Cicada Dreams

By Roger E. Carrier

It was a midsummer night’s dream that lingers during the day

Arkansas 1935. Rarely, and always in summer, a strange carnival will come to a town. The town is never too large or too small and never a city. Furthermore, it is always a place isolated in space and time. Never today but fifty or a hundred years ago when things were as different from today as they are the same.

The owner of this particular carnival is a black woman and devotee of voodoo. But Lady Priscilla conceals this fact, allowing everyone to believe that Wildcat, who runs the carnival’s wrestling and boxing show, is the owner. In the South, it is not wise to antagonize the Klan by letting it be known that a black woman has money or power.

When the carnival sets up in a pasture outside Redmond, Arkansas, Priscilla drinks a cup of belladonna tea and soon finds herself in the land of the dead, where she is given a vision. A dark-hearted man lives in the area and has killed six young women. They are all blondes. And when Birdie, the carnival’s beautiful blond trapeze artist, disappears and is held as a sex slave, a mystery begins to unfold.

The midway lies before us, and it is into this “carnival of dreams” that we now tread.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543434309

Roger E. Carrier

Raised in Utah, Roger Carrier has traveled through some fifty countries by bus and train, including a three-month bus trip from Salt Lake City to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Sleeping in bars and run-down hotels, he made a similar hard-class journey through Africa and India. Roger, a retired teacher and businessman, is the author of A Celebration of Humanism and Freethought (Prometheus Press, 1995, pseudonym David Allen Williams). He is also a mountain climber, a reader of the classics, and collector of early 19th century rare books. He lives in Utah with his family. Finding Sagrado is his first published novel.

Book preview

-1-

Arkansas, June 1935

T HE GLANCING BLOW from Bruiser knocked Wildcat onto the dry grass. The short but powerful man didn’t get up as the carnival’s boxer wavered over him. When the light from a nearby trailer came on, Bruiser looked down at the five dollars that Wildcat had paid him for two days’ work.

Oh hell, he said, stuffing the bill in his pocket as he staggered away.

A tall man ran from the lighted trailer.

Wildcat, you all right? Stringbean said, kneeling beside his boss.

After a minute, the carnival’s black wrestler helped his friend to his feet.

God, what happened? Wildcat mumbled, shaking his head.

You got cold-cocked by Bruiser, Stringbean replied. Yessiree, you was cold-cocked real good.

But I paid Bruiser, Wildcat said.

Yeah, and then you got cold-cocked. I told you to be careful. Bruiser gets mean when he’s drunk.

I should’ve seen it comin’.

Yep, but I saw it all from my trailer. That was a sucker punch if there ever was one.

Wildcat pushed Stringbean away. Good night, Nathan.

As Wildcat stepped into his trailer, the laughter of the tall, wiry Nathan Bean seemed to echo from his elongated shadow. An imaginative person might even have seen the embodiment of his wrestling name—the Anaconda—slithering among the shadows of the empty midway.

Wildcat stretched his jaw several times before crawling into bed next to his wife. Alice groaned but didn’t wake up. For a long time, Wildcat lay in the tiny hot room and listened to the cicadas until sleep overtook him. He dreamed about eating cicadas. He knew that dogs and cats often ate the sweet cricket-sized morsels until they vomited them up. Wildcat didn’t get sick in his dream, but he ate so many cicadas that his jaw got sore.

* * *

The next morning as Wildcat sat at the table holding an icepack to his jaw, a rap on the door interrupted his thoughts of revenge.

Alice looked out the window. Hey, Jack. You got a visitor.

Wait here.

Wildcat stood, dropped the icepack on the table, and pushed open the screen door.

Morning, Wildcat, Bruiser said, shifting around on his feet, eye-to-eye now that his boss stood in the trailer. I’m awfully sorry about last night. Real sorry.

Oh, don’t worry about it, Wildcat said, waving it off. I know how you get when you drink too much.

The instant Bruiser’s face broke into a relieved grin, Wildcat leaped from the trailer. He slipped behind the boxer, kicked the backs of his knees, and brought him crashing facedown into the dirt. In a heartbeat, he had Bruiser’s arm twisted up behind his back in a hammerlock. Wildcat, a former middleweight champion, lifted the bent arm an inch out from Bruiser’s back.

Oh, God! Help, please! the boxer cried, spitting dust.

Help? Wildcat asked. I’ll help you.

He added another three inches to the hold, causing the big man to scream like a pig with a spear in its side.

God, I’m sorry!

In a well-practiced move, Wildcat sprang to the boxer’s side and ended up holding Bruiser’s right arm with one foot on his neck, the other against his armpit. As Bruiser howled in pain, Wildcat increased his pull until he felt something give in the boxer’s shoulder. Jumping free, he stood watching Bruiser writhe in the dirt.

God, I can’t move my arm, Bruiser said through a grimace, attempting to sit up.

Looks like you’ve got a dislocated shoulder, Wildcat observed. Here, let me fix it.

Wildcat sprang to Bruiser’s side again, knocking him back to the ground. Once again, he pushed out his legs, one foot on Bruiser’s neck, the other under his arm. Leaning back, he extended the poor man’s arm, the same as a country doctor might have done with a patient suffering from a dislocated shoulder.

Holy Jesus, mercy! Bruiser screamed.

Wildcat didn’t have a cruel bone in his body, but he believed in justice rather than apologies. He prolonged Bruiser’s agony for thirty seconds before allowing the arm to slip into the shoulder socket.

You’ll be fine, he said, releasing Bruiser’s arm.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Wildcat turned his back on Bruiser. He stretched as if awakening from a long nap, then stepped into his trailer. Alice stood at his side. They watched Bruiser stagger up from the ground.

Goddamn, Bruiser said, massaging his arm.

Wildcat smiled. I guess you’ll box tomorrow night in Redmond. Right?

Yeah, Wildcat. But God, you hurt me bad.

Are you saying you’ll never cold-cock me again?

Never. I promise, Wildcat.

Good. Now get out of here before I fix your other arm.

-2-

A S BRUISER STUMBLED down the midway, Stringbean sauntered over from his trailer house, sidestepping dozens of cicadas. He wasn’t worried about stings or bites, but he didn’t want to smash them on the soles of his shoes. The red-eyed insects, about the size of large bees, were harmless. You could even put one on the back of your finger to study it.

That was quite a show, he said to Wildcat. Just like the good old days. The same move you used on the Aryan Master in Cincinnati. When you’re knocked down, you get back up. Yes, sir—real inspiring.

Wildcat brushed at his shirt. Nathan, do you think I ought to charge Bruiser to get my shirt cleaned?

Stringbean’s laughter, so deep and rich it made you think of echoes from a mine shaft, always coaxed smiles from anyone within a hundred feet. This morning, however, the midway lay still under the southern sun. Birds chirped happily in the magnolia trees, oblivious to the rising humidity and heat.

Don’t go rubbing salt in Bruiser’s wounds, Stringbean said. He’ll be a good boy, now.

I reckon you’re right, Nathan. You wanna cup of coffee?

Thanks, but I had one already. Lady Priscilla wants us loaded up and on the road by noon, right?

That’s right, Wildcat replied. But be sure to write about me in your diary.

Stringbean nodded. I already did. All I have to do is add this morning’s battle with Bruiser.

* * *

As Wildcat drove down the road the next day, he turned to Alice, a plain woman who stood six inches taller than him.

My jaw’s still sore. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Makes me wanna give Bruiser another lesson.

Alice swatted his arm. Oh, I think Bruiser’s fine. He’s got Big Tommy driving his car, and Little Tommy says Bruiser knocked off a whole bottle of hooch to kill the pain.

A whole bottle?

That’s what Little Tommy says, and you know he ain’t prone to exaggerating.

Wildcat laughed. My jaw feels better already.

Now listen to what Stringbean wrote in his diary. Alice removed a black journal from a paper sack by her feet and thumbed to the last entry. "It says, ‘Wildcat got cold-cocked real good by Bruiser last night, even though I told him to watch Bruiser when he’s been drinking. If Wildcat won’t listen to good advice, then he deserves to get cold-cocked.’

Now what do you think of that, Jack? Alice asked.

I’d say old Stringbean’s been thinking again, and what a man thinks don’t matter for nothing. I like looking into his mind, and since he can’t look into ours, we shouldn’t take offense.

It’s funny, Alice said with a chuckle, how everybody likes reading his diary, even when he says bad things about them.

They think he’ll make them famous someday. So, who gets it next?

I’ll give it to Mama Priscilla. She likes to review the week. Birdie and Joe were asking about it.

Okay, but remind them to get it back to Nathan so he can write some more tonight.

Hey, look at that, Alice said, pointing down the road.

Wildcat pushed on the Hudson’s brake pedal, pumping it until the car came to a stop. Quick stops on dirt roads could cause a trailer to jackknife.

Stepping from the car, he waited for the dust to blow past him. He wasn’t worried about the dead animal. The streak of blood across its snout looked fresh, and he knelt and touched the brown carcass.

Body’s still warm, he said, turning to Alice.

Put him in the trailer. We’ll have possum steaks tonight.

Grinning, Wildcat lifted the possum by the scruff of the neck. What’s this country coming to that a man has to eat an animal hit by a car?

Roosevelt’s working on it, Alice replied. He’s paving roads and putting people back to work.

Haven’t seen too many paved roads in this part of Arkansas. This here Depression is killing our business.

Wildcat opened the door of the trailer house and threw the possum onto the floor. Back in the car, he pushed on the starter button and gave the engine some gas. It kicked over, and he moved the floor shift into gear. He glanced at Alice as he rolled away.

Who gets the buck in Redmond? he asked.

Alice found a blue notebook in the glove box and opened it at a bookmark. Let’s see. Little Tommy called last week. There’s a Sheriff Paul in the town.

Paul? Sounds like a first name.

* * *

That evening, the carnival set up camp in some grassland a half-mile out of Redmond. The moon rose while Wildcat and Alice were eating their possum steaks.

Alice, you’re a fine—

Wildcat fell silent as he peered through the trailer’s screen door. A tall, slender man in a uniform stood outside. He was about to knock on the side of the trailer when Wildcat opened the door.

Well hello there, Sheriff Paul, he said.

The man frowned. How’d you know my name?

That’s easy. We’re law-abiding folks, so we call ahead out of respect for lawmen such as yourself.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. That may be, but I ain’t had nothin’ but trouble from carnies.

We’re the exception to the rule, Sheriff Paul. Yessiree. Wildcat grabbed his leopard sports coat and descended the trailer steps before the Sherriff had a chance to answer. Why don’t we go over to my office so we can discuss business like gentlemen? And call me Wildcat.

At that, Paul held back a smile.

* * *

The brown tent—the carnival’s office—had two rooms separated by a canvas wall with a door made of beads strung on a hundred lengths of twine. Oak furniture that included a grandfather clock and a desk from a lawyer’s office stood in each of the two rooms, both decorated with Oriental rugs that covered the canvas floors.

Wildcat strode to a desk at the far end of the first room and took a seat. He motioned the sheriff into a chair. Now, Sheriff Paul, I know there’s expenses for your office anytime a large group of people get together. We’ll clean the field, by the way.

Thanks, Wildcat, Paul said with a grin, but let’s talk about those expenses. I’d say it might cost this law enforcement agency fifty dollars to let you folks set up in this town.

Choking, Wildcat slapped his hand against his chest. Fifty dollars. You’ve heard of the Depression, haven’t you? I’d say thirty would cover it.

And I’d say forty, and I don’t like to bargain.

Grimacing to display the pain of the deal—he had paid sixty in the last town—Wildcat sighed. You drive a hard bargain, Sheriff, but as a fighter, I know when a man’s got me on the ropes. Forty it is.

Paul appeared to savor his victory for a moment. Then he coughed. What about the morality on this here carnival?

No need to worry about that, Sheriff. We’re a clean family business. Wildcat stood and moseyed to a freestanding cabinet against the tent wall. He opened the doors and gathered two glasses in one hand and a fancy bottle in the other.

Can we seal our agreement with a shot of Kentucky Bourbon? he asked, turning to the sheriff.

We still have Prohibition in this county.

Yes, sir, Wildcat said without a pause, and I suppose you’ll have to confiscate this bottle of Kentucky’s finest.

A smile fought its way onto the sheriff’s face. Yes, I will.

Can we drink to our deal first? Wildcat asked, raising his eyebrows.

Yeah, one shot.

You got it. Taking a seat, he poured a shot of whiskey into each glass, pushing one toward the sheriff. Nice doing business with you.

I assume that what happens here is private? Paul asked.

You assume correctly, sir. Wildcat raised his glass in a toast. To prosperity.

Nodding, Paul returned the gesture. To prosperity.

In a voice as smooth as molasses, Wildcat started in about the good times that were sure to come. Then, while the sheriff was caught up in an amusing tale about a man who rode an elephant to work, he casually poured the two of them another stiff drink.

Now, Sheriff, since you brought up the issue of morality, I want to prove something. Wait right here a minute, and have another shot.

Wildcat slid the bottle across the desk, got up, and hurried outside. Five minutes later, he returned with a blonde woman wearing a purple robe.

Sheriff Paul, this here is my sister-in-law, Birdie, he said as Paul rose to his feet.

Birdie smiled as she held out her hand. Nice to meet you, Sheriff Paul.

And nice to meet you, Birdie, Paul said, holding her hand as he looked her up and down.

Wildcat’s cough ended the lustful scene.

I brought Birdie in here, he said, so you can see how fine and proper our show is. She’s an artist on the high trapeze, and I know that you don’t want any surprises by outfits that are too revealing.

That’s right, Paul said with a nod.

Then let’s be sure. Birdie, would you mind removing your robe?

Anything for the nice sheriff man, she replied, her eyes fixed on him.

She opened the robe and let it drop onto the tent’s colorful rug. Looking like a pinup girl in a calendar painting, she wore a two-piece blue outfit that resembled a ballerina costume. Sequins sparkled along the edges of her clothes, and on either side of the six-inch band of tanned belly skin, a finger-width of milk-white flesh hinted at what lay beneath her clothes. A blue jewel was somehow attached to her bellybutton.

The sheriff tried to frown, but wound up smiling. You’re a pretty young lady.

Why thank you, Sheriff, Birdie said, touching her hair as she batted her eyes. I always feel so safe around a handsome lawman. Can I show you some of my routines?

I’d be honored.

As the two men returned to their chairs—the sheriff sliding his around for a direct view—Birdie took hold of the tent’s solid center pole. Keeping her head held high, she stretched one arm forward and raised the other, her wrists bent in a way that only a woman can do. Continuing, she hooked her legs around the pole and did a twirl with both arms stretched out, breasts jutting. She came to a stop with a bow that showed an impressive amount of cleavage. Then she did the pole routine again, circling it.

This time when she came around, she leaped and landed on the carpet, one leg forward, the other back, breasts jutting in a provocative split pose.

The men gave her a round of applause.

Thank you, gentlemen, Birdie said, rising gracefully. And Wildcat, do you still have some of that special beverage?

Actually, I gave it to Sheriff Paul as a sign of good faith. He directed a respectful nod toward Paul, eyes glinting under lowered lids. We don’t want any problems in his fine town.

Paul reached for the bottle. But I’m willing to share.

After drinking another round, Wildcat opened his desk drawer and removed an envelope. It was one of several he had ready. He enjoyed playing that he knew what the bribe would be in advance. He pushed the envelope across the desk.

Well, Sheriff Paul, he said, stretching, I like to be in bed before midnight. So if you two will excuse me, I’ll take my leave.

Pleasant dreams, Birdie said.

-3-

A S WILDCAT LEFT the office, Birdie sat in a lion-claw chair to the right of the freestanding liquor cabinet. She crossed her legs and dangled one of her blue slippers from her toes.

Your job, Sheriff Paul, she said, shooting him a sultry pout, must be very stressful.

Paul shrugged. Not really. We don’t have much crime around here.

But it’s so much responsibility. I can see your shoulders are tense. You know, I’ve been to France. That’s where I trained as a therapeutic masseuse before I decided to become an aerialist.

You know, Paul said, reaching back, my shoulders could use a little work. If you don’t mind, of course.

Oh, I don’t mind at all. But to get the full benefits of a massage, a person needs a complete work over. I’d be glad to give you a shoulder massage for free, but for the full work over, I charge five dollars. That’s to cover my expensive training.

Paul stared at Birdie and took a breath. How about four?

Oh my, you’re so masterful. How could a girl refuse? Four dollars, it is. Pay in advance?

That’s fine.

Paul pulled out his wallet and carefully placed four bills onto the desk. At the same time, he slipped the envelope Wildcat had left into his shirt pocket.

Birdie stood and pointed to the beaded doorway. Why don’t we adjourn to the other room? But first, let’s have another drink.

Good idea, Paul said.

* * *

A massage table stood in the center of the back room.

Now, Sheriff, Birdie said. To get the full benefits of a therapeutic massage, you must be completely undressed, and I do mean completely, so I’ll give you some privacy. Climb onto the table and lie on your back. Throw the sheet over yourself, and I’ll return in a few minutes.

When Birdie reemerged from the beaded doorway, Paul was lying face up. The sheet tented up a few inches at his groin area.

Oh my, Birdie said. I detect that I’m in for a frightful experience. Positively frightful for a young woman of twenty-three.

Paul grinned, his hands behind his neck as he took a deep breath. He studied Birdie for a moment.

Twenty-three, that’s exactly what I thought, he said, actually thinking thirty.

Birdie smiled and stepped to his side, leaning over to roll the sheet down to his bellybutton.

You know, Sheriff, she said, rubbing her hands over his hairy chest. It’s awfully hot in here. I could take off this cumbersome halter for three dollars.

Sure, that’s fine.

Mind if I take the money out of your wallet? She nodded toward the nearby bench where Paul had stacked his clothes. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare rob a lawman.

Go ahead, but hurry.

At the bench, Birdie pushed her hand into Paul’s pants pocket. She retrieved his wallet and held it high, making a show of removing some bills. Then she disappeared through the beaded curtain into the front room.

Oh dear, she said as she returned waving a bill. I accidentally took an extra dollar. They were stuck together.

Dizzy from the whiskey, Paul rolled his head to see her. Thanks, Birdie. Just put it in my wallet.

Patience, she said, doing as she was told.

Back at the table, she gazed down at Paul, then reached back and unhooked her halter top. She let it drop.

Holy mackerel, aren’t those pretty puppies, Paul said, rising to run his hands over Birdie’s heavy breasts.

Oh, Sheriff that feels so good. It’s been so long since a man has touched and kissed my breasts. But I charge four dollars for kissing them.

Goddammit, Birdie. You’re a gold digger.

But a sweet girl like me has got to make a living. The Depression has been so hard on everybody.

Okay, four dollars, but get to the massage.

Birdie moved to the bench. Let’s see, I’ll have to make some change. I’ll take this twenty. One moment, please.

She left the room again and came back with a handful of bills. Counting out four, she showed Paul a ten and some ones before slipping them into his wallet. He didn’t have a chance to object when she hurried through the beaded curtain. She rejoined him carrying two brimming shot glasses.

They each took a drink, but Birdie’s trick glass held less than a thimbleful.

Paul shook his head. The room wavered in the lamplight.

Want another shot of whiskey? Birdie asked.

No, Birdie, he replied. Get to work or you’re going to jail.

Birdie shuffled to the table. This time she pulled off the sheet and tossed it on the floor. She ran her hand down Paul’s flat belly.

Oh my, your manhood is so large, she said.

Long ago she had learned that ladies never used the word penis or its crude derivatives, but that it was permitted to lie about a man’s undersized member.

Ooh, Paul moaned as she began the local-area massage.

Sheriff, you’re so hot. Scorching, positively scorching to the touch.

Writhing on the table, he raised himself so he could