The night after our third unexpected and frenzied encounter, while the taste of her is still on my lips, I have a vivid dream. The train is stopped in the forest, for no reason I can make out because it’s the middle of the night and nobody stirs. There’s yelping outside, insistent and distressed. I leave the stock car, following the noise to the edge of a steep bank. Queenie struggles at the bottom of a ravine, a badger hanging from her leg. I call to her, frantically scanning the bank for a way to get down. I grab a ropy branch and clutch it while I try to descend, but the mud slips under my feet and I end up hauling myself back up.
In the meantime, Queenie breaks free and scrabbles up the hill. I scoop her up and check her for injuries. Incredibly, she is fine. I tuck her under my arm and turn toward the stock car. An eight-foot alligator blocks its entrance. I head for the next car over, but the alligator turns as well, shambling beside the train, its blunt, toothy snout open, grinning. I turn in panic. Another huge alligator approaches from the other direction.
There are noises behind us, leaves crackling and twigs snapping. I spin around to find that the badger has come up the bank and multiplied.
Behind us, a wall of badgers. In front of us, a dozen alligators.
I wake up in a cold sweat.
The situation is entirely untenable, and I know it.
IN POUGHKEEPSIE, WE are raided, and for once the social strata are bridged: working men, performers, and bosses alike weep and snizzle as all that scotch, all that wine, all that fine Canadian whiskey, all that beer, all that gin, and even moonshine is poured onto the gravel by straight-armed, sour-faced men. It winnows through the stones as we watch, bubbling into the undeserving earth.
And then we are run out of town.
In Hartford, a handful of patrons take serious exception to Rosie’s nonperformance, as well as the continued presence of the Lovely Lucinda sideshow banner despite the unfortunate absence of the Lovely Lucinda. The patches aren’t fast enough, and before we know it disgruntled men swarm the ticket wagon demanding refunds. With the police closing in on one side and townsfolk on the other, Uncle Al is forced to refund the whole day’s proceeds.
And then we are run out of town.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING is payday, and the employees of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth line up in front of the red ticket wagon. The working men are in a foul humor—they know which way the wind is blowing. The first person to approach the red wagon is a roustabout, and when he leaves empty-handed the line buzzes with angry curses. The rest of the working men stalk off, spitting and swearing, leaving only performers and bosses in line. A few minutes later, another angry buzz runs down the line, this one tinged with surprise. For the first time in the show’s history, there is no money for performers. Only the bosses are getting paid.
Walter is outraged.
“What the fuck is this?” he shouts as he enters the stock car. He throws his hat into the corner and then drops onto the bedroll.
Camel whimpers from the cot. Ever since the raid, he spends his time either staring at the wall or crying. The only time he speaks is when we’re trying to feed or clean him, and even then it’s only to beg us not to deliver him to his son. Walter and I take turns muttering placating things about family and forgiveness, but we both have misgivings. Whatever he was when he wandered away from his family, he is incalculably worse now, damaged beyond repair and probably even recognition. And if they’re not in a forgiving frame of mind, what will it be like for him to be so helpless in their hands?
“Calm down, Walter,” I say. I’m sitting on my horse blanket in the corner, brushing away the flies that have been tormenting me all morning, flitting from scab to scab.
“No, I will not fucking calm down. I’m a performer! A performer! Performers get paid!” Walter shouts, thumping his chest. He pulls off a shoe and heaves it against the wall. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls off the other and slams it into the corner. It lands on his hat. Walter brings his fist down on the blanket beneath him and Queenie scurries behind the row of trunks that used to hide Camel.
“We don’t have much longer,” I say. “Just hang on for a few more days.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because that’s when Camel gets picked up”—there’s a keening wail from the cot—“and we get the hell out of here.”
“Yeah?” says Walter. “And just what the hell are we going to do? Have you figured that out yet?”
I meet his gaze and hold it for a few seconds. Then I turn my head.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. That’s why I needed to get paid. We’re going to end up as fucking hoboes,” he says.
“No we won’t,” I say unconvincingly.
“You better think of something, Jacob. You’re the one who got us into this mess, not me. You and your girlfriend might be able to take to the road, but I can’t. This may be all fun and games for you—”
“It is not fun and games!”
“—but my life is at stake here. You’ve at least got the option of hopping trains and moving around. I don’t.”
He is quiet. I stare at his short, compact limbs.