The Fox Brothers Circus has just collapsed, and Uncle Al is ecstatic because they employed the world-famous Charles Mansfield-Livingston, a handsome, dapper man with a parasitic twin growing out of his chest. He calls it Chaz. It looks like an infant with its head buried in his ribcage. He dresses it in miniature suits, with black patent shoes on its feet, and when Charles walks, he holds its little hands in his. Rumor has it that Chaz’s tiny penis even gets erections.
Uncle Al is desperate to get there before someone else snaps him up. And so, despite the fact that our posters are all over Saratoga Springs; despite the fact that it was supposed to be a two-day stop and we’ve just had 2,200 loaves of bread, 116 pounds of butter, 360 dozen eggs, 1,570 pounds of meat, 11 cases of sauerkraut, 105 pounds of sugar, 24 crates of oranges, 52 pounds of lard, 1,200 pounds of vegetables, and 212 cans of coffee delivered to the lot; despite the tons of hay and turnips and beets and other food for the animals that is piled out back of the menagerie tent; despite the hundreds of townspeople gathered at the edge of the lot right now, first in excitement, and then in bewilderment, and now in fast-growing anger; despite all this, we are tearing down and moving out.
The cook is apoplectic. The advance man is threatening to quit. The boss hostler is furious, whacking the beleaguered men of the Flying Squadron with flagrant abandon.
Everyone here has been down this route before. Mostly they’re worried they won’t be fed enough during the three-day journey to Joliet. The cookhouse crew are doing their best, scrabbling to haul as much food as they can back to the main train and promising to hand out dukeys—apparently some kind of boxed meal—at the first opportunity.
WHEN AUGUST LEARNS we have a three-day jump in front of us, he lets loose a string of curses, then strides back and forth, damning Uncle Al to hell and barking orders at the rest of us. While we haul food for the animals back to the train, August goes off to try to persuade—and if necessary, to bribe—the cookhouse steward into parting with some of the food meant for humans.
Diamond Joe and I carry buckets of offal from behind the menagerie to the main train. It’s from the local stockyards, and is repulsive—smelly, bloody, and charred. We put the buckets just inside the entrance of the stock cars. The inhabitants—camels, zebras, and other hay burners—kick and fuss and make all manner of protest, but they are going to have to travel with the meat because there is no other place to put it. The big cats travel on top of the flat cars in parade dens.
When we’re finished, I go looking for August. He’s behind the cookhouse loading a wheelbarrow with the odds and ends he’s managed to beg off the cookhouse crew.
“We’re pretty much loaded,” I say. “Should we do anything about water?”
“Dump and refill the buckets. They’ve loaded the water wagon, but it won’t last three days. We’ll have to stop along the way. Uncle Al may be a tough old crow, but he’s no fool. He won’t risk the animals. No animals, no circus. Is all the meat on board?”
“As much as will fit.”
“Priority goes to the meat. If you have to toss off hay to make room, do it. Cats are worth more than hay burners.”
“We’re packed to the gills. Unless Kinko and I sleep somewhere else, there’s no room for anything else.”
August pauses, tapping his pursed lips. “No,” he says finally. “Marlena would never tolerate meat on board with her horses.”
At least I know where I stand. Even if it is somewhere below the cats.
THE WATER AT THE BOTTOM of the horses’ buckets is murky and has oats floating in it. But it’s water all the same, so I carry the buckets outside, remove my shirt and dump what’s left over my arms, head, and chest.
“Feeling a little less than fresh, Doc?” says August.
I’m leaning over with water dripping from my hair. I wipe both eyes clear and stand up. “Sorry. I didn’t see any other water to use, and I was just going to dump it, anyway.”
“No, quite right, quite right. We can hardly expect our vet to live like a working man, can we? I’ll tell you what, Jacob. It’s a little late now, but when we get to Joliet I’ll arrange for you to start getting your own water. Performers and bosses get two buckets apiece; more, if you’re willing to grease the water man’s palm,” he says, rubbing his fingers and thumb. “I’ll also set you up with the Monday Man and see about getting you another set of clothes.”
“The Monday Man?”
“What day did your mother do the washing, Jacob?”
I stare at him. “Surely you don’t mean—”
“All that wash hanging up on lines. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“But—”
“Never you mind, Jacob. If you don’t want to know the answer to a question, don’t ask. And don’t use that slime to clean up. Follow me.”
He leads me back across the lot to one of only three tents left standing. Inside are hundreds of buckets, lined up two deep in front of trunks and clothes racks, with names or initials painted on the sides. Men in various states of undress are using them to bathe and shave.
“Here,” he says, pointing at a pair of buckets. “Use these.”
“But what about Walter?” I ask, reading the name from the side of one of them.
“Oh, I know Walter. He’ll understand. Got a razor?”