“You see that smile?” Sandy said, elbowing Paul’s ribs. “That’s what I mean.”
Paul sighed. He put a hand over his forehead, two fingers on one temple, a thumb on the other. “That’s what you mean about what?”
“That’s the clown’s smile.”
Paul snorted. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
Again Paul sunk low in his seat. Sandy mimicked him.
“How’d you know where to find me?” Paul said.
“I watched you buy your ticket,” she said, “followed you here.”
“How’d you escape the constable?”
Sandy winked. Otherwise, she offered no reply.
Again, Paul snorted. “You sure are something.”
“She is beautiful, though,” Sandy said, “isn’t she?”
Paul looked again at the woman. She was rummaging through a bag, pursing her lips in concentration. A lock of her hair, somewhat lighter in color than the rest, played in the mysterious hollow between her neck and shoulder.
She looked up and caught him.
Paul looked down, suddenly interested in his thumb.
“Well, Jesus,” Sandy said, “no need to stare.”
“I wasn’t staring,” Paul said. But he looked at the woman again. She was smiling. Not at him, but at something she held in her hand. Indeed, she was beautiful. Paul found himself wishing he was the reason a woman smiled like that. He recalled his wedding day, when Gloria had smiled at him as she came down the aisle, arm-in-arm with her father. He had been a hell of a reason for a woman to smile on that day. The woman turned the object in her hand. Paul saw it was a polished stone—flat, dark, and about the size of her palm. It was the kind of thing you’d find piled amongst hundreds of others in a bin in any shop in Colfax. Parents bought them for their squawking kids. Shopkeepers kept them out front and didn’t mind if they were stolen. Why would a grown woman find a cheap gift so fascinating?
The woman caught him staring again, and again he averted his eyes. Dammit, he was acting like a fool. He had a wife and son at home, and here he was blushing over a strange woman on a train.
The train whistle sounded. A conductor yelled, “All aboard.”
Paul stretched out his legs. “When we get to Chicago I’ll have to find you a smarter constable.”
Sandy stretched out her short legs to match Paul’s sitting position. She seemed to think for a moment, and then said, “Nothing rhymes with constable.”
“Well, good,” Paul said. He pulled down his hat to cover his eyes, peered sideways into the window glass. At this angle he could again see the woman. She was a translucent vision in the window’s reflection. She held the stone between two delicate hands like she was praying on it. Her lawyer said something and she looked up at him. She blinked and recoiled as she put down her stone. For a moment she looked scared, and then her smile returned.
Good lord, it was a clown’s smile.
The train’s brakes released and the car inched forward. Paul caught a glimpse of movement on the boardwalk outside. His eyes shifted focus. Through the woman’s reflection and through the glass he saw Jeb Crittendon and Cyrus Lee. They were boarding the diner car.
23
The music box struggled on.
for… I… come.
Cecil Darton jolted into a sitting position, coughing and hacking. He gripped his chest and winced. Alive.
Roy pulled the pillow away.
Cecil looked at Jukey’s dead face, looked at the pillow in Roy’s hand. He shrunk against the bed. His face contorted. “Don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not going to-”
“Help!” Cecil said. He scrambled on to the bed. “Somebody help me!”
Roy dropped the pillow and stood. Shut this idiot up or run?
Run.
He turned to the door to find it already opening. Samson stepped into the wagon. His bulky frame filled out the doorway. His shoulders looked like medicine balls. He chomped a stubby cigar.
“What seems to be the problem here, Cecil?” Samson said. His eyes never left Roy. The cigar shifted from one side of this mouth to the other.
“He killed him,” Cecil said. “Look. He k-ki-”
“Shut up,” Samson said.
Cecil curled into a corner. He sniveled and quivered. A greasy lock of hair fell away from its slicked position and spilled over his eyes. Samson flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles. He flexed his arms and cracked God knows what. The sounds were like shifting ice. “Time to stove your head in.”
Roy knew what this was. Jukey didn’t matter to Samson. None of them did. This was about Jesse. He’d learned of her infidelity. Roy thought of Samson’s big hands pressing a burning cigar into Jesse’s ribs. He flicked out his father’s blade.
Samson smiled. “That supposed to scare me?”
Roy had no answer. It was supposed to scare him. He fired the only other ammunition he had. “You don’t deserve her.”
Samson’s face turned to rage. He growled and swung a paw at Roy. Roy side-stepped. He plunged his knife into the big man’s shoulder and drew it back.
But his hand came back empty.
Samson’s shoulder muscles clenched the knife like Excalibur’s stone. The big man thrust a forearm across Roy’s throat, drove him against the back wall, rattling the wagon. The jewelry case fell and burst apart, spilling golden cufflinks. Roy felt like his head would pop off. He reached for the knife but found himself pinned. He squirmed against the big man’s might. He clawed at the blade, trying to loosen it. If he could just-
Samson punched his ribs and ended the confrontation. Roy fell forward, seeing black and purple dots. He was sure he’d never breathe again. His guts must be crushed. He crawled toward the wagon door. A big hand grabbed his shirt and the seat of his pants. He flew through the doorway and landed in the dirt like a rag doll.
The caravan’s din fell silent. The pinheads, who had started playing War in the absence of other poker players, looked up from their cards. Girda shifted her weight and a wagon hinge creaked. Camilla looked up from her makeup mirror.
Samson came out of Cecil’s wagon. He carried Jukey’s body like a child in his arms. A trickle of blood dripped down his shoulder, away from Roy’s knife.
Roy came up to his knees, but Samson kicked him back down.
“Look at your brother,” Samson said. He lifted Jukey over his head. “An innocent man, killed by one of your own.”
Roy heard gasps. The performers exited their wagons and circled around. Samson lovingly laid Jukey on the ground, a showman in his own right. He pulled Roy’s knife from his shoulder. It looked as small as a thorn in his hand. “And for what?” he said. “A few dollars?” He threw Jukey’s wallet down next to Roy. It was brown leather with a few bills peeking out from a corner. There was a wild horse stitched into the leather. Roy recalled Jukey, on stage, removing bills from the wallet with only his feet. The audience had clapped to the fact that he could pull out just one bill at a time.
Samson went back to the shadowy space between the carts. He came back with a handful of pipes and chains. He dropped them on the ground with a clank. Roy scanned his fellow performer’s faces. Girda held a meaty palm over her mouth. Camilla shook her head. Randy and Miriam looked confused and anxious. Cecil Darton followed Samson out of his wagon. No longer cowering, he threw back his hair and drew up a shirtsleeve, suddenly a thug.
“No,” Roy croaked, but with broken ribs it was all he could manage.
Samson pointed at Girda and motioned to Roy. She shrugged her shoulders and turned up her palms, uncomprehending.
“Hold him down,” Samson said.
“Now just wait a second,” Camilla said. “We don’t know the whole story here.”
Samson took a stride toward her. Camilla jumped back as if he’d slapped her. Samson turned back to Girda. “Now,” he said, still wielding Roy’s knife, “hold him down or I’ll gut you like the hog you are.”
Girda stepped hea
vily off her wagon. It rose behind her. She moved toward Roy like a living wall.
“No,” a voice said.
Girda stopped. Everyone turned to the source of the sound. Miriam. She stood with her fingers in her ears, shaking her head violently side to side.
“Yeaaah!” Randy said, agreeing with his sister. “No!”
Samson went to Miriam. He gripped her polka-dotted costume by the front and lifted her off her feet. She continued shaking her head, eyes closed, feet struggling to find the ground.
“Yeaaah,” Randy said, “No!”
Samson threw Miriam against the ox cart. The slat walls shuddered with her impact. She yelped and went silent. Playing cards fell from the table and flitted down upon her limp body. Randy ran to his sister’s side. “Yeaaah,” he said. He knelt beside her. More silently he said, “No, no, no, no, no.”
Girda moved toward Roy with no more hesitation. Roy lost focus. He blinked dust from his eyes. The performers gathered closer. “Please,” he wheezed, still reeling from Samson’s gut punch. He struggled to one knee, but was kicked down again, this time by Camilla, driving a foot into him like a donkey. She and Cecil grabbed Roy’s arms. They pinned him down while Girda straddled his legs. She came down with tremendous pressure. His bones would surely be reduced to sand.
“Everyone takes a turn,” Samson said.
The performers exchanged fearful glances. Iron and steel clanged as Samson picked up the items he’d brought out. He handed out pipes and chains. With each weapon came a threatening look.
There was a silent moment while the performers examined the objects in their hands. Some looked at Jukey’s lifeless form, his overturned wallet like a dead bird on the ground. Their doubtful expressions gave way to wrathful sneers.
The punches and kicks came from all sides. Their faces hovered above him like disembodied heads. A chain came down across Roy’s stomach. An iron pipe bounced off his head. They screamed with rage and laughter. They pushed each other out of the way so they could measure their blows carefully, and, Roy thought, so they could ensure that Samson knew they were giving it their all.
As the blows rained down Roy thought of home. The day that gator took his mother. For an hour he laid on that dock, watching his reflection in the water. The boy he saw was no boy at all, but a beast. He wasn’t part of the human race, and never would be. He knew it then and he knew it now. Why hadn’t he had the courage to end himself?
It mattered not. It was okay now. Like Jukey, he wanted no more from this world. What was it that Jukey said?
Existing is not living.
Roy leaned into their blows for maximum impact. He wanted their punches and kicks to do real damage. He wanted the pipe to come down harder, to crack his skull and destroy his thoughts. He wanted a chain around his neck, stringing him up. He wanted Girda to fall forward and smother out his life. These freaks were his angels, come to take him back to his mother and father, to take him back to the bayou where all cities and towns and sideshows and guns were imaginary.
But they simply couldn’t oblige. At length they grew tired. Their fire dimmed. They stopped swinging and kicking. Roy heard only the rush of his own blood. They stood above him like blurry ghosts, their shoulders heaving with each breath. They’d given him all they had, spilled their pain into him. He wanted more, but they had no more to give.
Samson appeared, Roy’s knife in hand. He held it with the blade pointed downward for a killing stroke. Roy silently thanked him. He nodded his bloody head in approval.
As Samson took aim at Roy’s chest, one of the freaks stepped forward to stay the strong man’s hand. It was Randy, coherent and calculating well beyond his standard character. He whispered something in Samson’s ear. Samson smiled. He turned the knife over and began carving into Roy’s chest. Roy felt the pressure of the blade. He felt his scaled skin coming apart like pages of a book. He turned his eyes away. Through a forest of legs he saw Jesse in the distance. She stood between the wagons, glowing like firelight. Her hair was tied up behind her head. Some locks had come loose to lie across her cheeks and frame her face just so. She was Aphrodite. Her body was not tense. She did not rush to save him. She looked upon him with no expression, as a queen might look upon the peasantry.
The train barreled into the night, its iron skin highlighted by a half-full moon. Roy sat on the boxcar edge, letting his feet dangle. The occasional tall weed whipped his soles. He liked the sensation. He unloaded the Ledgers’ weapons and threw them into the darkness where they landed without sound. Silhouetted silos and barns passed slowly in the distance. Roy rubbed the silver spoon.
He had been ready to die that day. He had wanted it. He was done with a world that wanted him tucked away until they were ready to pay for repulsion. Despite a lifetime of effort to see it otherwise, he now saw the sideshow as a traveling prison. Its warden was a nice old man that conjured the illusion of freedom. All a lie. They were not performers, but freaks. No one would look upon them unless they’d paid for the pleasure. But give it to them for free, on the streets? The real sideshow was a performance just for him and his kind. The real performers were the audience, those that kept him believing he had purpose. Those that made him think he was not a caged animal but a free man. Tear down the tent and open the cages to watch the audience stop acting and start imprisoning, start killing.
He was willing to die believing he had Jesse’s love. He could leave this world knowing he could go to their farmhouse and wait for her there. He would tend to the crops and keep things clean for her. He would wait out the years while she grew old, mourning him and forsaking all others. She would live a quiet life before one day rejoining him. There would be days and nights between them. There would be pain behind them and forever before them. But did he have her love? Had he ever? He tried to think of their special night. He tried to flip through the beautiful pictures in his mind. No dice. He could only see her standing between the wagons, impassive and alone, while the freaks poured their pain into his body.
24
“Warden said it was our fault, too,” Jeb Crittendon said. He was squeezed into the bench seat across from Sandy and Paul. The table between them cut into his huge belly, bisecting it top and bottom. His lips were moist with sweat and his breathing sounded difficult. Paul felt queasy looking at him, listening to him. Cyrus Lee sat on the outer half of the bench, skinny as a branch and fidgeting. Together these two looked like a nightmare version of the number ten.
“He said we shoulda known that freak was still alive,” Crittendon said. “But that’s not what I say.” He leaned in on his elbows, eyeing Paul. The table creaked under the pressure. “Want to know what I say?”
“Yeah,” Cyrus Lee said.
“I say I beat that freak with no mercy,” Crittendon said. Cyrus Lee nodded and nodded like his neck was hinged on a spring. “I say I beat him bad,” Crittendon continued, “and he was dead as shit when we loaded him in that bag. I say he was still dead as shit when we left him in the dead house to rot.”
“There’s no need to cuss,” Sandy said.
Crittendon turned his eyes to Sandy. “And just who the hell are you?”
“My name is Sandra MacGillicutty Rae,” Sandy said, thumbing her chest. “My friends call me S-”
“Well keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, Sandra MacGillicutty Rae.”
Sandy’s brow furrowed. She said, “You, sir, are a nincompoop.”
Crittendon snatched out and gripped Sandy by the shirt-front. He lifted her half out of her seat, brought her suddenly terrified face near his own. “Use that keen tongue again, and I’ll cut it clean out of your-”
The click-clack of a revolver’s hammer stopped Crittendon’s words. Paul had the weapon’s barrel against Crittendon’s belly beneath the table. “That’ll be enough from you.”
Crittendon looked incredulously at Paul. He kept Sandy in his grip. Pulled her farther out of her seat.
“Something wrong with your ears?” Paul said.
“You
ain’t got the stones,” Crittendon said.
Cyrus Lee quietly set a knife down on the table before Paul. “That’s my friend you’re threatenin’.”
“And he’s threatening mine,” Paul said, eyes still on Crittendon.
Crittendon released Sandy. She fell back into her seat with a thump. He showed his open palms.
Paul uncocked his revolver, holstered it.
Lee sheathed his knife.
“Well now,” Jeb Crittendon said, “ain’t this a fancy little party?”
“And you’re the host,” Paul said.
“Right you are,” Crittendon said. “I believe we was discussing an acquaintance of ours?”
Cyrus Lee said, “Tell ‘em, Jeb.”
“I believe there’s some voodoo mumbo jumbo going on with this fella,” Crittendon said. “We ain’t dealing with no man, but some kind of black magic devil that needs putting down like a dog.”
Paul looked away. The train was at full speed now. It rocked back and forth like a cradle. Most of the rich folk had already headed to their sleeper cars, but the rich man and woman who had delivered Sandy were still there. She had put away her souvenir and they were now engaged in a hushed conversation. Next to his fellow prison guards the woman’s radiance was that much more brilliant. Paul imagined she was suggesting bedroom things to her man. Underneath their table her foot came to his leg. She’d kicked off a steel-buckled shoe and was toeing the pale skin beneath his pants. His curly black leg hair made Paul want to vomit. The oil lamp above her head swung in rhythm with the train, changing the shadows on her face from dark to light to dark again.
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