would be yelling at her, and Sylvie would hear every word her mother said, and she’d see her mother there, banging a pot down, but why she squinted was from late-afternoon sun glancing off the barn roof, and why she felt an urge to lift her hand was that her hand
was
lifting, to pluck an aphid from the rose trellis. She heard her mother in the kitchen and heard her mother two years ago, calling from the barn door.
Even without her spells Sylvie had an excellent memory. She memorized her textbooks and got perfect grades and achievement pins. During spare periods and physical education classes (from which she was excused) she studied in the library or in an empty classroom. Since everyone who wanted to had seen her legs at least once, she was left alone.
In her junior year, however, an army base was set up down the road from the school, and cadets began to wait for her, two or three of them a day, outside the school gates. They took pictures of her to send to their families and to carry in their pockets—for good luck, they said, when they were shipped off to fight the war in Europe.
Sylvie didn’t mind. The truth was, she had a soft spot for the cadets, who brought her chocolates and told her she looked like the movie star Vivien Leigh. They made jokes and teased her, but they did it to her face, there was no hypocritical pretense of sparing her feelings.
One day a carnival came to town, and not a single person from school had the nerve to tell her about the freak show, but the cadets did, no beating around the bush, straight to the Siamese-twin foetuses in a jar.
“Like you, except with four arms and another head,” one of the cadets reported. “And dead, naturally. Can’t hold a candle to you, though.”
Sylvie turned on her heel and made for the Brown farm, where the carnival was set up. She found the side-show tent by following red arrows that said, “This Way for the Thrill of Your Life!” and “Keep Going, Thrill-seekers!” Next to the tent was a big sign that said:
M.T. BEAN OF NEW YORK CITY PRESENTS
THE SIDE SHOW OF THE DECADE.
TALLEST, SMALLEST, THINNEST, FATTEST,
STRANGEST, RAREST EVER TO WALK
THE FACE OF THE EARTH!
Underneath was a painting of a thin man in a tuxedo, a fat lady wearing a crown and sitting on a throne, and a tall lady with huge hands holding out a plate that had a midget standing on it. The foetuses weren’t in the painting.
“Next show in half an hour,” a boy said. “You can buy your ticket now. Fifty cents.”
Sylvie didn’t have any money, she hadn’t thought about having to pay admission. “I’ll come back,” she said.
She was sure that her parents would want to see the foetuses as badly as she did. She was wrong. An odd, dark look came over her father’s face. Her mother called M.T. Bean a vulture.
“But, Mother,” Sylvie protested. “Siamese twins. Like me and Sue.”
“Not
like you and Sue!” her mother cried, shaking a ladle at her. “Naked! Meat on display! That’s what I saved you from!”
The next day Sylvie left home. She hadn’t planned to, but when she got to the fairgrounds and found the tents gone, she started walking to New York City. She remembered that Mr. Bean was from New York City. She figured that by heading eastand following road signs, she’d eventually get there. In the back of her mind she had a plan to exhibit herself at diners in exchange for free meals and a place to sleep.
Three hours later she came upon the carnival in a meadow, not set up but with the trailers spread out and people lounging around drinking beer. A piebald Negro wolf-whistled at her.
“Is Mr. Bean here?” she asked him.
“Honey, you don’t want to see the Bean man,” he said. “We got two trailers broke down, and the Bean man be a mean man today.”
“He’ll want to see me,” Sylvie said.
He sure did. He offered her his chair and a bottle of Coke. He said he knew her mother.
“My mother’s dead,” Sylvie told him. “So is my
was
lifting, to pluck an aphid from the rose trellis. She heard her mother in the kitchen and heard her mother two years ago, calling from the barn door.
Even without her spells Sylvie had an excellent memory. She memorized her textbooks and got perfect grades and achievement pins. During spare periods and physical education classes (from which she was excused) she studied in the library or in an empty classroom. Since everyone who wanted to had seen her legs at least once, she was left alone.
In her junior year, however, an army base was set up down the road from the school, and cadets began to wait for her, two or three of them a day, outside the school gates. They took pictures of her to send to their families and to carry in their pockets—for good luck, they said, when they were shipped off to fight the war in Europe.
Sylvie didn’t mind. The truth was, she had a soft spot for the cadets, who brought her chocolates and told her she looked like the movie star Vivien Leigh. They made jokes and teased her, but they did it to her face, there was no hypocritical pretense of sparing her feelings.
One day a carnival came to town, and not a single person from school had the nerve to tell her about the freak show, but the cadets did, no beating around the bush, straight to the Siamese-twin foetuses in a jar.
“Like you, except with four arms and another head,” one of the cadets reported. “And dead, naturally. Can’t hold a candle to you, though.”
Sylvie turned on her heel and made for the Brown farm, where the carnival was set up. She found the side-show tent by following red arrows that said, “This Way for the Thrill of Your Life!” and “Keep Going, Thrill-seekers!” Next to the tent was a big sign that said:
M.T. BEAN OF NEW YORK CITY PRESENTS
THE SIDE SHOW OF THE DECADE.
TALLEST, SMALLEST, THINNEST, FATTEST,
STRANGEST, RAREST EVER TO WALK
THE FACE OF THE EARTH!
Underneath was a painting of a thin man in a tuxedo, a fat lady wearing a crown and sitting on a throne, and a tall lady with huge hands holding out a plate that had a midget standing on it. The foetuses weren’t in the painting.
“Next show in half an hour,” a boy said. “You can buy your ticket now. Fifty cents.”
Sylvie didn’t have any money, she hadn’t thought about having to pay admission. “I’ll come back,” she said.
She was sure that her parents would want to see the foetuses as badly as she did. She was wrong. An odd, dark look came over her father’s face. Her mother called M.T. Bean a vulture.
“But, Mother,” Sylvie protested. “Siamese twins. Like me and Sue.”
“Not
like you and Sue!” her mother cried, shaking a ladle at her. “Naked! Meat on display! That’s what I saved you from!”
The next day Sylvie left home. She hadn’t planned to, but when she got to the fairgrounds and found the tents gone, she started walking to New York City. She remembered that Mr. Bean was from New York City. She figured that by heading eastand following road signs, she’d eventually get there. In the back of her mind she had a plan to exhibit herself at diners in exchange for free meals and a place to sleep.
Three hours later she came upon the carnival in a meadow, not set up but with the trailers spread out and people lounging around drinking beer. A piebald Negro wolf-whistled at her.
“Is Mr. Bean here?” she asked him.
“Honey, you don’t want to see the Bean man,” he said. “We got two trailers broke down, and the Bean man be a mean man today.”
“He’ll want to see me,” Sylvie said.
He sure did. He offered her his chair and a bottle of Coke. He said he knew her mother.
“My mother’s dead,” Sylvie told him. “So is my
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