“Over there,” says Earl. Camel is huddled against a corner. Grady and Bill hover over him.
The doctor walks over to them. “Some privacy, please,” he says.
The other men scatter, murmuring in surprise. They move to the other end of the car and crane their necks, trying to see.
The doctor approaches Camel and crouches beside him. I can’t help noticing that he keeps the knees of his suit off the floorboards.
A few minutes later, he straightens up and says, “Jamaica ginger paralysis. No question about it.”
I suck my breath in through my teeth.
“What? What’s that?” Camel croaks.
“You get it from drinking Jamaica ginger extract.” The doctor puts great emphasis on the final three words. “Or jake, as it’s commonly known.”
“But . . . How? Why?” says Camel, his eyes desperately seeking the doctor’s face. “I don’t understand. I’ve been drinking it for years.”
“Yes. Yes. I would have guessed that,” says the doctor.
Anger rises like bile in my throat. I step up beside the doctor. “I don’t believe you answered the question,” I say as calmly as I can.
The doctor turns and surveys me through his pince-nez. After a pause of a few beats he says, “It’s caused by a cresol compound used by a manufacturer.”
“Dear God,” I say.
“Quite.”
“Why did they add it?”
“To get around the regulations that require that Jamaica ginger extract be rendered unpalatable.” He turns back to Camel and raises his voice.
“Will it go away?” Camel’s voice is high, cracking with fear.
“No. I’m afraid not,” the doctor says.
Behind me, the others catch their breath. Grady comes forward until we’re touching shoulders. “Wait a minute—you mean there’s nothing you can do?”
The doctor straightens up and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “Me? No. Absolutely not,” he says. His expression is compressed as a pug’s, as though he’s trying to close his nostrils through facial muscles alone. He picks up his bag and edges toward the door.
“Hold on just a cotton-pickin’ moment,” says Grady. “If you can’t do anything, is there anyone else who can?”
The doctor turns to address me specifically, I suppose because I’m the one who paid him. “Oh, there’s plenty who will take your money and offer a cure—wading in oil slush pools, electrical shock therapy—but none of it does a lick of good. He may recover some function over time, but it will be minimal at best. Really, he shouldn’t have been drinking in the first place. It is against federal law, you know.”
I am speechless. I think my mouth may actually be open.
“Is that everything?” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do . . . you . . . need . . . anything . . . else?” he says as though I’m an idiot.
“No,” I say.
“Then I’ll bid you good day.” He tips his hat, steps gingerly onto the crate, and dismounts. He walks a dozen yards away, sets his bag on the ground, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He wipes his hands carefully, getting in between each finger. Then he picks up his bag, puffs out his chest, and walks off, taking Camel’s last scrap of hope and my father’s pocket watch with him.
When I turn back, Earl, Grady, and Bill are kneeling around Camel. Tears stream down the old man’s face.
“WALTER, I NEED to talk to you,” I say, bursting into the goat room. Queenie raises her head, sees that it’s me, and sets it back on her paws.
Walter sets his book down. “Why? What’s up?”
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Well, go on then, what is it?”
“A friend of mine is in a bad way.”
“That guy with jake leg?”
I pause. “Yes.”
I walk over to my bedroll but am too anxious to sit down.
“Well, spit it out then,” Walter says impatiently.
“I want to bring him here.”
“He’s going to get redlighted otherwise. His friends had to hide him behind a roll of canvas last night.”
Walter looks at me in horror. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Look, I know you were less than thrilled when I showed up, and I know he’s a working man and all, but he’s an old man and he’s in bad shape and he needs help.”
“And what exactly are we supposed to do with him?”
“Just keep him away from Blackie.”
“For how long? Forever?”
I drop to the edge of my bedroll. He’s right, of course. We can’t keep Camel hidden forever. “Shit,” I say. I bang my forehead with the heel of my palm. And then again. And then again.
“Hey, stop that,” says Walter. He sits forward, closing his book. “Those were serious questions. What would we do with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he have any family?”
I look up at him suddenly. “He mentioned a son once.”
“Okay, well now we’re getting somewhere. Do you know where this son is?”
“No. I gather they aren’t in touch.”
Walter stares at me, tapping his fingers against his leg. After half a minute of silence he says, “All right. Bring him on over. Don’t let anyone see you or we’ll all catch hell.”
I look up in surprise.
“What?” he says, brushing a fly from his forehead.
“Nothing. No. Actually, I mean thank you. Very much.”
“Hey, I got a heart,” he says, lying back and picking up his book. “Not like some people we all know and love.”
WALTER AND I ARE relaxing between the matinee and evening show when there’s a soft rapping on our door.
He leaps to his feet, knocking over the wooden crate and cursing as he keeps the kerosene lamp from hitting the floor. I approach the door and glance nervously at the trunks laid end-to-end across the back wall.
Walter rights the lamp and gives me the briefest of nods.
I open the door.
“Marlena!” I say, swinging the door farther open than I intend to. “What are you doing up? I mean, are you okay? Do you want to sit down?”
“No,” she says. Her face is inches from mine. “I’m all right. But I’d like to speak to you for a moment. Are you alone?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly.” I say, glancing back at Walter, who’s shaking his head and waving his hands furiously.
“Can you come to the stateroom?” Marlena says. “It won’t take but a moment.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She turns and walks gingerly to the doorway. She’s wearing slippers, not shoes. She sits on the edge and eases herself down. I watch for a moment, relieved to see that while she moves carefully, she’s not limping obviously.
