Uncle Al strides toward them, sans entourage, wearing his top hat and swinging his silver-tipped cane. He shakes hands with both men, his face jovial, cordial. As he talks, he turns to gesture broadly across the lot. The businessmen nod, crossing their arms in front of them, figuring, considering.
I hear gravel crunching behind me, and then August appears at my shoulder. “That’s our Al,” he says. “He can smell a city official a mile off. You watch—he’ll have the mayor eating out of his hand by noon.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Come on.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Into town, for breakfast,” he says. “Doubt there’s any food here. Probably won’t be until tomorrow.”
“Jesus—really?”
“Well, we’ll try, but we hardly gave the advance man time to get here, did we?”
“What about them?”
“Who?”
I point at the defunct circus.
“Them? When they get hungry enough they’ll mope off. Best thing for everyone, really.”
“And our guys?”
“Oh, them. They’ll survive until something shows up. Don’t you worry. Al won’t let them die.”
WE STOP AT A DINER not far down the main strip. It has booths along one wall and a laminate counter with red-topped stools along the other. A handful of men sit at the counter, smoking and chatting with the girl who stands behind it.
I hold the door for Marlena, who goes immediately to a booth and slides in against the wall. August drops onto the opposite bench, so I end up sitting next to her. She crosses her arms and stares at the wall.
“Mornin’. What can I get you folks?” says the girl, still behind the counter.
“The works,” says August. “I’m famished.”
“How do you like your eggs?”
“Sunny side up.”
“Ma’am?”
“Just coffee,” Marlena says, sliding one leg over the other and jiggling her foot. The motion is frenetic, almost aggressive. She does not look at the waitress. Or August. Or me, come to think of it.
“Sir?” says the girl.
“Uh, same as him,” I say. “Thanks.”
August leans back and pulls out a pack of Camels. He flicks the bottom. A cigarette arcs through the air. He catches it in his lips and leans back, eyes bright, hands spread in triumph.
Marlena turns to look at him. She claps slowly, deliberately, her face stony.
“Come now, darling. Don’t be a wet noodle,” says August. “You know we were out of meat.”
“Excuse me,” she says, sliding toward me. I leap out of her way. She marches out the door, shoes tap-tapping and hips swaying under her flared red dress.
“Women,” says August, lighting his cigarette from behind a cupped hand. He snaps his lighter shut. “Oh, sorry. Want one?”
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“No?” he muses, sucking in a lungful. “You should take it up. It’s good for your health.” He puts the pack back in his pocket and snaps his fingers at the girl behind the counter. She’s standing at the griddle, holding a spatula.
“Make it snappy, would you? We don’t have all day.”
She freezes, spatula in the air. Two of the men at the counter turn slowly to look at us, eyes wide.
“Um, August,” I say.
“What?” He looks genuinely puzzled.
“It’s coming just as fast as I can make it,” the waitress says coldly.
“Fine. That’s all I was asking,” says August. He leans toward me and continues in a lowered voice. “What did I tell you? Women. Must be a full moon, or something.”
WHEN I RETURN to the lot, a selected few of the Benzini Brothers tents are up: the menagerie, the stable tent, and the cookhouse. The flag is flying, and the smell of sour grease permeates the air.
“Don’t even bother,” says a man coming out. “Fried dough and nothing but chicory to wash it down.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate the warning.”
He spits and stalks off.
The Fox Brothers employees who remain are lined up in front of the privilege car. A desperate hopefulness surrounds them. A few smile and joke, but their laughter is high-pitched. Some stare straight ahead, their arms crossed. Others fidget and pace with bowed heads. One by one, they are summoned inside for an audience with Uncle Al.
The majority climb out defeated. Some wipe their eyes and confer quietly with others near the front of the line. Others stare stoically ahead before walking toward town.
Two dwarves enter together. They leave a few minutes later, grim-faced, pausing to talk to a small group of men. Then they trudge down the tracks, side by side, heads high, stuffed pillowcases slung over their shoulders.
I scan the crowd for the famous freak. There are certainly oddities: dwarves and midgets and giants, a bearded lady (Al’s already got one, so she’s probably out of luck), an enormously fat man (could get lucky if Al wants a matching set), and an assortment of generally sad-looking people and dogs. But no man with an infant sticking out of his chest.