ALTHOUGH IT’S NEARLY SEVEN, the sun is still high and the air heavy. The terrain is very different from what we left behind in the northeast. It’s flat here, and dry as a bone. The lot is covered in long grass, but it’s brown and trampled, crispy as hay. At the edges, near the tracks, tall weeds have taken over—tough plants with stringy stalks, small leaves, and compact flowers. Designed to waste energy on nothing but getting their blooms up toward the sun.
As I pass the stable tent, I see Kinko standing in its scant shade. Queenie squats in front of him, defecating loosely, scootching a few inches forward after each fresh burst of liquid.
“What’s up?” I say, coming to a stop beside him.
Kinko glares at me. “What the hell does it look like? She’s got the trots.”
“What did she eat?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
I step forward and peer closely at one of the small puddles, checking for signs of parasites. She seems clear. “See if the cookhouse has any honey.”
“Huh?” Kinko says, straightening up and squinting at me.
“Honey. If you can get hold of any slippery elm powder, add a bit of that as well. But a spoonful of honey should help on its own,” I say.
He frowns at me for a moment, arms akimbo. “Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then turns back to his dog.
I walk on, eventually settling on a patch of grass some distance from the Fox Brothers menagerie. It stands in ominous desertion, as though there’s a minefield around it. No one comes within twenty yards. The conditions inside must be deadly, but short of tying up Uncle Al and August and hijacking the water wagon, I can’t think of a damned thing to do. I grow more and more desperate, until I can sit still no longer. I climb to my feet and go instead to our menagerie.
Even with the benefit of full water troughs and a cross-breeze, the animals are in a heat-induced stupor. The zebras, giraffes, and other hay burners remain on their feet but with their necks extended and eyes half-closed. Even the yak is motionless, despite the flies that buzz mercilessly around his ears and eyes. I swat a few away, but they land again immediately. It’s hopeless.
The polar bear lies on his stomach, head and snout stretched in front of him. In repose he looks harmless—cuddly even, with most of his bulk concentrated in the lower third of his body. He takes a deep, halting breath and then exhales a long, rumbling groan. Poor thing. I doubt the temperature in the Arctic ever climbs anywhere close to this.
The orangutan lies flat on her back, arms and legs spread out. She turns her head to look at me, blinking mournfully as though apologizing for not making more of an effort.
It’s okay, I say with my eyes. I understand.
She blinks once more and then turns her face so she’s looking at the ceiling again.
When I get to Marlena’s horses, they snort in recognition and flap their lips against my hands, which still smell like baked apples. When they find I have nothing for them, they lose interest and drift back into their semiconscious state.
The cats lie on their sides, perfectly still, their eyes not quite closed. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of their rib cages, I might think they were dead. I press my forehead up against the bars and watch them for a long time. Finally I turn to leave. I’m about three yards away when I suddenly turn back. It’s just dawned on me that the floors of their dens are conspicuously clean.
MARLENA AND AUGUST are arguing so loudly I can hear them twenty yards off. I pause outside her dressing tent, not at all sure I want to interrupt. But neither do I want to listen—I finally steel myself and press my mouth to the flap.
“August! Hey, August!”
The voices drop. There’s a shuffling, and someone shushing someone.
“What is it?” calls August.
“Did Clive feed the cats?”
His face appears in the crack of the flap. “Ah. Yes. Well, that presented a bit of difficulty, but I’ve worked something out.”
“What?”
“It’s coming tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. They’ll be fine. Oh Lord,” he says, craning his neck to see beyond me. “What now?”
Uncle Al strides toward us in red waistcoat and top hat, his plaid-swaddled legs swallowing the ground. His grovelers follow, jogging in nervous spurts to keep up.
August sighs and holds the flap open for me. “You might as well come in and have a seat. Looks like you’re about to get your first business lesson.”
I duck inside. Marlena sits at her vanity, her arms folded and legs crossed. Her foot jiggles in anger.
“My dear,” says August. “Collect yourself.”
“Marlena?” says Uncle Al from just behind the tent flap. “Marlena? May I come in, dear? I need a word with August.”
Marlena smacks her lips and rolls her eyes. “Yes, Uncle Al. Of course, Uncle Al. Won’t you please come in, Uncle Al,” she intones.
The tent flap opens, and Uncle Al enters, perspiring visibly and beaming from ear to ear.
“The deal is done,” he says, coming to a stop in front of August.
“So you got him, then,” says August.
“Eh? What?” replies Uncle Al, blinking in surprise.
“The freak,” says August. “Charles Whatsit.”
“No, no, no, never mind about him.”