William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

“My dear lady, you must remember that he’s a man grown now and probably has children of his own to worry about. You want him to write to you. Isn’t that so?”

It was uncanny how Zeena could fish out things just by watching the person’s face. Stan got a sudden thrust of cold fear. Of all the people in the world for him to hide anything from, it had to be a mind reader. He laughed a little in spite of his anxiety. But there was something which pulled him toward Zeena more strongly than his fear that she would find out and make him a murderer. How do you get to know so much that you can tell people what they are thinking about just by looking at them? Maybe you had to be born with the gift.

“Is Clarissa here? Clarissa, hold up your hand. That’s a good girl. Now Clarissa wants to know if the young fellow she’s been going around with is the right one for her to marry. Well, Clarissa, I may disappoint you but I have to speak the truth. You wouldn’t want me to tell you no fibs. I don’t think this boy is the one for you to marry. Mind, he may be and I don’t doubt that he’s a mighty fine young man. But something tells me that when the right young fellow comes along you won’t ask me, you won’t ask anybody-you’ll just up and marry him.”

That question had come up before and Zeena nearly always answered it the same way. The thought struck Stan that it was not genius after all. Zeena knew people. But people were a lot alike. What you told one you could tell nine out of ten. And there was one out of five that would believe everything you told them and would say yes to anything when you asked them if it was correct because they were the kind of marks that can’t say no. Good God, Zeena is working for peanuts! Somewhere in this racket there is a gold mine!

Stan picked up another card and wrote on the pad: “Advise important domestic step, Emma.” By God, if she can answer that one she must be a mind reader. He held it up to the trap and listened.

Zeena pattered on for a moment, thinking to herself and then her voice lifted and her heel knocked gently. Stan took down the pad and knew that this would be the blow-off question and he could relax. After this one she would go into the pitch.

“I have time for just one more question. And this is a question that I’m not going to ask anybody to acknowledge. There’s a lady here whose first name begins with E . I’m not going to tell her full name because it’s a very personal question. But I’m going to ask Emma to think about what she is trying to tell me mentally.”

Stan switched off the flashlight, crept out of the understage compartment and tiptoed up the stairs behind the side curtains. Parting them carefully with his fingers he placed his eye to the crack. The marks’ faces were a mass of pale circles below him. But at the mention of the name “Emma” he saw one face-a pale, haggard woman who looked forty but might be thirty. The lips parted and the eyes answered for an instant. Then the lips were pressed tight in resignation.

Zeena lowered her voice. “Emma, you have a serious problem. And it concerns somebody very near and dear to you. Or somebody who used to be very near and dear, isn’t that right?” Stan saw the woman’s head nod involuntarily.

“You are contemplating a serious step-whether to leave this person. And I think he’s your husband.” The woman bit her under lip. Her eyes grew moist quickly. That kind cries at the drop of a hat, Stan thought. If only she had a million bucks instead of a greasy quarter.

“Now there are two lines of vibration working about this problem. One of them concerns another woman.” The tension left the woman’s face and a sullen frown of disappointment drew over it. Zeena changed her tack. “But now the impressions get stronger and I can see that while there may have been some woman in the past, right now the problem is something else. I see cards… playing cards falling on a table… but no, it isn’t your husband who’s playing. It’s the place… I get it now, clear as daylight. It’s the back room of a saloon.”

A sob came from the woman, and people twisted their heads this way and that; but Emma was watching the seeress, unmindful of the others.

“My dear friend, you have a mighty heavy cross to bear. I know all about it and don’t you think I don’t. But the step that confronts you now is a problem with a good many sides. If your husband was running around with other women and didn’t love you that would be one thing. But I get a very strong impression that he does love you-in spite of everything. Oh, I know he acts nasty-mean sometimes but you just ask yourself if any of the blame is yours. Because here’s one thing you must never forget: a man drinks because he’s unhappy. Isn’t anything about liquor that makes a man bad. A man that’s happy can take a drink with the boys on Saturday night and come home with his pay safe in his pocket. But when a man’s miserable about something he takes a drink to forget it and one isn’t enough and he takes another snort and pretty soon the week’s pay is all gone and he gets home and sobers up and then his wife starts in on him and he’s more miserable than he was before and then his first thought is to go get drunk again and it runs around and around in a circle.” Zeena had forgotten the other customers, she had forgotten the pitch. She was talking out of herself. The marks knew it and were hanging on every word, fascinated.

“Before you take that step,” she went on, suddenly coming back to the show, “you want to be sure that you’ve done all you can to make that man happy. Maybe you can’t learn what’s bothering him. Maybe he don’t quite know himself. But try to find it. Because if you leave him you’ll have to find some way to take care of yourself and the kids anyhow. Well, why not start in tonight? If he comes home drunk put him to bed. Try talking to him friendly. When a man’s drunk he’s a lot like a kid. Well, treat him like a son and don’t go jumping on him. Tomorrow morning let him know that you understand and mother him up a little. Because if that man loves you-” Zeena paused for breath and then rushed on. “If that man loves you it don’t matter whether he makes a living or not. It don’t matter if he stays sober or not. If you’ve got a man that really loves you, you hang on to him like grim death for better or worse.” There was a catch in her voice and for a long moment silence hung in the air over the waiting crowd. “Hang on-because you’ll never regret it as much as you’ll regret sending him away and now folks if you really want to know how the stars affect your life you don’t have to pay five dollars or even one dollar I have here a set of astrological readings all worked out for each and every one of you let me know your date of birth and you get a forecast of future events complete with character reading, vocational guidance, lucky numbers…”

For the long haul the Ackerman-Zorbaugh Monster Shows took to the railroad. Trucks loaded on flatcars, the carnies themselves loaded into old coaches, the train boomed on through darkness-tearing past solitary jerk towns, past sidings of dark freight empties, over trestles, over bridges where the rivers lay coiling their luminous way through the star-shadowed countryside.

In the baggage car, among piles of canvas and gear, a light burned high up on the wall. A large packing case with auger holes bored in its sides to admit air, stood in the middle of a cleared space. From inside it came intermittent scrapings. At one end of the car the geek lay on a pile of canvas, his ragged, overalled knees drawn up to his chin.

Around the snake box men made the air gray with smoke.

“I’m staying.” Major Mosquito’s voice had the insistence of a cricket’s.

Sailor Martin screwed up the left side of his face against the smoke of his cigarette and dealt.