“You want to drug me. You want to turn me into a Jell-O-eating sheep. I won’t take it, I tell you.”
“Mr. Jankowski. I have twelve other patients to take care of. Now please take your pills.”
“I thought we were residents.”
Every one of her pinched features hardens.
“I’ll take the others but not this,” I say, flicking the pill from my hand. It flies through the air and lands on the floor. I toss the others into my mouth. “Where’s my water?” I say, my words garbled because I’m trying to keep the pills on the center of my tongue.
She hands me a plastic cup, retrieves the pill from the floor, and goes into my bathroom. I hear a flush. Then she comes back.
“Mr. Jankowski. I am going to go get another Elavil and if you won’t take it, I will call Dr. Rashid, and she will prescribe an injectable instead. Either way, you are taking the Elavil. How you do so is up to you.”
When she brings the pill, I swallow it. A quarter of an hour later, I also get an injection—not of Elavil, of something else, but still it doesn’t seem fair because I took their damned pill.
Within minutes, I am a Jell-O-eating sheep. Well, a sheep at any rate. But because I keep reminding myself of the incident that brought this misfortune upon me, I realize that if someone brought pockmarked Jell-O right now and told me to eat it, I would.
What have they done to me?
I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it’s no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It’s been there awhile, biding its time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there’s really no fighting it.
COURTESY OF KEN HARCK ARCHIVES
The train groans, straining against the increasing resistance of air brakes. After several minutes and a final, prolonged shriek, the great iron beast shudders to a stop and exhales.
Kinko throws back his blanket and stands up. He’s no more than four feet tall, if that. He stretches, yawns, and smacks his lips, then scratches his head, armpits, and testicles. The dog dances around his feet, her stump of a tail wagging furiously.
“Come on, Queenie,” he says, scooping her up. “You want to go outside? Queenie go outside?” He plants a kiss in the middle of her brown and white head and crosses the little room.
I watch from my crumpled horse blanket in the corner.
“Kinko?” I say.
If it weren’t for the vehemence with which he slams the door, I might think he didn’t hear me.
WE ARE ON A SIDE rail behind the Flying Squadron, which has obviously been here a few hours. The tent city has already risen, to the delight of the crowd of townspeople hanging around watching. Rows of children sit on top of the Flying Squadron surveying the lot with shining eyes. Their parents congregate beneath, holding the hands of younger siblings and pointing to various marvels appearing in front of them.
The workmen from the main train climb down from the sleeper cars, light cigarettes, and trek across the lot toward the cookhouse. Its blue and orange flag is already flying and the boiler beside it belches steam, bearing cheerful witness to the breakfast within.
Performers emerge from sleepers closer to the back of the train and of obviously better quality. There’s a clear hierarchy: the closer to the back, the more impressive the quarters. Uncle Al himself climbs from a car right in front of the caboose. I can’t help but notice that Kinko and I are the human occupants closest to the engine.
“Jacob!”
I turn. August strides toward me, his shirt crisp, his chin scraped smooth. His slick hair bears the recent impression of a comb.
“How are we this morning, my boy?” he asks.
“All right,” I say. “A little tired.”
“Did that little troll give you any trouble?”
“No,” I say. “He was fine.”
“Good, good.” He claps his hands together. “Shall we have a look at that horse then? I doubt it’s anything serious. Marlena coddles them terribly. Oh, here’s the little lady now. Come here, darling,” he calls brightly. “I want you to meet Jacob. He’s a fan of yours.”
I feel a blush creep across my face.
She comes to a stop beside him, smiling up at me as August turns toward the stock car. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, extending her hand. Up close she still looks remarkably like Catherine—delicate features, pale as porcelain, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Shimmering blue eyes, and hair just dark enough to disqualify as blonde.
“The pleasure is mine,” I say, painfully aware that I haven’t shaved in two days, my clothes are stiff with manure, and that manure is not the only unpleasant scent rising from my body.
She cocks her head slightly. “Say, you’re the one I saw yesterday, aren’t you? In the menagerie?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, lying instinctively.
“Sure you are. Right before the show. When the chimp den slammed shut.”
I glance at August, but he’s still facing the other way. She follows my gaze and seems to understand.
“You’re not from Boston, are you?” she says, her voice lowered.
“No. I’ve never been.”
“Huh,” she says. “It’s just you look familiar somehow. Oh well,” she continues brightly. “Auggie says you’re a vet.” At the sound of his name, August spins around.
“No,” I say. “I mean, not exactly.”
“He’s being modest,” says August. “Pete! Hey, Pete!”
A group of men stand in front of the stock car’s door, attaching a ramp with built-in sides. A tall one with dark hair turns. “Yeah, boss?” he says.
“Get the others unloaded and bring out Silver Star, will you?”
“Sure.”
Eleven horses later—five white and six black—Pete goes inside the stock car once again. A moment later he’s back. “Silver Star don’t want to move, boss.”
“Make him,” says August.
“Oh no you don’t,” says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp and disappears.
August and I wait outside, listening to passionate entreaties and tongue clicks. After several minutes she reappears in the doorway with the silvermaned Arabian.
Marlena steps out in front of him, clicking and murmuring. He raises his head and pulls back. Eventually he follows her down the ramp, his head bobbing deeply with each step. At the bottom he pulls back so hard he almost sits on his haunches.
“Jesus, Marlena—I thought you said he was a bit off,” says August.
Marlena is ashen. “He was. He wasn’t anything like this bad yesterday. He’s been a bit lame for a few days, but
She clicks and tugs until the horse finally steps onto the gravel. He stands with his back hunched, his hind legs bearing as much weight as they can. My heart sinks. It’s the classic walking-on-eggshells stance.
“What do you think it is?” says August.
“Give me a minute,” I say, although I’m already ninety-nine percent sure. “Do you have hoof testers?”
“No. But the smithy does. Do you want me to send Pete?”
“Not yet. I might not need them.”
I crouch beside the horse’s left shoulder and run my hands down his leg, from shoulder to fetlock. He doesn’t flinch. Then I lay my hand across the front of his hoof. It’s radiating heat. I place my thumb and forefinger on the
