“Shit,” he says finally. He swings his legs around so that he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. He rubs his stubbled cheeks. “Does Marlena know?” he asks, leaning over to scratch his black-socked toes.
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” he says, getting to his feet. He holds one hand to his head. “Al’s going to have a fit. Okay, meet me at the stock car in a few minutes. I’ll bring the gun.”
I turn to leave.
“Oh, Jacob?”
“Yes?” I say.
“Change out of my tux first, will you?”
WHEN I GET BACK to the stock car, the interior door is open. I poke my head in with more than a little trepidation, but Kinko is gone. I go inside and change into my regular clothes. A few minutes later, August shows up with a rifle.
“Here,” he says, climbing the ramp. He hands me the gun and drops two shells into my other palm.
I slip one into my pocket and hold the other one out. “I only need one.”
“What if you miss?”
“For crying out loud, August, I’m going to be standing right next to him.”
He stares at me, and then takes the extra shell. “Okay, fine. Take him a good ways from the train to do it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. He can’t walk.”
“You can’t do it here,” he says. “The other horses are right outside.”
I just look at him.
“Shit,” he says finally. He turns and leans against the wall, his fingers beating a tattoo against the slats. “Okay. Fine.”
He walks to the door. “Otis! Joe! Get the other horses out of here. Take them at least as far up as the second section.”
Someone outside mumbles.
“Yeah, I know,” says August. “But they’re just going to have to wait. Yeah, I know that. I’ll talk to Al and tell him we have a little . . . complication.”
He turns back to me. “I’m going to find Al.”
“You better find Marlena, too.”
“I thought you said she knew?”
“She does. But I don’t want her to be alone when she hears that shot. Do you?”
August stares at me long and hard. Then he clomps down the ramp, planting his feet with such force the boards bounce beneath him.
I WAIT A FULL fifteen minutes, both to give August time to find Uncle Al and Marlena and also to let the other men move the rest of the animals far enough away.
Finally I pick up the rifle, slide the shell into the chamber, and throw the bolt. Silver Star’s muzzle is pressed up against the end of his stall, his ears twitching. I lean over and run my fingers down his neck. Then I place the muzzle of the gun under his left ear and pull the trigger.
There’s an explosion of sound and the butt of the rifle bucks into my shoulder. Silver Star’s body seizes, his muscles responding to one last synaptical spasm before finally falling still. From far away, I hear a single desperate whinny.
My ears are ringing as I climb down from the stock car, but even so it seems to me that the scene is eerily silent. A small crowd of people has gathered. They stand motionless, their faces long. One man pulls his hat from his head and presses it to his chest.
I walk a few dozen yards from the train, climb the grassy bank, and sit rubbing my shoulder.
Otis, Pete, and Earl enter the stock car and then reappear, hauling Silver Star’s lifeless body down the ramp by a rope tied to his hind feet. Upside down his belly looks huge and vulnerable, a smooth expanse of snowy white dotted by black-skinned genitals. His lifeless head nods in agreement with each yank of the rope.
I sit for close to an hour, staring at the grass between my feet. I pluck a few blades and roll them in my fingers, wondering why the hell it’s taking them so long to pull out.
After a while August approaches. He stares at me, and then leans over to pick up the rifle. I hadn’t been aware of bringing it with me.
“Come on, pal,” he says. “Don’t want to get left behind.”
“I think I do.”
“Don’t worry about what I said earlier—I talked to Al, and no one’s getting redlighted. You’re fine.”
I stare sullenly at the ground. After a while, August sits beside me.
“Or are you?” he says.
“How’s Marlena?” I respond.
August watches me for a moment and then digs a package of Camels from his shirt pocket. He shakes one loose and offers it to me.
“No thanks,” I say.
“Is that the first time you’ve shot a horse?” he says, plucking the cigarette from the package with his teeth.
“No. But it doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Part of being a vet, my boy.”
“Which, technically, I’m not.”
“So you missed the exams. Big deal.”
“It is a big deal.”
“No it isn’t. It’s just a piece of paper, and nobody here gives a damn about that. You’re on a show now. The rules are different.”
“How so?”
He waves toward the train. “Tell me, do you honestly think this is the most spectacular show on earth?”
I don’t answer.
“Eh?” he says, leaning into me with his shoulder.
“I don’t know.”
“No. It’s nowhere near. It’s probably not even the fiftieth most spectacular show on earth. We hold maybe a third of the capacity Ringling does. You already know that Marlena’s not Romanian royalty. And Lucinda? Nowhere near eight hundred and eighty-five pounds. Four hundred, tops. And do you really think Frank Otto got tattooed by angry headhunters in Borneo? Hell no. He used to be a stake driver on the Flying Squadron. He worked on that ink for nine years. And you want to know what Uncle Al did when the hippo died? He swapped out her water for formaldehyde and kept on showing her. For two weeks we traveled with a pickled hippo. The whole thing’s illusion, Jacob, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what people want from us. It’s what they expect.”
He stands up and holds out a hand. After a moment, I take it and let him pull me to my feet.
We walk toward the train.
“Damn, August,” I say. “I almost forgot. The cats haven’t eaten. We had to dump their meat.”
“It’s all right, my boy,” he says. “It’s already been taken care of.”
“What do you mean, taken care of?”
I stop in my tracks.
“August? What do you mean it’s been taken care of?”
August continues walking, the gun slung casually over his shoulder.
Wake up, Mr. Jankowski. You’re having a bad dream.” My eyes snap open. Where am I? Oh, hell and damnation.
“I wasn’t dreaming,” I protest.
“Well, you were talking in your sleep, sure enough,” says the nurse. It’s the nice black girl again. Why do I have such trouble remembering her name? “Something about feeding stars to cats. Now don’t you go fretting about those cats—I’m sure they got fed, even if it was after you woke up. Now why did they go and put these on you?” she muses, ripping open my Velcro wrist restraints. “You didn’t try to run off now, did you?”
“No. I had the audacity to complain about that pablum they feed us.” I glance sideways at her. “And then my plate sort of slid off the table.”
She stops and looks at me. Then she bursts out laughing. “Oh, you’re a live one, all right,” she says, rubbing my wrists between her warm hands. “Oh my.”
It comes to me in a flash: Rosemary! Ha. So I’m not senile after all.
Rosemary. Rosemary. Rosemary.
I must think of a way to commit it to memory, a rhyme or something. I may have remembered this morning, but that’s no guarantee I’ll remember it tomorrow or even later today.
She goes to the window and opens the blinds.
“Do you mind?” I say.
“Do I mind what?” she replies.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this my room? What if I don’t want the blinds open? I tell you, I’m getting mighty sick of everyone thinking they know better than I do about what I want.”