starts to nod, slowly, barely moving his head.
Marlena’s eyes grow wide. She tries to step backward, but he catches her chin with his hand.
I sit forward, suddenly on full alert.
August stares for a moment longer, his eyes shiny and hard. Then his face transforms again, becoming so sloppy that for a moment I think he’s going to burst into tears. He pulls her to him by the chin and kisses her full on the lips. Then he steers himself into the bedroom and collapses face first onto the bed.
“Excuse me a moment,” Marlena says.
She goes into the bedroom and rolls him over so he’s sprawled across the center of the bed. She removes his shoes and drops them to the floor. When she comes out, she pulls the velvet curtain shut and immediately changes her mind. She pulls it open again, turns off the radio, and sits opposite me.
A snore of kingly proportions rumbles from the bedroom.
My head is buzzing. I am entirely drunk.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
“What?” Marlena kicks off her shoes, crosses her legs, and leans forward to rub the arch of her foot. August’s fingers have left red marks on her chin.
“That,” I sputter. “Just now. When you were dancing.”
She looks up sharply. Her face contorts, and for a moment I’m afraid she’s going to cry. Then she turns to the window and holds a finger to her lips. She is silent for almost half a minute.
“You have to understand something about Auggie,” she says, “and I don’t quite know how to explain it.”
I lean forward. “Try.”
“He’s . . . mercurial. He’s capable of being the most charming man on earth. Like tonight.”
I wait for her to continue. “And . . . ?”
She leans back in her chair. “And, well, he has . . . moments. Like today.”
“What about today?”
“He nearly fed you to a cat.”
“Oh. That. I can’t say I was thrilled, but I was hardly in danger. Rex has no teeth.”
“No, but he’s four hundred pounds and he has claws,” she says quietly.
I set my wineglass on the table as the enormity of this sinks in. Marlena pauses, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Jankowski is a Polish name, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Poles do not, in general, like Jews.”
“I didn’t realize August was Jewish.”
“With a name like Rosenbluth?” she says. She looks at her fingers, twisting them in her lap. “My family is Catholic. They disowned me when they found out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Although I’m not surprised.”
She looks up sharply.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “I’m not . . . like that.”
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us.
“So why am I here?” I finally ask. My drunken brain is unable to process all this.
“I wanted to smooth things over.”
“You did? He didn’t want me here?”
“No, of course he did. He wanted to make it up to you, too, but it’s harder for him. He can’t help his little moments. They embarrass him. The best thing to do is pretend they didn’t happen.” She sniffs and turns to me with a tight smile. “And we had a lovely time, didn’t we?”
“Yes. Dinner was lovely. Thank you.”
As yet another silence engulfs us, it dawns on me that unless I want to try leaping across train cars drunk and in the dead of night, I’ll be sleeping right where I am.
“Please, Jacob,” says Marlena. “I do so want things to be all right between us. August is simply delighted you’ve joined us. And so is Uncle A1”
“And why is that, exactly?”
“Uncle Al was touchy about not having a vet, and then out of blue, here you are, from an Ivy League school no less.”
I stare, still trying to comprehend.
“Ringling has a vet,” Marlena continues, “and being like Ringling makes Uncle Al happy.”
“I thought he hated Ringling.”
“Darling, he wants to
I lean my head back and shut my eyes, but this results in disastrous spinning, so I open them again and try to focus on the feet dangling from the end of the bed.
WHEN I WAKE UP, the train has stopped—can I really have slept through the screeching brakes? The sun is shining on me through the window, and my brain pounds against my skull. My eyes ache and my mouth tastes like a sewer.
I stagger to my feet and glance into the bedroom. August is curled around Marlena, his arm lying across her. They are on top of the bedspread, still fully dressed.
I get a few odd looks when I emerge from car 48 dressed in a tux with my other clothes tucked under my arm. At this end of the train, where most of the onlookers are performers, I am regarded with frosty amusement. As I pass the working men’s sleepers, the glances become harder, more suspicious.
I climb gingerly into the stock car and push open the door of the little room.
Kinko is sitting on the edge of his cot, an eight-pager in one hand and his penis in the other. He stops midstroke, its slick purple head extending beyond his fist. There’s a heartbeat of silence followed by the whoosh of an empty Coke bottle flying at my head. I duck.
“Get out!” Kinko screams as the bottle explodes against the doorframe behind me. He leaps up, causing his erection to bounce wildly. “Get the hell out!” He lobs another bottle at me.
I turn to the door, shielding my head and dropping my clothes. I hear a zipper running up, and a moment later the complete works of Shakespeare smash into the wall beside me. “Okay, okay!” I shout. “I’m leaving!”
I pull the door shut behind me and lean against the wall. The curses continue unabated.
Otis appears outside the stock car. He looks in alarm at the closed door and then shrugs. “Hey, fancy boy,” he says. “You gonna help us with these animals or what?”
“Sure. Of course.” I jump to the ground.
He stares at me.
“What?” I say.
“Ain’t you gonna change out of the monkey suit first?”
I glance back at the closed door. Something heavy slams against the interior wall. “Uh, no. I think I’ll stay like I am for the time being.”
“Your call. Clive’s cleaned out the cats. He wants us to bring the meat.”
THERE’S EVEN MORE noise coming from the camel car this morning.
“Them hay burners sure don’t like traveling with meat,” says Otis. “Wish they’d stop kicking up such a fuss, though. We got a fair bit farther to go.”
I slide the door open. Flies explode outward. I see the maggots just as the smell hits. I manage to stagger a few feet away before vomiting. Otis joins me, doubled over, clasping his hands to his gut.
After he finishes throwing up, he takes a few deep breaths and pulls a filthy handkerchief from his pocket. He clasps it over his mouth and nose, and returns to the car. He grabs a bucket, runs to the tree line and dumps it. He holds his breath until he’s halfway back. Then he stops, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
I try to help, but every time I get near, my diaphragm erupts in fresh spasms.
“I’m sorry,” I say when Otis returns. I’m still gagging. “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
He shoots me a dirty look.
“My stomach’s off,” I say, feeling the need to explain. “I drank too much last night.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you did,” he says. “Have a seat, monkey boy. I’ll take care of it.”
Otis dumps the rest of the meat at the tree line, leaving it in a heap that buzzes with flies.
We leave the door to the camel car wide open, but it’s clear a simple airing out won’t be sufficient.
