He closed the door and headed out for his date.

  Indestructible

  Alexander S. Brown

  My name is Hester and this isn’t my body. The body I’m in now is strong and powerful, unlike the decrepit one that I was born with. You see, I’ve always been unfortunate and I’ve never been beautiful. Maybe these are the reasons I was never blessed with fortune or courtesy, that is, until the night that Dr. Avery came to my rescue.

  I was born at the start of the nineteenth century. The world was young with inventors and scientists. I fear to think what would have happened to me if I had been born in any other century. Even though the world was progressing, my parents believed me to be a lost cause and beyond the help of any doctor or scientist.

  At a very young age, before I could even speak, I think, I remember my parents leaning over my crib, their faces twisted in disgust and sneering comments such as, “I never believed there could be such an ugly baby.” Or my mother’s favorite saying, “Why would God suffer this thing to live?”

  Growing up, I was hardly ever allowed in public because children would throw stones at me and parents would gasp at the sight of my monstrous figure. The few times I had to visit a doctor, I tried to hide behind my mother’s coattail. Instead of finding comfort there, she would kick me aside so the town could see me. I think she secretly hoped for a mercy killing. When I tried pleading to the crowds to stop staring, my words would come out slurred because of my cleft palate. A few times, I became so afraid of how the crowds reacted to my ugliness that I wondered whether they would declare that I wasn’t a child of God and lynch me. To this day, I am surprised that I survived my childhood.

  I imagine you are wondering what I looked like. I assure you my misfortune didn’t end with a cleft palate and a crossed eye. All over my body there were growths the size of full-grown potatoes but they were the color of turnips. The Lord had deprived me of gracefulness when he gave me a twisted spine, leaving my left leg shorter than the other.

  As a child, I would lie in bed listening to my parents pray for God to kill me so they would no longer be burdened by my shortcomings. I, too, would pray to God. I prayed that their prayers would be answered because it wasn’t their fault I was born so ugly. Of course, these prayers never were answered and life continued unchanged until one night in the spring when my parents decided to end the shame I brought them.

  I was almost nine years old when my parents took me for a walk. The night was late and humid. All the homes that we passed were dark with unlit fireplaces. We crept in the shadows of the town, being careful not to make any sounds to awaken the townsfolk. When we came upon a gas lamp or drunk on the street we hurried past, hoping no one would notice and make a commotion.

  That night we had walked to the outskirts of town and into a great clearing where multiple tents were set. I had no idea what these tents were for but they were striped and discolored.

  “She has no purpose but for this,” I remember my mother sneering.

  I looked up to my parents, both of whom wore gloves while holding my hands. Neither my mother nor my father looked down at me and I wished desperately they would have. I wanted them to see that I was silently crying and I was scared. All I wanted was the touch of their actual hands against my own but I knew they would never grant me that. They hated touching me. The night they abandoned me was the first time they had touched me in a year. Even though they wore gloves, I could tell they wanted to vomit.

  When we approached the tents, I couldn’t comprehend what this attraction was until I saw a clown lying on the ground. His clothes were muddied, his makeup smeared, and in one white-gloved hand an empty bottle of spirits spilt onto the ground beside him. That’s when I realized they were selling me to the circus.

  I didn’t put up a struggle. Instead, I allowed my parents to guide me to the tents. In the end, I figured I deserved this. I had disgraced them for so many years. They had been so kind to me by giving me a roof over my head, a bed, and what was left of their food after they had finished eating.

  I noticed the ringmaster when we entered the big top tent. He was a lanky man who looked to be more of a hobo than a great or wonderful man. I looked up to him with tears in my eyes and he looked down at me like I was scum. I hung my head in shame. Instantly, his bloodshot eyes imprinted themselves in my mind. They were frightening and reminded me of the eyes of a demon.

  I glanced up to him as he muttered, “This is the girl?” He began studying me. “How much do you want for her?”

  My parents weren’t poverty stricken people, but they acted as if they hadn’t a coin to their name.

  “A hundred dollars,” my father answered.

  The ringmaster slicked back his greasy hair while laughing at their stupidity. “A hundred dollars you say,” he mocked. “I’m sorry but if you think I’m paying a hundred dollars for that thing, you are sadly mistaken. I’m sure there are other circuses that are ignorant enough to pay that currency but I am not.”

  “A hundred is reasonable,” my mother argued.

  “I beg your pardon, but it isn’t. You see, I didn’t come to you, you came to me. By my taking this creature off of your hands, I am easing a burden that you both have had to suffer for quite some time. Now, reconsider your price,” he countered while reaching into his circus jacket and pulling out a match and rolled cigarette.

  “Seventy dollars,” my mother sighed in frustration.

  “Not worth it,” the ringmaster answered.

  “Fifty,” my father blurted.

  “You have one more opportunity to quote a decent fee. If your amount is an insult, you can take your business elsewhere,” the ringmaster answered as he leaned against a pole and enjoyed his cigarette.

  I looked up to my parents who both seemed as though they were biting their lips. With the nearby gas lanterns lit, I noticed their faces had turned as red as a clown’s nose.

  “Twenty dollars,” my father answered.

  The ringmaster inhaled deeply on his cigarette then dropped it on the ground and snuffed it out with the sole of his leather boot. Briefly, he looked to me with an arched eyebrow and his face contorted in confusion.

  “I suppose she’s worth that,” he muttered.

  Without a second thought, my parents shoved me over into the clutches of the ringmaster. I began to plead to them to not leave me with this man. I begged them and told them that I loved them and wanted to be with them. My cries to them fell on deaf ears as they accepted the money and then turned their backs to me. Even as they walked to the big top’s exit, I still cried out for them.

  “Silence!” the ringmaster demanded.

  I didn’t heed his demand and kept crying.

  “Quiet!” he yelled and backhanded me across the face with such force that I fell to his feet. I realized then that the years to come would be the worst years of my life. Looking back, I see my prediction was correct.

  For a decade, I was in my master’s care. In that time, we traveled all over the country and I was displayed with others whom society knew as freaks. There were seven of us the world had rejected. There was Roberta the Half Man/Half Woman, Carlos the Wolf Boy, Bertha the Fattest Woman in the World, Penny the Pinhead, Nicholas the Tattooed Man, and Claudette the Worm Woman.

  Carlos’ parents had sold him to the ringmaster no differently than my own. His parents did not do this for riches, since the fee the ringmaster paid was a small one. Carlos said that once hair started growing about in all of the wrong places, his parents saw an opportunity to pay some debts instead of having another mouth to feed.

  Bertha had always wanted to mother children. She had been pregnant three times, but each time the child was stillborn. Word was that she had been beautiful in her day, until her husband left her for a woman who was more fertile. After she was abandoned, she turned to food for comfort. She had willingly turned herself in to the circus for food and shelter when her property was taken and everyone shunned her. Out of all of us, she was the one who was best fed so she could keep her title.

  Roberta was the same as Bertha. He had turned himself in to the circus for food and shelter. He had been born with male genitals but after puberty, breasts had developed. His town saw him as something that wasn’t made by God but the perversities of the devil. His family was very religious and abandoned him during his early teenage years.

  Nicholas had always been a loner. His family died from yellow fever when he was young, leaving him to fend for himself. Life on the street had been cruel. Drunkards and criminals brutalized him then tossed him aside like trash. The tattooing began when one criminal had inked onto Nicholas’ face the word “dirt.” He wore this name with shame for many years until he learned the art of tattooing. Beginning with his face, he tattooed over the name he was branded. Then, every time he came upon needles and ink, he illustrated himself further with beautiful and hopeful sayings and images. Eventually, he had tattooed all parts of his body he could reach. When he sold himself to the circus, the circus folks had covered the rest of his skin with other illustrations. During his time with the circus, he had fallen in love with Claudette.

  The poor girl known as Claudette the Worm Woman had been born as nothing more than a head on a stick. It was said her parents loved her dearly and they would have continued loving her except that one night in her childhood a thief had entered her home, murdered her parents, and left her to die. For nearly a week, she stayed in her bed, unable to fend for herself. It wasn’t until Sunday when church members had come inquiring about their well-being that she was found. Claudette was given to her aunt and uncle who saw the circus as a profitable way out.

  And last, there was Penny the Pinhead who suffered from a skull that was too small and facial features too large. She was born into the circus to an aerialist mother and a ringmaster father. Even though she was parented by their enemies who’d known of their treatment, neither showed her pity. To interest a crowd during show time, she was forced to eat the heads of fish and raw chicken.

  Although I had friends here who weren’t afraid to hold my hand when I was sad or sing me to sleep when I was frightened, I remained pained, alone, and despised by the ones that we called “The Normals.” The Normals were all the beautiful people of the world, ones who were never shackled or caged. They were also the ones who were loved by their families and not sold to the circus for a minor profit.

  Living conditions at the circus were hellacious. In the winter I nearly froze in my cage. In the summer I suffered in the oppressive heat. Worst of all was the condition of our food. We were given scraps from the tables of those fortunate enough not to be known as freaks. We were also given fruits and vegetables that were near spoiling and meat that had almost gone sour. Because our lives were similar to that of scavengers, some of us had grown malnourished over the years and nearly died. Each torturous day, I recalled my mother saying this was my purpose. Each time I would think of her words, I would cry, wondering what I had ever done to deserve this life.

  For ten years, each day was the same as the last with poor eating and sleeping conditions. Occasionally, we would receive a beating from our master when a show didn’t go well or he had grown drunk and angered. Near the end of my years on display, the circus traveled to New Orleans. We stayed there for nearly a month since the location was fruitful.

  Many nights, families would come to our show, gasping in fear and mocking us. Children would cry and hide behind their guardians as they were told we weren’t real. Each night, the later it got, the more heinous the crowds grew with drunkards, concubines, and whoremongers. Of all of the evils that came to gawk, a gentleman that I grew to know by the name of Roger Avery visited nightly at closing time.

  Mr. Avery was a handsome man and my every vision of a tall, dark stranger. He had long, silken black hair pulled back into a ponytail, piercing blue eyes, and black stubble covered his cheeks and squared jaw. When he stood at my cage, he towered over me at the height that I imagined all females would find fitting to that of a protector. If only I hadn’t been as ugly as I was then, perhaps I could have had a life with him.

  When Mr. Avery visited, I would look deep into his aquamarine eyes and gaze longingly at his hands that I hoped would one day caress me. Lastly, I looked at his muscular arms, the very arms that I dreamed of holding me.

  On our last night in New Orleans, I had been sleeping when my master came to my cage and kicked on the bars. I was awakened, startled by the sound and his demanding, “Wake up, Hessy.” His speech was already slurred from drinking. Neighboring him was Mr. Avery. Once I was fully awake, my master stuck a key in my cage and unlocked it. Not sure of what to expect, I scooted to the far corner of my home and curled myself into a ball.

  I remember fearing that I would be beaten by not only my master but also Mr. Avery. I shook and cried, hoping that the only man I had truly wanted to be with wouldn’t want to batter me. Quickly, I closed my eyes and used my fingers to plug my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear their insults or witness their fists coming at me. Then to my surprise, my master yanked me up and slung me out of the cage into Mr. Avery’s hands.

  “She’s all yours, Sir. Good doing business with you,” the ringmaster said then tipped his hat and walked away.

  My first instinct was to run but I wouldn’t get far since I could only hobble. I looked up to my new owner and my face must have been twisted in fear as he looked down at me and held me under his arm.

  Then, without need of a glove, he patted my shoulder and promised, “Everything will be fine.”

  Together, we walked from the hell I had come to know as home. Although he treated me with tenderness, I knew his intentions for me weren’t romantic. That night, we arrived at his mansion in the bayou. I had never seen a home as beautiful as this one. It was columned with multiple stories and a balcony that overlooked the front flower garden.

  Once inside his home, he had his servants bring me food. I can’t remember correctly but I think the meal I had that night was called gumbo. I’m not sure of the right title but it was fresh, hot, and filling. When I had eaten, a female servant of his, Mrs. Sanders, took me to my room where for the first time in what seemed like months I was bathed. She, unlike the others, didn’t grimace in disgust. Instead, this woman was kind and gentle. She was also very smart.

  “Do you like poems?” she had asked me.

  “What are poems?” I had asked.

  “They are beautiful pieces that are meant to be something deeper than what they really are,” she answered.

  “I haven’t heard a poem before,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you one then,” she replied then recited a poem that began with, “Tiger, tiger.”

  After I was clean, I was laid to rest in a four-poster canopy bed near a window overlooking the swamp. Never before had I been treated this way.

  The following day, I was awakened by Mrs. Sanders. She helped me dress and assisted me to breakfast. In solitude, I dined with Mr. Avery.

  While eating, he inquired of my comfort by asking, “Do you feel any pain?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “All over,” I replied. “My head hurts mostly as do my back and legs. Because of the way my body is, there isn’t much of anything I can do. I have no purpose.”

  “Nonsense,” he noted, “we all have a purpose.”

  “Momma said my purpose was to be a part of the circus,” I explained.

  “What if I told you that you had a greater purpose?”

  I didn’t answer. We sat briefly in silence.

  “You see, I’m an inventor and I believe I have mastered to perfection a new invention. My latest work could give you the life that you have desperately wanted, but there are sacrifices that would have to be made.”

  “What kind of sacrifices?” I inquired.

  “Let me begin by saying that I’m not pressuring you into this at all. If you say no, you won’t be returned to the circus or treated with cruelty.

  “To put it quite simply, you would have to shed your mortal coil. I will have to put you to sleep for this procedure, and when you wake up you will be in a brand new body and you will be strong. As long as you live, you will never have to worry about being too cold or too hot. You wouldn’t even have to worry about eating or sleeping as no human need will be required for you. Most importantly, there won’t be any pain or suffering ever again.”

  I remembered considering his words and not questioning him any further but focusing on his promises. My whole life I had felt pain, even last night as I slept in a bed that should bring comfort, I tossed and turned in tears with my spine aching and my legs throbbing. Although I was scared, I told him I was willing to participate. I could only hope that his promises would end my agony.

  That very night Mr. Avery offered me a drink that put me in a deep sleep. He asked me to count backward from one hundred and when I awoke nothing would ever hurt me again. I began counting down and before I reached fifty I had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  When I awoke, I was no longer in my room, or my body. Instead of being in my bed, I rested on a slab in a basement filled with gadgets and displays that my mind couldn’t comprehend.

  Mr. Avery wore a brown leather apron over his pinstripe shirt and dressing his hands were black leather gloves. I looked to his face, where goggles covered his heartbreaking eyes. The goggle over his right eye had an extension attached to the side, a magnifying glass allowed him to inspect fine detail while he worked.

  Before I panicked, Mr. Avery stood before me and asked, “Hester? Can you understand me? You can speak,” he urged, “just will yourself to speak no differently than normal.”

  With his encouragements, I spoke and for the first time, my voice wasn’t slurred and I didn’t stutter.