“I told my parents I might stay here for lunch today,” I tell Leila later that morning.
Leila beams. “Good! Let’s go get hot dogs.”
So we do. While we eat them Leila tells me about some of the places she’s visited. I tell her about the boardinghouse and Miss Hagerty and Mr. Penny and Angel Valentine. And then I find myself telling her about Nana and Papa and finally Adam. “I don’t even really understand what’s wrong with him,” I say.
Leila looks thoughtful. “I’d like to meet Adam one day,” she replies.
And I realize that Adam still has not been to Fred Carmel’s.
Once, when I was about four, I told Miss Hagerty that Millerton knows how to get dressed up. Miss Hagerty laughed and said, “You are absolutely right, Dearie.”
It’s true. Millerton does know how to get dressed up. And it gets dressed up for every holiday you can think of. Halloween and Christmas are my favorites. At Halloween, jack-o’-lanterns glow in the windows of the stores downtown. Orange lights are strung between the lampposts. And almost everybody decorates their yards with witches and ghosts, or sheaves of corn husks with gourds and ears of dried corn. At Christmas, the store windows are trimmed with holly and greens and red ribbons and candy canes. And the town is aglow. Entire houses are outlined in lights.
Independence Day may not be quite as spectacular as Christmas, but it’s still fun. Downtown Millerton turns red, white, and blue at the beginning of every July. American flags wave up and down Nassau Street, and in front of most houses. Kids twine red and blue crepe paper through the spokes of their bicycle wheels and ride around town in a purple blur.
The first thing I do on the morning of July 4th is peer out my window. I am hoping, hoping for blue sky and no clouds. My wish is granted. The sky looks like an azure mountain lake.
I run downstairs and fix Miss Hagerty’s tray in a big hurry. When I set it on her bed I say, “No rain today. Not a cloud in sight.”
Miss Hagerty grins. “Wonderful. We won’t be rained out, then.”
On the Fourth of July a band concert is held in the town square, and everyone brings picnics and talks and visits and eats while the Millerton Brass Band plays marches and show tunes and “My Country ’Tis of Thee” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But last year the concert was rained out, and we sat at home and watched some fuzzy fireworks on the evening news. That is not going to happen this year.
I always go to the band concert with Mom and Dad and Nana and Papa. The band concert is one town event of which Nana approves. It is tasteful. The music is patriotic.
This year Adam will go with us. He seems to be very excited. “Wonderful, rousing, heart-lifting music, Hattie. Marches by Sousa. Oh, say can you see, broad stripes, bright stars, and Lucy dedicates a statue. Oh, ho, ho, ho, Hattie!”
Late in the afternoon, Mom and Dad and I leave our house carrying a large cooler. In it is a watermelon that Dad has fashioned into a basket by slicing off the top half except for the “handle,” and scooping out the insides. He’s filled it with pieces of fruit, making it an actual fruit basket. I think it is one of his more clever creations. Every year we offer to contribute something more to the picnic, but Nana likes to take control of things. What this means, basically, is that she likes to transport to the town square one of the spectacular meals that normally would be eaten in Nana and Papa’s formal dining room. While everyone else at the picnic is eating hot dogs and potato salad on paper plates with plastic forks, we are eating hors d’oeuvres and steak and baby carrots on china plates with silverware.
I am aware that people stare at us. Even so, I wouldn’t want to miss the concert.
Mom and Dad and I arrive at the town square and search the crowd for Nana and Papa and Adam. They should be easy to spot. Sure enough. They’re sitting on a large blanket like everyone else, but the stack of gold-rimmed plates and the clanking of silver are hard to miss.
Adam looks up as we approach. “Hattie! Hattie!” he calls. “Dorothy! Jonathan! It’s time for the annual fete. Look here! Sizzling barbecued chicken, a tantalizing array of vegetables —”
While Adam itemizes our meal, Dad unpacks the cooler. He sets the fruit basket carefully on a platter provided by Nana. Adam’s eyes fall on it. For exactly one second he is speechless. Then a torrent of words pours forth. “Jonathan, how grand, how simply grand. A creation beyond all creations, yes, oh, yes!”
Adam is jumping up and down and wringing his hands. I glance around. Next to us a family with three boys has spread their picnic on a faded blue bedspread. On their plates are hot dogs and hamburgers and deviled eggs. They have been eating but have stopped with their hands halfway to their mouths to stare at Adam. They have actually stopped that way, like people in a cartoon.
I decide to stare back at one of them. I select the mother in the family, the person I hold responsible for teaching manners to her children. I grab a cookie from a plate, hold it halfway to my own mouth, and stare at her until she notices me. When she does, her face turns bright red and I feel gratified.
After he gets over the excitement of the watermelon basket, Adam settles down. We fill our plates with food and begin to eat as the band tunes up. Dad takes the movie camera out of its case and pans around the square. Then he focuses in on Mom, me, Nana, and Papa. Each of us waves and smiles. When he swings the camera around to Adam and says, “Smile!” Adam refuses to look at him. “Adam!” Dad calls. I know Adam hears him, but he begins to eat rapidly, shoveling in forkful after forkful of chicken. I don’t know why he suddenly won’t look at the camera. He just won’t. Dad turns his attention back to the rest of us. Papa points to the chicken, then rubs his stomach in a grand circular motion. Mom mouths, “YUM, YUM, YUM.” Still, Adam won’t do anything but eat. I’m sitting next to him. I let out a long, low burp that I know only he can hear. Finally Adam laughs. Dad is happy, I am happy, everyone is happy.
The band finishes tuning up and begins playing something quiet that I don’t recognize. Around me the crowd seems to ease into themselves. Voices grow softer. A few minutes later, when Jack parks the Good Humor truck at the edge of the square, there is no mad rush to it, like there is when it comes tinkling down our street on bright afternoons. Instead, here and there someone yawns and stretches, then stands slowly and searches for change before ambling to the truck to choose an ice-cream sandwich or a Popsicle.
I’m glad everyone is slowing down, keeping to themselves. The blankets become small islands that people are hesitant to step off of. I begin to relax.
“Well,” says Nana as she and my mother stack our plates. “Who wants dessert?” She sounds very perky.
“Dessert,” I repeat. “Yum. What is it?”
Nana reaches into one of her picnic baskets. “Strawberry and blueberry pie with whipped cream.”
“Oh, red, white, and blue!” I exclaim. I glance at Adam, sure this will please him.
Adam’s face looks hard, though. Hard and tight and actually a little frightening. “I want to get dessert from the Good Humor truck,” he says.
“But Ermaline made —” Nana starts to say.
Adam jumps up. “I don’t like strawberries! I want chocolate ice cream. I have enough money.” He withdraws some change from his pocket. “And I want to see Sandy.”
Papa frowns. “Sandy? Oh, Adam, Sandy doesn’t drive the Good Humor truck anymore.”
“Yeah, now it’s Jack,” I pipe up.
“I don’t care who drives the damn truck,” says Adam loudly. “I’m going to get ice cream.” He begins loping through the crowd. Although he doesn’t actually run over anyone’s blanket, he pushes through groups of people and knocks over someone’s lawn chair.
“Go with him, Hattie,” says Nana, pushing me forward.
My heart is pounding, and my stomach feels sour, but when I catch up with Adam, he grins at me. “I have enough money for two ice creams,” he says. “What do you want, Hattie? What do you want? Do you want a treat? Do you want ice cream? I scream, you scr
eam, we all scream for ice cream!”
“I want —”
“Look! There’s the truck! And there’s the man. Is that man Jack, Hattie? Is he Jack?”
There is no line at the truck, and I am glad. “Yes, it’s Jack,” I say.
Jack sees me and calls, “Happy Fourth, Hattie!”
“Happy Fourth!” I reply. “Jack, this is my uncle Adam. Adam, this is —”
“Yes, yes, the famous Jack. Greetings, Jack. What do you have here in your splendid truck? I myself would like chocolate ice cream. Do you have chocolate ice cream for your royal subjects? And what would you like, Hattie? When Lucy was pregnant, she got cravings at four o’clock in the morning. She asked Ricky to bring her pistachio ice cream with hot fudge and sardines. Oh, boy, wonderful!”
Jack laughs gently. “Well, I don’t have any sardines here.”
Adam laughs too. He seems to calm down.
A moment later, Adam has his chocolate ice-cream bar and I have an ice-cream sandwich. We say good-bye to Jack and return to our blanket.
We have no sooner sat down than the quiet music becomes “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The party mood returns to the crowd. People talk more loudly. I see the shadowy figures of men and women as they rise to talk with friends or to chase after children. Halfway through the song I realize that Adam is no longer on our blanket. I’m the only one who notices, since not only is it growing dark but six of Nana and Papa’s friends have stopped to chat with them, and the grown-ups are busy getting coffee out of the silver urn.
I leap up. I have an idea where Adam is and, still licking the chocolate off of my fingers, I run to the bandstand.
Adam has placed himself directly behind the conductor and is dancing to the music. I have to admit that the music makes even me feel like dancing. But at Millerton’s annual Fourth of July band concert, people do not dance. They sit and eat and talk and visit.
Only Adam dances. So of course he attracts a lot of attention. Quite a few people stop their eating and talking to turn and stare at the young man who is jumping up and down, up and down in time to the music. Sometimes he wrings his hands. Sometimes he calls out, “Happiness! Happiness!” which makes me smile. What a wonderful way to celebrate Independence Day.
The song ends, and another one begins. I glance over my shoulder. My parents and grandparents are still busy with their guests. I decide to wait until this new song ends and then try to talk to Adam. I don’t think I should disturb him now.
I’m standing behind him, waiting, when I hear the words “freak show.” I whirl around.
Well, there they are. Nancy and Janet. What a surprise. I shoot a look at them. And then, even though the music hasn’t stopped, I take Adam by the arm and lead him toward our blanket. He allows this, just as he allowed me to walk him home on that early morning. As we make our way through the crowd he winds down, so that by the time we return to Nana and Papa he’s just Adam again, talking about his chocolate ice cream.
I sit on the edge of the blanket, apart from everyone. My face is burning. Over the treetops I see fireworks showering the night sky. I think they are the fireworks at Fred Carmel’s.
I am just sitting there, staring, when an absolutely horrible thought occurs to me. I don’t know exactly what is wrong with Adam, but maybe it’s one of those diseases that run in families. Maybe that’s why Nana and Papa seem ashamed of him. And maybe … is that why Mom and Dad never told me about Adam? To keep the knowledge of his illness from me? Do they maybe even think that I’m a little like Adam? Is that why Mom wants me to be more like other kids — so she can prove to herself that I’m not going to turn out like Adam one day?
I twist around and look at my family. I can’t stop the questions from coming. And I can’t ask a single one of them.
After July 4th my days fall into a pattern. In the mornings I fix Miss Hagerty’s breakfast, eat my own breakfast with Mom and Dad and Mr. Penny, and check Angel Valentine’s outfit and hairdo as she runs out the door. When I’ve taken care of all my chores, I head for the carnival, and Leila and I spend the entire rest of the day together, even lunchtime. Lunch is always hot dogs and lemonade, which Leila gets for free. Sometimes we run a booth or take tickets or call people to the sideshow. Sometimes we just try to find a cool, quiet place so we can sit and talk.
One day I say to Leila, “Doesn’t it bother you that people pay money to stare at your mother? Doesn’t it bother your mother?”
Leila frowns. “I don’t know, I mean, if that’s how they want to spend their money.…” She trails off. “It’s better than staring and not paying.”
“I guess,” I reply.
“Besides, it’s just an act. Most of the performers in the sideshow are putting on an act, the ones who have learned how to do tricks or to wear special makeup and costumes. It’s people like Chimp Boy and Baby Tess I worry about. People stare at them because of the way they were born. They say they don’t mind, since how else are they going to earn a living? But, I don’t know …”
“People stare at my uncle Adam,” I tell her. “They call him a freak.”
“You really like your uncle, though. I can tell.”
“Yeah. I do. You know what I like best about him? I like how happy he can get. Most people don’t get happy the way Adam does. When Adam is happy he jumps up and down like a little kid. Or he shouts, ‘Happiness!’ ”
Leila grins. “Happiness,” she repeats. She swallows the last of her hot dog bun. “Has he been here yet? I bet he would have fun.”
He hasn’t been to Fred Carmel’s yet because of Nana’s dim view of what she calls circus people, even though technically, Leila and her family are carnival people.
“I bet he would have fun too,” I say.
“Then bring him,” says Leila.
“I will.”
When the time seems right.
The time seems right a few days later. It is Friday morning. I’m finishing up my chores, bringing in the broom from the front porch, when I see Adam come whistling up our walk.
“Happy July eighth, Hattie Owen!” he calls, waving vigorously.
“Hi, Adam!”
“Would Miss Angel Valentine be in residence?” he asks.
He is in an awfully good mood. But why can he never remember that Angel works? Maybe, I think, it’s because Angel’s job reminds him of the great differences between him and Angel. If Adam were a regular person, he’d probably be at work now too.
I decide not to point this out. Instead, I say, “Hey, Adam, would you like to go to the carnival with me?” Somehow walking with Adam all the way across town doesn’t seem scary anymore, especially since Leila will be at the end of our journey, so I won’t be on my own with Adam for long.
“To Fred Carmel’s Funtime Carnival with the midway, prizes, sideshow, and food from many nations?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Well, as soon as I’ve talked to Nana. But I think she’ll say we can go.”
Despite her feelings about circus people, Nana seems relieved by the thought of having Adam out of the house for an afternoon. And apparently she trusts us together. She knows I go to the carnival all the time. I get the feeling that Nana doesn’t expect much from Adam except that he stay out of her hair and not embarrass her.
“Have fun!” Nana calls to us as we start down her front walk. Then, “Oh, Adam, wait. Wait right there.” Nana disappears inside. When she returns she presses a ten-dollar bill into Adam’s hand. “Treat yourself and Hattie to lunch and some games,” she says.
I wait until we are out of Nana’s hearing. “You won’t be needing much of that money,” I tell him. “We’re going to get a free lunch. And we can go on rides for free too. We should pay for the games, though. I wouldn’t feel right getting one of those giant prizes for free.”
Adam is looking distracted. “Rides,” he says.
“Yeah, for free. Lunch too.”
“Really?”
“Yup. You ha
ven’t met my friend Leila yet.”
Now I have Adam’s attention.
“Leila? Who’s Leila?”
I tell Adam about Leila and Lamar and the Cahns and their fascinating lives. By the time we reach the carnival, Adam is keyed up. The whirling rides, the smells of cotton candy and French fries, the music from the merry-go-round, and the crowds of people make him even more excited.
“Hattie, Hattie, my old friend, what a splendid place this is!” Adam has hurtled through the entrance to the carnival and is galloping from one attraction to the next. “A bundle of energy in Millerton’s own backyard!” he cries. “Popcorn, peanuts, get yer red hots, red hots, right here. Lucy and Bob Hope and — oh, my, look skyward, Hattie, look skyward!”
I look up but I don’t think I see whatever Adams sees up there. Just a speck of an airplane far away. I hope we can find Leila quickly. I hope I haven’t made a mistake bringing Adam here.
The first place we look for Leila is at the ticket booth for the Ferris wheel, and thank goodness she’s there. When she sees me, she raises her hand and waves. Then she spots Adam and jumps to her feet, pushing Lamar into her seat and saying, “Your turn!”
Leila unties her apron and runs out of the booth. “Hi, Hattie!” she says. “Is this Adam?”
Before I can answer, Adam, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, says, “Upon my word, Leila Cahn, niece of Fred Carmel himself, owner of the wonderful carnival. This is a holiday, a celebration, a reunion of the heavens! Glory, glory!”
“Hi,” says Leila. She is smiling and I know she knows this is Adam. “How about a tour of the carnival? I gave Hattie one.”
Leila doesn’t wait for Adam to answer. She takes him by the hand, and suddenly we are in the world of the carnival. We start with the midway, where Adam uses some of Nana’s money to play games. When he has lost four games in a row I see his body stiffen and his eyes fill with tears. “Not nice, not nice,” he mutters.