Embrace Me by Lisa Samson Page A

working on your jewelry. She’s visiting soon! Isn’t that delightful news?”
    â€œDelightful.”
    I adjust my gloves and turn away.
    â€œI was looking at house kits online this afternoon,” I say over my shoulder as I lift her earrings from their box.
    â€œOh yes?”
    â€œUh-huh.” I turn back around. “What kind of house style do you like, Lell?”
    â€œSurely it doesn’t matter what I think. Any place is fine with me.”
    â€œBecause we could go modern.” I thread the heavy Zirconia dangles through the holes in her lobes.
    â€œThat might be a little stark now that you mention it.”
    â€œOr cottagy. A little seaside cottage?”
    â€œPerhaps with a Victorian spindled front porch?”
    â€œExactly. Like that.”
    She smiles into my eyes. “You pick, Valentine. I know you well enough to know it will be homey and good.”
    I turn away and mumble, “I wish I could get the money together before Dahlia comes.”
    â€œWhat, Val?”
    â€œYou must be excited about Dahlia coming.”
    â€œOh yes, I surely am.”
    I slide my feet into bright green, high-heeled satin pumps. Sexy shoes.
    Who am I trying to kid? Just who am I trying to kid?

    Some sideshow acts perform their oddities and wonders: fire eaters, glass eaters, people with piercings galore from which they suspend great weights or worse, have themselves suspended. There aren’t as many people like Lella and me on display anymore. We remind the populace that not everything is a choice. When Johnny Eck was asked by a reporter whether or not he was being exploited, he replied, “No. They pay to see me. You’re the exploiter. You’re not giving me a dime for this interview.”
    I lift Lella onto her platform.
    We normally line a stage approaching the tent. Me, Lella, and sometimes a woman named Cyndi Hayes who weighs six hundred pounds and can fire off the greatest insults you’ve ever heard. People walk by and try to put her down, and she cuts them to size in five seconds. It’s her schtick and everybody loves it. Her outfits are a challenge. We go for the Little Lotta look. Bloomers, puffed sleeves, a baby cap. Not original, but practical.
    Inside, the performers do their acts. Rick does his contortionist moves; Clifford does his blockhead stuff; RayAnne Foley, who I have yet to mention, walks on glass and eats light bulbs. She calls herself Impermeable Me. But she’s more ticklish than a toddler. She winters down in Alabama with her parents who run a photo development company.
    Lella and I are the only displayable human oddities on tonight. Rick’s twisting and turning near the drink table. We sit upon our displays at the back of the gymnasium. Mine, well, I hate to brag, but it’s beautiful, a shimmering jungle scene, lush, with stunning hoards of flowers that seem to advance from the backdrop and around my seat. I made it myself three years ago with Rick’s help and improve it a little bit every winter. The only thing not beautiful about my display is me. I remain silent the entire time, taking stock in that old phrase, “A picture paints a thousand words.”
    Lella’s display, all angel hair and twinkle lights, further locks in the cocoon idea. She says nice things to all the passersby. “What a lovely little girl!” or “Oh my, that sweater is gorgeous.” Or “Now you, sir, you must be a judge, you look so distinguished.” Or “Madame, I’ll wager people approach you all the time and ask you to be in television commercials, don’t they?” They blush at first, extremely uncomfortable at the sight of her, two velvet pillows supporting her head. I’m so careful to lay her down just so and arrange her hair like a cloud around her. She turns her head to the side, eyes sparkling, expression friendly and open. At some shows a group will form around Lella, because a true optimist,