The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  Before he could ask, I backed away and said, “No.”

  Darren said, “Aw, come on. It only feels like leather. Go on, Hercules don’t bite. He’s a squeezer.”

  Clayton said, “He’s right.”

  I hesitated, and then eased my hand down into the box, and Darren said, “Like this, go in this direction, not the other way. The other way you’ll only feel the scales.”

  I did as he said. He was right, the snake’s skin did feel like a lot like leather, a little rougher maybe, and the movement under my fingers as his body swelled and flowed made me think of a cat stretching with enjoyment. I pressed along the snake’s back, feeling bones too. After a minute or so, I withdrew my hand and Darren gestured at Laci.

  I said, “I don’t think she’ll want to touch him. It’s a lot different than the sheep. Do you want to, Laci? She kept her hands behind her. “See? I didn’t think so.”

  Like everyone else, Darren considered Laci, like he won’t sure why she didn’t speak, or why she couldn’t make up her own mind.

  I explained, “My sister don’t talk. She’s musically gifted, but she’s never spoken a word.”

  Darren said, “That right? Can’t blame her. Not many around here I want to talk to myself.”

  Clayton stood by Laci and held his hand out to her again, like he’d done with the sheep. A feeling of satisfaction come over me again when she kept her hands tucked away. Clayton dropped his hand and shrugged. I motioned at him we was ready to go.

  “Thank you,” I said to Darren.

  He flipped a hand at us and went to get a small box, and Clayton said, “Uh-oh, yeah, good time to go. Feeding time.”

  We exited the tent, and it hit me how tired I was.

  I said to Clayton, “Thank you for showing us around. We got to go.”

  Clayton tilted his head and said, “Maybe tomorrow we can ride the Ferris wheel?”

  “Sure, okay then.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders a bit.

  “Clayton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I ought to thank you proper for suggesting we come here. Thank you. Papa said as much. I imagine he’ll mention it when he sees you next time.”

  Clayton won’t looking at me. His eyes was in a spot somewhere over my head, on Laci. “It won’t nothing. It only made sense. Johnny’s always looking a good show.”

  I nodded, and began walking away, picking at the little fuzz balls the dress kept gathering each and every day. Laci fell in step beside me. Something kept me from turning around to see if Clayton watched us. I didn’t want to see what I might see. A short distance later, I squinted at Laci’s profile as she walked beside me, at her small upturned nose, the wide set of her mouth, and how, even in the nighttime, her strands of her hair shone under the moonlight with hints of light. I’d never thought so much about our differences ever before, believing I had my own appealing qualities and Laci, well, Laci was Laci. Until now. In this moment when Clayton’s eyes won’t on me but on her, it was just like I’d feared. It stuck in my mind he likely considered me like an Apple Pan Dowdy and her as a beautiful, layered cake topped with elegant icing. She was a flower, I was a weed. Her presence was like a light-scented breeze in spring, whereas I was more like an unexpected gust coming up the side of a mountain.

  Buried memories rushed forward, and I thought of other times this sort of thing had happened, little incidents what had likely bothered me, but I’d kept tamped down out of guilt. Like the time we’d gone to a fall apple festival to sing about a year ago, and there’d been a boy there. I’d spied him coming up in a truck with a man I figured for his papa. He’d not come in time to see us sing, and I remembered having a vague feeling of relief Laci had gone off with Momma to get a cup of cider. He and I made eye contact like young folks do, and he’d come over to hand me a polished apple out of the basket he carried. He’d said they’d come from his family’s orchard.

  His name was Brice, and I’d bit into the apple, tasting the sweetness of it, sweet as the smile he offered me. I looked over his shoulder at Momma waving, motioning me to rejoin them. I ignored her, acted like I hadn’t seen her while I smiled at Brice, his eyes on me, and mine on him. When her waving got more emphatic, I told him I’d be right back and hurried away. He’d followed me though, him and his basket of shiny apples, and that sweet attentive smile. All Laci done was plant one a them looks a hers on him, a piercing right through your gaze you couldn’t look away from, and that was it, I faded away from his view, and gone was any interest in me. The apple turned sour in my mouth. I spit it out in my hand, hid it till I could throw it away, along with any hope I’d ever measure up in anyone’s eyes for being just me.

  And there was a more recent time, when we’d been down to Dewey’s store, me, Laci and Papa. The usual group of old men was sitting in back by the coal stove, corncob pipes stuck between creased lips, smoke hovering like mist over their heads.

  They was talking quiet, but I’d overheard one a them say, Shame a purty gal like Laci is how she is, and downright shame that younger one, what’s her name? Oh yeah, Wallis Ann. Too bad she ain’t got none a that purty Laci got. When Laci comes around ole Wallis Ann don’t stand a chance.

  I’d heard it, and felt something cold rush through my body like I’d jumped into the Tuckasegee in dead of winter followed by the heat of anger. I considered stomping over to them old coots and letting them know I’d heard what all they’d said. Only Papa asked me did I want a peppermint stick, and I’d let it go. Partiality towards Laci was something I’d got used to, even from Momma and Papa. Nobody meant nothing by it, it was simply on account of folks’ belief Laci was suffering in some way and not able to live life to her full potential. I reckon we was all expected to make up for that.

  Chapter 20

  Clayton come to our performances regularly. Each night, after they ended, Papa give me money and allowed me and Laci to walk around with him for a little while. This was a freedom I’d never had before, and though I wanted to spend time with Clayton by myself, I figured Papa won’t never going to allow it. Two girls walking around with a boy won’t the same as only a boy and a girl walking around.

  The very first night we rode the Ferris wheel, Clayton said, “Let Laci ride in the middle.”

  It kind a hurt my feelings when he suggested the seating arrangements.

  My face must have showed disappointment, because he quickly said, “In case she gets scared, she’ll be between us.” When we stopped at the top, he said, “This is about as high up as the pole I climb to do my dive.”

  Off to my right, the twinkling lights of the carnival below reminded me of a night sky in reverse, almost like how the stars shone over the ridges of Cherry Gap and Cullowhee.

  I pushed the thought away and turned to Clayton. “What did you think first time you stood there and looked down?”

  “I was more afraid of not having a job. Considering all, I’m lucky to have had a way to work all this time. If I’d not joined the show, I was picturing myself in a soup line.”

  “Least you’d a had the soup line.”

  Our turn of hardship was still fresh in my mind, and I didn’t ever want to be that hungry again, if I could help it. The smell of funnel cakes, hot dogs and all sorts of other smells followed us everywhere we went. It was odd, but even with all this food available, I always seemed hungry. After the Ferris wheel we usually rode the swings, and only once did we climb onto some contraption what spun us in circles and plumb turned my stomach inside out. When I was finally able to get off, my ever-present appetite sank somewhere down into the bottoms of my legs. I tried to laugh it off like nothing was wrong, only I ended up sitting on a bench nearby. It took me several minutes before I felt better while Laci won’t phased at all. Clayton hurried off to buy me a Pepsi. I sipped on it, and eventually my stomach quit flip-flopping like a fish on the ground. We avoided that ride from then on.

  That night a wave of homesickness bore down on me heavy a
s a sack full a grain, and for the first time in a while, I thought of Joe Calhoun and wondered what he was doing. How his boy, Lyle, and little Josie was getting along without their momma. Had he fixed his little cabin up, and what they might do for Thanksgiving and Christmas without a momma there to cook for them, to make their presents, to decorate a tree? My homesickness usually cropped up during quiet times, when we won’t busy, and so I tried to get real tired such that I wouldn’t have time to think sad thoughts of home.

  Most nights we watched the crowd play games, or we’d go see the strong man lift the bar said to weigh two hundred pounds straight over his head, and ended most evenings by getting some spun sugar. I loved watching the man take a paper cone and swirl it around and around inside a barrel of sugary fluff being heated by some sort of special blower—as Clayton explained. You could see remnants of cottony-looking pieces floating inside it, while the smell of sugar wafted around us like the scent of honeysuckles, reminding me of spring in the mountains. Clayton would hand me the cone with a huge amount spun around it big as a beehive. We shared it by plucking pieces off and popping them into our mouths, savoring the sweetness.

  Those was the good times.

  Then there was confusing times when Clayton would get to asking questions about Laci. I tried to ignore that twisty sort a gut feeling I had, an idea he was starting to like her, maybe even better than me. It tried to eat its way into me like a worm into an apple. I argued with myself as to why, while simultaneously holding on to the fact he’d kissed me, after all, and most likely only wanted to know about the one person I spent the most time with.

  Clayton’s questions was mostly about her musical ability. “How’d she learn to play all of them songs?”

  I told him about being in the church years ago, and how she’d watched a lady playing piano, then played the song from memory.

  “Somehow she does it. She hears it played once or twice, and she can play it.”

  Clayton was intrigued, and he stared at Laci with a hint of awe. On a different night he tackled another topic.

  He said, “Laci’s never talked? At all?”

  “ No. ”

  “Since she was born?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What you reckon is wrong with her? She’s got to be real smart, playing music, and all.”

  “She is smart. Smarter than most. You know, Clayton. She’s sitting right here. Ain’t like she can’t hear us.”

  “Oh, right.” He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “What you reckon caused it?”

  I sighed. “The granny woman said she was the color of a blueberry when she come out.”

  “And it caused her to be like that?”

  “I guess so.”

  Another night, he suggested asking her questions.

  “What for?”

  “Just to see.”

  “To see . . . what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll say something.”

  These conversations frustrated me. “Why would she all the sudden talk? I’ve talked to her every day since I can remember and she ain’t never spoke a word to me. Besides, she ain’t some experiment. She ain’t one a them sideshow freaks.”

  His mouth dropped open, and then he shut it, and his face turned red.

  “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  I was conflicted, wanting to spend time with him as long as I could while at the same time I wanted him to stop asking questions about Laci, especially with her sitting right there. What did we know about what she might think or feel? And why didn’t he ever ask anything about me, about what I liked to do, and about what I wanted?

  One night, after he’d started the questions about Laci again, I jumped up and said, “We got to go.”

  Clayton said, “Tomorrow?”

  I acted like I didn’t hear him and walked away, Laci’s cool, dry hand stuffed inside my sweaty one.

  He called out, “Wallis Ann? Wallis Ann!” and I kept right on going.

  That night I wrestled the sheet on my cot into a ball of worry over how rude I’d been.

  * * *

  I wanted to go find him the next morning, let him know I was sorry, except right after we had breakfast, Papa said, “We’re going into town to get a few things.”

  I tried to look for him as we walked to the other side of the carnival to get the truck. We passed by his small tent near his diving pole, and the flap was pushed aside, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Papa drove to Tucker’s Branch, a typical little town with a few houses set on the hillside looking over the railroad track that followed along a road barely big enough for two cars to pass on either side. There was a small store similar to Dewey’s, the sort of store what had everything. Farm supplies, food, tools, whatever they could get by train, I suppose. Papa pulled out some money and counted a few bills.

  He said, “Time you girls had you some shoes and new dresses.”

  This was another experience we’d never had, store-bought dresses, so this was a new and exciting thing what lifted my mood some.

  Momma, worry making her words sharp, said, “We ought not spend our money so soon. We ought to save it and get ourselves back home where we belong.” Then she glanced at mine and Laci’s bare feet, and sighed, softening. “I reckon these girls need shoes, though.”

  Papa said, “It’s all right, Momma, everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll make the money back.”

  Not only did we get new shoes, we got two new dresses each. I tried mine on, the first one a navy blue and green plaid, and the other a bright red with a black collar. I felt like a brand-new person, like I’d shed my old skin the way a snake does. I couldn’t deny I hoped the dresses would catch Clayton’s eye. After I’d finished trying mine on, Laci tried on hers. One was a deep green with a white collar, a color what brung out her eyes and hair. Laci looked right pretty in it, but it was the other dress what made me go still. It was lavender, a fetching color for Laci, only it was the way it fit her frame and it give me the thought I would never look like that in a dress. My dresses lost some of their appeal.

  Even Papa said, “Hooey! I don’t know if I ought to buy that one or not. Might get them young bucks too riled up.”

  Momma looked hesitant, then she said, “Our Laci’s turned into a young lady, and it’s high time she looked it.”

  Momma picked out two for herself, both flowered. Papa got two shirts and a pair of coveralls. She picked out a pair of shoes, and Papa looked at a shotgun, hefting it to his shoulder and peering down the barrel. His decision made, he took all the items to the front to pay while we went outside to wait for him in the truck. It was a pretty day, hard to believe it was almost Thanksgiving since it felt warm, with the previous cold we’d experienced on Stampers Creek a long-ago memory. Papa come out of the store with the packages all wrapped in paper, and tied with string.

  Momma said, “I can’t remember last time we had boughten clothes from a store,” as if she was sad about having to do so.

  Papa said, “I think it’s been since the first year we got married. Before I bought you the sewing machine for Christmas.”

  Momma nodded. “I think you’re right.” She sighed. “Hard to believe we lost so much in that awful flood.”

  Papa said, “Now, Momma.”

  When we parked in the dusty lot beside the row of tents, I thought on Stampers Creek, the taller peaks and valleys, and the early morning mist settling in the hollers, created a feeling similar to the sensation I got riding on the downward turn of the Ferris wheel. We got out of the truck, and all of us stood a moment as if to prepare ourselves. I could hear workers shouting, the clanging of somebody hammering and the screams of people riding rides. We walked slow, like we was dreading the chaos. It was hard getting used to the traveling show when we was mostly familiar with the soft rush of a creek, birdsong, and the lowing of cattle in pastures.

  Before the show that evening, all of us took care bathing. Momma had found an old cast-off galvanized tub what used t
o be used for the elephants, and asked if she could have it. She set it in her and Papa’s tent and filled it with warm water. We took turns washing like we used to do at home on Saturday nights. We put on our new clothes and our new shoes, turning out fresh as if we was off to church. We stood admiring each other before we went to the tent cookhouse. I was feeling proud of my appearance, even more so when old Paulie noticed and smiled at me.

  As I reached for a plate of food he’d fixed, he said, “Well, hey now, look at you, girlie! Ain’t you all gussied up?”

  I inspected my dress and shiny shoes.

  “I guess I am. Thank you,” I said.

  After we got our food, we sat at our usual table and although no one else said anything about our crisp-looking clothes, a few of the working men cast looks our way, mostly on the sly at Laci, who ate intently, entirely unaware of the attention she was attracting in her lavender dress. It was hard not to notice how quiet it got when we stood to leave. I looked behind me as we walked out and every single man had set their eyes on her exiting the tent. Some leaned in, whispering to one another and pointing at her. Papa noticed too.

  He muttered to Momma, “They better keep their eyes in their heads, or else. Not one of them is good enough for either of my girls.”

  Momma said, “Maybe you should think twice about them rambling around this place, then, hm?”

  I hoped Papa wouldn’t pay the comment no mind. At the arena a crowd was already starting to gather for the seven o’clock show. Soon the benches was full, as they had been since the first night. We didn’t waste time and got started, Papa queueing Laci to play something we hadn’t done before, one we could clog to. There was plenty of room on the stage to move about, so while Laci fiddled, and Momma sang, me and Papa showed the crowd how it was done where we come from. Our feet in our new shoes beat out a steady rhythm on the wooden platform, in perfect time to the tune.

  We started with a basic step, the double toe shuffle, and then did a chug, and then added in other steps like wring the chicken’s neck, broken wing, and rabbit dance. Soon it turned into a variation of our own intricate steps, with some improvisation, a competition between me and Papa. We always had us good time, one trying to outdo the other, and the crowd began to clap in time. Some was familiar with our type a clogging and joined in at the front of the stage. Eventually we had to stop because we was getting out of breath and wouldn’t be able to sing a lick if we kept at it. After an hour, we come to the end of the show and Mr. Cooper who’d heard all the hooting and hollering from inside the arena tent come over and took Papa aside.