The Book of Speculation: A Novel

I only need to touch the burning paper to the curtains. A wall of heat pushes back as the pile becomes a Technicolor bright chemical blossom. Eyebrows and eyelashes singe and I fall. Enola and Doyle pull my shoulders, dragging me from the inferno. There is a putrid stink—smoke and rot together. The hair burned off my forearm and foul-smelling soot dusts my skin.

“Holy shit,” Enola shouts. She repeats it like a mantra, holyshitholyshitholyshit. Soon it falls apart into laughter. The chemicals burn off and the fire settles to a slow roar as tinder smolders and logs catch fire. I watch a curse’s touch turn to ash.

The crabs back away from the fire, retreating toward the water, and Enola and Doyle sit in the sand beside me. It looks like one of the fires Frank and my father built. If I leaned just to the other side I might see Alice, light hopping across her freckles. If I looked out to the water, I might see Mom swimming or hear her calling me. Simon.

“You burned the book,” Enola says. She briefly touches her forehead to my shoulder. The gentle press is her thanks. Words she’s always had trouble with.

“I burned everything. I got caught up in it because I lost my job.”

“Good. Feel better?”

“Yes.” My ankle hurts and my head still aches from where I hit it, my eyes are bloodshot, I’m gutted from destroying a priceless book, and I nearly incinerated myself. I feel remarkably good.

We watch the fire devour the last of the curtains, leaving nothing but the chains, glowing snakes in the sand. The wind picks up and carries sparks across the beach and into the water. Ashen remnants of Peabody’s writing.

Doyle sniffs. A snap cuts through the air, a searing blue flash set upon by thunder. Then, then it begins to rain.





24


The wagon struck a stone, jostling Peabody and sending pages of correspondence fluttering to the floor. As troupe master, he eschewed driving in favor of minding the books, plotting routes, and managing the direction and composition of the acts comprising the show; the pitfall of the arrangement was suffering Nat’s reckless hands at the reins. The previous day the strongman had driven over a large root, causing Peabody to spill a bottle of ink on the only cushion he’d not sacrificed to the Les Ferez act.

He was moving in the direction of sophistication. To see this progress he need look no further than Amos—from savage to mystic, to courtier with lovely wife—a remarkable transformation. The next step would be to get the troupe off the road. Peabody nipped at the end of a seagull-feather quill he’d acquired; the birds were unpleasant but made for excellent writing nibs, firm, yet flexible enough for sketching.

The ratio of days spent in each town versus the time in travel was disheartening. He lacked funds for anything approaching the arena he’d trained in. Boats, he mused. Were he to obtain a boat, they might float from city to city, alight for shows, and sleep aboard at night. The cart bounced as it hit a rut. A boat would mean no more impassable roads and no more of Nat’s infernal driving.

He returned to his correspondence—a letter from his son. Zachary knew his father’s routes and made a habit of sending word to towns he frequented, and the boardinghouse in Tanner’s Ferry held his letters for months. The letter had come from Philadelphia. June 1798. Peabody grimaced. Had he known that Zachary had been in Philadelphia, he would have skipped New Castle if only to set eyes upon the boy again. Man, he corrected. Zachary was no longer the sprite he’d taught sleight of hand; he was grown.



Dearest Father,

I am certain this letter finds you well at Tanner’s Ferry, and that you acquired an oilskin while in town. I recall your wagon being prone to leaks. Please do take care. You are not as young as you once were.

I have found employment at the hands of a wondrous fellow, Mr. John Bill Ricketts, and cannot help but think that you would find his company enjoyable. He is a spry fellow and the most skilled eques trian I have had the privilege to see. I have witnessed him dance a hornpipe on horseback, Father. Perhaps you have met? Mr. Ricketts has said that he trained with the Joneses in London. While I know you threw in firmly with Astley, it is not so large a circle we move in. The entertainments Mr. Ricketts presides over are almost beyond believing. He has arenas in Philadelphia and New York, each with a proper circus for equestrian pantomimes and a stage for entre-act diversions. A man called Spinacuta—a silent type—has become my instructor. Mr. Spinacuta performs upon a tightened span of rope. In this he is easily as skilled as Mr. Ricketts is on horseback. Father, I’ve seen Spinacuta perform a reel on his rope—with baskets tied about his feet!