“You . . . You . . . You . . .” He raises a hand, stirring the air with his fingers. But then he trails off, his attention caught by the silver-tipped cane. It’s leaning against the sidewall near the table, where I left it. He saunters over and picks it up.
I hear liquid hitting the ground behind me and turn quickly. Rosie is peeing into the grass, her ears flat against her head, her trunk curled under her face.
August holds the cane and slaps its silver handle repeatedly against his palm. “How long did you think you could keep it from me?” He pauses for a second, and then looks me straight in the eye. “Eh?”
“August,” I say. “I have no idea what—”
“I said shut up!” He spins and swipes the cane across the serving table, knocking platters, cutlery, and bottles to the ground. Then he raises a foot and kicks the whole thing over. It crashes onto its side, sending china, glass, and food flying.
August stares down at the mess for a moment, and then looks up. “You think I don’t see what’s going on?” His eyes drill into Marlena, his temple pulses. “Oh, you’re good, my dear,” he wiggles his finger at her and smiles, “I’ll give you that. You’re very good.”
He walks back to the vanity and rests the cane against it. Then he leans over and peers into the mirror. He pushes the hair that’s fallen over his forehead back into place and then smoothes it with his palm. Then he freezes, his hand still at his forehead. “Peek-a-boo,” he says, looking at our reflections. “I see you.”
Marlena’s horrified face looks back at me from the mirror.
August turns and picks up Rosie’s pink sequined headpiece. “And that’s the trouble, isn’t it? I see you. You think I don’t, but I do. This was a nice touch, I must admit,” he says, turning the shimmering headpiece over in his hands. “The devoted wife, hiding away in a closet, sewing up a storm. Or was it a closet? Maybe it was right here. Or maybe you went to that whore’s tent. Whores look after each other, don’t they?” He looks at me. “So, where did you do it, eh, Jacob? Where, exactly, have you fucked my wife?”
I take Marlena’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s go,” I say.
“Aha! So you don’t even deny it!” he screams. He clutches the headpiece in white-knuckled fists and pulls, screaming through gritted teeth, until a split zigzags across it.
Marlena shrieks. She drops the flutes and claps a hand to her mouth.
“You whore!” August screams. “You slut. You mangy bitch!” With each epithet, he rips the headpiece further.
“August!” Marlena screams, stepping forward. “Stop it! Stop it!”
The noise seems to shock him, because he stops. He looks at her and blinks. He looks at the headpiece. Then he looks back at her, confused.
After a pause of several seconds, Marlena steps forward. “Auggie?” she says tentatively. She looks up at him, her eyes beseeching. “Are you all right now?”
August stares at her, baffled, as though he’s simply awakened and found himself here. Marlena approaches slowly. “Darling?” she says.
His lower jaw moves. His forehead crumples, and the headpiece falls to the ground.
I think I’ve stopped breathing.
Marlena steps right up to him. “Auggie?”
He looks down at her. His nose twitches. Then he shoves her so violently she crashes back onto the overturned platters and food. He takes one long step forward, leans down, and tries to rip the necklace from her throat. The clasp holds, so he ends up dragging her by the neck as she screams.
I launch across the open space and tackle him. Rosie roars behind me as August and I fall backward onto broken plates and spilled gravy. First I’m on top of him, pounding his face. Then he’s on top of me, cuffing me in the eye. I buck him off and yank him to his feet.
“Auggie! Jacob!” shrieks Marlena. “Stop!”
I shove him backward, but he grabs my lapels and so we crash into the vanity together. I am vaguely aware of tinkling as the mirror disintegrates around us. August thrusts me away, and we grapple in the center of the tent.
We roll around, grunting, so close I can feel his breath on my face. Now I’m on top of him, landing punches. Now he’s on top of me, banging my head against the ground. Marlena is hovering, screaming at us to stop, but we can’t. Or at least I can’t—all the rage and pain and frustration of the past few months is channeled into my fists.
Now I’m facing the overturned table. Now I’m facing Rosie, who is pulling her leg chain and bellowing. Now we’re standing up again, grasping at each other’s collars and lapels, both blocking and landing blows. Eventually we fall against the entrance flap and land in the middle of the crowd that has gathered outside.
Within seconds, I’m hauled off, pinioned by Grady and Bill. For a moment, August looks as though he’s going to come after me, but then the expression on his mashed face shifts. He climbs to his feet and calmly dusts himself off.
“You’re crazy. Crazy!” I scream.
He observes me coolly, straightens his sleeves, and goes back into the tent.
“Let me go,” I plead, jerking my head around first to Grady and then to Bill. “For Christ’s sake, let me go! He’s nuts! He’ll kill her!” I struggle hard enough that I manage to pull them forward a few feet. From inside the tent I hear the crash of broken dishes and then Marlena screams.
Grady and Bill are both grunting, bracing their legs to keep me from getting loose. “No he won’t,” says Grady. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Earl blasts from the crowd and ducks into the tent. The crashing stops. There are two soft thuds, then a louder one, and then conspicuous silence.
I freeze, staring at the blank expanse of canvas.
“There. See?” says Grady, still gripping my arm tightly. “You okay? Can we let you go now?”
I nod, continuing to stare.
Grady and Bill release me, but in stages. First they loosen their grips. Then they let go, but stay close, keeping an eye on me.
A hand appears on my waist. Walter is standing beside me.
“Come on, Jacob,” he says. “Walk away.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“Yes. You can. Come on. Walk away.”
I stare at the silent tent. After another few seconds, I tear my eyes from the billowing flap and walk away.
WALTER AND I CLIMB into the stock car. Queenie emerges from behind the trunks, where Camel is snoring. She wags her stump and then stops, sniffing the air.
“Sit,” Walter orders, pointing at the cot.
Queenie sits in the center of the floor. I sit on the edge of the cot. Now that my adrenaline is fading, I’m beginning to realize how badly I’m hurt. My hands are lacerated, I sound like I’m breathing through a gas mask, and I’m looking through a slit formed by the puffed lids of my right eye. When I touch my face, my hand comes away bloody.
Walter leans over an open trunk. When he turns around, he’s got a jug of moonshine and a handkerchief. He stands in front of me and pulls the cork.
“Eh? Is that you? Walter?” Camel calls from behind the trunks. Trust him to wake up at the sound of a cork being pulled.
“You’re a bloody mess,” Walter says, completely ignoring Camel. He holds the hankie against the neck of the jug and tips the whole thing upside down. He brings the wet cloth toward my face. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”
That was the understatement of the century—when the alcohol encounters my face, I jerk back with a yelp.