by Sara Gruen
She calls out and they stop. She says something else, and they turn and step up so their front hooves are on the ring curb. They walk sideways, their tails toward Marlena and their hooves up on the rim. They do an entire rotation before she stops them again. They climb down and swing around to face her. Then she calls forth Midnight.
He is a magnificent black, all Arabian fire with a perfect white diamond on his forehead. She speaks to him, taking both whips in one hand, and offering him her other palm. He presses his muzzle into it, his neck arched and nostrils flared.
Marlena steps backward and raises a whip. The other horses watch, dancing on the spot. She lifts the other whip and flicks its tip back and forth. Midnight rises up on his hind legs, his forelegs curled in front of him. She shouts something now--the first time she has raised her voice--and strides backward. The horse follows, walking on his hind legs and pawing the air in front of him. She keeps him upright all the way around the ring. Then she motions him down. Another cryptic circling of the whip, and Midnight bows, going down on the knee of one foreleg with the other extended. Marlena drops into a low curtsy and the crowd goes wild. With Midnight still bowing, she lifts both whips and flicks them. The rest of the horses pirouette, turning circles on the spot.
More cheering, more adulation. Marlena spreads her arms in the air, turning to give each section of the audience a chance to adore her. Then she turns to Midnight and perches delicately on his lowered back. He rises, arches his neck, and carries Marlena from the big top. The rest of the horses follow, once again grouped by color, crowding each other to stay close to their mistress.
My heart pounds so hard that, despite the roaring of the crowd, I am aware of blood whooshing through my ears. I am filled to overflowing, bursting with love.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER WHISKEY has rendered Camel dead to the world and Walter is snoring on the bedroll, I leave the little room and stand looking over the backs of the ring stock.
I care for these horses daily. I muck out their stalls, fill their water and feed buckets, and groom them for the show. I check their teeth and comb their manes and feel their legs for heat. I give them treats and pat their necks. They had become as familiar a part of my scenery as Queenie, but after seeing Marlena's act I'll never view them the same way again. These horses are an extension of Marlena--a part of her that is here, right now, with me.
I reach over the stall divider and place my hand on a sleek black rump. Midnight, who had been asleep, rumbles in surprise and turns his head.
When he sees that it's just me, he turns away. His ears droop, his eyes close, and he shifts his weight so he's resting one hind leg.
I go back to the goat room and check that Camel is still breathing. Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
IN FRONT OF THE steam tables the next morning:
"Check that out," says Walter, lifting his arm to poke me in the ribs.
"What?"
He points.
August and Marlena are sitting at our table. It's the first time they've shown up for a meal since her accident.
Walter eyeballs me. "You gonna be okay?"
"Yes, of course," I say irritably.
"Okay. Just checking," he says. We pass the ever-vigilant Ezra and head for our separate tables.
"Good morning, Jacob," August says as I set my plate on the table and take a seat.
"August. Marlena," I say, nodding at each.
Marlena looks up quickly and then back at her plate.
"And how are you this fine day?" says August. He digs into a pile of scrambled eggs.
"Fine. And you?"
"Wonderful," he says.
"And how are you, Marlena?" I ask.
"Very much better, thank you," she says.
"I saw your act last night," I say.
"Did you?"
"Yes," I say, shaking my napkin and spreading it across my lap. "It's . . . I don't quite know what to say. It was amazing. I've never seen anything like it."
"Oh?" says August, cocking one eyebrow. "Never?"
"No. Never."
"Really."
He stares at me without blinking. "I thought it was Marlena's act that inspired you to join this show in the first place, Jacob. Was I wrong?"
My heart flips in my chest. I pick up my cutlery: fork in my left hand, knife in my right--European-style, like my mother.
"I lied," I say.
I stab the end of a sausage and begin sawing it, waiting for a response.
"I beg your pardon?" he says.
"I lied. I lied!" I slam my cutlery down, a nub of sausage impaled on the fork. "Okay? Of course I'd never heard of the Benzini Brothers before I jumped your train. Who the hell has heard of the Benzini Brothers? The only circus I'd seen in my entire life was the Ringling Brothers, and they were great. Great! Do you hear me?"
There's an eerie silence. I look around, horrified. Everyone in the tent is staring at me. Walter's jaw is open. Queenie's ears are pressed against her head. In the distance, a camel bellows.
Finally I turn my eyes to August. He, too, is staring. One edge of his moustache quivers. I tuck my napkin under the edge of my plate, wondering if he's going to come across the table at me.
August's eyes widen farther. I tense my knuckles under the table. Then August explodes. He laughs so hard he turns red, clutching his midriff and fighting for breath. He laughs and howls until tears run down his face and his lips tremble from exertion.
"Oh, Jacob," he says, wiping his cheeks. "Oh, Jacob. I think I may have misjudged you. Yes. Indeed. I think I may have misjudged you." He cackles and sniffs, swabbing his face with his napkin. "Oh dear," he sighs. "Oh dear." He clears his throat and picks up his utensils. He scoops some egg onto his fork and then sets it down again, once more overcome with mirth.
The other diners return to their food, but reluctantly, like the crowd that watched as I expelled the man from the lot that first day. And I can't help but notice that when they return to their meals, it's with a look of apprehension.
*
LUCINDA'S DEATH LEAVES us with a serious deficiency in the freak lineup. And it must be filled--all the big shows have fat ladies, and therefore so must we.
Uncle Al and August scour Billboard and at each stop make telephone calls and send telegrams in an effort to recruit a new one, but all known fat ladies appear either to be happy in their current situation or else leery of Uncle Al's reputation. After two weeks and ten jumps, Uncle Al is so desperate he approaches a woman of generous proportions in the audience. Unfortunately, she turns out to be Mrs. Police Superintendent, and Uncle Al ends up with a shiny purple eye instead of a fat lady, along with summary instructions to leave town.
We have two hours. The performers immediately sequester themselves in their train cars. The roustabouts, once roused, run around like headless chickens. Uncle Al is breathless and purple, waving his cane and whacking people if they're not moving fast enough for his liking. Tents drop so quickly that men get trapped inside, and then men who are dropping other tents must come and retrieve them before they suffocate in a vast expanse of canvas, or--worse, in Uncle Al's estimation--use their pocketknives to cut a breathing hole.
After all the stock is loaded I retire to the ring stock car. I don't like the look of the townsmen hovering around the edge of the lot. Many are armed, and a bad feeling ferments in the pit of my stomach.
I haven't seen Walter yet, and I pace back and forth in front of the open door, scanning the lot. The black men have long since hidden themselves aboard the Flying Squadron, and I'm not at all convinced that the mob won't content themselves with a redheaded dwarf instead.
One hour and fifty-five minutes after we get our marching orders, his face appears in the doorway.
"Where the hell have you been?" I shout.
"Is that him?" croaks Camel from behind the trunks.
"Yeah, that's him. Get on up here," I say, waving Walter inside. "The crowd's
looking nasty."
He doesn't move. He's flushed and out of breath. "Where's Queenie? You seen Queenie?"
"No. Why?"
He disappears.
"Walter!" I jump up and follow him to the door. "Walter! Where the hell are you going? They've already blown the five-minute whistle!"
He's running alongside the train, ducking to look between its wheels. "Come on, Queenie! Here, girl!" He straightens up, pausing in front of each stock car, yelling through the slats and then waiting for a response. "Queenie! Here, girl!" Each time he calls, his voice reaches a new level of desperation.
A whistle blows, a long sustained warning followed by the hissing and sputtering of the engine.
Walter's voice cracks, hoarse with yelling. "Queenie! Where the hell are you? Queenie! Come!"
Up ahead, the last stragglers are leaping onto flat cars.
"Walter, come on!" I shout. "Don't mess around. You've got to get on now."
He ignores me. He's up at the flat cars now, peering between wagon wheels. "Queenie, come!" he shouts. He stops and suddenly stands straight up. He looks lost. "Queenie?" he says to no one in particular.
"Aw hell," I say.
"Is he coming back or what?" asks Camel.
"Doesn't look like it," I say.
"Well go git 'im!" he barks.
The train lurches forward, the cars jerking as the engine pulls the slack from their couplings.
I jump to the gravel and run ahead to the flat cars. Walter stands facing the engine.
I touch his shoulder. "Walter, it's time to go."
He turns to me, his eyes pleading. "Where is she? Have you seen her?"
"No. Come on, Walter," I say. "We've got to get on the train now."
"I can't," he says. His face is blank. "I can't leave her. I just can't."
The train is chugging forward now, gathering steam.
I glance behind me. The townsmen, armed with rifles, baseball bats, and sticks are surging forward. I look back at the train long enough to get a sense of speed, and count, praying to God that I'm right: one, two, three, four.
I scoop Walter up like a sack of flour and toss him inside. There's a crash and a yelp as he hits the floor. I sprint beside the train and grasp the iron bar beside the door. I let the train pull me along for three long strides, and then use its velocity to vault up and inside.
My face skids across the bucking floorboards. When I realize I'm safe, I look for Walter, prepared for a fight.
He is huddled in the corner, crying.
WALTER IS INCONSOLABLE. He remains in the corner as I pull the trunks out and retrieve Camel. I manage the old man's shave--a task that usually involves all three of us--and then drag him out to the area in front of the horses.
"Aw, come on, Walter," says Camel. I'm holding him by his armpits, dangling his naked posterior over what Walter calls the honey bucket. "You did what you could." He looks over his shoulder at me. "Hey, lower me a bit, would ya? I'm swinging in the breeze here."
I shift my feet so they're further apart, trying to lower Camel while keeping my back straight. Usually Walter takes care of this part because he's the right height.
"Walter, I could use a hand here," I say as a spasm shoots across my back.
"Shut up," he says.
Camel looks back again, this time with a raised eyebrow.
"It's okay," I say.
"No, it's not okay," Walter yells from the corner. "Nothing's okay! Queenie was all I had. You understand that?" His voice drops to whimper. "She was all I had."
Camel waves his hand at me to indicate he's finished. I shuffle over a couple of feet and lay him on his side.
"Now, that can't be true," says Camel as I clean him up. "A young fella like you's gotta have somebody somewhere."
"You don't know nothing."
"You ain't got a mother somewhere?" says Camel, persisting.
"None I got a use for."
"Now don't you talk like that," says Camel.
"Why the hell not? She sold me to this outfit when I was fourteen." He glares at us. "And don't you go looking at me like you feel sorry for me," he snaps. "She was an old crow, anyway. Who the hell needs her."
"What do you mean sold you?" says Camel.
"Well, I'm not exactly cut out for farmwork, am I? Just leave me the hell alone, will you?" He shuffles around so his back is to us.
I fasten Camel's pants, grab him by the armpits, and haul him back into the room. His legs drag behind him, his heels scraping the floor.
"Man, oh man," he says as I arrange him on the cot. "Ain't that something?"
"You ready for some food?" I say, trying to change the subject.
"Naw, not yet. But a drop of whiskey would go down well." He shakes his head sadly. "I ain't never heard of a woman so coldhearted."
"I can still hear you, you know," barks Walter. "And besides, you ain't got no talking room, old man. When was the last time you saw your son?"
Camel goes pale.
"Eh? Can't answer that, can you?" continues Walter from outside the room. "Ain't such a big difference in what you did and what my mother did, is there?"
"Yes there is," shouts Camel. "There's a world of difference. And how the hell do you know what I did, anyway?"
"You mentioned your son one night when you were tight," I say quietly.
Camel stares at me for a moment. Then his face contorts. He raises a limp hand to his forehead and turns away from me. "Aw shit," he says. "Aw shit. I never knew you knew," he says. "You shoulda' told me."
"I thought you remembered," I say. "Anyway, he didn't say much. He just said you wandered off."
"'He just said'?" Camel's head shoots around. "'He just said'? What the hell does that mean? You been in touch with him?"
I sink to the floor and rest my head on my knees. It's shaping up to be a long night.
"What do you mean, 'he just said'?" shrieks Camel. "I asked you a question!"
I sigh. "Yes, we got in touch with him."
"When?"
"A while ago."
He stares at me, stunned. "But why?"
"He's meeting us in Providence. He's taking you home."
"Oh no," says Camel, shaking his head vehemently. "Oh no he's not."
"Camel--"
"What the hell'd you go and do that for? You ain't got no right!"
"We had no choice!" I shout. I stop, close my eyes, and collect myself. "We had no choice," I repeat. "We had to do something."
"I can't go back! You don't know what happened. They don't want me no more."
His lip quivers, and his mouth shuts. He turns his face away. A moment later, his shoulders start heaving.
"Aw hell," I say. I raise my voice, shouting through the open door. "Hey, thanks Walter! You've been a big help tonight! Sure appreciate it!"
"Fuck off!" he answers.
I shut off the kerosene lamp and crawl over to my horse blanket. I lie down on its scratchy surface and then sit up again.
"Walter!" I shout. "Hey, Walter! If you're not coming back in, I'm using the bedroll."
There's no answer.
"Did you hear me? I said I'm using the bedroll."
I wait for a minute or two and then crawl across the floor.
Walter and Camel spend the night making the noises men make when they're trying not to cry, and I spend the night punching my pillow up around my ears trying not to hear them.
*
I AWAKE TO MARLENA'S VOICE.
"Knock knock. May I come in?"
My eyes snap open. The train has stopped, and somehow I slept through it. I'm also startled because I was dreaming about Marlena, and for a moment I wonder if I'm still asleep.
"Hello? Anyone in there?"
I jerk up onto my elbows and look at Camel. He's helpless on the cot, his eyes wide with fear. The interior door has stayed open all night. I leap up.
"Uh, hang on a second!" I rush out to meet her, pulling the door shut behind me.
She's already climbi
ng into the car. "Oh, hello," she says, looking at Walter. He's still huddled in the corner. "I was actually looking for you. Isn't this your dog?"
Walter's head snaps around. "Queenie!"
Marlena leans over to release her, but before she can, Queenie squirms free, hitting the floor with a thunk. She scrabbles across the floor and leaps onto Walter, licking his face and wagging so hard she topples backward.
"Oh, Queenie! Where were you, you bad, bad girl? You had me so worried, you bad, bad girl!" Walter offers his face and head for licking, and Queenie wiggles and squirms in delight.
"Where was she?" I ask, turning to Marlena.
"She was running alongside the train when we pulled out yesterday," she says, keeping her eyes trained on Walter and Queenie. "I saw her from the window and sent Auggie out. He got down on his belly on the platform and scooped her up."
"August did?" I say. "Really?"
"Yes. And then she bit him for his trouble."
Walter wraps both arms around his dog and buries his face in her coat.
Marlena watches for a moment longer and then turns toward the door. "Well, I guess I'll be on my way," she says.
"Marlena," I say, reaching for her arm.
She stops.
"Thank you," I say, dropping my hand. "You have no idea what this means to him. To us, really."
She throws me the quickest of glances--with just the merest hint of a smile--and then looks over the backs of her horses. "Yes. Yes. I think I do."
My eyes are moist as she climbs down from the car.
"WELL, WHADYA KNOW," SAYS CAMEL. "Maybe he's human after all."
"Who? August?" says Walter. He leans, grabs the handle of a trunk, and drags it across the floor. We're arranging the room into its daytime configuration, although Walter does everything at half speed because he insists on holding Queenie under one arm. "Never."
"You can let her go, you know," I say. "The door's closed."
"He saved your dog," Camel points out.
"He wouldn't have if he'd known she was mine. Queenie knows that. That's why she bit him. Yes, you knew, didn't you, baby?" he says, pulling her snout up to his face and reverting to baby talk. "Yes, Queenie is a clever girl."
"What makes you think he didn't know?" I say. "Marlena knew."
"Because I just know. There's not a human bone in that kike's body."
"Watch your damned mouth!" I shout.
Walter stops to look at me. "What? Oh, hey, you're not Jewish, are you? Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It was just a cheap shot," he says.
