long sausages, biscuits and corn on the cob. He handed us each a steaming plate. I tried to hold my hand steady when I reached out to take mine.

  He winked at me and Laci, and said, “Hey, girlies, when you git done with your grub, I’ll fetch you a peach fritter.”

  I said, “Yes, sir!”

  Never in my life was I as happy as I was right then. Even Momma shifted from looking so grim to a more kindly expression. We sat down at one of the tables, and Papa said the quickest blessing I’d ever heard. I fell into eating, trying to fill the bottomless void in the middle of my body while Laci hunched over her plate like someone might take it from her. I understood the feeling. It seemed too good to be true sitting here with these full plates,
and more where it come from. None of us could quite finish what we’d been given. I took the almost empty pans back to the man at the counter. He stood off to the side of his cooking area, with a cigar poking out of his mouth. He seen me and come to the counter, reaching out to take the dirty plates from me.

  He said, “Hey, girly, you get enough?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Hard times, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. Right hard.”

  He puffed on the cigar. “Food’s plenty here. You’ll have enough.”

  We must have looked like we needed it. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He nodded, and said, “Name’s Paulie. Call me Paulie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Paulie. I’m Wallis Ann Stamper.”

  I gestured over my shoulder to Laci, Momma and Papa, who was standing by the tent opening waiting on me. “That’s my older sister, Laci, and my momma, Ann Wallis Stamper, and my papa,William Stamper.”

  “You’re part of the new singing group.”

  I was sort of surprised he already knowed about us, but I would eventually find out this was how it was working within such a group. They heard everything about everyone.

  “Yes. That’s us, The Stampers.”

  Paulie nodded. “Good to know you all.”

  “Likewise. Well, thank you for supper, Mr. Paulie. It was real good.”

  “Just Paulie.”

  “All right. Paulie. See you later.”

  “Here, kid.”

  He handed me several bundles of wax paper, each with a wrapped peach fritter, still warm and soft from frying with a dusting of powdered sugar over the top.

  “Thank you!”

  My mouth watered. I hurried to Momma and Papa, and passed them around. There was a bit of moaning from me as I bit into it. It tasted good as the ones Momma used to make with peaches off our peach tree. As we made our way back to get Laci’s fiddle, the feeling of being full and fed showed in the way we strolled along the sawdust path between the tents, relaxed and easy. I spotted Trixie again, heading the other direction from before.

  She waved and hollered, “Good luck at your show tonight. I’ll come watch if I can!”

  I waved back but kept quiet as I recollected Momma saying before, ladies don’t yell. We got Laci’s fiddle and made our way into the main midway area filled with shouts of ride goers, exhibits and games. Right next to the arena tent where we’d sing, I spotted a really tall, narrow structure with a tiny platform at the very top, and a huge wooden tub at the base. It reminded me of an old washtub only much bigger. This had to be where Clayton would dive. There was a lot more water to land in at the fall, and I couldn’t imagine how he’d do his dive into that little bit of water. We entered the arena tent and inside was a small wooden stage not quite centered with a half circle of bench-like wooden seats in front. Laci eyes darted here and there, like she couldn’t take it all in at once.

  I leaned over and said, “Laci, it’s just like when we go to a church and other gatherings. Ain’t no different, only a few more people is all.”

  It didn’t help matters none when more and more visitors started filling the tight space, laughing loudly, and shouting out to one another. This place held the noise, and she went to trembling, and breathing sort a rapid. She ducked behind me, but my shorter stature didn’t allow much protection from all them staring eyes. All I could do was let her be, and hope she’d manage until we went onto the stage. I won’t sure how she was going to make it, though. She sounded like a locomotive.

  I whispered to Momma, “Laci’s getting herself worked up.”

  “I hear her. Can’t do nothing about it.”

  “But, what if she won’t play?”

  “Wallis Ann, can’t do nothing about it, now can we?”

  Momma plastered a smile to her face while folks sitting close to where we stood stared and pointed at us like we was a sideshow of freaks instead of regular people. I felt edgy and worried because despite our clean faces and hair and our full bellies, we still had the look of the destitute with our raggedy clothes, and me and Laci barefoot as newborn babies when all them, kids included, wore shoes. I hoped we’d get started soon so we could show these people we only looked the way we did cause we’d hit us a bit of a rough spot. I looked for the man who’d worn the fancy coat.

  A worker called out, “Mr. Massey!” putting a name to him as he come into the arena area. Laci’s breath hit the back of my neck in dramatic puffs. I pressed against her, thinking maybe she’d feel more secure. I tried to ignore the shaking of her against my shoulders. Mr. Massey looked for Mr. Cooper, and as the crowd clapped their hands, the noise rising, he swooped in. It was like everything was timed. He nodded at Mr. Massey, who approached the center of the arena. Please say something, announce something, and quiet them down. Without warning, Laci shoved me from behind, and with a loud and unexpected squawk I stumbled forward, landing in the line of sight of Johnny Cooper and Mr. Massey.

  Mortified, I exclaimed, “Laci!”

  Momma grabbed my arm, yanked me back into place and hissed, “Wallis Ann, what in tarnation are you doing?”

  The crowd murmured and pointed. I reckoned I looked like a beet as I glanced at the mass of people, settling on Trixie in her bright pink performing outfit glaring amongst all the dull browns, grays and blues. Her appearance struck me the same as I felt, like I was just as obvious, until I noticed nobody was even looking at me. They was looking behind me, at Laci. I turned to see what held their attention, to find Laci looking crazy as they come. Her brilliant hair, although clean and shiny again, all of it was pulled forward and hung in front of her face like she was trying to hide behind it, using it like a curtain. You could see a few strands moving as she breathed in and out, yet you couldn’t see her face at all.

  I leaned towards Momma, meaning to whisper to her when Laci must have had all she could take, and broke from whatever set her off. She flipped her hair away from her face, raised the fiddle to her chin. She drew the bow harshly across the strings, creating a loud and awkward shrieking tone, like a wildcat screaming at night. The crowd buzzed louder with questioning tones.

  I heard somebody say, “I sure hope I didn’t pay my hard-earned money to hear that. Godawful, is what that was.”

  The ones close to him seemed to agree.

  “Oh boy, my head’s gonna be hurtin’ she keeps it up.”

  “I thought the sign said ‘talent beyond belief.’ I sure can’t believe they call that talent.”

  “Let’s hope she was only warmin’ up.”

  I’d never heard a bad note out of Laci until then, and it left my own ears ringing. It reminded me of the time Seph got hold of her fiddle and sat on the ground sawing the bow across the strings and making it wail like he was killing it. Mr. Massey shot a look at Mr. Cooper.

  Somebody hollered, “I might need to get my money back!”

  Papa took a step towards Mr. Cooper, like he was going to have a word with him, when Laci drew the bow again. This time, the fiddle sang out a series of quick and sure notes to a song she didn’t play often, called “Bonaparte’s Retreat.” It was a fast song and required her fingers to fly. She played it the way she’d been breathing, a frenzied outpouring, her hair swinging in time with her arm movements. The crowd settled down, everyone mesmerized, and Mr. Massey and Mr. Cooper stepped away and let her go. She went on to “Brushy Fork of John’s Creek” and to “Li’l Liza Jane.” Before she got done, Johnny Cooper motioned at Mr. Massey to get on the stage.

  He darted up there with Laci still playing like she was trying to lose something inside herself.

  He shouted to the crowd, “How’s about a round of applause for that special treat. Come on, folks! This here’s The Stampers, and like we promised, you’re gonna love’em!”

  Momma and Papa started for the stage, and I was left with Laci, who continued playing.

  I whispered, “Laci, come on with me.”

  Laci pumped out the last of the notes to “Li’l Liza Ja
ne,” and I grabbed her arm and hauled her up the two small steps and onto the stage. The crowd let out a little uncomfortable laugh as we found our usual places, me settling Laci on Papa’s left before I hurried over to Momma’s right. Once we was in place, the crowd burst into polite applause, and I prayed it wouldn’t set Laci off again. Mr. Cooper and Mr. Massey beamed at everyone and bowed to the audience like it had been planned this way. Laci clutched the fiddle to her chest, her hair covering her face again. I wished Papa would brush it out of the way, only I was afraid she’d get a good look at all these strange faces and no telling what might happen.

  He leaned down to her and I could barely make out what he said. “Wildwood Flower.”

  Laci wanted to play so bad, she tossed her hair out of the way again, brung the fiddle up and began. Finally, we was able to relax into our routine. We harmonized, and soon I was wishing I had shoes. Laci would usually play a set of songs we clogged to, and it had been so long since I’d been able to dance, I was itching to let go. I had an energy I’d not had in a long time, and the stage was perfect for it, giving a hollow wood ring as Papa stomped his boots in time to the tunes we sang. The crowd got into our singing, and some folks even did a little flatfoot or buck dancing in the sawdust scattered on the floor in front of the stage. Everyone was having a good old time, and I felt good and warm all over, almost like when we’d pull back the rug on Saturday nights back home and clog till we was too tired to move.

  After we’d been singing a while I seen Clayton near Trixie. I went hot all over instead of warm. He waved, and even though I didn’t wave back, I smiled big and bold at him, and sang proud. I felt good hearing the way we sounded, our voices echoing and ringing out over the heads of the people there. When I looked again, I was sort a disappointed he was gone.

  We sung until Mr. Massey stepped onto the stage several songs later. “What do you think? Ain’t they special? Ain’t they grand? Do you want them to do you one more?”