What have they done to me?
I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it’s no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It’s been there awhile, biding its time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there’s really no fighting it.
COURTESY OF KEN HARCK ARCHIVES
Six
The train groans, straining against the increasing resistance of air brakes. After several minutes and a final, prolonged shriek, the great iron beast shudders to a stop and exhales.
Kinko throws back his blanket and stands up. He’s no more than four feet tall, if that. He stretches, yawns, and smacks his lips, then scratches his head, armpits, and testicles. The dog dances around his feet, her stump of a tail wagging furiously.
“Come on, Queenie,” he says, scooping her up. “You want to go outside? Queenie go outside?” He plants a kiss in the middle of her brown and white head and crosses the little room.
I watch from my crumpled horse blanket in the corner.
“Kinko?” I say.
If it weren’t for the vehemence with which he slams the door, I might think he didn’t hear me.
WE ARE ON A SIDE rail behind the Flying Squadron, which has obviously been here a few hours. The tent city has already risen, to the delight of the crowd of townspeople hanging around watching. Rows of children sit on top of the Flying Squadron surveying the lot with shining eyes. Their parents congregate beneath, holding the hands of younger siblings and pointing to various marvels appearing in front of them.
The workmen from the main train climb down from the sleeper cars, light cigarettes, and trek across the lot toward the cookhouse. Its blue and orange flag is already flying and the boiler beside it belches steam, bearing cheerful witness to the breakfast within.
Performers emerge from sleepers closer to the back of the train and of obviously better quality. There’s a clear hierarchy: the closer to the back, the more impressive the quarters. Uncle Al himself climbs from a car right in front of the caboose. I can’t help but notice that Kinko and I are the human occupants closest to the engine.
“Jacob!”
I turn. August strides toward me, his shirt crisp, his chin scraped smooth. His slick hair bears the recent impression of a comb.
“How are we this morning, my boy?” he asks.
“All right,” I say. “A little tired.”
“Did that little troll give you any trouble?”
“No,” I say. “He was fine.”
“Good, good.” He claps his hands together. “Shall we have a look at that horse then? I doubt it’s anything serious. Marlena coddles them terribly. Oh, here’s the little lady now. Come here, darling,” he calls brightly. “I want you to meet Jacob. He’s a fan of yours.”
I feel a blush creep across my face.
She comes to a stop beside him, smiling up at me as August turns toward the stock car. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, extending her hand. Up close she still looks remarkably like Catherine—delicate features, pale as porcelain, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Shimmering blue eyes, and hair just dark enough to disqualify as blonde.
“The pleasure is mine,” I say, painfully aware that I haven’t shaved in two days, my clothes are stiff with manure, and that manure is not the only unpleasant scent rising from my body.
She cocks her head slightly. “Say, you’re the one I saw yesterday, aren’t you? In the menagerie?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, lying instinctively.
“Sure you are. Right before the show. When the chimp den slammed shut.”
I glance at August, but he’s still facing the other way. She follows my gaze and seems to understand.
“You’re not from Boston, are you?” she says, her voice lowered.
“No. I’ve never been.”
“Huh,” she says. “It’s just you look familiar somehow. Oh well,” she continues brightly. “Auggie says you’re a vet.” At the sound of his name, August spins around.
“No,” I say. “I mean, not exactly.”
“He’s being modest,” says August. “Pete! Hey, Pete!”
A group of men stand in front of the stock car’s door, attaching a ramp with built-in sides. A tall one with dark hair turns. “Yeah, boss?” he says.
“Get the others unloaded and bring out Silver Star, will you?”
“Sure.”
Eleven horses later—five white and six black—Pete goes inside the stock car once again. A moment later he’s back. “Silver Star don’t want to move, boss.”
“Make him,” says August.
“Oh no you don’t,” says Marlena, shooting August a dirty look. She marches up the ramp and disappears.