And then there's Jupiter Monk. After the Dancer started drawing crowds, Thaddeus decided that we needed another specialty act. I don't know where he heard about Monk, but he sent for him, and one day Monk appeared on our doorstep, a huge burly man with a drooping handlebar mustache, dressed like some wild Russian Cossack and accompanied by a bear, a lion, and two leopards. He's good at his trade, I suppose, but I think he'd be even better working the games: he's the only person the Rigger has never been able to beat at cards or craps. (Or maybe the Rigger loses on purpose: I know I sure wouldn't want a lion tamer mad at me.) For a while we had a sword swallower, too. He called himself Carlos the Magnificent, though his real name was Julian Levy, and he drew pretty good crowds until the night he showed up drunk and practically gutted himself.

About a year ago Thaddeus decided that Alma wasn't putting her heart into her work (it took him that long to notice), so he sent off to a strippers' school—they really do have one, out in California somewhere—and hired Gloria Stunkel, a gorgeous young girl who dances under the name of Butterfly Delight. He moved her into the headliner's spot the day she arrived; I think Alma was actually happy about it, since the star is supposed to work even stronger than the other girls. But Gloria turned out to be a double oddity in the strip show: she wouldn't work strong, and she wouldn't go to bed with Thaddeus. The customers never liked her, since they weren't paying for an artful striptease, but Thaddeus kept her around anyway, either because she amused him or because she presented a challenge, I'm still not sure which.

We were a motley crew, all right, but we got along pretty well together, especially when Thaddeus wasn't around. I can't say I was truly happy with the carnival, but I know that I was less unhappy than I'd been anywhere else.

Thaddeus may have treated me like dirt—but he treated me like normal dirt, a little on the stupid side because of my stammer, but nothing to be fussed over. And if he displayed a certain disregard of my feelings, well, he behaved no differently toward anyone else. After a lifetime of being patronized, you can't imagine what that meant to me.

I was sitting down at a wooden table near one of the concession stands the morning after we had been to see Mr. Ahasuerus' show, drinking some coffee and trying to keep warm, when Queenie and Alma walked over and sat down across from me. Alma sat a little distance away, like she always does, but Queenie leaned forward until her face was maybe ten inches away from mine.

"I hear you went with him last night," she said.

"That's right," I replied.

"To see this freak show that everyone's talking about?"

I nodded.

She pulled a small flask of whiskey out of her coat pocket and took a swig, then offered some to Alma.

"No, thank you," said Alma, not looking at either of us.

"Come on, honey, it'll keep you warm," said Queenie, throwing an arm around Alma's shoulders. Alma just shook her head and edged away, and I could see that Queenie didn't like that any more than Alma liked having a woman's arm around her.

"Was it any good?" demanded Queenie.

It took me a minute to figure out that she was talking to me.

"Was what any good?" I asked.

"The freak show, you demented little toad!" snapped Queenie. "What the hell have we been talking about?"

"It was good," I said.

"As good as they say?"

"Yes."

"Shit!" she said. "He's going to get his hands on it, isn't he?"

I brushed away a couple of leaves that had blown onto the table next to my coffee cup. "I don't think it's for sale," I said.

"Who said anything about buying it? You ought to know him by now. He's going to take it over one way or another, and then we'll all be out in the cold."

"He won't do that, Queenie," I said.

"You think he likes you!" snorted Queenie. "This stupid little bitch"—she gestured to Alma—"thinks he loves her. Well, let me tell you: he doesn't like or love anyone. He uses you, just like he uses everyone else around here."

Alma kind of flinched when she said that.

"It's not true," I said. "I know he loves Alma." Not only didn't I know it, but it was hard to sound soothing and confident at a rate of six words a minute.

Still, I tried.

"Oh, shut up, Tojo!" said Alma, still not looking at me.

I wanted to reach out and touch her hand, to do something to comfort her, but I didn't know what to do, so I just sat still.

"You don't love someone and treat her the way he treats Alma," said Queenie. There was a look on her face that implied she'd know how to treat someone she loved.

"Even if that's true," I said at last, "even if he cuts everyone loose, that wouldn't be so terrible, would it, Alma? After all, you've wanted to quit for years."

She finally looked at me. "I'm twenty-nine years old," she said bitterly, "and the only thing I know how to do is walk out naked on a stage and let a bunch of strange men paw my body."

"I thought you wanted to be an actress," I said. I knew it was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn't think of anything else.

"You think someone's going to put up a million dollars just so I can play Blanche Du Bois on Broadway?" she said with a self-deprecating little laugh.

"Look at what I am, Tojo. Who would have me?"

"There, there, baby," said Queenie, putting her arm around Alma's shoulders again, and this time Alma didn't move away. "You see what you've done?" said Queenie, turning to me. "You've got her crying now."

"I didn't mean to," I said.

"It's him," said Queenie, which was her way of accepting my apology. "We hang around him long enough and suddenly we start acting like him."

I didn't think I was acting like Thaddeus, but I didn't reply.

"You let us know what's going on with that freak show," said Queenie, getting up and helping Alma to her feet. "You keep us informed of the situation, okay?"

I nodded.

Alma walked a few yards away with Queenie and then turned back to me, her eyes filling with tears. "Why do we stay here, Tojo?" she asked plaintively. "Why do we let him do these things to us?"

"I don't know," I said.

It was a lie. All you had to do was look around to know why: at the Dancer, who was born a century too late; at Monk, who loved his animals more than he loved women; at the Rigger, who couldn't play an honest game of anything if his life depended on it; at the girls, who pretended that they were dancers and entertainers; at Stogie, who still thought he was in vaudeville; at me; at Queenie; at any of us.

We are all freaks. Like deserters hiding out in the middle of a battlefield, we seek the anonymity of the spotlight. The world turns a cold shoulder toward us, and we huddle together for warmth.

Chapter 3

It was noon when Thaddeus stuck his head out the trailer window and hollered for me. The sun had come out, and while the air was still crisp, it was a lot warmer than when I had spoken with Alma and Queenie a few hours earlier.

"Coming!" I muttered, getting up from the picnic table and shuffling over to the trailer. I slipped once as I was clambering up the four steps—I usually do—and skinned the heel of my left hand.

Thaddeus was sitting on the side of his bed, totally naked, holding his head in his hands and trying to keep the light out of his eyes. There was a young girl I didn't recognize, sound asleep and equally naked, lying next to him.