by Sara Gruen
The doctor turns and surveys me through his pince-nez. After a pause of a few beats he says, "It's caused by a cresol compound used by a manufacturer."
"Dear God," I say.
"Quite."
"Why did they add it?"
"To get around the regulations that require that Jamaica ginger extract be rendered unpalatable." He turns back to Camel and raises his voice. "So it won't be used as an alcoholic beverage."
"Will it go away?" Camel's voice is high, cracking with fear.
"No. I'm afraid not," the doctor says.
Behind me, the others catch their breath. Grady comes forward until we're touching shoulders. "Wait a minute--you mean there's nothing you can do?"
The doctor straightens up and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. "Me? No. Absolutely not," he says. His expression is compressed as a pug's, as though he's trying to close his nostrils through facial muscles alone. He picks up his bag and edges toward the door.
"Hold on just a cotton-pickin' moment," says Grady. "If you can't do anything, is there anyone else who can?"
The doctor turns to address me specifically, I suppose because I'm the one who paid him. "Oh, there's plenty who will take your money and offer a cure--wading in oil slush pools, electrical shock therapy--but none of it does a lick of good. He may recover some function over time, but it will be minimal at best. Really, he shouldn't have been drinking in the first place. It is against federal law, you know."
I am speechless. I think my mouth may actually be open.
"Is that everything?" he says.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do . . . you . . . need . . . anything . . . else?" he says as though I'm an idiot.
"No," I say.
"Then I'll bid you good day." He tips his hat, steps gingerly onto the crate, and dismounts. He walks a dozen yards away, sets his bag on the ground, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He wipes his hands carefully, getting in between each finger. Then he picks up his bag, puffs out his chest, and walks off, taking Camel's last scrap of hope and my father's pocket watch with him.
When I turn back, Earl, Grady, and Bill are kneeling around Camel. Tears stream down the old man's face.
"WALTER, I NEED to talk to you," I say, bursting into the goat room. Queenie raises her head, sees that it's me, and sets it back on her paws.
Walter sets his book down. "Why? What's up?"
"I need to ask a favor."
"Well, go on then, what is it?"
"A friend of mine is in a bad way."
"That guy with jake leg?"
I pause. "Yes."
I walk over to my bedroll but am too anxious to sit down.
"Well, spit it out then," Walter says impatiently.
"I want to bring him here."
"What?"
"He's going to get redlighted otherwise. His friends had to hide him behind a roll of canvas last night."
Walter looks at me in horror. "You have got to be kidding."
"Look, I know you were less than thrilled when I showed up, and I know he's a working man and all, but he's an old man and he's in bad shape and he needs help."
"And what exactly are we supposed to do with him?"
"Just keep him away from Blackie."
"For how long? Forever?"
I drop to the edge of my bedroll. He's right, of course. We can't keep Camel hidden forever. "Shit," I say. I bang my forehead with the heel of my palm. And then again. And then again.
"Hey, stop that," says Walter. He sits forward, closing his book. "Those were serious questions. What would we do with him?"
"I don't know."
"Does he have any family?"
I look up at him suddenly. "He mentioned a son once."
"Okay, well now we're getting somewhere. Do you know where this son is?"
"No. I gather they aren't in touch."
Walter stares at me, tapping his fingers against his leg. After half a minute of silence he says, "All right. Bring him on over. Don't let anyone see you or we'll all catch hell."
I look up in surprise.
"What?" he says, brushing a fly from his forehead.
"Nothing. No. Actually, I mean thank you. Very much."
"Hey, I got a heart," he says, lying back and picking up his book. "Not like some people we all know and love."
WALTER AND I ARE relaxing between the matinee and evening show when there's a soft rapping on our door.
He leaps to his feet, knocking over the wooden crate and cursing as he keeps the kerosene lamp from hitting the floor. I approach the door and glance nervously at the trunks laid end-to-end across the back wall.
Walter rights the lamp and gives me the briefest of nods.
I open the door.
"Marlena!" I say, swinging the door farther open than I intend to. "What are you doing up? I mean, are you okay? Do you want to sit down?"
"No," she says. Her face is inches from mine. "I'm all right. But I'd like to speak to you for a moment. Are you alone?"
"Uh, no. Not exactly." I say, glancing back at Walter, who's shaking his head and waving his hands furiously.
"Can you come to the stateroom?" Marlena says. "It won't take but a moment."
"Yes. Of course."
She turns and walks gingerly to the doorway. She's wearing slippers, not shoes. She sits on the edge and eases herself down. I watch for a moment, relieved to see that while she moves carefully, she's not limping obviously.
I close the door.
"Man, oh man," says Walter, shaking his head. "I nearly had a heart attack. Shit, man. What the hell are we doing?"
"Hey, Camel," I say. "You okay back there?"
"Yup," says a thin voice from behind the trunks. "Reckon she saw anything?"
"No. You're in the clear. For now. But we're going to have to be very careful."
MARLENA IS IN the plush chair with her legs crossed. When I first come in, she's sitting forward, rubbing the arch of one foot. When she sees me, she stops and leans back.
"Jacob. Thank you for coming."
"Certainly," I say. I remove my hat, and hold it awkwardly to my chest.
"Please sit down."
"Thank you," I say, sitting on the edge of the nearest chair. I look around. "Where's August?"
"He and Uncle Al are meeting with the railroad authority."
"Oh," I say. "Anything serious?"
"Just rumors. Someone reported that we were redlighting men. They'll sort it out, I'm sure."
"Rumors. Yes," I say. I hold my hat in my lap, fingering its edge and waiting.
"So . . . um . . . I was worried about you," she says.
"You were?"
"Are you all right?" she asks quietly.
"Yes. Of course," I say. Then it dawns on me what she's asking. "Oh God--no, it's not what you think. The doctor wasn't for me. I needed him to see a friend, and it wasn't . . . it wasn't for that."
"Oh," she says, with a nervous laugh. "I'm so glad. I'm sorry, Jacob. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I was just worried."
"I'm fine. Really."
"And your friend?"
I hold my breath for a moment. "Not so fine."
"Will she be okay?"
"She?" I look up, caught off-guard.
Marlena looks down, twisting her fingers in her lap. "I just assumed it was Barbara."
I cough, and then I choke.
"Oh, Jacob--oh, goodness. I'm making an awful mess of this. It's none of my business. Really. Please forgive me."
"No. I hardly know Barbara." I blush so hard my scalp prickles.
"It's all right. I know she's a . . ." Marlena twists her fingers awkwardly and lets the sentence go unfinished. "Well, despite that, she's not a bad sort. Quite decent, really, although you want to--"
"Marlena," I say with enough force to stop her from talking. I clear my throat and continue. "I'm not involved with Barbara. I hardly know her. I don't think we've exchanged more than a dozen words in our lives."
"Oh," she says. "I
t's just Auggie said . . ."
We sit in excruciating silence for nearly half a minute.
"So, your feet are better then?" I ask.
"Yes, thank you." Her hands are clasped so tightly her knuckles are white. She swallows and looks at her lap. "There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. What happened in the alley. In Chicago."
"That was entirely my fault," I say quickly. "I can't imagine what came over me. Temporary insanity or something. I'm so very sorry. I can assure you it will never happen again."
"Oh," she says quietly.
I look up, startled. Unless I'm very much mistaken, I think I've just managed to offend her. "I'm not saying . . . It's not that you're not . . . I just . . ."
"Are you saying you didn't want to kiss me?"
I drop my hat and raise my hands. "Marlena, please help me. I don't know what you want me to say."
"Because it would be easier if you didn't."
"If I didn't what?"
"If you didn't want to kiss me," she says quietly.
My jaw moves, but it's several seconds before anything comes out. "Marlena, what are you saying?"
"I . . . I'm not really sure," she says. "I hardly know what to think anymore. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. I know what I'm feeling is wrong, but I just . . . Well, I guess I just wondered . . ."
When I look up, her face is cherry red. She's clasping and unclasping her hands, staring hard at her lap.
"Marlena," I say, rising and taking a step forward.
"I think you should go now," she says.
I stare at her for a few seconds.
"Please," she says, without looking up.
And so I leave, although every bone in my body screams against it.
COURTESY OF THE PFENING ARCHIVES, COLUMBUS, OHIO
Fifteen
Camel spends his days hidden behind the trunks, lying on blankets that Walter and I arrange to cushion his ruined body from the floor. His paralysis is so bad I'm not sure he could crawl out even if he wanted to, but he's so terrified of being caught that he doesn't try. Each night, after the train is in motion, we pull the trunks out and lean him up in the corner or lay him on the cot, depending on whether he wants to sit up or continue lying down. It's Walter who insists he take the cot, and in turn I insist that Walter take the bedroll. And so I am back to sleeping on the horse blanket in the corner.
Barely two days into our cohabitation, Camel's tremors are so bad he can't even speak. Walter notices at noon when he returns to the train to bring Camel some food. Camel is in such bad shape Walter seeks me out in the menagerie to tell me about it, but August is watching, so I can't return to the train.
At nearly midnight, Walter and I are sitting side by side on the cot, waiting for the train to pull out. The second it moves, we get up and drag the trunks from the wall.
Walter kneels, puts his hands under Camel's armpits, and lifts him into a sitting position. Then he pulls a flask from his pocket.
When Camel's eyes light on it, they jerk up to Walter's face. Then they fill with tears.
"What's that?" I ask quickly.
"What the hell do you think it is?" Walter says. "It's liquor. Real liquor. The good stuff."
Camel reaches for the bottle with shaking hands. Walter, still holding him upright, removes the cap and holds it to the old man's lips.
ANOTHER WEEK PASSES, and Marlena remains cloistered in her stateroom. I'm now so desperate to lay eyes on her that I find myself trying to figure out ways of peeking into the window without getting caught. Fortunately, good sense prevails.
Every night, I lie on my smelly horse blanket in the corner and replay our last conversation, word for precious word. I follow the same tortured trajectory over and over--from my rush of disbelieving joy to my crashing deflation. I know that dismissing me was the only thing she could do, but even so, I can barely stand it. Just thinking about it leaves me so agitated I toss and writhe until Walter tells me to knock it off because I'm keeping him up.
ONWARD AND UPWARD. Mostly we stay one day in each town, although we usually make a two-day stopover Sunday. During the jump between Burlington and Keokuk, Walter--with the help of generous amounts of whiskey--manages to extract the name and last known location of Camel's son. For the next few stops, Walter marches off to town immediately after breakfast and doesn't return until it's nearly show time. By Springfield, he has made contact.
At first, Camel's son denies the association. But Walter is persistent. Day after day he marches into town, negotiating by telegram, and by the following Friday the son has agreed to meet us in Providence and take custody of the old man. It means we will have to continue the current housing arrangements for several more weeks, but at least it's a solution. And that's a good deal more than we've had up to this point.
IN TERRE HAUTE, the Lovely Lucinda drops dead. After Uncle Al recovers from his violent but short-lived bereavement, he organizes a farewell befitting "our beloved Lucinda."
An hour after the death certificate is signed, Lucinda is laid out in the water well of the hippopotamus car and hitched to a team of twenty-four black Percherons with feathers on their headbands.
Uncle Al climbs onto the bench with the driver, practically collapsing with grief. After a moment he wiggles his fingers, signaling the start of Lucinda's procession. She is hauled slowly through town, followed on foot by every member of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth deemed fit to be seen. Uncle Al is desolate, weeping and honking into his red handkerchief and allowing himself only the occasional upward glance to gauge whether the procession's speed allows for maximum crowd enlargement.
The women follow immediately behind the hippopotamus wagon, dressed all in black and pressing elegant lace hankies to the corners of their eyes. I am farther back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al has promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief--even the dogs are howling.
Almost a thousand townspeople follow us back to the lot. When Uncle Al stands up on the carriage, they fall silent.
He removes his hat and presses it to his chest. He digs out a hankie and dabs his eyes. He delivers a heart-wrenching speech, so distraught he can barely contain himself. At the end of it, he says that if it were up to him, he'd cancel tonight's show out of respect for Lucinda. But he cannot. It's out of his control. He is a man of honor, and on her deathbed she grasped his hand and made him promise--no, vow--that he wouldn't let what was clearly her imminent end disrupt the show's routine and disappoint the thousands of people who were expecting it to be circus day.
"Because after all . . ." Uncle Al pauses, clasping his hand to his heart and sniffing piteously. He looks heavenward as tears stream down his face.
The women and children in the crowd cry openly. A woman near the front throws an arm across her forehead and collapses as the men on either side scramble to catch her.
Uncle Al collects himself with obvious effort, although he cannot keep his lower lip from quivering. He nods slowly and continues. "Because, after all, as our dearest Lucinda knew only too well . . . the show must go on!"
We have an enormous crowd that night--a "straw house," so named because after all the regular seats sell out, roustabouts spread straw on the hippodrome track for the overflow crowd to sit on.
Uncle Al begins the show with a moment of silence. He bows his head, summons real tears, and dedicates the performance to Lucinda, whose great and absolute selflessness is the only reason we are able to continue in the face of our loss. And we will do her proud--oh yes, such was our singular love for Lucinda that despite the grief that consumes us, tugging on our breaking hearts, we will summon the strength to honor her final wish and do her proud. Such wonders you have never seen, ladies and gentlemen, acts and performers gathered from the four corners of the earth to delight and entertain you, acrobats, and tumblers, and aerialists of the highest caliber . . .
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THE SHOW IS ABOUT a quarter of the way through when she walks into the menagerie. I sense her presence even before I hear the surprised murmurs around me.
I set Bobo on the floor of his den. I turn and, sure enough, there she is, gorgeous in pink sequins and feathered headdress, removing her horses' halters and letting them drop to the ground. Only Boaz--a black Arabian and presumably Silver Star's counterpart--remains tethered, and he's clearly unhappy about it.
I lean against Bobo's den, mesmerized.
Those horses, with whom I've spent every night riding from town to town to town and who normally look like regular horses, have transformed. They blow and snort, their necks arched and tails aloft. They gather into two dancing groups, one black, one white. Marlena faces them, carrying a long whip in each hand. She raises one and waves it over her head. Then she walks backward, leading them from the menagerie. The horses are completely free. They wear no halters, no side reins, no surcingles--nothing. They simply follow her, shaking their heads and flinging their legs forward like Saddlebreds.
I've never seen her act--those of us who work behind the scenes don't have time for that luxury--but this time nothing could stop me. I secure Bobo's door and slip into the connection, the roofless canvas tunnel that joins the menagerie to the big top. The reserved-seat ticket seller glances at me quickly, and when he realizes I'm not a cop goes back to his business. His pockets jingle, swollen with money. I stand beside him, looking across the three rings to the back end of the big top.
Uncle Al announces her, and she steps inside. She spins, holding both whips high in the air. She flicks one and takes a few steps backward. The two groups of horses hurry in behind her.
Marlena sashays to the center ring and they follow, high-kicking, prancing clouds of black and white.
Once she's in the center of the ring, she slaps the air lightly. The horses start circling the ring at a trot, five white followed by five black. After two complete rotations, she wiggles the whip. The black horses speed up until each is trotting beside a white horse. Another wiggle, and they ease into line so that the horses are now alternating black and white.
She moves only minimally, her pink sequins shimmering under the bright lights. She walks a small circle in the center of the ring, flicking the whips in combinations of signals.
The horses continue circling, with the white horses passing the black horses and then the black horses passing the white horses, with the end result always being alternating colors.
