ON THE ROAD
Glascock County, GA
1
The show rolled.
Up through the northern Florida counties, breaking in the firsts of May, getting the kinks and bugs out of the acts in the tiny towns, playing big in Jacksonville, then sliding across the Georgia line into Charlton County.
Along the way an artist named Caniglia latched onto them, saying he wanted to sketch the freaks. Oz thought the experience might be amusing to the troupe and so he let him travel along. Caniglia was quiet, soft spoken, and promised not to get in the way.
When the show stopped in Moniac on the edge of the great swamp, Oz called Earl Cassell into his trailer. He had a job for him.
Earl had no arms to speak of. But he had toes. Oh my, did he have toes. Sixteen of them, brown gnarly things varying in length from one inch to an extraordinary seventeen. The troupe called him—surprise—Toes, but the public knew him as The Amazing Monkey-Footed Man.
Hard gray eyes stared at Oz from a weather-beaten face.
“There’s a Piece in this town,” Oz said as he offered a Xerox of a drawing.
Earl took it with his left foot and held it before his face, studying it.
“Who drew this?”
“That is not important.” But it was. The artist had been Oz’s father. “What is important is that you are uniquely fitted to retrieve it.”
Earl flexed his tangle of toes. “Really.”
And then Oz pulled out a map and showed him the mangrove patch where he’d find it.
Earl shook his head. “Easier to find a needle in a haystack.”
Oz smiled. “But this won’t be just any needle. This one will call to you.”
Looking dubious, Earl shrugged and shuffled out of Oz’s trailer.
He doesn’t believe, Oz thought. But soon he will. Soon.
2
"Another pair of workers blew the show last night," Nolan said.
Joseph Peabody puffed his pipe and watched his manager prowl the office, sporting the red bandanna he affected when they were on the road. Workers blew the show every season. Most were winos, drifters, petty criminals, or all three in one. They slept on bunks stacked four high in smelly converted semi trailers, spent their off time guzzling Mad Dog, and usually did their work with blistering hangovers. Always more where they came from. Why was Nolan so worked up?
As if sensing Joe's question, he said, "It's those freaks."
"Got enough men to get the top up when we get to Athens?"
"I've got enough bodies to do it. Those Beagle Boys . . ." Nolan shook his head. "They’re striking the tents now and . . . Jesus, they're strong. Work as hard as the bulls."
"Then what's the problem?"
"They make my skin crawl—that's the problem. And the animals ain't too fond of them neither."
"As long as we get the canvas up and down, and the lumber moved in and out, go with it, Dan. The crowds have been good so far. Oz's folks are bringing them in. If these first two weeks are any indication of how the season's going to go, we'll be looking at the biggest end of tour bonus we've seen in ten years."
"No kidding?" Nolan's dour expression mellowed a bit. "All right. I'll make do with what we've got left."
"I'm counting on you, Dan."
When Nolan was gone, Joe sighed and repacked his bowl. He'd hired Dan to oversee the workers and Tom Shuman to nursemaid the performers, but he in turn had to nursemaid Nolan and Shuman. He lit his pipe. He'd grown quite fond of this new blend from Oz. Each bowlful offered a quiet pool of tranquillity amid the hustle and turmoil of the tour.
A tap on the door. He looked up, saw Ginger, and smiled.
"You wanted to see me?" she said.
"Come in, come in. I always want to see my favorite niece."
How true. His sister Rosemary's daughter was damn nice to look at. Sweet face, sweet figure, sweet heart. Blue eyes and red gold hair that Joe swore his sister must have seen before she named her. A little headstrong, a tendency to pout, but cute as a bug.
Joe hadn't wanted Ginger in the circus, but Rosie had been an aerialist in her youth and had infected her daughter. A spot for Ginger had been part of the deal when Joe had hired the Fugazis a few years ago. She'd worked out fine.
Ginger wrinkled her nose as she sat down.
"Something wrong?" Joe asked.
"Is that your pipe tobacco? Smells strange, like . . ." She seemed to run out of words.
"I know what you mean. I can't identify it either. But it tastes wonderful. Anyway, I called you here to tell you what a good job you're doing. I watched you in the Spanish web last night and you were perfect. And your trapeze act with . . . what's his name? The Fugazi boy?"
"Carlo."
"You two work very smoothly together, like you've been doing it all your lives."
"He's a good teacher."
"Glad to hear it. Just wanted to let you know I'm proud of you, and keep up the good work."
Her smile was sunlight as she waved at the door. "Thanks, Uncle Joe."
3
Ginger was feeling pretty good about herself as she walked through the backyard. Her mom had tried to discourage her, Uncle Joe hadn't wanted to hire her, but she'd hounded the hell out of them and here she was, aerialist with the Fugazis. Skill and hard work had a lot to do with it, but so did luck: The younger generation of Fugazis was almost entirely male and they needed a certain number of women for their act.
The roustabouts had the tents down but some of the older performers were still hanging around the backyard, sitting on lawn chairs and jackpotting. Ginger loved to listen to their tales of the old days on the kerosene circuits along the back roads of the South, but she had no time for that today. She had to get her trailer hitched up and ready to roll.
She was passing near one of the animal trucks parked in the shade when she noticed a young man sitting on a picnic bench with Neely, the circus's new baboon. Neely didn’t seem to know she was a monkey. Rather than be lonely and pining for a fellow baboon, she'd decided she was human and hung out with humans at every opportunity. She liked everybody and everybody liked her. She would groom anyone who sat near her and loved to be groomed in return.
Ginger hadn't seen the young man before. He seemed about her own age. He sat hunched forward, elbows on thighs, hands between his legs as he let Neely groom his hair. He was kind of cute. She noticed his muscular shoulders and back—not iron pumping bulk, but lean, sleek, hard work muscles. Neely was working her long fingers through the dark blond hair that curled over his ears and down the nape of his neck to the collar of his Nickelback T shirt.
She considered that neck: clean. With bathing limited to bucket baths, you didn't see many clean necks in the circus. Though worn, his shirt was clean too. She liked him already. But when he turned and smiled at her over his shoulder, when she saw his pale blue eyes and bright, warm smile, something tugged within her chest and she caught her breath. He was gorgeous.
"Hi," he said. His voice was like his face—light, open, friendly. "I hope Neely's not finding anything."
"Doesn't seem to be." Ginger stepped closer. His hair was clean, glossy. Obviously he took good care of himself. "She doesn't need to. I think it's some kind of ritual with her."
"I only wish I could return the favor."
She leaned forward and stroked Neely's fur.
"That's easy. All you've got to do is—"
At first she thought he was exposing himself, or playing with himself, or something equally sick. Then she noticed that the smooth fleshy tube wasn't rising from his fly, but was attached to his arm. In fact it was his arm. Both of them tapered gracefully to long, curving, prehensile . . . things . . . ropes . . . tentacles.
The sight of those twisting, coiling arms came as an icy slap in the face. All the rising warmth she’d been feeling plummeted through the hole that ripped open in the bottom of her stomach.
She'd been about to ask him if he'd just joined the show but the question was unnecessary now. She'd avoided the freak tent and had stayed away from the freaks' section of the backyard. The whole idea of deformed people putting themselves on display repulsed her. And here was one now, right in front of her, making a fool out of her.
She spun and hurried away.
4
George felt an aching void form in his chest as he watched the girl's retreating back. He'd seen her before, watched her bikinied form in rapt wonder night after night from the back door of the big top as she did her spins and poses on the vertical rope of the Spanish web, and her graceful, vaulting glides from trapeze to trapeze. He even knew her name: Ginger Cunningham. And just a moment ago she'd been standing not two feet from him, speaking to him, smiling that beautiful baby faced smile—
Until she'd seen his arms.
George had long ago stopped being self conscious about them. After four years as a high school gymnast, a foreshortened year as a college gymnast performing in front of crowds of all sizes, and a couple of weeks now of displaying himself as Octoman, he'd doubted he could ever feel self conscious again.
But he realized now he'd been wrong. The way her eyes had widened, the way her smile had withered into a tight line of revulsion, he'd felt . . . naked. He glanced around. No one seemed to be watching. No one except Tarantello, who met his eyes for a second then turned and sauntered off.
George stood and pulled away from Neely. He gave her a quick stroke along her back, then headed for his trailer. Despite the heat he felt a sudden need for a long sleeve shirt.