A Home, Of Sorts

I do not know how long I slept, but it was quite soundly, as when I finally awakened, I found my spirits lifted. I lay upon a bunk in a dark compartment of unusual design. A sweetly thick, musky odor permeated the chamber as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. I heard a soft snoring and realized that, above me, someone was slumbering. I climbed down from the bunk and pulled back the drapes to discover that I was in a carriage. 

     As I peered out, I saw Patrick O’Carroll standing at the rear of a large covered wagon, earnestly engaged in a conversation with a tall mulatto man whose age I surmised to be no more than thirty years.  I slowly opened the carriage door and jumped to the ground. Two other large carriages, identical to the one I had slept in, stood at what I discovered to be a long, rather narrow alleyway. 

On the side of one of the carriages was a large printed advertisement with extravagant lettering. With an outstretched finger, I began to trace the shape of each letter in a vain attempt to decipher the long words. I was a good reader for my young years, and I could spell words with six, seven, and sometimes even eight letters in them, but the strange collocations on the display confounded me.

     “Is it all a jumble, or do you know your letters, boy?” A strong grip on my shoulder startled me. I turned and found myself staring into the face of the young mulatto, who broke into a broad smile.

     “Don’t look so serious,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re Mel, eh?”

     “Yes, sir,” I nodded diffidently.

     “I’m William,” he replied. “I play Tom in the show. I also play the heroic George. Patrick told me that you tumble quite well.” In response to the inquiry embedded in this statement, I performed a number of ringed somersaults, encircling him and then landing upright at his feet.

     “Excellent,” he clapped, clearly delighted at my recital. “You’ll do! I don’t know if you can act the tearful portions of the drama, but if you tumble like that at tonight’s performance, you’ll steal the show!” 

     “I am not a thief, sir!” I said, suddenly agitated, as I remembered having pilfered some scraps during my sojourn on the city’s East Side. How could this William, whom I had just met, have known about that? Were my crimes of desperation so clearly written on my face?

     “Whoa, there, who said you were a—” he began with a puzzled look. He halted abruptly, and then broke into gales of laughter. I shrunk back against the steps near the carriage as he continued to laugh. He appeared to notice my distress, and stopped.

     “That is an expression of the theater, to ‘steal the show,’” he chuckled. “It means to be the best. I wasn’t accusing you. You are a delightful tumbler.” William offered more soothing words to allay my fears and, seeing that I was satisfied that he meant no harm, the conversation turned to other matters.

     “We must rehearse the lines you will recite as Topsy for your first performance and get you outfitted,” William said. “First, however, you must get some breakfast. Linda will fix you something to eat, give you a bath, and then we will get started.” He motioned toward the covered wagon, where I met Linda, the cook, a Negro woman of about twenty-five years wearing a kerchief and apron. She, too, smiled as I approached. Her smile turned into a frown as she eyed me closely.

     “A bath! That’s what you shall have, young fellow!” she said. “But first, some bacon and oatmeal!” I was quite taken with these two individuals, whom I had only just met and yet who seemed to extend hands of friendship toward me. I felt my eyes begin to well with feelings of gratitude, but I forced away any semblance of tears. 

     I must show strength, not weakness. I was now a boy, and boys, I knew, were not supposed to cry.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]