angles. The canvas is taut and nearly translucent—sunlight filters through the material and seams, illuminating the largest candy stand of all. It’s smack in the center of the menagerie, under rays of glorious light, surrounded by banners advertising sarsaparilla, Cracker Jack, and frozen custard.
Brilliantly painted red and gold animal dens line two of the four walls, their sides propped open to reveal lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, bears, chimps, and spider monkeys—even an orangutan. Camels, llamas, zebras, and horses stand behind low ropes slung between iron stakes, their heads buried in mounds of hay. Two giraffes stand within an area enclosed by chain-link fence.
I’m searching in vain for an elephant when my eyes come to an abrupt stop on a woman. She looks so much like Catherine I catch my breath—the plane of her face, the cut of her hair, the slim thighs I’ve always imagined were under Catherine’s staid skirts. She’s standing in front of a row of black and white horses, wearing pink sequins, tights, and satin slippers, talking to a man in top hat and tails. She cups the muzzle of one of the white horses, a striking Arabian with a silver mane and tail. She lifts a hand to push back a piece of her light brown hair and adjust her headdress. Then she reaches up and smoothes the horse’s forelock against his face. She grasps his ear in her fist, letting it slide through her fingers.
There’s an enormous crash, and I spin to find that the side of the closest animal den has slammed shut. When I turn back, the woman is looking at me. Her brow furrows, as though in recognition. After a few seconds I realize I should smile or drop my eyes or do something, but I can’t. Eventually the man in the top hat puts his hand on her shoulder and she turns, but slowly, reluctantly. After a few seconds she steals another glance.
Wade is back. “Come on,” he says, slapping me between the shoulder blades. “It’s showtime.”
• • •
“LADIES-S-S-S-S-S-S AND GENTLEMEN-N-N-N-N-N-N-N! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes till the big show! Twen-n-n-n-n-ty-five minutes! More than enough time to avail yourselves of the amazing, the unbelievable, the m- a-a-a-a-a-a-rvelous wonders we have gathered from all four corners of the earth, and still find a good seat in the big top! Plenty of time to see the oddities, the freaks of nature, the spectacles! Ours is the most dazzling collection in the world, ladies and gentlemen! In the world, I tell you!”
Cecil stands on a platform beside the sideshow’s entrance. He struts back and forth, gesturing grandly. A crowd of about fifty hovers loosely. They are uncommitted, more paused than stopped.
“Step right this way, to see the gorgeous, the
The crowd is denser, their interest piqued. Jimmy, Wade, and I mingle near the back.
“And now,” says Cecil, swinging around. He puts his finger to his lips and winks grotesquely—an exaggerated gesture that pulls the side of his mouth up toward his eye. He raises a hand in the air, asking for quiet. “And now —my apologies, ladies, but this is for the gentlemen only—the gentlemen only! Because we’re in mixed company, for delicacy’s sake, I can only say this once. Gentlemen, if you’re a red-blooded American, if you’ve got manly blood flowing through your veins, then this is something you don’t want to miss. If you’ll follow that there fella—right there, just right over there—you’ll see something so amazing, so shocking, it’s guaranteed to—”
He stops, closes his eyes, and lifts a hand. He shakes his head with remorse. “But no,” he continues. “In the interest of decency and on account of being in mixed company, I can’t say any more than that. Can’t say any more, gentlemen. Except this—
Cecil straightens up and adjusts his checked waistcoat, tugging the hem with both hands. His face assumes a deferential expression and he gestures broadly toward an entrance on the opposite side. “And ladies, if you’ll kindly come this way—we have wonders and curiosities suitable for your delicate sensibilities, too. A gentleman would never forget the ladies. Especially such lovely ladies as yourselves.” With this he smiles and closes his eyes. The women in the crowd glance nervously at the disappearing men.
A tug-of-war has broken out. A woman holds fast to her husband’s sleeve with one hand and bats him with the other. He grimaces and frowns, ducking to avoid her blows. When he finally breaks free, he straightens his lapels and glowers at his now-sulking wife. As he struts off to hand over his quarter, someone clucks like a hen. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
The rest of the women, perhaps because they don’t want to make a spectacle, watch reluctantly as their men drift off and get in line. Cecil sees this and comes down from his platform. He is all concern, all gallant attention, gently drawing them toward more savory matters.
He touches his left earlobe. I push imperceptibly forward. The women move closer to Cecil and I feel like a sheepdog.
“If you’ll step this way,” Cecil continues, “I’ll show you ladies something you’ve never seen before. Something so unusual, so extraordinary, you never dreamed it existed, and yet it’s something you can talk about at church this Sunday, or with Grandma and Grandpa at the dinner table. Go ahead and bring the little fellas, this here is strictly family fun. See a horse with his head where his tail should be! Not a word of a lie, ladies. A living creature with his tail where his head should be. See it with your own eyes. And when you tell your menfolk about it, maybe they’ll wish they’d stayed with their lovely ladies instead. Oh yes, my dears. They will indeed.”
By now I’m surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded Americans.
The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” says one woman.
“Well, I never!” says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men’s show be?
There’s a scuffling outside the tent.
“You goddamned sons of bitches! You’re damned right I want my money back—you think I’m gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one’s red-blooded all right! I want my goddamned money back!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.
“Hey, mister! What’s your hurry?”
“Excuse me. Beg your pardon,” I say, pushing my way out.
Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on Cecil’s chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.
I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man hauls off and swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil’s chin when I snatch it from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my tendons dig into his windpipe and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat.
Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement. They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.
“Nice work,” says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You done good. Come on back. They’ll take care of it from here.”
“Who are they?” I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my forearm.
“Patches. They’ll calm him down and make him happy. That way we won’t catch any heat.” He turns to address the crowd, clapping once—loudly—and then rubbing his hands in front of him. “Okay, folks. Everything’s fine. Nothing more to see here.”
The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they’ll miss something.
Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers.
