I RETURN TO THE post office and call Dean Wilkins. He is silent for even longer this time. He finally stammers out an apology: he’s really very sorry—he wishes he could help—I’m still welcome to sit my final exams, of course, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what I should do with the elephant.
I RETURN TO THE lot rigid with panic. I can’t leave Marlena and the animals here while I return to Ithaca to write my exams. What if the sheriff sells the menagerie in the meantime? The horses we can board, and we can afford for Marlena and Queenie to stay in a hotel for a while, but Rosie?
I cross the lot, making a wide arc around scattered piles of canvas. Workmen from the Nesci Brothers show are unrolling various pieces of the big top under the watchful eye of the boss canvasman. It looks like they’re checking for tears before making an offer.
As I mount the stairs to car 48, my heart is pounding, my breath coming fast. I need to calm down—my mind is spinning in ever smaller circles. This is no good, no good at all.
I push open the door. Queenie comes to my feet and stares up at me with a pathetic combination of bewilderment and gratitude. She wags her stump uncertainly. I lean down and scratch her head.
“Marlena?” I say, straightening up.
She comes out from behind the green curtain. She looks apprehensive, twisting her fingers and avoiding making eye contact. “Jacob—oh, Jacob, I’ve done something really stupid.”
“What?” I ask. “Do you mean the horses? It’s okay. I already know.”
She looks up quickly. “You do?”
“I was watching. It was pretty obvious what was going on.”
She blushes. “I’m sorry. I just . . . reacted. I wasn’t thinking about what we’d do with them afterward. It’s just that I love them so much and I couldn’t stand to let him take them. He’s no better than Uncle Al.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” I pause. “Marlena, I have something to tell you, too.”
“You do?”
My jaw opens and closes, but no words come out.
She looks worried. “What is it? What’s going on? Is it something bad?”
“I called the Dean at Cornell, and he’s willing to let me sit my exams.”
Her face lights up. “That’s wonderful!”
“And we’ve also got Rosie.”
“It was the same as with you and the horses,” I say quickly, rushing to explain myself. “I don’t like the look of their bull man and I couldn’t let him take her—God only knows where she’d end up. I love that bull. I couldn’t let her go. So I pretended she belonged to me. And now I guess she does.”
Marlena stares at me for a long time. Then—to my enormous relief—she nods, saying, “You did right. I love her, too. She deserves better than what she’s had. But it does mean we’re in a pickle.” She looks out the window, her eyes narrowed in thought. “We’ve got to get on another show,” she says finally. “That’s all there is to it.”
“How? Nobody’s hiring.”
“Ringling is always hiring, if you’re good enough.”
“Do you think we actually have a shot?”
“Sure we do. We’ve got one hell of an elephant act, and you’re a Cornell-educated veterinarian. We have a definite shot. We’ll have to be married, though. They’re a real Sunday School outfit.”
“Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.”
The blood drains from her face.
“Oh, Marlena. I’m so sorry,” I say. “That came out all wrong. I just meant that there’s never been an instant of doubt that I’m going to marry you.”
After a moment’s pause, she reaches up and lays her hand on my cheek. Then she grabs her purse and hat.
“Where are you going?” I say.
She rolls forward onto her toes and kisses me. “To make that phone call. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I say.
I follow her outside and sit on the metal platform watching as she recedes into the distance. She walks with such certainty, placing each foot directly in front of the other and holding her shoulders square. As she passes, all the men on the lot turn to look. I watch until she disappears around the corner of a building.
As I rise to return to the stateroom, there’s a shout of surprise from the men unrolling the canvas. One man takes a long step backward, clutching his stomach. Then he doubles over, vomiting onto the grass. The rest continue to stare at the thing they’ve uncovered. The boss canvasman removes his hat and clutches it to his chest. One by one, the others do the same.
I walk over, staring at the darkened bundle. It’s large, and as I get closer I make out bits of scarlet, gold brocade, and black and white checks.
It’s Uncle Al. A makeshift garrote is tightened around his blackened neck.
LATER THAT NIGHT, Marlena and I sneak into the menagerie and bring Bobo back to our stateroom.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
So this is what it boils down to, is it? Sitting alone in a lobby waiting for family that’s not going to come?
I can’t believe Simon forgot. Especially today. Especially Simon—that boy spent the first seven years of his life on the Ringling show.
To be fair, I suppose the boy is seventy-one. Or is that sixty-nine? Dammit, I’m tired of not knowing. When Rosemary comes back I’ll ask her what year it is and settle the matter once and for all. She’s very kind to me, that Rosemary. She won’t make me feel foolish even if I am. A man ought to know how old he is.
I remember so many things as clear as a bell. Like the day of Simon’s birth. God, such joy. Such relief! The vertigo as I approached the bed, the trepidation. And there was my angel, my Marlena, smiling up at me, tired, radiant, with a blanketed bundle nestled in the crook of her arm. His face was so dark and scrunched he hardly looked like a person at all. But then when Marlena pulled the blanket back from his hair and I saw that it was red, I thought I might actually faint from joy. I never really doubted—not really, and I would have loved and raised him, anyway—but still. I damn near dropped over when I saw that red hair.
I glance at the clock, antsy with despair. The Spec is over for sure. Oh, it’s just not fair! All those decrepit old people who won’t even know what they’re looking at, and here’s me! Trapped in this lobby!
Or am I?
I furrow my brow and blink. What, exactly, makes me think I’m trapped?
I glance from side to side. No one. I turn and look toward the hall. A nurse whizzes past, clutching a chart and looking at her shoes.
I scootch to the edge of my seat and reach for my walker. By my estimation, I’m only eighteen feet from freedom. Well, there’s an entire city block to traverse after that, but if I hoof it I bet I can catch the last few acts. And the finale—it won’t make up for missing the Spec, but it’s something. A warm glow tingles through me and I snort back a giggle. I may be in my nineties, but who says I’m helpless?
The glass door slides open as I approach. Thank God for that—I don’t think I could manage the walker and a regular door. No, I’m wobbly, all right. But that’s okay. I can work with wobbly.
I reach the sidewalk and stop, blinded by the sun.
I’ve been away from the real world for so long that the combination of engines running, dogs barking, and horns honking brings a lump to my throat. The people on the sidewalk part and pass me like I’m a stone in a stream. Nobody seems to think it odd that an old man is standing in his slippers on the sidewalk right outside an old folks’ home. But it occurs to me that I’m still in plain sight if one of the nurses comes into the lobby.
I lift my walker, twist it a couple of inches to the left, and plunk it down again. Its plastic wheels scrape the concrete, and the sound makes me giddy. It’s a real noise, a gritty noise, not the squeak or patter of rubber. I shuffle around behind it, savoring the way my slippers scuffle. Two more manipulations like that, and I’m facing the right way. A perfect three-point turn. I grab hold and shuffle off, concentrating on my feet.
I mustn’t go too fast. Falling would be disastrous in so many ways. There are no floor tiles, so I measure my progress in feet—my feet. Each time I take a step, I bring the heel of one foot parallel to the toes of the other. And
