The relief is instant and palpable. All these years it’s been pent up inside me. I thought I’d feel guilty, like I betrayed her, but what I feel—particularly in light of Charlie’s sympathetic nodding—is more like absolution. Redemption, even.
I was never entirely sure whether Marlena knew—there was so much going on in the menagerie at that moment that I have no idea what she saw, and I never brought it up. I couldn’t, because I couldn’t risk changing how she felt about Rosie—or, if it comes right down to it, how she felt about me. Rosie may have been the one who killed August, but I also wanted him dead.
At first, I stayed silent to protect Rosie—and there was no question she needed protecting, in those days elephant executions were not uncommon—but there was never any excuse for keeping it from Marlena. Even if it caused her to harden toward Rosie, she’d never have caused her harm. In the entire history of our marriage, it was the only secret I kept from her, and eventually it became impossible to fix. With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
Having heard my story, Charlie looks not in the least bit shocked or judgmental, and my relief is so great that when I finish telling him about the stampede, I keep going. I tell him about our years with Ringling and how we left after the birth of our third child. Marlena had simply had enough of being on the road—kind of a nesting thing, I figure—and besides, Rosie was getting on in years. Fortunately, the staff veterinarian at Brookfield Zoo in Chicago chose that spring to drop dead, and I was a shoo-in—not only did I have seven years of experience with exotics and a damned good degree, but I also came with an elephant.
We bought a rural property far enough from the zoo that we could keep the horses but close enough that the drive to work wasn’t that bad. The horses more or less retired, although Marlena and the kids still rode them occasionally. They grew fat and happy—the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter. Bobo came with us, of course. He got into more trouble over the years than all the kids put together, but we loved him just the same.
Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane; the times I had five kids, a chimpanzee, and a wife in bed with fever. Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull, or when I was bailing out some son or other—or, in one memorable instance, Bobo—from a minor predicament at the police station, they were good years, grand years.
But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were in it up to our eyeballs, and next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.
Charlie, bless his heart, is actually interested in my story. He picks up the bottle and leans forward. As I push my glass toward him, there’s a knock on the door. I yank my hand back as though it’s been singed.
Charlie slides off the bench and leans toward a window, pulling the plaid curtain back with two fingers.
“Shit,” he says. “It’s the heat. I wonder what’s up?”
“They’re here for me.”
He glances at me, hard and precise. “What?”
“They’re here for me,” I say, trying to keep my eyes level with his. It’s hard—I have nystagmus, the result of a long-ago concussion. The harder I try to look steadily at someone, the more my eyes jerk back and forth.
Charlie lets the curtain fall and goes to the door.
“Good evening,” says a deep voice from the doorway. “I’m looking for a Charlie O’Brien. Someone said I could find him here.”
“You can and did. What can I do for you, officer?”
“I was hoping you could help us out. An elderly man went missing from a nursing home just down the street. The staff seems to think he probably came here.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Folks of all ages enjoy the circus.”
“Sure. Of course. Thing is, this guy is ninety-three and pretty frail. They were hoping he’d come back on his own after the show, but it’s been a couple of hours and he still hasn’t showed up. They’re mighty worried about him.”
Charlie blinks pleasantly at the cop. “Even if he did come here, I doubt he’s still around. We’re fixing to leave real soon.”
“Do you remember seeing anyone fitting that description tonight?”
“Sure. Lots. All sorts of families brought their old folks.”
“How about an old man on his own?”
“I didn’t notice, but then again we get so many people coming through I kind of tune out after a while.”
The cop pokes his head inside the trailer. His eyes light on me with obvious interest. “Who’s that?”
“Who—him?” says Charlie, waving in my direction.
“Yes.”
“That’s my dad.”
“Do you mind if I come in for a moment?”
After just the slightest pause, Charlie steps aside. “Sure, be my guest.”
The cop climbs inside the trailer. He’s so tall he has to stoop. He has a jutting chin and fiercely hooked nose. His eyes are set too close together, like an orangutan’s. “How are you doing, sir?” he asks, coming closer. He squints, examining me closely.
Charlie shoots me a look. “Dad can’t talk. He had a major stroke a few years ago.”
“Wouldn’t he better off staying at home?” says the officer.
“This is home.”
I drop my jaw and let it quaver. I reach for my glass with a trembling hand and nearly knock it over. Nearly, because it would be a shame to waste such good scotch.
“Here, Pops, let me help you,” says Charlie, rushing over. He slides onto the bench beside me and reaches for my glass. He lifts it to my lips.
I point my tongue like a parrot’s, letting it touch the ice cubes that tumble toward my mouth.
The cop watches. I’m not looking directly at him, but I can see him in my peripheral vision.
Charlie sets my glass down and gazes placidly at him.
The cop watches us for a while, then scans the room with narrowed eyes. Charlie’s face is blank as a wall, and I do my best to drool.
Finally the cop tips his cap. “Thank you, gentlemen. If you see or hear anything, please let us know right away. This old guy is in no shape to be out on his own.”
“I surely will,” says Charlie. “Feel free to have a look around the lot. I’ll have my guys keep an eye out for him. It would be a terrible shame if something happened to him.”
“Here’s my number,” says the cop, handing Charlie a card. “Give me a call if you hear anything.”
“You bet.”
The cop takes one final look around and then steps toward the door. “Well, good night then,” he says.
“Good night,” says Charlie, following him to the door. After he shuts it, he comes back to the table. He sits and pours us each another whiskey. We each take a sip and then sit in silence.
“Are you sure about this?” he finally asks.
“Yup.”
“What about your health? You need any medicine?”
“Nope. There’s nothing wrong with me but old age. And I reckon that will take care of itself eventually.”
“What about your family?”
I take another sip of whiskey, swirl the remaining liquid around the bottom, and then drain the glass. “I’ll send them postcards.”
I look at his face and realize that didn’t come out right.