The Electric Woman: A Memoir in Death-Defying Acts(77)

“So this is where our act usually ends. We get the blades out, take Ms. Sunshine out of the box, and bring our next performer onto the stage. But people keep coming up to us here and asking, What does she look like in there? Can I see her? And today, Ms. Sunshine has agreed to share with you her family secret. She’s agreed to let you see her inside this box, and if you’d like to see Ms. Sunshine today, there are just three rules.

“The first rule is she asks that we make it happen quickly and in an organized fashion, because we don’t want to leave her in there any longer than is necessary. So you’re going to make one line starting here by me and going back straight in that direction to see Ms. Sunshine today.”

The audience lines up quickly, still looking at me. Excited.

“The second rule is we ask that you not touch Ms. Sunshine, for her safety. And third, because this is Ms. Sunshine’s family tradition, and it has been the way her family has made their living for the past five generations, Ms. Sunshine asks for a small donation today to see her inside this box. Now, she’d take as big a donation as you’d like, even one hundred dollars, but she does ask for a minimum donation of just one dollar per person to see her in the box today.”

My sequined dress is soaked beneath the armpits. My voice is shaky. I am sure these nice fairgoers will see me for the sham that I am. Why on earth would someone hand me extra money?

I look at Tommy, who is looking very seriously at me, nodding along.

“So if you’d like to come on back and see Ms. Sunshine, I’ll collect your donation for her here, then you’ll go back around behind the box, look through those viewing windows, and exit on the other side.”

The first person in line reaches into his pocket, pulls out a dollar, and hands it to me. The others behind him do the same. I have to pinch myself to keep from smiling. It is working. I am making it work.

“Ms. Sunshine thanks you. Go on back and see her now,” I say, collecting the first dollar, and the second, collecting dollar after dollar until most of the people in the tent have gone through.

Backstage, I sit beside Tommy as we count out the dollars in my hand. Twenty-eight.

“Shit, Tess. Best turn today. You’re a natural.”

I beam so bright I think my eyes might shoot off as stars into the sky.

*

In Minnesota, three weeks into talking this act, I want to be better. The best. I practice timing out the story I tell about Sunshine as the blades go in, looking momentarily concerned at the box if I see the audience’s eyes wandering away from me so they think that something especially dangerous, especially wonderful might be happening this time, and this time only. I learn how important the first few people in line are, that if they decide to come on back, many others will follow. If they don’t, more in the back will think it’s a scam and not come back either. I must win them over. Group psychology. Make them believe not only in the magnificence of this particular feat, but also in Sunshine’s unique familial treasure. Make them feel sure they aren’t being swindled.

Every single time it’s a brand-new puzzle to solve. It keeps me paying attention. Making real money for the show. And it’s the first act I’ve done here that I’m legitimately good at.

A couple of days into the fair, I turn away from the crowd, pretending to sneeze, so they won’t see me stuffing the wads of dollars down my tights because my hands cannot hold any more money. The crowd is gigantic. They all want what I am selling. The bills bloat my sequined shorts, a brimming black rainbow around my crotch as the dollar bills create padding, the coins already warm from the hot air and the hot hands of the audience and now only slightly cooler than my body. Speak to me of power and political ambition and I’ll remember the press of paper and metal against my bare hips.

I spin a story to a crowd.

They buy it.

“We can only keep Ms. Sunshine in the box for one more minute,” I say into the mic, trying to count by fives the line still waiting in front of me. I don’t know if people really buy that this is a family secret she’s deciding to share just this once, but I think the teensy sliver of possibility that that could be true is enough for them to fork out the dollar to come see.

*

At first I was afraid of lying, and then I wasn’t.

Well, sort of.

When I was very young I loved lying. It was so easy.

In first-grade show-and-tell: “My daddy gave me this necklace,” I said, touching the necklace I was wearing, “because it was my birthday this weekend. And he threw me a party and we had a cake.” I am looking down at my beautiful plastic beaded necklace and up at the wide-eyed jealous faces of the children sitting cross-legged in the circle around me, who were not nearly special enough to have been gifted beautiful things. Sophie’s eyes across from me, perfect circles beneath her black eyelashes, are stuck on my jewels. We are going around the circle with special things we’ve brought in to show, or stories about our weekends that we want to tell. But I’d forgotten, and had nothing to show, nothing to tell. Or that’s what I thought until, when my turn came, I remembered the plastic necklace I was wearing.

I looked back at Sophie, ready to further impress her with the glory of my weekend, but then there was a movement behind her. I looked up. Never look up. There she was. A classroom helper for a few hours that day. I’d forgotten. My mom. There she was with a look on her face, a certain twist of her mouth, a certain flare of her nostrils. More than disappointment, a confusion. That I was the kind of person I was. She was learning it right that moment. I couldn’t shut up. I felt my cheeks go red and had to pee. “All my cousins were at the party,” I said. “My one older cousin, too, and I’m his favorite. I’m his favorite and also my dad’s favorite. He gave me other presents,” I said, but I could see her moving over toward me. It was too late.