“What?”
“I love this song!”
“No—I—”
But it’s no use. I’m already on my feet. She drags me onto the dance floor, jiving and snapping her fingers. When we’re surrounded by other couples she turns to me. I take a deep breath and then take her in my arms. We wait a couple of beats and then we’re off, floating around the dance floor in a swirling sea of people.
She’s light as air—doesn’t miss a step, and that’s a feat considering how clumsy I am. And it’s not as though I don’t know how to dance, because I do. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I’m sure as hell not drunk.
She spins away from me and then returns, passing beneath my arm so her back is pressed against me. My forearm rests on her collarbone, skin to skin. Her chest rises and falls under my arm. Her head is under my chin, her hair fragrant, her body warm from exertion. And then she’s gone again, unwinding herself like a ribbon.
When the music stops, the dancers whistle and clap with their hands above their heads, and none more enthusiastically than Marlena. I glance over at our booth. August is staring with his arms crossed, seething. Startled, I step away from Marlena.
There is one frozen moment, and then the second cry goes up.
I’m swept forward in a crush of bodies. People scream, shoving past each other in a frenzied attempt to reach the exit. Marlena is a few people in front of me, looking back through bobbing heads and desperate faces.
“Jacob!” she cries. “Jacob!”
I struggle toward her, launching myself through bodies.
I clasp a hand in a sea of flesh and know it’s Marlena’s from the look on her face. I grip her tightly, scanning the crowd for August. All I see are strangers.
Marlena and I are ripped apart at the doorway. Seconds later I’m expelled into an alley. People are screaming, piling into cars. Engines start, horns bleat, and tires squeal.
Marlena appears from nowhere and grabs my hand. We flee as sirens blare and whistles blow. When the crackle of gunfire rings out, I grab Marlena and duck into a smaller alley.
“Hang on,” she gasps, pausing and hopping on one foot as she removes a shoe. She grasps my arm as she pulls off the other. “Okay,” she says, holding both shoes in one hand.
We run until the sirens and crowds and screeching tires are out of earshot, winding our way through back streets and alleys. Finally, we stop under an iron fire escape, gasping for air.
“Oh my Lord,” says Marlena. “Oh my Lord, that was close. I wonder if August got out.”
“I sure hope so,” I say, also struggling for air. I lean over, resting my hands on my thighs.
After a moment, I look up at Marlena. She’s staring straight at me, breathing through her mouth. She starts laughing hysterically.
“What?” I say.
“Oh, nothing,” she says. “Nothing.” She continues to laugh, but looks perilously close to tears.
“What is it?” I say.
“Oh,” she says, sniffing and bringing a finger to the corner of her eye. “It’s just a crazy damned life, that’s all. Do you have a handkerchief?”
I pat my pockets, and retrieve one. She takes it and wipes her forehead, then dabs the rest of her face. “Oh, but I’m a mess. And just look at my stockings!” she shrieks, pointing at her shoeless feet. Her toes poke through their ruined ends. “Oh, and they’re
“Marlena?” I say gently. “Are you all right?”
She presses her fist to her mouth and moans. I reach for her arm but she turns away. I expect her to stay facing the wall, but instead she continues turning, spinning in some kind of dervish. On the third rotation, I take her by the shoulders and press my mouth to hers. She stiffens and gasps, sucking air from between my lips. A moment later she softens. Her fingertips rise to my face. Then she yanks away, taking several steps backward and staring at me with stricken eyes.
“Jacob,” she says, her voice cracking. “Oh God—Jacob.”
“Marlena.” I step forward and then stop. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
She stares at me with a hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes are dark hollows. Then she leans against the wall, pulling on her shoes and looking at the asphalt.
“Marlena, please.” I hold my hands out helplessly.
She adjusts her second shoe and rushes off. She stumbles and wobbles forward.
“Marlena!” I say, running a few steps.
Her speed increases and she brings a hand up alongside her face, shielding it from my view.
I stop.
She keeps walking, tap-tapping down the alley.
“Marlena! Please!”
I watch until she turns the corner. Her hand remains beside her face, presumably in case I’m still there.
IT TAKES ME SEVERAL hours to find my way back to the lot.
I pass legs sticking out of doorways, and signs advertising breadlines. I pass signs in windows that say CLOSED, and it’s clear they don’t mean for the night. I pass signs that say NO MEN WANTED and signs in second- story windows that say TRAINING FOR THE CLASS STRUGGLE. I pass a sign in a grocery store that says
DON’T HAVE MONEY?
WHAT HAVE YOU GOT?
WE’LL TAKE ANYTHING!
I pass a newspaper box, and the headline reads PRETTY BOY FLOYD STRIKES AGAIN: MAKES OFF WITH $4,000 AS CROWDS CHEER.
Less than a mile from the lot, I pass a hobo jungle. There’s a fire in the center and people stretched out around it. Some are awake, sitting forward and staring into the fire. Some are lying back on folded clothes. I’m close enough to see their faces and to register that most of them are young—younger than me. There are some girls there, too, and one couple is copulating. They’re not even in the bushes, just a little farther from the fire than the others. One or two of the boys watch in a disinterested manner. The ones who are asleep have taken off their shoes but tied them to their ankles.
An older man sits by the fire, his jaw covered with stubble, scabs, or both. He has the sunken face of a person with no teeth. We make eye contact and hold it for a long time. I wonder why he’s looking at me with such hostility until I remember I’m wearing an evening suit. He has no way of knowing that it’s about the only thing separating us. I fight an illogical urge to explain this and continue on my way.
When I finally reach the lot, I stop and gaze at the menagerie tent. It’s huge, outlined against the night sky. A few minutes later I find myself standing in front of the elephant. I can only see her in silhouette and even then only after my eyes have adjusted to the light. She’s sleeping, her great body still but for her slow, slumbered breathing. I want to touch her, to lay my hands on that rough, warm skin, but I can’t bring myself to wake her up.
Bobo is lying in the corner of his den, with one arm stretched out over his head and the other resting on his chest. He sighs deeply, smacks his lips, and then rolls onto his side. So human.
Eventually I make my way back to the ring stock car and settle on the bedroll. Queenie and Walter both sleep through my arrival.
I LIE AWAKE UNTIL DAWN, listening to Queenie snore and feeling utterly miserable. Less than a month ago, I was within days of an Ivy League degree and a career at my father’s side. Now I’m one step away from being a bum—a circus worker who has disgraced himself not once, but twice, in as many days.
Yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought it possible to top throwing up on Nell, but I believe that last night I managed to do just that. What the hell was I thinking?
I wonder if she will tell August. I have brief visions of the bull hook flying at my head and then even briefer
