There’s something wrong here. This animal isn’t stupid.
AS THE LAST of the crowd goes through to the big top and performers line up for the Grand Spec, Uncle Al pulls August aside. I watch from across the menagerie as August’s mouth opens in shock, then outrage, and then vociferous complaint. His face darkens and he waves his top hat and hook. Uncle Al gazes on, completely impervious. Eventually he lifts a hand, shakes his head, and walks away. August stares after him, stunned.
“What the heck do you suppose happened there?” I say to Pete.
“God only knows,” he says. “But I have the feeling we’re going to find out.”
It turns out that Uncle Al was so delighted by Rosie’s popularity in the menagerie that not only is he insisting she take part in the Spec but also that she put on a full elephant act in the center ring immediately after the show begins. By the time I hear about it, the outcome of said events is already the source of furious wagering in the back end.
My only thoughts are of Marlena.
I sprint around back to where the performers and ring stock are lined up behind the big top in preparation for the Spec. Rosie heads up the line. Marlena straddles her head, clad in pink sequins and grasping Rosie’s ugly leather head harness. August stands beside her left shoulder, grim-faced, his fingers alternately clutching and releasing the bull hook.
The band falls quiet. The performers make last-minute adjustments to their costumes, and the animal handlers give their charges one last check. And then the music for the Spec starts.
August leans forward and bellows into Rosie’s ear. The elephant hesitates, in response to which August strikes her with the bull hook. This sends her flying through the back end of the big top. Marlena ducks flat against her head to avoid being scraped off by the pole that runs across the top.
I gasp and run forward, curling around the edge of the sidewall.
Rosie comes to a stop about twenty feet down the hippodrome track and Marlena undergoes a change that defies belief. One moment she is askew on Rosie’s head, lying flat. The next, she yanks herself upright, turns on a smile, and thrusts an arm into the air. Her back is arched, her toes pointed. The crowd goes crazy—standing on the bleachers, clapping, whistling, and tossing peanuts onto the track.
August catches up. He lifts the bull hook high and then freezes. He turns his head and scans the audience. His hair flops over his forehead. He grins as he lowers the bull hook, and removes his top hat. He bows deeply, three times, aiming at different segments of the audience. When he turns back to Rosie, his face hardens.
By poking the bull hook in and around her underarms and legs, he persuades her to make a tour of sorts around the hippodrome. They go in fits and starts, stopping so many times the rest of the Spec is forced to continue around them, parting like water around a stone.
The audience loves it. Each time Rosie trots ahead of August and stops, they roar with laughter. And each time August approaches, red-faced and waving his bull hook, they explode with glee. Finally, about three-quarters of the way around, Rosie curls her trunk in the air and takes off at a run, leaving a series of thunderous farts in her wake as she barrels toward the back end of the tent. I am pressed against the bleachers, right by the entrance. Marlena grasps the head halter with both hands, and as they approach I catch my breath. Unless she bails, she is going to be knocked off.
A couple of feet from the entrance, Marlena lets go of the halter and leans hard to the left. Rosie disappears from the tent, and Marlena is left clinging to the top pole. The crowd falls silent, no longer sure that this is part of the act.
Marlena hangs limply, not a dozen feet from me. She’s breathing hard, with eyes closed and head down. I’m just about to step forward and lift her down when she opens her eyes, removes her left hand from the pole, and in one graceful movement swings around so she’s facing the audience.
Her face lights up and she points those toes. The band leader, watching from his post, signals furiously for a drum roll. Marlena begins swinging.
The drum roll mounts as she gains momentum. Before long she’s swinging parallel to the ground. I wonder how long she’s going to keep this up and just what the heck she’s planning to do when she suddenly releases the pole. She sails through the air, tucking her body into a ball and rolling forward twice. She uncurls for one sideways rotation, and lands firmly in a burst of sawdust. She looks at her feet, straightens up, and thrusts both arms into the air. The band launches into victory music and the crowd goes wild. Moments later, coins rain down on the hippodrome track.
AS SOON AS SHE TURNS, I can see that she’s hurt. She limps from the big top and I rush out behind her.
“Marlena—” I say.
She turns and collapses against me. I grasp her around the waist, holding her upright.