“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jankowski.”
“Eh?” I look up quickly. Rosemary’s back, sitting in the chair next to me. In my panic, I hadn’t noticed.
“They plum lost track of whose turn it was.”
“Well, who did they decide? How long is it going to take them to get here?”
Rosemary pauses. She presses her lips together and takes my hand between hers. It’s the expression people wear when they’re about to deliver bad news, and my adrenaline rises in anticipation. “They can’t make it,” she says. “It was supposed to be your son, Simon. When I called, he remembered, but he’d already made other plans. There was no answer at the other numbers.”
“Other plans?” I croak.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you tell him about the circus?”
“Yes, sir. And he was really very sorry. But it was something he just couldn’t get out of.”
My face twists, and before I know it I’m sniveling like a child.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jankowski. I know how important this was to you. I’d take you myself, but I’m working a twelve-hour shift.”
I bring my hands to my face, trying to hide my old man tears. A few seconds later, a tissue dangles in front of me.
“You’re a good girl, Rosemary,” I say, taking the tissue and staunching my leaky nose. “You know that, don’t you? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She looks at me for a long time. Too long. Finally she says, “Mr. Jankowski, you do know I’m leaving tomorrow, don’t you?”
My head snaps up. “Eh? For how long?” Oh, damn. That’s just what I need. If she goes on vacation, I’ll probably forget her name by the time she comes back.
“We’re moving to Richmond. To be closer to my mother-in-law. She’s not been well.”
I am stunned. My jaw flaps uselessly for a moment before I find words. “You’re married?”
“For twenty-six happy years, Mr. Jankowski.”
“Twenty-six years? No. I don’t believe it. You’re just a girl.”
She laughs. “I’m a grandmother, Mr. Jankowski. Forty-seven years old.”
We sit in silence for a moment. She digs into her pale pink pocket and replaces my saturated tissue with a new one. I dab the deep sockets that house my eyes.
“He’s a lucky man, your husband,” I sniff.
“We’re both lucky. Very blessed indeed.”
“And so’s your mother-in-law. Did you know there’s not a single one of my children who could take me in?”
“Well . . . It’s not always easy, you know.”
“I never said it was.”
She takes my hand. “I know that, Mr. Jankowski. I know that.”
I am overcome by the unfairness of it all. I close my eyes and picture drooling old Ipphy Bailey in the big top. She won’t even notice she’s there, never mind remember any of it.
After a couple of minutes, Rosemary says, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No,” I say, and there isn’t—not unless she can deliver me to the circus or the circus to me. Or take me with her to Richmond. “I think I’d like to be alone now,” I add.
“I understand,” she says gently. “Shall I take you back to your room?”
“No. I think I’ll sit right here.”
She stands up, leans over long enough to plant a kiss on my forehead, and disappears into the hallway, her rubber soles squeaking on the tiled floor.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
When I wake up, Marlena has disappeared. I immediately go in search of her and find her exiting Uncle Al’s car with Earl. He accompanies her to car 48 and makes August vacate while she goes inside.
I am pleased to see that August looks much as I do, which is to say like a battered rotten tomato. When Marlena climbs into the car he calls her name and tries to follow, but Earl blocks his way. August is agitated and desperate, moving from window to window, hauling himself up by his fingertips, weeping, oozing contrition.
It will never happen again. He loves her more than life itself—surely she knows that. He doesn’t know what came over him. He’ll do anything—anything!—to make it up to her. She is a goddess, a queen, and he is a just a miserable puddle of remorse. Can’t she see how sorry he is? Is she trying to torture him? Has she no heart?
When Marlena emerges with a suitcase, she passes him without so much as a glance. She wears a straw hat with a floppy brim pulled down over her black eye.
“Marlena,” he cries, reaching forward and grabbing her arm.
“Let her go,” says Earl.
“Please. I’m begging you,” says August. He drops to his knees in the dirt. His hands slide down her arm until he’s holding her left hand. He brings it to his face, showering it with tears and kisses as she stares stonily ahead.
“Marlena. Darling. Look at me. I’m on my knees. I’m begging you. What more can I do? My darling—my sweet—please come inside with me. We’ll talk about it. We’ll work it out.” He digs through his pocket, and comes up with a ring, which he tries to slip onto her third finger. She jerks her hand free and starts walking.
“Marlena! Marlena!” He is screaming now, and even the unbruised parts of his face are discolored. His hair flops over his forehead. “You can’t do this! This is not the end! Do you hear me? You’re my wife, Marlena! Till death do us part, remember?” He climbs to his feet and stands with fists clenched. “Till death do us part!” he screams.
Marlena thrusts her suitcase at me without stopping. I turn and follow, staring at her narrow waist as she marches across the brown grass. Only at the edge of the lot does she slow down enough that I can walk beside her.
“MAY I HELP YOU?” says the hotel clerk, looking up as the bell above the door announces our arrival. His initial expression of solicitous pleasantry is replaced first by alarm and then by disdain. It’s the same combination we’ve seen on the faces of everyone we passed on the way here. A middle-aged couple sitting on a bench by the front door gawks unabashedly.
And we do make quite a pair. The skin around Marlena’s eye has turned an impressive blue, but at least her face has kept its shape—mine is pulpy and mashed, the bruises overlaid with oozing wounds.
“I need a room,” says Marlena.
The clerk peers at her with disgust. “We haven’t got any,” he replies, pushing his spectacles up with one finger. He returns to his ledger.
I set her suitcase down and stand beside her. “Your sign says you’ve got vacancies.”
He presses his lips into an imperious line. “Then it’s wrong.”
Marlena touches my elbow. “Come on, Jacob.”
“No, I won’t ‘come on,’” I say, turning back to the clerk. “The lady needs a room, and you’ve got vacancies.”
He glances conspicuously at her left hand and raises an eyebrow. “We don’t rent to unmarried couples.”
“It’s not for us. Just her.”
“Uh-huh,” he says.
“You better watch it, pal,” I say. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Come on, Jacob,” Marlena says again. She is even paler than before, looking at the floor.
“I’m not implying anything,” the clerk says.
“Jacob, please,” says Marlena. “Let’s just go somewhere else.”
I give the clerk a final, searing stare that lets him know exactly what I’d do to him if Marlena weren’t here and then pick up her suitcase. She marches to the door.