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  TREASON

  TREASON

  A Sallie Bingham Reader

  Copyright © 2020 by Sallie Bingham

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bingham, Sallie, author.

  Title: Treason : a Sallie Bingham reader / Sallie Bingham.

  Description: First edition. | Louisville, KY : Sarabande Books, 2020

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019032556 (print) | LCCN 2019032557 (e-book) ISBN 9781946448620 (paperback; acid-free paper) ISBN 9781946448637 (e-book)

  Classification: LCC PS3552.I5 A6 2020 (print) | LCC PS3552.I5 (e-book) DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032556

  LC e-book record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032557

  Cover design by Danika Isdahl.

  Interior design by Alban Fischer.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Sarabande Books is a nonprofit literary organization.

  This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Kentucky Arts Council, the state arts agency, supports Sarabande Books with state tax dollars and federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

  Contents

  STORIES

  Swings

  A New Life

  Grand Canal

  UPSTATE: A Novella

  TREASON: A Play

  Stories

  Swings

  One afternoon in June, Mrs. Whiteside invited Martha Stites and her two little girls to go to the circus. Martha needed a change; her husband had left her just before Easter, and ever since then her girls had been cranky. Mrs. Whiteside often heard them squabbling when she was weeding along the fence that separated the two yards.

  She arranged for her nephew Roy to run them out to the fairgrounds. He was a chinless wonder—his own mother, Mrs. Whiteside’s little sister, called him that—but he could be useful at times. However, he said they’d have to fend for themselves after the show because he was taking his steady girlfriend to the movies. Mrs. Whiteside was possessed of great ingenuity and she knew they would manage.

  The circus had already begun when they arrived; Mrs. Whiteside realized at once they had missed nothing of importance. As they walked in, a band of worn-out ponies was being ridden around the one ring by a band of worn-out people. Next, a shabby tumbling bear rolled in, followed by two cross tigers and a couple of depressing clowns. It was definitely a third-rate affair, and Mrs. Whiteside, who had read the advertisement carefully, felt cheated. The tickets had cost a great deal and she had felt obliged to pay for all four.

  Right away the girls began to nag for popcorn. Their mother, who looked winded, said she’d already spent too much money on junk; on the way in, she’d bought them two overpriced plastic flashlights for waving in the darkness between acts. Mrs. Whiteside could have told her the flashlights wouldn’t last, but she bit her tongue. Already one of them only lit when it was shaken hard.

  Before any more complaining could start, there was a drum-roll from the band on its perch over the stadium and the hot lights went out. When they came back on, a man was standing in the middle of the ring. He stood with his feet far apart in high white clogs, such as Mrs. Whiteside had herself worn long ago to the beach. He had on a floor-length white satin cape; the edge rippled as though something alive was running through the hem.

  Mrs. Whiteside searched her program. The man’s name was listed as Evan Dale, and he was an aerialist.

  “He’s going to have to take off that cape before he can do a thing,” Mrs. Whiteside said.

  Judy, Martha’s youngest girl, chimed in, “I bet he could climb the ladder with it on.” She was a square-shaped eight-year-old; her feet were shoved into black lace-up leather shoes because she was pigeon-toed, and her fat knees made hills in her plaid cotton skirt.

  “Maybe he’ll wear it all the way up and use it to fly down,” Cissie, who was eleven and fanciful, suggested. She had the possibility of good looks hanging around her already, Mrs. Whiteside thought, like a cockeyed blessing, one not to be hoped for. Her mother had started to curl her straight blond hair, and it stood up on either side of her face like a pair of fans.

  Cissie was next to Mrs. Whiteside, and Martha sat between the two girls, to prevent disputes. She had a look on her face that made Mrs. Whiteside ask, “One of your headaches?”

  “No,” Martha said, not even bothering to turn her head.

  Then the band thundered, and Evan Dale looked straight at them. Mrs. Whiteside saw Martha put her hands up to her face.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Cissie asked.

  Martha didn’t answer. Mrs. Whiteside saw she was still wearing her wedding ring, gold, with a grimy-looking diamond; she wondered why Martha hadn’t disposed of it when Ronny took off.

  Judy was twirling her flashlight on its string.

  “Stop that, you’ll put somebody’s eye out,” Mrs. Whiteside said, but Judy kept on twirling.

  Then Evan Dale’s fingers felt for the hook on his high rhinestone collar. He unfastened the cape and it fell off him like the spiraling skin when you peel an apple. He stepped forward, showing off his white tights and wide glittering belt. He wasn’t wearing a shirt of any description, and his chest was as bald as a potato.

  “I always like hair on a man, myself,” Mrs. Whiteside whispered to Martha. Cissie heard and gave her an evil grin.

  “How come he doesn’t have any hair on his chest?” Judy asked, waving her flashlight.

  “I guess he’s got it some place else,” Cissie said, and giggled. Mrs. Whiteside gave her a terrible frown, but Martha acted like she hadn’t heard. Evan Dale was lifting his arms in a gesture of triumph, and the audience was clapping.

  “Shaves under his arms, too,” Mrs. Whiteside remarked. Cissie bit her own right hand to stop laughing.

  Then Evan Dale put off his high white clogs. “I wore shoes like that to Nags Head once,” Mrs. Whiteside said. His assistant ran for the clogs and carried them to the side of the ring, where he arranged them on a special stool.

  Finally, the aerialist set his toes on the bottom rung of a rope ladder that led far up to the top of the stadium.

  Mrs. Whiteside saw Martha take a clean handkerchief out of her pocketbook and wipe her face. The sun was shining hard through the little high-up windows, bringing the smell of cement and animal manure up to the stands.

  “This was nothing but a cornfield when I was coming up,” Mrs. Whiteside observed. She felt she needed to get Martha’s attention.

  Martha was watching Evan Dale climb the ladder toward a sort of crow’s nest of ropes near the roof. When he reached them, he stood up straight and hooked one arm over the trapeze that was hanging there and pointed his left foot in the air and waved at the crowd.

  “I believe he’s got a wire fastened to his belt,” Mrs. Whiteside said.

  “He never uses a wire, or a net—it says so right here in the program.” Cissie’s voice had a switch to it, and Mrs. Whiteside stared. She was not used to being corrected. One reason she lived alone was that she liked her own way, as she was willing to tell anybody. But Cissie was too young to appreciate such statements. Just you wait a few years, she thought at Cissie, darkly. The way you’re going, some boy is going to take advantage of you in the back seat of his daddy’s Chevrolet, and then where will you be?

  Now Evan Dale sat on the high trapeze bar and clamped a thick white rope between his thighs. The rope ran down to his attendant standing on the ground. At a signal, the attendant grabbed the rope with both hands and jerked. The trapeze began to move back, then
forward, and Evan Dale, sitting on the bar, leaned with it, far forward on the upswing, far back on the down. His long yellow hair rippled out behind him, and his feet in some sort of satin slippers pointed at the top of the stadium.

  The drumroll began again as the lights went out and Mrs. Whiteside reached across to grab Judy’s hand in case she was frightened. “Ouch, you’re hurting me,” Judy said and snatched her hand away. A spotlight played on Evan Dale, swinging miles above them.

  Martha was gaping up at him. “All right, now,” Mrs. Whiteside said, and she reached across Cissie and touched Martha’s shoulder.

  Martha shrugged her hand off as though it was a fly. Mrs. Whiteside began to feel unappreciated.

  Suddenly, Evan Dale let go of the trapeze and threw himself out into the air. The spotlight bounced, then followed him, and most of the women in the audience screamed. Evan Dale was falling through the air like a released comet, blond hair streaming, and then he hooked onto another trapeze hanging a long distance from the first one. “How he got across that open space is more than I know,” Mrs. Whiteside said in a hurt voice, remembering how much she had paid for the four tickets, but Martha and the girls didn’t hear her. They were glued on Evan Dale.

  Now he was swinging from the second trapeze by one leg, upside down. The crowd beneath him whooped and clapped. The glass beads in his belt gleamed like a hundred pairs of eyes, and Mrs. Whiteside wondered what they saw. She hoped they didn’t see Martha sitting there gaping.

  Out of the blue, Judy said, “I’m going to get some popcorn,” and she pushed over their legs and was gone. Mrs. Whiteside tried to snatch her as she passed.

  “Judy is gone after popcorn,” she warned Martha, “and as far as I know, she hasn’t got a penny on her,” but Martha just shrugged one shoulder all the way up to her ear and went on staring at the aerialist.

  “I had a swing once,” she said.

  Cissie asked, as politely as a grownup, “You did?” which astonished Mrs. Whiteside. The girls might have energy—in fact, she knew they did—but their manners had been completely neglected.

  She glanced at Evan Dale, who was flexing his legs on the trapeze, pressing the rope between his knees.

  “Grandpa put it up for me in the old maple tree,” Martha said. Mrs. Whiteside had never before heard her speak a word about her early life.

  “What maple tree?” Cissie asked, keeping the conversation going.

  “The one in the side yard at home.”

  “Where was home?” Mrs. Whiteside asked, to show her interest.

  “The house is gone, and the swing, too,” Martha said.

  “In Glasgow,” Cissie told Mrs. Whiteside, as though she ought to have known, and Mrs. Whiteside was left to wonder helplessly if they meant Glasgow, Kentucky, or Glasgow in a foreign country.

  At that moment, Evan Dale slid off the trapeze again and spun into the air, landing on the top rung of the ladder. He had completed the move before everyone started gasping. “Quick as a wink,” Mrs. Whiteside said. She thought his act must be about over.

  He teetered as he stood on the top rung of the ladder and reached out with both arms to steady himself, and the audience, which had just started to relax, began to gasp and clap again. He wobbled on one foot until everybody understood it was just a joke but they went on clapping and laughing. “He’s a clown, as well,” Mrs. Whiteside said; she had never been in favor of humor, which seemed to be mainly a way to catch decent people off guard.

  Then there was a terrible moment when Evan Dale seemed to be falling off the ladder upside down, only to right himself slowly, like a bottle coming up in a stream. He bowed low once he was righted and back on the ladder, and everyone in the audience clapped. Martha stood up to applaud and Mrs. Whiteside had to rake at her skirt to get her to sit down.

  The band began to play as the aerialist worked his way jauntily down the ladder. He reached the ground quickly and turned his back to his assistant so his cape could be placed on his shoulders. “I bet that one leads a dog’s life,” Mrs. Whiteside said.

  As Evan Dale fastened the cloak under his chin, the band groaned its way into “Old Folks at Home,” and people stood up to leave.

  “Where’s Judy?” Mrs. Whiteside asked. She had her hand on Martha’s arm to get her going.

  Cissie said, “She’s probably down at the popcorn machine.”

  Martha never said a word.

  “She’ll be trampled underfoot,” Mrs. Whiteside said, shoving Martha along. She stumbled out of the row as though she was tipsy, and Mrs. Whiteside had to grab her and turn her toward the stairs.

  The crowd was already thinning by the popcorn machine and there was no sign of Judy. Martha had come to enough to check in her purse for something, but it was not her wallet or her house keys. Mrs. Whiteside took charge, saying, “We’re going to make a complete tour of this place.”

  Martha took Cissie by the hand and started off in one direction while Mrs. Whiteside went in the other. After a few minutes, they met on the far side of the ring.

  “I haven’t seen a sign of her,” Mrs. Whiteside announced. “We’d better find the manager.” Martha nodded, looking as though they had misplaced a pillow, and Cissie was so excited she forgot her age and ran ahead of them like a child.

  A man who was milking money out of the pop machines told them to try the exit to the left.

  Mrs. Whiteside led the way. She was truly frightened now and wondered if she was somehow to blame; the whole afternoon had been her idea, without her suggesting the circus they would all have been sitting safely at home.

  She hurried through the exit and onto a bare piece of ground where trailers and trucks were parked in a pack. One trailer looked like an office, and Mrs. Whiteside marched up the three outside steps, Martha and Cissie crowding behind her.

  She hammered on the thin metal door. A fat man in a greasy shirt came out.

  “A little girl has been lost,” Mrs. Whiteside told him.

  “Started for the popcorn machine and hasn’t been seen since!” Cissie exclaimed.

  The fat man looked at Mrs. Whiteside and then he craned around her to see Cissie and her mother. He studied Martha for a long time while Mrs. Whiteside held her gaze sternly on his wet-looking face.

  “Well, I haven’t seen her,” the fat man said, after a while.

  “Are you the manager?” Mrs. Whiteside asked in disbelief.

  “Sure am. Maybe she went over to the cages.”

  Mrs. Whiteside wanted to remind him of his responsibilities, but the fat man retreated inside the trailer and closed the door in her face.

  This time, Martha led the way toward a bunch of rolling cages, parked near the circus trucks.

  In the first one, two tigers were lying down, filling the cage from end to end, tufts of their hair sticking out through the bars. In the next cage, the bear sat propped in a corner. The stink around the bear was strong. By the door to the tigers, a fair-haired man was shoveling chucks of raw meat onto a tray.

  “Have you seen a little blond girl back here?” Mrs. Whiteside asked, and suddenly she was glad it was Judy and not Cissie that had disappeared.

  The man looked up at her. “No, I have not,” he said in a voice Mrs. Whiteside would later swear was born this side of the Ohio River.

  “We saw you up there on the swing,” Cissie said.

  “Yeah?” He opened the tigers’ door and flung in the trayful of raw meat; the tigers considered it attentively.

  “You were so good!” Cissie cried, sounding, Mrs. Whiteside thought, just like her mother.

  She glanced at Martha. She was standing rooted to the ground.

  “The little girl is wearing a plaid skirt, dark-colored,” Mrs. Whiteside said.

  “I haven’t seen her,” Evan Dale repeated, slamming the door to the tigers’ cage.

  Then, out of the middle of nowhere, Martha began to talk. “I had a swing at home,” she said. “The ropes were fifteen feet long. When I pumped hard, I could swing all the w
ay across the creek and touch the blackberry bushes on the far side with my toes.”

  Evan Dale looked at her. “You still got it?” he asked.

  “Grandpa cut the ropes down when I was thirteen. Said he didn’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry looking at my underpants.”

  “Isn’t that just the way?” Evan Dale asked.

  “The child we’re looking for is wearing black lace-up shoes,” Mrs. Whiteside said.

  Martha was talking fast and feeling in her pocketbook for something. “We live real close, off Brownsboro Road, it’s called Manorside. We’ve got the only frame house on the block. It used to be a farm.” Before Mrs. Whiteside could say a thing, Martha had a piece of paper and a pencil out and was writing something down. She handed it to Evan Dale and he looked at it and folded it and pushed it down into the bib pocket of his overalls.

  “We have six rooms and two baths and a front porch that’s screened and a fireplace with a creek-stone chimney,” Martha rattled off.

  “I live right in back of her,” Mrs. Whiteside said. “If that child doesn’t show up in about a minute, I’m going to call the police.”

  “Is that her?” Evan Dale asked, and they turned around and saw Judy poking a stick through the bars at the bear.

  Mrs. Whiteside ran to her. “Oh, honey! You had us almost scared to death.”

  “What’d you do with the popcorn?” Cissie asked.

  “Ate it,” Judy said, still poking.

  Evan Dale strolled over and took the stick out of her hand.

  “That bear has a bad temper,” he said.

  Martha was looking over his shoulder.

  “Don’t you ever wander off like that again!” Mrs. Whiteside scolded. She took hold of both the girls’ hands and said, “We’re going home right this minute.” Then she remembered they didn’t have a ride.

  Evan Dale took in the situation at a glance and offered to drive them anywhere they wanted to go.

  “It’s only about twenty minutes from here, we’ll call a taxi,” Mrs. Whiteside said, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and Martha was aiding and abetting him.