This Side of Jordan Page 27

  “That’s right, folks! Come in a little closer! She won’t hurt you!”

  At a rap of the sideshow talker’s cane upon the podium, Sally Victoria, the Two-Headed Girl, dressed in a lavender and silver lamé tea gown, steps out from behind a woven brown curtain and begins to sing in harmonious duet a waltz lullaby called “Dreamy Moon.” Her darling faces are dolled up with show-lashes and ruby-red lipstick and a fancy French hairdo. Harvey Allison from the hardware store on North Main falls in love by the second stanza and immediately begins composing a love sonnet to sweet Sally Victoria. When the song ends, the rural crowd hurries off to the growling Dog-Woman from Burma who swallows full-grown rats with shotglasses of Kentucky bourbon (“In her own land she is considered a great beauty, but she’s a long way from home!”), and on to the next row of platforms where a mated pair of steely-clawed Stymphalian birds from the marshes of Arcadia squawk and hiss at photographs of President Hoover, and the recently unearthed Peking Man demonstrates his astonishing knowledge of algebraic equations, and the Human Pin Cushion from Iranistan receives one hundred forty-two needle punctures from audience volunteers while reciting “Ode on a Grecian Urn.”

  Then the bronze torches dim and the anxious crowd is invited to the platform draped in Oriental carpets at the back of Laswell’s Hall of Freaks where a silken gold shroud is withdrawn from a glass aquarium revealing the Turtle Boy paddling in foamy brine and pink coral with the strange man-sized Bishop Fish: a queer pair, indeed.

  A dark-bearded lecturer in black top-hat and tails steps out from backstage to address his audience: “Ladies and Gentlemen, listen to a tale of woe from distant maritimes, a fable for the ages. Here in this crystal tank a remnant of moral tragedy resides, for in truth these two sad creatures were once as human as you or I. Many years ago by the shores of an ancient sea dwelt a humble tinker of little means. Such was his station in life that even beggars took pity on him and shared what meager portions of bread and fish they had, knowing without such mercy the poor tinker would surely starve. By that same barren shore was a small chapel whose devout cleric ministered to all who sought comfort and delivery from the harshness of the world. He knew the tinker well and regarded him plainly as another child of God who had lost his way. Each morning the cleric watched the lowly tinker pass along the shore with his sack and his old nets. Each evening he watched the tinker return, his scant accumulations in tow. Perhaps he envied the tinker’s perseverance. Perhaps he despised the tinker’s disregard for pious fellowship. Who can say? From a nearby village the cleric had taken in a wayward youth to look after the chapel grounds and garden. Now, this youth, too, watched the tinker come and go and had little patience for hardship, believing that life was a blind drawing of lots and fortune simply a matter of will. One evening after vespers, the youth approached the cleric with a remarkable story. The meandering tinker, he claimed, had cast his ragged net upon the waters that morning and retrieved a treasure of uncommon degree. He had hidden it somewhere under the floor of his straw hovel, intending to tell no one, nor share even an ounce of his newfound prosperity. The cleric agreed that it was indeed characteristic of the selfish tinker to obscure so great a discovery and reminded the youth that all men are born stewards of this earth and that what belonged to one, belonged to all equally and without distinction. Therefore, the cleric determined that the tinker’s vanity was in fact a sin whose absolution required the forsaking of his prize. Furthermore, he and the youth would go to the tinker that very night and remind him of this obligation. Now the cold sea was fitful and blustery as the cleric and the youth went along that ancient shore with lanterns to light their way in the dark. Few thieves from iniquitous Calcutta ever conspired so unmercifully as this cleric and the callous youth to plunder such a guileless mark. In his drafty hovel the tinker slept before a dull kindling fire while outside the cleric searched the sky for providential indications and saw instead a great black tempest rising off the sea. The youth stole into the straw hovel and shook the tinker awake and demanded he reveal the whereabouts of his treasure. The tinker replied that he no longer possessed it, that a dream he’d had persuaded him to cast it back into the sea, and he showed the youth an empty hole in the floor where the treasure had been hidden. Now the cleric, too, entered the bleak hovel and accused the tinker of deception and warned that blind avarice provoked a particularly harsh wrath from heaven. The poor tinker acknowledged that the greed of men was, indeed, insatiable, threatening of immorality and ruin. Better, he had decided, to be rid of wealth than remain its fearful servant. Furious, the youth stepped forward and bludgeoned the hapless tinker and dragged him from his sad hovel out into the storm and threw him to the raging sea. Then the youth returned to the straw hovel and began digging in the floor while the cleric sought guidance from heaven and the great dark tempest surged ashore with sea waves mighty and deep.”

  The top-hatted lecturer pauses to gaze briefly at the two curious creatures paddling lazily in the shallow coral water of the glass aquarium. A woman at the back of the tent who had fainted rises again to take her seat. The surrounding audience remains hushed by the lecturer’s tale.

  “At daybreak, a merchant passing along the barren shore caught sight of a fisherman’s net half-buried in wet sand and straw. As he drew closer, the merchant spied a figure wriggling in the old net, a slimy fin, a long scaly cloak, a pair of drooping eyes shrouded in kelp: our pious Bishop Fish. Working to liberate this creature, the industrious merchant discovered another cowering beneath, this sad Turtle Boy, limpid and weak, limbless, wallowing in fear. Soon enough the merchant freed both from their entanglement in the old net, then seeing how curious was their appearance, how grotesque and godforsaken, he loaded both together atop his donkey cart and brought them along with him on his travels throughout the world. When he died, a good-hearted gypsy took possession of both creatures, and after many exhibitions in many carnivals in many lands, we present them here tonight. Legend has it that every creature on earth possesses its twin in the sea, a doppelgänger of the soul, a perfect likeness of its truest nature. Who knows? What is certain, however, is that the tinker and the cleric and the youth were never again seen on that distant shore, and if miracles are, indeed, indications of divine will, let no one leave this tent tonight unmoved.”

  The lecturer departs the stage as a pair of platform torches flare brightly, further illuminating the two strange creatures who paddle sluggishly about the aquarium, occasionally grazing each other, seemingly indifferent to the slackjawed audience. The pale Turtle Boy flops onto a flat stone perch and belches loudly enough to be heard at the back row. That trio of towheads who lie under the tent walls giggle while the plump Bishop Fish folds his fins together on a miry lap as if in prayer and shuts his eyes. The surrounding coral glistens in the flickering orange light. Eventually the platform torches dim once more and this tent crowd is shown to the rear exit in favor of another curious audience waiting out front. The show goes on.

  Late in the evening, Alvin wandered through the Palace of Mirrors whose drafty corridors shimmered a pale winter blue and mocked his sorry reflection. The ceiling was hidden in black drapes that billowed like the wingéd shadows of great birds. Mechanical voices tittered laughter in the dark. Ticket stubs and dead cigarette butts littered the floor. A stink of bathtub gin and witch hazel and burning tobacco fouled the sparkling corridors. Alvin Pendergast strolled a crooked path and went nowhere while odd voices chattered here and there and the draft grew colder. In one mirror he resembled a pale blimp, in another a ridiculous string bean. He was elongated and squashed, his nose flattened, his smile wide as a pie, his eyes like saucers, his hands and feet swollen as if by a summer bee sting. His mouth looked sloppy and mean, his arms slithered like rubber snakes. Shadows of passersby darted from the corner of his eye. Soon he felt dizzy and stopped walking. Fever chilled his skin. He sat down and stared at a trio of reflections across the filthy corridor, each joyless and shriveled, sour with sweat. His head throbbed and his legs were numb
and he felt faint. Alvin had expected to die in the sanitarium. He had seen blood in his sputum and imagined thousands of rancid tubercles growing like weeds beneath his ribs. For days on end he lay hushed in bed listening to the ashen wheezing of his own invalid lungs in hopeful anticipation of swan-winged angels descending to the gloom-gray ward. Doctors came and went, jotting notations on daily charts while muttering to themselves in Latin. Nurses spoke most cheerfully to the doomed. No more fishing under slants of drowsy sunlight. Alvin napped in septic clouds of waste and rude medications. Gurneys wheeled in and out. Homesickness for the farm persisted through numerous belladonna plasters and daily treatments of cod liver oil. A dozen series of X-ray photographs failed to reveal his despair. These sanitarium corridors are dark and drafty, too, traveled by consumptive patients like himself whose bleak faces reflect malignancy and hemorrhage. The floor is cold on his feet and his gown flutters as he proceeds. No one speaks, but many faces seem familiar. Passing the children’s ward he sees old schoolmates seated in a circle eating biscuits and custard pie, each exhibiting the scrofulous habit of watery eyes and translucent skin, glands swollen up like walnuts. Across the hallway, Mrs. Burritt and the Szopinski twins are taking the sun cure, bathing euphorically in a shower of bactericidal ultra-violet rays under bright tungsten lamps. They see his reflection in the mirror and wave as he passes. He pretends not to notice, so ashamed is he of being there. Why among all Pendergasts did he alone become infected? Aunt Hattie maintained his fate was sealed at birth. Uncle Henry argued in favor of invasive bacilli corrupting a glass of raw milk. What does it matter now? Down this dark angled corridor, the fortunate expectorate lung stones and weave baskets for exercise while the ill-fated lie in tub-baths with cloths of black silk shrouding their eyes or endure the gruesome treatments of the artificial pneumothorax apparatus. Looking into a mirror ahead, he sees Rascal administering an injection to Clare from a hypodermic needle flooded with a solution of gold and sodium. Both are dressed in white sanitarium gowns. Quivering with fear, Clare calls to him for help, “Melvin!” while the draft in the corridor rises like a wintry spook. He feels as if he is suspended upside-down.

  “Melvin?”

  Wilted flower petals blown on the cold wind from the nearby woods showered the carnival darkness as Alvin lay on his back staring up at a poster of Jupiter the Balloon Horse nailed onto a two-by-four in front of an exhibit called Cirque Olympic. Clare knelt above him in a plain yellow print frock and cloche hat. She held a small beaded handbag at her side. A sudden gust riffled her dress, forcing her to cover herself from the scurrying sawdust. Across the way, a quartet of polka dot clowns and trained poodles turned cartwheels for a cheery group of children. Swarms of townspeople hurried by. High-arching skyrockets burst upon the cloudy night sky.

  “Oh, Melvin, are you all right?” Clare asked, concern in her eyes. “I’ve been so worried.”

  Alvin’s head swam as he sat up. He felt confused and had no idea where he was. He mumbled, “I was just having a nap.”

  “In the mirror house?”

  “Huh?” Alvin’s eyes watered and his head hurt. He thought he might be sick to his stomach.

  “You were lying on the floor in the mirror house when Mr. Hughes from the radio shop found you. Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe I should fetch a doctor. You look awfully pale.”

  “I got lost.”

  Clare giggled. “Why, you silly! You were only a few steps from the exit!”

  “Oh yeah?” Alvin replied, still feeling bewildered. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the rear exit to the Palace of Mirrors. He hardly remembered a thing. “I guess it was dark.”

  “When Mr. Hughes and that other fellow carried you out of the mirror house, they said you felt light as a bird.” Wind blew in her hair. “Have you been eating well?”

  Alvin rose slowly, keeping his eyes focused on the poster of Jupiter the Balloon Horse. He was sorely feverish. “I got fixed up with a bad radish last week and it gave me a whopping bellyache. I suppose I was pretty sick for a couple days there.”

  He stood still for a moment to take his bearings. The Big Top was just ahead along the midway. Clare held him gently by the arm, close enough for Alvin to smell the fragrant Orange Blossom perfume she wore.

  “Be careful,” she said, keeping him steady.

  “I’m all right now,” Alvin lied, his dizziness easing. “I ain’t sick no more.”

  “I’m awfully worried. You look so pasty and thin.”

  “Well, I guess I been working too much inside them tents,” he told her, as a pair of gypsy swordsmen led a baby elephant past. He tried changing the subject. “This circus is pretty swell, ain’t it?”

  Clare’s expression brightened. “Oh, it’s so marvelous I’m just lost for words! It’s absolutely grand! Why, I’ll bet you’ve seen a million shows, haven’t you? It must be wonderful to be in the circus.”

  “It’s a panic, all right,” he replied, watching the noisy crowds. “But see, we’ve got to put it over big every night and that ain’t so easy, let me tell you. Some nights, well, even for those of us that got sawdust in our blood, it just ain’t in the cards and whatever you do ain’t half enough.” The farm boy kicked at the dirt, uneasy with fibbing her.

  Clare tugged at his arm. “Oh Melvin, let’s go see the lions, can’t we? Please?”

  “Why, sure we can,” he replied as the wind gusted, fanning up dry leaves and paper scraps. “If that’s what you want.” He knew he could honey her up if she gave him half a chance.

  “Oh, it is!”

  Alvin looked through the noisy crowds to the ticket booth at the opening to the Big Top. “Say, wait here, will you? Let me talk to that tooter over there.”

  “All right.” Clare smiled sweetly. “Hurry!”

  Alvin went across to the derbyhatted ticket taker. Keeping his back to Clare, he said, “I need two tickets.”

  “It’s ten cents.” The fellow’s eyes were bloodshot and his teeth tobacco stained. He raised his eyes and nodded in Clare’s direction. “Is she your sweetheart?”

  Still feverish, the farm boy dug the change out of his pocket and handed it over on the sly. “Yeah, what of it?”

  “She sure’s a peach,” said the ticket taker, his attention stuck on Clare. “I’ll bet she’s nice to smooch, too, ain’t she?”

  The farm boy scowled. “Say, maybe you ought to button up your face. I can scrap pretty good and I ain’t afraid to, neither.”

  “Oh yeah?” The fellow snickered at Alvin.

  “Yeah.”

  “Get on along, buster, I’m busy.” Turning away from Alvin, he began his spiel again to the passing crowds. “STEP RIGHT UP! STEP RIGHT UP! NOW UNDER THE BIG TOP! FEROCIOUS LIONS TAMED BY THE INCOMPARABLE BALDINADO THE GREAT! WITNESS THE BEAUTIFUL JENNY DODGE PERFORMING THE MOST ASTOUNDING MID-AIR SOMERSAULTING EXPLOITS ON EARTH! WONDER OF WONDERS! STEP RIGHT UP! STEP RIGHT UP!”

  The farm boy waved and Clare came over and he led her under the fluttering banners at the entrance to the Big Top, the ticket taker whistling rudely at Clare as she went by.

  Once they were inside the tent, Alvin told her, “That fellow gives me the creeps.”

  She agreed, “He seems awfully fresh.”

  “That ain’t the half of it.”

  By the crowded plankwood bleachers, Clare squealed, “Oh, Melvin, look at all the pretty ponies!”

  The Wild West show had filled the big tent rings with Apache bareback riders and sturdy soldiers in blue cavalry outfits amid deafening gunfire. A frightful massacre! Siberian Cossacks and Arabian swordsmen emerged from the wings to join the fray. Wild horses stampeded over flaming hurdles. Guns boomed. Steel sabers flashed. The audience shrieked with delight at an Indian war cry and another round of booming cannon fire.

  Alvin’s ears were ringing when he felt Clare pinch his arm.

  “Isn’t it just wonderful?” she said.

  “Sure,” Alvin replied, “but I don’t see nowhere to sit.”

&
nbsp; Since fainting in the mirror maze, he had become terrifically worried about getting stuck in a crowd. He guessed his fever hadn’t reduced much at all and his stomach felt rotten. He watched a band of feathered Apaches riding bareback ponies away from the battle to a large cheer while a troupe of friendly clowns passed out sticks of cotton candy to eager children in the front row. More people shoved past. The ringmaster in red tails and black top-hat bounded into the center ring to a chorus of brass trumpets. High overhead a glittering troupe of blue-sequined aerialists crowded the lofty tightwire perches. Flaming torches flared. Smells of fresh popcorn and steaming horse manure and gun smoke filled the air. The ringmaster addressed his audience by megaphone: “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! EMMETT J. LASWELL PRESENTS THE GRANDEST, MOST COLOSSAL, SPECTACULAR, SENSATIONAL SHOW OF THE AGE!”

  “Didn’t your little friend say he was with the Wild West show?” Clare asked, entwining her arm with Alvin’s.

  The farm boy shook his head as he coughed. “Naw, he laid an egg in Joplin with that fool knife trick of his and got canned. Now all they let him do is juggle apples on the midway for a kiddie show. I guess he’ll be blowing the circus pretty soon now.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad. But you’ll still be performing tonight, won’t you? I’m awfully anxious to watch. Remember, I’ll be pulling for you.”

  Alvin cocked his head at her, feigning his best expression of puzzlement. “Ain’t you seen my act? Why, I put it on an hour ago.”

  Clare’s jaw dropped. “Oh dear!”

  “It went over swell, too. First stunt of the night. Why, I never heard such a racket as when I gave them Bengal tigers the ol’ whip. Laswell himself said it was just about the swellest performance he ever seen and he ain’t usually that liberal with his compliments. Says he might even star me in the next show.”

  The farm boy looked off toward the prancing ringmaster. He scouted the bleachers again for somewhere they could have a better look at the string of gargantuan India elephants parading into the three-ring circus as the daring highwalkers balanced beneath silk parasols and formed pyramids across from the great trapeze. A huge cheer went up from the surrounding crowds. Tramp clowns danced and tumbled on the sawdust. A slim fellow in a silver suit was shot out of a giant black cannon and sailed across the tent into a rope net, saluting to the grandstand as he flew by. Zebras and camels and trained bears appeared in the wings with a family of Turkish acrobats. The ringmaster doffed his hat. When the farm boy turned back to Clare, she was gone. Alvin called her name and walked forward to the edge of the wooden bleachers and searched the audience there. When he didn’t see her, he looked back toward the Big Top entrance and the flocks of people crowding around Zulu the Cannibal King who had come into the big canvas tent juggling six bleached human skulls.