Erika Swyler - The Book of Speculation

“We must make the best of it,” he said as he addressed the troupe around the morning fire. “Culture is a balm to the soul. Here, friends,” he said as he smoothed his coat. “Here is a town that is sorely in need of culture, the likes of such as we can provide.” He declared that Amos and Evangeline were to be touted as beacons of learning and sophistication. “The Light of the World, you are, my good children. Be assured, should you have failings, this town will be none the wiser.”

Haunted by the memory of suffocating fish, Amos and Evangeline wished to remain within the wagon rather than in town, but Peabody would hear none of it; M. et Mme. Les Ferez would keep rooms in a tavern run by the improbably named Captain Cook and his wife. They were to dine in costume and conduct themselves in what Peabody considered grand style. The job was well done. Hat shops, tailors, or taverns, wherever they went stares followed. At the end of the day when they retired to their room in Cook’s, Amos and Evangeline closed their door and breathed in relief at the solitude.

Captain and Mrs. Cook were traveling to Charleston and had left the inn in the care of Louisa Tyghe, her son, and a harried kitchen maid. Mrs. Tyghe knocked too often, and her son trailed at Amos’s heels, having never encountered a man who wore his hair in such a fashion.

“You’ll be excellently looked after here, sir,” Mrs. Tyghe said, straightening her starched red apron. “The bed in your room, Washington himself has slept in it. He liked us so well that he gifted us his hair powder. Should you need powder, we offer you the privilege of using some of the great man’s own.”

Amos found the idea of using another man’s hair powder perplexing, but Evangeline had the grace to blush and thank Mrs. Tyghe before shutting the door in the woman’s face. Amos did his best to rub the soreness from Evangeline’s back and she began the ritual of combing and dressing his hair. At last they huddled on the mattress, weary from the town’s claustrophobic politeness — a politeness strangely at odds with the townsfolk themselves. Evangeline fell asleep quickly, but Amos remained awake. In the quiet, he rested his head against her stomach and listened.

On their second night the rains began.

Fine mist settled across the heart of Charlotte. Peabody ordered a stage erected in front of an enormous rail house, but the ground turned to mud and the platform sank under its own weight. Benno’s hands and feet got stuck in the soggy red soil. Pins slipped from Melina’s hands and fire eating was rendered impossible. Sugar Nip and the llama refused to be led from their wagon, forcing Nat to carry the small horse in his arms.

Yet crowds lined up for M. et Mme. Les Ferez. Word of the menagerie had spread, drawing people from across Mecklenberg County, people keen to be parted from their money for a moment of gawking.

Shop owners waited, young women swooned. Children, never had they seen so many children — little girls begging to touch Evangeline’s sleeve, or to pull her hair. Boys were fascinated by her, but also by Amos and the frilled attire that so differed from that of men they knew. Young lovers, spinsters, the old and creaking, all sought a glimpse into the beyond. Mrs. Tyghe visited and was rendered breathless by the interior of their wagon.

“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I daresay you are accustomed to finer things than you’ll find in Charlotte.” Amos hid a smile. Mrs. Tyghe would not have thought so had she seen his Wild Boy cage.

Exhausted at day’s end, they fell to bed without a word.

On the third night in Charlotte the sky broke. The rain brought mud from the hills and soot off the roofs in a ruddy deluge that bathed the town in its offal. Benno and Melina did not leave their wagons. Meixel stayed with the animals. The Catawba began to rise, flooding the Sugar and Briar Creeks and surrounding the town, yet Peabody insisted that Les Ferez work. A wondrous place, he’d been told. Politicians came from here, men of learning — yet the town was barely an outpost. Losses had to be recouped. If people wished to give money to fortune-tellers, then the fortune-tellers must work.

Amos turned cards until his fingertips were raw. Evangeline spoke until her voice became a rasp. When her voice failed, Amos did his best to dance the cards to amuse the clients. He pocketed cards Evangeline should not see — not since the river, not since the rain had started.

On the fourth day Evangeline woke to a sharp pain. Her scream was soundless.

* * *

Amos and Evangeline had not left their room after the morning meal, causing Peabody to demand Mrs. Tyghe wake them. She called their names and rapped on the door until her hand ached with it. Amos appeared. At the sight of him — hair ratted and standing on end, half-clothed and gasping — Mrs. Tyghe shouted. Amos blocked the doorway with his body and fumbled for a card. After several failed attempts at communication, he gave up and allowed Mrs. Tyghe to enter.

The curtains were drawn. Trunks were in disarray with clothing strewn about — boots, shoes, brushes, combs tossed aside. In the heart of the disorder, on the great oak bed where George Washington had slept, Evangeline clutched her swollen stomach.

Mrs. Tyghe had birthed several children, both living and dead. Recognizing the condition, she said, “Monsieur, your child is coming. It is not proper for you to be here; I’ll have the boy send for the doctor.”

Despite Mrs. Tyghe’s insistence, Amos would not be moved. He sat on the floor by the bed. When he reached to take Evangeline’s hand, she batted it away. In silences between spasms, they listened to the rise of the rain. The storm grew heavier, but Evangeline found the pounding water a comforting reminder of the outside world.

When informed of the impending birth, Peabody clicked his boot heels and ordered the troupe to Mason’s Tavern to celebrate, only to find it closed due to a flooded cask room. He settled for the parlor at Cook’s, which sat on higher ground. The whitewashed walls and broad brown ceiling beams made a warm den for the performers. Ale flowed and the troupe claimed chairs, tested cushions, and watched as the streets turned to mud, then streams. They waited. Evangeline’s child was in no rush to meet the day.

The doctor was sent for. Mrs. Tyghe’s son made the trek downriver toward the Waxhaws and the doctor’s home. When the boy arrived he was met by the doctor, who was well into sandbagging the house. The doctor’s wife emptied washtubs filled with river water out the windows. The boy delivered his message.

“Women have carried about birthing for many a year without the aid of men, good son,” said the doctor, wiping rain from his brow. “Sandbagging, however, is a different matter. Houses require man’s intervention. Give us a strong back and lift.”

The river continued rising. At midday the casks from Mason’s Tavern floated past Cook’s. The floor began taking water. The troupe lined the door with rags, sandbags, and tables to hold back the flood. Peabody took to a divan, reclining in relative safety while casting a suspicious eye to the rain. Benno and Melina balanced above the water on chairs. Melina asked if he would check on Amos.

“I believe I would not be welcome,” Benno replied. “And what would I do?” Rocking on the balls of his feet, he frowned at the encroaching water.

By late afternoon Oren Mapother, the son of Charlotte’s hatter, had drowned in the depths. The current would drag his body ten miles downriver toward Pineville.

Day wore into evening and Evangeline’s body fell limp into the mattress, covered in sweat that smelled of iron and salt. She bit her lip until it was bloodied. Amos crawled into the bed and smoothed his fingers over her cheeks. Her mouth moved as she tried to thank him and he missed her voice. Evangeline contorted. Loneliness lurked within worry and made him grind his teeth. If she died and took the child with her, could he live? If she died and left the infant behind, could he raise it? It might have her eyes. It might be mute. Could he love the child that killed her?