WHEN I WAKE UP, the train has stopped—can I really have slept through the screeching brakes? The sun is shining on me through the window, and my brain pounds against my skull. My eyes ache and my mouth tastes like a sewer.
I stagger to my feet and glance into the bedroom. August is curled around Marlena, his arm lying across her. They are on top of the bedspread, still fully dressed.
I get a few odd looks when I emerge from car 48 dressed in a tux with my other clothes tucked under my arm. At this end of the train, where most of the onlookers are performers, I am regarded with frosty amusement. As I pass the working men’s sleepers, the glances become harder, more suspicious.
I climb gingerly into the stock car and push open the door of the little room.
Kinko is sitting on the edge of his cot, an eight-pager in one hand and his penis in the other. He stops midstroke, its slick purple head extending beyond his fist. There’s a heartbeat of silence followed by the whoosh of an empty Coke bottle flying at my head. I duck.
“Get out!” Kinko screams as the bottle explodes against the doorframe behind me. He leaps up, causing his erection to bounce wildly. “Get the hell out!” He lobs another bottle at me.
I turn to the door, shielding my head and dropping my clothes. I hear a zipper running up, and a moment later the complete works of Shakespeare smash into the wall beside me. “Okay, okay!” I shout. “I’m leaving!”
I pull the door shut behind me and lean against the wall. The curses continue unabated.
Otis appears outside the stock car. He looks in alarm at the closed door and then shrugs. “Hey, fancy boy,” he says. “You gonna help us with these animals or what?”
“Sure. Of course.” I jump to the ground.
He stares at me.
“What?” I say.
“Ain’t you gonna change out of the monkey suit first?”
I glance back at the closed door. Something heavy slams against the interior wall. “Uh, no. I think I’ll stay like I am for the time being.”
“Your call. Clive’s cleaned out the cats. He wants us to bring the meat.”
THERE’S EVEN MORE noise coming from the camel car this morning.
“Them hay burners sure don’t like traveling with meat,” says Otis. “Wish they’d stop kicking up such a fuss, though. We got a fair bit farther to go.”
I slide the door open. Flies explode outward. I see the maggots just as the smell hits. I manage to stagger a few feet away before vomiting. Otis joins me, doubled over, clasping his hands to his gut.
After he finishes throwing up, he takes a few deep breaths and pulls a filthy handkerchief from his pocket. He clasps it over his mouth and nose, and returns to the car. He grabs a bucket, runs to the tree line and dumps it. He holds his breath until he’s halfway back. Then he stops, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
I try to help, but every time I get near, my diaphragm erupts in fresh spasms.
“I’m sorry,” I say when Otis returns. I’m still gagging. “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
He shoots me a dirty look.
“My stomach’s off,” I say, feeling the need to explain. “I drank too much last night.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you did,” he says. “Have a seat, monkey boy. I’ll take care of it.”
Otis dumps the rest of the meat at the tree line, leaving it in a heap that buzzes with flies.
We leave the door to the camel car wide open, but it’s clear a simple airing out won’t be sufficient.
We lead the camels and llamas down the tracks and tie them to the side of the train. Then we slosh buckets of water across the floorboards, using push brooms to sluice the resulting muck from the car. The stench is still overwhelming, but it’s the best we can do.
After we tend to the rest of the animals, I return to the ring stock car. Silver Star is lying on his side, and Marlena is kneeling next to him, still wearing the rose dress from the night before. I walk past the long line of open stall dividers and stand beside her.
Silver Star’s eyes are barely open. He flinches and grunts in reaction to some unseen stimulus.
“He’s worse,” Marlena says without looking at me.
After a moment I say, “Yes.”
“Is there any chance he’ll recover? Any chance at all?”
I hesitate, because what’s on the tip of my tongue is a lie and I find I can’t utter it.
“You can tell me the truth,” she says. “I need to know.”
“No. I’m afraid there’s no chance at all.”
She lays a hand on his neck, holding it there. “In that case, promise me it will be quick. I don’t want him to suffer.”
I understand what she’s asking me, and shut my eyes. “I promise.”