“It’s just that I spent the night talking to your colleagues,” the ringmaster said, “and it’s come to my attention that, like many people in our profession, you’re all traveling without any documentation. You’ve got no passports. No citizenship papers. No inoculation cards. And worse than this, they tell me you’ve got no money. You’re dead broke.”
Chick sighed and waited for the pitch.
“I’ve been there,” said St. Clare. “I know what that’s like. Which is why I think there’s a better way to deal with our situation. A better way for both of us.”
“Bruno can’t travel for a week,” Chick said. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Okay, so you spend the week with us. Our guests. Food and lodging on the house. And no one need perform. You relax. You take it easy. You tend to your friend. And after the closing ceremonies, we part company without animosity.”
“How much?” Chick asked.
“What did you have in mind?” St. Clare asked.
Chick stared at the man for a second, then knelt down and traced a number in the dirt with his finger. St. Clare looked at it, nodded, and toed it away.
“And some transportation,” Chick said. “A truck or a bus that can hold us all.”
St. Clare began to demur. “I’m not sure we have anything that—”
Chick cut him off, saying, “That’s the deal. The money and the vehicle. And we let the Chief off the hook.”
“I’ll have to talk to the brothers,” St. Clare said.
“You let me know what they decide,” said Chick and, without another word, he walked back to his clan.
THEY TENDED BRUNO round the clock. Not that the strongman needed much nursing. Kitty and Durga changed his bandages when necessary. The others took turns bringing him food and water and a pipe of opium, twice a day, as prescribed by Dr. Taber. Mostly, the giant slept, troubled and mumbling in his dreams, saying prayers, on occasion, in some unknown tongue, and once begging his mother for forgiveness.
When he was awake, he rejected all attempts at conversation. Many of the freaks found this unnerving, but Chick understood the need for silence and repose. It takes time to make the change to a new consciousness, he advised his brothers and sisters. It takes time to get to know the new self.
The troupe stayed away from the Jubilee show. They huddled in the trailers like prisoners. At night they sat by the window and listened to the noise of the crowds and remembered, not without sadness and regret, the adulation they had known back in Bohemia, when the audience had embraced them each night. When the audience had paid homage to their differences.
On the last night of the Jubilee, just before the start of the closing ceremonies, Bruno rose from his bed. Though a little unsteady on his feet, he made his way, with the help of Chick, to the second trailer. The freaks were listening to the sounds of a straw house, a capacity crowd waiting to be amazed one last time. The giant and the chicken boy came through the door like warriors home from a stalemate.
“I think,” Bruno said to the clan, “we should go to the show.”
Everyone looked to Chick, who said, “You heard Bruno. Get dressed. He wants us all to see the show.”
THEY GATHERED UNDERNEATH the main grandstand, watching through a jungle of legs. Milena had been opposed to vacating the trailer until they left for good. Chick found a compromise — they’d view the finale but from a hidden vantage.
The closeout was a spectacle that handily demonstrated why the Jubilee was the biggest show on the central circuit. In terms of grandeur, bravado, and pure showmanship, it exceeded the opening festivities and raised itself into an event, the kind of performance a child will carry to a distant grave. The wild beasts were more ferocious and nimble than any the troupe had ever known. The acrobats and wire walkers took risks that no sane man or woman would have considered. The clowns were uproarious and innovative. The magicians, nothing short of stupefying.
The freaks breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was announced that Chief Micmac Shawnee would not be performing due to a continued illness. Ringmaster St. Clare apologized on behalf of the Bedlam Brothers, and when he began to announce the final act of the final night of the Jubilee, the crowd soon got over whatever disappointment it might have felt at missing the psychotic strongman.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ringmaster said, his words echoing around the big tent, “we now come to the moment you have all been waiting, so patiently, to arrive.”
The audience became silent in an instant and rose to their feet in unison as the house lights came down and a single spotlight illuminated Renaldo St. Clare, standing in a cloud of swirling mist. The freaks stared, as entranced as the rest, peeking through the fat calves of farm wives and around the boots of tractor salesmen.
In the middle of the center ring, St. Clare stood with his head bowed, looking down at what everyone knew to be the grave of Dr. Lazarus Cole. The ringmaster made a point of toeing the soft earth where the Resurrectionist had been interred. He stared down at the ground as if gazing on all of the failings of mankind. Then he lifted his head and spoke in a clean, strong showman’s voice.
“One week ago,” he said, “you all witnessed a terrible event here under our own joyous tents.”
A pause to let the memories swim upstream.
“Here in this palace of marvels, you saw a dozen of your own citizens, your husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, step onto this midway and commit the greatest sin of all — the taking of another human life.”
Additional spots were ignited and the eye of the crowd was drawn to a sad parade of twelve townsmen, now dressed in ill-fitting prison uniforms of black and white striped denim. The men shambled like condemned slaves, their feet shackled and each carrying a shovel over a sagging shoulder. They came to a stop before the ringmaster, who placed a hand on one head and watched as the lot of them fell to their knees facing the grandstand.
“You witnessed their fatal transgression,” St. Clare said. “You saw them fall prey to their own murderous rage and do what only God may do. You watched as your own people became savage killers and dispatched a helpless man to a pitiful and agonizing demise.”
Chick squinted and could see tears running down the cheeks of many of the killers. In the seats above him, he could hear weeping from the crowd.
“You saw that hideous spectacle one week ago,” said the ringmaster. “And surely, you will never forget it. But we are called to forgive these murderers. Just as we, ourselves, are forgiven for our own failures and infractions. So let me ask you tonight, can you find it in your hearts to forgive these sinners who kneel before you?”
The murderers had hung their heads, cast their eyes to the ground. One on the end was weaving and Milena wondered if he were drunk or simply overcome with the weight of his crime. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter to the mob. They stood and cheered, clapped hands and stomped feet.
The ringmaster put his hand over his mouth for a second and then over his heart.
“You are,” he said, “a compassionate people,” and this goosed the cheering up into the realm of screaming.
St. Clare let it go on for a while and when it began to die on its own, he grabbed the collar of the murderer kneeling before him and yanked the man to his feet.
“Rise up,” he said. “Every one of you. Rise up, now. Stand like men. You are blessed to live in a town of mercy.”
When all of the killers were on their feet, the ringmaster came around and faced them.
“The people,” he bellowed, “say we must forgive you. And forgive you we surely will. But first, before any forgiveness can be bestowed, it must be earned. Through a penance.”
He turned sideways and threw an arm into the air as if presenting the killers to the audience for the first time.