I wake up on Saturday morning with butterflies in my stomach. Today Fred Carmel’s Funtime Carnival will arrive. Adam will not get to see it. Nana and Papa have chosen this day to take Adam to Philadelphia for some new clothes. I’m sorry Adam will miss the parade, but glad that Nana has noticed things like his too-small summer suit. I wonder who was in charge of Adam’s clothes while he was away at school. I think that maybe Nana didn’t care what he looked like when he was out of her sight. And then I tell myself to stop thinking mean thoughts about Nana.
“Imagine, a parade right down your street, Hattie,” says Cookie as I help her in the kitchen after breakfast. We are both wearing aprons (made by Miss Hagerty), and Cookie has pulled her hair back with a net. Also, she has rolled her stockings down to just below her knees. It is not a good look, but Cookie is fanning herself and sweating, and swears to God in heaven that the rolled-down stockings make her feel ten degrees cooler.
I think of Fred Carmel’s posters. Several of them advertise that when the carnival arrives, the wagons and trucks and trailers will parade through town on their way to the carnival site. They will start on Nassau Street, then turn onto Grant and follow Grant to the other side of Millerton.
“Who are you going to watch the parade with?" Cookie asks me.
“Well, you know, Mom and Dad, Mr. Penny and Miss Hagerty. Angel, if she’s around. And you, if you want to watch.”
“No one your own age?”
I cross my arms. “Betsy is in Maine,” I remind her.
“Is Betsy the only other eleven-year-old in Millerton?”
“No.”
Cookie smiles at me and puts her arms out. I step away. She sighs. “Oh, honey,” she says.
“Well, you sound like Mom.”
“Your mother just wants you to have friends.”
“I do have friends.”
“Friends your own age.”
“Why does it matter how old my friends are?”
Cookie sighs again. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
We are baking muffins, and I am filling the muffin tins with our batter. We work without speaking for a few minutes. Finally I decide I don’t want Cookie to think I’m mad at her, so I say, “Will you watch the parade with us?”
“For a few minutes,” she replies. “Long enough to see some of those sideshow people.”
It is not yet ten o’clock that morning when I hear shouts and some tinkly music. I run to the porch and look down our street. I see a long line of trucks and wagons moving slowly. I dash back inside.
“It’s here!” I shout. “The parade is coming.”
Everyone rushes to the porch and sits on the chairs I’ve lined up in front of the railing. Miss Hagerty is so excited, she squeezes my hand.
The first truck in the parade is painted like a circus wagon. Red letters outlined in gold announce FRED CARMEL’S FUNTIME CARNIVAL. Two young women dressed in spangly costumes sit atop the wagon and wave to us. (Miss Hagerty waves back.) The tinkly music is coming from somewhere inside the wagon. Next come several trailers containing animals, and behind them trot three ponies, each led by a carnival woman in a spangly costume.
“Oh, there they are!” Cookie cries suddenly.
“The sideshow people.”
I see that the next few trailers are like commercials for the sideshow. Each one announces one of the sideshow attractions — Man of a Thousand Tattoos; Mongo the Ape Man; John-Jane, Half Man—Half Woman; Pretzel Woman; Mr. Geek — but these people must be inside their trailers. All we get to see are their advertisements.
Cookie is rising to her feet, shaking her head slowly. “My, my. I have to get me to that sideshow,” she says as she makes her way back to the kitchen.
I stare at the next trailers that snake down our street, but I don’t pay much attention to them. I am thinking of Mongo and John-Jane and Pretzel Woman. I have to admit that I am fascinated by their pictures, the ones on the sides of their trailers. But a tiny part of me feels uncomfortable. If I were unusual looking or had a strange talent, would I want to spend my life being gawked at by everyone who has paid his quarter to see the show? Probably not. And yet … I am awfully curious, especially about John-Jane. I decide finally that I am 85 percent curious and only 15 percent uncomfortable.
And when the parade ends I am buzzy with excitement. I try to remember how much money I have upstairs. I think I have forty-five cents in the dish on top of my desk, and nearly five dollars inside the left leg of the jeans in my third bureau drawer. Perfect. I am ready for midway games and cotton candy and shows of any sort.
“Well, Hattie,” said Dad. “What do you say? Shall we go to the carnival on Monday night?”
“Monday night? The first night?” I exclaim. “Oh, yes!”
That evening after supper Dad and I walk along Grant all the way to the other side of town and watch Fred Carmel and his workers setting up the carnival. I am amazed at how quickly they work. The empty field is already transformed. Rides are being erected, tents and booths and concession stands have sprung up.
“The grand opening is Monday night,” says a girl about my age as she steps out of a trailer.
“We’ll be there,” Dad replies.
The carnival is the biggest event Millerton has seen in years. It turns out that absolutely everyone in our house is going to attend the grand opening. Mom can’t decide whether to serve Monday night dinner half an hour early in order to give people extra time at the carnival, or half an hour late in order to give people time to get ready for it first. In the end, she decides not to change the time.
The six of us sit at the dining room table chattering away about the things we will see and do at Fred Carmel’s and how late we might stay up. Mom actually says to me, “Don’t eat too much dinner tonight, Hattie. Save room for cotton candy.”
“And for the food from many nations,” I add. Then I ask, “Can we take Adam to the carnival with us?” I am pretty sure he won’t be going with Nana and Papa. A carnival would be beneath them, just as the circus was beneath them.
“Oh, honey,” says Mom. “Let’s go by ourselves, the three of us. I don’t really feel like calling Nana right now.”
“I’ll call her,” I say.
Mom sighs. “Hattie, leave it alone.”
“All right.” I am not going to make a scene in front of everyone. But I know what’s going on. Mom doesn’t want Nana to know that we are as excited as the rest of the Millerton commoners who are rushing off to the opening night of bearded ladies, midway games, cheap prizes, and glitzy lights.
Well. I am not going to let this spoil my evening.
The moment dinner is over, Miss Hagerty zips out to the front porch. About two minutes later the brown Chrysler pulls up, Miss Hagerty’s friends side by side in the front seat. They wave out the windows. Both are wearing straw hats decorated with artificial flowers.
“Yoo-hoo!” they cry.
“Hellooo!” Miss Hagerty replies. “We’ll be right there.” She turns and calls through the front door, “Frank!” and Mr. Penny appears.
He and Miss Hagerty hurry down our walk together and ease themselves into the car. When I was little I used to think that Mr. Penny and Miss Hagerty were dating and that one day they would get married and I would be the flower girl in their wedding. Now I am pretty sure that neither one of them is meant to get married. That’s just the way it is for some people.
No sooner has the Chrysler disappeared from view than a snappy little red convertible car, top down, roars to a stop at the end of our walk. A grinning young guy who looks exactly like Frankie Avalon the singing star gets out of the car without bothering to open the door; just jumps over the side and lands neatly in the street. I stare at him with my mouth open as he walks around to the passenger door and leans against the car, arms folded. I have never seen him before, but I just know he has arrived to pick up Angel Valentine. Sure enough, a few moments later Angel breezes onto the porch, trailing the scent of roses behind her.
“See you later, Hattie,” she says. “Have fun tonight.”
Frankie Avalon greets Angel with a brush of his lips across her cheek, then holds the car door open for her. A few minutes later they are zooming toward the carnival.
This is one of those moments when I love our porch. Sometimes sitting on it is better than going to the movies.
Mom and Dad and I walked to the carnival. I am so excited that I do not mind holding hands with them even though we are in public. I step along, my right hand in Mom’s, my left in Dad’s, listening to their quiet voices crisscross above my head. I have forgotten all about Mom and Nana and Nana’s airs. But I have not forgotten about Adam. I still wish he could come with us.
I hear Fred Carmel’s before I see it, hear music and laughter and a quiet roar of voices. And as we cross a field of parked cars, I see that practically every inch of the carnival is outlined in lights. It looks like Nassau Street in December when store windows and wreaths and lampposts and trees are ablaze for Christmas.
I stand on tiptoe for a better view, and see a moving circle of light, a Ferris wheel. An alley of lights is the midway, another is the sideshow. There is a lit-up bumper car ride, a lit-up Whirl-About, and the snaking lights of a small roller coaster.
Mom and Dad are as excited as I am. “Come on!” says Mom, and she pulls my hand and the three of us run the rest of the way through the parking lot to the entrance. And then … we don’t know where to start. Food? Rides? Games? The sideshow? So for a while we just walk around.
Then, all of a sudden, Dad’s camera is in front of his face. “Okay, ladies,” he says to Mom and me. “Stand over there and wave.”
We stand in front of the fun house and wave obediently at Dad.
“Now let me film you getting on the Ferris wheel,” he says.
Our carnival evening has begun. When we get off of the Ferris wheel we go through the fun house. Then we buy cotton candy. Then I spend four dollars playing six different games before I win a small pink teddy bear.
We stand in line to buy tickets to the sideshow and who should take our money but the girl Dad and I met on Saturday night.
“She works here,” I whisper incredulously to Dad.
I am still 85 percent fascinated by the thought of the sideshow attractions, and only 15 percent uncomfortable. By the time we are halfway through them, however, I decide I am 15 percent uncomfortable, 45 percent fascinated, and 40 percent disappointed. I think that some of the people are not quite what they were advertised to be. For instance, the woman with the horrifyingly embarrassing name of Pig Lady, billed as the fattest lady in the world, doesn’t look any fatter to me than Mrs. Finch who owns the Garden Theater. John-Jane, the Half Man–Half Woman, looks to me like an entire man who just let his hair grow longer on one side of his head than the other, and who stuffed one side of his shirt with wadded-up hand towels, the way Betsy and I do when we want to see how we will look when we get bosoms. (We stuff both sides of our shirts, of course.) And Pretzel Woman is not actually able to tie herself in knots, although the fact that she can put both her legs around the back of her neck is impressive.
It is after ten o’clock when Mom looks at her watch and says, “I hate to say this, but we should think about heading home. It’s pretty late.”
“Could we have one more ride on the Ferris wheel?” I ask.
Mom and Dad look at each other. “Why not?” says Mom.
So we take one more ride, watching the carnival fall away from us, then rise to meet us, over and over. When we finally alight, tired and happy and just a little dizzy, I see the girl again, the one who took our tickets at the sideshow.
“I hope you enjoyed your ride,” she calls after us. “Come again!”
When I turn around, she waves to me.
I wave back.