Sideshow Page 12

  Abby smiled. Her confidence was coming back. “Hardly. I wore bobby socks and saddle shoes like any other girl. I just, I was pretty focused on trying to make something of myself.”

  “As an opera singer?”

  “Yeah. Sounds kinda silly now, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” Suprema took another bite of her pizza, but Abby could feel her eyes on her. That made her stomach squirm, but in a good, butterfly-filled way. She hadn’t felt that queasy rush since she and Marjorie had joked about running away to New York. “I have a radio. You could come listen any time.”

  “I’d like that.” Frankie Lymon’s voice faded, and Abby jumped to her feet. “My turn?”

  “Do you have a favorite song?”

  “That would be like asking me to choose a favorite child, but I do have the last song I fell in love with.” She squeezed Suprema’s hand before taking her own coins over to the brightly colored record player. She usually wasn’t the decisive type. She was more of a “let other people choose the songs and stay far away from the machine” type. This time, however, she had a very specific song in mind. She selected it immediately and watched as the mechanical arm plucked the little red-orange 45 with “Coral” printed in bold letters from the pack. It had been May when she first heard the song. May had been a hard month: breaking up with Frank, being made an understudy for yet another season. But then she had heard this song on the radio and it made her think that maybe, just maybe, something good was coming down the line. She popped in her dime and pressed the button. The sounds of a guitar, a celeste, and Buddy Holly’s voice filled the pizza parlor.

  She glanced back at Suprema with a bright, bold smile. Suprema returned the expression.

  Abby scurried back to finish her pizza.

  They ate the rest of their dinner in silence, each occasionally glancing up to look at the other and blushing just a little. Everything felt sweet and new, and Abby reveled in it, though a nagging voice told her that she probably shouldn’t. She knew well enough how sweet and new could turn out. She shook off the anxious, warning voice by focusing on the purr-like buzz and the fact that Suprema had chosen to play their first dance song.

  “We should probably get back,” Suprema said abruptly after the silence had dragged on for quite some time. “Heaven only knows when the show will pack up, but it’s bound to be soon.”

  Abby stood up from the table and offered her arm to Suprema, who took it with a raised eyebrow. “Do you think they will? We’re supposed to be here another three days according to the route card.”

  “Oh, those things aren’t gospel,” Suprema said as they made their way out into the rain. Abby lifted the umbrella and it covered them both easily, despite their height discrepancy. “We pack up early for plenty of reasons. Overbearing laws, slow crowds.” She stuck her hand out from under the umbrella and waved her fingers in the rain. “And especially bad weather. Nothing worse than bad weather.”

  “How long have you been with the carnival?” Abby ventured, not sure whether or not the question was considered too personal. Constance had said that carnival folk didn’t like to talk about themselves, after all.

  Suprema gave Abby an appraising look, her eyes searching much in the way Ruth’s had. “Since I was thirteen,” she said. Her words were slow, as if she were dropping a weight with each one. “Uncle Boleslaw and his wife brought me. I like to think I took to it pretty quickly.”

  “Did something happen to your parents?”

  This question she didn’t answer. Instead, she slipped her hand into Abby’s and squeezed it, holding on tight as they walked back in a contented silence. Abby didn’t know what to think. Her head was swimming, and each of the raindrops hitting the sidewalk in the intensifying storm matched a confused thought. And yet her hand was tucked safely in Suprema’s; somehow, that felt more right than anything.

  ~September, 1956~

  THE DINER IS THINNING OUT for the night. There are only a few stragglers in their booths, and Abby is already sweeping the floor behind the counter, preparing to close.

  “So, are you going to the dance at the lakeshore next weekend?” Marjorie asks, leaning over the counter.

  Abby shakes her head. “It’s so embarrassing to go by yourself.”

  “That’s the point. You’re supposed to meet people there,” Marjorie says with a laugh. She ruffles a hand through her red curls, pulling them out of her waitress ponytail, and Abby wonders if she’ll ask if they can go together. With someone as pretty as Marjorie around, people would be more likely to approach them.

  “I don’t know. They say that, but every time I’ve gone, everyone else was there as a couple, and people stare at you if you stand at the wall too long.”

  Marjorie purses her lips, then nods toward one of the booths of stragglers. It is a group of boys in a mixture of blazers and leather jackets, as if they couldn’t decide if they were a gang or a fraternity. “Maybe you should ask one of them. They’re cute.”

  “Marjorie!” Abby exclaims, louder than she means to. Some of the boys turn to look. She lowers her voice to a hiss. “Marjorie. I can’t just—”

  “Why not? If we’ve always gotta wait around for them, we’re not gonna get anywhere.”

  Abby stops sweeping and looks at the booth again, trying to keep her eyes down so that she does not appear obvious. The one with soft hazel eyes is looking right at her, and his smile is disarming. She turns around as fast as she can.

  “He’s coming over here,” Marjorie whispers seconds before giggling and rushing away.

  “Marjorie!” Abby hisses after her, but it is too late. She is gone.

  “Excuse me?” The boy with hazel eyes asks. Abby takes a deep breath and turns to face him. “I’m Frank. Frank Butler.”

  Abby nods. “I know who you are,” she says, and then, embarrassed, closes her eyes

  Frank just laughs. “I do come in here too much, don’t I?”

  “No, I—”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he says before she can continue. “I will take you to the neighborhood dance.”

  Abby looks him over. The fact that he says “I will” instead of “may I” registers, but she tries to push it away. She feels light inside. “All right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Za Teresa,

  I know that the fault for not writing sooner lies with me and that things between all of us have been strained of late. I hope you can forgive me. I have been thinking a great deal about happier memories and as I will be traveling through Chicago in the coming week, I would like very much to see you. You can reach me at Post Office Box #MC-36011 Chicago, 2, if you wish to let me know when you might be available for me to call on you. I would so like to try some of your marzipan once again.

  Tutti amuri,

  Abby Amaro

  Ninfa’s oldest girl

  Suprema had been correct. The caravan was given the word to leave South Bend the very next day. While the news made Abby anxious, Della seemed quite excited by the change of pace.

  “I don’t see the point,” Abby complained as the trailer and the rest of the caravan barreled up US-20. She had hoped to catch a glimpse or two of Lake Michigan or the often-discussed Indiana Dunes, but all she could see out the window was a thick, dreary rain. “Any weather that’s causing problems in Indiana is probably causing the same problems in Chicago.”

  Della did not look at her. She was far too focused on the unpleasant road before her, but she did scoff. “Chicago’s different. Chicago’s big time.”

  “But it’s still going to be raining there.”

  “Oh, you can predict the weather now, can you, Amaro?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Maybe you should stop just saying and shut up so I can concentrate.”

  Abby turned away and continued trying in vain to get a glimpse of the lakeshore. Rain-slicked roads aside, she was beginning to see that Vivian was right. Della had never been her best friend; Abby had known that on day one, b
ut Della had tried to be nice in her own way. Now, she did seem to be growing increasingly irritable. More than anything, Abby wanted to ask what was bothering her, to see if, maybe, it had something to do with the lack of word from Natale, which was bothering her as well, but she didn’t want to risk upsetting her any further.

  She let her mind drift, thinking of her last trip to Chicago, of how Suprema’s hand had felt so nice in hers, of marzipan, and of whether or not Suprema would like marzipan.

  “Can you stop humming?” Della asked.

  Abby turned to her and frowned. It was going to be a long drive.

  CHICAGO SEEMED QUITE DIFFERENT FROM Abby’s memories. That Chicago had been a misty haven of almond flavoring and her mother’s espresso-tinged kisses. It had been an escape, a place where she and her family could hide away from the real world for just a little while. This Chicago smelled.

  Della had been right. Chicago was different from their previous locations. The area where they set up the carnival was solid and well-kept. Despite having clearly received at least some of the same rain that had plagued them in Indiana, the ground was not too soft and muddy to set up. The problem, however, was in the air.

  The field in which the caravan made camp was just downwind of something Abby could only describe as a garbage dump. Most of the time, it was unobtrusive. No one could see the source of the smell and, surrounded by the usual carnival delights of French fries, funnel cake, and popcorn, few seemed to notice. Still, every once in a while the wind would change direction and blow the usual smells away, replacing them with scents like dead fish heads and abandoned TV dinners and something far too ammonia-like.

  The advance man had been roundly reprimanded. Rumors spread that he had been fired or even beaten. He rarely showed his face after the first whiffs came in, so it was hard to confirm or deny them. Chicago was supposed to be a big-money town, the biggest on their route card. They had even picked up a brand new big-ticket attraction: a real roller coaster. The smell never lasted long enough to fully drive away the crowds, and Chicago had enough people to make up for any locals who knew what the area smelled like. Still, the performers and vendors were not quiet in their complaints.

  Abby sat perched on her bally platform, staring out at the midway, waiting for just the right moment to begin her song. She had been getting bolder, incorporating popular tunes and folk songs into her opera repertoire, and people seemed to be responding to it. Earlier today, she had managed to get a crowd of fifteen into the tent. At the edge of the row, she spotted her marks: a gaggle of teenagers walking away from the spinning strawberries ride and looking a little woozy. She struck her note and watched for a sign that she had their attention—a turned head, a raised eyebrow, an elbow to the ribs-—before beginning her brand-new interpretation of “Blue Suede Shoes.” She referred to it as “Flying Saucer Blues.”

  The teenagers laughed and started over. Abby grinned in triumph until she saw the tomato. For a split second, it seemed as though all time had stopped. The tomato was bright scarlet red, too red, and Abby knew it was overripe. It hit her square in the stomach and burst open. The red juices looked like blood as they spattered across the yellow dress Ruth had found for her. The teenagers were laughing. A yelp of pain and humiliation had escaped Abby before she could stop it.

  “Oh, my land!” one of the teenagers cried. “That’s a real person!”

  Abby wanted to shout back that of course she was, but she couldn’t find the muscles to make her mouth move.

  “Of course she’s a real person!” roared a voice that did not belong to Abby. Coming from the back of the tent was Suprema, already dressed in her sideshow costume, which consisted of a leopard-print leotard and bone-shaped jewelry made of plastic. The group turned and ran in a cartoonish flash. “Are you all right?” Suprema asked, turning to Abby.

  A few seconds passed. Abby found it hard to say a word. She touched the red stain and scraped at it with her hand, bringing up a glob of seeds. She inhaled and held the breath a few moments before speaking. “I’m fine, but I don’t think the dress will make it through.”

  Suprema smiled as she helped her climb down from the platform. “Those kids were stupid.”

  Abby didn’t know what to say. She touched the tomato stain again and sighed. “I’m sorry you had to rescue me. I—”

  “Don’t mention it.” Suprema shook her head and began to unfurl the “Attraction Closed” sign and the rope that Abby was supposed to string across the tent entrance at the end of the day. “I came to see if you would beg off for a little while and come see my act.”

  There was something shy about her tone, but Abby was happy that she had come to find her instead of sending Vinnie or waiting for chance to bring them together again. “I would love to,” Abby answered.

  “It starts in a minute or two, but I’m the third act, so there’s time, if you want to go change or—”

  Abby squeezed her hand. “Lead the way. I’ll make you look extra scary.”

  Suprema blushed and, for a split second, Abby thought she was about to giggle.

  When Abby slipped into the dimly lit, forest-like atmosphere of the sideshow tent, she was disoriented. It took her a little too long to recognize Ruth waving her over. Abby hurried toward her, hoping to get away from probing eyes.

  “What happened to you?” Ruth asked, her tone hushed and her eyes wide. She was clearly concerned, and Abby was very aware of how the red stain must look in the tent’s misleading light.

  Abby blushed. “I’ll do everything I can to clean it or buy you a new one if I have to.”

  “No, I mean,” Ruth looked around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Do you need a doctor? We can probably get someone decent to come down for once if—”

  “No! It’s tomato!”

  Someone in front of them turned and made a shushing motion, then saw Abby’s dress and quickly turned back to face front.

  Ruth burst into a fit of laughter and patted Abby on the back of the hand. “Your first tomato. Oh, Constance will be so proud of you. I haven’t been tomatoed yet.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Ruth just smiled back at her as the curtain opened and out walked the first act of the ten-in-one: Seven-foot-tall Marty, with his jeans deliberately hemmed too short to make him look even taller.

  “Ruth?” Abby hissed, trying not to disrupt those around her, though they had been packed in.

  “Hmm?”

  “How come Marty didn’t get in trouble in Michigan?”

  Ruth shrugged. “When it comes to that so-called anti-monstrosity law, everything’s too subjective to even guess.”

  A silence passed between them as they watched Marty walk around and pick up items that had been designed to look miniature in his hands. Ruth had obviously seen the act a few times, as she kept a muttered tally of tiny changes that he had chosen to make. “Ah, yes, breaking the teacup didn’t get much of a laugh last time, true.”

  Abby didn’t understand what the crowd of people found humorous about a man who was in obvious distress about not fitting into his world, but maybe the character Marty was playing was just hitting too close to home for her own comfort.

  “Ruth?” she whispered again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you ever feel like you don’t fit here?”

  Ruth turned from her analysis of Marty’s humor and looked at Abby. Her eyes were soft and warm, just as they had been when they had first met. “I don’t really think about it all that much, I guess, but I suppose everyone feels that way sometimes.”

  “I was just thinking about how you don’t really have an act, so you’re just here because of, well…” she trailed off, unsure of how to voice her thoughts without possibly offending Ruth. Marty hustled off the stage. He was replaced by Boleslaw, who strategically poked pins into his face; the crowd gasped with each one.

  “Constance,” Ruth filled in after Abby had remained silent through four pin placements. “I’m here because of Constance. That is co
rrect.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I’m not offended, Abby. It’s true. I love Constance. Still, though, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, if it wasn’t the right place for me.”

  The entire audience let out a horrified cry as Boleslaw placed a pin dangerously close to his eye.

  “Man’s gonna blind himself one of these days,” Ruth muttered.

  Abby wanted to say more. She wanted to ask Ruth if it was okay to stay—even if she didn’t feel quite at home in a place where people might throw tomatoes at you for no reason—just because she wanted to spend more time with Suprema. She wanted to ask Ruth if she missed her home, if she had family there, and if Abby was a terrible person because she had been thinking less and less about how much she missed hers, but she couldn’t bring herself to say any of it. However, Ruth followed her silent line of questioning.

  “You’ve got to do what feels right for you, okay? You want to be here; we’ll find a way to make sure you stay. You want to go home; we can make that happen too. We don’t got much, but we’ve all got each other, you know?”

  There was a trust and assurance in her voice that Abby recognized. She had heard it before from Mr. Lambrinos, but she didn’t believe it any more now than she had then. How could she believe that these people were her people? That they would help her and welcome her as one of them? After all, she had grown up in a home full of people who said they would look after her and keep her safe, but where were they now? Nonna had been ready to push her into Frank’s arms, even knowing he treated her badly. Natale had fallen off the face of the earth. Words were nothing more than words until they were put to the test.

  Suprema made her entrance third, just as she had said. What she had not mentioned was that, as she did so, a recorded lion roared offstage. She carried a rock, and while most of the crowd applauded, one voice louder than all the others called out, “It’s fake! That’s not a real rock!”

  A rush of defensiveness overtook Abby. She wanted to jump to her feet and rush at the heckler. Ruth gripped her wrist. She didn’t say a word, but Abby knew well enough what she meant.