“He’s steamed because Uncle Al wants the bull in the parade today, and he’s taking it out on anyone who crosses his path. Like that poor sod over there,” he says, pointing at three men crossing the field.
Bill and Grady are dragging Camel across the lot to the Flying Squadron. He’s suspended between them, his legs dragging behind.
I jerk around to Clive. “August didn’t hit him, did he?”
“Naw,” says Clive. “Gave him a good tongue lashing, though. It’s not even noon, and he’s already skunked. But that guy who looked at Marlena—
“That damned bull ain’t gonna walk in no parade,” says Otis. “He can’t get her to walk in a straight line from her car to the menagerie.”
“I know that, and you know that, but apparently Uncle Al does not,” says Clive.
“Why is Al so set on having her in the parade?” I ask.
“Because he’s been waiting his whole life to say ‘Hold your horses! Here come the elephants!’” says Clive.
“The hell with that,” Joe says. “There ain’t no horses to hold anymore these days, and we don’t have elephants, anyway. We have elephant.”
“Why does he want to say that so badly?” I ask.
They turn in unison to stare at me.
“Fair question,” says Otis finally, although it’s clear he thinks I’m braindamaged. “It’s because that’s what Ringling says. Course, he actually
I WATCH FROM a distance as August attempts to line Rosie up among the parade wagons. The horses leap sideways, dancing nervously in their hitches. The drivers hold tight to the reins, shouting warnings. The result is a kind of contagion of panic, and before long the men leading the zebras and llamas are struggling to maintain control.
After several minutes of this, Uncle Al approaches. He gesticulates wildly toward Rosie, ranting without pause. When his mouth finally closes, August’s opens, and he also gesticulates toward Rosie, waving the bull hook and thumping her on the shoulder for good measure. Uncle Al turns to his entourage. Two of them turn tail and sprint across the lot.
Not long after, the hippopotamus wagon pulls up beside Rosie, drawn by six highly doubtful Percherons. August opens the door and whacks Rosie until she enters.
Not long after, someone starts up the calliope and the parade begins.
THEY RETURN AN HOUR later with a sizable crowd. The towners hang around the edges of the lot, growing in numbers as word spreads.
Rosie is driven right up to the back end of the big top, which is already connected to the menagerie. August takes her through and to her spot. It is only after she is behind her rope with one foot chained to a stake that the menagerie is opened to the public.
I watch in awe as she is rushed by children and adults alike. She is easily the most popular animal. Her big ears flap back and forth as she accepts candy and popcorn and even chewing gum from delighted circus-goers. One man is brave enough to lean forward and dump a box of Cracker Jack into her open mouth. She rewards him by removing his hat, placing it on her head, and then posing with her trunk curled in the air. The crowd roars and she calmly hands the delighted patron his hat. August stands beside her with his bull hook, beaming like a proud father.
There’s something wrong here. This animal isn’t stupid.
AS THE LAST of the crowd goes through to the big top and performers line up for the Grand Spec, Uncle Al pulls August aside. I watch from across the menagerie as August’s mouth opens in shock, then outrage, and then vociferous complaint. His face darkens and he waves his top hat and hook. Uncle Al gazes on, completely impervious. Eventually he lifts a hand, shakes his head, and walks away. August stares after him, stunned.
“What the heck do you suppose happened there?” I say to Pete.
“God only knows,” he says. “But I have the feeling we’re going to find out.”
It turns out that Uncle Al was so delighted by Rosie’s popularity in the menagerie that not only is he insisting she take part in the Spec but also that she put on a full elephant act in the center ring immediately after the show begins. By the time I hear about it, the outcome of said events is already the source of furious wagering in the back end.
My only thoughts are of Marlena.
I sprint around back to where the performers and ring stock are lined up behind the big top in preparation for the Spec. Rosie heads up the line. Marlena straddles her head, clad in pink sequins and grasping Rosie’s ugly leather head harness. August stands beside her left shoulder, grim-faced, his fingers alternately clutching and releasing the bull hook.
The band falls quiet. The performers make last-minute adjustments to their costumes, and the animal handlers give their charges one last check. And then the music for the Spec starts.
August leans forward and bellows into Rosie’s ear. The elephant hesitates, in response to which August strikes her with the bull hook. This sends her flying through the back end of the big top. Marlena ducks flat against her head to avoid being scraped off by the pole that runs across the top.
I gasp and run forward, curling around the edge of the sidewall.
Rosie comes to a stop about twenty feet down the hippodrome track and Marlena undergoes a change that defies belief. One moment she is askew on Rosie’s head, lying flat. The next, she yanks herself upright, turns on a smile, and thrusts an arm into the air. Her back is arched, her toes pointed. The crowd goes crazy—standing on the bleachers, clapping, whistling, and tossing peanuts onto the track.
August catches up. He lifts the bull hook high and then freezes. He turns his head and scans the audience. His hair flops over his forehead. He grins as he lowers the bull hook, and removes his top hat. He bows deeply, three times, aiming at different segments of the audience. When he turns back to Rosie, his face hardens.
By poking the bull hook in and around her underarms and legs, he persuades her to make a tour of sorts around the hippodrome. They go in fits and starts, stopping so many times the rest of the Spec is forced to continue around them, parting like water around a stone.
The audience loves it. Each time Rosie trots ahead of August and stops, they roar with laughter. And each time August approaches, red-faced and waving his bull hook, they explode with glee. Finally, about three-quarters of the way around, Rosie curls her trunk in the air and takes off at a run, leaving a series of thunderous farts in her wake as she barrels toward the back end of the tent. I am pressed against the bleachers, right by the entrance. Marlena grasps the head halter with both hands, and as they approach I catch my breath. Unless she bails, she is going to be knocked off.
A couple of feet from the entrance, Marlena lets go of the halter and leans hard to the left. Rosie disappears from the tent, and Marlena is left clinging to the top pole. The crowd falls silent, no longer sure that this is part of the act.
Marlena hangs limply, not a dozen feet from me. She’s breathing hard, with eyes closed and head down. I’m just about to step forward and lift her down when she opens her eyes, removes her left hand from the pole, and in one graceful movement swings around so she’s facing the audience.
Her face lights up and she points those toes. The band leader, watching from his post, signals furiously for a drum roll. Marlena begins swinging.
The drum roll mounts as she gains momentum. Before long she’s swinging parallel to the ground. I wonder how long she’s going to keep this up and just what the heck she’s planning to do when she suddenly releases the pole. She sails through the air, tucking her body into a ball and rolling forward twice. She uncurls for one sideways rotation, and lands firmly in a burst of sawdust. She looks at her feet, straightens up, and thrusts both arms into the air. The band launches into victory music and the crowd goes wild. Moments later, coins rain down on the hippodrome track.
AS SOON AS SHE TURNS, I can see that she’s hurt. She limps from the big top and I rush out behind her.
“Marlena—” I say.
She turns and collapses against me. I grasp her around the waist, holding her upright.
August rushes out. “Darling—my darling! You were brilliant. Brilliant! I’ve never seen anything more—”
