Uncle Al.
The majority climb out defeated. Some wipe their eyes and confer quietly with others near the front of the line. Others stare stoically ahead before walking toward town.
Two dwarves enter together. They leave a few minutes later, grim-faced, pausing to talk to a small group of men. Then they trudge down the tracks, side by side, heads high, stuffed pillowcases slung over their shoulders.
I scan the crowd for the famous freak. There are certainly oddities: dwarves and midgets and giants, a bearded lady (Al’s already got one, so she’s probably out of luck), an enormously fat man (could get lucky if Al wants a matching set), and an assortment of generally sad-looking people and dogs. But no man with an infant sticking out of his chest.
AFTER UNCLE AL has made his selections, our workmen tear down all of the other circus’s tents except for the stable and menagerie. The remaining Fox Brothers men, no longer on anyone’s payroll, sit and watch, smoking and spitting wads of tobacco juice into tall patches of Queen Anne’s lace and thistles.
When Uncle Al discovers that city officials have yet to itemize the Fox Brothers baggage stock, a handful of nondescript horses get spirited from one stable tent to another. Absorption, so to speak. And Uncle Al’s not the only one with that idea—a handful of farmers hang around the edges of the lot, trailing lead ropes.
“They’re just going to walk out of here with them?” I ask Pete.
“Probably,” he says. “Don’t bother me none so long as they don’t touch ours. Keep your eyes open, though. It’s gonna be a day or two before anybody knows what’s what, and I don’t want none of ours going missing.”
Our baggage stock has done double duty, and the big horses are foaming and blowing hard. I persuade a city official to open a hydrant so we can water them, but they’re still without hay or oats.
August returns as we’re filling the last trough.
“What the hell are you doing? Those horses have been on a train for three days—get out there on the pavement and hard-ass them so they don’t go soft.”
“Hard-ass, my ass,” replies Pete. “Look around you. Just what the hell do you think they’ve been doing for the last four hours?”
“You used our stock?”
“What the hell did you want me to use?”
“You should’ve used their baggage stock!”
“I don’t know their fucking baggage stock!” shouts Pete. “And what’s the point of using their baggage stock if we’re just going to have to hard-ass ours to keep ’em in shape, anyway!”
August’s mouth opens. Then it shuts and he disappears.
BEFORE LONG, TRUCKS converge on the lot. One after another backs up to the cookhouse, and unbelievable amounts of food disappear behind it. The cookhouse crew gets right to work, and in no time at all, the boiler is running and the scent of good food—real food—wafts across the lot.
The food and bedding for the animals arrives shortly thereafter, in wagons rather than trucks. When we cart the hay into the stable tent, the horses nicker and rumble and stretch out their necks, snatching mouthfuls before it even hits the ground.
The animals in the menagerie are no less happy to see us—the chimps scream and swing from the bars of their dens, flashing toothy grins. The meat eaters pace. The hay burners toss their heads, snorting, squealing, and even barking in agitation.
I open the orangutan’s door and set a pan of fruits, vegetables, and nuts on the floor. As I close it, her long arm reaches through the bars. She points at an orange in another pan.
“That? You want that?”
She continues to point, blinking at me with close-set eyes. Her features are concave, her face a wide platter fringed with red hair. She’s the most outrageous and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Here,” I say, handing her the orange. “You can have it.”
She takes it and sets it on the floor. Then she reaches out again. After several seconds of serious misgivings, I hold out my hand. She wraps her long fingers around it, then lets go. She sits on her haunches and peels her orange.
I stare in amazement. She was thanking me.
“SO THAT’S THAT,” says August as we emerge from the menagerie. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Join me for a drink, my boy. There’s lemonade in Marlena’s dressing tent, and not that sock juice from the juice joint either. We’ll put a drop of whiskey in, hey hey?”
“I’ll be along in a minute,” I say. “I need to check the other menagerie.” Because of the peculiar status of the Fox Brothers baggage stock—whose numbers have been depleting all afternoon—I’ve seen for myself that they were fed and watered. But I have yet to lay eyes on their exotics or ring stock.
“No,” August says firmly. “You’ll join me now.”
I look over, surprised by his tone. “All right. Sure,” I say. “Do you know if they got fed and watered?”
“They’ll get fed and watered. Eventually.”
“What?” I say.
“They’ll get fed and watered. Eventually.”
“August, it’s damned near ninety degrees. We can’t leave them without at least water.”
“We can, and we will. It’s how Uncle Al does business. He and the mayor will play chicken for a while, the mayor will figure out he doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with giraffes and zebras and lions, he’ll drop his prices, and then—and only then—we’ll move in.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” I say, turning to walk away.
His hand locks around my arm. He comes in front of me and leans in so close his face is inches from mine. He lays a finger alongside my cheek. “Yes, you can. They will get cared for. Just not yet. That’s how it works.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Uncle Al has made an art form out of building this circus. We are what we are because of it. Who the hell knows what’s in that tent? If there’s nothing he wants, then fine. Who cares? But if there’s something he wants and you mess with his business and he ends up paying more because of it, you better believe that Al is going to mess with you. Do you understand?” He speaks through clenched teeth. “Do . . . you . . . understand?” he repeats, coming to a full stop after each word.
I stare straight into his unblinking eyes. “Entirely,” I say.
“Good,” he says. He takes his finger out of my face and steps backward. “Good,” he says again, nodding and allowing his face to relax. He forces a laugh. “I’ll tell you what, that whiskey will go down well.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
He watches me for a moment and then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says.
I take a seat some distance from the tent housing the abandoned animals, watching it with increasing desperation. The sidewall billows inward from a sudden gust of wind. There isn’t even a cross draft. I have never been more aware of the heat beating down on my own head and the dryness of my own throat. I remove my hat and wipe a gritty arm across my forehead.
WHEN THE ORANGE and blue flag goes up over the cookhouse for dinner, a handful of new Benzini Brothers employees join the lineup, identifiable by the red dinner tickets they clutch in their hands. The fat man was lucky, as was the bearded lady and a handful of dwarves. Uncle Al took on only performers, although one unfortunate fellow found himself unemployed again within a matter of minutes when August caught him looking a little too appreciatively at Marlena as he exited the privilege car.
A few others try to join the lineup, and not a one of them gets by Ezra. His only job is to know everyone on the show, and by God, he’s good at it. When he jerks his thumb at some unfortunate, Blackie steps forward to take care of it. One or two of the rejects manage to scarf a fistful of food before flying headfirst out of the cookhouse.
Drab, silent men hang all around the perimeter with hungry eyes. As Marlena steps away from the steam tables, one of them addresses her. He’s a tall man, gaunt, with deeply creased cheeks. Under different circumstances, he would probably be handsome.
“Lady—hey, lady. Can you spare a little? Just a piece of bread?”
Marlena stops and looks at him. His face is hollow, his eyes desperate. She looks at her plate.
“Aw, come on, lady. Have a heart. I ain’t ate in two days.” He runs his tongue across cracked lips.
