by Gini Koch
We dined. We sang. We lived good lives and made good times. At the end of the night, there was still no sign of Crash. And the way Martha batted her eyes at me, there was no reason to be going back to my wagon, either.
That’s how the days went. Sunup to sundown, people working or learning, smiling and loving. And though Crash remained off on his sojourn, the rest of the tribe didn’t seem bothered, so I took a page from their book and kept on my merry way.
Maeve and the Professor had been with us about two whole weeks by the time the wedding day arrived. The carousel’s skeleton rose black and wiry on the edge of the camp, mirrors glinting along its center pole. The wooden floor had been hammered together, the ornate panels around its crown fixed into place. Slaney and Hoss lugged the red-and-white striped tarp that would cover the bones of the galloper’s top. All that was left to do was saddle up the horses, and we’d have ourselves a proper merry-go-round.
Before grabbing some grub from the missus’ cart, I ambled over to my wagon to find the door ajar. Unease slipped over my skin in a cool, prickling sensation. Carefully, I edged inside 221b.
“Crash?”
Soon as I was inside, I saw the body. Facedown in a crimson puddle, his curls matted and damp. The box of herb was upended on the floor, phials of cocaine emptied. And the revolver glared at me from his limp hand.
“No,” I shuddered. “No!”
I knelt beside him and tried to find a pulse in his throat. His skin was cold and waxy. “Fuck!” I screamed. “How long have you been here? Why didn’t you come find me, you bastard?”
I rolled over his body and listened to his chest. Nothing but a firmness that spoke of rigor having set in.
“I can’t do it, Crash. Not without you here, too. And I sure as hell can’t go back. I won’t! Dammit!”
I punched him in the heart. One good turn deserved another, after all. How could... why wouldn’t... if I’d come sooner.
I socked him one again. This time, I thought I heard him cough. Or maybe moan a little. Something, though, came out of him.
“Still there,” I said to no one. “You’re still there!”
Training took over and I set to work. I’d seen men that appeared more far gone than this sorry bastard come back from the brink of Hell. I’d be damned if I didn’t give Sanford Haus the same chance to work a miracle.
Though I couldn’t see for the tears welling up in my eyes, I kneeled over him and put both hands to Crash’s chest and pumped, pouring my will into each thrust. Begging him to not be dead. After a count of ten, I leaned over and brought my mouth down over his to breathe into him.
I gagged at the taste of paraffin and hauled back. “The bloody blue fuck?”
A thready giggle drew my attention up. Some devious worm had made himself a cocoon of my hammock in the ceiling of the vardo. A cocoon with naught but a curly head that tittered itself purple.
“You son of a thankless, bilge-drinking whore!” I roared.
That sent Crash into a giggle fit. I rose off the floor and grabbed for my cane. Wasn’t sure if I wanted to stab him or beat him like a piñata. Between guffaws and chortles, Haus wheezed.
“Something funny?”
Frenzied nodding. Tears—his—fell down and rained on my face. “No!” he sang in falsetto. “I can’t go back. Brilliant!”
I swiped at the cocoon with my cane and managed to knock loose one of his moorings. Haus earned his nickname then as he came crashing to the floor. The wax dummy broke his fall.
“You didn’t even have a chance to read my note!” he complained.
“Your note?”
“I slaved over that piece of paper for at least ten whole minutes, Dandy. It’s some of my finest work and the least you could’ve done was given it a glance.”
“The gun, Crash. There was a goddamn gun and your bloody head!”
Crash pulled himself to his knees and held his stomach as though it pained him to breathe. With the other hand he picked up the revolver and put the barrel between his teeth. When he tilted his head, the whole barrel bent.
Rubber.
“You bastard,” I growled.
Haus tossed the fake gun into the detritus of drugs and parchment littering the floor.
“You bastard, I could kill you myself.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Dandy. You just said you couldn’t do it without me, I don’t think you’d go so far as to end my life when we’ve just had such a heartfelt bonding experience.”
“You demented, sick... fuck!”
My fist balled up, tendons popping and ready to fly, but I stayed my hand.
“Damn you, Sanford Haus.”
He jerked. “It’s all in good fun, Dandy. There’s no need to resort to mudslinging.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get it, do you?” When he gaped at me like an innocent babe, I added, “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
My heart still raced, but it broke all the same. “Most days it’s not so bad, but sometimes... something sets me off. It might be a song, or a smell a little too close to black powder, or finding your ass on the floor...” I turned away from him. I didn’t know if I could handle looking someone in the face when I was about to say it out loud. “Sometimes it just takes one little thing to remind me that I’m broken.”
The vardo went still. I closed my eyes and counted out the heartbeats to slow them down, listened to the chanting outside. Waited for him to say something.
“Broken? Broken how?”
When I faced him again, he had transformed. Gone was the tittering prankster, replaced with a somber fellow with age lines around his blue eyes that I’d not noticed before. “You ever killed someone, Crash? And I’m talking about really ending a man’s life, not just playacting with some rubber gun or plastic knife.”
He shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. And I pray you keep it that way. It does things to your soul. I went to school so that I could heal people. I went to war to kill them in the name of my country. Can you wrap your head around how that could tear at a man?” I didn’t wait for him to respond. The words had started flowing. What I would’ve poured onto paper now sprang from my mouth and the depths of me in a gush that would not abate.
“I went to war because it’s what we thought was right. And I’ve got medals that say I’m a good man. Stars and ribbons that are supposed to mean I’m brave. I gave my leg, but that’s not the only piece of me I lost over in France, Haus. Since then I’ve... I’ve been looking to make myself whole again. Searching for a place where I can reconcile that I am both evil and good. That I am a man of honor and a coward who can’t stand to think of his past!”
The tears streamed down my face. I wiped at them with the cuff of my sleeve. Crash just stared at me.
“I. Am. Broken,” I assured him. “And when something reminds me of it, it scares the devil out of me. Today, I tried to save you. The doctor in me went to action. But the other day when I went to see that hobo fellow down at the boarding house, Crash, it was like I was fighting the damn Boche again. I took him down and held his own knife to his chest, ready to end him just as easy as I killed a couple dozen Krauts during the War.
“I don’t know what will come out of me,” I said, voice raw. “I don’t know which Jim Walker will rise out of the ashes, or if I’ll rise at all.”
He clapped me on the shoulder, face sober as a corpse. “You already have, Jim. And I know who you are, even if you don’t.”
“Oh, really? Is that Miss Yvonde talking?”
“It’s me. Your friend that you tried to save though he was beyond help. Just like you didn’t hesitate to help Mr. Mars, or rush to the aid of Mrs. Hudson.”
“Martha,” I corrected him.
He smiled. “I’ve never seen your military awards, Jim. You’ve never shown them to me. But I don’t need to see stars or ribbons to know you for the valorous, caring man you are. You are brave in the face of your fears, and true to y
our oaths. You are loyal beyond reason. You are not just a good man, Jim Walker, but you are, quite frankly, the best of men.”
I had nothing much to say to that. Felt the heat of embarrassment rise to my ears, so I looked down and kicked the dummy on the floor.
“Where’d you find this damn thing, anyway?” I asked.
“Storage. First I remember seeing of it, so it’s probably been sitting in there for quite some time. Which would account for the warping and disfiguring on the face.” He squatted beside the thing, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, and got to smearing the blood off.
Now that I looked proper at the thing, there was no way this could be mistaken for Crash, or any other human being. The face, as he’d said, was scarred by heat, which had pulled one side down into a grotesque cascade of flesh-colored wax. The other half gazed up with a glass eye, expression featureless.
“Just some of the fake stuff we use in the funhouse from time to time,” he explained, hefting the handkerchief. With a flourish, he whipped off the dummy’s wig and tossed it at me. I threw it right back in his chest. “With a few of my clothes donated to the cause, the scene was perfect.”
“Why do it at all?” I asked, not bothering to mask the hurt.
“For a lark. For a test.”
“A test?”
“I wanted to see if this piece of wax could be purposed somehow in the show or if it’d be better suited for the bin.”
I shook my head. “You tested a hoax on me to see if it would work on the marks?”
“Not on you specifically. How was I to know you’d be the one to find me?”
I shot him an incredulous stare until he squirmed.
“Alright,” he admitted. “Probability suggested it would be you. I’m sorry, okay? It was a joke and meant in good fun. If you’re really still burned up about it, go ahead and sock me one in the stomach and we’ll call it square.”
I thought about it. I thought about it long and hard. The invitation to punch him may as well have been written on gold and penned in diamond ink. A rare one, indeed, and not likely to come my way again without a similar insult as its harbinger.
I shoved away from him and stalked out the door. “You’re a bastard.”
He followed me out into the cold. “Does that mean you’re not going to hit me?”
I didn’t honor him with an answer.
Outside, Slaney waved. “Howdy, Boss man!”
His yellow grin told me all I needed to know. “You let him in on it?”
“Who do you think hoisted me up into the rafters?”
I grumbled. “So, where the hell have you been?”
“Out and about,” he said, mood shifting. His smile turned smug. “Digging up graves and making discoveries.”
“Care to tell me? Or was that part of your damn note?”
Slaney and a group of roustabouts approached us, grins on their faces, and Crash waved me to silence. “Later, friend. Later.”
“Boss,” Slaney said, “she’s all ready but for the horses and chariot.”
“Alright, so why are we waiting?”
“Wanted to make sure this was gonna happen today. Otherwise, we want to keep the gallopers out of the elements.”
“Let’s find the bride and groom, then.”
Let me tell you, Artemesia didn’t take any convincing. If she could’ve, I think she would’ve just grabbed Jonny and ridden the carousel without the horses. Mars, however, insisted on “doing it proper.” Nothing but the best for his lovely woman.
thirteen
IT’S NOT EVERY wedding that begins with a parade. But then again, it’s not every wedding that is presided over by a man who spends half his days in drag pretending he can see the future. The whole camp was roused to help bring the horses out of the storage silo. White Arabians with golden bridles. A black stallion with silver hooves and flame-red eyes, nostrils flared as if he sped from the depths of Hell itself. Palominos and painted ponies without saddles, carved as if they were running free on the back of a prairie wind. Horses with barding as if headed for a knightly joust. Plodding, decorated elephants, a fearsome lion, a pair of stalking tigers, lazy camels. The menagerie made its way to the merry-go-round. Brass poles polished to a gleaming shine, the work was done. Assembled, the carousel presented several tons of art. Sooner than you could hum a tune, the animals were fixed into place, and the steam boiler began to rumble.
Slaney guided Crash through the workings of it and, I’m certain, gave him a little bit of a lesson on what was expected of him as master of this particular ceremony.
The Professor sidled up beside me. The scoundrel was dressed to the nines in his purple tail coat, a black vest with a silver chain dangling from it. He’d waxed his moustache into wide handlebars. He touched the brim of his top hat and, in his own Scottish accent, he asked, “First time at a circus wedding, Dandy?”
I nodded. “I take it this ain’t your first.”
“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “Been around the wheel myself a few times. Forwards, backwards. Once three times in the same night!”
I searched his vicinity for the inevitable shadow, but couldn’t find her. “Where’s Maeve run off to?”
“Why would she be here?”
“You really don’t give a care for that girl, do you, McGann?”
“What? Of course I do! I feed her, don’t I? Give her a place to live. A winter like this would’ve probably killed her had I not shared my roof with her.”
“There’s more to caring,” said I, “than a roof and three squares a day.”
I didn’t bother to waste another breath educating him. Instead I shoved off to the other side of the galloper where a crowd of people were massing up. Crew folk like myself and the roustabouts were in their cleanest duds, but the cast folk—they went all out. Sequins glittered in all the colors God made, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Belly dancers jingled and swished as they made their way next to acrobats, clowns and sword swallowers.
And not a one of ’em looked a bit better than Miss Artemesia and her intended as they walked together arm-in-arm. Being as Jonny’s costume generally bared more skin than a koochie girl’s frock—and being that it was January and he had a right gaping wound in his flank—the strongman wore a respectable suit and wingtips polished just for the occasion. No amount of washing would clean the ash out of the lace gown the bride had hoped to wear, sadly. But Miss Proust held her head high and proud at her man’s side, in a blue silk dress that still let others enjoy the artwork drawn on her pale skin.
Crash smiled at them with genuine warmth. “Mr. Mars. Miss Proust.” He bent over her hand and kissed it, ever the gentleman. “I’ve heard a rumor that the two of you are fond of one another.”
A small chuckle spread through the assembly. Artemesia’s cheeks blushed pink and Jonny nodded ’til I thought his head would pop off.
“Well, then,” Crash continued, “I suppose you wish to do something about it, make it official and all that? And, though the gods can only guess at your questionable taste, you’ve asked me to do the honors of setting you about it, eh?”
Jonny beamed, his chest heaving to the point I feared he’d bust his stitches. “Aye, Crash. You’re family to us.”
Some of the cool, cocksure swagger melted off my prodigal roommate at the words. His smile faltered and his eyes became sober. And—write it down in stone for the ages—on that day in January, Sanford “Crash” Haus found himself at an utter loss for words.
Beside me, Martha giggled and squeezed my hand. I put my arm around her and held her to me, cherishing the warmth of her body and the closeness of her spirit. Staring at Jonny and Artemesia, I wondered if this was what the future had in store for me and the missus. No church or courthouse in the land would see a white woman and a negro as fit to wed one another. The law didn’t abide by such a union. But here, as Martha’d said, the rules made themselves. Would the woman so many knew as Mrs. Hudson consider taking a ride with me to become Mrs. Walke
r?
I let out a small chuckle. A few days spent relishing her company and I was already entertaining notions. Time would tell. I turned my attentions back to the wedding at hand just as Crash led the two up to the carousel.
Jonny and Artemesia squeezed into the loveseat together. Well, truth be told, most of it was full of Jonny’s bulk, but they managed all the same. Nor did they seem to care about sharing such close quarters. The chariot had been carved to mimic a peacock. Its jewel-bright blue body formed the front, its head curling up sinuously with ornate flourishes of gold and green paint, and its signature tail spread out to form a feathery canopy over the couple.
Beside me, Martha bounced and beamed like a young girl. I smiled down at her. “You’re a sight, you know that?”
“Just dreamin’,” she said, her round face flushing even pinker.
I gave her a tight squeeze.
The bride and groom settled, Crash moved to the side of the carousel and took a place near the large red boiler. With a heave of a lever, a valve hissed and the gears turned. The horses and elephants and other creatures lurched forward, and a melody wheezed into life. Both were sluggish at first, but soon the contraption gathered a good head of steam and the waltz jangled out into the air. Jonny and Artemesia sat happily as they made their first circuit. On the second pass, they waved merrily. The third time around, Artemesia was in Mars’s lap, layin’ a whopper of a kiss on her newly minted husband.
A roar went up from the assembled mass, crowing and howling their congratulations. The missus and I just looked at one another like a couple of goofy kids. It was all I could do to stop myself from scooping her up and jumping onto the carousel with her right then.
PROPERLY WED BY the only terms that mattered to them, Mr. and Mrs. Mars descended from their ride and weathered a storm of embraces and hugs. Meanwhile, Slaney took over operation of the merry-go-round so others could have a ride—innocent and carefree, not the betrothing type. Mrs. Hudson scampered back to her cart to dole out the feast, complete with sweet cakes she’d rustled up out of her own pocket money for the bride and groom.
