WATER FOR ELEPHANT - Sara Gruen [49]
The scene outside is eerily quiet. Although the Flying Squadron pulled in a good half hour ahead of us, its men stand around silently. There is no ordered chaos. There is no clatter of runs or chutes, no cursing, no flying coils of rope, no hitching of teams. There are simply hundreds of disheveled men staring in bafflement at the pitched tents of another circus.
It’s like a ghost town. There is a big top, but no crowd. A cookhouse, but no flag. Wagons and dressing tents fill the back end, but the people who are left mill about aimlessly or sit idly in the shade.
I jump down from the stock car just as a black and beige Plymouth roadster pulls into the parking lot. Two men in suits climb out, carrying briefcases and scanning the scene from under homburgs.
Uncle Al strides toward them, sans entourage, wearing his top hat and swinging his silver-tipped cane. He shakes hands with both men, his face jovial, cordial. As he talks, he turns to gesture broadly across the lot. The businessmen nod, crossing their arms in front of them, figuring, considering.
I hear gravel crunching behind me, and then August appears at my shoulder. “That’s our Al,” he says. “He can smell a city official a mile off. You watch—he’ll have the mayor eating out of his hand by noon.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Come on.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Into town, for breakfast,” he says. “Doubt there’s any food here. Probably won’t be until tomorrow.”
“Jesus—really?”
“Well, we’ll try, but we hardly gave the advance man time to get here, did we?”
“What about them?”
“Who?”
I point at the defunct circus.
“Them? When they get hungry enough they’ll mope off. Best thing for everyone, really.”
“And our guys?”
“Oh, them. They’ll survive until something shows up. Don’t you worry. Al won’t let them die.”
WE STOP AT A DINER not far down the main strip. It has booths along one wall and a laminate counter with red-topped stools along the other. A handful of men sit at the counter, smoking and chatting with the girl who stands behind it.
I hold the door for Marlena, who goes immediately to a booth and slides in against the wall. August drops onto the opposite bench, so I end up sitting next to her. She crosses her arms and stares at the wall.
“Mornin’. What can I get you folks?” says the girl, still behind the counter.
“The works,” says August. “I’m famished.”
“How do you like your eggs?”
“Sunny side up.”
“Ma’am?”
“Just coffee,” Marlena says, sliding one leg over the other and jiggling her foot. The motion is frenetic, almost aggressive. She does not look at the waitress. Or August. Or me, come to think of it.
“Sir?” says the girl.
“Uh, same as him,” I say. “Thanks.”
August leans back and pulls out a pack of Camels. He flicks the bottom. A cigarette arcs through the air. He catches it in his lips and leans back, eyes bright, hands spread in triumph.
Marlena turns to look at him. She claps slowly, deliberately, her face stony.
“Come now, darling. Don’t be a wet noodle,” says August. “You know we were out of meat.”
“Excuse me,” she says, sliding toward me. I leap out of her way. She marches out the door, shoes tap-tapping and hips swaying under her flared red dress.
“Women,” says August, lighting his cigarette from behind a cupped hand. He snaps his lighter shut. “Oh, sorry. Want one?”
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“No?” he muses, sucking in a lungful. “You should take it up. It’s good for your health.” He puts the pack back in his pocket and snaps his fingers at the girl behind the counter. She’s standing at the griddle, holding a spatula.
“Make it snappy, would you? We don’t have all day.”
She freezes, spatula in the air. Two of the men at the counter turn slowly to look at us, eyes wide.
“Um, August,” I say.
“What?” He looks genuinely puzzled.
“It’s coming just as fast as I can make it,” the waitress says coldly.
“Fine. That’s all I was asking,” says August. He leans toward me and continues in a lowered voice.