THE SHOW IS ABOUT a quarter of the way through when she walks into the menagerie. I sense her presence even before I hear the surprised murmurs around me.
I set Bobo on the floor of his den. I turn and, sure enough, there she is, gorgeous in pink sequins and feathered headdress, removing her horses’ halters and letting them drop to the ground. Only Boaz—a black Arabian and presumably Silver Star’s counterpart—remains tethered, and he’s clearly unhappy about it.
I lean against Bobo’s den, mesmerized.
Those horses, with whom I’ve spent every night riding from town to town to town and who normally look like regular horses, have transformed. They blow and snort, their necks arched and tails aloft. They gather into two dancing groups, one black, one white. Marlena faces them, carrying a long whip in each hand. She raises one and waves it over her head. Then she walks backward, leading them from the menagerie. The horses are completely free. They wear no halters, no side reins, no surcingles—nothing. They simply follow her, shaking their heads and flinging their legs forward like Saddlebreds.
I’ve never seen her act—those of us who work behind the scenes don’t have time for that luxury—but this time nothing could stop me. I secure Bobo’s door and slip into the connection, the roofless canvas tunnel that joins the menagerie to the big top. The reserved-seat ticket seller glances at me quickly, and when he realizes I’m not a cop goes back to his business. His pockets jingle, swollen with money. I stand beside him, looking across the three rings to the back end of the big top.
Uncle Al announces her, and she steps inside. She spins, holding both whips high in the air. She flicks one and takes a few steps backward. The two groups of horses hurry in behind her.
Marlena sashays to the center ring and they follow, high-kicking, prancing clouds of black and white.
Once she’s in the center of the ring, she slaps the air lightly. The horses start circling the ring at a trot, five white followed by five black. After two complete rotations, she wiggles the whip. The black horses speed up until each is trotting beside a white horse. Another wiggle, and they ease into line so that the horses are now alternating black and white.
She moves only minimally, her pink sequins shimmering under the bright lights. She walks a small circle in the center of the ring, flicking the whips in combinations of signals.
The horses continue circling, with the white horses passing the black horses and then the black horses passing the white horses, with the end result always being alternating colors.
She calls out and they stop. She says something else, and they turn and step up so their front hooves are on the ring curb. They walk sideways, their tails toward Marlena and their hooves up on the rim. They do an entire rotation before she stops them again. They climb down and swing around to face her. Then she calls forth Midnight.
He is a magnificent black, all Arabian fire with a perfect white diamond on his forehead. She speaks to him, taking both whips in one hand, and offering him her other palm. He presses his muzzle into it, his neck arched and nostrils flared.
Marlena steps backward and raises a whip. The other horses watch, dancing on the spot. She lifts the other whip and flicks its tip back and forth. Midnight rises up on his hind legs, his forelegs curled in front of him. She shouts something now—the first time she has raised her voice—and strides backward. The horse follows, walking on his hind legs and pawing the air in front of him. She keeps him upright all the way around the ring. Then she motions him down. Another cryptic circling of the whip, and Midnight bows, going down on the knee of one foreleg with the other extended. Marlena drops into a low curtsy and the crowd goes wild. With Midnight still bowing, she lifts both whips and flicks them. The rest of the horses pirouette, turning circles on the spot.
More cheering, more adulation. Marlena spreads her arms in the air, turning to give each section of the audience a chance to adore her. Then she turns to Midnight and perches delicately on his lowered back. He rises, arches his neck, and carries Marlena from the big top. The rest of the horses follow, once again grouped by color, crowding each other to stay close to their mistress.
My heart pounds so hard that, despite the roaring of the crowd, I am aware of blood whooshing through my ears. I am filled to overflowing, bursting with love.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER WHISKEY has rendered Camel dead to the world and Walter is snoring on the bedroll, I leave the little room and stand looking over the backs of the ring stock.
I care for these horses daily. I muck out their stalls, fill their water and feed buckets, and groom them for the show. I check their teeth and comb their manes and feel their legs for heat. I give them treats and pat their necks. They had become as familiar a part of my scenery as Queenie, but after seeing Marlena’s act I’ll never view them the same way again. These horses are an extension of Marlena—a part of her that is here, right now, with me.
I reach over the stall divider and place my hand on a sleek black rump. Midnight, who had been asleep, rumbles in surprise and turns his head.
When he sees that it’s just me, he turns away. His ears droop, his eyes close, and he shifts his weight so he’s resting one hind leg.
I go back to the goat room and check that Camel is still breathing. Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
IN FRONT OF THE steam tables the next morning:
“Check that out,” says Walter, lifting his arm to poke me in the ribs.
“What?”
He points.
August and Marlena are sitting at our table. It’s the first time they’ve shown up for a meal since her accident.
Walter eyeballs me. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yes, of course,” I say irritably.
“Okay. Just checking,” he says. We pass the ever-vigilant Ezra and head for our separate tables.
“Good morning, Jacob,” August says as I set my plate on the table and take a seat.
“August. Marlena,” I say, nodding at each.
Marlena looks up quickly and then back at her plate.
“And how are you this fine day?” says August. He digs into a pile of scrambled eggs.
“Fine. And you?”
“Wonderful,” he says.
“And how are you, Marlena?” I ask.
“Very much better, thank you,” she says.
“I saw your act last night,” I say.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” I say, shaking my napkin and spreading it across my lap. “It’s . . . I don’t quite know what to say. It was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Oh?” says August, cocking one eyebrow. “Never?”
“No. Never.”
“Really.”
He stares at me without blinking. “I thought it was Marlena’s act that inspired you to join this show in the first place, Jacob. Was I wrong?”
My heart flips in my chest. I pick up my cutlery: fork in my left hand, knife in my right—European-style, like my mother.
“I lied,” I say.
I stab the end of a sausage and begin sawing it, waiting for a response.
“I beg your pardon?” he says.
“I lied. I lied!” I slam my cutlery down, a nub of sausage impaled on the fork. “Okay? Of course I’d never heard of the Benzini Brothers before I jumped your train. Who the hell has heard of the Benzini Brothers? The only circus I’d seen in my entire life was the Ringling Brothers, and they were great. Great! Do you hear me?”
There’s an eerie silence. I look around, horrified. Everyone in the tent is staring at me. Walter’s jaw is open. Queenie’s ears are pressed against her head. In the distance, a camel bellows.
Finally I turn my eyes to August. He, too, is staring. One edge of his moustache quivers. I tuck my napkin under the edge of my plate, wondering if he’s going to come across the table at me.