“No sir.”
“Ever been to a show, Jacob?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Which one?”
“Ringling Brothers,” I say. A sharp intake of breath causes me to turn my head. Earl’s eyes are wide in warning.
“But it was terrible. Just terrible,” I add hastily, turning back to Uncle Al.
“Is that a fact,” says Uncle Al.
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you seen our show, Jacob?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling a blush spread across my cheeks.
“And what did you think of it?” he asks.
“It was . . . spectacular.”
“What was your favorite act?”
I grasp wildly, pulling details out of the air. “The one with the black and white horses. And the girl in pink,” I say. “With the sequins.”
“You hear that, August? The boy likes your Marlena.”
The man opposite Uncle Al rises and turns—he’s the man from the menagerie tent, only now he’s minus the top hat. His chiseled face is impassive, his dark hair shiny with pomade. He also has a moustache, but unlike Uncle Al’s, his lasts only the length of his lip.
“So what exactly is it that you envision yourself doing?” asks Uncle Al. He leans forward and lifts a snifter from the table. He swirls its contents, and drains it in a single gulp. A waiter emerges from nowhere and refills it.
“I’ll do just about anything. But if possible I’d like to work with animals.”
“Animals,” he says. “Did you hear that, August? The lad wants to work with animals. You want to carry water for elephants, I suppose?”
Earl’s brow creases. “But sir, we don’t have any—”
“Shut up!” shrieks Uncle Al, leaping to his feet. His sleeve catches the snifter and knocks it to the carpet. He stares at it, his fists clenched and face growing darker and darker. Then he bares his teeth and screams a long, inhuman howl, bringing his foot down on the glass again and again and again.
There’s a moment of stillness, broken only by the rhythmic clacking of ties passing beneath us. Then the waiter drops to the floor and starts scooping up glass.
Uncle Al takes a deep breath and turns to the window with his hands clasped behind him. When he eventually turns back to us, his face is once again pink. A smirk plays around the edges of his lips.
“I’m going to tell you how it is, Jacob Jankowski.” He spits my name out like something distasteful. “I’ve seen your sort a thousand times. You think I can’t read you like a book? So what’s the deal—did you and Mommy have a fight? Or maybe you’re just looking for a little adventure between semesters?”
“No, sir, it’s nothing like that.”
“I don’t give a damn what it is—even if I gave you a job on the show, you wouldn’t survive. Not for a week. Not for a day. The show is a well-oiled machine, and only the toughest make it. But then you wouldn’t know anything about tough, would you, Mr. College Boy?”
He glares at me as though challenging me to speak. “Now piss off,” he says, waving me away. “Earl, show him the door. Wait until you actually see a red light before chucking him off—I don’t want to catch any heat for hurting Mommy’s widdle baby.”
“Hang on a moment, Al,” says August. He’s smirking, clearly amused. “Is he right? Are you a college boy?”
I feel like a mouse being bounced between cats. “I was.”
“And what did you study? Something in the fine arts, perhaps?” His eyes gleam in mockery. “Romanian folk dancing? Aristotelian literary criticism? Or perhaps—Mr. Jankowski—you completed a performance degree on the accordion?”
“I studied veterinary sciences.”
His mien changes instantly, utterly. “Vet school? You’re a vet?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”
“I never wrote my final exams.”
“Why not?”
“I just didn’t.”
“And those final exams, those were in your final year?”
“Yes.”
“What college?”
“Cornell.”
August and Uncle Al exchange glances.
“Marlena said Silver Star was off,” says August. “Wanted me to get the advance man to arrange for a vet. Didn’t seem to understand that the advance man was gone out in advance, hence the name.”
“What are you suggesting?” says Uncle Al.
“Let the kid have a look in the morning.”
“And where do you propose we put him for tonight? We’re already past capacity.” He snatches his cigar from the ashtray and taps it on the edge. “I suppose we could just send him out on the flats.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of the ring stock car,” says August.
Uncle Al frowns. “What? With Marlena’s horses?”
“Yes.”
“You mean in the area where the goats used to be? Isn’t that where that little shit sleeps—oh, what’s his name?” he says, snapping his fingers. “Stinko? Kinko? That clown with the dog?”
“Precisely,” smiles August.
AUGUST LEADS ME BACK through the men’s bunk cars until we’re standing on a small platform facing the back of a stock car.
“Are you sure-footed, Jacob?” he inquires graciously.
“I believe so,” I answer.
“Good,” he says. Without further ado, he leans forward, catches hold of something around the side of the stock car, and climbs nimbly to the roof.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell, looking in alarm first at the point where August disappeared, and then down at the bare coupling and ties that race beneath the cars. The train jerks around a curve. I throw my hands out to keep my balance, breathing hard.
“Come on then,” yells a voice from the roof.
“How the hell did you do that? What did you grab?”
“There’s a ladder. Just around the side. Lean forward and reach for it. You’ll find it.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I guess we’ll take our leave, won’t we?”
I advance gingerly to the edge. I can see just the edge of a thin iron ladder.
I train my eyes on it and wipe my hands on my thighs. Then I tip forward.
My right hand meets ladder. I grasp wildly with my left until I ensnare the other side. I jam my feet in the rungs and cling tightly, trying to catch my breath.
“Well, come on then!”
I look up. August peers down at me, grinning, his hair blowing in the wind.
I climb to the roof. He moves over, and when I sit down next to him he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Turn around. I want you to see something.”
He points down the length of the train. It stretches behind us like a giant snake, the linked cars jiggling and bending as it rounds a curve.
“It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it, Jacob?” says August. I look back at him. He’s staring right at me, his eyes glowing. “Not quite as beautiful as my Marlena, though—hey hey?” He clicks his tongue and winks.
Before I can protest, he stands and tap-dances across the roof.
I crane my neck and count stock cars. There are at least six.
“August?”
“What?” he says, stopping midtwirl.
“Which car is Kinko in?”
He crouches suddenly. “This one. Aren’t you a lucky boy?” He pries off a roof vent and disappears.
I scuttle over on hands and knees.
“August?”
“What?” returns a voice from the darkness.
“Is there a ladder?”
“No, just drop down.”
I lower myself inside until I’m hanging by my fingertips. Then I crash to the floor. A surprised nicker greets me.
Thin strips of moonlight filter through the slatted sides of the stock car. On one side of me is a line of horses. The other side is blocked by a wall that is clearly homemade.
August steps forward and shoves the door inward. It crashes against the wall behind it, revealing a makeshift room lit by kerosene lamp. The lamp is on an upturned crate next to a cot. A dwarf is lying on his stomach with a thick book open in front of him. He’s about my age and, like me, has red hair. Unlike me, his stands straight up from his head, an unruly thatch. His face, neck, arms, and hands are heavily freckled.