Chapter 15

"You've gone too far! It's one thing to parade around freaks who were born that way, but that's a man's hat and you know it! You've willingly stepped in where ya don't belong! You're a disgrace to the name Barnum!"

It was Tuesday night, after the show, and the man screaming obscenities at Ema was burly, with a thick beard and the heavy scent of whisky on his breath.

"My name isn't Barnum! It's Semanovka!" Ema returned, not backing down in the slightest.

He stepped in closer, so that he was almost touching Ema, and slurred, "You fucking Polish whore!"

Charity watched, a knot of fear in her stomach, as Ema stepped in even closer. In her heels and hat, she appeared taller than the surly man in front of her, although he had at least a hundred pounds on her. After a moment that felt like an eternity, Ema placed one hand in the middle of the man's chest and shoved, hard. He stumbled backward and fell, landing with a thud. Those who were still lingering outside the circus tent gasped.

"Ok!" Phillip stepped in between Ema and the man who now struggled to stand. "Let's all move on. Let's agree to disagree and everyone head home. And have a good night!"

Charity continued to watch as Phillip waved onlookers away from the entrance to the circus tent. He helped the drunken man to his feet and refused to let go of his arm, dragging him away from Ema and the tent.

Ema had been outside, greeting guests and waving them off as they went home, when a couple of men started heckling her. The burly man was the loudest. For everyone who embraced her new role, who appreciated her charisma, there were some at every show who disagreed. And when they disagreed, it was not quietly. As Phillip physically led the man away, Ema held her head high, hugged a few more children, and then headed back inside. Charity followed her as she walked straight across the performance space and through the flap leading backstage. Ema tossed her hat toward a hay bale and shook off her coat. Tossing it away, she kicked at the hay bales in obvious frustration.

"What's the problem?" Lettie asked from across the space.

"They're heckling her again," Charity explained gently.

Ema turned on Lettie. "What do you care? I know you wish I'd disappear!"

Lettie's face registered shock and then anger. "I said I wanted you out of my room! I never said I wanted you to quit!"

Ema turned away, still fuming.

Lettie, who looked equally as angry, stormed off towards her dressing area.

"Ema?" Charity tried to get her attention. "Ema?" She took the taller woman carefully by the arm. "Let's go talk. Come on."

Charity led her outside and down towards the river. Once there, she spread out the cloak she carried so they could both sit on the grass. It was cold, but Charity's dress was wool and warm enough.

Ema paced in front of Charity rather than sitting down. "God, I hate that!"

"I can't imagine anyone who likes to be yelled at," Charity stated. "And...you're not even Polish, are you?"

"No, but no use arguin'. Hate is hate. It's just...what right have they got to decide what anyone should or shouldn't do? Probably push their wives around when they get home, if anyone has been unfortunate enough to marry the assholes!"

"I hope that's not true," Charity tried to be reasonable. "I hope they're just loud-mouthed idiots."

Ema stopped pacing and her shoulders dropped.

Charity patted the cloak beneath her. "Ema? Come. Sit."

Resentfully, Ema dropped onto the cloak.

"Some people will never understand, Ema. Some people have meanness that goes so deep you can never extract it. That's a hard lesson Phinn and I have learned over the years."

Ema sighed. "I know. It just makes me want to hit 'em. Hit 'em hard."

"Don't do that," Charity shook her head. "If you keep hitting people, we'll all be in trouble. No one wants to see The Greatest Show on Earth performed from a jail cell."

Ema finally chuckled. She pulled her hair loose and shook it out. They sat there for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts.

Very carefully, Charity asked. "Ema, can you tell me more about where were you living, before this?"

Ema stared across the river before responding. "Further downtown, working in a laundry for the wealthy. I was strong, so I was good at it. Before that, I worked for a dressmaker and lived above the shop with a bunch of other girls. I was not good at that." She swallowed hard before she kept going. "But I had a crush on one of them. First time I ever admitted, out loud, what I am. She was blonde, like you. Big blue eyes. And when I told her, she screamed like I'd bit her and told everyone. That's when they spit on me. Called me a bastard and several other unsavory things." Ema still stared across the river, her jaw set, her pain obvious.

Softly, kindly, Charity offered, "I'm so sorry, Ema. Words hurt. They really do."

Ema nodded. She picked at the gold braiding on her vest for a minute before stating, "My parents don't even know what I am. I think it would be the thing that finally pushes them over the edge." She paused. "They're good people, my mum and dad. They're from Ukraine, and they've worked really hard for what they have, which still isn't much. They have no other kids, and they love me more than I deserve, 'cause I drove 'em crazy. Always running away, throwing dramatic tantrums. I skipped school for any reason I could find. I snuck into a couple of operas with my friends. Didn't care much for it. Didn't realized how much I loved performing until I walked into the circus a year ago. This place feels like home...and when those men start heckling me, I wanted to hit 'em because they don't understand what it's like to not fit in, ever, and then finally fit."

Charity nodded. "They're small-minded, Ema, and there's only a few of them. Everyone else loves you."

"Except for Lettie."

Charity sighed. "True. But I have hope she'll come around."

"Maybe." Ema stared across the river again. "You know, I took the job at the dressmaker's shop because it's the only thing I know about the woman who birthed me. Her note said she was a dressmaker. She worked for a tailor and it went bad, somehow."

Charity felt a hitch in her chest.

All that money, and still just the tailor's boy.

They were words neither she nor Phinn would ever forget. Charity wondered, for a moment, about the possibility implied, and then shook it off. The city was too big. It was impossible, so she said nothing.

Ema stood up and paced some more, lost in her own thoughts, and Charity watched. Ema's legs looked even more impossibly long in just her leotard, vest, and stockings. Luckily, the ground was dry and could take the weight of Ema's heels.

As Ema paced, Phillip approached in the darkness. Charity saw him and gave him a smile. He crossed to where Ema paced and touched her shoulder from behind. To Charity's shock and horror, Ema whipped around and punched Phillip squarely in the face.

He dropped to his knees. "Fuck, Ema! What the...fuck?" He held his face. She hadn't drawn blood, but it might leave a bruise on his cheek.

Ema's hands flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry! It was...you startled me!"

Phillip sat back for a minute, holding his face and getting his bearings again. "Ok. I'm ok. I only wanted to tell you that those men, and everyone else, is gone. We're clear of audience members if you want to come back."

Ema nodded, obviously remorseful. She held out her hand to help Phillip to his feet. He took her hand and hauled himself up. He rubbed his face a bit more.

"Again...so sorry," Ema offered. "I think I'm on edge, from before."

"It's okay, Ema. I just...I'm going home. See both of you tomorrow." Phillip walked away, and Charity felt his pride was hurt more than his face.

Ema met Charity's eyes and she said, "I really didn't meant to hurt him."

Charity couldn't help laughing a little. "Didn't you pull a knife on him once, too?"

Ema nodded sheepishly. "I don't have the best history with men. I've learned to be...on guard."

Sobering, Charity carefully asked, "Ema...did anything else happen at the dressmaker's shop? Or the laundry? Because I know Lettie has said that sometimes, the men who run the place try to..." She couldn't get out the question.

Ema's eyes darkened. Her expression turned stormy. "Of course they did. All of them. And, after a while, it was easier to just give in. After all, better to be known as a whore than...what I really am."

"Ema…" Charity's voice was full of sympathy.

"Don't pity me!" Ema snapped.

"I'm not," Charity defended herself, "but I do recognize when something is wrong. And I have learned, in this life I have chosen, to accept all kinds of things that society shuns. And not just accept people who are different, but find the beauty in them."

Ema stopped pacing and stared down at Charity. Her expression was hard to read. After a moment, she sat down beside Charity again.

"You know...I'm stronger because of all of it. Quit that job. Kept myself alive until the day I auditioned here. And now I'm the Ringmaster of The Greatest Show on Earth. Shows all of 'em what a bastard orphan can do."

"Orphan?" Charity asked.

"I just assume."

"You know, Phinn's an orphan. We had nothing when got married."

Ema nodded. "I do know. And you've loved each other since you were kids."

Charity raised an eyebrow.

"I read it in the papers, a while back," Ema explained.

Charity nodded. She couldn't argue with that. The life and times of P.T. Barnum could always sell papers.

"It's nice," Emma said softly. "Your love story...it's nice."

She turned and looked up towards the stars, which shone sharply in the crisp, clear night. They were both starting to shiver, and Charity wrapped her arms around herself. She studied Ema in profile. Her cheekbones could be Nordic or maybe Greek. Her jaw was strong, like the Russian jugglers. Her eyes were darkest blue in the starlight. Charity couldn't say for sure where her lineage might lead, and she was sure Ema must've stared into the mirror and wondered, herself. In profile, however, her nose was still so reminiscent of Phinn that Charity couldn't help but stare. For a moment, she wanted to reach out and touch her.

Charity looked away. Ema was beautiful, and Charity hoped very much that someone else would see it, and fall in love with her.

Someone like her.

Charity suddenly remembered Phinn's wishing machine from so many years ago. Looking up, she cast her wish for Ema to the stars.

"Phillip?" Anne called from the bedroom, where she was still curled up in the quilts.

"Yes?" He returned with hot cups of tea.

It was mid-morning, but they kept late hours, which often made for late mornings.

Anne held up the day's papers. "They're writing about Ema again."

Phillip handed her a cup and rolled his eyes. "You'd think they would've lost interest by now."

"Apparently, she assaulted some gentleman last night?"

Phillip sat down on the other side of the bed and set his tea on the bedside table. "Well, at least they're quick. That much can be said for the press."

Anne laughed. "As well as a few other choice words."

"It was nothing," Phillip explained. "He deserved it. He was harassing her and she shoved him away."

"Good for her," Anne stated with a smile.

As she sipped her tea, Phillip sorted through a pile of envelopes sitting on his bedside table. He'd put off the mail for a few days and it could no longer wait. One particular envelope caught his eye, and he tore it open with a sudden unease in his gut. He read over the letter and drew a heavy breath.

"What is it?" Anne asked.

"The Board of Trade filed for an injunction," he explained bluntly. "They want us in court in a month to decide whether to force us to permanently remove the aerialists. And, as they state, 'Anything else that might prove a danger to the public.'"

Anne snatched the letter from him and read it over. "What a bunch of…"

Phillip rubbed his eyes. "We knew they were going to do it. Peter Murray said he would do it."

"Still. He's an asshole." Anne fumed.

"But he's a powerful asshole." Phillip sighed.

"But we're going to fight." Anne stated rhetorically.

"We'll fight as hard as we can," Phillip said without much conviction. "But I'm no lawyer and I'm not sure who we can convince to take on this case…"

Sitting up straighter, Anne said, "You'll get the best lawyer we can afford! But, Phillip, you've got more than that. You can do more than that!"

"What more is there?" Phillip asked. "I told Peter Murray to take it to court, and that's what he has done."

"True. But every judge, and jury, and board, and person of influence is also influenced themselves, and by more than testimony. They're influenced by the press, because the press reflects public opinion. And public opinion is very important to public officials."

"So what are you saying?" Phillip asked.

Anne, with her eyes bright, explained, "Phillip, you're a writer. I know you've become a businessman and a rather delightful performer, but you were a writer first. And a damn good one, based on the reviews. So, write. Write us out of this. People have used the press for years to sway public opinion and thereby political or social change. Alexander Hamilton, in that schoolbook Charity was going on about with Caroline, he wrote a bunch of articles that changed our entire government by swaying opinion. So, starting writing, Phillip. Defend the circus. Write us out of this."

Phillip stared at her, shocked at how brilliant her idea was, and also how daunting.

Leaning in, she said softly, "You're more than a playwright, Phillip. Tell me you'll do this?"

He nodded, unable to say no.

Anne kissed him squarely on the mouth and then went back to her tea. Before she took a sip, she threw out, "Oh, and we have to have treats for the little ones tonight. It's All Hallow's Eve and some of them will be dressed."

Phillip rolled his eyes again. "Silly Celtic tradition. It'll never last."

Anne gave him a skeptical look and said, "You're Celtic. Or at least your last name is."

Phillip couldn't argue and agreed to pick up extra treats for the show.

The following morning, Charity lay in bed much longer than usual. She was tired, a deep, pervasive kind of tired that suggested she might be coming down with something, possibly what Phillip had had. When she finally rose, she went to the kitchen for tea. Betsy took one look at her and waved her off, promising to get the girls to school. Charity, grateful, did not argue. Back in the bed, she dozed off for at least another hour. When she woke again, she found Phinn sitting by the window in his usual place, shuffling through a pile of papers on the table in front of him.

When he saw she was awake, he held up a newspaper and asked, "What are these?"

Charity adjusted her pillow and answered, "Articles about the show. Mostly about Ema. Phillip brought them to the show last night and asked if I wanted to look any of them over. I thought it might be useful to at least skim them...to know what they're saying."

Phinn nodded, his brow furrowed.

Sensing his unspoken dilemma, Charity offered, "I could read them to you, aloud."

He shook his head. "No. If I don't keep trying, I'll never improve."

"That's true," Charity said softly, "But if you don't succeed today, and you still want to know what they say, I would be willing."

Phinn didn't argue, but kept his focus on the papers.

Charity sat up against her pillows and carefully added, "Phinn...Phillip also told me he got a letter from the Board of Trade, or from the court, actually. They filed for the injunction. We have to go, in a month, and defend our right to have aerialists in our show."

Phinn clenched his hands into fists. "A month?"

She nodded.

"That's not nearly enough time!"

"Maybe not, but if we all work together…"

Phinn slammed his fists on the table. "How am I supposed to be of any help if I can't read any of the correspondence? If I can't write in return? If I can't leave this house? I can't even leave the fucking house, Charity!"

Sliding out of the bed, she ignored the complaints of her body as she crossed to her husband. Taking his face in her hands, she forced him to look at her as she said, "Everything you have ever needed to succeed, you have in here." She lightly tapped his forehead. "We both know you were never one for keeping the books or sending the memos. That's Phillip's area of expertise. But the ideas, the solutions to make the impossible happen, they came from here. From you. And that part of you is still here, and still works beautifully."

Charity hoped with everything in her that that was true.

"Maybe…" Phinn said with little conviction. The passion of his outburst quickly dissipated.

Since he didn't pull away, Charity wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her. Where he was seated, she drew his head against her chest and held him, raking her fingers through his hair and trying to will the life back into him. Trying to inspire him to fight.