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By now local children were watching from the perimeter of the lot. Apollo had the sense to usher our children into the show tent as soon as the others showed up. No sense in giving a free look or becoming a target. As I checked the guy ropes, two figures swathed in cloaks made their way to the raised flap in the back of the tent. By their sizes and the shrouded load they struggled with, I took them to be Miss Lightfoot and Bess Tuggle carrying Mr. Bopp between them.
Al Bonfiglio stalked past with a crate, from which came the ching of glass against glass. The next time I saw him, he maneuvered a long wooden box from the back of Mink’s wagon with the help of Billy Sweet. That must be the lady in the box. What kind of trick could it be?
Dr. Mink sent me inside the tent to set up the fancy ropes that divided audience from display. In a larger show there would be a platform for the acts to sit upon. I was grateful, however, not to have another structure to set up.
“Good afternoon, Abel,” Mr. Ginger greeted me. I don’t know when he had slipped inside.
“That’s fine work you did on those banners,” I told him.
He waved my compliment aside. “Oh, slapdash,” he said, “I could do that with four eyes open.” But he smiled with pleasure. I noticed he had trimmed both his beard and that of his twin in preparation for the show.
The air clung hot, thick, and sweet under the canvas. I had to work in my undershirt or else I’d be sick. I apologized to the ladies.
“Oh, please, honey pie,” said Miss Lightfoot, “don’t think of it at all.” She dabbed at her neck with the sponge, which had become her constant companion.
“I shall think of it constantly,” Bess said, and leered at me.
Mr. Bopp bit her ankle, and Earle Johnson laughed so hard the springs of his wagon creaked, and I worried that it would collapse with his weight. “They’re a caution, ain’t they?” he said to the giant, who stood beside him.
The giant nodded, but he didn’t look amused. His face was pale, and he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief that seemed tiny in his gnarled hand.
Apollo had the children lined up on stools at the far end of the tent. I couldn’t hear what he said to them, but they listened intently. I hoped he was telling a story and not planning one of his schemes. They were dressed in clean costumes that had been in Miss Lightfoot’s care. Moses the Frog Boy sported green tights, and his knees stuck up so high he did look like he had frog legs. Little Minnie had on a Chinese jacket and short black trousers. Her thin, dark hair was pulled back in a slender braid. Embroidered slippers graced her feet, and a matching skullcap made her head look all the bigger. Bertha wore a brown outfit with puffed sleeves and pantaloons, which showed off her shortened limbs. Willie was garbed in short pants only; consequently the audience could experience the full impact of his distinct and unusual skin patterns.
Ceecee swept into the tent. The turban was gone—on one side of his head the hair hung down past his shoulder, on the other side it stopped at the ear. He had painted the half of his face on the long-haired side, and he wore an earring on that ear. The children became quiet and moved in closer to Apollo.
“Does Ceecee beat the children?” I asked Miss Lightfoot.
“I cannot say,” she answered, “but Bess saw him cut a man across the face once, cheek to cheek. He always carries a straight razor folded in his pocket.”
I remembered how Ceecee had reached inside his robe as he advanced on me, and I shuddered anew.
The he-she glowered at the huddle of children and then swept toward them. He wore a white shirt with voluminous sleeves and an odd pair of trousers—one leg stovepipe thin, and the other flared as if to emulate a skirt. On the trouser side he wore a sturdy boot, on the skirt side a buttoned shoe. How he could appear ominous in that getup, I don’t know, but he managed. He halted in front of the children and stood in silence.
“Boo!” he cried.
Willie shrieked. The others cringed. Ceecee whinnied with laughter.
Apollo pushed the children behind him. “I’ll bite you,” he proclaimed.
“Ill bite you first, you hairy little monster,” promised Ceecee.
I thought of that razor and hurried over. “Apollo, you have prepared everyone for the show but yourself.”
“He called me a monster,” Apollo complained.
“You are,” I answered, and put myself between them, my back to Ceecee, although that made the flesh between my shoulders flinch. “A beast who is really a prince, like in Beauty and the Beast.”
“That’s my name!” chimed in Minnie. “Little Beauty.”
That caught Apollo’s attention. “Is it?” he asked.
I was surprised too. “There,” I said. “You must be Little Beauty’s beast.”
“I think grooming is in order, sweetie toes,” said Miss Lightfoot, joining us, accompanied by Bess. With scaly fingers she handed me her own ivory comb.
I gave Miss Lightfoot a thankful smile.
“Hey, the brats aren’t yours to bully now, remember?” Bess told Ceecee. “Better not let Mink see you taunting the real freaks, or you’ll be biting, all right—biting the heads off chickens like the geek you are.”
