by Sara Gruen
The rough-hewn door beside me squeaks open and Kinko comes out. He leans against the frame of the main door with Queenie at his feet, staring intently at the passing landscape. He hasn't looked at me since yesterday's incident, and to be frank, I find it difficult to look at him, vacillating as I do from feeling the deepest empathy for his mortification to being barely able not to laugh. When the train finally chugs to a stop and sighs, Kinko and Queenie disembark with the usual clap-clap and flying leap.
The scene outside is eerily quiet. Although the Flying Squadron pulled in a good half hour ahead of us, its men stand around silently. There is no ordered chaos. There is no clatter of runs or chutes, no cursing, no flying coils of rope, no hitching of teams. There are simply hundreds of disheveled men staring in bafflement at the pitched tents of another circus.
It's like a ghost town. There is a big top, but no crowd. A cookhouse, but no flag. Wagons and dressing tents fill the back end, but the people who are left mill about aimlessly or sit idly in the shade.
I jump down from the stock car just as a black and beige Plymouth roadster pulls into the parking lot. Two men in suits climb out, carrying briefcases and scanning the scene from under homburgs.
Uncle Al strides toward them, sans entourage, wearing his top hat and swinging his silver-tipped cane. He shakes hands with both men, his face jovial, cordial. As he talks, he turns to gesture broadly across the lot. The businessmen nod, crossing their arms in front of them, figuring, considering.
I hear gravel crunching behind me, and then August appears at my shoulder. "That's our Al," he says. "He can smell a city official a mile off. You watch--he'll have the mayor eating out of his hand by noon." He claps me on the shoulder. "Come on."
"Where to?" I ask.
"Into town, for breakfast," he says. "Doubt there's any food here. Probably won't be until tomorrow."
"Jesus--really?"
"Well, we'll try, but we hardly gave the advance man time to get here, did we?"
"What about them?"
"Who?"
I point at the defunct circus.
"Them? When they get hungry enough they'll mope off. Best thing for everyone, really."
"And our guys?"
"Oh, them. They'll survive until something shows up. Don't you worry. Al won't let them die."
WE STOP AT A DINER not far down the main strip. It has booths along one wall and a laminate counter with red-topped stools along the other. A handful of men sit at the counter, smoking and chatting with the girl who stands behind it.
I hold the door for Marlena, who goes immediately to a booth and slides in against the wall. August drops onto the opposite bench, so I end up sitting next to her. She crosses her arms and stares at the wall.
"Mornin'. What can I get you folks?" says the girl, still behind the counter.
"The works," says August. "I'm famished."
"How do you like your eggs?"
"Sunny side up."
"Ma'am?"
"Just coffee," Marlena says, sliding one leg over the other and jiggling her foot. The motion is frenetic, almost aggressive. She does not look at the waitress. Or August. Or me, come to think of it.
"Sir?" says the girl.
"Uh, same as him," I say. "Thanks."
August leans back and pulls out a pack of Camels. He flicks the bottom. A cigarette arcs through the air. He catches it in his lips and leans back, eyes bright, hands spread in triumph.
Marlena turns to look at him. She claps slowly, deliberately, her face stony.
"Come now, darling. Don't be a wet noodle," says August. "You know we were out of meat."
"Excuse me," she says, sliding toward me. I leap out of her way. She marches out the door, shoes tap-tapping and hips swaying under her flared red dress.
"Women," says August, lighting his cigarette from behind a cupped hand. He snaps his lighter shut. "Oh, sorry. Want one?"
"No thanks. I don't smoke."
"No?" he muses, sucking in a lungful. "You should take it up. It's good for your health." He puts the pack back in his pocket and snaps his fingers at the girl behind the counter. She's standing at the griddle, holding a spatula.
"Make it snappy, would you? We don't have all day."
She freezes, spatula in the air. Two of the men at the counter turn slowly to look at us, eyes wide.
"Um, August," I say.
"What?" He looks genuinely puzzled.
"It's coming just as fast as I can make it," the waitress says coldly.
"Fine. That's all I was asking," says August. He leans toward me and continues in a lowered voice. "What did I tell you? Women. Must be a full moon, or something."
WHEN I RETURN to the lot, a selected few of the Benzini Brothers tents are up: the menagerie, the stable tent, and the cookhouse. The flag is flying, and the smell of sour grease permeates the air.
"Don't even bother," says a man coming out. "Fried dough and nothing but chicory to wash it down."
"Thanks," I say. "I appreciate the warning."
He spits and stalks off.
The Fox Brothers employees who remain are lined up in front of the privilege car. A desperate hopefulness surrounds them. A few smile and joke, but their laughter is high-pitched. Some stare straight ahead, their arms crossed. Others fidget and pace with bowed heads. One by one, they are summoned inside for an audience with Uncle Al.
The majority climb out defeated. Some wipe their eyes and confer quietly with others near the front of the line. Others stare stoically ahead before walking toward town.
Two dwarves enter together. They leave a few minutes later, grim-faced, pausing to talk to a small group of men. Then they trudge down the tracks, side by side, heads high, stuffed pillowcases slung over their shoulders.
I scan the crowd for the famous freak. There are certainly oddities: dwarves and midgets and giants, a bearded lady (Al's already got one, so she's probably out of luck), an enormously fat man (could get lucky if Al wants a matching set), and an assortment of generally sad-looking people and dogs. But no man with an infant sticking out of his chest.
AFTER UNCLE AL has made his selections, our workmen tear down all of the other circus's tents except for the stable and menagerie. The remaining Fox Brothers men, no longer on anyone's payroll, sit and watch, smoking and spitting wads of tobacco juice into tall patches of Queen Anne's lace and thistles.
When Uncle Al discovers that city officials have yet to itemize the Fox Brothers baggage stock, a handful of nondescript horses get spirited from one stable tent to another. Absorption, so to speak. And Uncle Al's not the only one with that idea--a handful of farmers hang around the edges of the lot, trailing lead ropes.
"They're just going to walk out of here with them?" I ask Pete.
"Probably," he says. "Don't bother me none so long as they don't touch ours. Keep your eyes open, though. It's gonna be a day or two before anybody knows what's what, and I don't want none of ours going missing."
Our baggage stock has done double duty, and the big horses are foaming and blowing hard. I persuade a city official to open a hydrant so we can water them, but they're still without hay or oats.
August returns as we're filling the last trough.
"What the hell are you doing? Those horses have been on a train for three days--get out there on the pavement and hard-ass them so they don't go soft."
"Hard-ass, my ass," replies Pete. "Look around you. Just what the hell do you think they've been doing for the last four hours?"
"You used our stock?"
"What the hell did you want me to use?"
"You should've used their baggage stock!"
"I don't know their fucking baggage stock!" shouts Pete. "And what's the point of using their baggage stock if we're just going to have to hard-ass ours to keep 'em in shape, anyway!"
August's mouth opens. Then it shuts and he disappears.
BEFORE LONG, TRUCKS converge on the lot. One after another backs up to the cookhouse, and unbelievable amounts of food
disappear behind it. The cookhouse crew gets right to work, and in no time at all, the boiler is running and the scent of good food--real food--wafts across the lot.
The food and bedding for the animals arrives shortly thereafter, in wagons rather than trucks. When we cart the hay into the stable tent, the horses nicker and rumble and stretch out their necks, snatching mouthfuls before it even hits the ground.
The animals in the menagerie are no less happy to see us--the chimps scream and swing from the bars of their dens, flashing toothy grins. The meat eaters pace. The hay burners toss their heads, snorting, squealing, and even barking in agitation.
I open the orangutan's door and set a pan of fruits, vegetables, and nuts on the floor. As I close it, her long arm reaches through the bars. She points at an orange in another pan.
"That? You want that?"
She continues to point, blinking at me with close-set eyes. Her features are concave, her face a wide platter fringed with red hair. She's the most outrageous and beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Here," I say, handing her the orange. "You can have it."
She takes it and sets it on the floor. Then she reaches out again. After several seconds of serious misgivings, I hold out my hand. She wraps her long fingers around it, then lets go. She sits on her haunches and peels her orange.
I stare in amazement. She was thanking me.
"SO THAT'S THAT," says August as we emerge from the menagerie. He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Join me for a drink, my boy. There's lemonade in Marlena's dressing tent, and not that sock juice from the juice joint either. We'll put a drop of whiskey in, hey hey?"
"I'll be along in a minute," I say. "I need to check the other menagerie." Because of the peculiar status of the Fox Brothers baggage stock--whose numbers have been depleting all afternoon--I've seen for myself that they were fed and watered. But I have yet to lay eyes on their exotics or ring stock.
"No," August says firmly. "You'll join me now."
I look over, surprised by his tone. "All right. Sure," I say. "Do you know if they got fed and watered?"
"They'll get fed and watered. Eventually."
"What?" I say.
"They'll get fed and watered. Eventually."
"August, it's damned near ninety degrees. We can't leave them without at least water."
"We can, and we will. It's how Uncle Al does business. He and the mayor will play chicken for a while, the mayor will figure out he doesn't have a fucking clue what to do with giraffes and zebras and lions, he'll drop his prices, and then--and only then--we'll move in."
"I'm sorry, but I can't do that," I say, turning to walk away.
His hand locks around my arm. He comes in front of me and leans in so close his face is inches from mine. He lays a finger alongside my cheek. "Yes, you can. They will get cared for. Just not yet. That's how it works."
"That's bullshit."
"Uncle Al has made an art form out of building this circus. We are what we are because of it. Who the hell knows what's in that tent? If there's nothing he wants, then fine. Who cares? But if there's something he wants and you mess with his business and he ends up paying more because of it, you better believe that Al is going to mess with you. Do you understand?" He speaks through clenched teeth. "Do . . . you . . . understand?" he repeats, coming to a full stop after each word.
I stare straight into his unblinking eyes. "Entirely," I say.
"Good," he says. He takes his finger out of my face and steps backward. "Good," he says again, nodding and allowing his face to relax. He forces a laugh. "I'll tell you what, that whiskey will go down well."
"I think I'll pass."
He watches me for a moment and then shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says.
I take a seat some distance from the tent housing the abandoned animals, watching it with increasing desperation. The sidewall billows inward from a sudden gust of wind. There isn't even a cross draft. I have never been more aware of the heat beating down on my own head and the dryness of my own throat. I remove my hat and wipe a gritty arm across my forehead.
WHEN THE ORANGE and blue flag goes up over the cookhouse for dinner, a handful of new Benzini Brothers employees join the lineup, identifiable by the red dinner tickets they clutch in their hands. The fat man was lucky, as was the bearded lady and a handful of dwarves. Uncle Al took on only performers, although one unfortunate fellow found himself unemployed again within a matter of minutes when August caught him looking a little too appreciatively at Marlena as he exited the privilege car.
A few others try to join the lineup, and not a one of them gets by Ezra. His only job is to know everyone on the show, and by God, he's good at it. When he jerks his thumb at some unfortunate, Blackie steps forward to take care of it. One or two of the rejects manage to scarf a fistful of food before flying headfirst out of the cookhouse.
Drab, silent men hang all around the perimeter with hungry eyes. As Marlena steps away from the steam tables, one of them addresses her. He's a tall man, gaunt, with deeply creased cheeks. Under different circumstances, he would probably be handsome.
"Lady--hey, lady. Can you spare a little? Just a piece of bread?"
Marlena stops and looks at him. His face is hollow, his eyes desperate. She looks at her plate.
"Aw, come on, lady. Have a heart. I ain't ate in two days." He runs his tongue across cracked lips.
"Keep moving," says August, taking Marlena's elbow and steering her firmly toward a table in the center of the tent. It's not our usual table, but I've noticed that people tend not to argue with August. Marlena sits silently, looking occasionally at the men outside the tent.
"Oh, it's no good," she says, flinging her cutlery to the table. "I can't eat with those poor souls out there." She stands and picks up her plate.
"Where are you going?" August says sharply.
Marlena stares down at him. "How am I supposed to sit here and eat when they've had nothing for two days?"
"You are not giving that to him," says August. "Now sit down."
People from several other tables turn to look. August smiles nervously at them and leans toward Marlena. "Darling," he says urgently, "I know this is hard on you. But if you give that man food, it will encourage him to hang around, and then what? Uncle Al's already made his picks. He wasn't one of them. He's got to move on, that's all--and the sooner the better. It's for his own good. It's a kindness, really."
Marlena's eyes narrow. She sets her plate down, stabs a pork chop with her fork, and slaps it on a piece of bread. She swipes August's bread, slaps it on the other side of the pork chop, and storms off.
"What do you think you're doing?" shouts August.
She walks straight to the gaunt man, picks up his hand, and plants the sandwich in it. Then she marches off to scattered applause and whistles from the working men's side of the tent.
August vibrates with anger, a vein pulsing at his temple. After a moment he rises, taking his plate. He tilts its contents into the trash and leaves.
I stare at my plate. It's piled high with pork chops, collard greens, mashed potatoes, and baked apples. I worked like a dog all day, but I can't eat a thing.
ALTHOUGH IT'S NEARLY SEVEN, the sun is still high and the air heavy. The terrain is very different from what we left behind in the northeast. It's flat here, and dry as a bone. The lot is covered in long grass, but it's brown and trampled, crispy as hay. At the edges, near the tracks, tall weeds have taken over--tough plants with stringy stalks, small leaves, and compact flowers. Designed to waste energy on nothing but getting their blooms up toward the sun.
As I pass the stable tent, I see Kinko standing in its scant shade. Queenie squats in front of him, defecating loosely, scootching a few inches forward after each fresh burst of liquid.
"What's up?" I say, coming to a stop beside him.
Kinko glares at me. "What the hell does it look like? She's got the trots."
"What did she eat?"
"Who the fuck knows?"
I step
forward and peer closely at one of the small puddles, checking for signs of parasites. She seems clear. "See if the cookhouse has any honey."
"Huh?" Kinko says, straightening up and squinting at me.
"Honey. If you can get hold of any slippery elm powder, add a bit of that as well. But a spoonful of honey should help on its own," I say.
He frowns at me for a moment, arms akimbo. "Okay," he says doubtfully. Then turns back to his dog.
I walk on, eventually settling on a patch of grass some distance from the Fox Brothers menagerie. It stands in ominous desertion, as though there's a minefield around it. No one comes within twenty yards. The conditions inside must be deadly, but short of tying up Uncle Al and August and hijacking the water wagon, I can't think of a damned thing to do. I grow more and more desperate, until I can sit still no longer. I climb to my feet and go instead to our menagerie.
Even with the benefit of full water troughs and a cross-breeze, the animals are in a heat-induced stupor. The zebras, giraffes, and other hay burners remain on their feet but with their necks extended and eyes half-closed. Even the yak is motionless, despite the flies that buzz mercilessly around his ears and eyes. I swat a few away, but they land again immediately. It's hopeless.
The polar bear lies on his stomach, head and snout stretched in front of him. In repose he looks harmless--cuddly even, with most of his bulk concentrated in the lower third of his body. He takes a deep, halting breath and then exhales a long, rumbling groan. Poor thing. I doubt the temperature in the Arctic ever climbs anywhere close to this.
The orangutan lies flat on her back, arms and legs spread out. She turns her head to look at me, blinking mournfully as though apologizing for not making more of an effort.
It's okay, I say with my eyes. I understand.
She blinks once more and then turns her face so she's looking at the ceiling again.
When I get to Marlena's horses, they snort in recognition and flap their lips against my hands, which still smell like baked apples. When they find I have nothing for them, they lose interest and drift back into their semiconscious state.
The cats lie on their sides, perfectly still, their eyes not quite closed. If it weren't for the steady rise and fall of their rib cages, I might think they were dead. I press my forehead up against the bars and watch them for a long time. Finally I turn to leave. I'm about three yards away when I suddenly turn back. It's just dawned on me that the floors of their dens are conspicuously clean.