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.
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.
She is hunched over, her dowager’s hump forcing her to face her lap. Her hair is wispy and white, and someone—obviously not Ipphy—has combed it carefully to obscure the bald spots. She turns suddenly toward me. Her face lights up.
“Morty!” she cries, reaching out a skeletal hand and clapping it around my wrist. “Oh, Morty, you came back!”
I yank my arm away, but the hand comes with it. She pulls me toward her as I recoil.
“Nurse!” I yell, trying to wrench free. “Nurse!”
A few seconds later, someone pries me loose from Ipphy, who is convinced I am her dead husband. Furthermore, she is convinced I don’t love her anymore. She leans over the arm of her chair, weeping, waving her arms in a desperate attempt to reach me. The horse-faced nurse backs me up, moves me some distance away, and then places my walker between us.
“Oh, Morty, Morty! Don’t be like that!” Ipphy wails. “You know it didn’t mean anything. It was nothing—a terrible mistake. Oh, Morty! Don’t you love me anymore?”
I sit rubbing my wrist, incensed. Why can’t they have a separate wing for people like that? That old bird is clearly out of her head. She could have hurt me. Of course, if they did have a separate wing, I’d probably end up in it after what happened this morning. I sit up straight as an idea occurs to me. Maybe it was the new drug that caused the brain belch—oh, I must ask Rosemary about that. Or maybe not. The thought has cheered me, and I’d like to hang on to that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
Minutes pass and old people disappear until the row of wheelchairs resembles a jack-o-lantern’s gap-toothed smile. Family after family arrives, each claiming a decrepit ancestor amid high-decibel greetings. Strong bodies lean over weak; kisses are planted on cheeks. Brakes are kicked free, and one by one old people exit the sliding doors surrounded by relatives.
When Ipphy’s family arrives, they make a great show of being happy to see her. She gazes into their faces, eyes and mouth wide open, baffled but delighted.
There are only six of us left now, and we eye each other suspiciously. Each time the glass doors slide open our faces turn in unison and one of them brightens. And so it goes until I’m the only one left.
I glance at the wall clock. Two forty-five. Dammit! If they don’t show up soon I’ll miss the Spec. I shift in my seat, feeling querulous and old. Hell, I am querulous and old, but I must try not to lose my temper when they arrive. I’ll just rush them out the door, make clear that there’s no time for pleasantries. They can tell me about whoever’s promotion or whatever vacation after the show.
Rosemary’s head appears in the doorway. She looks both directions, taking in the fact that I’m alone in the lobby. She goes behind the nurses’ station and sets her chart down on the counter. Then she comes and sits next to me.
“Still no sign of your family, Mr. Jankowski?”
“No!” I shout. “And if they don’t show up soon there won’t be much point. I’m sure the good seats are already taken and I’m already going to miss the Spec.” I turn back to the clock, miserable, whiney. “Whatever is keeping them? They’re always here by now.”
Rosemary looks at her watch. It’s gold with stretchy links that look like they’re pinching her flesh. I always wore my watch loose, back when I had one.
“Do you know who’s coming today?” she asks.
“No. I never do. And it doesn’t really matter, just so long as they get here in time.”
“Well, let me see what I can find out.”
She rises and goes behind the desk at the nurses’ station.
I scan each person who passes on the sidewalk behind the sliding glass doors, seeking a familiar face. But they pass as a blur, one unto another. I look at Rosemary, who is standing behind the desk and speaking into the phone. She glances at me, hangs up, and makes another call.
The clock now says two fifty-three—just seven minutes to showtime. My blood pressure is so high my entire body buzzes like the fluorescent lights above me.
I’ve entirely given up on the idea of not losing my temper. Whoever shows up is going to get a piece of my mind, and that’s for sure. Every other old bird or coot in the place will have seen the whole show, including the Spec, and where’s the fairness in that? If there’s anyone in this place who should be there, it’s me. Oh, just wait until I lay eyes on whoever comes. If it’s one of my children, I’ll lay right into them. If it’s one of the others, well, then I’ll wait until—