“You got anyone famous in your carnie?” she asked.
“Babe, stay out of this and . . . ,” her father said.
“No, let her ask. As a matter of fact, we have several very famous people in our troupe. In fact, I’ve just signed a world-famous elephant act.”
Money, travel, maybe even fame? Babe’s wheels started to churn to life.
“You have anything else you have to ask, Babe?” her father snapped. He went back to the papers. “So, let’s see . . .” He held the contract up to the light and squinted. “How long this contract good for?”
“Just a year, and then it automatically renews,” Renoir replied. “With her consent, of course. When she’s sixteen, she can sign for herself. Naturally, her board and her wages are all spelled out. Very boilerplate. It’s all right there. Just need your John Hancock and the date, February third, 1896. I think you’ll find this fair commerce, Mr. Killingsworth.”
“Shouldn’t I look at that? After all, I’m the one it’s writ about.”
“Get out of my light, Babe,” her father grumbled. “You might be legal to marry but not to sign nothing. You just leave these legal things to us men.”
“Who gets that cash money?” she asked Renoir. “The two hundred dollar?”
Her father glanced at Renoir, then stepped in to answer. “Now, Babe, you know I’ll keep that money for you. For when you’re older and know how to handle it. Sure. I’ll set up a special account at the bank and—”
“No you won’t,” she said, breaking him off.
“You got no idea how much your upkeep is, Babe, and how . . .” His words fell away as he looked at his daughter, then at Renoir, and finally, down at the papers on the counter.
“Sign that paper, take his money, Pa. Reckon you have it coming for what my doctoring cost last fall.”
Her father gave her a long, hard look. “You want to go, Babe?” The pen in his hand was ticking back and forth. A signal? Maybe he was just holding out for more money or maybe . . .
“Go ahead. Sign it, Pa.”
“And remember, Mr. Killingsworth, she’ll be among her own kind.” Renoir stepped in. “Think of this as a mercy. I mean, what else can the poor thing do? And, Babe—may I call you Babe?—you’ll come to love carnie folks and carnie life. We’re all just one big, happy family.”
“Of freaks,” she said, looking down at her father. Would he up the ante, fold, or was he bluffing? Did they really want to be shed of each other? Was it time? What did she have to offer her father here? Food bills and doctor bills and help unloading the delivery wagons. What did her father have to offer her? A cold barn, drowned dogs, and ridicule.
“And food! I have the best cooks on the circuit!” Renoir went on. “And a seamstress—a genius with needle and thread—to sew you beautiful clothes!”
Babe considered the cards she’d just been handed: travel, money, fame, food, and clothes. Quite a poker hand to draw to. For some time she’d been thinking there was no place big enough for her. What was she, after all? Just an ugly giant with more mouth than sense and all in the company of the beast inside the beast.
“What sort of critters you got in your outfit?” she asked. “Me and critters get along, once they get used to my size. Critters is folks to me.”
“Critters galore!”
“She loves her critters,” her father said. “Sometimes I think she’s more animal than—” He stopped when he caught her eye. “Well, anyway, critters take to her real natural-like. You got critters, she’ll be happy. Won’t you, Babe? Won’t you be happy?”
“Reckon so,” she said. The cash and the contract for her future sat on the counter. She walked over, ducking the lamps hanging from the rafters, took a twenty-dollar gold piece, and slipped it into her pocket. “Need me ten minutes to pack my grip,” she said to Renoir. “You can have your barn back, Pa. So that makes us both happy.”
Her father didn’t even flinch. The scratching sound as he signed the contract answered her question—it was different this time. They were both happy to be shed of each other.
Back in the barn it didn’t take long to pack her things. BVDs, socks, underthings, all men’s sizes, dirty and worn and patched together. She had a few childhood things in a trunk. The lid was swollen, and she had to jerk it open. The smell of mold and things forgotten and neglected drifted up. There, on top, the delicate doll—what had she named it? Alice? Annie?—smiled up at her, her eyes closed in repose. She picked up the doll and noticed how much smaller it seemed now in her giant hands. The eyes opened with a click as she held it upright. Such a perfect porcelain face, such China-blue eyes, such elegant lashes, such a sweet red bow of a smile. Alice or Annie was perfect, and Babe remembered why she’d tossed her into the trunk when she was seven. She wasn’t even sure how or when she’d gotten it. Perhaps taken in trade at her father’s store. More likely, she’d swiped it from some teasing little girl.
She reached in and pulled out the wooden cigar box of lead soldiers. Setting Alice or Annie aside, she dumped her tiny army out on the floor. Grinning down at them, she was reminded how she bent them, twisted them, and maimed them, lead being as pliable as clay in her hands. Soldiers no more—just a boxful of tiny little freaks of nature.
Those were left where they had scattered. She rummaged through the trunk and found nothing she would want or need.
From there, the wall opposite her bed. She ripped down the photos and clippings and made sure her birth certificate was well hidden at the bottom of the old leather valise the “lady things” had arrived in.
Last, her one pretty, the one thing she loved so much that she never used it—a silver mirror and brush set. It was all she had from her mother, except her life itself. Carefully, she pulled the set out of a bin under the window. Strands of her mother’s long black hair were still intertwined deep in the bristles of the brush. Babe closed her eyes and breathed in the faint aroma. Slowly, she raised the mirror and found her eyes reflecting back.
“You’re doing it, Babe,” she whispered. “You know it’s time and you’re doing it.” She dared a small smile, then quickly packed the mirror and brush safe and sound among her clothes.
One last look around and she closed the door on her room. She stopped, standing in the center of the barn. Eloise, the cow, was still in her stall, dozing.
“Gonna miss you, Eloise,” Babe said, tossing another handful of grain into her manger. “Thanks for all the milk. Sorry I run you dry so much. Things’ll be better now.”
Then Bo Bo, the old delivery horse, murmured from his stall. “Got some oats for you too, ol’ man,” Babe said. “Thanks for helping me deliver all of them groceries up to the mine. I pushed and you pulled up all them big hills. I saved us skidding downhill a few time, too, huh?” She gave his nose a rub, smiling at the feel of the ageless velvet.
Next, she walked to the back of the barn and opened the small hatch to the outside chicken coop. She poked her head out and tossed some grain. “Thanks for all the eggs, girls. Reckon you can all relax some now that your Babe’s leaving.”
There was no reply. She closed the hatch.
She looked around the barn. “What else?”
The tiny rustle from the stall answered her question. The mama dog and her one pup. She pushed the wagon aside and opened the stall door. Kneeling down, she whispered, “Hey, mama dog. How’s he coming?” She found the pup nestled down—happy and warm and fed. The mama nudged her hand and licked it.
“You’re welcome, girl.” Babe’s giant hand gently encased the dog’s head as she pet it. “You’re welcome.”
Renoir’s wagon rolled up outside the barn.
“Babe? You ready?” her father called in. “Professor Renoir says it’s a good twenty mile to the railhead. Better git gone.”
“Like hell he’s going to ditch you,” she said to the dogs. “You’re coming with me.”
Her valise was packed up full, so she looked around for something to hide the dogs in. She grabbed a box, popped
the lid, dumped the contents, made a bed with her shawl, and gently nestled the dogs inside.
“Just going us on a little trip.” She put the lid back on and carried it close to her chest.
The two men were talking over the wagon bed but stopped when she approached.
“What you got in there, girl?” Her father pointed to the box. “You ain’t stealing any of my chickens, are you?”
“Just the dog and her pup, Pa. Gonna ditch ’em off the bridge on the way out of town. Just like you said.”
“Well then,” her father grunted. “See that you do. This town don’t need no more stray dogs and—”
“I said I’ll do it!”
“You watch your tone, girl. You might be leaving, but I’m still your pa and . . .”
“And what?”
He didn’t answer. After a few moments of silence, Babe said, “You said yourself things is different this time.” She turned to Renoir as he climbed aboard the wagon. “You need to move them boxes about some.” She pointed to the cargo in the bed of the wagon.
“What for?”
“Well, unless you want them horses heading skyward once I set in the back of the wagon . . .”
“Oh! Oh, yes! Yes!” Renoir said. He climbed over the seat and rearranged the load.
Babe tossed in her valise, eased herself into the back of the wagon, and put the box on her lap. Her father took a few steps back. “Bye, Pa.”
Babe hadn’t cried in four, maybe five years. Why should she? Crying never did her a speck of good. Crying was for little girls and sissies, not giants. No tears even now, looking at her father, standing there, saying nothing, not even a little wave goodbye, the played-out town and all she’d come to know behind him. She set her chin, turned, and looked ahead.
Renoir clucked his team. The horses groaned as they pulled forward. Her father walked away and disappeared into his store. “Well, that’s that.” She lifted the lid to the box to give the dogs some air. She smiled at the mama dog as she poked her head out. “Shed is shed, ain’t that so, mama dog?”
Renoir stopped the team just outside of town.
“Why you stopping?” Babe asked.
“So you can let those dogs go.” He pointed his whip to the box in Babe’s arms. “Like you told your father.”
“My ol’ man knew I was lying. These critters is coming with me.”
“Now, you just wait a minute, Babe, I didn’t say anything about . . .”
“Or I climb out right here and you’re out your money and your strongwoman show,” she said, surprised at her tone and her threats.
Renoir stared at her across the wagonload. “We’ll settle that when we get there, girl.” He turned and clucked the team on.
Babe pulled the mama dog out of the box, pet her, and ran her fur along her cheek. “Don’t you worry none. Your Babe’s got you.”
3
“Get out,” Renoir said, pulling the tarp off Babe’s head. “Get your grip and get aboard that train. The hog engine will be here any minute and we still have to finish takedown.”
Babe looked around her and blinked. Hog engine? Take what down? “Where are we?”
“Just outside Boise,” he said over his shoulder.
Babe got out and looked around. What was this world? She’d seen trains and even some traveling carnivals, but not in this state—half in and half out of the train. She raised her nose to the air and took a deep breath in. Popcorn, something sweet, and—deep breath—roasting peanuts? Her stomach sent out a rumble.
Renoir had disappeared into a tent, and people were yelling, calling orders—Do this! Do that! You do it! My hands are full!—as the carnie was being folded up and put away into railroad cars.
What might have been a cow pasture yesterday was a muddy field of turned-up ground and big puddles of rainwater. Babe left the mama dog and her pup in their box and put up the tailgate of the wagon to keep them safe inside.
Walking between two steaming cook fires, she followed her nose toward food. No one paid her any attention, as though a giant girl walking among them was nothing unusual. Tables and chairs were being folded and stacked, boxes and crates were being filled with little dolls, popguns, shiny dishes, and trinkets. Off in the distance, a train engine hooted three times and people started moving faster, cursing and shouting even louder.
Someone untied a handful of red balloons and they bounced on the muddy ground, catching a breeze. Babe shaded her eyes, watching them drift away and wondering where they might end up—maybe a child will find one, or what if one spooks a horse down the road?
A man tossed some rubbish from a large can onto a fire. The smell of smoldering food drew Babe closer. A whole Sunday picnic! Corncobs, sandwiches, apple cores, popcorn balls—all half-eaten but good enough for Babe. She devoured a half sandwich in one bite, then poked around the trash can for more. She salvaged what fit into her pockets to have for later and for the mama dog.
Thirsty now. There were three metal mugs on a nearby table. Sure enough, soda pop! One was nearly full, and she downed it in one gulp, burped, then finished off the others.
“I said put your back into it!” a man hollered from up toward the train. Three men struggled under the weight of the pole they were carrying uphill. The rope on one end trailed behind them. The last man in the line was as short and skinny as a matchstick. He tripped on the tail end of the rope and slipped in the mud, bringing down the other two men. The pole rolled downhill as people yelled and dashed out of the way. It rolled pell-mell toward Babe, who picked up the trash can with one hand and, holding a mug in the other, stepped out of the way.
She set the can down, finished off the soda pop, tossed the mug, then walked to the pole. Lifting her skirts and stooping down, she picked the pole up at its dead center and hoisted it to her shoulder. Everyone stopped cold and stared.
“Where you want this thing?” she asked.
A man pointed up the siding, toward the railcar. Babe toted it while the other men gathered the trailing ropes and wires. With barely a grunt, she pushed the pole to the top of a railcar, where it was tied down and ready for travel.
Babe looked down at the carnies watching her. She reckoned folks knew she was here now.
Something was tugging at her skirt.
“You’re strong,” a creature stated. Babe looked down, took a step back to see . . . this who, this what? A masculine face but wearing a dress, only about a third of her height. The head, much too small for the body, seemed to point skyward and was topped with a knot of hair, tied with a pink ribbon. A filthy doll was tucked into her belt of rope.
“You’re strong,” she said again, still tugging Babe’s skirt. She grinned up, displaying huge, gap-toothed buckteeth. “You’re strong.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked earnestly.
“Twenty minutes! Twenty minutes!” a man hollered, walking toward them. The man bent down to Babe’s first “oddity” and said, slowly, as if he was talking to a three-year-old, “Now, JoJo. We’re busy here, so let’s take you to your car, okay?”
JoJo ignored him and pulled on Babe’s skirt. “You’re big. You’re strong.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re nice.”
“I like you!” JoJo now grinned ear to ear as she stroked her doll’s nearly bald head.
“You got to watch it with this little pinhead. You give her an inch, and she’ll take a mile,” the man said. “You come with me now, JoJo.” He offered her a finger, which she grasped, childlike. She waddled off with him, waving a shy bye-bye to Babe.
Someone from up the hill yelled at her, breaking her stare. “Hey! You! Yeah, you giant! Come on! Shake a leg!”
Babe flashed back to her father’s warning from just that morning. She shook her leg at him, then trotted back to Renoir’s wagon. The horses had been unharnessed and taken away. The boxes and crates inside were gone.
“Where’s my grip? Where’s my dogs?” she asked a woman carrying a satchel.
“Ladies go into Car C.”
“Where’s that wood box?” Babe asked, feeling a heat inside rising up. “Had me a mama dog and her pup inside.”
“You mean that?” the woman said, pointing her nose to the trash pile. “Renoir said to toss it.”
Babe rushed over and snatched the box. She sat down, opened the lid, and pulled out the mama dog. “You still got your baby?” She reached in and pulled the whimpering pup out. “You okay, baby dog?”
“Well, would you look at that,” the woman said, kneeling down. She wore an exotic, shiny robe of reds and embroidered golds. Babe tried not to stare at the woman’s powdered face, blue-lined eyes, bloodred lips—as red, white, and blue as the Fourth of July!
“Renoir knew these was my pups in this box,” Babe said, putting the puppy to her cheek and giving it a gentle kiss.
“Well, Renoir isn’t very fond of animals,” the colorful woman said. “Strange, for a carnie man, huh?”
“Then I ain’t fond of Renoir,” Babe grumbled.
“Look, do yourself a favor,” she said, giving the mama dog a pat. “Give the dogs to Donny. He’s our dog act—Donny Davis and His Doggone Dogs. He’ll see to it they’re both taken care of. Maybe even get that pup into the act. Just don’t let Renoir know. He doesn’t like his orders being disobeyed.”
“Where’s this doggone man?”
“Usually in Car B, the men’s smoking car.” The fancy woman smiled at Babe. “Lord, you’re built from the ground up! Every bit the giant Renoir said you were. Saw your first performance with the tent pole. Brava!”
“What’s a brava?”
The woman chuckled. “It means ‘nice job.’”
“Oh,” Babe muttered, pulling her eyes away from the woman. “Sorry for staring, ma’am. Ain’t never seed a face like yours . . . I mean . . . all painted up . . . I mean . . .”
The woman smiled so wide a gold tooth in back shone bright. “Well, that goes for me, too. Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen a girl as big as you.” She offered Babe a slender, white-as-snow hand. “I’m Cora Epstein.” Her long, sharp fingernails were painted as red as her lips. “My stage name is Madame de la Rosa. I’m the mitt reader in this mud opera.”
Professor Renoir's Collection of Oddities, Curiosities, and Delights Page 2