At first, Camel’s son denies the association. But Walter is persistent. Day after day he marches into town, negotiating by telegram, and by the following Friday the son has agreed to meet us in Providence and take custody of the old man. It means we will have to continue the current housing arrangements for several more weeks, but at least it’s a solution. And that’s a good deal more than we’ve had up to this point.
IN TERRE HAUTE, the Lovely Lucinda drops dead. After Uncle Al recovers from his violent but short-lived bereavement, he organizes a farewell befitting “our beloved Lucinda.”
An hour after the death certificate is signed, Lucinda is laid out in the water well of the hippopotamus car and hitched to a team of twenty-four black Percherons with feathers on their headbands.
Uncle Al climbs onto the bench with the driver, practically collapsing with grief. After a moment he wiggles his fingers, signaling the start of Lucinda’s procession. She is hauled slowly through town, followed on foot by every member of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth deemed fit to be seen. Uncle Al is desolate, weeping and honking into his red handkerchief and allowing himself only the occasional upward glance to gauge whether the procession’s speed allows for maximum crowd enlargement.
The women follow immediately behind the hippopotamus wagon, dressed all in black and pressing elegant lace hankies to the corners of their eyes. I am farther back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al has promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You’ve never seen such grief—even the dogs are howling.
Almost a thousand townspeople follow us back to the lot. When Uncle Al stands up on the carriage, they fall silent.
He removes his hat and presses it to his chest. He digs out a hankie and dabs his eyes. He delivers a heart-wrenching speech, so distraught he can barely contain himself. At the end of it, he says that if it were up to him, he’d cancel tonight’s show out of respect for Lucinda. But he cannot. It’s out of his control. He is a man of honor, and on her deathbed she grasped his hand and made him promise—no, vow—that he wouldn’t let what was clearly her imminent end disrupt the show’s routine and disappoint the thousands of people who were expecting it to be circus day.
“Because after all . . .” Uncle Al pauses, clasping his hand to his heart and sniffing piteously. He looks heavenward as tears stream down his face.
The women and children in the crowd cry openly. A woman near the front throws an arm across her forehead and collapses as the men on either side scramble to catch her.
Uncle Al collects himself with obvious effort, although he cannot keep his lower lip from quivering. He nods slowly and continues. “Because, after all, as our dearest Lucinda knew only too well . . . the show must go on!”
We have an enormous crowd that night—a “straw house,” so named because after all the regular seats sell out, roustabouts spread straw on the hippodrome track for the overflow crowd to sit on.
Uncle Al begins the show with a moment of silence. He bows his head, summons real tears, and dedicates the performance to Lucinda, whose great and absolute selflessness is the only reason we are able to continue in the face of our loss. And we will do her proud—oh yes, such was our singular love for Lucinda that despite the grief that consumes us, tugging on our breaking hearts, we will summon the strength to honor her final wish and do her proud. Such wonders you have never seen, ladies and gentlemen, acts and performers gathered from the four corners of the earth to delight and entertain you, acrobats, and tumblers, and aerialists of the highest caliber . . .
THE SHOW IS ABOUT a quarter of the way through when she walks into the menagerie. I sense her presence even before I hear the surprised murmurs around me.
I set Bobo on the floor of his den. I turn and, sure enough, there she is, gorgeous in pink sequins and feathered headdress, removing her horses’ halters and letting them drop to the ground. Only Boaz—a black Arabian and presumably Silver Star’s counterpart—remains tethered, and he’s clearly unhappy about it.
I lean against Bobo’s den, mesmerized.
Those horses, with whom I’ve spent every night riding from town to town to town and who normally look like regular horses, have transformed. They blow and snort, their necks arched and tails aloft. They gather into two dancing groups, one black, one white. Marlena faces them, carrying a long whip in each hand. She raises one and waves it over her head. Then she walks backward, leading them from the menagerie. The horses are completely free. They wear no halters, no side reins, no surcingles—nothing. They simply follow her, shaking their heads and flinging their legs forward like Saddlebreds.