by Sara Gruen
The other men watch wordlessly. August looks stunned. His mouth moves. He pulls his hand back and transfers the lit cigarette to it. His hands are bruised, the nails cracked. "Yes. I know."
I stand back and appraise Rosie's toenails. " Rosie!"
She lifts her enormous foot and puts it back on the ground. I kick the overturned tub toward her other front foot. "!!" Rosie shifts her weight and places her foot in the center of the tub. "Teraz do przodu," I say, poking the back of her leg with my fingers until her toenails hang over the front edge of the tub. "Good girl," I say, patting her shoulder. She lifts her trunk and opens her mouth in a smile. I reach in and stroke her tongue.
"Do you know where she is?" says August.
I lean over and evaluate Rosie's toenails, running my hands along the underside of her foot.
"I need to see her," he continues.
I start filing. A fine spray of toenail powder shoots into the air.
"Fine. Be that way," he says, his voice shrill. "But she is my wife, and I will find her. Even if I have to go from hotel to hotel, I will find her."
I look up just as he flicks the cigarette. It arcs through the air and lands in Rosie's open mouth, sizzling as it hits her tongue. She roars, panicked, throwing her head and fishing inside her mouth with her trunk.
August marches off. I turn back to Rosie. She stares at me, a look of unspeakable sadness on her face. Her amber eyes are filled with tears.
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN he'd go from hotel to hotel. But I wasn't thinking, and so she's in the second hotel we came across. Couldn't be easier to find.
I know I'm being watched, so I bide my time. At the first opportunity, I slip from the lot and rush to the hotel. I wait around the corner for a minute, watching, making sure I wasn't followed. After I've caught my breath, I remove my hat, wipe my forehead, and enter the building.
The clerk looks up. It's a new one. His eyes glaze over.
"What do you want?" he says, as though he's seen me before, as though battered rotten tomatoes walk through his door every day.
"I'm here to see Miss L'Arche," I say, remembering that Marlena has checked in using her maiden name. "Marlena L'Arche."
"There is no one here by that name," he says.
"Yes, of course there is," I say. "I was with her when she checked in this morning."
"I'm sorry, but you're incorrect."
I stare at him for a moment and then sprint for the stairs.
"Hey, pal! You get back here!"
I mount the steps, two at a time.
"If you go up those stairs, I'm calling the police!" he shouts.
"Go ahead!"
"I'm doing it! I'm calling right now!"
"Good!"
I rap on her door with my least-bruised knuckles. "Marlena?"
A second later, the clerk grabs me and spins me around, shoving me against the wall. He has me by the lapels, his face right in mine. "I told you before, she's not here."
"It's all right, Albert. This is a friend." Marlena has come out into the hallway behind us.
He freezes, panting hot breath on me. His eyes widen in confusion. "What?" he says.
"Albert?" I say, equally confused. "Albert?"
"But what about earlier?" sputters Albert.
"This isn't the same man. This is another one."
"August was here?" I say, finally clueing in. "Are you okay?"
Albert jerks around from me to her and back again.
"This is a friend. This is the man who fought him," Marlena explains.
Albert lets me down. He makes an awkward attempt to smooth my jacket and then extends his hand. "Sorry, pal. You look an awful lot like that other guy."
"Uh, that's all right," I say, taking his hand. He squeezes and I wince.
"He's coming after you," I say to Marlena. "We've got to move you."
"Don't be silly," Marlena says.
"He's already been," says Albert. "I told him she wasn't here and he seemed to buy it. That's why I was surprised when you--he--er, showed up again."
Downstairs, the bell over the front door tinkles. Albert and I lock eyes. I hustle Marlena into the room, and he hurries down.
"May I help you?" he says as I close the door. I can tell from his voice that it's not August.
I lean against the door, breathing hard with relief. "I'd really feel better if you let me find you a room farther from the lot."
"No. I want to stay here."
"But why?"
"He's already been here and he thinks I'm somewhere else. Besides, it's not like I can avoid him forever. I have to go back to the train tomorrow."
I hadn't even thought of that.
She crosses the room, dragging a hand across the top of the small table as she passes. Then she drops into a chair and rests her head against its back.
"He tried to apologize to me," I say.
"And did you accept it?"
"Of course not," I say, offended.
She shrugs. "It would be easier for you if you did. If you don't, you'll probably get fired."
"He hit you, Marlena!"
She closes her eyes.
"My God--has he always been like this?"
"Yes. Well, he's never hit me before. But these mood swings? Yes. I never know what I'm going to wake up to."
"Uncle Al said he's a paranoid schizophrenic."
She drops her head.
"How have you stood it?"
"I didn't have much choice, did I? I married him before I realized. You've seen it. When he's happy, he's the most charming creature on earth. But when something sets him off . . ." She sighs, and then waits so long I wonder if she's going to continue. When she does, her voice is tremulous. "The first time it happened we'd only been married three weeks, and it scared me to death. He beat one of the menagerie workers so badly he lost an eye. I saw him do it. I called my parents and asked if I could come home, but they wouldn't even speak to me. It was bad enough that I'd married a Jew, but now I wanted a divorce as well? My father made Mother tell me that in his eyes I had died the day I eloped."
I cross the room and kneel beside her. I raise my hand to stroke her hair, but after a few seconds place it on the arm of the chair instead.
"Three weeks later, another menagerie man lost his arm while helping August feed the cats. He died of blood loss before anyone could find out the details. Later in the season I found out that the only reason August had a string of liberty horses to give me was that the previous trainer--another woman--jumped from the moving train after joining August for an evening in his stateroom. There have been other incidents, too, although this is the first time he's turned on me." She slumps forward. A moment later her shoulders shake.
"Oh, hey," I say, helplessly. "Hey now. Hey now. Marlena--look at me. Please."
She sits up and wipes her face. She stares into my eyes. "Will you stay with me, Jacob?" she says.
"Marlena--"
"Shh." She scootches to the edge of her seat and touches a finger to my lips. Then she slides to the ground. She kneels in front of me, just inches away, her finger trembling against my lips.
"Please," she says. "I need you." After the slightest pause, she traces my features--tentatively, softly, barely grazing my skin. I catch my breath and close my eyes.
"Marlena--"
"Don't say anything," she says softly. Her fingers flutter their way around my ear and down the back of my neck. I shudder. Every hair on my body is standing on end.
When her hands move to my shirt, I open my eyes. She undoes the buttons slowly, methodically. I watch her, knowing I should stop her. But I can't. I am helpless.
When my shirt is open she pulls it free of my trousers and looks me in the eye. She leans forward and brushes her lips past mine--so softly it's not even a kiss, merely contact. She pauses for just a second, keeping her lips so close I can feel her breath on my face. Then she leans in and kisses me, a gentle kiss, tentative but lingering. The next kiss is stronger still, the next one even more so
, and before I know it I'm kissing back, clutching her face in both my hands as she runs her fingers over my chest and down my body. When she reaches for my trousers, I gasp. She pauses, tracing the outline of my erection.
She stops. I am reeling, teetering on my knees. Still staring into my eyes, she takes my hands and brings them to her lips. She presses a kiss into each palm and then places my hands on her breasts.
"Touch me, Jacob."
I am doomed, finished.
Her breasts are small and round, like lemons. I cup them, running my thumbs over them and feeling her nipples contract under the cotton of her dress. I crush my bruised mouth to hers, running my hands over her rib cage, her waist, her hips, her thighs--
When she undoes my trousers and takes me in her hand, I pull away.
"Please," I gasp, my voice cracking. "Please. Let me be inside you."
Somehow, we make it to the bed. When I finally sink into her, I cry out.
Afterward, I curl around her like a spoon. We lie in silence until darkness falls, and then, haltingly, she begins to talk. She slides her feet between my ankles, plays with my fingertips, and before long the words are pouring out. She speaks without need or even room for response, so I simply hold her and stroke her hair. She talks of the pain, grief, and horror of the past four years; of learning to cope with being the wife of a man so violent and unpredictable his touch made her skin crawl and of thinking, until quite recently, that she'd finally managed to do that. And then, finally, of how my appearance had forced her to realize she hadn't learned to cope at all.
When she finally falls silent, I continue to stroke her, running my hands gently over her hair, her shoulders, her arms, her hips. Then I start to talk. I tell her about my childhood and my mother's apricot rugelach. I tell her about starting to go on rounds with my father during my teen years and of how proud he was when I was accepted into Cornell. I tell her about Cornell, and Catherine, and how I thought that was love. I tell her about Old Mr. McPherson running my parents off the side of the bridge, and the bank taking our home, and how I broke down and ran out of the exam hall when all the heads lost their faces.
In the morning, we make love again. This time she takes my hand and guides my fingers, moving them against her flesh. At first I don't understand, but when she trembles and rises to my touch I realize what she's showing me and want to cry with joy at the knowledge of it.
Afterward, she lies nestled against me, her hair tickling my face. I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.
I want.
I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.
Twenty-one
Marlena stirs suddenly. Then she jerks upright and grabs my watch from the bedside table.
"Oh Jesus," she says, dropping it and swinging her legs around.
"What? What is it?" I ask.
"It's already noon. I've got to get back," she says.
She darts to the bathroom and shuts the door. A moment later the toilet flushes and water runs. Then she bursts out the door, rushing around scooping clothing from the floor.
"Marlena, wait," I say, getting up.
"I can't. I have to perform," she says, struggling with her stockings.
I come up behind her and take her shoulders in my hands. "Marlena, please."
She stops and turns slowly to face me. She looks first at my chest and then at the floor.
I stare down at her, suddenly tongue-tied. "Last night you said, 'I need you.' You never said the word 'love,' so I only know how I feel." I swallow hard, blinking at the part in her hair. "I love you, Marlena. I love you with my heart and soul, and I want to be with you."
She continues to face the floor.
"Marlena?"
She lifts her head. There are tears in her eyes. "I love you, too," she whispers. "I think I've loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. But don't you see? I'm married to August."
"We can fix that."
"But--"
"But nothing. I want to be with you. If that's what you also want, we'll find a way."
There's a long silence. "I've never wanted anything more in all my life," she says finally.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her.
"We'll have to leave the show," I say, wiping her tears with my thumbs.
She nods, sniffling.
"But not until Providence."
"Why there?"
"Because that's where Camel's son is meeting us. He's taking him home."
"Can't Walter look after him until then?"
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against hers. "It's a little more complicated than that."
"How so?"
"Uncle Al called me in yesterday. He wants me to persuade you to go back to August. He made threats."
"Well, of course he did. He's Uncle Al."
"No, I mean he was threatening to redlight Walter and Camel."
"Oh, that's just talk," she says. "Don't pay any attention. He'd never have anyone redlighted."
"Says who? August? Uncle Al?"
She looks up, startled.
"Do you remember when the railroad authority came out in Davenport?" I say. "Six men went missing from the Flying Squadron the night before."
She frowns. "I thought the railroad authority came out because someone was trying to cause trouble for Uncle Al."
"No, they came out because half a dozen men got redlighted. Camel was supposed to be among them."
She stares at me for a moment, and then puts her hands over her face. "Dear God. Dear God. I've been so stupid."
"Not stupid. Not stupid at all. It's hard to conceive of such evil," I say, wrapping my arms around her.
She presses her face to my chest. "Oh, Jacob--what are we going to do?"
"I don't know," I say, stroking her hair. "We'll figure something out, but we're going to have to be very, very careful."
WE RETURN TO the lot separately, surreptitiously. I carry her suitcase until a block away, and then watch as she crosses the lot and disappears into her dressing tent. I hang around for a few minutes in case August turns out to be inside. When there aren't any obvious signs of trouble, I return to the ring stock car.
"So, the tomcat returns," says Walter. He's pushing trunks against the wall, obscuring Camel. The old man lies with his eyes closed and mouth open, snoring. Walter must have just given him booze.
"You don't need to do that anymore," I say.
Walter straightens up. "What?"
"You don't need to hide Camel anymore."
He stares at me. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I sit on the bedroll. Queenie comes over, wagging her tail. I scratch her head. She sniffs me all over.
"Jacob, what's going on?"
When I tell him, his expression changes from shock to horror to disbelief.
"You bastard," he says at the end.
"Walter, please--"
"So, you're going to take off after Providence. That's very big of you to wait that long."
"It's because of Cam--"
"I know it's because of Camel," he shouts. Then he pounds his chest with his fist. "What about me?"
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
"Yeah. That's what I thought." he says. His voice drips with sarcasm.
"Come with us," I blurt.
"Oh yeah, that'll be cozy. Just the three of us. And where the hell are we supposed to go, anyway?"
"We'll check Billboard and see what's available."
"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, watchi
ng 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 do think . . . ?" He lets the question trail off. His eyes gleam with hope.
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 he's no longer interested. Women are funny that way. Also, she mustn't think that we're pushing them back together. It's critical that she think it's her idea."
"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."
