“But it’s been hard on me,” his mother continued. She looked down at her clasped hands. “Word has spread about us taking care of Roy, and it’s been difficult for me to go to town as normal. Mr. Smythe tried to charge me extra for milk the other day, saying I’d surely pay more if I would be serving it to a…”
“A monster,” Paul said. He looked into his mother’s eyes. She was ridding him of his best good friend and he needed to know her look. There was pain on her face. It wasn’t losing Roy that pained her, Paul thought, but losing her husband to the war and her dignity to the strange boy left in her care. He put his hand on his mother’s hands.
“You’re a good son,” she said, piling a hand over top of his.
“Where will he go?” Paul said.
Winny patted her son’s hand. “Tomorrow night there’s a show in town. It’s the kind of show that, well, specializes in people like Roy. I’m going to take him to them.”
“Will they want him?”
“I think so,” Winny said. “I hope so, anyway. I think he belongs with them.”
“What kind of show?”
“It’s called a sideshow. They travel with the circus. You remember the circus?”
Paul nodded. The smell of animals and sweat and leather invaded his nose. Last year they’d gone to town to see the trapeze artists and the elephants. He remembered walking down the midway to the catcalls of outside talkers trying to lure him into dark tents. He recalled the battered banners with exotic images and statements like Real! and Alive! painted in their corners. He recalled the greasy snacks you could hold in one hand, the sugary treats that made you messy. He didn’t want his friend to leave his home, but he wondered if Roy would be happier at the sideshow. He wondered if Roy would see it as great adventure. “It’s dark in those tents,” he said.
“It is,” his mother said.
“He’ll like the food,” Paul said.
Winny stifled a laugh. She looked quizzically at her son. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll like the food.”
Now Paul walked the road south of Bracken. He figured to be about a mile out of town, having passed the five-mile sign just under an hour ago.
“Okay, then,” he’d said to his mother that night, accepting Roy’s dismissal so simply. And now, twenty-six years later, he was chasing his old friend across Hell’s half-acre.
Lightning cracked in the distant sky. Paul counted to seven before he heard thunder.
15
The dawn brought rain. It continued through the late morning. Big drops pounded Roy’s hat like falling acorns. The dark clouds kept the heat of the sun at bay, which was a blessing. Roy moved into the depth of the trees to remain unseen, keeping an eye on the road to guide him as he went. In the woods the downpour sounded like a round of applause, drowning out all other noise. Roy never heard the cart until it was passing him.
He stopped and crouched down. There was one driver and one horse pulling a flat, wooden cart carrying three other men. The cart’s wheels sprayed mud in a looping arc. One man in the back carried a double-barrel scatter-gun while the others wore revolvers on their waists. All four were bearded. All wore dark dusters, square-toed boots, and black hats. All had sun-wizened eyes, scowls carved on their faces, and silver crosses around their necks.
The Ledger boys.
It was only by providence they hadn’t seen him. Roy stayed low and still until the cart was well into the distance.
Paul sat on the boardwalk in front of the bank. He watched rainwater bubble from an overflowing gutter. Raindrops hammered the tin roof above his head. It was the only roofed boardwalk in town, and he was happy to be dry beneath it. He’d stolen a nap near dawn and was now awaiting Bracken’s awakening. He figured the best place to start searching for an ordinary man would be the saloon, but Roy wasn’t ordinary. The general store across the street was Earl’s Goods, a likely choice for a man in need of supply. The sign said the shop would be open by eight a.m., so the thing to do was wait.
As if on cue, a man appeared on the boardwalk across the street. Big and scruffy, he looked like an Earl. Ignoring the rain that pelted his clothing, the man walked to the door of Earl’s Goods and produced an iron key ring. He eyed Paul suspiciously as he flipped through the keys.
Paul tipped his hat.
Earl nodded, and then he looked to Paul’s left and nodded again.
Paul looked right to see two men approaching him. Both were dressed well, one in a banker’s clothes, the other looked like he aimed to sell things. Their footsteps were barely audible against the downpour.
“Something I can help you with?” the banker said, speaking loudly over the rain. His face was round, his hands soft, his fingernails polished. His eyes were beady and sunken deep. He produced his own key ring and readied for the door.
Paul stood. He extended a hand. “Name’s Paul Constantine,” he said. “I’m from a county over-” the banker extended his hand to shake, “-in Hale.”
The banker pulled back his hand. He and the salesman exchanged a glance.
“Redmine?” the banker said.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Paul said. He kept his hand extended.
The banker eyed him for a moment, head slightly tilted. The salesman came up reluctantly to shake Paul’s hand. The banker, however, would not oblige.
“I’m looking for someone,” Paul said.
“I’ll bet you are,” the banker said. “Got anything to convince me I should continue opening this door?”
Paul produced a strip of leather bearing the warden’s seal. It was proof that he was a Redmine prison guard, not an escaped inmate, as he was certain the banker suspected.
The banker looked at the seal with one eyebrow raised. He tilted his head back and forth, as if changing his eye angle could squeeze lies from it.
“I didn’t know they issued such nice pieces,” the banker said, nodding to the Dragoon on Paul’s waist.
“They don’t.”
The three men stood in awkward silence until, finally, the banker opened the door and escorted them in. “I’ve got a man here that needs to catch a train,” he said, gesturing to the salesman. “I assume you won’t mind me taking care of his business first?”
“That’d be just fine,” Paul said.
“All right, then,” the banker said. “Wait here.” He pointed to a row of wooden chairs near the door.
The banker and the salesman walked to the office in the back. Paul took a seat and looked around. The bank was immaculate. It smelled like cedar and fresh paint. The chair was comfortable and plush, just like those next to it, and just like everything else Paul could see. One red velvet luxury after another, all collected together like they were common.
Paul looked out the window toward Earl’s Goods. The man he assumed to be Earl stood behind the counter, staring back at him through the shop’s front window. Paul averted his eyes. No point in giving Earl the nerves before going over to talk with him. He looked down at his hands. They were calloused and hard from digging so many graves. He turned them over, opened them, closed them. He liked the way his veins stood out on the backs. It meant he was no longer a soft kid, but a man, established in the world. He wouldn’t get such hands from clerking.
He worked his jaw and felt the soreness. It wasn’t as bad as before. He wondered if Roy had pulled the punch. He recalled Gloria’s snicker when he told her how quickly the prisoner moved against him. Her eyes were bloodshot and her neck struggled to steady her drunken head, but her disdain was forever sober. He recalled feeling hatred for her in that moment. She was full of venom and so he must be poisonous, too. After all, he was in the right. His position was defensible, hers was not.
Defensible?
Paul shook his head. It was a word his father-in-law would use. He’d point out the drinking and the irresponsibility, he’d drill home facts and forget the feelings. He’d accuse, he’d make his case, and he’d win.
But Paul was no lawyer. He was a husband. He could accuse, he could
make his case, and he could win, but what would he have won?
The office door came open. The salesman and banker came out. They shook hands. The salesman was now a paler color. His hands shook and he kept nodding and thanking and patting his chest pocket.
“You’ll be fine,” the banker said. “Just stick to the road.”
The salesman kept nodding as he walked away, whispering words to himself and patting the pocket. Paul stood and tipped his hat as the salesman passed, but the man didn’t respond.
“The name’s Dillon,” the banker said, approaching Paul. “What can I do for you?”
“He all right?” Paul said, thumbing toward the door.
Dillon took a seat behind a sturdy desk and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure you’re not here to discuss the well being of my customers.”
“No sir,” Paul said, sitting back down in the velvet chair. “I’m after a man who escaped prison, day before last.”
“And you think he came through my town?”
“I’m hoping he hasn’t come through yet.”
Dillon nodded, pursed his lips. “Description?”
Paul pushed back his hat. “You’d know him if you saw him. He’s got scales all over his skin, like a snake, and he’d be wearing-” he stopped when he saw the change in Dillon’s face. “You’ve seen him.”
“Scales on him, you say?”
“That’s right,” Paul said. “A disease since birth.”
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “That girl. Sandra, I believe her name is. She’s got more imagination than they know what to do with.”
“They?”
“The orphanage. St. Luke’s. The bank has a vested interest in-” he stopped, gestured dismissively, “-it doesn’t matter. I was there yesterday afternoon and one of the girls was spouting off about a man she’d met. Said he had scales on his face and hands. We thought she created an imaginary friend.”
“When was this?” Paul said.
“Yesterday.”
“When did she meet him?”
“She said she found him in the woods while out playing.” He blinked. “Goddammit. Are you saying that little girl had a run in with an escaped criminal?”
Paul put out a hand. “Now hold on,” he said. “She ain’t harmed, is she? I doubt Roy would be dangerous to a young girl.”
Dillon’s eyes sharpened. “First name basis seems awful familiar for a prison guard and his charge.”
Paul closed his eyes to the mistake, wished he could suck it back in. He pressed on. “The girl, did she say anything more?”
“What did this prisoner do?”
“It’s not important,” Paul said. “I need to know where he might be headed.”
“It’s my town he’s in. I need to know what kind of maniac we’re dealing with. What was he imprisoned for?”
Paul sighed. “Murder.”
“And you idiots managed to lose him?”
Anger bloomed in Paul’s chest. Blood rose into his throat, into his head. His tongue tasted metal. His mind cleared and he found focus. The feeling was delightful. “That’s a reckless insult for a man who doesn’t pack iron.”
Dillon smirked. “No need to pack iron in a town you own.”
“Is that right?” Paul felt cool air on his widened eyes, the tickle of his hair coming to attention.
“You doubt me? Every loan in the county comes through this bank, meaning every goddamn one of those people out there are in my pocket.” He tapped his breast pocket, which was stuffed with a silk handkerchief. “I’d say that puts me squarely in a position of ownership.”
Paul looked down at his hands, shook his head.
“You disagree?” Dillon said.
“Funny thing about a man who thinks he owns things,” Paul said, “he never understands that his things own him.” He stood and leaned over the desk, knuckles against the wooden top, aware that his open jacket exposed the hilt of his Dragoon. He glanced at Dillon’s breast pocket before finding the banker’s eyes. “Next man you insult might put a hole in that pocket of yours, leak you right out of it.”
“I think its best you leave now,” Dillon said.
Paul tipped his hat and left.
16
Young Roy sensed the change when Winny Constantine gifted him a brand new hat. “Just like a gunfighter,” she said, picking lint off the hat’s wide brim. She placed it on Roy’s bald head. “We’re going on an adventure. Just you and me.”
Roy had kept tabs on her unease. In the hour before they left, she kept rearranging things around the house, putting them just so. She moved the oil lamp on the table at least ten times, adjusted the salt and pepper shakers, and wiped her hands on her apron so often it couldn’t be counted.
Paul sat still, staring into the fire that warmed their home.
When Winny came out of the bedroom dressed like an advertisement, Roy thought it best to pack his things. He loaded his knife, a couple books, and the extra clothes the Constantines had provided him into a crawdad net and tied it tight. His suspicions were confirmed when Paul didn’t ask why he was packing.
“Come along now, Roy,” Winny said, standing in the open doorway, the moon and stars peeking into the house from out of the black sky.
Roy slung his net over his shoulder and approached his friend. He stood at the side of the fireplace. “Thank you,” Roy said.
Paul nodded, eyes still on the fire.
Roy placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder. He was his best good friend and he didn’t want him to live with pain. He wished to absorb Paul’s misery and take it with him. Later, he could throw it up in some alley, down into the gutter, and let it wash out into a world where Paul could never find it again. He left Paul’s side and caught up with Winny in the doorway.
As they crossed the threshold, Paul called out to stop them. “A three legged dog walks into a saloon…”
Roy turned an ear to his friend.
“… I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.”
Roy smiled. “That’s a humdinger.”
The sounds of people and animals grew louder as Roy and Winny neared town. The din was occasionally cut through by a laugh, a squeal, or some variety of growl. The scents were exotic. His mouth watered. Closer still he could see points of light floating in the night air. Braziers pegged on high wooden posts, watching over the proceedings like guardians in the gloam. They shined down upon what Roy understood to be the circus and the sideshow. He’d read about them, seen drawings.
Roy halted when he saw the big top. The blue-and-white tent presided over everything like an enormous king, its sides swelling and collapsing like giant lungs. Roy’s heart quickened. It was all he could do to stay by Winny’s side.
She gripped his shoulder tightly.
At the striped king’s feet roiled a sea of children, women, and men. Some were tall, some short, some wore big hats, some had their arms raised, others stood with hands in their pockets. Some were dressed in their Sunday bests, others looked as if they’d crawled from a ditch. Some stood in line to get into the tent. Others lined up for food. Still others circled something in the midway, something that spat fire. The audience cheered.
Roy longed to dash into the mix, but as his longing increased, so did the strength of Paul’s mother’s grip. The tips of her fingers cut painfully into his shoulder.
Thirty feet short of the crowd, Winny stopped and held Roy in place. She tugged his hat brim lower onto his head. She surveyed the grounds as best she could with her five-foot frame, standing on her tip-toes to get the best view.
Seeming satisfied with what she found, Winny drew Roy sideways, skirting the throngs of people. They moved behind the grandstands and food huts, cutting through the darkness like unwelcome spirits at the edge of a Pagan fire.
They came to a place where the crowds were less thick and the tents grew smaller. Here the din became distinct voices. Strange men stood outside small tents on wooden boxes, taunting passersby.
“You there, sir,”
a talker said, addressing a young boy. “You’re not afraid, are you? Bring the young maiden with you.” Next to the boy walked a giggling girl. They were together, but maybe not as close as the boy wished. He waved off the talker and laughed, keeping his eyes on the girl.
“You’ll be back,” the talker said. He turned his attention to two more boys coming down the midway, pointed at them. “I know two young men unafraid to enter the realm of the Fiji Mermaid!”
The boys shook their heads, unimpressed.
Roy and Winny moved farther down the midway, behind more tents. As they neared the midway’s end Winny froze. She released Roy’s shoulder and stared across the lane at a red-and-white striped tent. The low side of the tent was stained and ugly with mud. The entrance was littered with propped signs displaying what frights and fears may be inside—a bearded lady, a living corpse, a pinhead, something called an Aborigine, and dozens more. All the signs claimed that the beings were real, alive, and guaranteed. Above the tent hung a waxed banner of thick canvas and many colors. It read, Jack McLean’s Congress of Curiosities. It was intricate and beautiful. Roy thought it must have taken a year to paint it.
On a soapbox in front of the tent stood an old man. He wore a black top hat and a red jacket with long tails. His pants were black and his boots shined unnaturally beneath the braziers. A riding crop was tucked under his arm. His gloves glowed a stark white. His face seemed wooden. The way he looked down upon those that passed told you he was born on that soapbox and had lived there all his days.
As the boy and girl approached, they fell under the talker’s gaze and slowed their pace. He eyed them for a moment before speaking.
“The young lady is frightened,” he said, eyes on the boy. His voice was a deep toll. The girl’s body went rigid. If she wasn’t frightened before, she was now. “You must draw her in closely,” the talker continued, gesturing with his arm.
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