The Book of Speculation: A Novel

She expressed concern that people would be upset that she possessed no such appendage. Peabody replied, “You are beautiful. All else matters little, so long as you hold your breath and perform aquatic feats.” He insisted she wear a white gown that billowed around her when she descended into the tub.

The first part was painless, swimming tricks mostly, her backstroke was made sinuous by the lines of the wet gown and her blue-black hair. As she paused to smile and wave Peabody would ramble about the mysteries of her origin. Then he slashed the air, slapped the tub, and bellowed, “Dive!”

She pushed out her breath and sank to the bottom of the tub, her skirts trailing above while Peabody talked, his voice vibrating through the water. He encouraged the audience to count if they could and began a long, dark monologue.

“Tortures and horrors of the deep, fine ladies and gentle souls. This poor creature, this slip of a girl, she braves them! And would you survive?” Here he pointed a finger to the smallest boy in the crowd. “Fine lad, would you survive?”

Beneath the surface Evangeline was alone with the water and fear. When she closed her eyes, she imagined Grandmother Visser’s bruised lips asking why she’d done it. As the water pressed against her stomach and rib cage, caressing her, it felt like her grandmother’s hands, her voice, begging. Please.

Eternities after the act’s start, Peabody rapped his hand against the side of the tub, signaling Evangeline to rise. She spread her arms so that her sleeves hung like wings, and floated up, the crown of her head breaking the surface, then her eyes, slowly opening. She smiled the showman’s smile Peabody had taught her. Once her shoulders were above the water, she breathed. When she filled her lungs, the dress clung so that she rose like a Venus from the waves. At first the men’s leers brought shame, but routine blunted its bite.

Two pairs of eyes always watched her; one belonged to a scarred man, the other to a silent one.

When they traveled the mud roads between towns the tub doubled as her bed; turned on its side and lined with a straw mattress it made suitable shelter, and an oilcloth over the front kept out wind and rain, affording her a small amount of privacy. She fastened hooks to the outside of the staves for a curtain Melina had given her, and fashioned the tub into an intimate sort of room.

Though she did not mean to, she found herself watching the mute fortune-teller. He had a fascinating animal quickness and was helpful to a fault, but she often caught him staring. His eyes would flit away, but something about him left her feeling exposed, as if he knew her secret. He would bring her blankets to cover places where stiff straw poked through her mattress and made sure cracks in the tub were properly sealed with pitch, running his fingers along the staves to check for shifting. He stayed until she pulled the oilcloth tightly over the head of the tub and told him gently, “Good night, Amos.”

She did not know that he lingered until he was certain she slept. She knew only quiet contentment as she pulled the cloth down each night. She began to wonder if he had a voice what it might sound like. Peabody said Amos was mute but had never said why; perhaps he’d been badly injured. She wondered if he could make any sounds at all, and how he told fortunes while voiceless.

While Amos dreamt the dreams of a wild boy—of marshes teeming with animals, of soft mosses to sleep on, of the pleasures of cold rivers on the skin, of a lovely woman in the water, hair spread around her like blowing grass—Evangeline’s nights were darker. She dreamt of crawling from the gray house in Krommeskill, knees bloodied and caked with mud and pine needles. Always her grandmother followed, face purpled, begging for mercy and salvation. Why? Why? I loved you so.

The troupe had left Philadelphia for New Castle’s pointed brick houses when the sky shattered and sheets of rain threatened to flood the menagerie. The small horse kicked and bucked inside her wagon, the llama screamed like a wounded child. Fearing that any attempt at progress would mire them, Peabody ordered the wagons to halt until the rain passed. Nighttime broke into thick heat that forced everyone to their beds. The air hung heavy with thunderheads and the sky became a weight that held Evangeline down as her grandmother once had. She slept the disquieted sleep of the guilty.