Barbara leans forward, unclasps my hands, and lifts one to her mouth. She turns it over, runs a long nail across the palm and then stares me in the eye while running her tongue along the same path. Then she takes my hand and places it on her left breast, right where the nipple must be.
Oh God. Oh God. I'm touching a breast. Through a dress, but still--
Barbara stands up for a moment, smoothes her skirt, looks furtively around, and then crouches. I'm pondering this change of position when she takes hold of my hand again. This time she pulls it under her skirt and presses my fingers against hot, moist silk.
I catch my breath. The whiskey, the moonshine, the gin, the God-knows-what--all of it dissipates instantly. She moves my hand up and down, over her strange and wonderful valleys.
Oh shit. I may come right now.
"Hmmmm?" she purrs, rearranging my hand so that my middle finger presses further into her. Warm silk bulges around both sides of my finger, pulsing under my touch. She removes my hand, places it back on my knee, and then gives my crotch an experimental squeeze.
"Mmmmm," she says, her eyes half-closed. "He's ready, Nell. Damn, I love them at this age."
The rest of the night passes in epileptic flashes. I am aware of being propped up between two women, but I think I fall out the door of the stock car. At least, I am aware of finding myself cheek down in the dirt. Then I'm swept upward again and jostled along in the dark until I'm sitting on the edge of a bed.
There are definitely two Barbaras now. And two of the other one, as well. Nell, was it?
Barbara steps backward and raises her arms in the air. She throws her head back and runs her hands over her body, dancing and moving by candlelight. I'm interested--there is no question about that. But I simply can't sit upright anymore. So I fall back.
Someone's yanking on my pants. I mumble something, not sure what, but I don't think it's encouragement. I'm suddenly not feeling well.
Oh God. She's touching me--it--stroking experimentally. I prop myself up on my elbows and look down. It's limp, a tiny pink turtle hiding in its shell. It also seems to be stuck to my leg. She peels it free, delves both her hands between my thighs to spread them, and reaches down for my balls. She rests them on one hand, juggling them like eggs while she examines my penis. It flops hopelessly under her manipulations while I watch, mortified.
The other woman--now there's only one again, how the hell am I ever going to keep this straight?--lies next to me on the bed. She fishes a skinny breast from her dress and lifts it to my mouth. She rubs it all over my face. Now her lipsticked mouth is coming at me, a gaping maw with tongue extended. I turn my head to the right, where there is no woman. Then I feel a mouth close around the head of my penis.
I gasp. The women giggle, but it's a purring sound, an encouraging sound, as they continue trying to get a response.
Oh God, oh God, she's sucking it. Sucking it, for God's sake.
I'm not going to be able to--
Oh my God, I need to--
I turn my head and hurl the unfortunately varied contents of my stomach onto Nell.
THERE'S A HIDEOUS scraping noise. Then the blackness above me is broken by a sliver of light.
Kinko peers in at me. "Wake up, sunshine. Your boss is looking for you."
He's holding a lid open. All of which starts to make sense, because as my cramped body realizes my brain is open for business, it soon becomes clear I am stuffed into a trunk.
Kinko props the lid open and walks away. I work my bent neck free and struggle into a sitting position. The trunk is in a tent, surrounded by rack after rack of vibrant costumes, props, and vanities with mirrors.
"Where am I?" I croak. I cough and try to clear my parched throat.
"Clown Alley," says Kinko, fingering some paint jars on a dresser.
I lift an arm to cover my eyes and notice it is clad in silk. A red silk dressing gown, to be exact. A red silk dressing gown that is wide open. I look down and discover that someone has shaved my genitals.
I snatch the edges of the gown together, wondering if Kinko saw.
Dear God, what did I do last night? I have no idea. Nothing but scraps of memory, and--
Oh God. I threw up on a woman.
I struggle to my feet, tying the dressing gown. I wipe my forehead, which feels unusually slick. My hand comes away white.
"What the--?" I say, staring at my hand.
Kinko turns and hands me a mirror. I take it with great trepidation. When I raise it to my face, a clown looks back at me.
I POKE MY HEAD out of the tent, look left and right, and then streak across to the stock car. I am followed by guffaws and catcalls.
"Whooeeee, look at that hot mama!"
"Hey, Fred--check out the new cooch girl!"
"Say, honey--got plans tonight?"
I dive into the goat room and slam the door, leaning against it. I breathe heavily, listening until the laughter outside dies down. I grab a rag and wipe my face again. I rubbed it raw before I left Clown Alley, but somehow I still don't believe it's clean. I don't think any part of me will ever be clean again. And the worst part is that I don't even know what I did. I have only snippets, and as horrifying as those are it's even more horrifying not knowing what happened in between.
It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea whether I'm still a virgin.
I reach inside the dressing gown and scratch my stubbly balls.
KINKO COMES IN a few minutes later. I'm lying on my bedroll, my arms over my head.
"You'd better get your ass out there," he says. "He's still looking for you."
Something snuffles in my ear. I lift my head and bang into a wet nose. Queenie leaps backward as though launched from a catapult. She surveys me from a distance of three feet, sniffing cautiously. Oh, I bet I'm just a medley of smells this morning. I drop my head again.
"You want to get fired, or what?" Kinko says.
"At this point, I really don't care," I mumble.
"What?"
"I'm leaving anyway."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
I can't answer. I can't tell him that not only have I disgraced myself beyond belief or redemption, but I have also failed at my first opportunity to have sex--something I've thought about pretty much constantly for the last eight years. Not to mention throwing up on one of the women who was offering and then passing out and having somebody shave my balls and paint my face and stuff me into a trunk. Although he must know at least parts of it, since he knew where to find me this morning. Perhaps he was even involved in the festivities.
"Don't be a pussy," he says. "You want to end up walking the tracks like those poor bums out there? Now get on out there before you get yourself fired."
I remain inert.
"I said get up!"
"What do you care?" I grumble. "And stop shouting. My head hurts."
"Just get the hell up or I'll hurt the rest of you, too!"
"All right! Just stop yelling!"
I drag myself upright and throw him a dirty look. My head pounds and it feels as though lead weights are tied to each of my joints. Since he continues watching me, I turn toward the wall, keeping the red gown on until I pull my pants up in an effort to hide my hairlessness. Nevertheless, my face burns.
"Oh, and a word to the wise?" says Kinko. "Some flowers for Barbara wouldn't go amiss. The other one's just a whore, but Barbara's a friend."
I am so flooded with shame my consciousness flickers. After the urge to faint passes, I stare at the ground, sure I'll never bring myself to look anyone in the eyes again.
THE FOX BROTHERS train has been moved off the siding, and the hotly disputed elephant car is now hitched directly behind our engine, where the ride will be smoothest. It has vents instead of slats and is made of metal. The boys from the Flying Squadron are busy tearing down tents--they've already dropped most of the larger ones, revealing the buildings of Joliet in the background. A small crowd of towners has gathered to watch the activity.
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I find August in the menagerie tent, standing in front of the elephant.
"Move!" he screams, waving the bull hook around her face.
She swings her trunk and blinks.
"I said move!" He steps behind her and thwacks her in the back of the leg. "Move, goddammit!" Her eyes narrow and her enormous ears flatten against her head.
August catches sight of me and freezes. He drops the bull hook to his side. "Rough night?" he sneers.
A blush prickles up the back of my neck and spreads over my entire head.
"Never mind. Get a stick and help me move this stupid beast."
Pete comes up behind him, twisting his hat in his hands. "August?"
August turns, furious. "Oh, for Christ's sake. What is it, Pete? Can't you see I'm busy?"
"The cat meat is here."
"Good. Take care of it. We don't have much time."
"What exactly do you want me to do with it?"
"What the hell do you think I want you to do with it?"
"But, boss--" says Pete, clearly distressed.
"Goddammit!" says August. The vein on his temple bulges dangerously. "Do I have to do every damned thing myself? Here," he says, thrusting the bull hook at me. "Teach the brute something. Anything will do. As far as I can tell, all she knows how to do is shit and eat."
I take the bull hook and watch as he storms from the tent. I'm still staring after him when the elephant's trunk sweeps past my face, blowing warm air into my ear. I spin and find myself looking into an amber eye. It blinks at me. My gaze shifts from that eye to the bull hook in my hand.
I look back up at the eye and again it blinks. I lean over and lay the bull hook on the ground.
She swings her trunk across the ground in front of her, fanning her ears like enormous leaves. Her mouth opens in a smile.
"Hi," I say. "Hi, Rosie. I'm Jacob."
After a moment's hesitation, I extend my hand, just a bit. The trunk whooshes past, blowing. Emboldened, I reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder. Her skin is rough and stubbly and surprisingly warm.
"Hi," I say again, giving her an experimental pat.
Her windsail of an ear moves forward and then back, and the trunk returns. I touch it tentatively, and then stroke it. I am entirely enamored, and so engrossed that I don't see August until he comes to an abrupt stop in front of me.
"What the hell is wrong with you people this morning? I should fire every goddamned one of you, what with Pete not wanting to take care of business and you pulling a disappearing act and then playing kissy-face with the bull. Where's the damned bull hook?"
I lean over and retrieve it. August snatches it from my hand, and the elephant's ears settle back against her head.
"Here, princess," says August, addressing me. "I have a job you might be able to handle. Go find Marlena. Make sure she doesn't go behind the menagerie for a bit."
"Why?"
August takes a deep breath and grips the bull hook so hard his knuckles whiten. "Because I said so. All right?" he says through clenched teeth.
Naturally, I head behind the menagerie to find out what Marlena's not supposed to see. I round the corner just as Pete slits the throat of a decrepit gray horse. The horse screams as blood shoots six feet from the gaping hole in its neck.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelp, taking a step backward.
The horse's heart slows, and the spurts weaken. Eventually the horse drops to its knees and crashes forward. It scrapes the ground with its front hooves and then falls still. Its eyes are open wide. A lake of dark blood spreads from its neck.
Pete glances up at me, still leaning over the twitching animal.
An emaciated bay horse is tethered to a stake beside him, out of its head with terror. Its nostrils are flared, showing red, its muzzle straight in the air. The lead rope is so taut it looks like it's going to snap. Pete steps across the dead horse, grabs the rope near the bay's head, and slices its throat. More spurting blood, more death throes, another collapsing body.
Pete stands with his arms slack at his sides, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, still holding the bloody knife. He watches the horse until it dies and then raises his face to me.
He wipes his nose, spits, and gets back to the task at hand.
"MARLENA? YOU IN THERE?" I say, rapping on the door of their stateroom.
"Jacob?" calls a small voice from inside.
"Yes," I say.
"Come in."
She's standing by one of the open windows, looking toward the front of the train. As I enter, she turns her head. Her eyes are wide, her face drained of blood.
"Oh, Jacob . . ." Her voice is wavering. She's on the verge of tears.
"What is it? What's the matter?" I say, crossing the room.
She presses her hand to her mouth and turns back to the window.
August and Rosie are making their noisy way to the front of the train. Their progress is excruciating, and everyone on the lot has stopped to watch.
August smacks her from behind, and Rosie hurries a few steps forward. When August catches up, he whacks her again, this time hard enough that she raises her trunk, bellows, and scampers sideways. August lets loose a long string of curses and runs up beside her, swinging the bull hook and driving the pick end into her shoulder. Rosie whimpers and this time doesn't move an inch. Even from this distance, we can see that she's trembling.
Marlena chokes back a sob. On impulse I reach for her hand. When I find it, she clutches my fingers so tightly they hurt.
After a few more thumps and whacks, Rosie catches sight of the elephant car at the front of the train. She lifts her trunk and trumpets, taking off at a thunderous run. August disappears in a cloud of dust behind her, and panicked roustabouts dive out of her way. She climbs aboard with obvious relief.
The dust subsides and August reappears, shouting and waving his arms. Diamond Joe and Otis trudge up to the elephant car, slowly, matter-of-factly, and set about shutting it.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
Eleven
Kinko spends the first few hours of the jump to Chicago using bits of beef jerky to teach Queenie, who has apparently recovered from her diarrhea, to walk on her hind legs.
"Up! Up, Queenie, up! Atta girl. Good girl!"
I'm lying on my bedroll, curled up and facing the wall. My physical state is every bit as sorry as my mental one, and that's saying something. My head is crammed with visions, all jumbled up like a ball of string: My parents alive, depositing me at Cornell. My parents dead, and the green and white floor tiles beneath them. Marlena, waltzing with me in the menagerie. Marlena this morning, fighting tears at the window. Rosie and her snuffing, inquisitive trunk. Rosie, ten feet tall and solid as a mountain, whimpering under August's blows. August, tap-dancing across the roof of a moving train. August as a bull-hook-wielding madman. Barbara, swinging those melons onstage. Barbara and Nell, and their expert ministrations.
The memory of last night hits me like a wrecking ball. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my mind to go blank, but it won't. The more distressing the memory, the more persistent its presence.
Eventually Queenie's excited yipping stops. After a few seconds, the springs on Kinko's cot squeak. Then there's silence. He's watching me. I can feel it. I roll over to face him.
He's on the edge of the cot, his bare feet crossed and his red hair mussed. Queenie creeps into his lap, leaving her hind legs sticking straight out, like a frog.
"So, what's your story, anyway?" says Kinko.
The sunlight flashes like knives through the slats behind him. I cover my eyes and grimace.
"No, I mean it. Where'd you come from?"
"Nowhere," I say, rolling back to the wall. I pull my pillow over my head.
"What are you so sore about? Last night?"
The mere mention causes bile to rise in my throat.
"You embarrassed or something?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, would you just leave me alone?" I sna
p.
He is quiet. After a few seconds I roll over again. He's still looking at me, fingering Queenie's ears. She licks his other hand, wagging her stump.
"Sorry," I say. "I've never done anything like that before."
"Well, yeah--I think that was pretty obvious."
I grasp my pounding head with both hands. What I wouldn't give for about a gallon of water--
"Look, it's no big deal," he continues. "You'll learn to hold your liquor. As for the other stuff--well, I had to get you back for the other day. The way I see it, this makes us even. In fact, I may even owe you one. That honey stopped Queenie up like a cork. So, you know how to read?"
I blink a few times. "Huh?" I say.
"You wanna read maybe, instead of just lying there stewing?"
"I think I'll just lie here stewing." I squeeze my eyes shut and cover them with my hand. My brain feels too big for my skull, my eyes hurt, and I may throw up. And my balls itch.
"Suit yourself," he says.
"Maybe some other time," I say.
"Sure. Whatever."
A pause.
"Kinko?"
"Yeah?"
"I appreciate the offer."
"Sure."
A longer pause.
"Jacob?"
"Yeah?"
"You can call me Walter if you want."
Under my hand, my eyes open wide.
His cot squeaks as he rearranges himself. I sneak a look through splayed fingers. He folds his pillow in half, lies back, and grabs a book from the crate. Queenie settles at his feet, watching me. Her eyebrows twitch with worry.
THE TRAIN APPROACHES Chicago in the late afternoon. Despite my pounding head and aching body, I stand in the open door of the stock car craning my neck to get a good look. After all, this is the city of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, of jazz, gangsters, and speakeasies.
I can see a handful of tall buildings in the distance, and just as I'm trying to make out which one of them is the fabled Allerton we reach the stockyards. There are miles of them, and we slow to a crawl as we pass. The buildings are flat and ugly, and the pens, crammed with panicked, lowing cattle and filthy, snuffing pigs, butt right up against the tracks. But that is nothing compared to the noises and smells coming from the buildings: within minutes the bloody stench and piercing shrieks send me flying back to the goat room to press my nose against the mildewed horse blanket--anything to replace the smell of death.