While August is off doing God knows what to Rosie, Marlena and I crouch on the grass in her dressing tent, clinging to each other like spider monkeys. I say almost nothing, just hold her head to my chest as her history spills out in a rushed whisper.
She tells me about meeting August—she was seventeen, and it had just dawned on her that the recent spate of bachelors joining her family for dinner were actually being presented as potential husbands. When one middle- aged banker with a receding chin, thinning hair, and reedy fingers showed up for dinner one time too many, she heard the doors of her future slamming all around her.
But even as the banker sniveled something that made Marlena blanch and stare in horror at her bowl of clam chowder, posters were being slapped up on every surface in town. The wheels of fate were in motion. The Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth was chugging toward them at that very moment, bringing with it a very real fantasy and, for Marlena, an escape that would prove as romantic as it was terrifying.
Two days later, on a brilliantly sunny day, the L’Arche family went to the circus. Marlena was standing in the menagerie tent in front of a string of stunning black and white Arabians when August first approached her. Her parents had wandered off to look at the cats, oblivious to the force that was about to enter their lives.
And August
When she met him later, at an art gallery, he began wooing her in earnest. He was twelve years her senior and glamorous in the way only an equestrian director can be. Before the end of the date, he had proposed.
He was charming and relentless. He refused to budge until she married him. He regaled her with stories of Uncle Al’s desperation, and Uncle Al himself made pleas on August’s behalf. They had already missed two jumps. A circus could not survive if it blew its route. This was an important decision, yes, but surely she understood how this was affecting
The seventeen-year-old Marlena gazed upon her future in Boston for three more evenings and on the fourth packed a suitcase.
At this point in her story, she dissolves into tears. I’m still holding her, still rocking back and forth. Eventually she pulls away, wiping her eyes with her hands.
“You should go,” she says.
“I don’t want to.”
She whimpers, reaching across the divide to stroke my cheek with the back of her hand.
“I want to see you again,” I say.
“You see me every day.”
“You know what I mean.”
There’s a long pause. She drops her gaze to the ground. Her mouth moves a few times before she finally speaks. “I can’t.”
“Marlena, for God’s sake—”
“I just can’t. I’m married. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.”
I kneel in front of her, searching her face for a signal to stay. After an agonizing wait, I realize I’m not going to find one.
I kiss her on the forehead and leave.
• • •
BEFORE I’VE GONE forty yards, I’ve heard more than I ever wanted to about how Rosie paid for the lemonade.
Apparently August stormed into the menagerie and banished everyone. The puzzled menagerie men and a handful of others stood outside, their ears pressed to the seams of the great canvas tent as a torrent of angry screaming began. This sent the rest of the animals into a panic—the chimps screeched, the cats roared, and the zebras yelped. Despite this, the distraught listeners could still make out the hollow thud of bull hook hitting flesh, again and again and again.
At first Rosie bellowed and whimpered. When she progressed to squealing and shrieking, many of the men turned away, unable to take any more. One of them ran for Earl, who entered the menagerie and hauled August out by his armpits. He kicked and struggled like a madman even as Earl dragged him across the lot and up the stairs into the privilege car.
The remaining men found Rosie lying on her side, quivering, her foot still chained to a stake.
“I HATE THAT MAN,” says Walter as I climb into the stock car. He’s sitting on the cot, stroking Queenie’s ears. “I really, really hate that man.”
“Someone wanna tell me what’s going on?” Camel calls from behind the row of trunks. “’Cuz I know something is. Jacob? Help me out here. Walter ain’t talking.”
I say nothing.
“There was no call to be that brutal. No call at all,” Walter continues. “He damn near started a stampede, too. Could have killed the lot of us. Were you there? Did you hear any of it?”
Our eyes meet.
“No,” I say.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind knowing what in blazes you’re talking about,” says Camel. “But it seems I don’t count for squat here. Hey, ain’t it dinnertime?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Me either,” says Walter.
“Well, I am,” says Camel, disgruntled. “But I bet neither one of you thought of that. And I bet neither one of you picked up so much as a piece of bread for an old man.”
Walter and I look at each other. “Well, I was there,” he says, his eyes full of accusation. “You wanna know what I heard?” he says.
“No,” I say, staring at Queenie. She meets my gaze and whacks the blanket a few times with her stump.
“You sure?”
“Yes I’m sure.”
“Thought you might be interested, you being the vet and all.”
“I am interested,” I say loudly. “But I’m also afraid of what it might make me do.”
Walter looks at me for a long time. “So who’s going to get that old git some grub? You or me?”
“Hey! Mind your manners!” cries the old git.
“I’ll go,” I say. I turn and leave the stock car.
Halfway to the cookhouse, I realize I’m grinding my teeth.
WHEN I COME BACK with Camel’s food, Walter is gone. A few minutes later he returns, carrying a large bottle of whiskey in each hand.
“Well, God bless your soul,” cackles Camel, who is now propped up in the corner. He points at Walter with a limp hand. “Where in tarnation did you come up with that?”
“A friend on the pie car owed me a favor. I figured we could all use a little forgetting tonight.”
“Well, go on then,” says Camel. “Stop yapping and hand it over.”
Walter and I turn in unison to glare.
The lines on Camel’s grizzled face furrow deeper. “Well, jeez, you two sure are a couple of sourpusses, ain’t you? What’s the matter? Someone spit in your soup?”
“Here. Pay him no mind,” says Walter, shoving a bottle of whiskey against my chest.
“What do you mean, ‘pay him no mind’? In my day, a boy was taught to respect his elders.”
Instead of answering, Walter carries the other bottle over and crouches down beside him. When Camel reaches for it, Walter bats his hand away.
“Hell no, old man. You spill that and we’ll all three be sourpusses.”
