by Sara Gruen
"Yes, it was a cheap shot," I say, still shouting. "They're all cheap shots and I'm getting mighty damned sick of them. If you're a performer, you take shots at the working men. If you're a working man, you take shots at Poles. If you're a Pole, you take shots at Jews. And if you're a dwarf--well, you tell me, Walter? Is it just Jews and working men you hate, or do you also hate Poles?"
Walter reddens and looks down. "I don't hate 'em. I don't hate anybody." After a moment he adds, "Well, okay, I really do hate August. But I hate him because he's a crazy son of a bitch."
"Can't argue with that," croaks Camel.
I look from Camel to Walter, and then back again. "No," I say with a sigh. "No, I suppose you can't."
IN HAMILTON, THE TEMPERATURE creeps up into the nineties, the sun beats relentlessly on the lot, and the lemonade goes missing.
The man from the juice joint, who left the great mixing vat for no more than a few minutes, storms off to Uncle Al, convinced that roustabouts are responsible.
Uncle Al has them rounded up. They emerge from the behind the stable tent and menagerie, sleepy, with straw in their hair. I observe from some distance, but it's hard not to think they have an air of innocence about them.
Apparently Uncle Al doesn't agree. He storms back and forth, bellowing like Genghis Khan at a troop inspection. He screams in their faces, details the cost--both in supplies and lost sales--of the stolen lemonade and tells them that every one of them will have his pay docked the next time it happens. He whacks a few upside the head and dismisses them. They creep back to their resting spots, rubbing their heads and eyeing each other with suspicion.
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.
Sixteen
"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.
I shake my head.
She takes both my hands in hers. They are warm and firmly fleshed. "You said nothing to be embarrassed of, Mr. Jankowski. You're a fine gentleman and I'm honored to know you."
My eyes fill, and I drop my head so she won't see.
"Mr. Jankowski--"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"About the circus?"
"No. About . . . Oh hell, don't you understand? I didn't even realize I was talking. It's the beginning of the end. It's all downhill from here, and I didn't have very far to go. But I was really hoping to hang on to my brains. I really was."
"You still have your brains, Mr. Jankowski. You're sharp as a tack."
We sit in silence for a minute.
"I'm scared, Rosemary."
"Do you want me to talk to Dr. Rashid?" she asks.
I nod. A tear slips from my eye and into my lap. I hold my eyes wide, hoping to contain the rest.
"It's another hour before you have to be ready to go. Would you like to rest a spell?"
I nod again. She gives my hand a final pat, lowers the head of my bed, and leaves. I lie back, listening to the buzzing lights and staring at the square tiles of the dropped ceiling. An expanse of pressed popcorn, of tasteless rice cakes.
If I'm completely honest with myself, there have been hints I was slipping.
Last week, when my people came, I didn't know them. I faked it, though--when they made their way toward me and I realized it was me they had come to see, I smiled and made all the usual placating noises, the "oh yesses" and "goodness graciouses" that make up my end of most conversations these days. I thought it was going just fine until a peculiar look crossed the mother's face. A horrified look, with her forehead scrumpled and her jaw slightly open. I raced back over the last few minutes of the conversation and realized I'd said the wrong thing, the polar opposite of what I should have said, and then I was mortified, because I don't dislike Isabelle. I just don't know her, and so I was having trouble paying attention to the details of her disastrous dance recital.
But then this Isabelle turned and laughed and in that instant I saw my wife. This made me weepy and these people whom I didn't recognize exchanged furtive glances and shortly thereafter announced that it was time to leave because Grandpa needed his rest. They patted my hand and they tucked my blanket in around my knees, and they left. They went out into the world, and they left me here. And to this day I have no idea who they were.
I know my children, don't get me wrong--but these are not my children. These are the children of my children, and their children, too, and maybe even theirs. Did I coo into their baby faces? Did I dandle them on my knee? I had three sons and two daughters, a houseful indeed, and none of them exactly held back. You multiply five by four and then by five again, and it's no wonder I forget how some of them fit in. It doesn't help that they take turns coming to see me, because even if I manage to commit one group to memory, they may not come around again for another eight or nine months, by which time I've forgotten whatever it was I may have known.
But what happened today was entirely different, and much, much scarier.
What in God's name did I say?
I close my eyes and reach for the far corners of my mind. They're no longer clearly defined. My brain is like a universe whose gases get thinner and thinner at the edges. But it doesn't dissolve into nothingness. I can sense something out there, just beyond my grasp, hovering, waiting--and God help me if I'm not skidding toward it again, mouth open wide.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
Seventeen
While August is off doing God knows what to Rosie, Marlena and I crouch on the grass in her dressing tent, clinging to each other like spider monkeys. I say almost nothing, just hold her head to my chest as her history spills out in a rushed whisper.
She tells me about meeting August--she was seventeen, and it had just dawned on her that the recent spate of bachelors joining her family for dinner were actually being presented as potential husbands. When one middle-aged banker with a receding chin, thinning hair, and reedy fingers showed up for dinner one time too many, she heard the doors of her future slamming all around her.
But even as the banker sniveled something that made Marlena blanch and stare in horror at her bowl of clam chowder, posters were being slapped up on every surface in town. The wheels of fate were in motion. The Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth was chugging toward them at that very moment, bringing with it a very real fantasy and, for Marlena, an escape that would prove as romantic as it was terrifying.
Two days later, on a brilliantly sunny day, the L'Arche family went to the circus. Marlena was standing in the menagerie tent in front of a string of stunning black and white Arabians when August first approached her. Her parents had wandered off to look at the cats, oblivious to the force that was about to enter their lives.
And August was a force. Charming, gregarious, and handsome as the devil. Dressed immaculately in blinding white jodhpurs, top hat and tails, he radiated both authority and irresistible charisma. Within minutes, he had secured the promise of a surreptitious meeting and disappeared before the L'Arche seniors rejoined their daughter.
When she met him later, at an art gallery, he began wooing her in earnest. He was twelve years her senior and glamorous in the way only an equestrian director can be. Before the end of the date, he had proposed.
He was charming and relentless. He refused to budge until she married him. He regaled her with stories of Uncle Al's desperation, and Uncle Al himself made pleas on August's behalf. They had already missed two jumps. A circus could not survive if it blew its route. This was an important decision, yes, but surely she understood how this was affecting them? That the lives of countless others depended on her making the right choice?
The seventeen-year-old Marlena gazed upon her future in Boston for three more evenings and on the fourth packed a suitcase.
At this point in her story, she dissolves into tears. I'm still holding her, still rocking back and forth. Eventually she pulls away, wiping her eyes with her hands.
"You should go," she says.
"I don't want to."
She whimpers, reaching across the divide to stroke my cheek with the back of her hand.
"I want to see you again," I say.
"You see me every day."
"You know what I mean."
There's a long pause. She drops her gaze to the ground. Her mouth moves a few times before she finally speaks. "I can't."
"Marlena, for God's sake--"
"I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it."
I kneel in front of her, searching her face for a signal to stay. After an agonizing wait, I realize I'm not going to find one.
I kiss her on the forehead and leave.
*
BEFORE I'VE GONE forty yards, I've heard more than I ever wanted to about how Rosie paid for the lemonade.
Apparently August sto
rmed into the menagerie and banished everyone. The puzzled menagerie men and a handful of others stood outside, their ears pressed to the seams of the great canvas tent as a torrent of angry screaming began. This sent the rest of the animals into a panic--the chimps screeched, the cats roared, and the zebras yelped. Despite this, the distraught listeners could still make out the hollow thud of bull hook hitting flesh, again and again and again.
At first Rosie bellowed and whimpered. When she progressed to squealing and shrieking, many of the men turned away, unable to take any more. One of them ran for Earl, who entered the menagerie and hauled August out by his armpits. He kicked and struggled like a madman even as Earl dragged him across the lot and up the stairs into the privilege car.
The remaining men found Rosie lying on her side, quivering, her foot still chained to a stake.
"I HATE THAT MAN," says Walter as I climb into the stock car. He's sitting on the cot, stroking Queenie's ears. "I really, really hate that man."
"Someone wanna tell me what's going on?" Camel calls from behind the row of trunks. "'Cuz I know something is. Jacob? Help me out here. Walter ain't talking."
I say nothing.
"There was no call to be that brutal. No call at all," Walter continues. "He damn near started a stampede, too. Could have killed the lot of us. Were you there? Did you hear any of it?"
Our eyes meet.
"No," I say.
"Well, I wouldn't mind knowing what in blazes you're talking about," says Camel. "But it seems I don't count for squat here. Hey, ain't it dinnertime?"
"I'm not hungry," I say.
"Me either," says Walter.
"Well, I am," says Camel, disgruntled. "But I bet neither one of you thought of that. And I bet neither one of you picked up so much as a piece of bread for an old man."
Walter and I look at each other. "Well, I was there," he says, his eyes full of accusation. "You wanna know what I heard?" he says.
"No," I say, staring at Queenie. She meets my gaze and whacks the blanket a few times with her stump.
"You sure?"
"Yes I'm sure."
"Thought you might be interested, you being the vet and all."
"I am interested," I say loudly. "But I'm also afraid of what it might make me do."