The School of Beauty and Charm (26 page)

“Where's the cat?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“I love that cat.”

“You just met that cat. How can you love it?”

“I just met you, and I love you.”

We got out and chased the cat up another tree, so Zane could climb up and get it.

“I love this cat because it has faith,” said Zane. “It has no idea how to get out of a tree, but it goes straight up every time.”

“That would be stupidity.”

“Yes,” said Zane, dabbing some blood from a cat scratch on his face. “But this is an old cat. Stupid cats die young.”

Hail the size of golf balls bounced against the truck. The wet cat shivered behind the seat. Zane took off his spangled vest and hung it around my shoulders. “May I offer you another low-rent beer? How about a Pop-Tart?”

“How old is she?”

“Who, Sunny?”

I gave him a long, patient stare.

“She was sixteen when we married down in New Orleans. I was playing the horn with her daddy, Earl Boudreaux, plays tenor sax. When he's not drinking, he's the best. Earl the Pearl. I was in high school, had one of those old silver Conns with a goofy bell.”

“Do you play now?”

“Naw. I thought I was gonna be the best, ya know? Played eight, nine hours a day. Never even thought about women— well, almost never.”

“What happened?”

“Life happened. Gotta bring home a paycheck when ya got a wife.” He laughed bitterly, and the dream left his eyes.

“You're not exactly selling insurance.”

“No, Zane Wilder, the Human Dragon don't sell insurance.”

“Why did you marry her?”

“It wasn't my idea. Everywhere I went—she was there.”

“She followed you around New Orleans,” I offered.

“You could say that. Sunny has had a tough time. Her mama ran off when she was a baby, and Earl the Pearl isn't Daddy material. He has too much talent. Talent kills relationships.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Oh, none of us around here have any talent, except Lollibells, and he's too fucked up to use it. The Arthur Reese Traveling Show is one big unhappy family. We drew a good crowd for a while, but lately we've had a run of bad luck: rain, inflation, flat tires. Snakes getting coffee burns.” He grinned and took his hand off the steering wheel to ruffle my hair. “But when I saw you swinging on the chaise volonte, I had a feeling in my gut. I thought, She's going to change our luck! This girl is going to save the Arthur Reese Traveling Show!”

“You haven't seen my act yet,” I said.

“Clown,” he said firmly. “You told me last night when I hijacked your car on the chaise.” A shadowy memory surfaced: tall man swinging by one arm on the side of my flying chair. “That fool Tic Toc wouldn't stop the rig. I don't know what you gave him, but he was off the planet. He kept screaming, ‘She parachutes! Watch out!' I was afraid you might jump. We've had that happen more often than Arthur would like to admit. So I'm swinging there by one arm, trying to get in your seat, and you look over cool as you please, like you're in the supermarket, and we just met. ‘Hi,' you say. ‘I'm Louise Peppers. I'm a clown.' You didn't crack a smile.”

“I'm not really a clown.”

“I'm not really a dragon. Just swamp mix from South Louisiana.”

We parked on the back lot and ran into Zane's trailer, which was soon crowded with carnies, shaking off the rain as they grabbed cans of beer. Zane stood on top of his bed, vest thrown open, tossing out the loot. I gaped at the things he pulled from the ample lining of his vest. I didn't think I'd taken my eyes off of him all morning. “Swischer Sweets for the Sweet,” he called out, tossing a package of cigars to the room. He threw some condoms at Lollibells. “Whirlie whirls at the tip, plays a tune when you come. Sorry they were all out of little boys. Cats, however, were on sale . . . where is Felix? Step on up here, little fellow, and get your furry friend.”

“Kiss off,” said Felix. “I said kitten. This is a cat.”

“This is Faith. She loves you.” Faith, however, did not love Felix. When he picked her up, she scratched his face and then ran under the bed and wouldn't come out until Jungle Jim called her with a long strange meow. Soon, Faith was purring on Jim's lap, paying no mind to Felix, and this made the midget fall desperately in love with her. When Sunny breezed into the room, I watched closely to see if Zane would produce lingerie, but she helped herself to a pint of gin and left.

After the gifts were distributed—apparently no one paid the person who went to town—we all went to work. Although I had been perfectly useless around the house at Owl Aerie, I had learned a good work ethic at Southern Board: Move. Even Dopey made it a policy not to stand still, at least not where he could be seen. At the Arthur Reese Traveling Show, I moved. Squatting the way Henry had taught me, so I wouldn't damage my back, I moved crates, shovels full of chimp poop, and heavy tarps folded like flags. I moved in and out of lights, so Tic Toc could check for shadows. With a clenched jaw, I moved electricity through unlikely conduits.

“Just don't lick the wire!” yelled Tic Toc, guffawing as he staggered away. I moved a paintbrush across a backdrop for four hours without stopping until Felix screamed that I was using the wrong color. Often, I just moved out of the way. When we had everything set up, word came from Arthur that we were to tear it down and set everything up in the tent, in case of rain.

“Who ever heard of a grab joint in a tent,” complained Tic Toc as he dismantled a red-and-yellow hot dog stand and hauled it beneath the canvas. “Far be it for me to say!”

“Cats up!” exclaimed Eva in disgust. “Cats up on their mouths, cats up on their fingers, cats up on my web!” She wasn't wearing her wig, just a bandanna over her shaved head, and she had hiked her skirt up to use her third leg, somewhat shorter than the others, to roll up a rug.

I didn't see much of Zane, and when I did see him, he didn't seem to see me.

“Zane is zee real artist,” said Eva with glowing eyes. “Zee how he disappears inside of himself? Zee how the world falls away from him? Like a coat.” She nodded firmly. “This was my grandfather. He swallowed the sword of Caesar. Fire was nothing to him. He used to say, ‘How can fire burn fire? I am fire.' When he was working, the world was as nothing to him. A great man. An asshole, but a great man.”

Tentatively, I offered to help Zane set up his table. “Sure,” he said with a curt nod, as if I were Felix, or Tic Toc, or just some rube who had walked into the tent. Lovingly, I taped up the broken leg, and with a sigh, spread the ugly cloth over it. Someone, probably Sunny, had painted a bad portrait of the Human Dragon on the dirty vinyl tablecloth. Clearly, his beauty was beyond her scope. Following his terse commands,
I dumped lighter fluid into the pan, lined the torches on the rack, and hung the bayonet on a nail. I tossed the blowtorch under the table. I couldn't figure out what to do with the light-bulb, so I stuck it in the pocket of his vest, which I kissed and hung over the chair. To warm up for his act, he stood in front of a full-length mirror, took five deep breaths, rolled forward on the balls of his feet, and stuck his finger down his throat. He did this until he stopped gagging. Then he used a banana, un-peeled, and after that, a cucumber.

“Hell of a way to make a dollar, ain't it,” said Lollibells, strolling over. He stood beside me with his fingers hooked into the bib of his white overalls and watched Zane in the mirror. “The sword enters the glottal chamber, passes to the epiglottis, the pharynx, and enters the esophagus, where it must be pushed—a little—past the muscle that closes the stomach, and then as far as Zane will allow it. Zane knows how far he can go into the depth of the stomach because he's touched the bottom with the tip of his blade—just once, we hope. One never forgets that feeling, or so I hear.” He looked down at me and smiled. “I ain't fool enough to try, is you?”

Warren—it was hard to think of him as Lollibells when he was talking like a doctor—continued his lecture. “The thing that separates the sword swallowers from sane people is the ability to control the gag reflex, put in place by whoever designed our wonderful bodies to prevent foolishness of this kind. It's not perfect; hospital emergency rooms overflow with babies trying to swallow buttons, vacuum cleaner parts, gerbil tails, you name it, but for ages three and up, it's automatic. Zane has not only learned to overcome that reflex, he's gained
control over some of the muscles in his throat. No one can tell a human being how to control those muscles. It just one of those things, like wiggling your ears.” Warren wiggled his ears for me. Just then, Zane turned toward us, pulling a long cucumber from his throat.

“Oh you fine-looking thang, you!” cried Lollibells, putting his hand on his crotch. “I got something right here for you to practice on. Be a lot sweeter than that nasty ole cucumber. Bigger, too.”

“Go to hell,” said Zane, grinning.

“Now dont be shy lil' white boy. Come on over and sit on Uncle Lovely Balls's lap.”

Zane pulled out a tube of Instant Tan and began to apply it to his chest.

“Let me help with you that,” said Lollibells. “Let me rub that on the hard-to-reach spots.”

“Don't you have any work to do? Don't you need to practice being funny or something?”

“Oh no, honey, that all comes natural. Jus' like my bronze skin. White boy, you going orange now. Watch out with that shit.”

“Really?” Zane lifted his arm to examine the effect of the Instant Tan.

“Ain't he pretty?” said Lollibells, glancing in the mirror. Then he lowered his voice. “Uh-oh. Here come trouble.”

“Am I interrupting something?” asked Sunny. Zane busied himself with the bayonet while Lollibells studied a hangnail. She wore nothing but a tiny black-lace bra with matching panties. The effect was shocking, but not erotic. In her underwear, she was definitely skinny, with big knobby knees and
a hard, flat ass. Fresh nail polish lacquered the toes of her dirty bare feet. Her nipples poked pertly through the black lace.

“Law, chile, get you some clothes on!” cried Lollibells, pretending to peek through his fingers.

“Zane gave me this,” she replied. “He got it in town this morning. How does it fit, Zane?”

When she put her hands on her hips, one rough, chalky elbow pushed me aside. Sunny Boudreaux. Balls to the wall.

“It's nice,” said Zane without looking up from the sword he was polishing. I felt my ears growing hot; instantly, Sunny turned to me. She had a rat's face: sharp chin, beady eyes, and wide, red mouth. I remembered a nightmare. I'd go into the kitchen and say, “What's for supper?”

“You,” Florida would say, knife in hand.

“My husband tells me you're going to be with us for a while,” said Sunny. “What is it that you do?”

Lollibells let his mouth drop open, either at the mention of a husband, or the bad acting. Silently, looking at no one, Zane racked his sword and slid his vest over his shoulders.

“I'm a clown,” I said, choking on the word.

“Oh my God,” said Lollibells. When he looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “Did I hear this? You're a clown?”

“Aren't we all,” said Zane in a flat, cold voice that made tears stream down my face.

“You bastard!” screamed Sunny, swinging a punch that missed his jaw and landed squarely on the lightbulb in his pocket. A stream of blood ran down her bony wrist, and she began to wail. From all corners of the tent, carnies crowded in to see the action, raising a din that was finally hushed by the deep,
smooth voice of Arthur Reese himself.

He was a tall, stout man with a head full of wavy white hair and a neat goatee. He appeared in a tuxedo, with Felix by his side pushing a cart of mint juleps. “My dears,” the old gentleman said, looking calmly all around him. “I'm afraid it's nap time. Off to your beds. Felix will bring your drinks around, and he will return to wake you promptly at forty-five minutes from the hour. We're going to have an excellent show this evening. Night night.”

W
HEN
I
WOKE
up on Zane's narrow bed, it was dark, and the carnival was in full swing. Through the thin walls of the trailer, I heard “Le Sabre” playing on the calliope, the chatter of Jim's monkeys, the clatter of the roller coaster, and the roar of the motor drome. The talkers cried, “Step right up, Ladies and Gentlemen! Never seen before in the history of man! Only two dollars, that's right, see the Most Beautiful Teenager in America!”

“Pitch till you win!”

Grinders, most of them local, called out, “Doughnuts! Doughnuts! Get ‘em while they're hot!” Somewhere, a child cried. As I lay still, I began to hear the softer sounds, the underlayer—a flap of canvas, the sizzle of meat, and faintly, the sweet refrain of Sinatra from chaise volonte.

Then I heard Zane's knock on the door. “Hello,” he said, smiling shyly. He'd put on a clean vest and braided his hair with a scarlet ribbon. His eyes were on fire. “I was afraid Sunny
might have scared you back to school.” Kneeling beside the bed, he held me, pressing his face into my neck. He smelled of smoke, butane, and doughnuts. “Don't leave me,” he whispered in my ear. “Please don't leave until you've seen my act.” I wrapped my arms around him, feeling the taut muscles beneath the silky back of his vest. I touched the smooth hollows beneath his cheekbones.

“You're not faithful,” I said.

“I'm a cat in a tree,” he said. “Save me.” He took his wedding ring off and swallowed it.

We walked arm in arm through the drizzling rain, into the packed tent.

“Madge Olinick,” boomed Arthur Reese, “is a native of Chicago, the daughter of a policeman and a baker. She never saw so much as a garden snake until she eloped with her high school sweetheart to the swamps of Louisiana. There in the bayou, where the sun casts an eerie green glow through the black swamp grass, where the buzz of insects is the breath of the land, where the black panther stalks beneath a yellow moon, Madge Olinick first discovered love.”