Outlawed(52)

I had never been so aware of anyone as I was for the next few minutes as Lark danced next to me. The band kept playing and the crowd kept clapping and I kept moving along with them, but all my mind was consumed with the circumstances of his body, where it was in relation to mine. I did not look back at him. I thought it safest to pretend to ignore him until he got tired of my rudeness and found another woman to dance with.

Then the music changed again. The crowd whooped. Our circle began moving, three steps left, three steps right. On the second set I could see out of the corner of my eye that Lark was dropping out of the circle to pass behind me; I was both relieved and bereft to see him go. Then, as he passed by, he placed a hand on the small of my back and left it there. It was a gesture that would seem like nothing from the outside, if anyone bothered to look—one man pushing past another on a crowded dance floor. But to me its meaning was so clear that my body pushed right past my mind’s surprise; I leaned back into him, pressing the full length of my back into his chest. I felt his breath on my neck. Then he was gone.

A fat man wearing nothing but a baby blanket and an enormous cloth diaper took the stage.

“Mothers and fathers, boys and girls, cowboys and … ladies of the evening, gather round,” he shouted. “Quit your dancing and carrying on for a moment and listen to me. It’s time for the most important part of our day’s festivities. It’s time to crown the Mother of the Year!”

This was our cue. As the man-baby called men in elaborate costumes up to the stage (“Mrs. Winifred Higginbotham” had five baby dolls strapped to him, including one, for some reason, on his left forearm), I squeezed through the crowd to the edge of the tent and out into the evening air.

News and Henry and Lark were already at our meeting place, a stall that had once sold brightly colored eggs and now provided a modicum of privacy for four separate couples, one in each corner, the women’s hands catching in the folds of the men’s dresses, the men struggling with the buttons on the women’s pants.

I stole a glance at Lark but he was laughing with Henry about something, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I must have misinterpreted his touch in the tent, I thought. He’d meant it as a friendly gesture, man to man, and I’d put myself in danger by responding in a way he’d never intended. After all, I’d seen him laughing and flirting with the redheaded woman. There was no reason to think he’d be interested in what I appeared to be: a nervous young man in an ugly dress.

“Ready?” News asked.

We fetched the horses and walked the lines of wagons. As Henry had predicted, all of them were unguarded, save a few selling valuable wares—icons of baby Jesus trimmed in gold leaf, cardamom and cinnamon and perfumes that hung in the cooling air. We chose a modest wagon near the edge of the fairgrounds—from the flour dusting the seats in front, it seemed the owner was a baker. Under the canvas canopy I could still smell hot cross buns.

I was trying to buckle Amity into the wagon traces when the women came strolling by. One was tall, pretty, with long caramel-colored hair down her back. Her broadcloth shirt was modestly buttoned, but her trousers were tight, revealing more of her body than a dress ever would.

The other woman was shorter and softer, with dark hair pinned up in braids under a man’s black hat. She had wide brown eyes and a round, childlike face. Both women were young, not much older than me.

The round-faced woman became captivated by Amity, stroking her gray flank and looking into her dark eyes. Amity regarded her with a mix of tolerance and caution. Meanwhile, the loose-haired woman approached me.

“Shouldn’t you be dancing?” she asked.

Her voice was teasing and playful. I tried to respond in kind.

“I could ask you the same question,” I said.

“Audrey and I are married women,” she said, holding up her left hand to show me her gold ring. “We don’t dance with strange men.”

“Well,” I said, thinking quickly, “I guess we have the same excuse. I’m engaged.”

“Congratulations,” the woman cooed, drawing closer to me. I could smell her sweat and her perfume—men’s clothing notwithstanding, she was wearing paintbrush flower oil, the kind Ulla’s mama used to make in the springtime and mix into women’s paints and powders. The smell was sweet but with a darkness to it, and I felt drawn to the woman in a way that surprised me. I imagined leaning close to her and inhaling the scent of her hair.

“So who’s the lucky woman?” she asked.

“Her name is Ada,” I said. “She’s studying to be a midwife back in Fairchild, where I’m from.”

It made me smile to think of myself as a wife to myself, the woman I could’ve been and the man I was pretending to be. Both of them luckier in life than the person I really was.

“Does she come from a good family?” asked the woman called Audrey, turning from Amity to me. She spoke softly, but her voice had a kind of urgency behind it.

“Of course,” I said. “She’s one of four children and her mother is the best midwife in all of Dakota country.”

“But”—Audrey glanced at Henry and News and then leaned close to me, almost whispering—“is her bloodline pure?”

From what I had learned about deceiving strangers, I knew I should say yes, so I could maintain whatever rosy image they had of me. But I also knew that no one learns anything without being taught. I had failed with the woman with the birthmark, but I had gotten off on the wrong foot with her. These women seemed to like and feel at ease with me; perhaps they would be easier to sway.