(A one-woman monologue)

SCENE OPENS

(Woman is sitting in chair, probably outdoors. It’s summer-time.)

WOMAN

I still hear the voice—it doesn’t go away. This tiny rasping utterance that keeps calling out—“Help me, help me”.

 For years, I’ve tried to suppress this voice, but whenever summer time rolls around—faintly at first, then louder, closer, I begin to hear carnival music—

(Faintly, then louder, carnival music plays in background. Can remain subtle faint undertone throughout.)

Barkers begin shouting—it’s then, that “See them! Alive!—The Children of Sin!” echoes and reechoes, and the torment of that one brief encounter resurfaces, and I’m back at the county fair.

I’m about ten, wearing a skimpy cotton print dress, walking wide-eyed past these colorful canvases, displaying oversized, exaggerated paintings of sideshow oddities. This is the first summer I’m allowed to go to the county fair alone, without an older brother or sister, so I’m taking my seven-year-old brother, Sonny, along for company, because he likes to see new things as much as I do, and besides, he’s my very favorite brother.

I made up my mind before coming—this year I’m going to see all the sideshows—those previously forbidden, and the ones always skipped over by my elders as hoaxes.

So, here I am, dragging Sonny from one hot dusty tent to another. We gaze in awe at the fire eaters, sword swallowers. Our stomachs squirm as we look at the three headed calf pickled in a huge glass jar—Siamese twins enjoined by a globby flap of middle skin. Nowhere else in the world are there so many strange things captured all in one place.

We’re going up and down sideshow row, using up the money I earned bean-picking, saved mostly for this much awaited yearly event. Rides, popcorn, soda, cotton candy, and my most favorite—the sideshows.

Way at the end remains one isolated attraction. “CHILDREN OF SIN” flaps in huge red letters across a swaying worn canvas picturing two gnome-like children in a primitive jungle setting.

“Come in! Come in! See the Children of Sin!” the barker is shouting.

Half formed thoughts begin flashing—would this be something like those penny arcade movies? Lots of them had “sin” in their titles. Or would they just be mummified bodies, like some of the other disappointing attractions.

Everything about this last show intrigues me, yet something holds me back.

Well, Sonny would enjoy it, if they were children. He’s been jiggling around so at the other shows, laughing only at the trained animal acts. Importantly I walk up to the lipsticked lady, plunk down my money, “Two please.” Tightly fisting the red tickets, we follow the mostly adult crowd into the mysterious depths of the shadowy tent.

Wow! There, sitting on highchairs, on top of a wooden platform, are two live monkey-like creatures, only about three feet tall. Cautiously I go closer to see better. One is wearing a little girl’s dress, her hair drawn up tightly into a peaked topknot, making her head look like it comes to a point. The boy, in soiled grown men’s clothing, is almost bald. Both their skins are yellowish, crinkled, like crepe paper.

So, these are the Children of Sin! How awful! I move away, yet stand gaping with the others. Sunday sermons about sin and punishment flicker—I look again, and notice that around their necks are padded leather dog collars, with long chains attached.

A fat scruffy man—he’s wearing baggy pants, wide suspenders, shoes with no socks, walks slowly onto the platform, eyeing us all. He looks straight at me, and I’m afraid he might make us leave, so I try to get close to grownups, so I look like I belong to them.

He coughs gruffly, then begins telling the story, really fast—something about a brother and sister marrying, living in sin. “And this is the result!” He points a finger at the downcast children. Adults around me whisper to one another.

“They’re both 43 years old,” the man continues, “But they still only have the mentality of six year olds  . . . and, so they have to be treated like children.” He laughs, playfully tugging at their chains. They slap back at him. “That’s why we have to keep them chained up—for their own protection. Because, like children, they like to run away.” He laughs again, tickling at them. They jump around like monkeys at the end of their chains.

People are laughing too. Only, it doesn’t seem very funny to me. Kids don’t like being tied up, stared at—made to do tricks on such a hot day.

“Their mother abandoned them,” he continues, “and, if it weren’t for the carnival, they would have been left to die—” I didn’t want to hear any more such stuff, so I edge away, sneaking over to the side where the girl is now sitting, perched on her highchair, looking out over the crowd.

Something inside me responds, connecting me to this strange tiny person, and I wave to her. Her eyes catch mine. A childlike smile spreads across her scrunched face.

I’m caught up in their peculiar world now, so different from mine, wanting to know more about them, but not from that burly man.

In the corner, behind a short canvas fence, is a child’s table and chairs, messy dishes, half-eaten food with flies buzzing around. Nearby, on the ground, is a boxlike bed, with two dirty blankets. This must be where they lived? Where did they play? Where were their toys?

“That’s all folks—” the man calls out. “Stay as along as you wish. But, don’t ever forget these Children of Sin! Remember what happens when man goes against God’s laws.”

The crowd slowly begins filing out, pausing to look at the display of pictures, reading the writeups about the two. It’s all to high for me, but I catch some of their words.

The man leads the children to the table and chairs; clamps their chains to an iron bar. I watch from a distance. “Be good,” he admonishes with a playful slap, then disappears behind the tent flap.

The wizened little man climbs onto his chair, buries his head in his hands. He looks like he is crying. The girl notices me, comes over to the canvas fence.

Pangs of sympathy rustle through me. How lonely they must be. No other children to play with—chained up all day. I decide to be nice to her, talk with her. I walk closer.

“Do you like being with the carnival?” I ask. Traveling with a carnival had always seemed the most exciting thing in the world to me.

She doesn’t answer. Then all of a sudden she reaches out a clawlike hand over the fence and grabs my hand so tightly. I’m a little frightened as her claws dig in deeper—her skin is dry and crackly. But her eyes, they look so human—I’m thinking—maybe I could have a new friend—from the carnival—write to her—

Unexpectedly she speaks, in a squeaky raspy voice, “Help me,” she gasps. “Help me get away from here!”

What the man had said, about them always trying to run away—was that really why they were chained up? Orr—quickly I try to stop my scrambling imagination.

“Don’t you like being with the carnival?” I ask as kindly as possible.

“Tell somebody to get us out of here,” she pleads.

“Who should I tell?”

“Help me get away,” she gasps, clutching my hand even tighter, “They beat us—help us get away!” Now her tiny eyes are watering. My soft heart truly believes her.

“Open my chains!” She shakes at them feebly, making rattly sounds. Her neck is red and raw where the leather collar is attached to the chains.

So, it was true! That evil man was keeping them chained up against their will and it was up to me to help free them. First, I would unfasten the chain—Bravely I begin to climb over the low canvas fence.

Suddenly their keeper appears from behind the tent flap.

“Hey, you kids!” he shouts fiercely, “Get away from there. Stop bothering them!”

Lightning-like, the little girl runs to her chair, jumps up and sits quietly, eyes downcast, never looking at me again.

Quickly I grab Sonny, “We better go now”, and rush right out of there, before that man catches us and chains us up too. My heart is beating extra wildly.

Back on the midway the sun is shining. My stomach is queasy—all that popcorn, soda.

Music is playing—but I still hear her voice. It’s following me. Should I go back?

“Where are we going now?” Sonny tugs, “More shows?”

“No more shows,” I say, walking more rapidly. I am now the heroine in some adventure story, entrusted to deliver a secret message, and it must be delivered to the right people, quickly.

Dragging Sonny behind me, I begin searching for a policeman. Already I can see headlines—“Young Girl Saves Two Held Captive by Carnival.”

I can’t find a policeman. And I can’t tell the fair people. They’re probably in on this, too. They’d never let her go.

I’ll go home, tell my mother. She always knows what to do. She can call the police.

As soon as I get into the kitchen, I tell mama all about the chained up children, rushing my words. She’s busy canning pears, pulling steaming jars out of boiling water with metal tongs.

She drops the hot jar back into the kettle. “What do you mean, you went to see the Children of Sin?” She’s yelling, face red and steamy. “Taking your little brother in there with you, too!”

“But, this bad man had them in chains.” I try explaining with even greater urgency.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone.” She wipes her forehead with her pear stained apron and goes back to work. Wouldn’t do any good telling her the rest. If she didn’t believe me, that means the police wouldn’t either. I was probably the only person this girl had ever told her story to, because she liked me, I could tell.

(Sits. Pause.)

Mama makes me stay in the house the rest of the day, with strict orders “not to step out that door at all!” I hardly sleep that night.

(Rises.)

Early the next morning, before anyone else is up, I walk over to the fairgrounds. Maybe I can sneak in and still free my little friend. But the carnival section is already down. Huge red trucks are rumbling out the double gates. Some trucks have open slats, like they hold animals. Others have windows and doors, like people live in them.

And in one of those trucks is the Children of Sin. Still chained. I had failed them, in their only chance for freedom.

I sit down in the tall grass outside the chain link fence and begin to cry softly. Then, from far away, I hear that pitiful voice calling—“Help me!” And I see that gnarled face with those pleading watery eyes. But it’s too late. The last of the trucks is rolling down the road into the far distance. . . .

I take the long way home, scuffing at everything on the sidewalk.

Even today, the question still lingers. Were they really six-year-old mentalities in adult bodies—or, were they adults deliberately maintained as six-year-olds? And, whatever happened to them?

THE END