And I found myself growing depressed about other things. Wherever we walked, we immediately became the center of attention. People openly gawked at the dwarf and the beautiful woman, and not a few of the stares were hostile, as if the fact that we might be attracted to each other was a violation of some natural law. A few times I tried to remove my hand from Harper's, but she only tightened her grip as she kept up a constant stream of chatter, seemingly oblivious to the starers. In my frame of mind, her gesture took on heroic proportions. Falling in love with Harper Rhys-Whitney, I thought, was most definitely something I did not need. Through no fault of hers, she made me feel small and needy; her perfection only served to magnify, at least in my mind, my own imperfection. It was, of course, all quite neurotic, the kinds of unhealed scars we all carry with us from our childhood-but there it was, a terrible, and growing, insecurity. And I feared it was already too late to do anything about it. I was apparently still not sufficiently emotionally healthy to accept the love of a woman without risk of destroying myself with the gift.
I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched-which, I told myself, was absurd, since I was so obviously being watched. But I also sensed that we were being followed, and that was something different altogether. I abruptly turned around a few times, but in the crush of people it was impossible to pick out any one individual who might be tailing us.
Wandering around a circus midway set up in a vast field in the heart of rural Kansas, I was reminded yet again that a hole opened in my heart whenever I left New York City, with its crush of anonymity, and traveled into America's interior. The fields of Kansas reminded me too much of my childhood home in Nebraska. Out through that hole in my heart flowed my self-confidence; all that was left was a bilious, sour cloud of self-consciousness and paranoia. It was a lousy feeling, only exacerbated by the lovely creature holding my hand, and with whom I was sharing a bed. In my present frame of mind, I considered Harper-or, to be more precise, what I was feeling for Harper-all the more dangerous to my spiritual well-being. Being a dwarf was occasionally a pain, but I'd learned to deal with it; being a self-pitying dwarf was intolerable to me. It made me anxious to get on with my business in Kansas so that I could get back to where I felt safe, perhaps taking Harper with me. Yet I knew I couldn't afford to be-or seem-in a hurry. I owed it to Phil to try to keep myself together long enough to make the strongest effort of which I was capable in order to try to buy back his circus for him.
The evening show under the Big Top began at eight. At seven-thirty we wandered back in the direction of the enormous canvas tent, along with a crowd of what I estimated to be upwards of eight or nine hundred people. It wasn't at all a bad turnout, especially considering the fact that it was a weeknight and many of the families, most with small children, had undoubtedly driven a considerable distance over a countryside that was being terrorized by a vicious, insane killer.
As we got into the line that had formed in front of the ticket booth, I once again had the feeling that we were being observed, followed. I abruptly turned to my left, found myself staring into a pair of mud-brown eyes that framed a large, bulbous nose illuminated by networks of flaming, alcohol-ruptured veins. He was a big man, with a potbelly and legs that were slightly bowed, as if bending under the man's considerable weight. He looked like a roustabout, or perhaps the kind of thuggish security guard often hired by shows to remain in the background and provide muscle in case of trouble with town rowdies. Our gazes locked and held, and then the potbellied man flushed a deep red that almost matched the broken veins in his nose, turned, and walked quickly away.
Interesting, I thought. However, since I couldn't think of a single reason why anyone would want to keep tabs on us, I decided the man-roustabout, security guard, or whatever-had simply been more persistently curious than the others, or was more than "a little interested in Harper. I turned my attention back to the line, which was moving more rapidly as showtime neared. Above the ticket window, a hand-lettered sign announced that National Rifle Association members showing their cards would receive fifteen percent off the price of admission.
World Circus carried no freak show, but the man selling tickets inside the booth at the entrance to the tent looked as if he was more than prepared to audition for the part of our sixteenth President in some "living museum" exhibit, and it occurred to me that he might actually be an actor, between roles, biding his time and picking up some ready cash by working for World Circus. It was impossible to gauge his height, since only his head and shoulders were visible, but from the way he was hunched over inside the booth I judged him to be over six feet, lanky. He looked like Lincoln, and he looked decidedly out of place wearing a dark suit of expensive material and a tie-the temperature was well over eighty. He had a gaunt, almost sad-looking face, piercing black eyes, black hair, a full beard. Although there was no gray in his hair, I put his age at over sixty.
"Two, please," I said as we reached the booth and I offered up a twenty-dollar bill.
The piercing black eyes, cool and glittering with intelligence, studied me; his gaze flicked to Harper, then came back to me. "Good evening, Dr. Frederickson," the man said in a pleasing baritone that echoed slightly inside the wooden cage. "It's an honor to have you join us."
I stepped back two paces and craned my neck in order to get a clearer look at his face. "You know me?"
"Indeed. You are the most esteemed alumnus of this very circus," the man who looked like Abraham Lincoln said. "Among other things. You are a very famous man, more than likely to be recognized even in the more sparsely populated regions of the nation. I'm afraid I don't recall the lady's name, but if I'm not mistaken, I've seen her likeness on posters dating back to the time of the circus's previous ownership. Ma'am, I believe you handled reptiles?"
"I'm Harper Rhys-Whitney," Harper said.
"Yes," the man replied, then turned his attention back to me. "You're a long ways from home, sir."
"Yeah. I just happened to be passing through the area, and I thought I'd check out the show."
"I see," the man in the ticket booth said, sounding as if he didn't see at all. Or that he didn't believe me.
I could hear some low grumbling from the people waiting in line behind me. A large hand holding my twenty-dollar bill and two green slips of paper emerged from the hole at the bottom of the screen in the window above my head. "These complimentary passes are for you and Miss Rhys-Whitney, Dr. Frederickson," the man continued. "Your money is no good here. I think you'll be pleased with the seats. Enjoy the show."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, just an employee."
The grumbling behind me was growing louder, and I felt somebody press up against my back. "Thanks for the passes," I said quickly. "Listen, would you tell the owner that I'd like to have a few words with him afterward?"
"I'm afraid that would be impossible."
"Why?"
"The owner doesn't travel with the show."
"Who is the owner?"
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not in a position to give out that kind of information."
"Then I'll talk to whoever is in charge. Would it be okay if we go back to the trailers after the show? I'd like to talk to the performers."
"I'm afraid not, Dr. Frederickson. We have a very strict policy against that. I'm sorry. Would you mind moving on, now? There are people waiting. Enjoy the show."
Pressed by the people in the line behind me, I took the green passes, walked with Harper through the open flaps behind the ticket booth into the great tent. An usher glanced at the slips of paper, then guided us along a narrow aisle at the base of a bank of bleacher seats to what appeared to be a VIP section with six folding chairs-all empty now-inside an oblong wooden box bedecked with red, white, and blue bunting, and set virtually flush with the sawdust track running around the perimeter of the Big Top and enclosing the one ring. The VIP box was a little too public for my taste, but we certainly weren't going to have to worry about having our view blocked by people sitting in
front of us; we were close enough to the single ring to be part of the show. Almost as soon as we sat down, a six-piece band seated at the top of the bleacher section directly across from us began to play.
Harper leaned close to me in order to be heard over the music, said, "Is this the first time you've been back?"
"Yep."
"It must seem very strange to you."
It indeed felt strange, after so many years, to be sitting under the great canvas canopy where I had once been the center of attention, my acrobatic skills eventually being incorporated into almost half the acts, with a grand finale that saw me flying off a trapeze, soaring up and past the area covered by the safety net, into the steel, wood, and rope rigging actually holding up the Big Top. From there, I made my way around the perimeter of the tent, a single spotlight following me on my airborne journey, while all of the other acts gathered below in the three rings Phil had always used. Swinging through the rigging wasn't actually as dangerous as it looked, since there was a multitude of ropes, struts, and bars to grab hold of, but it was definitely a crowd pleaser. Especially at the end when I dropped twenty feet to land on Mabel's back.
So much was the same, yet at the same time completely different. I had tumbled through rings of fire in the center ring, soared through the air at the top of the tent, and yet now I couldn't even wrangle an invitation to visit backstage.
I said, "I'm sorry I didn't come back to visit when it was still Phil's circus."
"Hey, with a little luck, you may still get the chance."
"With a little luck."
The owner or owners of World Circus had invested some money in a new, modernized lighting system, which suddenly came on full force; a multitude of strobe lights began flashing over the audience while a single, powerful spotlight danced over the curtained-off entrance to our left. The band blared out a fanfare, the curtains drew apart, and the Grand Procession began.
Leading the procession were the elephants, minus Mabel.
These were the smaller Asians-Curly, Joe, and Mike-bedecked in thick leather harnesses with shiny brass buckles and streamers of brightly colored bunting and flowers. Atop Curly, who led the pack, waving to the cheering crowd in the center of the yellow spotlight that followed him, stood a man who was naked to the waist, wearing gold, spangled tights and black, calf-high leather boots. He held no reins to steady himself, yet he seemed perfectly balanced just behind the elephant's head, agilely bouncing and swaying in time to the elephant's rhythm as it led the parade around the sawdust track. I judged the man to be in his early to mid-forties, but he had the hard, sculpted body of a much younger man.
The public address announcer intoned: "World Circus features Luther, world's greatest animal trainer!"
I greeted the announcement with a skeptical clearing of my throat.
Harper, a slight catch in her voice, said, "God, he's magnificent."
I experienced a sudden, sharp pang of jealousy and was immediately angry with myself for feeling it. Harper Rhys-Whitney, I reminded myself, had always relished her men-and she'd gone through four husbands and countless lovers to prove it. Just because we had recently begun sleeping together was no reason for me to let my brains run out my ears. Our sharing of sexual delights meant absolutely nothing as far as any kind of long-range commitment was concerned. I was undoubtedly an exercise in nostalgia for Harper, and her seemingly boundless passion and willingness to give of herself was her gift, perhaps a homage to our close friendship in the past. I was just going to have to will myself to enjoy Harper as long as it was her pleasure to be enjoyed by me, and not tarnish that gift with anything as negative and presumptuous as jealousy.
But it wasn't going to be easy.
Besides, the fact of the matter was that Luther was magnificent. He appeared to be about six feet, a hundred and seventy or eighty pounds, all muscle. He had firm, sculpted features, a shaved bullet head, strong chin and mouth, glacial blue eyes that glinted in the yellow spotlight that was tightly focused on him as he passed in front of and above us on his mount's journey around the sawdust track. The man exuded charisma and control. I strongly doubted that the "world's greatest animal trainer" was a man I'd never heard of, performing in a third-tier road show, but I suspected he was certainly good, and maybe more than just good. Any successful animal act is a partnership, a collaboration, between beasts and trainer, and it takes a special kind of person, with a very special gift; watching Luther balanced atop Curly's head, I suspected he had it.
It didn't surprise me that Mabel wasn't in the Grand Procession. By default, I had become Mabel's "mahout" when she was a very sick baby, after Phil had bought her from a carnival owner who had mistreated her-and I had never, in the years I'd cared for, fed, and worked with her, felt sufficiently confident of her good behavior to take her out with the other animals at the beginning of the show. It appeared Luther had the same misgivings. Mabel was an African elephant, not Asian, and the difference can be described as relatively the same as between a pit bull and a spaniel. About the only things they have in common are color and those incredibly versatile appendages called trunks, living columns of flesh comprised of more than a hundred thousand muscles that can hold more than two gallons of water. From a scientific viewpoint, taxonomists do not even consider the two species closely related, although they obviously evolved from the same ancestor. African elephants, distinguished from Asians by their larger, floppier ears, are also bigger in overall size. In the African species, both sexes have tusks. The last time I saw Mabel, her tusks measured eight feet and had been permanently capped with stainless-steel hemispheres bolted to the ivory. African elephants are highly intelligent and-when they are in a cooperative mood-can be taught to do some amazing tricks. The problem is that you can never predict when an African elephant is going to feel in a cooperative mood; a misjudgment can get you killed. Africans are rarely trainable, always unpredictable, and potentially dangerous.
Both species are long-lived-the record, in captivity, being an eighty-six-year-old Asian elephant in Ceylon which was used to carry the sacred tooth of Buddha on ceremonial occasions. After twenty years, I thought, Mabel and I were growing old together, but-the stories about elephants having exceptionally long memories notwithstanding-I doubted very much that she would remember me. The reason I knew she was still alive and with the circus was the fact that the program listed a special act featuring the "monster elephant." That would be Mabel; even more than most Africans, Mabel had always been a prima donna. I was most curious to see just what Luther was coaxing her to do to earn her considerable keep-besides using her as a living crane to raise and lower the Big Top, which she'd always enjoyed doing anyway.
The elephants looked well cared for, as did the six horses that followed diem in the processional. The program listed a bear act and, of course, Bengal tigers; these animals would have to be well taken care of, or they simply wouldn't perform. It also meant World Circus had a good veterinarian traveling with them, not one that existed only on paper, as was the case with so many third-tier road shows and carnivals. The healthy look of the animals, and the generally robust feel of the operation, could mean that the owner really cared about his or her acquisition, which could make my mission that much more difficult.
The show started off with an equestrian act. Harper's friends in Palmetto Grove had mentioned the quality of the performers, and now I could see what they meant. The horses, all white bays, were expertly trained, the performers who jumped on and off their backs and raced with them around the ring, daring and skilled. This, I thought, was a circus in the European and Russian tradition-one ring instead of three, but with acts that deserved and got undivided attention to what was happening in that one ring.
Incredibly, every act that followed seemed even better than the one that preceded it-bears, jugglers, dogs, tumblers, aerialists. If anything, I thought, they were almost too good to be performing in a relatively small road show like World Circus, virtually unheralded, traveling in broken-down campers
and semis over bumpy roads, going from one rural town to another. All of these performers could be with Ringling Brothers, Cole, or Beatty-the big boys-traveling in much greater comfort and presumably making more money, perhaps working fewer hours.
It was true that I'd stayed with Statler Brothers Circus even after receiving far better offers, but I'd stayed out of a sense of loyalty to Phil Statler. It was difficult for me to believe that all of the fine performers I was watching remained with World Circus out of loyalty to an owner who was, if the ticket taker could be believed, an absentee landlord. Then there was the question of where these people had come from, where they had learned and polished their skills. The world of the circus is a small one and should have included the performers in World Circus; word of exceptional talent spreads from show to show, people move from show to show, get to know each other, hang out in the same bars, vacation in the same places, or-especially in the case of freaks- retire to towns like Palmetto Grove in order to avoid the stares of the curious or simply to have neighbors with whom to relive old memories. None of Harper's friends had purported to know any of the World Circus performers or to have heard of them previously; it was almost as if World Circus had hired its people from another planet. I found it all quite curious and knew it was something I was going to have to try to look into; if our budding corporation was to make a successful bid to buy the circus, I would have to know the details of the operation, including the terms of the contracts held by all the performers.
Harper nudged me. I glanced at her, then looked in the direction where she was pointing, at a spot high up in the bleacher section to our right. I could see nothing but darkness.
"What is it?"
"It's a who. Your admirer, Dr. Button. Wait until the lights pass over that area again."
I waited. An animal act was in progress, with spotlights anchored at ground level sweeping back and forth across a woman and her dogs, and incidentally illuminating various groups in the audience. Suddenly a cone of white light swept across the top of the bleacher section where Harper had been pointing and I could indeed see Nate Button in the very top row, still breathing with his mouth open and still wearing his khaki safari jacket. However, he wasn't watching the action in the ring; he was staring off into space, absently tapping the right side of his head with a rolled-up piece of paper that was the same color as the handbills we had seen announcing the schedule of the circus for the next six weeks. I started to wave to him, but then the light passed, and he was once again lost to sight.
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