“Oh yeah, that’ll be cozy. Just the three of us. And where the hell are we supposed to go, anyway?”
“We’ll check
“There’s nothing available. Shows are collapsing all over the damned country. There’s people starving. Starving! In the United States of America!”
“We’ll find something, somewhere.”
“The hell we will,” he says, shaking his head. “Damn, Jacob. I hope she’s worth it, that’s all I can say.”
I HEAD FOR the menagerie, watching all the while for August. He’s not there, but the tension among the menagerie men is palpable.
In the middle of the afternoon, I am summoned to the privilege car.
“Sit,” says Uncle Al, when I enter. He waves at the opposite chair.
I sit.
He leans back in his chair, twiddling his moustache. His eyes are narrowed. “Any progress to report?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “But I think she’ll come around.”
His eyes widen. His fingers stop twiddling. “You do?”
“Not right away, of course. She’s still angry.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “But you
I sigh deeply and lean back, crossing my legs. “When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It’s fate.”
He stares into my eyes as a smile seeps across his face. He lifts his hand and snaps his fingers. “A brandy for Jacob,” he orders. “And one for me as well.”
A minute later, we are each holding large snifters.
“So, tell me then, how long do you think . . . ?” he says, stirring the air beside his head.
“I think she wants to make a point.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he says. He shifts forward, eyes shining. “Yes. I quite understand.”
“Also, it’s important that she feel we are supporting her, not him. You know how women are. If she thinks that we’re in any way unsympathetic, it will only set things back.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding and shaking his head all at once so it bobs in a circle. “Absolutely. And what do you recommend we do in that regard?”
“Well, naturally August should keep his distance. That would give her a chance to miss him. It might even be beneficial for him to pretend
“Mmmm, yes,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Good point. And how long do you think . . .?”
“I shouldn’t think more than a few weeks.”
He stops nodding. His eyes pop open. “That long?”
“I can try to speed things up, but there’s a risk it will backfire. You know women.” I shrug. “It might take two weeks, and it might be tomorrow. But if she feels any pressure, she’ll hold off just to prove a point.”
“Yes, quite,” says Uncle Al, bringing a finger to his lips. He scrutinizes me for what feels like a very long time. “So, tell me,” he says, “what changed your mind since yesterday?”
I lift my glass and swirl the brandy, staring at the point where the stem meets the glass. “Let’s just say that the way things are suddenly became very clear to me.”
His eyes narrow.
“To August and Marlena,” I say, thrusting my glass upward. The brandy sloshes up the sides.
He lifts his glass slowly.
I toss back the rest of my brandy and smile.
He lowers his glass without drinking. I cock my head and keep smiling. Let him examine me. Just let him. Today I am invincible.
He starts to nod, satisfied. He takes a drink. “Yes. Good. I have to admit I wasn’t so sure about you after yesterday. I’m glad you’ve come around. You won’t be sorry, Jacob. It’s the best thing for everyone. And especially you,” he says, pointing at me with his snifter. He tips it back and drains it. “I look after those who look after me.” He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, “I also look after those who don’t.”
THAT EVENING, MARLENA conceals her black eye with pancake makeup and does her liberty act. But August’s face is not so easily fixed, so there will be no elephant act until he looks like a human being again. The townsfolk—who have been staring at poster after poster of Rosie balancing on a ball for the last two weeks—are unhappy in the extreme when the show ends and they realize that the pachyderm who cheerfully accepted candy, popcorn, and peanuts in the menagerie tent never made an appearance in the big top at all. A handful of men wanting their money back are hustled away to be mollified by the patches before their train of thought has an opportunity to spread.
A few days later, the sequined headpiece reappears—mended carefully with pink thread—and so Rosie looks glamorous as she charms the crowd in the menagerie. But she still doesn’t perform, and after every show there are complaints.
Life goes on with fragile normalcy. I perform my usual duties in the morning and retire to the back end when the crowd comes in. Uncle Al does not consider battered rotten tomatoes to be good ambassadors for the show, and I can’t say I blame him. My wounds look significantly worse before they start to look better, and when the swelling subsides it’s clear that my nose will be off-kilter for life.
Except for mealtimes, we don’t see August at all. Uncle Al reassigns him to Earl’s table, but after it becomes clear that all he will do is sit and sulk and stare at Marlena, he is ordered to take his meals in the dining car with Uncle Al. And so it happens that three times a day, Marlena and I sit across from each other, strangely alone in the most public of places.
Uncle Al tries to keep up his end of the deal, I’ll give him that. But August is too far gone to be controlled. The day after his extraction from the cookhouse, Marlena turns and sees him ducking behind a tent flap. An hour later, he accosts her in the midway, drops to his knees, and wraps his arms around her legs. When she wrestles to get free, he knocks her onto the grass and pins her there, trying to force her ring back on her finger, alternately murmuring entreaties and spitting threats.
Walter sprints to the menagerie to get me, but by the time I get there Earl has already hauled August away. Fuming, I head for the privilege car.
When I tell Uncle Al that August’s outburst has just returned us to square one, he vents his frustration by smashing a decanter against the wall.
August disappears entirely for three days, and Uncle Al begins whacking heads again.
AUGUST IS NOT the only one consumed by thoughts of Marlena. I lie on my horse blanket at night wanting her so badly I ache. A part of me wishes she would come to me—but not really, because it’s too dangerous. I also can’t go to her, because she’s sharing a bunk in the virgin car with one of the bally broads.
We manage to make love twice in the space of six days—ducking behind sidewalls and grappling frantically, rearranging our clothing because there is no time to remove it. These encounters leave me both exhausted and recharged, desperate and fulfilled. The rest of the time we interact with focused formality in the cookhouse. We are so careful to maintain the facade that even though no one could possibly hear our conversations, we conduct them as though others were sitting at our table. Even so, I wonder whether our affair isn’t obvious. It seems to me that the bonds between us must be visible.
The night after our third unexpected and frenzied encounter, while the taste of her is still on my lips, I have a vivid dream. The train is stopped in the forest, for no reason I can make out because it’s the middle of the night and nobody stirs. There’s yelping outside, insistent and distressed. I leave the stock car, following the noise to the edge of a steep bank. Queenie struggles at the bottom of a ravine, a badger hanging from her leg. I call to her, frantically scanning the bank for a way to get down. I grab a ropy branch and clutch it while I try to descend, but the mud slips under my feet and I end up hauling myself back up.
In the meantime, Queenie breaks free and scrabbles up the hill. I scoop her up and check her for injuries. Incredibly, she is fine. I tuck her under my arm and turn toward the stock car. An eight-foot alligator blocks its entrance. I head for the next car over, but the alligator turns as well, shambling beside the train, its blunt, toothy
