“What about them?”
“Who?”
I point at the defunct circus.
“Them? When they get hungry enough they’ll mope off. Best thing for everyone, really.”
“And our guys?”
“Oh, them. They’ll survive until something shows up. Don’t you worry. Al won’t let them die.”
WE STOP AT A DINER not far down the main strip. It has booths along one wall and a laminate counter with red-topped stools along the other. A handful of men sit at the counter, smoking and chatting with the girl who stands behind it.
I hold the door for Marlena, who goes immediately to a booth and slides in against the wall. August drops onto the opposite bench, so I end up sitting next to her. She crosses her arms and stares at the wall.
“Mornin’. What can I get you folks?” says the girl, still behind the counter.
“The works,” says August. “I’m famished.”
“How do you like your eggs?”
“Sunny side up.”
“Ma’am?”
“Just coffee,” Marlena says, sliding one leg over the other and jiggling her foot. The motion is frenetic, almost aggressive. She does not look at the waitress. Or August. Or me, come to think of it.
“Sir?” says the girl.
“Uh, same as him,” I say. “Thanks.”
August leans back and pulls out a pack of Camels. He flicks the bottom. A cigarette arcs through the air. He catches it in his lips and leans back, eyes bright, hands spread in triumph.
Marlena turns to look at him. She claps slowly, deliberately, her face stony.
“Come now, darling. Don’t be a wet noodle,” says August. “You know we were out of meat.”
“Excuse me,” she says, sliding toward me. I leap out of her way. She marches out the door, shoes tap-tapping and hips swaying under her flared red dress.
“Women,” says August, lighting his cigarette from behind a cupped hand. He snaps his lighter shut. “Oh, sorry. Want one?”
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“No?” he muses, sucking in a lungful. “You should take it up. It’s good for your health.” He puts the pack back in his pocket and snaps his fingers at the girl behind the counter. She’s standing at the griddle, holding a spatula.
“Make it snappy, would you? We don’t have all day.”
She freezes, spatula in the air. Two of the men at the counter turn slowly to look at us, eyes wide.
“Um, August,” I say.
“What?” He looks genuinely puzzled.
“It’s coming just as fast as I can make it,” the waitress says coldly.
“Fine. That’s all I was asking,” says August. He leans toward me and continues in a lowered voice. “What did I tell you? Women. Must be a full moon, or something.”
WHEN I RETURN to the lot, a selected few of the Benzini Brothers tents are up: the menagerie, the stable tent, and the cookhouse. The flag is flying, and the smell of sour grease permeates the air.
“Don’t even bother,” says a man coming out. “Fried dough and nothing but chicory to wash it down.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate the warning.”
He spits and stalks off.
The Fox Brothers employees who remain are lined up in front of the privilege car. A desperate hopefulness surrounds them. A few smile and joke, but their laughter is high-pitched. Some stare straight ahead, their arms crossed. Others fidget and pace with bowed heads. One by one, they are summoned inside for an audience with Uncle Al.
The majority climb out defeated. Some wipe their eyes and confer quietly with others near the front of the line. Others stare stoically ahead before walking toward town.
Two dwarves enter together. They leave a few minutes later, grim-faced, pausing to talk to a small group of men. Then they trudge down the tracks, side by side, heads high, stuffed pillowcases slung over their shoulders.
I scan the crowd for the famous freak. There are certainly oddities: dwarves and midgets and giants, a bearded lady (Al’s already got one, so she’s probably out of luck), an enormously fat man (could get lucky if Al wants a matching set), and an assortment of generally sad-looking people and dogs. But no man with an infant sticking out of his chest.
AFTER UNCLE AL has made his selections, our workmen tear down all of the other circus’s tents except for the stable and menagerie. The remaining Fox Brothers men, no longer on anyone’s payroll, sit and watch, smoking and spitting wads of tobacco juice into tall patches of Queen Anne’s lace and thistles.
When Uncle Al discovers that city officials have yet to itemize the Fox Brothers baggage stock, a handful of nondescript horses get spirited from one stable tent to another. Absorption, so to speak. And Uncle Al’s not the only one with that idea—a handful of farmers hang around the edges of the lot, trailing lead ropes.
“They’re just going to walk out of here with them?” I ask Pete.
“Probably,” he says. “Don’t bother me none so long as they don’t touch ours. Keep your eyes open, though. It’s gonna be a day or two before anybody knows what’s what, and I don’t want none of ours going missing.”
Our baggage stock has done double duty, and the big horses are foaming and blowing hard. I persuade a city official to open a hydrant so we can water them, but they’re still without hay or oats.
August returns as we’re filling the last trough.
“What the hell are you doing? Those horses have been on a train for three days—get out there on the pavement and hard-ass them so they don’t go soft.”
“Hard-ass, my ass,” replies Pete. “Look around you. Just what the hell do you think they’ve been doing for the last four hours?”
“You used our stock?”
“What the hell did you want me to use?”
“You should’ve used their baggage stock!”
“I don’t know their fucking baggage stock!” shouts Pete. “And what’s the point of using their baggage stock if we’re just going to have to hard-ass ours to keep ’em in shape, anyway!”
August’s mouth opens. Then it shuts and he disappears.
BEFORE LONG, TRUCKS converge on the lot. One after another backs up to the cookhouse, and unbelievable amounts of food disappear behind it. The cookhouse crew gets right to work, and in no time at all, the boiler is running and the scent of good food—real food—wafts across the lot.
The food and bedding for the animals arrives shortly thereafter, in wagons rather than trucks. When we cart the hay into the stable tent, the horses nicker and rumble and stretch out their necks, snatching mouthfuls before it even hits the ground.
The animals in the menagerie are no less happy to see us—the chimps scream and swing from the bars of their dens, flashing toothy grins. The meat eaters pace. The hay burners toss their heads, snorting, squealing, and even barking in agitation.
I open the orangutan’s door and set a pan of fruits, vegetables, and nuts on the floor. As I close it, her long arm reaches through the bars. She points at an orange in another pan.
“That? You want that?”
She continues to point, blinking at me with close-set eyes. Her features are concave, her face a wide platter fringed with red hair. She’s the most outrageous and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Here,” I say, handing her the orange. “You can have it.”
She takes it and sets it on the floor. Then she reaches out again. After several seconds of serious misgivings, I hold out my hand. She wraps her long fingers around it, then lets go. She sits on her haunches and peels her orange.
I stare in amazement. She was thanking me.
“SO THAT’S THAT,” says August as we emerge from the menagerie. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Join me for a drink, my boy. There’s lemonade in Marlena’s dressing tent, and not that sock juice from the juice joint either. We’ll put a drop of whiskey in, hey hey?”