“Did you?”
“Yes,” I say, shaking my napkin and spreading it across my lap. “It’s . . . I don’t quite know what to say. It was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Oh?” says August, cocking one eyebrow. “Never?”
“No. Never.”
“Really.”
He stares at me without blinking. “I thought it was Marlena’s act that inspired you to join this show in the first place, Jacob. Was I wrong?”
My heart flips in my chest. I pick up my cutlery: fork in my left hand, knife in my right—European-style, like my mother.
“I lied,” I say.
I stab the end of a sausage and begin sawing it, waiting for a response.
“I beg your pardon?” he says.
“I lied. I lied!” I slam my cutlery down, a nub of sausage impaled on the fork. “Okay? Of course I’d never heard of the Benzini Brothers before I jumped your train. Who the hell has heard of the Benzini Brothers? The only circus I’d seen in my entire life was the Ringling Brothers, and they were great. Great! Do you hear me?”
There’s an eerie silence. I look around, horrified. Everyone in the tent is staring at me. Walter’s jaw is open. Queenie’s ears are pressed against her head. In the distance, a camel bellows.
Finally I turn my eyes to August. He, too, is staring. One edge of his moustache quivers. I tuck my napkin under the edge of my plate, wondering if he’s going to come across the table at me.
August’s eyes widen farther. I tense my knuckles under the table. Then August explodes. He laughs so hard he turns red, clutching his midriff and fighting for breath. He laughs and howls until tears run down his face and his lips tremble from exertion.
“Oh, Jacob,” he says, wiping his cheeks. “Oh, Jacob. I think I may have misjudged you. Yes. Indeed. I think I may have misjudged you.” He cackles and sniffs, swabbing his face with his napkin. “Oh dear,” he sighs. “Oh dear.” He clears his throat and picks up his utensils. He scoops some egg onto his fork and then sets it down again, once more overcome with mirth.
The other diners return to their food, but reluctantly, like the crowd that watched as I expelled the man from the lot that first day. And I can’t help but notice that when they return to their meals, it’s with a look of apprehension.
? ? ?
LUCINDA’S DEATH LEAVES us with a serious deficiency in the freak lineup. And it must be filled—all the big shows have fat ladies, and therefore so must we.
Uncle Al and August scour Billboard and at each stop make telephone calls and send telegrams in an effort to recruit a new one, but all known fat ladies appear either to be happy in their current situation or else leery of Uncle Al’s reputation. After two weeks and ten jumps, Uncle Al is so desperate he approaches a woman of generous proportions in the audience. Unfortunately, she turns out to be Mrs. Police Superintendent, and Uncle Al ends up with a shiny purple eye instead of a fat lady, along with summary instructions to leave town.
We have two hours. The performers immediately sequester themselves in their train cars. The roustabouts, once roused, run around like headless chickens. Uncle Al is breathless and purple, waving his cane and whacking people if they’re not moving fast enough for his liking. Tents drop so quickly that men get trapped inside, and then men who are dropping other tents must come and retrieve them before they suffocate in a vast expanse of canvas, or—worse, in Uncle Al’s estimation—use their pocketknives to cut a breathing hole.
After all the stock is loaded I retire to the ring stock car. I don’t like the look of the townsmen hovering around the edge of the lot. Many are armed, and a bad feeling ferments in the pit of my stomach.
I haven’t seen Walter yet, and I pace back and forth in front of the open door, scanning the lot. The black men have long since hidden themselves aboard the Flying Squadron, and I’m not at all convinced that the mob won’t content themselves with a redheaded dwarf instead.
One hour and fifty-five minutes after we get our marching orders, his face appears in the doorway.
“Where the hell have you been?” I shout.
“Is that him?” croaks Camel from behind the trunks.
“Yeah, that’s him. Get on up here,” I say, waving Walter inside. “The crowd’s looking nasty.”
He doesn’t move. He’s flushed and out of breath. “Where’s Queenie? You seen Queenie?”
“No. Why?”
He disappears.
“Walter!” I jump up and follow him to the door. “Walter! Where the hell are you going? They’ve already blown the five-minute whistle!”
He’s running alongside the train, ducking to look between its wheels. “Come on, Queenie! Here, girl!” He straightens up, pausing in front of each stock car, yelling through the slats and then waiting for a response. “Queenie! Here, girl!” Each time he calls, his voice reaches a new level of desperation.