in hushed voices in the other part of the car, but no one knocks and no one tries the door. After a while, we hear them dismantle the ramp and slide the outside door shut.
When the train finally chugs forward, Walter sighs audibly. I look over at him. He drops his head between his knees and remains there for a moment. Then he climbs to his feet and slides the big knife behind the trunk.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” he says, working the chunk of wood free. He swings the door open and walks to the row of trunks that obscures Camel.
“Me?” I say, through a haze of moonshine.
“Yeah, you. So far.”
Walter hauls the trunks away from the wall and retrieves Camel. Then he drags the old man out to the other part of the car to take care of the evening’s ablutions.
I DOZE, FLATTENED by a combination of trauma and moonshine.
I’m vaguely aware of Walter helping Camel with his dinner. I remember propping myself up to accept a drink of water and then collapsing back on the bedroll. The next time I surface, Camel is lying flat on the cot, snoring, and Walter sits on the horse blanket in the corner with the lamp beside him and a book in his lap.
I hear footsteps on the roof, and a moment later there’s a soft thud outside our door. My whole body snaps into awareness.
Walter scrambles across the floor, crablike, and grabs the knife from behind the trunk. Then he moves to beside the door, gripping the knife’s handle tightly. He gestures to me, waving me toward the lamp. I dive across the room, but with one eye swelled shut I have no depth perception and come up short.
The door creaks inward. Walter’s fingers clench and unclench around the knife’s handle.
“Jacob?”
“Marlena!” I cry.
“Jesus Christ, woman!” Walter shouts, dropping the knife to his side. “I nearly killed you.” He grabs the edge of the door. His head bobs as he tries to see around her. “You alone?”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry. I need to talk to Jacob.”
Walter opens the door a bit more. Then his face falls. “Aw jeez,” he says. “You’d better come in.”
When she steps inside I lift the kerosene lamp. Her left eye is purple and swollen.
“Jesus Christ!” I say. “Did he do that to you?”
“Oh God, look at you,” she says, reaching out. Her fingertips hover near my face. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Who in blazes is that?” says Camel. “Is that a dame? I can’t see a thing. Someone turn me around.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” says Marlena, startled by the sight of the crippled body on the cot. “I thought there were only the two of you . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll go back now.”
“No you won’t,” I say.
“I didn’t mean . . . to him.”
“I don’t want you walking around on the top of moving train cars, never mind leaping between them.”
“I agree with Jacob,” says Walter. “We’ll move out there with the horses and give you some privacy.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly,” says Marlena.
“Then let me take the bedroll out there for you,” I say.
“No. I didn’t mean to . . .” She shakes her head. “Oh God. I shouldn’t have come.” She cups her hands over her face. A moment later she starts to cry.
I hand the lamp to Walter and pull her against me. She sinks into me, sobbing, her face pressed to my shirt.
“Aw jeez,” Walter says again. “This probably makes me an accomplice.”
“Let’s go talk,” I say to Marlena.
She sniffs and pulls away. She walks out to the horses and I follow, pulling the door shut behind us.
There’s a soft nicker of recognition. Marlena wanders over and strokes Midnight’s flank. I sink down against the wall, waiting for her. After a while she joins me. As we round a curve, the floorboards jerk beneath us, throwing us together so our shoulders touch.
I speak first. “Has he ever hit you before?”
“No.”
“If he does it again, I swear to God I’ll kill him.”
“If he does it again, you won’t have to,” she says quietly.
I look over at her. The moonlight comes through the slats behind her, and her profile is black, featureless.
“I’m leaving him,” she says, dropping her chin.
Instinctively, I reach for her hand. Her ring is gone.
“Have you told him?” I ask.
“In no uncertain terms.”
“How did he take it?”
“You saw his answer,” she says.
We sit listening to the clacking of the ties beneath us. I stare over the backs of the sleeping horses and at the snatches of night visible through the slats.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I guess I’ll talk to Uncle Al when we get to Erie and see if he can set me up with a bunk in the girls’ sleeper.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“You don’t want to go back to your family?”
A pause. “No. I don’t think they’d have me, anyway.”
We lean against the wall in silence, still holding hands. After about an hour she falls asleep, sliding down until her head rests on my shoulder. I remain awake, every fiber of my body aware of her proximity.
Mr. Jankowski? It’s time to get ready.”
My eyes snap open at the voice’s proximity. Rosemary hovers over me, framed by ceiling tiles.
“Eh? Oh, right,” I say, struggling up onto my elbows. Joy surges through me when I realize that not only do I remember where I am and who she is but also that it’s circus day. Perhaps what happened earlier was just a brain belch?
“Stay put. I’ll raise the head of your bed,” she says. “Do you need to use the washroom?”
“No, but I want my good shirt. And my bow tie.”
“Your bow tie!” she hoots, throwing her head back and laughing.
“Yes, my bow tie.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. You are a funny one,” she says, going to my closet.
By the time she returns, I have managed to undo three buttons on my other shirt. Not bad for gnarled fingers. I’m rather pleased with myself. Brain and body, both in working order.
As Rosemary helps me out of my shirt, I look down at my skinny frame. My ribs show, and the few hairs left on my chest are white. I remind myself of a greyhound, all sinews and skinny rib cage. Rosemary guides my arms into my good shirt, and few minutes later leans over me, tugging the edges of my bow tie. She stands back, cocks her head, and makes a final adjustment.
“Well, I do declare the bow tie was a fine decision,” she says, nodding in approval. Her voice is deep and honeyed, lyrical. I could listen to her all day long. “Would you like to have a look?”
“Did you get it straight?” I say.
“Of course I did!”
“Then no. I don’t like the mirror much these days,” I grumble.
“Well, I think you look very handsome,” she says, placing her hands on her hips and surveying me.
“Oh,
