Read Online Rain Village by Carolyn Turgeon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolyn Turgeon
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on a life of their own in that room, throwing light against the walls. I had never seen anything like it and was surprised at how quickly I felt transformed.
This
is what the circus is like, I thought. This color, this life.
Why hadn’t Mary shown me this stuff before? Everything she’d told me had seemed so fantastic and far away—it didn’t seem possible that anything from the circus could exist right there, in Oakley, in Mercy Library. I pressed my hand along the beaded rim of a black leotard, closed my eyes. I could
feel
it: that sensation of flying, of being over everything.
“Tessa!” I heard Mary calling from the main floor.
Hurriedly, I pushed past the wrapped costumes and found slippers and tights and caps and jeweled combs. I ran my fingers along the length of the heels, the feathers on the caps.
I heard the basement door click open and then Mary’s voice, louder now: “Tessa, are you down there?”
“Just a minute!” I cried. I grabbed the leotards and quickly folded them, layering them between sheets of tissue paper, in the box. I heard Mary’s footsteps on the stairs, slapped the box shut and shoved it in the corner.
I ran up to meet her.
“I’ve got a line up here,” she said. “I need help.”
For the rest of the afternoon I felt that box pulling at me. While Mary told fortunes in the back, I sat and checked out books, barely even looking up as I pulled out the cards to stamp and date them.
The circus,
I thought, imagining myself flying through the air, my body draped in red sparkles. The feel of the sequins and beads under my palm.
“Why don’t I go organize some of the files downstairs?” I suggested later, during a brief lull.
“Such a good worker you are,” Mary said, laughing. “Why don’t we take a tea break instead? God, I’m tired. I want to just slap these people sometimes and tell them to take a look around—of
course
they’re unhappy!”
I nodded but was awash with disappointment.
“How long were you in the circus?” I asked suddenly, as we made our way back to the little kitchen.
Mary turned to me. “About five seasons, I guess,” she said. She set a pot of water to boil and reached up for the herbs.
“Were you famous?” I asked, and then, before she could answer, “Why did you leave?”
The air filled with the smell of herbs and spices. We heard the front door open and voices fill the room. “Can you help those people?” Mary asked, handing me my cup and avoiding my eyes. She seemed relieved, anxious to get rid of me.
I tried not to look too disappointed. The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, and I didn’t have a chance to go back downstairs before Mary and I closed the library. She was in a hurry to get cleaned up and go into town, and kissed me on the cheek before disappearing down the stairs to her room.
Damnit,
I thought, pausing outside on the front steps, every cell of my body pulling me to that box downstairs. Calling out to me, like a secret. Reluctantly, I started the walk home. I watched the snow gleam in the moonlight and thought of Mary on the trapeze. There was a
whole world
buried in that box, I thought. A world brighter and more wonderful than anything I could find in Oakley.
As I cut through the town square and the giant oak trees that shaded it, I spotted a branch extending straight from one side, about six feet from the ground. No one was around aside from a few men entering the tavern on the square.
I dropped my bag and leapt up, wrapping my palms around the branch. It was easy, just like hanging from the bar on the window back home. But here I was unrestricted: I swung back and forth, then pushed up and hung from my knees. The bark scraped my skin, but I didn’t care. I was a thousand miles away from Oakley, anyway.
The next day I scrambled down into the basement before Mary could stop me. She was busy hauling in water from the pump outside, and gathering herbs from her garden to set to drying.
“I need an old
This
is what the circus is like, I thought. This color, this life.
Why hadn’t Mary shown me this stuff before? Everything she’d told me had seemed so fantastic and far away—it didn’t seem possible that anything from the circus could exist right there, in Oakley, in Mercy Library. I pressed my hand along the beaded rim of a black leotard, closed my eyes. I could
feel
it: that sensation of flying, of being over everything.
“Tessa!” I heard Mary calling from the main floor.
Hurriedly, I pushed past the wrapped costumes and found slippers and tights and caps and jeweled combs. I ran my fingers along the length of the heels, the feathers on the caps.
I heard the basement door click open and then Mary’s voice, louder now: “Tessa, are you down there?”
“Just a minute!” I cried. I grabbed the leotards and quickly folded them, layering them between sheets of tissue paper, in the box. I heard Mary’s footsteps on the stairs, slapped the box shut and shoved it in the corner.
I ran up to meet her.
“I’ve got a line up here,” she said. “I need help.”
For the rest of the afternoon I felt that box pulling at me. While Mary told fortunes in the back, I sat and checked out books, barely even looking up as I pulled out the cards to stamp and date them.
The circus,
I thought, imagining myself flying through the air, my body draped in red sparkles. The feel of the sequins and beads under my palm.
“Why don’t I go organize some of the files downstairs?” I suggested later, during a brief lull.
“Such a good worker you are,” Mary said, laughing. “Why don’t we take a tea break instead? God, I’m tired. I want to just slap these people sometimes and tell them to take a look around—of
course
they’re unhappy!”
I nodded but was awash with disappointment.
“How long were you in the circus?” I asked suddenly, as we made our way back to the little kitchen.
Mary turned to me. “About five seasons, I guess,” she said. She set a pot of water to boil and reached up for the herbs.
“Were you famous?” I asked, and then, before she could answer, “Why did you leave?”
The air filled with the smell of herbs and spices. We heard the front door open and voices fill the room. “Can you help those people?” Mary asked, handing me my cup and avoiding my eyes. She seemed relieved, anxious to get rid of me.
I tried not to look too disappointed. The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, and I didn’t have a chance to go back downstairs before Mary and I closed the library. She was in a hurry to get cleaned up and go into town, and kissed me on the cheek before disappearing down the stairs to her room.
Damnit,
I thought, pausing outside on the front steps, every cell of my body pulling me to that box downstairs. Calling out to me, like a secret. Reluctantly, I started the walk home. I watched the snow gleam in the moonlight and thought of Mary on the trapeze. There was a
whole world
buried in that box, I thought. A world brighter and more wonderful than anything I could find in Oakley.
As I cut through the town square and the giant oak trees that shaded it, I spotted a branch extending straight from one side, about six feet from the ground. No one was around aside from a few men entering the tavern on the square.
I dropped my bag and leapt up, wrapping my palms around the branch. It was easy, just like hanging from the bar on the window back home. But here I was unrestricted: I swung back and forth, then pushed up and hung from my knees. The bark scraped my skin, but I didn’t care. I was a thousand miles away from Oakley, anyway.
The next day I scrambled down into the basement before Mary could stop me. She was busy hauling in water from the pump outside, and gathering herbs from her garden to set to drying.
“I need an old
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