The School of Beauty and Charm (25 page)

When I opened them, I saw Percy. The nine-foot albino python slid purposefully down a stripe in the wallpaper, across the floor, and up the table leg. It's body went on and on and on. Tongue flickering, it began to slide toward me. At the edge of the plate, it raised its flat, ancient face to mine and looked into my eyes with wet black orbs.

I screamed.

Knocking my plate off the table, I scrambled to the hallway and was out the door before I could catch my breath. A small hot wind came up, blowing a paper cup across the dirt lot, and the smell of Myrtle Beach hit me hard. Through the aluminum wall, I could hear Madge crooning, “Hush, hush, toodle; let Mama look. Does Percy toodlums have a boo boo from that hot coffee? Come to Mama. Mama will make Percy all better. Mama give kissy-kiss?”

As best I could, I wiped my face with the hem of my sundress. Hell—I might have gone to bed with a gorilla, who cared about a dress? A woman, probably a hermaphrodite, had almost beaten me up with a broom. The biggest snake I had ever seen in my life had stolen my breakfast. The only sensible thing to do was go home, take a shower, return to the Maude Wilson College for Women, become an art museum curator, and make up with Jesus.

I had taken three steps across the lot when I heard my name. A tall young man in a pair of faded shorts, with wavy red hair
falling around his bare shoulders, stood on the cinder block in front of a trailer, waving a sparkler.

“Louise!” he called out, and grinned.

Then I knew him—Zane Wilder, the Human Dragon, with freckles. For some reason, they didn't show up on the poster. In another trailer, the door opened, a midget stuck his head out, scowled, and slammed the door shut again.

“Louise Peppers, I love you!” called Zane Wilder. His white teeth flashed in another grin, the sparkler sailed through the air, and I went to him, all the while hearing Florida's voice in the letter I imagined would come.

My Dearest Louise,

You have an orthodontist appointment on Thursday. Do you want me to change it? Call us collect. They charge you if you don't show up, so we need to know. That's just being responsible. You can't run off and leave everything behind for your parents to take care of. Your father is worried sick. So am I. We are supposed to go to the Guys and Gals Ball at church on Saturday night, but I don't know if your father will go or not. The men dress up as women, and the prettiest one wins a prize. Last year it was Reverend Waller—he wore a miniskirt and go-go boots—it was real cute. I made Henry a tea-length gown of midnight-blue crepe. He's conservative. White gloves. Used a McCalls pattern size eighteen that I got for you when you were heavy. Don't know what shoes he'll wear. I had a time with
the tiara. Finally threw it away. Just wanted to cover his bald spot. Please call us so we'll know where you are and that you are not hurt. Or kidnapped. I am praying for you. I guess you'll come home when you are hungry.

Love,

Mom

I
WAS BACK
in the red truck. This time Zane was driving it; we were going into town for supplies to make the torches he used in his fire-eating act. As we rattled out of the back lot, he blew the bicycle horn someone had screwed on the outside of the driver's door, and people began to trot toward us with requests. Tic Toc wanted beer. Lollibells, who came out of his trailer in a smoking jacket, his face smeared with cold cream, needed a razor, some hostess cupcakes, and a pretty little boy. “Get me one that just matches your pretty little girl,” he said, winking at me. “A lil ole schoolboy.”

“I'm not getting anything for a man wearing red lingerie except a plaid bathrobe.”

“It's garnet, honey. Garnet silk.” He waved at me with the tips of his fingers and winked. He was gorgeous, even in cold cream.

Felix, the midget, wanted cigars, vermouth, and a kitten.

“If I see one on the street,” said Zane. “I'm not going to a pet shop for a goddamned kitten. I'm not Santa Claus. I'm going into town.”

“Up yours,” said Felix. He stuck his tongue out at me, then walked away with his hands in his pockets, head down. He turned around and hollered at us, “A gray-striped one with white paws!”

Striped kitten, I scribbled on the back of an envelope. The requests were coming fast. Daisy loped over to my window and handed me Jungle Jim's list, scrawled on an envelope grubbier than my own: “bannannas beer trysicle w/horn make sur it work.” She watched me read it, and for added insurance, gave me a kiss on the mouth. Then Madge came out, and with her face purposely averted from mine, kindly asked Zane for washers, rum, and burn ointment.

“What did you do to her?” asked Zane after she had walked away. Before I could answer, a woman with a shaved head took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

“Lover boy!”

“Did you meet Eva? Eva, this is—”

Through the open window, she pressed her nose into his neck and sniffed. “So smoky sweet!”

“Louise,” he said, pushing her face away. “She's my friend.”

“Ah . . . you sleep with my dragon?” She flashed a smile. I caught a slanted glimpse of her olive face—the Roman nose, curvaceous lips, sharp cheekbones. Everything about her seemed long: long nose, long neck, long arms, and long skinny fingers tracing Zane's ears. “Lucky girl. The fire-eater fuck you like flame?”

“She also goes by Spidora—because she's wicked.”

Pleased, Eva laughed. “You fear me?” she asked, poking her head into the cab. “I am a bad lady. Ha! Absofuckinglutely. But you, I like. I know already I like you very much. Zane likes you—I love you. Like that, see? Dragon and princess.”

A girl came to my window. She looked about twelve. “Get over it. Zane got laid. Yippee. You going to town, hon? I need a ride.”

I looked at the girl, then at Zane, and back to the girl again. She stared me down. Then she flipped her hair, stepped back, and put her hand on her hip: a skinny white-trash girl with lanky hair and sharp features, practically naked in a pair of cutoffs and a dirty yellow scrap of bra.

Eva was giving Zane her list: “Oven mittens, some creme for the eye—in the little blue pot, you know, not the pink one; the pink one makes me sneeze, Pop-Tarts, the big box with sprinkles, some cotton balls, and darling, last thing, I need a little perfume. I let you pick for me.” She took a last sniff of his hair and added, “Something hot and smoky—like you.”

The girl came back to my window with an unlit cigarette and reached her arm across me so Zane could light it. “Aren't you going to introduce me?” she asked.

“Louise, Sunny. Sunny, Louise,” said Zane, blushing as he lit her cigarette. “What do you want?”

“She wants to fight,” said Eva, then waved gaily at me and walked away. Only then did I notice that Spidora had a third leg under her skirt.

Sunny lowered her voice, making the hair itch on the back of my neck as she purred, “I need a bra.” His eyes went to her chest. “And some panties.” I didn't write it down. She didn't leave. It seemed like forever that the three of us hung in balance in the cab of the red truck with the sun beating down, her head in the window, her arm reaching across me to him. It seemed like my whole life.

O
N
M
AIN
S
TREET
in Myrtle Beach, I sauntered alongside Zane, who looked wild and beautiful in flip-flops and faded shorts, with a spangled vest open over his bare chest. His
red hair caught the sun in tiny flames, his sequins danced. Everywhere we went, people stared. He was like a fish on the shore, shimmering, sparkling, flip-flopping. Beside him, I was the freak, wearing a new blue-and-gold-striped gym suit with a mwcw stamp and a wet ponytail.

He bought me a hippie dress. It was made in India, of bright-orange embroidered cotton, and covered with bells and beads.

“I don't wear orange,” I informed him.

“Try it on.” He pushed me into the dressing room, and with his mouth on mine, stripped off my gym suit. The dress was perfect. He put a pair of sandals on my feet, and in the store, braided my hair. The saleswomen crowded around us, amazed to see a man braid. “Earrings!” he called out, and one of the women arrived with a tray. Deftly, he removed my gold hoops and offered to trade them for the dress, sandals, and a pair of dangling crystals. “Real gold,” he said. When he lightly bit the hoop between his teeth, he looked just like a gypsy. On his way out, he pocketed a bottle of perfume.

In the hardware store, he purchased an ice-cube tray, five bottles of lighter fluid, and a box of votive candles. He had a long discussion with the clerk about a sixteenth-inch-diameter brass rod and some file handles. He tried on tubular bandages until he found one that fit his finger perfectly. After much deliberation, he added a package of red dye to his basket. Then he went into the store's bathroom and came out with the cardboard cylinder from inside a roll of paper towels. “We're going to make a torch!” he said, and his eyes shone. They weren't exactly the same shade of green as Roderick's eyes, but they were close.

On the way home, we found a gray cat with white feet stuck in a tree and put it in the truck for Felix.

“It's not a kitten,” I pointed out. “It doesn't have a stripe.”

“You're not with it, baby,” said Zane, “but you will be. Then you'll understand that in a carnie's life, everything is a suggestion.” The cat crouched on the back of the seat with his hair standing straight up. Apparently, he smelled chimpanzees and pythons. I sucked on my cigarette, desperate for something cool to say.

We rode in silence for a while, drinking Goebel beer, and then Zane began to piece last night together as if he were recounting our honeymoon.

“So, I'm on the back lot, smoking a J with Sunny and Lollibells, when I hear that damned Sinatra. We'd closed the gates an hour ago. Lollibells says, ‘Oh hell, Tic Toc's drunk again,' so we go over there to get him before he decides to hit the town. Arthur bails him out three times a week. What the fuck? The chaise volonte is running at one o'clock in the morning—burning free gas. No sign of Arthur. Probably nodded off on Valium. We figure ole Tic has passed out on one of the chairs, and the thing is running on auto. But we get over there, and the old geezer is sitting in his cage working the gears like he has a mile of rubes waiting in line. Sunny sniffs out Female.

“‘Rufus got him a girl,' she says. We all run up to see the fool who would kick boots with Tic Toc, and there you are, swirling through the stars like an angel. Sunny gets all jealous. She's been the only chick on the lot—under fifty and with the standard number of parts—all summer. But there you were . . . so beautiful up there in the lights with your hair flying.
When that car swept down, and I saw you up close, I said, ‘Yikes!'”

Self-consciously, I touched my new braids. Then I asked the question that had been torturing me since we left the lot.

“Is Sunny your ex-girlfriend?”

He laughed. “No, Sunny has never been my girlfriend.”

“Good.” I leaned back happily sniffing the salt air.

“She's my ex-wife.”

“You're divorced?” The ring! He was still wearing the wedding ring on his left hand! And the way she had looked at me in the cab of the truck. I was the Other Woman!

“Separated, divorced, whatever.” He began to talk to the cat. “You ready to be a carnie cat? Wait till you meet Felix. A little rough on the outside, smells like a dead cigar, but he's really a sweetheart. Hey, kitty kitty?” The cat hissed.

In my brief experience with men, I had come to understand that they were not artful creatures. In addition to the sound advice Florida had given me that boys would find me interesting if I talked to them about themselves, she also warned me that males required patience. She had often demonstrated this with Henry by a sudden and complete dissociation, during which time she would reapply her lipstick or resume her knitting with the air of someone who is utterly alone in a room. Therefore, I did not mention the ring on Zane's left hand. Instead, I asked nonchalantly, “How long were you married?”

“Married is a strong word for it,” said Zane. “Carnies usually hitch up on the merry-go-round. It's the closest we come to going to church. One ride on a pony with your sweetheart squeezed between your thighs, and it's for better or worse. Usually worse, in my case.” He lit a cigarette. “To answer your
question, we were together about five years.” Raindrops began to hit the windshield. “Hell,” he said. “Pull your wiper, will you? This rain is killing Arthur. We need a blowout tonight, just to get the gas to get to Rock Hill. Rock Hill, South Carolina, what a dump.”

I stuck my arm out the window and pulled my wiper string, but it wasn't as fun as it was last night with Jungle Jim. My legs were crossed under my new dress, and my mouth had tightened into the straight line of a hard-nosed Baptist. I had fornicated with a married man.

“What's the ring for?” I asked.

“What? Oh, Christ! I don't need this, okay? Don't play cop with me. If you wanted to deflower somebody last night, you got the wrong guy. I ain't asking
you
every little detail. What the hell do you want?”

“I want to get out of this truck. Pull over.”

“Just like a woman! You wait until the downpour hits and leave me with one wiper.” He squealed the truck to a stop on the shoulder of the road. It had begun to hail. “Louise, I can't let you out in this. Not in your new dress and everything.”

“Take your damned gypsy dress!” I screamed, tearing it off and throwing it at his face. “Take your tacky fake earrings and these piece-of-shit shoes! I don't want anymore of your low-rent beer, either!” Naked, I jumped out of the car and began to stomp away in the mud. The cat followed me.

Honking the bicycle horn on the truck, Zane puttered along beside us. When we began to draw a crowd, I got back in.