Camel appears from nowhere. “Here. Give this here to that fella there, at the end of the line,” he says, pressing a ticket into my free hand.
The man at the end of the line sits in a folding chair, looking out from under the brim of a bent fedora. I hold out the ticket. He looks up at me, arms crossed firmly in front of him.
“Department?” he says.
“I beg your pardon?” I say.
“What’s your department?”
“Uh . . . I’m not sure,” I say. “I’ve been mucking out stock cars all morning.”
“That don’t tell me nothin’,” he says, continuing to ignore my ticket. “That could be ring stock, baggage stock, or menagerie. So which is it?”
I don’t answer. I’m pretty sure Camel mentioned at least a couple of those, but I don’t remember the specifics.
“If you don’t know your department, you ain’t on the show,” the man says. “So, who the hell are you?”
“Everything okay, Ezra?” says Camel, coming up behind me.
“No it ain’t. I got me some smart-ass rube trying to filch breakfast from the show,” says Ezra, spitting on the ground.
“He ain’t no rube,” says Camel. “He’s a First of May and he’s with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The man flicks the brim of his hat up and checks me out, head to toe. He pauses a few beats longer and then says, “All right, Camel. If you’re vouching for him, I reckon that’s good enough for me.” The hand comes out, snatches my ticket. “Somethin’ else. Teach him how to talk before he gets the shit kicked out of him, will ya?”
“So, what’s my department?” I ask, heading for a table.
“Oh no you don’t,” says Camel, grabbing my elbow. “Them tables ain’t for the likes of us. You stick close to me till you learn your way around.”
I follow him around the curtain. The tables in the other half are set end to end, their bare wood graced only with salt and pepper shakers. No flowers here.
“Who sits on the other side? Performers?”
Camel shoots me a look. “Good God, kid. Just keep your trap shut till you learn the vernacular, would ya?”
He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. “Oh go on, don’t be sore. I’m just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra’s a pussycat. Sit yourself down.”
I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.
“So, what’s the vernacular then?” I say finally.
“They’re called kinkers,” says Camel, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. “And your department is baggage stock. For now.”
“So where are these kinkers?”
“They’ll be pulling in any time. There’s two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we’re on the subject, don’t you go calling them ‘kinkers’ to their faces, neither.”
“What do I call them?”
“Performers.”
“So why can’t I just call them performers all the time?” I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.
“There’s them and there’s us, and you’re us,” says Camel. “Never mind. You’ll learn.” A train whistles in the distance. “Speak of the devil.”
“Is Uncle Al with them?”
“Yep, but don’t you go getting any ideas. We ain’t going near him till later. He’s cranky as a bear with toothache when we’re still setting up. Say, how you making out with Joe? Had enough of horse shit yet?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, well I figure you for better’n that. I been talking to a friend of mine,” Camel says, crushing another piece of bread between his fingers and using it to wipe grease from his plate. “You stick with him the rest of the day, and he’ll put in a word for you.”
“What’ll I be doing?”
“Whatever he says. And I mean that, too.” He cocks an eyebrow for emphasis.
CAMEL’S FRIEND IS a small man with a large paunch and booming voice. He’s the sideshow talker, and his name is Cecil. He examines me and declares me suitable for the job at hand. I—along with Jimmy and Wade, two other men deemed presentable enough to mix with the townsfolk—are supposed to position ourselves around the edges of the crowd and then, when we get the signal, step forward and jostle them toward the entrance.
The sideshow is on the midway, which teems with activity. On one side, a group of black men struggles to put up the sideshow banners. On the other, there’s clinking and shouting as white-jacketed white men set up glass after glass of lemonade, forming pyramids of full glasses on the counters of their red and white striped concession stands. The air is filled with the scents of corn popping, peanuts roasting, and the tangy undertone of animal.
At the end of the midway, beyond the ticket gate, is a huge tent into which all manner of creatures is being carted—llamas, camels, zebras, monkeys, at least one polar bear, and cage after cage of cats.
Cecil and one of the black men fuss with a banner featuring an enormously fat woman. After a couple of seconds Cecil slaps the other man’s head. “Get with it, boy! We’re going to be crawling with suckers in a minute. How are we gonna bring them in if they can’t see Lucinda’s splendors?”
A whistle blows and everyone freezes.
“Doors!” booms a male voice.
All hell breaks loose. The men at the concession stands scurry behind their counters, making final adjustments to their wares and straightening their jackets and caps. With the exception of the poor soul still working on Lucinda’s banner, all the black men slip through the canvas and out of sight.
“Get that goddamned banner up and get out of here!” Cecil screams. The man makes one final adjustment and disappears.
I turn. A wall of humans swells toward us with squealing children leading the way, yanking their parents forward by the hand.
Wade jabs an elbow in my side. “Psssst . . . You wanna see the menagerie?”
“The what?”
He cocks his head at the tent between us and the big top. “You been craning your neck since you got here. Wanna take a peek?”
“What about him?” I say, jerking my eyes toward Cecil.
“We’ll be back before he misses us. Besides, we can’t do nothin’ till he gets a crowd going.”
Wade leads me to the ticket gate. Old men guard it, sitting behind four red podiums. Three ignore us. The fourth glances at Wade and nods.
“Go on. Have a peek,” says Wade. “I’ll keep an eye on Cecil.”
I peer inside. The tent is enormous, as tall as the sky and supported by long, straight poles jutting at various angles. The canvas is taut and nearly translucent—sunlight filters through the material and seams, illuminating the largest candy stand of all. It’s smack in the center of the menagerie, under rays of glorious light, surrounded by banners advertising sarsaparilla, Cracker Jack, and frozen custard.
Brilliantly painted red and gold animal dens line two of the four walls, their sides propped open to reveal lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, bears, chimps, and spider monkeys—even an orangutan. Camels, llamas, zebras, and horses stand behind low ropes slung between iron stakes, their heads buried in mounds of hay. Two giraffes stand within an area enclosed by chain-link fence.
I’m searching in vain for an elephant when my eyes come to an abrupt stop on a woman. She looks so much like Catherine I catch my breath—the plane of her face, the cut of her hair, the slim thighs I’ve always imagined were under Catherine’s staid skirts. She’s standing in front of a row of black and white horses, wearing pink sequins, tights, and satin slippers, talking to a man in top hat and tails. She cups the muzzle of one of the white horses, a striking Arabian with a silver mane and tail. She lifts a hand to push back a piece of her light brown hair and adjust her headdress. Then she reaches up and smoothes the horse’s forelock against his face. She grasps his ear in her fist, letting it slide through her fingers.