The Nine Pound Hammer by John Claude Bemis

handiwork. Grab ahold of the other side of this roll and we’ll get it hung up at the front gate. Painted the sign myself.”
    After attaching the corners of the canvas roll to the framework of poles, Conker let it unfurl. Ray stood back with Eddie to admire the ten-by-twelve-foot sign introducing CORNELIUS T. CARTER’S MYSTIFYING MEDICINE SHOW AND TABERNACLE OF TACHYCARDIAL TALENT . If Conker hadn’t already found his calling as a performer, he could have been an artist.
    The spitting image of Peg Leg Nel, although with a few less wrinkles and not quite so wild-eyed to Ray’s mind, peered down from the center. Below the oval-framed portrait, a scrolling banner announced CORNELIUS T. CARTER along with the title ROOT WORKER .
    “That’s me.” Conker pointed to a bare-chested likeness of himself lifting a globe, like Atlas from the old myths. If anything, Ray thought Conker had been too humble in his self-portrait. The real Conker was much more imposing.
    Ray scanned the other images. He found the SNAKE DANCER , Marisol, her torso and arms covered in slithering pythons. Buck was there, too, sporting an outstretched pistol above the label BLIND SHARPSHOOTER. Below him was a young man in a turban swallowing a sword. SWORD SWALLOWER. There was an Indian with a feathered headdress. Flames encircled him. FIRE-EATER. A Chinese girl, who must have been Conker’s friend Si, was twisted in a knot and encased in a ridiculous number of locks and chains. She was listed as the ESCAPE ARTIST .
    “Think you’ll stick around, Ray?” Eddie asked.
    “I’m not sure,” Ray said.
    “Well, you ought to stay here with us,” Conker said. “We can use a hawker out front and help setting up and breaking down. Always plenty of work.”
    Ray looked around at the medicine show’s tent and the rickety train. Conker put his hand to Ray’s back, directing him toward the train. “Come on. Nearly lunchtime.”
    *  *  *
    Ray was greeted warmly. First by the rich smells coming from the makeshift dining room erected in the grass on the backside of the
Ballyhoo
. In the shade of a wide oak, a table was created from old doors and sawhorses. It took four mismatched floral tablecloths to cover the length. An assortment of chairs and benches from the train were set about, most of the medicine show already seated and scooping heavy servings onto their tin plates. Enormous cast-iron pots and pans were heaped with different steaming dishes: a buttery, yellow cornmeal cake, hissing pieces of fried chicken, dark oily greens flecked with cut potatoes and bits of fatback, gooey mounds of yams, and ears of corn, the husks blackened from roasting. Ray had no doubt the last had been stolen from the field that stretched out behind them.
    The next greeting came from Ma Everett’s warm arms enfolding Ray. “Glad you’re out and about, young one. Spent so much time with you in there, I feel I already know you.”
    Ray smiled at the small, pinched face he recalled from the brief windows of wakening from his feverish sleep.
    “I’m Ma Everett,” she chirped.
    “Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m Ray.”
    “You feeling better, dear?”
    “Yes. Much. Thank you for all you did.”
    “Nothing, nothing,” she said. “Take a seat, anywhere.Fix a plate. You still look a fair bit peaked. They haven’t been working you too much, I hope.”
    “He insisted,” Conker said, mashing Ray into a chair at his side. He began shoveling heaps on his plate. Ray imagined that Ma Everett could have cooked all day just to keep Conker alone fed, but serving himself from the enormous pans, Ray realized that there would be more than enough to feed the entire medicine show and half the town of Hillsboro.
    Ray noticed a strange object beyond the shade of the oak, toward the caboose of the
Ballyhoo
. It was a cedar pole stuck into the ground. The branches were stripped, and upturned bottles of ocean blues, ripe greens, fire reds, and golden yellows were fastened with wire to