by Hazel Woods
I guess this is another way of saying that I am stuck in my own head without you here. It’d sure be nice for you to blow a hole through my amateur bullshit philosophy. How ’bout it?
In friendship,
P. Rogerson
• • •
Charles has fallen asleep in the middle of breakfast.
“Charles,” his mother scolds. “I do not tolerate snoring at the table. I never have and I never will.”
He apologizes and smiles at his mother, watching her sip from the delicate teacup painted with a scene of small lambs and blue flowers. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” he explains. He looks at his toast. “Pass the jam, please.”
“You could ask the doctor for a formula,” she suggests, reaching her hand across the table.
“I just have a lot on my mind. No need for medicine, Mother.”
“You were not home when I went to bed. Perhaps if you need more sleep, you should actually retire at a decent hour.”
“I was walking. Used to be my best medicine.”
She does not reply to this. They each chew in silence. She pours more tea, methodically adding sugar and cream, then stirring it all gently with a silver teaspoon.
Charles wonders if Hensley will ever see that goblet. He didn’t leave his name—would she ever know that he’d been there, that it was he who had followed her handwriting all the way to Hillsboro, New Mexico, only to return with just that silver goblet?
Suddenly he remembers something Teresa told him before he boarded his train. He didn’t understand it then, but now it makes perfect, broken sense. Whatever you find there, in New York, she wished it had been you. All along. From the moment I met her.
Her bedroom wall, the stones, and Teresa’s words all corroborated the truth of her letters. She had not been lying; it was not a ruse. He groans, as though having been punched in the stomach. “Charles Reid!” His mother stands up and comes around the table. “Are you all right? What is the meaning of this?” She places a hand against his forehead. “Are you ill?”
He takes his mother’s hand in his. “No, Mother. I’m sorry. I just remembered something I forgot to do. Please excuse me.” He kisses her warm skin and carefully stands. “Finish your breakfast in peace.”
He returns to his room to write a letter.
New York
Dear Rogerson,
You really are thinking too much. Of course, I am in the same boat. For me, though, it is not the birds I wonder about, it is just one girl. I found her. Hensley Dench. I’ve found her and discovered that she is betrothed and pregnant. Can you believe it? This leaves me more bereft than did the loss of my leg. I suppose you would tell me that she was always a bit too good to be true. And, now, I would agree. Still, the pain is too real for it to have been false.
Regarding your bird and its feet: I think there is something smaller than joy, some suitability and comfort of those three small toes (?) wrapped around a lovely summer branch, that even in the middle of such a terrible war, you can admire their compatibility. There are many instances of this in our own species, but I know you may need to be reminded of them, given your current circumstances. In fact, the first you’ve already mentioned.
1.Our long, desirous arms do seem to be made to hold the swells and hollows of another’s body.
2.Our uniquely bipedal form longs to reach for all things above our heads: crisp, red apples; the blossoms of magnolias and cherry trees; perhaps a hundred years from now, a long-forgotten bundle of letters written by an unknown man to a child’s great-grandmother, stored on a high, dusty shelf; the luminous, irrepressible stars.
3.Our words, whether formed with ink or voice, are met by perfectly undulated ears and strung into a mysterious system with which we create meaning. Are you reading this, Rogerson? Can you hear my voice? Well, if so, it is as if you are soaring just beside that bird you admired because you’ve managed to travel thousands of miles simply by holding this paper between your dirty—in fact, probably bloody—fingers.
There. What else can I tell you? I’ve decided to endure. It is the only way ahead.
Your turn. Go ahead and blow a hole through my philosophy. I look forward to it more than you can imagine. Stay safe.
In friendship,
Charles Reid
When Hensley wakes, she is not sure where she is. A series of loud cracks and whistles makes her think that she has traveled all the way across the ocean and found her way into Mr. Reid’s barrack. Would he hide her beneath his blankets, give her a swig of water from his canteen, warn her—even as his eyes tell her of his relief—of the dangers of following her impulses? Would he hold her tightly until he felt the swell in her belly? And then what? With her own eyes still closed, she pulls the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders and sighs.
Soon she hears a knocking on the door.
“Hensley, you awake, darlin’?”
It is Arty’s voice. Somehow this scenario is more unbelievable to Hensley than the one in which she crossed an ocean and found Mr. Reid. Has she truly run away? Is she living with the circus? In the strong man’s wagon?
He opens the door, a bundle of fabric in his arms.
Hensley sits up and rubs her eyes.
“Good morning,” he says, dumping the pile on the foot of the bed. “Here’s your keep. Mending galore.”
Hensley smiles. “No kidding. I will never see the light of day.”
“Maybe not, but you will see the lights tonight.” He presents her with a cup of milky coffee and a plate of toast and jam. “Don’t forget. You’re my grand finale.”
Hensley takes the toast and coffee and eats enthusiastically. Crumbs spill on the blanket. She curls her toes with delight. “Thank you,” she says to Arty, who is waxing his mustache in the small mirror over the sink.
“Pleasure,” he says.
When she digs the sewing kit out of her satchel, she lets her hand linger on the letters. She does not need to open one to know its contents, but she longs to see his handwriting. Its firm, black existence. A truth. An actuality. Just the sight of her own name formed by his hand gives her a solace she cannot explain.
Long after lunch, still in her bedclothes, Hensley finishes the last repair. Her fingers are red and sore. She wishes she had her machine.
As she rests her head back on the pillow, she wonders if Harold will intercept the rest of her things for her when they are delivered. Will he store them for her until she has a proper place? When might that be?
These questions clutter her mind. She has no answers. She sits up, reaches for her stationery and a pen. With her legs still snug beneath the blanket, Hensley throws caution to the wind and begins a new letter.
Dear Mr. Reid,
She sighs. What must he think of her?
I’ve delayed writing this letter for too long. The explanation of my condition is shocking and tedious, both. I know you must hate me. When I did not receive a reply from you after my last letter, I knew you had given up on me. As you should. But now without the hope of your reply—since I have no forwarding address—I can write to you without disappointment. It is a selfish act but one I hope you will tolerate. The most amusing part of my confession is the reason why I have no address. Right now, I am working for a traveling circus in New York City—the same one that visited Hillsboro so many months ago. How I wish you could see this magical world. It is truly as though the dream world has come to life. It is certainly not where I imagined I would be when I left Hillsboro. If I thought you would ever find me—that we might ever meet, I could never tell you everything. I would protect my pride, my vanity. But I have quickly become a woman no man would ever seek.
“Goin’ out. You want me to post that?” Arty asks as he pulls his jacket on.
“Could you?”
He nods. “Finish up. I will spot you the postage.”
Knowi
ng that she will never receive a reply, Hensley adds a few more lines regarding her situation, the last of which reads, Writing to you will surely remain the closest I ever come to being with you. Allow me this consolation. I will find solace in the knowledge of some future strangers reading my words, and knowing how I loved you.
“It’s all right to be afraid, you know,” he says as she is lacing up her shoes. “More drama, more tips,” he adds, biting into an apple.
“How about this drama?” she says, showing him her silhouette.
His eyes grow large and he struggles to keep his mouth closed as he laughs at the sight of her. “Darlin’, you are not kidding. That is an amazing display.”
Hensley blushes. “The miracle of life,” she says quietly, as she lets her skirt hang loose once more.
“Yep.” A solemn quiet settles between them. “Every one of us. How we all started out,” he finally adds.
“Yes. It is humbling to imagine our mothers, besieged by our own insistent little selves.”
Arty nods and throws her an apple. “Dinner after the show. For now, just a snack.”
Charles stands outside the building as the crowds of men just off work shove past him. He has seen several women enter the building, but one had gray hair and was walking with the help of a nurse, and the other was a woman with a toddler clinging to her hand. Surely he will know her when he sees her, he thinks. She is not a stranger to him. But as the hordes of people diminish and very few people turn on to this block, he loses hope. He’d only wanted one glance, and to be sure the goblet had reached its rightful owner. The sun has set, his leg is aching, and he is hungry.
As he walks to the corner to hail a taxi, Charles sees the flyer. He suddenly remembers what she wrote about the circus.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so brave as when I sat in that chair. How silly to write that to you, I know. But with nothing save his own two hands, this man lifted me and the entire stack of chairs in one smooth gesture so that I nearly floated to what felt like the top of the world.
Suddenly distracted, he ignores his hunger and pain and enters the park. As if entering some righteous intervention, he finds himself in the middle of a haze of glistening bubbles blown by a creature dressed in feathers and silk.
“Circus! Tonight! Right here! Two dollars! Circus! Tonight!”
He pays his admission and enters the first tent. There are joyous, colorful sights everywhere. Jugglers, flame eaters, acrobats, unicycles, perfectly groomed, beribboned horses ridden by slight, upside-down ladies.
Charles joins a crowd waiting to see the appearance of the bearded lady. Soon a man appears on the stage, wearing a tuxedo, top hat, and long black beard. The crowd goes wild, cheering. Charles watches as this man removes his jacket, then shirt, revealing an ample bosom clad in a sequined brassiere. All the men clap and whistle. She shakes her shoulders and her bosoms swing naturally, confounding and thrilling the crowd. Next, she removes her pants and reveals matching sequined panties and a womanly bottom. Finally, she throws the top hat to the crowd and a mane of thick black hair tumbles down. She tugs and pulls at the beard, however, and it remains.
Charles cannot help but remember Teresa stripping down, suddenly turning from man to woman in front of his startled face. Oh, to transform so easily. To become whole in every way with just a change of clothes.
As she walks close to the front row, allowing a few men to have their chance to test the beard, which grows along her entire jawline but is combed into a long, thin growth that hovers just between her breasts, the woman collects tips in a small purse.
The little booth he intends to visit is just beside the ticket taker. Palm Reading, a small hand-painted sign reads. Inside, a fat palmist in a fur coat sits at a low table.
“Most people don’t come in here whole,” the palmist says, her thick fingers lingering on the table between them. “It’s okay.”
Charles takes a deep breath. “I’ve never had a fortune before.”
The woman scoffs. “I’d say your suit cost more than I’ll make in the next month. I don’t give fortunes. I read the palm. It doesn’t lie. People do.” She coughs into her handkerchief. “Give me your right hand.”
Charles places his hand on the table. The palmist looks carefully at the lines that cross his palm, then she whistles.
“Twenty cents.”
Charles pulls the coins from his suit coat. He hands her the money and she nods.
Her hairline is rimmed with a perfect arc of perspiration. She drags her long fingernail across Charles’s palm, tracing unseen paths. “Nothing is permanent. You see? We lose many things in life. Even love. It ebbs and flows. But when it recedes, you follow it. Like a child at the shore. When it flows, you submerge yourself. You let it take you under. It is a long line, this one. Not uncomplicated, but long.”
“That doesn’t sound like much,” he says. “I thought you were supposed to predict something. See into the future. My future.”
The woman slowly smiles and pushes his hand away. “You already know about the leg,” she says, pinching at the corners of her mouth where the saliva has gathered. “You almost died. See the hatch marks here,” she says, grabbing him again and pointing at a vague place on his palm. She closes her eyes. Charles watches her face change. “That’s all,” she says.
Charles stands. “But what am I to do now? What’s next?”
The woman sighs. “Just ordinary life, pal. Your girl is right here,” she says, gesturing at his palm. “She waited, huh? Lucky girl.”
Charles doesn’t bother to correct her. “Well, thank you, I suppose.”
The woman’s face does not change. She sighs heavily, the scent of onions escaping from her mouth. “I hate that bearded gal,” she says and pulls her fur closer around her sweating figure. “None of us can compete with that.”
Charles smiles, leaving another coin on the table. He buys a ticket for the big tent and enters, breathing deeply the myriad scents of the circus.
Inside the big tent, Hensley is transported back to the vast desert. Black-and-white clowns turn somersaults and back bends on a trailer pulled by a big white horse. One of them stands barefoot on the stallion’s back, juggling luscious red balls. She expects to see Teresa dressed in her brother’s work clothes and her father, his studious blue eyes momentarily carefree, as the trapeze sails above her head.
The tent buzzes with happy expectation. Ladies and gentlemen hold tightly to their children’s hands, gasping at the height of the acrobats, the girth of the elephants, and the daring of the flame swallower. The scents of salty popcorn and cotton candy mingle with those of hay and animal and work. Hensley is slightly nervous. Having never before planned to be part of the performance, she’s never dealt with preshow nerves.
To calm herself, she lingers near the acrobats and the sequined ladies, pinning loose straps or quickly sewing a hook and eye as needed.
Arty finds her when it is time. He is transformed once again into a performer, his mustache curled and stiff, his denim overalls revealing his gigantic arms. Under his arm, there is an oversized watermelon.
“My opening number,” he says, knocking on the thick green skin.
She packs away her sewing kit and stands, facing him.
He pinches her cheeks. “You need a little color, darlin’.”
She smiles.
“There it is,” he says, nodding and taking her by the hand.
The stack of chairs and stools waits ominously in the middle of the stage. The stepstool is folded, resting against a column.
Hensley scans the crowd. They applaud as Arty makes his entrance, flexing his bulging muscles. As he goes through the beginning of his act, standing on just one hand, pulling apart the watermelon so it falls into a luscious mess of pink and green at his feet, breaking a chain wrapped around his chest, Hensley keeps her hands tucked behind her back. She scans the cr
owd, watching their faces, the men slightly chagrined, the women elated, all of them in awe. Arty is a terrific performer.
Soon it is her turn. She lifts the stepstool from its place and enters the spotlight. Placing it beside the stack, she listens as Arty tells the crowd that he will lift this young lady all the way over his head. As he extends his arm toward her, she pulls her skirts back, the abundance of her abdomen hidden by her careful tailoring. There is a collective gasp as the crowd inches even closer.
Hensley wonders if she should decline. Is this crazy? Probably it is. Reckless, surely. Potentially deadly.
But there is no time to reconsider. She climbs the stepladder that Arty has placed in front of her with a flourish and sits on the stool at the top of the stack.
“Hold on, darlin’,” he whispers and then introduces her to the crowd. The baby, maybe an elbow or a knee, presses against her as if to protest. Hensley clutches the edges of the stool, which quivers slightly. Adrenaline races through her chest.
She looks out over the tent, twice as full as it was in Hillsboro. Men and women and children all enchanted by the performers with their brightly colored costumes and animated faces evoking wonder, their bodies defying all rules. Immediately, she remembers the way she felt the last time Arty lifted her high above his head. The awe from that height that made it seem as though anything might be possible. The clarity she felt, the nearness of her mother’s legacy.