“Come on, Queenie,” he says, scooping her up. “You want to go outside? Queenie go outside?” He plants a kiss in the middle of her brown and white head and crosses the little room.
I watch from my crumpled horse blanket in the corner.
“Kinko?” I say.
If it weren’t for the vehemence with which he slams the door, I might think he didn’t hear me.
WE ARE ON A SIDE rail behind the Flying Squadron, which has obviously been here a few hours. The tent city has already risen, to the delight of the crowd of townspeople hanging around watching. Rows of children sit on top of the Flying Squadron surveying the lot with shining eyes. Their parents congregate beneath, holding the hands of younger siblings and pointing to various marvels appearing in front of them.
The workmen from the main train climb down from the sleeper cars, light cigarettes, and trek across the lot toward the cookhouse. Its blue and orange flag is already flying and the boiler beside it belches steam, bearing cheerful witness to the breakfast within.
Performers emerge from sleepers closer to the back of the train and of obviously better quality. There’s a clear hierarchy: the closer to the back, the more impressive the quarters. Uncle Al himself climbs from a car right in front of the caboose. I can’t help but notice that Kinko and I are the human occupants closest to the engine.
“Jacob!”
I turn. August strides toward me, his shirt crisp, his chin scraped smooth. His slick hair bears the recent impression of a comb.
“How are we this morning, my boy?” he asks.
“All right,” I say. “A little tired.”
“Did that little troll give you any trouble?”
“No,” I say. “He was fine.”
“Good, good.” He claps his hands together. “Shall we have a look at that horse then? I doubt it’s anything serious. Marlena coddles them terribly. Oh, here’s the little lady now. Come here, darling,” he calls brightly. “I want you to meet Jacob. He’s a fan of yours.”
I feel a blush creep across my face.
She comes to a stop beside him, smiling up at me as August turns toward the stock car. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, extending her hand. Up close she still looks remarkably like Catherine—delicate features, pale as porcelain, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Shimmering blue eyes, and hair just dark enough to disqualify as blonde.
“The pleasure is mine,” I say, painfully aware that I haven’t shaved in two days, my clothes are stiff with manure, and that manure is not the only unpleasant scent rising from my body.
She cocks her head slightly. “Say, you’re the one I saw yesterday, aren’t you? In the menagerie?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, lying instinctively.
“Sure you are. Right before the show. When the chimp den slammed shut.”
I glance at August, but he’s still facing the other way. She follows my gaze and seems to understand.
“You’re not from Boston, are you?” she says, her voice lowered.
“No. I’ve never been.”
“Huh,” she says. “It’s just you look familiar somehow. Oh well,” she continues brightly. “Auggie says you’re a vet.” At the sound of his name, August spins around.
“No,” I say. “I mean, not exactly.”
“He’s being modest,” says August. “Pete! Hey, Pete!”
A group of men stand in front of the stock car’s door, attaching a ramp with built-in sides. A tall one with dark hair turns. “Yeah, boss?” he says.
“Get the others unloaded and bring out Silver Star, will you?”
“Sure.”
Eleven horses later—five white and six black—Pete goes inside the stock car once again. A moment later he’s back. “Silver Star don’t want to move, boss.”
“Make him,” says August.
“Oh no you don’t,” says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp and disappears.
August and I wait outside, listening to passionate entreaties and tongue clicks. After several minutes she reappears in the doorway with the silvermaned Arabian.
Marlena steps out in front of him, clicking and murmuring. He raises his head and pulls back. Eventually he follows her down the ramp, his head bobbing deeply with each step. At the bottom he pulls back so hard he almost sits on his haunches.
“Jesus, Marlena—I thought you said he was a bit off,” says August.
Marlena is ashen. “He was. He wasn’t anything like this bad yesterday. He’s been a bit lame for a few days, but nothing like this.”
She clicks and tugs until the horse finally steps onto the gravel. He stands with his back hunched, his hind legs bearing as much weight as they can. My heart sinks. It’s the classic walking-on-eggshells stance.
“What do you think it is?” says August.
“Give me a minute,” I say, although I’m already ninety-nine percent sure. “Do you have hoof testers?”
“No. But the smithy does. Do you want me to send Pete?”
“Not yet. I might not need them.”
I crouch beside the horse’s left shoulder and run my hands down his leg, from shoulder to fetlock. He doesn’t flinch. Then I lay my hand across the front of his hoof. It’s radiating heat. I place my thumb and forefinger on the back of his fetlock. His arterial pulse is pounding.
“Damn,” I say.
“What is it?” says Marlena.
I straighten up and reach for Silver Star’s foot. He leaves it firmly on the ground.
“Come on, boy,” I say, pulling on his hoof.
Eventually he lifts it. The sole is bulging and dark, with a red line running around the edge. I set it down immediately.
“This horse is foundering,” I say.
“Oh dear God!” says Marlena, clapping a hand to her mouth.
“What?” says August. “He’s what?”
“Foundering,” I say. “It’s when the connective tissues between the hoof and the coffin bone are compromised and the coffin bone rotates toward the sole of the hoof.”
“In English, please. Is it bad?”
I glance at Marlena, who is still covering her mouth. “Yes,” I say.
“Can you fix it?”
“We can bed him up real thick, and try to keep him off his feet. Grass hay only and no grain. And no work.”
“But can you fix it?”
I hesitate, glancing quickly at Marlena. “Probably not.”
August stares at Silver Star and exhales through puffed cheeks.
“Well, well, well!” booms an unmistakable voice from behind us. “If it isn’t our very own animal doctor!”
Uncle Al floats toward us in black and white checked pants and a crimson vest. He carries a silver-topped cane, which he swings extravagantly with each step. A handful of people straggle behind him.
“So what says the croaker? Did you sort out the horse?” he asks jovially, coming to a stop in front of me.
“Not exactly,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Apparently he’s foundering,” says August.
“He’s what?” says Uncle Al.
“It’s his feet.”
Uncle Al bends over, peering at Silver Star’s feet. “They look fine to me.”
“They’re not,” I say.
He turns to me. “So what do you propose to do about it?”
“Put him on stall rest and cut his grain. Other than that, there’s not much we can do.”
“Stall rest is out of the question. He’s the lead horse in the liberty act.”
“If this horse keeps working, his coffin bone will rotate until it punctures his sole, and then you’ll lose him,” I say unequivocally.
Uncle Al’s eyelids flicker. He looks over at Marlena.
“How long will he be out?”
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “Possibly for good.”
“Goddammit!” he shouts, stabbing his cane into the earth. “Where the hell am I supposed to get another liberty horse midseason?” He looks around at his followers.