15 for 15 Contest --- Closed

“Momma, the train’s late. You know what that means.” Irma’s voice quavered.

Mrs. Drake glanced into the rearview mirror at her daughter’s pallid face. “Now, Irma, you know that’s just circus talk. Maybe we’ll do the matinee after all. No cancelled performance – no bad luck.”

Jean Drake, sitting in the passenger seat, said, “If the tent’s not up, the matinee’s cancelled. My costume is dirty anyway. I’ll wash it before the evening show.”

The old car chugged into the fairgrounds and pulled up next to the manager’s trailer. Mrs. Drake called to a roustabout, “Samuel, can you bring Irma inside for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Opening the back door, the muscular man clasped Irma under the stubs of her shoulders and lifted her out. He set her torso on his hip and steadied her. She had no legs to clasp around his waist.

Irma wrinkled her nose. “You smell bad, Sam.”

“Been waterproofing the tents with paraffin – the kerosene smell gets into everything.” He climbed the stairs into the oven-like trailer.

“When will the animals and the others get here?” Mrs. Drake asked.

“Don’t rightly know, ma’am. The tents will be up soon, but the matinee’s already canceled because of the train.” He shrugged. “The 7 o’clock show will pro’ly be on time. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

* * *

“You see, Irma? Nothing happened. Everything went fine.” Jean plopped into the vanity’s chair and took off her spangled headdress.

Irma frowned. “That’s not what I heard. When the band came on after my show, they told me there was a fire in the kitchen tent.”

Jean slathered on cold cream and scrubbed at her makeup. “Just a spark. They put it out in no time.”

Mrs. Drake came out of the bedroom and lifted Irma up. “Stop talking about this ‘bad luck’ nonsense and go to bed.”

“Okay, Momma,” Irma said. “Still, that’s the first time the train’s been late since we’ve been with this circus, and the first time a show got cancelled. The old timers say it’s a bad omen.”

* * *

“Irma Drake, the armless and legless wonder, can write her name as pretty as you or me,” the Ringmaster yelled from the center ring.

On her chair, Irma tucked a pen between her chin and chest and demonstrated.

Screams exploded across the audience. Irma dropped the pen and stared wide-eyed as a bright streamer of flame ran up the side of the tent.

Within seconds, the tent roof blazed. Over seven thousand hysterical spectators leaped from the bleachers, running for the only exit. Gobs of burning paraffin dripped off the ceiling onto the struggling people.

The Ringmaster, on his way to help Irma, fell under the stampede.

The onslaught jarred Irma’s stage and she tumbled from her chair. Shrieks of misery drowned out the crackle of fire. A wave of heat poured over her prone body, singeing her hair. Her anguished cries rose in the din.

Powerful arms wrapped around her. She looked up to find Samuel’s soot-stained face.

Samuel carried her to safety before going back in to help others. She never saw him again. Along with over a hundred others, he perished in the inferno.









* This story is based on true events surrounding the Hartford Circus Fire, July 6, 1944.











Laura





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