I flipped a knife from each hand, and my scarab ring caught the light, splintering it into shards of sun. Perhaps that was a charm. Each knife pierced the target. I pulled two more from their sheathes and struck in quick succession, then two more; all hit around center. I felt like crowing.
Jack held up his stopwatch. “You need to work on that speed.”
I almost cried a protest, except Jacks lip twitched in amusement, and I realized he was teasing. I was good, and he knew it; maybe soon he would recommend that the colonel let me throw onstage. Perhaps then I could prove I was an asset to the show, even though I had no difference.
Jack’s difference currently hid beneath the billowing front of his white shirt. When he worked onstage, he stripped to the waist to reveal the stunted legs that should have been attached to my father, his twin, if not for some strange accident in the womb. The other night I expressed surprise that the audience had not recognized Jack when he rose from the seats as a volunteer. “Do you think they ever look at my face when I’m onstage?” Jack asked.
At least they saw him. I was too much like the audience to be noticed. In my nightmares I found myself trapped in the seats, unable to find the aisle, forever forbidden the stage. I often wished I were not so ordinary.
My normality made me a useful errand boy, unfortunately. Today I had to go to the post office to collect some packages. They were probably the usual items: special shoes for the giants, custom-made clothes for the midgets—they would rather rot in hell than wear children’s apparel—and, if I was lucky, the books I’d sent for.
Phoebe met me outside the stables. The hair of her face was neatly brushed and held back with ribbons under her ears. “Your mama says to remind you to take Apollo if you go swimming today,” she said, lashes lowered shyly.
I rolled my eyes. Why was I always put in charge of that boy? What if I had plans? Oh, no—dependable, boring old Abel wouldn’t have plans, would he?
Phoebe glanced around the deserted yard. “And she says not to forget her wool.”
I noticed a breathy quality to her voice that hinted of anticipation, and wished I hadn’t. The coast was clear and she wanted me to kiss her. The memory of that dream kiss still haunted me, and I couldn’t bear to erase it with a furry, real-life substitute.
She hesitated; then, “I’d advise you to talk to my father soon if you’ve intentions,” she said all in a rush, and giggled.
Oh, heavens! What had I started with a few kisses? Did she expect me to ask her father for her hand?
I backed away. “Um, tell Apollo I’ll meet him by the gate.” I groped for the stable door. “Well, I’d better hurry,” I muttered. The disappointment in her eyes filled me with guilt. I bolted for the shadows of the barn, where I harnessed Old Sukie to the buggy and silently begged that Phoebe wouldn’t linger outside. To my relief, my prayers were answered.
All the way into town I berated myself. I should speak to her honestly. I had obviously given her false hopes. It would be cruel to let her go on thinking I had serious intentions. I had let this go on too long. What if she ran to her father with tales? Her father had a furious temper. What if he decided his daughter had been compromised? Would he make me marry her? My mouth dried, and I tried to think of other things.
Redbrick row houses lined Main Street. They’d been there for a hundred years. Down side streets were the newer houses, with wood sides and large front porches, some with turrets, as if they were gingerbread castles. I had never lived in a town, gone to a regular schoolhouse, and attended the same little church each Sunday. Before we came to Faeryland, when I was seven, my life had been spent in boardinghouses, trains, and stage coaches.
Outside the post office two young ladies dawdled. One of them held a bicycle at her side and wore a sensible long, dark skirt and dusty boots. The other wore frills and carried a parasol. I tipped my cap as I passed them, but they cut me dead. My heart fell, although I could have predicted that would happen. It was useless to search for a sweetheart in Smithville. They all knew where I came from. I lived with the freaks and was a common charlatan, and probably degenerate into the bargain.
Dust floated in the sunlight that slanted through the post office windows, and a smell of ancient sealing wax permeated the air. The sound of my boots on the wooden floor caused the postmaster to raise his head. He grunted a neutral greeting and proceeded to stack parcels on the counter. Sadly, none was from Burke and White, Booksellers.
When I came back out with the packages, two young men had joined the girls. Although I hardly came close to them, the young men reached for the arms of the girls as if to move them out of harm’s way. A worm of anger squiggled in my gut. They didn’t even know me. I called out a cheery “Good afternoon.” I would make them work hard to ignore me. The bicycle girl nodded, and her girlfriend elbowed her. The boys scowled. One of them spit casually in my direction, his eyes bright with anger. I wished I had left well enough alone.
My heart thumped as I tossed the packages under a tarp in the buggy and crossed the street to the dry-goods store. My back prickled with the sense of the boys behind me. I wished I had brought the mail in with me, but I didn’t want them to know I was worried. I did worry, however, all the time I waited for the salesman’s attention. When I emerged with my mother’s wool, the young people were gone, replaced by an elderly lady in black, who then entered the butcher’s shop, and a spotted dog sniffing in the gutter. My packages lay undisturbed.
On my way out of town a colorful poster on the fence outside the blacksmith’s shop caught my eye. I pulled over to look at it. MARVEL BROTHERS CIRCUS, the large yellow and red type proclaimed. The performers depicted were strong and beautiful men and women, not a freak among them. The acts listed included acrobats, tightrope walkers, and equestrians—all acts that depended on talent rather than unusual looks. Was that where I belonged? Yearning welled up within me. The circus’s advance men were ambitious in their advertising, for the show was to set up in a town more than fifteen miles north of my home. It was too far to drop by casually for a look. I stifled my disappointment and snapped the reins.
On the ride home I pondered love. There was someone for everyone, I knew. Whether you were short, tall, wide, or thin, someone somewhere would appreciate your qualities and inspire your love in return. I hadn’t met a fat lady yet who didn’t have a string of admirers, and my parents had found each other, hadn’t they? Who was the girl for me and where would I find her? Perhaps the girl who gave me this ring in my dream, I thought, and smiled fondly at it. I laughed. I would have to go pretty far to find her. Beyond this world, I should think. I wouldn’t mind trying, however, I decided.
“I rather like the term prodigies,” whispered Jolly Dolly, mopping her brow with a voluminous handkerchief. “Much more dignified than freaks, don’t you think, Abel?” She was referring to the text of the new advertisement Colonel Kingston had sent to the newspapers.
Onstage Albert Sunderland, the four-legged man, kicked a soccer ball around. I’d heard a rumor that limbs were not all Albert had extra of. Once, when I was younger, Archie Crum had called to a heckler who mocked Albert’s skills, “Come up here and say that. He’s twice the man you are.” It took me a year to figure out why Albert had laughed.
Albert wove and dodged as the ball spun an intricate pattern from foot to foot, and his arms executed circles in the air to maintain his balance. It was an odd sight no matter how often one saw it, for no two legs were of exactly the same length; indeed, one of the central pair hung nine inches above the ground, and it took considerable skill to give that foot its fair share of kicks. He looked like a dancing spider.
“The giants prefer the term anomaly—’something that deviates from the general rule or the usual type,’” I said.
“My, the child swallowed a dictionary at birth,” exclaimed Baby Betty in her little voice. The droopy flesh of her arm swayed as she fanned herself.
Dolly sniffed, and her ample bosom jiggled. “There is no talent implied in
that term. Anomaly’s just a fancy way to say freak. We are much more than that. Did you know that prodigy also means ‘a marvelous thing’?”
Her sister, Betty, grunted. “I am not a thing.”
“But quite marvelous,” I said, not wanting them to fight.
Betty favored me with a brilliant smile. “Always the gentleman,” she said, and giggled, an earthquake that resulted in a tidal wave of flesh.
“With the face of an angel,” said Dolly.
“And the body of a devil,” Betty crooned, and poked me gently in the chest with a sausagelike finger.
Albert Sunderland exited stage left to thunderous applause, and the sisters quieted. They never failed to enjoy their introduction.
“And now, for your delight and amusement,” proclaimed Colonel Kingston, “those wonders of pulchritudinous plumpness, those beauties of remarkable adiposity, those portly pretties and roly-poly riot of laughs—the sisters known as Jolly Dolly and Baby Betty. Ladies and gentlemen, One Ton of Fun!”
“I hope the boards hold up,” Betty muttered in her baby voice. She said this every performance, almost like a prayer. No matter how many times she’d been reassured, she remained deathly afraid of falling through.
The sisters launched themselves, wheezing, onto the stage, and I couldn’t help but smile. From behind, in their bathing suits made of bloomers and frilly short skirts, they looked like two hippos at a fancy dress party, but I would never tell them. In their minds the humor was to be found in their clever repartee, not in their vast size, even though most of their act concerned jokes about their weight. Even if they had been thin, they would be funny—but in show business you have to grab the attention of the audience first. I didn’t need to move scenery until the next curtain, so I stayed to watch even though I knew their jokes by heart.
After the show the performers gathered around the perimeter of the grand ballroom next door to the theater. The public was invited to walk a lap and converse briefly with the entertainers. I circulated among our guests and sold photographic souvenirs and a charming memoir written by Gladys Dibble, the Pixie Queen.
My father took advantage of these occasions to spin dreadful tall tales. Hopping from one hand to the other, he told gullible folk, “If you think I am remarkable, you should have seen my father—he didn’t have a head. It was quite amazing how he got about, and how he became enamored of my mother I shall never know—perhaps it was the glossy feel of her scales ….” He lied, of course. My grandparents were perfectly normal. As I moved through the crowd, I listened for his cheerful tenor so I might eavesdrop.
I also liked to watch the young ladies.
“She will break your heart, Abel,” Mama warned if she saw me glance at an ankle, “and her daddy will break your nose.”
“Not good form to mix business with pleasure, Abel,” my father said.
I ignored them, of course, and smiled at as many pretty girls as I could.
I did a brisk business this day, with a portrait of Phoebe’s family entitled Mrs. Papandreou the Dog Lady and Her Human Puppies, as well as a photographic tableau of Dolly and Betty posed in the unlikely historic meeting of Helen of Troy and Cleopatra, an event that could truly be called monumental. When a handsome lady in a fashionable little hat and veil approached me, I held out my wares, but she ignored the photographs and eyed me like a dog eyes a bone. “Do you have any unusual qualities to show me privately?” she drawled in a husky voice.
“No … no, ma’am,” I stammered.
“What a shame,” she said, and chuckled.
Albert Sunderland hobbled by on three of his four legs and caught her attention. As the woman left me in pursuit of him, I remembered the gossip about what lay between those legs, and understood her desire. I blushed to the tips of my normal extremities. I wanted a sweetheart who thought me an interesting fellow, not a novelty act.
After work I grabbed my towel and walked down the driveway to meet Apollo. I knew that he’d be mad enough to bite fleas at having to wait for me to take him swimming, but no madder than I was at always being assigned as nursemaid to the boy. The swimming hole lay outside Faeryland, and Colonel Kingston wanted none of his special people to go there unaccompanied. Perhaps he feared they’d be kidnapped by a rival show.
As soon as I reached the wrought-iron gates, Apollo ran through the trees yipping, as happy as a dog on a summer day, and any ire I felt, dissolved. He danced a little over the hot gravel of the road in his bare feet, but he didn’t slow down. I swear he looked like he was wagging a tail as he finally panted before me. He’d been called a puppy for so long he believed he was one.
“Come on, Abel,” he said. “I’m about to bake like apple pie.”
“You’re the hairiest apple pie I’ve ever seen,” I answered. “Someone must have dropped you on the rug.” I took a playful swipe at him, and he growled at me but then ruined the effect by laughing.
Down at the hole we stripped to our birthday suits and hung our clothes on the bushes.
“Race you in,” said Apollo, but I won.
What a shame we had no time to enjoy the water.
“Well, lookit here,” a voice whined as I surfaced from a clumsy dive. “I’ve heard of a catfish, but I ain’t never heard of a dog fish.”
Two boys stood at the edge of the pond—the two I’d seen in town that noon. They had big boots and mean faces and meant to have business with us whether we wanted it or not.
3
THE HOT DAY SUDDENLY FELT much cooler as I stood waist deep in glass green water, facing a pair of bullyboys.
This was my fault. Had I not stepped over the invisible boundary in town, all would be well. Now I had put Apollo, a mere twelve-year-old boy, in danger. Perhaps all opponents appear much larger when one faces them stark naked; these boys were bigger than I remembered. My mind raced to think of a way out of this awkward situation. Would a witty quip, perhaps, win them over? Could I bluff my way out without a fight?
“We thought we’d have to throw rocks at you over the wall,” said the dark-haired one. “We didn’t think we’d discover you out here.”
“And with a bonus freak too,” said the one with crooked teeth.
Apollo growled.
“Stop that,” I whispered from the side of my mouth. “How may I help you gentlemen?” I asked.
Crooked Teeth laughed and caricatured a bow to his companion. He put on a hoity-toity voice. “We gentlemen wanted to inform you of our displeasure at your addressing the ladies of the town—with your not being a gentleman, and all. We was hoping to put the point forcefully so you’d remember it.”
I glanced over to the bushes and wondered about my chances of retrieving our clothes, not that one could dress while being pummeled.
“Want these?” the dark-haired one asked, and pulled Apollo’s knickers from behind his back, along with my canvas trousers. “Guess you’ll have to come out and get them, lest something happen to them.”
I was getting cold and feeling foolish. I didn’t care to be trapped in the water like a stag at bay, and I couldn’t allow Apollo to be hurt. As much as I didn’t want to fight, I had to settle this. “Stay where you are,” I told Apollo. I summoned as much dignity as I could muster and waded to the bank.
The young thugs roared with laughter and slapped their knees.
“Lookit him,” said the dark-haired boy. “In nothing but his cheap Gypsy jewelry. Stole it from a girl, did you?”
I put my ring hand behind my back before I could think twice.
“There’s his doggy, paddling after,” gasped the crooked-toothed boy. Apollo had ignored my wishes. Drat the boy.
“You’ve had your fun,” I said as I stood before them. “Now hand over those clothes.” I tried to smile. Papa said that joining in the joke sometimes helped in dealing with bad situations.
“What? You care to dress before you flee?” asked the dark-haired one.
“Yes sir,” said his companion. “He wouldn’t want to run away like a yellow c
oward while in the altogether, would he?”
“Naw, he’d rather run away like a yellow coward fully dressed,” said Dark Hair, “but that don’t matter to the little fellow. He carries his suit with him.”
Crooked Teeth grinned. “Yeah, a monkey suit.”
Well, you could call Apollo a dog all you wanted and he’d simply wag his imaginary tale, but call him a monkey …
Apollo shot by me and landed on Crooked Teeth, sinking his fangs into the culprit’s shoulder. The youth proceeded to howl and flail, for the dog boy wouldn’t be budged.
The dark-haired boy yelled and picked up a sturdy branch. He raised it, ready to strike my young friend. I had to hit him. My blow to his shoulder made him drop the stick, all right, but only so he could commence beating on me with his fists. I was sure my opponent’s pugilistic moves were not in the rule book, especially when he laid a mighty kick on my shins that left me hopping. I landed one blow to his three and, rules aside, was pleased to note that my “cheap Gypsy jewelry” did some noticeable damage. But as I reeled from an uppercut to the jaw, Apollo’s opponent recovered sufficiently to punch the dog boy in the gut. Apollo fell gasping to the ground, and his bitten foe swung a boot back for a kick I couldn’t allow.
I ducked under a sockdolager aimed at my head and ran for my fallen friend. I grabbed his arm and dragged him aside, and the boot caught air, throwing its owner off balance. The crooked-toothed boy toppled into his charging partner. They tangled and fell.
“Run!” I cried as I yanked Apollo to his feet.
We crashed through the undergrowth back to the path. If we reached the gate, we would be safe. I heaved a gasp of relief when I saw the road, then it dawned on me. The evening audience would be arriving. We couldn’t make a scene. “We have to go in the back way,” I cried. I jerked Apollo to a halt by his scruff and plunged back into the woods, pushing him ahead of me. I prayed the way would be clear, because the jeers behind us told me we were not safe yet.