“I didn’t mean . . . to him.”
“I don’t want you walking around on the top of moving train cars, never mind leaping between them.”
“I agree with Jacob,” says Walter. “We’ll move out there with the horses and give you some privacy.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly,” says Marlena.
“Then let me take the bedroll out there for you,” I say.
“No. I didn’t mean to . . .” She shakes her head. “Oh God. I shouldn’t have come.” She cups her hands over her face. A moment later she starts to cry.
I hand the lamp to Walter and pull her against me. She sinks into me, sobbing, her face pressed to my shirt.
“Aw jeez,” Walter says again. “This probably makes me an accomplice.”
“Let’s go talk,” I say to Marlena.
She sniffs and pulls away. She walks out to the horses and I follow, pulling the door shut behind us.
There’s a soft nicker of recognition. Marlena wanders over and strokes Midnight’s flank. I sink down against the wall, waiting for her. After a while she joins me. As we round a curve, the floorboards jerk beneath us, throwing us together so our shoulders touch.
I speak first. “Has he ever hit you before?”
“No.”
“If he does it again, I swear to God I’ll kill him.”
“If he does it again, you won’t have to,” she says quietly.
I look over at her. The moonlight comes through the slats behind her, and her profile is black, featureless.
“I’m leaving him,” she says, dropping her chin.
Instinctively, I reach for her hand. Her ring is gone.
“Have you told him?” I ask.
“In no uncertain terms.”
“How did he take it?”
“You saw his answer,” she says.
We sit listening to the clacking of the ties beneath us. I stare over the backs of the sleeping horses and at the snatches of night visible through the slats.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I guess I’ll talk to Uncle Al when we get to Erie and see if he can set me up with a bunk in the girls’ sleeper.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“You don’t want to go back to your family?”
A pause. “No. I don’t think they’d have me, anyway.”
We lean against the wall in silence, still holding hands. After about an hour she falls asleep, sliding down until her head rests on my shoulder. I remain awake, every fiber of my body aware of her proximity.
Nineteen
Mr. Jankowski? It’s time to get ready.”
My eyes snap open at the voice’s proximity. Rosemary hovers over me, framed by ceiling tiles.
“Eh? Oh, right,” I say, struggling up onto my elbows. Joy surges through me when I realize that not only do I remember where I am and who she is but also that it’s circus day. Perhaps what happened earlier was just a brain belch?
“Stay put. I’ll raise the head of your bed,” she says. “Do you need to use the washroom?”
“No, but I want my good shirt. And my bow tie.”
“Your bow tie!” she hoots, throwing her head back and laughing.
“Yes, my bow tie.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. You are a funny one,” she says, going to my closet.
By the time she returns, I have managed to undo three buttons on my other shirt. Not bad for gnarled fingers. I’m rather pleased with myself. Brain and body, both in working order.
As Rosemary helps me out of my shirt, I look down at my skinny frame. My ribs show, and the few hairs left on my chest are white. I remind myself of a greyhound, all sinews and skinny rib cage. Rosemary guides my arms into my good shirt, and few minutes later leans over me, tugging the edges of my bow tie. She stands back, cocks her head, and makes a final adjustment.
“Well, I do declare the bow tie was a fine decision,” she says, nodding in approval. Her voice is deep and honeyed, lyrical. I could listen to her all day long. “Would you like to have a look?”
“Did you get it straight?” I say.
“Of course I did!”
“Then no. I don’t like the mirror much these days,” I grumble.
“Well, I think you look very handsome,” she says, placing her hands on her hips and surveying me.
“Oh, psshhh.” I wave a bony hand at her.
She laughs again, and the noise is like wine, warm in my veins. “So, do you want to wait for your family here, or shall I take you out to the lobby?”
“What time does the show start?”
“It starts at three,” she says. “It’s two now.”
“I’ll wait in the lobby. I want to leave straightaway when they get here.”
Rosemary waits patiently while I lower my creaking body into the wheelchair. As she wheels me out to the lobby, I clasp my hands in my lap, fiddling nervously.
The lobby is full of other old folks in wheelchairs, lined up in front of the bucket seats meant for visitors. Rosemary parks me at the end, beside Ipphy Bailey.