“Tell me where it is and I’ll get it,” I growl, poking my finger into Earl’s chest.
“Under the window seat,” Marlena whispers urgently. She rises and comes around the table so that she’s beside me. “The bench opens. It’s in a coffee can. But it’s probably easier for me—”
“Okay, I gotta take you out now,” says Earl. He turns me around and bends my arm behind my back. He pushes me forward so I’m bent in the middle.
I turn my head to Marlena. “I’ll get it. You stay away from that train car. Promise me!”
I wriggle a bit, and Earl lets me.
“I said promise me!” I hiss.
“I promise,” Marlena says. “Be careful!”
“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” I shout at Earl. For effect, of course.
He and I make a great spectacle of leaving the tent. I wonder if anyone can tell that he’s not bending my arm far enough for it to hurt. But he makes up for that detail by chucking me a good ten feet across the grass.
I SPEND THE ENTIRE afternoon peering around corners, slipping behind tent flaps, and ducking under wagons. But not once can I get near car 48 without being seen—and besides, I haven’t laid eyes on August since lunchtime, so it’s entirely possible that he’s in there. So I bide my time.
There is no matinée. At about three in the afternoon, Uncle Al stands on a box in the middle of the lot and informs everyone that the evening show better be the best of their lives. He doesn’t say what will happen if it isn’t, and no one asks.
And so an impromptu parade is thrown together, after which the animals are led to the menagerie and the candy butchers and other concessionaires set up their wares. The crowd that followed the parade back from town gathers in the midway, and before long Cecil is working the suckers in front of the sideshow.
I’M PRESSED UP AGAINST the outside of the menagerie tent, pulling the laced seam open so I can peek through.
I see August inside, bringing in Rosie. He swings the silver-tipped cane under her belly and behind her front legs, essentially threatening her with it. She follows obediently, but her eyes are glazed with hostility. He leads her to her usual spot and chains her foot to a stake. She gazes upon his bent back with flattened ears and then seems to adjust her attitude, swinging her trunk and investigating the ground in front of her. She finds some tidbit on the ground and picks it up. She curls her trunk inward and rubs the object on it, testing it for texture. Then she pops it in her mouth.
Marlena’s horses are already lined up, but she’s not there yet. Most of the rubes have already filed through on their way to the big top. She ought to be here by now. Come on, come on, where are you—
It occurs to me that despite her promise, she’s probably gone to their stateroom. Damn it, damn it, damn it. August is still fussing with Rosie’s chain, but it won’t be long before he notices Marlena’s absence and investigates.
There’s a tug on my sleeve. I spin around with fists clenched.
Grady raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa there, fella. Take it easy.”
I drop my fists. “I’m a bit jittery. That’s all.”
“Yeah, well. You got reason,” he says, glancing around. “Say, you eaten yet? I saw you get tossed from the cookhouse.”
“No,” I say.
“Come on. We’ll go around to the grease joint.”
“No. I can’t. I’m flat broke,” I say, desperate for him to leave. I turn back to the seam and pry its edges apart. Marlena’s still not there.
“I’ll spot you,” says Grady.
“I’m okay, really.” I keep my back to him, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.
“Listen, we gotta talk,” he says quietly. “It’s safer on the midway.”
I turn my head and lock eyes with him.
I follow him through to the midway. From inside the big top, the band launches into the music for the Spec.
We join the lineup in front of the grease joint. The man behind the counter flips and assembles burgers at lightning speed, catering to the few but anxious stragglers.
Grady and I work our way to the front of the line. He holds up two fingers. “A couple of burgers, Sammy. No rush.”
Within seconds, the man behind the counter holds out two tin plates. I take one, and Grady takes the other. He also extends a rolled bill.
“Get outta here,” says the cook, waving his hand. “Your money’s no good here.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” says Grady, pocketing the bill. “Sure do appreciate it.”
He goes to a battered wooden table and swings his leg over the bench. I go around to the other side.
“So, what’s up?” I say, fingering a burl in the wood.
Grady looks around furtively. “A few of the guys that got done last night caught up again,” he says. He lifts his burger and waits as three drops of grease fall onto his plate.
“What, they’re here now?” I say, straightening up and scanning the midway. With the exception of a handful of men in front of the sideshow—probably waiting to be led to Barbara—all the rubes are in the big top.