Loretta Knows Her Lines
Loretta thinks back to the days when Holloway would haul six train cars behind him. Amazing animal. Strong. Determined. Never complained. Always loyal. Died in his sleep a year ago while Loretta was in the bath, doing what she does.
She felt it was part of the curse. You find joy in life and you lose something special, as if a constant balance would always hold her back from full happiness. Of course, Holloway was due to die. He’d outlived his friends and fellow performers. Not many fleas can brag two whole years on the planet. And he gave her Gerald, who’s nearly as good as him at pulling the train.
The wagon is cold today—it’s been a warmer-than-normal February—but Loretta wears three sweaters over her blue-chiffon circus dress to stay warm, the last layer a sequined green sweater that makes her look a bit like a Christmas ornament. Her parents are rehearsing their act, which isn’t a difficult act and it isn’t funny or entertaining. Loretta can’t understand how her parents even survive anymore. They don’t talk to each other. They don’t have sex. They don’t eat very often, and they don’t go anywhere.
The act is played out in the living-room portion of the wagon—matinee at two, dinner show at five, and a late show in case there isn’t a good movie on TV, at around nine or so. They juggle, not things but words. They dare to leap through the ring of fire that is TV news. They are contortionists of ideas. They know nothing else but this act and how to work a toaster oven. They don’t understand why their ankles are covered in scabs. They don’t own a vacuum cleaner.
Loretta sets the train cars up the same way she used to when Holloway would pull them. She says their numbers as she assembles it.
“Four . . . five . . . six. Caboose!”
Once she has the cars connected, she tests that the wheels are still working—pulls it slowly with the tip of her finger.
She produces a roll of thin copper wire from her bag and cuts three pieces of different lengths and then ties a loop into the middles of each. The loops are so small you’d never know they were there unless you looked really hard. Loretta puts on a pair of high-powered reading glasses. +2.00. She squints to make sure the loops are the right size.
She takes Gerald from her matchbox of fleas inside the lunch box. The matchbox is decorated with glitter and sequin stickers that look like gems. On the lid it reads THE BEST FLEAS IN THE WORLD! The box is orange, which was her favorite color from the ages of eight to eleven.
“Loretta Lynn, get your ass in here and eat your sandwich!”
She often wonders if she had siblings, if they would help her understand her parents. She doubts it. But she knows kids at school who have sisters and brothers and they stick together. Loretta can only stick to her fleas. She leaves the train assembled but closes Gerald back into his box.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” she says. “Do your strength exercises.”
The sliced roast beef smells wrong. The cheese is processed. The bread is stale on the edges. The only thing this sandwich has going for it is the mustard.
The TV is set to some show with a preacher. His head is as big as the screen and it makes Loretta feel claustrophobic for the man. He seems pained. He says, “The Lord Jesus Christ knows you want a better life. He is saving a place for you in his palace in Heaven. Consider what I’m asking you to do as a down payment. One hundred dollars isn’t too much to ask for a place in Heaven, is it?”
Loretta’s mother starts the act. She picks up her cell phone, flips it open, and starts to dial the number.
Loretta’s father sits still and waits for his cue.
“Hello? Yes . . . yes!” her mother says. “I do! I accept him in the fullness in my heart.”
Loretta stops eating her sandwich and opens it. She pulls the roast beef out and slips it into a fast-food napkin. She looks across the breakfast bar and notes that they are running low on straws, which can only mean a drive to Arby’s soon—maybe before Wednesday.
“One hundred dollars,” Loretta’s mother says. “That’s the cost of my ticket . . . that’s what he just said. I heard him. One hundred.” Loretta’s mother listens for a few seconds and adds, “If I had a thousand, I’d send it but I only have a hundred. And no, I don’t care if there are bigger rooms in the palace. I’m used to living small anyway. In fact, keep me away from the people who can afford the bigger rooms. I hate rich people.”
Loretta’s father turns up the volume on the TV. The preacher says, “The pool at the palace is filled with unconditional love. Your brothers and sisters will join you here and you can bathe together in His light.”
Loretta thinks this part is creepy.
“A hundred . . . yes. I can send it to you in cash,” Loretta’s mother says. She nods as she listens as if she’s never made this phone call before. “I don’t have a credit card or a bank account. I told you, I hate rich people.”
The next scene starts with a drumroll and cymbal crash, and Loretta’s father appears in the spotlight. The crowd goes wild. He gets up out of his chair and grabs the phone from his wife’s ear and says, “Hello? Hello?”
Loretta’s mother tries to get the phone back, but he shoves her back into her chair with a stage-push. Doesn’t hurt. It’s all for show.
Loretta reaches for another packet of fast-food mustard and puts it on the processed cheese left on her sandwich. She opens a packet of horseradish sauce, too, and applies it to the hard crusts.
“What kind of Jesus doesn’t accept cash?” her father asks. “What kind of Jesus asks us to give our money to a bank? What kind of whore are you for trying to get my wife to apply for a credit card? You work for the Devil. Have a nice day.”
He presses the hang-up button and hands the phone back to Loretta’s mother. Then he looks straight at Loretta, who, out of nervousness, shoves the last of the sandwich in her mouth at the same time she checks to make sure the napkin with the roast beef is hidden in her green-sequined pocket.
“You have school tomorrow. What are you doing out here? Don’t you have things to study for?”
“Yes.”
“Go back to your room,” Loretta’s mother says.
“Did anyone ask you?” he says to Loretta’s mother.
Loretta doesn’t want you to read any more about what happens next, so she goes back to her room at the end of the hall and she locks the door behind her. She doesn’t want to touch the magic spot. She doesn’t want to think about that right now. She puts on the reggae music for the train-pulling act and picks up the orange matchbox.
She can hear the screams between the bass line and the chicka-chicka-chicka of the guitar, but she knows it’s all an act. The police have come a few times and her mother says everything is fine. The neighboring campers just don’t understand. They’re too quiet anyway.
“Our family is just loud and fine. We’re like any other family in show business,” Loretta says to Gerald as she places him on the white felt and loops the copper wire around his torso. It’s easy. He walks into the loop headfirst and she just has to pull the ends of the wire at the right time. “Not too tight, now. We don’t want this to be a half-flea circus.”
Holloway would have loved that joke. He had a great sense of humor.
Once Gerald is in the harness, Loretta tests to make sure he’s okay. She puts a tiny ball in front of him, and he kicks it out of the lunch box. “Strong legs,” she says. “Just like your father.”
She pulls the six-car train onto its track and places Gerald in front, attaches his harness, and opens the four sides of her circus box so he can pull it as far as he wants. Nothing happens.
She gets her magnifying glass. Through it she can see Gerald working so hard to walk, he stumbles. He moves his head for momentum. He tries using all six of his legs at the same time as if he were running in place. Nothing will move the train.