With only ten minutes before the gate opens, the men at the juice joint mix up another batch using water from the animal troughs. They filter out the stray oats, hay, and whiskers through a pair of hose donated by a clown, and by the time they toss in the “floaters”—wax lemon slices designed to give the impression that the concoction actually met fruit somewhere along the line—a swell of rubes is already approaching the midway. I don’t know if the hose were clean, but I do notice that everyone on the show abstains from drinking lemonade that day.
The lemonade goes missing again in Dayton. Once again, a new batch is mixed up with trough water and set out moments before the rubes descend.
This time, when Uncle Al rounds up all the usual suspects, rather than docking their pay—a meaningless threat anyway since not one of them has been paid in more than eight weeks—he forces them to fish out the chamois grouch bags that hang around their necks and hand over two quarters each. The holders of the grouch bags become grouchy indeed.
The lemonade thief has hit the roustabouts where it hurts, and they’re prepared to take action. When we get to Columbus, a few of them hide near the mixing vat and wait.
SHORTLY BEFORE SHOWTIME, August summons me to Marlena’s dressing tent to look at an advertisement for a white liberty horse. Marlena needs another because twelve horses are more spectacular then ten, and spectacular is what it’s all about. Besides, Marlena thinks Boaz is getting depressed at being left by himself in the menagerie while the others perform. This is what August says, but I think I’m being restored to favor after my blowup in the cookhouse. That, or August has decided to keep his friends close and his enemies even closer.
I’m sitting in a folding chair with Billboard on my lap and a bottle of sarsaparilla in my hand. Marlena is at the mirror adjusting her costume, and I’m trying not to stare. The one time our eyes meet in the mirror, I catch my breath, she reddens, and we both look elsewhere.
August is oblivious, buttoning his waistcoat and chatting amiably when Uncle Al bursts through the flap.
Marlena turns, outraged. “Hey—ever heard of asking before you barge into a lady’s dressing tent?”
Uncle Al pays no attention to her at all. He marches straight to August and jabs his finger in his chest.
“It’s your goddamned bull!” he screams.
August looks down at the finger sticking into his chest, pauses a few beats, and then takes it daintily between thumb and forefinger. He moves Uncle Al’s hand aside, and then flicks a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the spit from his face.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks at the end of this operation.
“It’s your goddamned thieving bull!” screams Uncle Al, once again showering August with spit. “She pulls out her stake, takes it with her, drinks the goddamned lemonade, then goes back and sticks her stake in the ground!”
Marlena claps a hand over her mouth, but not in time.
Uncle Al spins, furious. “You think it’s funny? You think it’s funny?”
The blood drains from her face.
I rise from my chair and step forward. “Well, you have to admit there’s a certain—”
Uncle Al turns, plants both hands squarely on my chest and shoves me so hard I fall backward onto a trunk.
He twists around to August. “That fucking bull cost me a fortune! She’s the reason I couldn’t pay the men and had to take care of business and caught heat from the goddamned railroad authority! And for what? The goddamned thing won’t perform and she steals the fucking lemonade!”
“Al!” August says sharply. “Watch your mouth. I’ll have you remember you’re in the presence of a lady.”
Uncle Al’s head swivels. He regards Marlena without remorse and turns back to August.
“Woody’s going to tally up the losses,” he says. “I’m taking it from your pay.”
“You’ve already taken it from the roustabouts,” Marlena says quietly. “Are you planning to return their money?”
Uncle Al gazes upon her and I like his expression so little I step forward until I’m between them. He turns his gaze to me, his jaw grinding in anger. Then he turns and marches out.
“What a jerk,” says Marlena, going back to her dressing table. “I could have been getting dressed.”
August stands utterly still. Then he reaches for his top hat and bull hook.
Marlena sees this in the mirror. “Where are you going?” she says quickly. “August, what are you doing?”
He heads for the doorway.
She grabs his arm. “Auggie! Where are you going?”
“I’m not the only one who’s going to pay for the lemonade,” he says, shaking her off.
“August, no!” She grabs his elbow again. This time she throws her weight into it, trying to prevent him from leaving. “August, wait! For God’s sake. She didn’t know. We’ll secure her better next time—”
August wrenches free and Marlena crashes to the ground. He looks at her in utter disgust. Then he plants his hat on his head and turns away.
“August!” she shrieks. “Stop!”
He pushes the flap open and is gone. Marlena sits, stunned, exactly where she fell. I look from her to the flap and then back again.
“I’m going after him,” I say, heading for the doorway.
“No! Wait!”
I freeze.
“There’s no use,” she says, her voice hollow and small. “You can’t stop him.”
“I can sure as hell try. I did nothing last time and I’ll never forgive myself.”
“You don’t understand! You’ll only make it worse! Jacob, please! You don’t understand!”
I spin to face her. “No! I don’t! I don’t understand anything anymore. Not a damned thing. Would you care to enlighten me?”
Her eyes open wide. Her mouth forms an O. Then she buries her face in her hands and bursts into tears.
I stare, horrified. Then I fall to my knees and gather her in my arms.
“Oh, Marlena, Marlena—”
“Jacob,” she whispers into my shirt. She clings to me as tightly as if I were keeping her from being sucked into a vortex.
“My name isn’t Rosie. It’s Rosemary. You know that, Mr. Jankowski.”
I am startled into awareness, blinking up into the unmistakable glare of fluorescent lighting.
“Eh? What?” My voice is thin, reedy. A black woman leans over me, tucking something around my legs. Her hair is fragrant and smooth.
“You called me Rosie just a minute ago. My name is Rosemary,” she says, straightening up. “There, now isn’t that better?”
I stare at her. Oh God. That’s right. I’m old. And I’m in bed. Wait a minute—I called her Rosie?
“I was talking? Out loud?”
She laughs. “Oh dear, yes. Oh yes, Mr. Jankowski. You’ve been talking a blue streak since we left the lunchroom. Just talking my ear off.”
My face flushes. I stare at the clawed hands in my lap. God only knows what I’ve been saying. I only know what I’ve been thinking, and even that’s in retrospect—until I suddenly found myself here, now, I thought I was there.
“Why, what’s the matter?” Rosemary says.
“Did I . . . Did I say anything . . . you know, embarrassing?”
“Heavens, no! I don’t understand why you haven’t told the others, what with everyone going to the circus and all. I’ll bet you’ve never even mentioned it though, have you?”
Rosemary watches me expectantly. Then her brow furrows. She pulls a chair over and sits next to me. “You don’t remember talking to me, do you?” she says gently.