I don’t answer.
“Sometimes when you get older—and I’m not talking about you, I’m talking generally, because everyone ages differently—things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they’re a part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they’re not true—why, then you get offended. Because you don’t remember the first part. All you know is that you’ve been called a liar. So even if you’re right about the technical details, can you understand why Mr. McGuinty might be upset?”
I scowl into my lap.
“Mr. Jankowski?” she continues softly. “Let me take you to the table with your friends. Go on, now. As a favor to me.”
Well, isn’t that just dandy. The first time in years a woman wants a favor from me, and I can’t stomach the idea.
“Mr. Jankowski?”
I look up at her. Her smooth face is two feet from mine. She looks me in the eye, waiting for an answer.
“Oh, all right. But don’t expect me to talk to anyone,” I say, waving a hand in disgust.
And I don’t. I sit and listen as Old Liar McGuinty talks about the wonders of the circus and his experiences as a boy and I watch as the blue-haired old ladies lean toward him and listen, their eyes growing misty with admiration. It drives me completely berserk.
Just as I open my mouth to say something, I catch sight of Rosemary. She’s on the opposite end of the room, bending over an old woman and tucking a napkin into her collar. But her eyes are on me.
I close my mouth again. I just hope she appreciates how hard I’m trying.
She does. When she comes to retrieve me after the tan-colored pudding with edible-oil-product topping has made its appearance, sat for a while, and been removed, she leans down and whispers, “I knew you could do it, Mr. Jankowski. I just knew it.”
“Yes. Well. It wasn’t easy.”
“But it’s better than sitting alone at a table, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
She rolls her eyes toward heaven again.
“All right. Yes,” I say grudgingly. “I suppose it’s better than sitting alone.”
COURTESY OF THE PFENING ARCHIVES, COLUMBUS, OHIO
Fourteen
It’s been six days since Marlena’s accident, and she has yet to reappear. August no longer comes to the cookhouse for meals, so I sit conspicuously alone at our table. When I run across him in the course of looking after the animals, he is polite but distant.
For her part, Rosie is carted out through each town in the hippopotamus wagon and then displayed in the menagerie. She has learned to follow August from the elephant car to the menagerie tent, and in return for this he has stopped beating the hell out of her. Instead, she trudges alongside him, and he walks with the bull hook snagged firmly in the flesh behind her front leg. Once in the menagerie, she stands behind her rope, happily charming the crowds and accepting candy. Uncle Al hasn’t actually said so, but there don’t appear to be any immediate plans to attempt another elephant act.
As the days pass I grow more anxious about Marlena. Each time I approach the cookhouse I hope that I’ll find her there. And each time I don’t, my heart sinks.
IT’S THE END of another long day in some damned city or other—they all look about the same from a railroad siding—and the Flying Squadron is preparing to pull out. I’m lounging on my bedroll reading Othello and Walter is on his cot reading Wordsworth. Queenie is tucked up against him.
She lifts her head and growls. Both Walter and I jerk upright.
Earl’s large bald head pokes around the edge of the doorframe. “Doc!” he says, looking at me. “Hey! Doc!”
“Hi, Earl. What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“Sure. What is it?” I say, putting my book down. I shoot a glance at Walter, who has pinned the squirming Queenie against his side. She’s still grumbling.
“It’s Camel,” Earl says in a hushed voice. “He’s got trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Foot trouble. They’ve gone all floppy. He kind of slaps them down. His hands aren’t so great neither.”
“Is he drunk?”
“Not at this particular moment. But it don’t make no difference nohow.”
“Well damn, Earl,” I say. “He’s got to see a doctor.”
Earl’s forehead crinkles. “Well, yeah. That’s why I’m here.”
“Earl, I’m no doctor.”
“You’re an animal doctor.”
“It’s not the same.”
I glance at Walter, who is pretending to read.
Earl blinks expectantly at me.
“Look,” I say finally, “if he’s in bad shape, let me talk to August or Uncle Al and see if we can get a doctor out in Dubuque.”
“They won’t get him a doctor.”
“Why not?”
Earl straightens in righteous indignation. “Damn. You don’t know nothin’ at all, do you?”
“If there’s something seriously wrong with him, surely they’ll—”