No Promises in the Wind (10 page)

“And the caterpillar,” Emily interposed, “and the merry-go-round. We three—I don't know which of us rates top billing.” She turned to me again. “You'll be playing and bally-hooing outside the girlie-show, Josh. Those ladies at the table off to the left are the dancers. It's a gyp-show—you'd just as well know it. People pay a dime and expect to see either some pretty girls or some beautiful dancing, and they see women who are no longer pretty and dancing that is only third-rate. It's a gyp—Pete will admit it, and a lot of people will complain to you about it. But the dancers have to eat, too, you know. They're not very good, but then I'm not the funniest clown in the world either. There isn't a performance on the grounds that is really top-notch. But Pete keeps us, and we limp along. At least we have a little food each day. A lot of people would envy us for that.”

I nodded. “I know all about being hungry—and grateful for a job,” I said.

She put her hand on mine, and her eyes were full of kindness. “I know, Josh. Pete has told me what he learned about you from the truck driver. Pete wants very much to help you and Joey.”

“He seems like a very kind gentleman,” I said. But I wasn't thinking of Pete Harris as I spoke. I was looking at the oval of her face and the gentle concern in her eyes. There was a kindness and a sweetness about her that made me forget everything in the world except the fact that she was there beside me. The thought came to me suddenly and clearly: This is what it means to be in love. I love someone who is kind and beautiful. I love someone who is a clown.

She was talking about Pete Harris when I became conscious of her words again. “He is a good man,” she was saying quietly. “He has his weaknesses, but he's good. You can count on Pete if you play fair.” She turned and smiled at the dwarf man. “Isn't that so, Edward C?”

He puckered his mouth until it was like a tiny rosette in the middle of his face. “You and I know it is so, Emily. The boys will realize it, too, when they're better acquainted with him.”

Emily said nothing more. She picked up her fork and began to eat the food Edward C. passed to her. She did not look up until the dancers came by. One of them spoke to her; the others didn't look in her direction. A woman with bleached, harsh-looking hair looked at me and smiled. She said, “Hi, there, big fellow.” Another woman gave the speaker a disgusted look. “Don't tip the cradle, Florrie. Let Pete Harris and his clown take care of the kid.”

Emily's face didn't change expression. She said, “You'll find all kinds of people here, Josh. You'll have to play by ear for a while. You'll have to be very careful.”

When she noticed that Edward C. and Joey and I had finished our meal, she asked us to wait until she'd finished eating. “Pete wants me to trim your hair before you start on your job,” she said. “I'm kind of an expert at barbering. There are three redheads at home who have to be trimmed every so often. I'm getting pretty good at the job.”

So we waited, and then with Edward C. striding beside me and Emily walking hand in hand with Joey, we went into one of the tents where she draped a towel over my shoulders and worked on my hair with quick sure snips of her scissors. She trimmed Joey too while she was at it, and then leaned back in a chair and regarded us with satisfaction. “You both have well-shaped heads—that's very important for men. More important in my mind than height or width of shoulder.” She put her hands up to her own short hair and pulled it vigorously as if she were trying to lessen a tightness of her scalp. “You can go to Pete now. He'll tell you what you're to do today. I'm going to rest here a bit before I put on my makeup.”

“You're tired, Emily. Your eyes show it,” Edward C. said gently.

“I'm always tired, Edward C. I won't know how to behave if I ever find myself rested again.” She smiled and gave us a little wave as if she were anxious that we get going.

“Emily is overworked,” Edward C. told us as we walked along. “It's too much. A clown act is exhausting in itself. Besides that she has the boys to care for and the anxiety about all the tomorrows ahead of her.” He shook his head. “I worry about Emily. I'm so fond of her.”

It was a bright, warm morning, the third of December, and as beautiful as if it had been the third of May back home. There was a general bustling about as workers prepared for the opening of the gates at eleven o'clock. People in charge of concessions were getting their equipment set up; kegs of lemonade, cartons of cotton candy and pink taffy, loads of dolls and toys, were being set out in the various booths. Men were inspecting the machinery that kept the merry-go-round and the Ferris wheel operating, and performers were going around with costumes folded over their arms. Some of them were sitting in front of a tent with needle and thread, repairing damages made to their clothing the night before. Joey and I seemed to be the only ones who didn't know our way around.

We found Pete Harris busy at bookwork in his tent. He looked up and nodded as the three of us entered. “Morning, Edward C. Glad you're taking care of the boys.” He looked at me approvingly. “I see Emily has worked on your hair a little. Looks better. Looks a lot better. Trust Emily. She can do anything, that girl, anything. Wish I could pay her what she's worth. Can't, though. Times are rotten. Guess I told you that yesterday, didn't I, sport? As if you didn't know.”

He gave me a pair of tight-fitting pants, a bright red and yellow shirt, and a checkered vest with wide fringe dangling at the bottom. I looked like a fool in the outfit, but Pete said the loud colors would help to get attention.

After I was decked out, we went over to the tent where I had played the night before. The piano had been moved onto a small platform outside the tent, and my job was to play popular songs as loudly and flashily as possible while I called out to anyone approaching, urging them to go inside to see the dancers. I must say that they were the prettiest girls in the country, that they were wearing the shortest skirts and doing the most daring dances outside the dance halls of Paris. I was supposed to sway and bounce all over the piano bench as if I were having all the fun in the world; I was to grin and wink and urge people to pay their dimes and step inside.

It was a painful thing for me to do. I had always been shy and reserved. That was one reason I hadn't had many friends at Penn High. Howie had been able to clown when he accompanied my piano at school dances, but even with the kids my own age, I hadn't been able to do more than allow the expression on my face to show how much I enjoyed playing.

Now I would have to play the silly fool for hour after hour; my antics were just as important, Pete Harris said, as the loudness and gaiety of the music. I didn't like it; this silly, false routine was not what I had hoped for. But that didn't matter. It was a job. It meant five beautiful dollars a week. I didn't for one second think of refusing it, but as I took my place at the piano, I made Edward C. take Joey away. I wouldn't have him watching. And I hoped fervently that Emily would not come near. That was one thing I didn't believe I could take.

Emily
was, indeed, the star attraction of the carnival. People who couldn't afford to spend money at the sideshows would still bring their children back night after night to laugh at the antics of the clown they called Bongo. They never heard the clown speak; words didn't matter. The fun lay in seeing the tall figure sprawl at the slightest impact with a tree, a chair, another person; of seeing the dull-witted bewilderment with which the clown got out of one troubled situation into another. The Blegans and Edward C. scampered around Bongo, teasing and tormenting, luring him into trouble and then pretending to pummel and pinch him to punish his stupidity. The kids loved it, because, as Emily explained to me, they saw Edward C. and the Blegans as being little like themselves, and seeing a grown-up clown outwitted by the childish-looking dwarf men was not only funny but satisfying to the young.

Personally I could have clouted the little monsters, and I told Emily so, but she only smiled and asked me to think of the clowns I had once laughed at and to remember what it was that made me laugh. She was right. I had been a little monster too; I had been gleeful when the silly clown fell flat or was punished for being stupid. But that was long before I knew a clown named Emily.

Each day's work was long and strenuous for her. She was on the grounds constantly, mingling with the crowds, bumping and tumbling in a continuous effort to win a few laughs from people who were not too ready for laughter. At closing time she would gather her three sleeping children from Pete Harris's tent and would walk wearily outside the gates and over to the boxcar which was their home. She nearly always stopped beside my piano to say good-night; I would wait for her there if my chores were finished first. Emily's good-night came to be a small spot of joy for me in a day that was often tedious and monotonous.

She always ate breakfast with us before she put her makeup on for the day. After that I seldom saw her except at a distance during working hours, but there were a few times when the crowds were nearly gone and the lights dimmed that Emily had a chance to stand beside my piano and listen as I played the way I wanted to play. Then I would improvise some of the melodies that were in my mind, trying out variations in minor keys, softly and with a tenderness that was all for her. Eventually I'd return to the original major key with a lot of fanfare which was my way of boasting to her of my skill. Mostly she would just stand and listen, smiling to herself, but saying nothing. One night, though, she leaned forward and spoke to me softly. “You have a gift, Josh; don't let these times make you lose sight of it.”

I was restless during these weeks. Joey and I kept waiting for Lonnie to return, and when he didn't, we knew that he must have lost his job as he had feared. I took three dollars out of the precious ten that Pete Harris had given me after my first two weeks of work and put them in a letter to Lonnie. Joey added a dollar of the money he had earned at running errands, and we wrote Lonnie that this was the first installment on the money we owed him. We felt good when we mailed that letter.

We bought one another gifts for Christmas and were so excited about buying something other than food that we opened our packages days before Christmas arrived. I bought a bright blue shirt for Joey with a chocolate bar slid in the breast pocket. And he gave me an imitation leather wallet to hold my newly acquired wealth. I don't know when a gift had ever pleased me so much. That wallet gave me a sense of well-being when I put it into my hip pocket; moreover, it had several interesting compartments as well as an identification card which I filled out proudly. There was a line which stated, “In case of accident, please notify _______.” I started to write “Stefan Grondowski” on that line; then I thought better of it and wrote “Lon Bromer” and added the Omaha address he'd given us.

Still, in spite of the unforgiving streak in me, I kept thinking of home as Christmas drew near. On the warm, gentle nights when the noise of the carnival had subsided, I would often take long walks, wondering as I walked if there were still the lines of men in front of employment offices back in Chicago, wondering if Kitty had managed to get a job, wondering a hundred things about Mom. When Joey wrote a note home to tell them of my job, to let them know we were well, I gave him a dollar to add to the one he was placing in the letter. Joey wrote, “Josh and I are sending you this money for Christmas.” He asked me if I wanted to sign the letter, and for a moment I really wanted to write my name beside his. But I said, “No, I guess not,” and he sealed the letter without saying anything more about it.

I thought a great deal about Emily during these days, not the Emily who clowned all day, but the Emily who met us at breakfast and stopped beside my piano late at night—the beautiful Emily with great purple eyes and a sweet oval face above the clown's ruff.

They were sad, these thoughts of Emily. Somewhere I had gained the impression that love makes one happy, but that was not true for me. Love only hurt me; it hurt the way uncertainty and hopelessness did.

One night as I waited for her to come past my piano and say good-night, I heard her youngest boy wailing sleepily as she herded the three of them home. When I saw her stoop to lift the boy in her arms, I ran to her and offered to carry him piggy-back to the boxcar. He whimpered at first and then let his head droop to my neck where he sighed and went back to sleep. Emily walked beside me, hand in hand with the other two boys, and none of us spoke as we picked our way along the railroad ties that led up to their home.

When we laid the children on their beds, I stepped outside and Emily followed me. She sat down on the lowest step of the car, pulling the skullcap from her bright hair.

“Sit down for a minute, Josh,” she said. “I've been wanting to talk to you.” She paused, looking at me directly. “Is something troubling you lately?”

“No,” I said. “Just the blues.”

“It's a time for the blues, isn't it?”

“I ought to be thankful that I have a job. Well, I am. It's just ...” I didn't know how to finish the sentence.

“You're lonely, Josh; I've realized that. It's too bad that there aren't any young people of your age in the carnival. I've been wishing I knew some nice girl, someone you'd enjoy taking to a movie now and then.”

I shook my head. We both sat silent and stared out into the night for a while. Then before I knew what I was going to say, I blurted out what was pent up inside me. “I wish you were a girl, Emily. I'd give anything in the world if you were a girl my age.” As soon as the words were out, I grew rigid with dismay at what I had revealed.