Freaks: Alive, on the Inside!

“How did you know I’d go to get the mummy?” I asked Miss Lightfoot as I handed Minnie up to her.

“Minnie told me a story about it,” Miss Lightfoot said, and gave the child a kiss on the head. “She said you wanted to save it.” She paused and examined me. “You don’t believe it’s real, do you?”

“I’m not mad,” I said. “You’ll have to wait and decide for yourself.”

I took the reins again. The sun beat down. I removed my jacket and knife bandolier, and Mr. Ginger held them. More than once I jerked awake, the reins slipping from my fingers. The road widened, and farms and villages multiplied. We passed by several apple orchards. I should have pity on those trapped inside the wagon and find a shady place to stop and eat. My stomach rumbled agreement. The cornfields made way for pastures where cows grazed. We came to a wide dirt road with a fancy white sign at the gate painted with the words WEBSTER’S DAIRY.

“This would make a fine wagon for delivering eggs and milk,” I told Mr. Ginger, who concurred. I hoped the farmer would at least allow us a place to rest, even if he didn’t want to trade. Mr. Ginger closed the gate behind us before he hid inside the wagon.

I caught Mr. Webster in the yard of his pretty wood-frame house as he was leaving from his midday meal. A plump Mrs. Webster stood at the door. Several small children peered from behind her skirts.

“No, can’t say as I need a wagon,” said Mr. Webster as he walked around our conveyance. “Why would you be selling, young man? Won’t that leave you on foot?” He narrowed his eyes. “It is yours to sell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir,” I answered. “However, I had in mind a trade for another wagon, not a sale. As you said, selling would leave us on foot.” I could have kicked myself for saying “us.”

The dairy farmer examined the legend painted on the side. “Would any of these ‘monsters’ be aboard this day?” he asked.

It seemed needless to lie. “Yes, sir, but they are shy. One suffers much cruelty in the world when one looks as they do.”

“Why would you trade your show cart?” Mr. Webster’s eyes narrowed again. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, sir. Not at all,” I said. “Except we are leaving this undignified business and going home, and we would not like to draw attention to ourselves.”

Mr. Webster stroked his chin and considered a moment. “Tell you what,” he said. “If you could bring yourself to do one more show, I’ll give you some paint. That’ll solve your problem, won’t it?”

What an idea. Paint. That would change our appearance. “Who would be our audience?” I asked. “A small group?” We couldn’t announce our presence far and wide if we desired to hide from Mink.

“My family and the neighbors,” Mr. Webster said. “A show like yours sure would make Jim Tompson’s harvest hoedown look pale.”

Mr. Webster had a rivalry going, it appeared. “You’d give us a sheltered place to paint?” I asked.

“Got an empty new barn, painted with that same white that I bought too much of,” he said.

After a brief conference inside the wagon, I climbed out and struck a deal. We would give a show the next evening. If we stayed out of sight, Mink would never know where we were. He’d think us vanished.

We set up camp in the barn, away from prying eyes. We found the paint already there, along with brushes. The boys commenced a wild romp in the hay that lined stalls at the back of the building, despite the thick, sweet afternoon air. I threatened them with murder if they kicked up chaff anywhere near the wagon when we began our work.

Minnie clambered from the wagon and ran to me crying. “My dolly, my dolly. Can’t find my dolly.”

I enlisted Bertha’s aid, but we could find the corn doll nowhere.

“It must have fallen out on our journey,” I said. “Never mind. I’ll make you a new one.”

“Don’t want a new one,” Minnie wailed.

I left Bertha to comfort her.

Apollo helped me bring the rigid Tauseret out of the wagon. Even if she seemed lifeless, paint fumes couldn’t be good for her. She felt warmer and softer by the time we laid her in a brandnew empty water trough in front of the stalls.

The boys gathered around her, chattering. As I left, Moses poked her with a stick. I glared at him, and he whipped his hand behind his back.

“Mind yourself,” I said. “That’s a real person, not a parcel.”

“And I know magic curses,” rasped a sinister, cracked voice, and the boys scattered, screaming. A husky chuckle came from the trough.

“Are you all right in there?” I asked, bending over her.

Tauseret’s eyes sparkled with happiness at the sight of me. Her skin softened as I watched, her face filled in around delicious cheekbones, and her plump lips curved. “Touch me,” she said.