“I am the equestrian director and superintendent of animals,” replies August, drawing himself up to full height.
“Where’s your bull man?” says the man, squirting a wad of tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth.
The elephant reaches out with her trunk and taps him on the shoulder. He whacks her and steps out of reach. The elephant opens her shovel-shaped mouth in what can only be described as a smile and starts to sway, keeping time with the movement of her trunk.
“Why do you want to know?” asks August.
“Just want a word with him, is all.”
“Why?”
“To let him know what he’s in for,” says the man.
“How do you mean?”
“Show me your bull man, and I’ll tell you.”
August grabs my arm and swings me forward. “Him. This is my bull man. So what are we in for?”
The man looks at me, pushes his wad of tobacco deep in his cheek, and continues to address August.
“This here’s the stupidest goddamned animal on the face of the earth.”
August looks stunned. “I thought she was supposed to be the best bull. Al said she was the best bull.”
The man snorts and squirts a stream of brown saliva toward the great beast. “If she was the best bull, why was she the only one left? You think you’re the first show to turn up picking the bones? You didn’t even get here for three days. Well, good luck on ya.” He turns to leave.
“Wait,” August says quickly. “Tell me more. Is she a rogue?”
“Naw, just dumb as a bag of hammers.”
“Where did she come from?”
“An elephant tramp—some dirty Polack who dropped dead in Libertyville. City gave her up for a song. Wasn’t no bargain though, ’cuz she ain’t done a damned thing since but eat.”
August stares at him, pale. “You mean she wasn’t even with a circus?”
The man steps over the rope and disappears behind the elephant. He returns with a wooden rod about three feet long with a four-inch metal pick coming off the end.
“Here’s your bull hook. You’re gonna need it. Good luck on ya. As for me, if I never see another bull as long as I live it’ll be too soon.” He spits again and walks away.
August and Marlena stare after him. I look back just in time to see the elephant pull her trunk from the trough. She lifts it, aims, and blasts the man with such force his hat sails off his head on a stream of water.
He stops, his hair and clothes dripping. He is still for a moment. Then he wipes his face, leans over to retrieve his hat, bows to the astonished audience of menagerie workers, and continues on his way.
COURTESY OF TIMOTHY TEGGE, TEGGE CIRCUS ARCHIVES, BARABOO, WISCONSIN
Ten
August huffs and puffs and turns so red he’s actually closer to purple. Then he marches off, presumably to have it out with Uncle Al.
Marlena and I glance at each other. By unspoken agreement, neither of us follows.
One by one the menagerie men leave. The animals, finally fed and watered, settle in for the night. At the end of a desperate day is peace.
Marlena and I are alone, holding various bits of foodstuff toward Rosie’s inquisitive trunk. When its strange rubbery finger grabs a wisp of hay from my fingers, Marlena squeals with laughter. Rosie tosses her head and opens her mouth in a smile.
I turn to find Marlena staring at me. The only sounds from within the menagerie are shuffling, snorting, and quiet munching. Outside, in the distance, someone plays a harmonica—a haunting tune in triple time, although I can’t place it.
I’m not sure how it happens—do I reach for her? does she reach for me?—but next thing I know she’s in my arms and we’re waltzing, dipping, and skipping in front of the low-slung rope. As we twirl, I catch sight of Rosie’s raised trunk and smiling face.
Marlena pulls suddenly away.
I stand motionless, my arms still slightly raised, unsure what to do.
“Uh,” says Marlena, blushing furiously and looking at everything but me. “Well. Yes. Let’s go wait for August, shall we?”
I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
“Yes,” I finally say. “Yes. Let’s.”
AN HOUR LATER August returns to the stateroom. He storms in and slams the door. Marlena goes immediately to a cupboard.
“That useless son-of-a-bitch paid two thousand for that useless son-of-a-bitch bull,” he says, throwing his hat in the corner and ripping off his jacket. “Two thousand fucking clams!” He flops into the nearest chair and drops his head into his hands.
Marlena removes a bottle of blended whiskey, pauses, looks at August, and then puts it back. She reaches for the single malt instead.
“And that’s not the worst of it—oh no,” says August, ripping his tie loose and clawing at his shirt collar. “You wanna know what else he did? Hmmmm? Go on, guess.”
He’s looking at Marlena, who is utterly unperturbed. She pours a good four fingers’ worth of whiskey into three tumblers.
“I said guess!” barks August.