She presses her face to my chest. “Oh, Jacob—what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I say, stroking her hair. “We’ll figure something out, but we’re going to have to be very, very careful.”
WE RETURN TO the lot separately, surreptitiously. I carry her suitcase until a block away, and then watch as she crosses the lot and disappears into her dressing tent. I hang around for a few minutes in case August turns out to be inside. When there aren’t any obvious signs of trouble, I return to the ring stock car.
“So, the tomcat returns,” says Walter. He’s pushing trunks against the wall, obscuring Camel. The old man lies with his eyes closed and mouth open, snoring. Walter must have just given him booze.
“You don’t need to do that anymore,” I say.
Walter straightens up. “What?”
“You don’t need to hide Camel anymore.”
He stares at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I sit on the bedroll. Queenie comes over, wagging her tail. I scratch her head. She sniffs me all over.
“Jacob, what’s going on?”
When I tell him, his expression changes from shock to horror to disbelief.
“You bastard,” he says at the end.
“Walter, please—”
“So, you’re going to take off after Providence. That’s very big of you to wait that long.”
“It’s because of Cam—”
“I know it’s because of Camel,” he shouts. Then he pounds his chest with his fist. “What about me?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” he says. His voice drips with sarcasm.
“Come with us,” I blurt.
“Oh yeah, that’ll be cozy. Just the three of us. And where the hell are we supposed to go, anyway?”
“We’ll check Billboard and see what’s available.”
“There’s nothing available. Shows are collapsing all over the damned country. There’s people starving. Starving! In the United States of America!”
“We’ll find something, somewhere.”
“The hell we will,” he says, shaking his head. “Damn, Jacob. I hope she’s worth it, that’s all I can say.”
I HEAD FOR the menagerie, watching all the while for August. He’s not there, but the tension among the menagerie men is palpable.
In the middle of the afternoon, I am summoned to the privilege car.
“Sit,” says Uncle Al, when I enter. He waves at the opposite chair.
I sit.
He leans back in his chair, twiddling his moustache. His eyes are narrowed. “Any progress to report?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “But I think she’ll come around.”
His eyes widen. His fingers stop twiddling. “You do?”
“Not right away, of course. She’s still angry.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “But you do think . . . ?” He lets the question trail off. His eyes gleam with hope.
I sigh deeply and lean back, crossing my legs. “When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It’s fate.”
He stares into my eyes as a smile seeps across his face. He lifts his hand and snaps his fingers. “A brandy for Jacob,” he orders. “And one for me as well.”
A minute later, we are each holding large snifters.
“So, tell me then, how long do you think . . . ?” he says, stirring the air beside his head.
“I think she wants to make a point.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he says. He shifts forward, eyes shining. “Yes. I quite understand.”
“Also, it’s important that she feel we are supporting her, not him. You know how women are. If she thinks that we’re in any way unsympathetic, it will only set things back.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding and shaking his head all at once so it bobs in a circle. “Absolutely. And what do you recommend we do in that regard?”
“Well, naturally August should keep his distance. That would give her a chance to miss him. It might even be beneficial for him to pretend he’s no longer interested. Women are funny that way. Also, she mustn’t think that we’re pushing them back together. It’s critical that she think it’s her idea.”
“Mmmm, yes,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Good point. And how long do you think . . .?”
“I shouldn’t think more than a few weeks.”
He stops nodding. His eyes pop open. “That long?”
“I can try to speed things up, but there’s a risk it will backfire. You know women.” I shrug. “It might take two weeks, and it might be tomorrow. But if she feels any pressure, she’ll hold off just to prove a point.”
“Yes, quite,” says Uncle Al, bringing a finger to his lips. He scrutinizes me for what feels like a very long time. “So, tell me,” he says, “what changed your mind since yesterday?”
I lift my glass and swirl the brandy, staring at the point where the stem meets the glass. “Let’s just say that the way things are suddenly became very clear to me.”
His eyes narrow.
“To August and Marlena,” I say, thrusting my glass upward. The brandy sloshes up the sides.
He lifts his glass slowly.