The Dry Grass of August(22)

Stell and I ran to buy tickets for the World’s Biggest Ferris Wheel. Soon we were at the top, swinging forward and backward as the wheel stopped to load the bottom baskets. The redheaded sailor and one of the girls from the midway were in the car in front of us. The sailor said something close to the girl’s ear, and I wanted to be in her place, smelling of perfume, wearing a bow in my hair, flirting with a boy who might go off to war any minute.

We were so high I could see the gulf, blue and smooth under the cloudy sky, looking cool and clear beyond the tattered carnival tents billowing in the wind. Mary, Puddin, and Davie were toys on the ground far below us. Mary waved at me. A boy Puddin’s size walked up to them, handing out papers. He was dressed all in glittering red, and even from our great height I thought there was something odd about him. Puddin pushed him away and ran behind a tent where I couldn’t see her.

“Mary!” I yelled, but the wind carried my voice away.

“What?” asked Stell.

“Puddin’s running off.” The Ferris wheel began to turn, and the sailor put his arm around the girl. Down on the ground, Mary turned in a circle, looking for Puddin, who came from behind the tent, waving.

“There she is.” I sat back and let the wind hit my face.

After the ride, the clown who’d tipped his hat waltzed over to me, his outsized shoes slapping the ground with each step. He reached out and plucked a red rose from my ear. The sweat running down his painted face looked like tears, which went with his sad orange mouth. He handed me the rose, bowed, and danced away, trailing a scent of cigarettes.

Stell asked, “What was that all about?”

“My natural beauty.” I touched her cheek with the rose. It was the color of my toenails and smelled like Meemaw’s toilet water.

The boy in the sequined red suit handed Stell one of his papers, and when he turned I saw a cigar in his mouth, the stubble of a beard—no wonder Puddin had run from him. He wasn’t even four feet tall, but he was old.

“A dwarf,” said Stell. She gave me the paper he’d given her, with pictures of the freak show attractions. The Three-Legged Girl. The Python Charmer—a man wrapped in snakes. Madame Capricorn, the Eastern Mystic—a colored woman with a towel around her head.

“The carnival freak show. I’m going.”

Stell grabbed my arm, her mouth set. “I’ll tell Mama.”

“I’m going.”

“Not by yourself,” said Mary.

Another group of sailors passed. One of them winked at me. “I’ll take you.”

Stell took my arm, ignoring the sailor.

“There it is.” I pointed to a sign for the freak show and went to the ticket booth. “Two, please.”

The man stared at Mary.

I dropped three dimes in the change tray. “She can stand in the back.”

The man took the money.

Inside the tent, no more than a dozen people sat in rows of folding chairs, fanning themselves in the heat and dust. I took a seat on the last row so Mary could stand behind me without blocking anybody’s view. A drum roll sounded. A tall colored boy wearing a yellow satin coat and black trousers pulled the curtain open. He had on a top hat that teetered as he moved.

The three-legged girl sat in a wheelchair, her legs under a pink afghan, three feet sticking out. Yellow curls framed her face. Circles of rouge matched her red lipstick. What with her having three legs, I wanted to see her walk. But she just sat there, wiggling, moving her legs so we could see they were real. She had on patent-leather pumps with bows on them, two lefts and a right. I thought about what a problem underpants would be for her.

The boy crossed the stage again, closing the curtain. Mary grabbed my shoulder and yelled, “Leesum!” The boy jumped like he’d been shot, giving the curtain such a jerk that the whole thing came down. The three-legged girl stood by her wheelchair on two good legs, the third one in her arms. She dropped the false leg and ran.

Mary yanked me with her as she headed toward the stage. “Leesum Fields,” she said, “you stay right there.”

The audience screamed, “Fake! Money back!” The ticket seller crossed the stage, waving his arms. “Sit down, sit down. The show will go on in a minute. Believe me, it’s worth seeing—”

“Boo,” yelled a man. “We want our money.”

Mary had me in one hand and the boy in the other, pulling us outside, where even the overcast day was too bright after the dim tent. Mary let go of me and took the boy’s hands. “Leesum Fields, what in the name of the Lord are you doing in this carnival?”

“Hey, Miz Luther. I got me a job.” The boy’s voice was deep and rich.

“Your mama’s been in her bed with grief over you.”

“Huh, I bet.” He didn’t look at all concerned about his mama.

“You show some respect for your mother, boy.”

“She nothin’ but a ho, smokin’ tea an’ sniffin’ coke.”

I strained to understand him.

“She still your mama.”

“Yeah, and she still a ho.”

The ticket seller came out and yelled, “What in hell you mean, boy, jerking the curtain down?”

“Couldn’t help it.”

The man shook his fist in Mary’s face. “Girl, you cost me a dollar and thirty cents in refunds.”