He nods curtly, bitterly. “Yeah. That’s right. And like I said before, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, either.”
MY MIND CHURNS as I go through the line in the cookhouse. Walter is absolutely right—I got us into this mess, and I’ve got to get us out. Damned if I know how, though. Not one of us has a home to go to. Never mind that Walter can’t hop trains—hell will freeze over before I let Marlena spend a single night in a hobo jungle. I’m so preoccupied that I’m almost at the table before I look up. Marlena is already there.
“Hi,” I say, taking my seat.
“Hi,” she says after a slight pause, and I know immediately that something is wrong.
“What is it? What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No. I’m fine,” she whispers, staring at her plate.
“No you’re not. What is it? What did he do?” I say. Other diners start to look.
“Nothing,” she hisses. “Keep your voice down.”
I straighten up and, with a great show of restraint, spread my napkin across my lap. I pick up my cutlery and carefully slice my pork chop. “Marlena, please talk to me,” I say quietly. I concentrate on making my face look as though we’re discussing the weather. Slowly, the people around us return to their meals.
“I’m late,” she says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m late.”
“For what?”
She raises her head and turns beet red. “I think I’m going to have a baby.”
WHEN EARL COMES to fetch me, I’m not even surprised. It’s just the way the day is going.
Uncle Al is sitting in his chair, his face pinched and sour. There is no brandy today. He gnaws on the end of a cigar and stabs his cane repeatedly into the carpet.
“It’s been almost three weeks, Jacob.”
“I know,” I say. My voice is shaky. I’m still absorbing Marlena’s news.
“I’m disappointed in you. I thought we had an understanding.”
“We did. We do.” I shift restlessly. “Look, I’m doing my best, but August isn’t helping. She’d have gone back to him a long time ago if he’d just leave her the hell alone for a while.”
“I’ve done what I could,” says Uncle Al. He takes the cigar from his lips, looks at it, and then picks a piece of tobacco from his tongue. He flicks it against the wall, where it sticks.
“Well, it’s not enough,” I say. “He follows her around. He yells at her. He cries outside her window. She’s scared of him. Having Earl follow him around and haul him off whenever he gets out of hand is not enough. Would you go back to him if you were her?”
Uncle Al stares at me. I suddenly realize I’ve been yelling.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll work on her. I swear, if you can just get him to leave her alone for a few more days—”
“No,” he says quietly. “We’re going to do it my way now.”
“What?”
“I said we’re going to do it my way. You can leave now.” He flicks the ends of his fingers toward the door. “Go.”
I stare at him, blinking stupidly. “What do you mean, your way?”
Next thing I know, Earl’s arms encircle me like a steel band. He lifts me from the chair and carries me to the door. “What do you mean, Al?” I shout over Earl’s shoulder. “I want to know what you mean! What are you going to do?”
Earl handles me significantly more gently once he’s closed the door. When he finally sets me on the gravel, he brushes off my jacket.
“Sorry, pal,” he says. “I really did try.”
“Earl!”
He stops and turns back to me, his face grim.
“What’s he got in mind?”
He looks at me but says nothing.
“Earl, please. I’m begging you. What’s he going to do?”
“I’m sorry, Jacob,” he says. He climbs back inside the train.
QUARTER TO SEVEN, fifteen minutes to showtime. The crowd mills around the menagerie, viewing the animals on their way to the big top. I’m standing by Rosie, supervising as she accepts donations of candy, gum, and even lemonade from the crowd. From the corner of my eye I see a tall man stride toward me. It’s Diamond Joe.
“You gotta get out of here,” he says, stepping over the rope.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“August’s on his way. The bull’s performing tonight.”
“What? You mean with Marlena?”
“Yeah. And he don’t want to see you. He’s in one of those moods. Go on, get out.”
I scan the tent for Marlena. She’s standing in front of her horses, chatting with a family of five. Her eyes flit over to me and then, when she sees my expression, dart back at regular intervals.
I hand Diamond Joe the silver-tipped cane that passes for a bull hook these days and step over the rope. I see August’s top hat approaching on my left and move instead to my right, past the line of zebras. I stop beside Marlena.
“Did you know you’re supposed to perform with Rosie tonight?” I say.
“Excuse me,” she says, smiling at the family in front of her. She turns around and leans in close. “Yes. Uncle Al called me in. He says the show is on the verge of collapse.”