“Come to me often,” she ordered.
I suspected she was accustomed to obedience. No wonder that husband of hers had annoyed her. It was the nicest sort of order, however, I thought, and she deserved attention after all those years alone.
“I don’t think Dr. Mink will waltz into this farm in broad daylight,” said Mr. Ginger. “But maybe we should keep a watch just in case.”
He was right. I didn’t know what tricks might be up the skeleton man’s sleeve. I sent Bertha to watch through the loft ventilation slats.
Moses and Willie scrounged up poles from a shed, and I helped lay them across the rafters. We tied rope through the eyelets in two canvas tarps we found in the loft, and hung them from the poles to make curtains. They wouldn’t swing open, but the performers could hide behind them and come out front for their acts.
“They have no pictures of you on them,” said Tauseret to the assembled company. “In my dream walks I saw cloth with effigies.”
“We had to leave them behind,” said Mr. Ginger.
This distressed her. “But how will your ka be preserved after death?”
“No one is dying,” said Miss Lightfoot. She sounded a little shrill.
Mr. Ginger patted Miss Lightfoot’s shoulder. “There, there, that’s not what she means,” he said. “I can paint more,” he told Tauseret.
I hugged Tauseret to reassure her, and did so frequently all morning.
There was chicken again for luncheon, this time cold, accompanied by big, crusty loaves of farm bread and fresh churned butter. I called Bertha down to eat. Tauseret once more partook of the meal, sitting so close to me I felt electric shocks each time our thighs touched. The curious children watched each bite she took. “Careful she don’t spring a leak,” cried Moses when she swigged some milk, and even Tauseret laughed.
In between bites she endeavored to answer all the questions the adults had for her. Miss Lightfoot was delightfully scandalized by what Egyptian ladies didn’t wear, and Mr. Ginger was excited by the idea of Egyptian poetry and confused by their religion. I had to agree with him.
“Was there people like us, back in them days?” asked Mr. Bopp.
“Even among the gods,” she answered.
“People with alligator skin?” asked Miss Lightfoot.
“Sobek the crocodile,” said Tauseret.
“I’m a froggie god,” Moses crowed, and popped his eyes.
“Me, me, I’m a bear goddess!” cried Bertha, jumping up to do a little dance that had the other children almost crying with laughter.
“Perhaps not frogs and bears,” said Tauseret gently. “But there is a dwarf god called ‘Bes.’” She looked kindly at Mr. Bopp. “I thought it odd that one among us should share that name and shape. Perhaps she walked on Earth awhile and has gone back to the stars and lives there yet.”
Mr. Bopp looked away and didn’t answer, but he didn’t curse, either, so perhaps he accepted her compassion. I loved her for it.
“About the show,” said Apollo impatiently. “You have to be our talker, Abel, since you don’t have anything interesting about you.”
Apollo had brought lack of tact to a high art.
“So I shall,” I answered, laughing. “And we’d better begin setting up.”
The afternoon became a blur of activity as we rehearsed our acts. Willie and Moses took turns in the loft lookout post, and I noticed I wasn’t the only one who nervously glanced at the barn doors too often. I wished we could forget the show and leave as soon as possible, but we had promised a performance, and we would be good to our word.
Tauseret seemed quite happy to fetch and carry, and everywhere she went, at least one child trailed behind her. I was preoccupied with the creation of my patter, and I didn’t touch her as often as I had promised, although I did notice she wore her new calico unbuttoned a little farther than was necessary and undulated as she walked. “Look at this needle,” she exclaimed as I passed where she was helping Miss Lightfoot with costumes. “Isn’t it cunning? I never saw one as fine. What is this metal?”
“Wait until she sees a sewing machine,” said Miss Lightfoot.
“Abel!” Apollo ran over. “Can you be the first act?”
“Finally, appreciation,” I said.
“Knife-throwing is not too original,” Apollo continued, “but maybe they haven’t seen much of that in these parts.”
“Oh, thank you,” I replied.
“You’ll need a lovely assistant,” said Miss Lightfoot.
“Me,” said Tauseret.
“You may not want to,” I said. I didn’t want to frighten her.
“Show me what to do,” she demanded.
I posed her in front of a wall, arms wide, while the children called encouragement and advice. She was a tiny thing, I realized, less than five feet tall. Her attitude made me think of her as being much taller. “You stand there,” I explained, “and I shall throw knives to outline you.” Since she had been bossy, I couldn’t resist a little teasing. “Don’t worry, I don’t often miss.” I pulled out one of my knives with as much flourish as I could muster, then pretended to almost drop it.
I expected her to squeal and protest like any girl, but she remained motionless except for a slight proud tilt of her chin. “Certainly,” she said. “I knew you had the warrior in you still.” I felt quite pleased at her words, although I didn’t know why I should.
I threw three knives, and the children cheered each one. She didn’t flinch. Perhaps she was scared, but I suspected she would never show fear, not if the devil took her. My heart filled with pride, and a fond and silly smile spread over my face. “Can you make her a costume?” I asked Miss Lightfoot. “A knife thrower’s assistant should show her shapely legs.”
In the late afternoon Mr. Webster appeared with a wagon full of benches he’d borrowed from the schoolhouse. Mr. Ginger and I unloaded them, and the children arranged them in front of the curtains. I asked Mr. Webster if he had some soft lumber that I could knock into a simple target. While he went off to check, I decided to see if Mr. Bopp felt up to participating.
“Well, I don’t feels too good,” said the human caterpillar, “but I s’pose I could do some of me embroidery to get the show over and us on our way.”
Embroidery? This I had to see.
The evening came faster than expected. No sooner had we lit assorted lamps around the walls and along the front of our improvised performance area than our audience arrived. The attendees included the farm help as well as the landowners. I thought that generous of the Websters. I wondered if the Webster hospitality had gone so far as to invite their rivals of Tompson’s Dairy. Soon every bench was full with adults and children in their simple summer finery.
“My, I wish I owned Sears and Roebuck,” said Miss Lightfoot when she peeked through the curtains.
I don’t think I was ever so happy to see an audience. Surely we were safe from Mink with all those eyes upon us. We only had to get through the night now and leave before dawn with our newly disguised conveyance.
I wore my best suit, but the weather was too warm for a jacket, and I abandoned that. I would have to put my knives on soon anyway, and I couldn’t do that over a coat. I looked around for my assistant. I hadn’t seen Tauseret for a while. Perhaps she wanted to surprise me with her costume.
“The nasty man’s outside,” said Minnie out of nowhere. I started, lost my balance, and walked through the curtains before I meant to. The audience applauded and there was no turning back, despite the racing of my heart.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, and my voice squeaked. I took a deep breath. “Welcome to the most amazing show you will ever witness in all your born days.”
27
I TRIED TO CONCENTRATE ON THE show and not on Minnie’s words—after all, she was a little girl who might not be able to tell the difference between visions and fears. So I promised the audience miracles, I offered them marvels, I whetted their appetite with hints of what was to come, and after that
I introduced the greatest wonder they would ever see and didn’t even tell them that’s what it was.
“My assistant, please.”
Tauseret stepped through the curtains, carrying my knives in their leather bandolier. A soft gasp of appreciation came from the men, and I may have gasped too. Her face was enough— made up with kohl and ruby lips, it reminded me of a defiant flower—but she also wore a costume that sealed the fate of any man who glanced at her. The blue-and-gold bodice showed off her tiny waist to perfection, and she sported bloomers that didn’t hide an inch more of her white tights than they had to. Miss Lightfoot had magically provided shoes with buckles and high heels that enhanced her magnificent legs even more, if that was possible.
Tauseret approached with a dancer’s grace and draped the bandolier over my shoulder, her hand lingering on mine. From afar she had looked stunning, but up close I was distressed to see fine lines around her eyes and the skin of her hands leathery again.
“Are you all right?” I whispered as I tightened the buckle of the bandolier.
She nodded. “But you must not neglect me,” she whispered back.
I let my fingers skim along her arm like a promise as she stepped away.
I showed one of my knives to the audience. “A simple knife. A tool.”
With a flourish Tauseret pulled off the cloth that draped my target.
“And a place to hone my craft.”
I warmed up with simple target work, creating an X pattern on the wood. The audience applauded politely, and Tauseret retrieved the knives.
“But a knife can be deadly in the wrong hands,” I proclaimed. “Will the beautiful lady trust my skill?”
Tauseret nodded and stepped in front of the target. The audience murmured. She spread her arms and legs into a delicious X, an echo of the pattern I had drawn with steel. I wanted to miss her with my knives, but I did want to pin her there. I tried to wipe that desire from my head before I embarrassed myself in public.
The audience gasped as I outlined her with sharp blades while she stood motionless, smiling and serene, her eyes on me the entire time. I vowed that I would never betray her trust. The last knife I placed snug between her legs. The crowd cheered.
After we bowed to the audience, I escorted Tauseret through the curtains, my hand lightly on her elbow to lead her out.
“I must lie down,” she whispered.
“Did I frighten you?” I asked.
“No,” she reassured me, touching my face. “But I am weak. I cannot expect to be the woman I was for too long. I shall change to my shift and rest.”
I couldn’t follow; I had to introduce Apollo.
The children in the audience loved the dog boy. Some of them set to barking and had to be hushed. Apollo growled back at them, and the girls screamed with delight. I told an outrageous tale about him that featured his great hunting abilities and his preference for raw meat. “But his greatest skill is his singing,” I said to obvious disbelief.
The disbelief faded when Apollo sang the popular song “Come Home, Father” in his angelic voice. The words—those of a child who begs her drunken father to return from the saloon to the bedside of his dying son—caused more than one lady to wipe her eyes. After his song Apollo took my place and became the master of his own little troupe.
Moses made the ladies squeal when he popped his eyes. One young woman in the second row obliged him admirably by swooning not twice, but three times. Her beau almost dropped her the last time, he laughed so hard.
I wanted to check on Tauseret, but Minnie had a tantrum when I tried to leave the stage area. She said something bad would happen to me “at the stone bath.” I tried in vain to persuade her I was safe, for what could happen with all those people present? The skin of my back crawled, however, and I inspected the shadows.
In the background Willie sang minstrel ditties onstage. His father would probably find lyrics like “Possum fo’ yo’ breakfast” less than dignified, but the audience loved the boy, and I could tell he was enjoying himself too. In fact, there was an especial exuberance to all the children. They were performing because they wanted to, not because they had to, and they liked it.
I promised Minnie I would stay while she performed her act. My presence calmed her, and she achieved great success with her fortunes, even if she told one farmer there were crawly things in his corn. “You’ll have lots of lovely, fat babies,” she told the delighted young lady who had swooned. “And one ugly one,” she added, to howls of laughter from the audience. When she came off the stage to thunderous applause, she ran right by me and into Miss Lightfoot’s arms, as if she had never a care for me. Who could fathom small children?
Bertha announced she would recite a poem. I was surprised she knew one, but when I observed Mr. Ginger in the wings with an open volume, I knew him as the teacher. It made me apprehensive when she began “Requiescat,” by Oscar Wilde, considering the gentleman’s reputation, but near the end I realized that Mr. Ginger had merely tried to give words to Mr. Bopp’s grief.
“Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast;
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest. Peace, Peace; she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet;
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.”
I heard a strangled cry of pain.
Mr. Bopp undulated past me and stuck his head through the curtains. “I’ve got a poem too. There once was a girl from Nantucket—’” I grabbed him by the waist and pulled him behind the curtain again. There were tears on his face, and my harsh words died in my throat. I patted his back.
“That’s over the line,” I said gently. “Bess would thrash you for that.”
Nervous laughter and anxious whispers came from the audience. “Can you go on with your embroidery now?” I asked.
“I reckon so,” said Mr. Bopp, somewhat chastened.
“Excuse my presumption, honey pie,” Miss Lightfoot said, and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief.
Minnie arrived with the embroidery frame. “Don’t forget,” she whispered at me fiercely. She glanced at the wall as if looking through to terrors outside, and I felt a chill.
While I introduced the act, Minnie displayed the blank white cloth for the audience’s perusal. I couldn’t believe how calm she was. Was I a fool to let her rattle me so?
Mr. Bopp’s appearance instigated gasps from the audience. While I told the tragic story of his birth to an indigent mother and his years in the poorhouse, where he supported himself by sewing, Mr. Bopp withdrew a needle with his teeth from the package Minnie offered, stuck it into the cloth stretched on the frame she gripped, and proceeded to thread it with his lips, using a wire needle threader and bright red embroidery silk. He then sewed. Sometimes he darted his head to the other side of the frame to pull the needle through, sometimes he wove it in and out of the cloth from one side by clever use of his lips and teeth. He stopped only to change to green silk, and together we embroidered as I continued the tale of his entry into show business. What a perfect act, I decided. He couldn’t speak with a needle in his mouth.
Mr. Bopp grunted and snapped the thread with his teeth. Minnie presented to the audience a beautifully aligned row of chain-stitched flowers. The crowd burst into applause, as did I. I could tell by the surprised looks of the others that he had never embroidered in a show for Dr. Mink, but I’d wager Bess had known he had it in him. She had seen the worth of that man. I ached again for his loss.
Miss Lightfoot took center stage to tell of her expectant mother, who was frightened by an alligator, and of her subsequent birth. She displayed the scales on her arms and chest in her sleeveless, low-cut dress and raised her full skirts to her knees to show her scaly calves in such a dignified manner no one would dare call her indiscreet. I had never seen her quite so animated.
“However, this alligator woman has breeding of another scaly nature,” she said. “For I must confess that the study of music has been o
ne of my loves.” There were appreciative chuckles.
Mr. Ginger stepped from the curtains, oboe in hand, in smart evening attire, marred only by the strange cap he wore.
I had planned to visit Tauseret during the song, but I decided to walk the perimeter of the barn instead. I would feel better if I was sure that no one besides the neighbors was watching us this night.
Miss Lightfoot sang “A Bird in a Gilded Cage” to Mr. Ginger’s accompaniment, and I couldn’t help but think it ironic that she, too, had been a captive on display. That made the song all the more poignant.
I checked in the stalls and then skirted the wall. What would I do if I did find Mink or one of his men? I slid a blade from my bandolier and prayed I needn’t find out. Finally, I stood behind the audience. I peered outside through a crack between the barn doors. The night was starlit and calm. A cat crossed a beam of moonlight, paused a second to stare at me, then moved on. I exhaled. Had I let a little girls imagination spook me?
“Perhaps you think I have one accompanist,” Miss Lightfoot said at the end of her song. “But I assure you, I have two.”
I turned to watch.
Mr. Ginger whipped off his cap. The audience inhaled as if one. At least four ladies toppled into the arms of escorts and family.
Mr. Ginger raised his oboe to the tremulous lips of his submerged twin, and into the silence emerged one squeak and then a second.
“I’m afraid my brother isn’t as musical as I,” said Mr. Ginger.
The strained hush continued. I held my breath. Had we appalled them? Was this more than they could bear?
“And he ain’t near as pretty as you neither,” called Mr. Bopp.
Someone chuckled, then another, and the response grew to a roar.
“That’s some pumpkins,” called an old-timer.
“Yeah, a jack-o’-lantern,” called another to more laughter.
“Brave fellow,” a lady insisted, and rose to her feet to applaud. Others followed. I took this as a signal to hurry behind the stage and urge the whole troupe out for their bows.
“That sure beat the county fair,” a towheaded boy said as people left the barn, and Mr. Webster beamed.