WATER FOR ELEPHANT [116]
August disappears entirely for three days, and Uncle Al begins whacking heads again.
AUGUST IS NOT the only one consumed by thoughts of Marlena. I lie on my horse blanket at night wanting her so badly I ache. A part of me wishes she would come to me—but not really, because it’s too dangerous. I also can’t go to her, because she’s sharing a bunk in the virgin car with one of the bally broads.
We manage to make love twice in the space of six days—ducking behind sidewalls and grappling frantically, rearranging our clothing because there is no time to remove it. These encounters leave me both exhausted and recharged, desperate and fulfilled. The rest of the time we interact with focused formality in the cookhouse. We are so careful to maintain the facade that even though no one could possibly hear our conversations, we conduct them as though others were sitting at our table. Even so, I wonder whether our affair isn’t obvious. It seems to me that the bonds between us must be visible.
The night after our third unexpected and frenzied encounter, while the taste of her is still on my lips, I have a vivid dream. The train is stopped in the forest, for no reason I can make out because it’s the middle of the night and nobody stirs. There’s yelping outside, insistent and distressed. I leave the stock car, following the noise to the edge of a steep bank. Queenie struggles at the bottom of a ravine, a badger hanging from her leg. I call to her, frantically scanning the bank for a way to get down. I grab a ropy branch and clutch it while I try to descend, but the mud slips under my feet and I end up hauling myself back up.
In the meantime, Queenie breaks free and scrabbles up the hill. I scoop her up and check her for injuries. Incredibly, she is fine. I tuck her under my arm and turn toward the stock car. An eight-foot alligator blocks its entrance. I head for the next car over, but the alligator turns as well, shambling beside the train, its blunt, toothy snout open, grinning. I turn in panic. Another huge alligator approaches from the other direction.
There are noises behind us, leaves crackling and twigs snapping. I spin around to find that the badger has come up the bank and multiplied.
Behind us, a wall of badgers. In front of us, a dozen alligators.
I wake up in a cold sweat.
The situation is entirely untenable, and I know it.
IN POUGHKEEPSIE, WE are raided, and for once the social strata are bridged: working men, performers, and bosses alike weep and snizzle as all that scotch, all that wine, all that fine Canadian whiskey, all that beer, all that gin, and even moonshine is poured onto the gravel by straight-armed, sour-faced men. It winnows through the stones as we watch, bubbling into the undeserving earth.
And then we are run out of town.
In Hartford, a handful of patrons take serious exception to Rosie’s nonperformance, as well as the continued presence of the Lovely Lucinda sideshow banner despite the unfortunate absence of the Lovely Lucinda. The patches aren’t fast enough, and before we know it disgruntled men swarm the ticket wagon demanding refunds. With the police closing in on one side and townsfolk on the other, Uncle Al is forced to refund the whole day’s proceeds.
And then we are run out of town.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING is payday, and the employees of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth line up in front of the red ticket wagon. The working men are in a foul humor—they know which way the wind is blowing. The first person to approach the red wagon is a roustabout, and when he leaves empty-handed the line buzzes with angry curses. The rest of the working men stalk off, spitting and swearing, leaving only performers and bosses in line. A few minutes later, another angry buzz runs down the line, this one tinged with surprise. For the first time in the show’s history, there is no money for performers. Only the bosses are getting paid.
Walter is outraged.
“What the fuck