Among the Wonderful by Stacy Carlson Page B

arrival. I hadn’t brought any copies of my old one, an absurdly gothic melodrama that recounted my “early life” in the remote Hebrides, where I was apparently raised by a clan of druids whose tendency to use me as a centerpiece for cultic invocations partially accounted for my stature. Mr. Ramsay had spent days composing it, and the pamphlet sold well. The public must have souvenirs, and fabricated accounts of my origin seemed to please them very much.
    There had been other True Life Histories before the Hebrides story, a new one every year or every time I changed managers. The only one I was ever particularly fond of was the first. The manager who wrote it was not an educated man, but he owned a copy of Tabart’s
Jack and the Bean-Stalk
and decided to invent me as the ogress in his own interpretation of the fairy tale. She was an awful character; he dressed me in rags and a yarn wig. My props included a hen and golden egg, a small harp, and, when he was available, a dwarf who agreeably played the boy Jack in our crude skit.
    What new story would I now invent? I had never written a True Life History myself and I had to come up with something before my booth was finished. But the prospect of writing it irritated me in the extreme; it gave me the feeling that
I
was falling for some kind of prank, even though I knew it was those who would part with their money for the pages who were the fools. I recalled a History from several years ago in which I was cast as Anoo, a mighty South American Amazon. Despite its premise, the story lacked verve. Perhaps I could reuse it, this time embellishing it with details recently brought back with the latest expedition to Surinam.
    “Will you join us on the balcony?” Elizabeth Crawford had appeared below me, and I was grateful for the distraction.Miss Crawford and her friends now had a dozen little girls with them, and two nuns. “These are children from the Sacred Heart Girls’ Home. We sponsor a monthly outing for them, and today’s their lucky day!” Miss Crawford smiled down at the girl she held by the hand, whose eyes had grown to the size of chestnuts as she beheld me. “Come with us,” she urged.
    I followed them out of doors, wondering if by doing so I was no longer officially working. On the other hand, my presence on the balcony might lure more business from the street.
    The day was cold and bright; a group of twenty people was already gathered at the railing. The street rushed below in a jarring confusion of colors and noise, with a particular commotion coming down from the north. In one corner of the balcony, a man was playing a harpsichord, accompanied by a fiddler and an ophecleide player. They all had the look of street hawkers, in fingerless gloves and threadbare coats buttoned up to their chins. Miss Crawford and her orphans pressed against the iron railing near me. Up the street a carriage drawn by two white horses came into view. Accompanying it was a crowd of at least a hundred people. I noticed four men come out of the museum below us, each carrying a stack of handbills. Two men stayed on the museum-side of Broadway and two crossed the street. They waited for the carriage and the crowd to arrive.
    “Is it a parade?” I asked.
    “Yes, it is,” Miss Crawford answered, shaking her head. “I doubt you have this kind of parade in Canada, though.”
    A lone figure could now be seen standing in the open carriage, wearing a white tailcoat and hat. He waved to the crowd and wore a strange smile that raised the hairs on my neck. The crowd cheered. All the little orphans laughed and clapped their hands. In an alarming gesture, the musicians on the balcony began a dirge. On an organ the tune might have carried some weight, but the harpsichord transformed it into a farce.
    Miss Crawford saw my confusion. “It’s a gallows parade.” She used the same tone a resigned schoolmarm would use to correct a child.
    “Who pays for it?” And who, I wondered, gave you that