August’s eyes widen farther. I tense my knuckles under the table. Then August explodes. He laughs so hard he turns red, clutching his midriff and fighting for breath. He laughs and howls until tears run down his face and his lips tremble from exertion.
“Oh, Jacob,” he says, wiping his cheeks. “Oh, Jacob. I think I may have misjudged you. Yes. Indeed. I think I may have misjudged you.” He cackles and sniffs, swabbing his face with his napkin. “Oh dear,” he sighs. “Oh dear.” He clears his throat and picks up his utensils. He scoops some egg onto his fork and then sets it down again, once more overcome with mirth.
The other diners return to their food, but reluctantly, like the crowd that watched as I expelled the man from the lot that first day. And I can’t help but notice that when they return to their meals, it’s with a look of apprehension.
• • •
LUCINDA’S DEATH LEAVES us with a serious deficiency in the freak lineup. And it must be filled—all the big shows have fat ladies, and therefore so must we.
Uncle Al and August scour Billboard and at each stop make telephone calls and send telegrams in an effort to recruit a new one, but all known fat ladies appear either to be happy in their current situation or else leery of Uncle Al’s reputation. After two weeks and ten jumps, Uncle Al is so desperate he approaches a woman of generous proportions in the audience. Unfortunately, she turns out to be Mrs. Police Superintendent, and Uncle Al ends up with a shiny purple eye instead of a fat lady, along with summary instructions to leave town.
We have two hours. The performers immediately sequester themselves in their train cars. The roustabouts, once roused, run around like headless chickens. Uncle Al is breathless and purple, waving his cane and whacking people if they’re not moving fast enough for his liking. Tents drop so quickly that men get trapped inside, and then men who are dropping other tents must come and retrieve them before they suffocate in a vast expanse of canvas, or—worse, in Uncle Al’s estimation—use their pocketknives to cut a breathing hole.
After all the stock is loaded I retire to the ring stock car. I don’t like the look of the townsmen hovering around the edge of the lot. Many are armed, and a bad feeling ferments in the pit of my stomach.
I haven’t seen Walter yet, and I pace back and forth in front of the open door, scanning the lot. The black men have long since hidden themselves aboard the Flying Squadron, and I’m not at all convinced that the mob won’t content themselves with a redheaded dwarf instead.
One hour and fifty-five minutes after we get our marching orders, his face appears in the doorway.
“Where the hell have you been?” I shout.
“Is that him?” croaks Camel from behind the trunks.
“Yeah, that’s him. Get on up here,” I say, waving Walter inside. “The crowd’s looking nasty.”
He doesn’t move. He’s flushed and out of breath. “Where’s Queenie? You seen Queenie?”
“No. Why?”
He disappears.
“Walter!” I jump up and follow him to the door. “Walter! Where the hell are you going? They’ve already blown the five-minute whistle!”
He’s running alongside the train, ducking to look between its wheels. “Come on, Queenie! Here, girl!” He straightens up, pausing in front of each stock car, yelling through the slats and then waiting for a response. “Queenie! Here, girl!” Each time he calls, his voice reaches a new level of desperation.
A whistle blows, a long sustained warning followed by the hissing and sputtering of the engine.
Walter’s voice cracks, hoarse with yelling. “Queenie! Where the hell are you? Queenie! Come!”
Up ahead, the last stragglers are leaping onto flat cars.
“Walter, come on!” I shout. “Don’t mess around. You’ve got to get on now.”
He ignores me. He’s up at the flat cars now, peering between wagon wheels. “Queenie, come!” he shouts. He stops and suddenly stands straight up. He looks lost. “Queenie?” he says to no one in particular.
“Aw hell,” I say.
“Is he coming back or what?” asks Camel.
“Doesn’t look like it,” I say.
“Well go git ’im!” he barks.
The train lurches forward, the cars jerking as the engine pulls the slack from their couplings.
I jump to the gravel and run ahead to the flat cars. Walter stands facing the engine.
I touch his shoulder. “Walter, it’s time to go.”
He turns to me, his eyes pleading. “Where is she? Have you seen her?”
“No. Come on, Walter,” I say. “We’ve got to get on the train now.”
“I can’t,” he says. His face is blank. “I can’t leave her. I just can’t.”
The train is chugging forward now, gathering steam.
I glance behind me. The townsmen, armed with rifles, baseball bats, and sticks are surging forward. I look back at the train long enough to get a sense of speed, and count, praying to God that I’m right: one, two, three, four.
I scoop Walter up like a sack of flour and toss him inside. There’s a crash and a yelp as he hits the floor. I sprint beside the train and grasp the iron bar beside the door. I let the train pull me along for three long strides, and then use its velocity to vault up and inside.
My face skids across the bucking floorboards. When I realize I’m safe, I look for Walter, prepared for a fight.
He is huddled in the corner, crying.
WALTER IS INCONSOLABLE. He remains in the corner as I pull the trunks out and retrieve Camel. I manage the old man’s shave—a task that usually involves all three of us—and then drag him out to the area in front of the horses.
“Aw, come on, Walter,” says Camel. I’m holding him by his armpits, dangling his naked posterior over what Walter calls the honey bucket. “You did what you could.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Hey, lower me a bit, would ya? I’m swinging in the breeze here.”
I shift my feet so they’re further apart, trying to lower Camel while keeping my back straight. Usually Walter takes care of this part because he’s the right height.
“Walter, I could use a hand here,” I say as a spasm shoots across my back.
“Shut up,” he says.
Camel looks back again, this time with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“No, it’s not okay,” Walter yells from the corner. “Nothing’s okay! Queenie was all I had. You understand that?” His voice drops to whimper. “She was all I had.”
Camel waves his hand at me to indicate he’s finished. I shuffle over a couple of feet and lay him on his side.
“Now, that can’t be true,” says Camel as I clean him up. “A young fella like you’s gotta have somebody somewhere.”
“You don’t know nothing.”
“You ain’t got a mother somewhere?” says Camel, persisting.
“None I got a use for.”
“Now don’t you talk like that,” says Camel.
“Why the hell not? She sold me to this outfit when I was fourteen.” He glares at us. “And don’t you go looking at me like you feel sorry for me,” he snaps. “She was an old crow, anyway. Who the hell needs her.”
“What do you mean sold you?” says Camel.
“Well, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, am I? Just leave me the hell alone, will you?” He shuffles around so his back is to us.
I fasten Camel’s pants, grab him by the armpits, and haul him back into the room. His legs drag behind him, his heels scraping the floor.
“Man, oh man,” he says as I arrange him on the cot. “Ain’t that something?”