tent.
We roll around, grunting, so close I can feel his breath on my face. Now I’m on top of him, landing punches. Now he’s on top of me, banging my head against the ground. Marlena is hovering, screaming at us to stop, but we can’t. Or at least I can’t—all the rage and pain and frustration of the past few months is channeled into my fists.
Now I’m facing the overturned table. Now I’m facing Rosie, who is pulling her leg chain and bellowing. Now we’re standing up again, grasping at each other’s collars and lapels, both blocking and landing blows. Eventually we fall against the entrance flap and land in the middle of the crowd that has gathered outside.
Within seconds, I’m hauled off, pinioned by Grady and Bill. For a moment, August looks as though he’s going to come after me, but then the expression on his mashed face shifts. He climbs to his feet and calmly dusts himself off.
“You’re crazy.
He observes me coolly, straightens his sleeves, and goes back into the tent.
“Let me go,” I plead, jerking my head around first to Grady and then to Bill. “For Christ’s sake, let me go! He’s nuts! He’ll kill her!” I struggle hard enough that I manage to pull them forward a few feet. From inside the tent I hear the crash of broken dishes and then Marlena screams.
Grady and Bill are both grunting, bracing their legs to keep me from getting loose. “No he won’t,” says Grady. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Earl blasts from the crowd and ducks into the tent. The crashing stops. There are two soft thuds, then a louder one, and then conspicuous silence.
I freeze, staring at the blank expanse of canvas.
“There. See?” says Grady, still gripping my arm tightly. “You okay? Can we let you go now?”
I nod, continuing to stare.
Grady and Bill release me, but in stages. First they loosen their grips. Then they let go, but stay close, keeping an eye on me.
A hand appears on my waist. Walter is standing beside me.
“Come on, Jacob,” he says. “Walk away.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“Yes. You can. Come on. Walk away.”
I stare at the silent tent. After another few seconds, I tear my eyes from the billowing flap and walk away.
WALTER AND I CLIMB into the stock car. Queenie emerges from behind the trunks, where Camel is snoring. She wags her stump and then stops, sniffing the air.
“Sit,” Walter orders, pointing at the cot.
Queenie sits in the center of the floor. I sit on the edge of the cot. Now that my adrenaline is fading, I’m beginning to realize how badly I’m hurt. My hands are lacerated, I sound like I’m breathing through a gas mask, and I’m looking through a slit formed by the puffed lids of my right eye. When I touch my face, my hand comes away bloody.
Walter leans over an open trunk. When he turns around, he’s got a jug of moonshine and a handkerchief. He stands in front of me and pulls the cork.
“Eh? Is that you? Walter?” Camel calls from behind the trunks. Trust him to wake up at the sound of a cork being pulled.
“You’re a bloody mess,” Walter says, completely ignoring Camel. He holds the hankie against the neck of the jug and tips the whole thing upside down. He brings the wet cloth toward my face. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”
That was the understatement of the century—when the alcohol encounters my face, I jerk back with a yelp.
Walter waits, hankie poised. “You need something to bite on?” He bends down to retrieve the cork. “Here.”
“No,” I say, clenching my teeth. “Just give me a second.” I hug my chest, rocking back and forth.
“I’ve got a better idea,” says Walter. He hands me the jug. “Go on. It burns like hell going down, but after a few swallows you don’t notice so much. What the hell happened, anyway?”
I take the jug and use both my battered hands to raise it to my face. I feel clumsy, like I’m wearing boxing gloves. Walter steadies it. The alcohol burns my bruised lips, rips a path down my throat, and explodes in my stomach. I gasp and push the jug away so quickly liquid sloshes from its neck.
“Yeah. It’s not the smoothest,” says Walter.
“You guys gonna get me outta here and share, or what?” cries Camel.
“Shut it, Camel,” says Walter.
“Hey now! That ain’t no way to talk to a sick old—”
“I said shut it, Camel! I’m dealing with a situation here. Go on,” he says, pushing the jug back at me. “Have some more.”
“What kind of a situation?” says Camel.
“Jacob’s messed up.”
“What? How? Was there a Hey Rube?”
“No,” Walter says grimly. “Worse.”
“What’s a Hey Rube?” I mumble through fat lips.
“Drink,” he says, pushing the jug at me again. “A fight between us and them. Show folk and rubes. You ready?”
I take another sip of the moonshine, which, despite Walter’s assurances, still goes down like mustard gas. I set the jug on the floor and close my eyes. “Yeah. I think so.”
Walter holds my chin in one hand and turns my head left and right, assessing the damage. “Holy hell, Jacob. What on earth happened?” he says, picking through the hair at the back of my head. Apparently he has found some new atrocity.
“He pushed Marlena.”
“You mean physically?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“He just went nuts. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“There’s glass all through your hair. Hold still.” His fingers investigate my scalp, lifting and separating the hair. “So, why did he go nuts?” he says, depositing glass shards on top of the nearest book.
“Damned if I know.”
“Like hell you don’t. Did you mess with her?”
“No. Absolutely not,” I say, although I’m pretty sure I’d be blushing if my face weren’t already ground beef.
“I hope not,” says Walter. “For your sake, I sure hope not.”
There’s shuffling and banging to my right. I try to look, but Walter holds my chin tight. “Camel, what the hell are you up to?” he barks, his breath hot on my face.
“I wanna see if Jacob’s all right.”
“For Christ’s sake,” says Walter. “Just stay put, will ya? I wouldn’t be surprised if we had company in a bit. It may be Jacob they’re after, but don’t think they won’t take you, too.”
When Walter has finished cleaning my cuts and removing glass from my hair, I creep over to the bedroll and try to find a comfortable place for my head, which is battered both front and back. My right eye is swollen completely shut. Queenie comes over to investigate, sniffing tentatively. She backs up a few feet and lies down, keeping an eye on me.
Walter puts the jug back in the trunk and then stays bent over, riffling through the bottom. When he straightens up again, he’s holding a large knife.
He closes the interior door, and wedges it shut with a chunk of wood. Then he sits with his back to the wall and the knife at his side.
Some time later, we hear the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves on the ramp. Pete, Otis, and Diamond Joe speak
