Water for Elephants

COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA

Shh, don’t move.”

I’m not, although my head jiggles and jerks with the motion of the train. The engine’s whistle blows mournfully, a distant sound that somehow cuts through the insistent buzzing in my ears. My whole body feels like lead.

Something cold and wet hits my forehead. I open my eyes and see a panoply of shifting color and forms. Four blurred arms cross my face and then merge into a single foreshortened limb. I gag, my lips involuntarily forming a tunnel. I turn my head, but nothing comes out.

“Keep your eyes closed,” says Walter. “Just lie still.”

“Hrrmph,” I mumble. I let my head fall to the side, and the cloth falls from it. A moment later it’s replaced.

“You took a good hit. Glad to see you back.”

“Is he coming around?” says Camel. “Hey, Jacob, you still with us?”

I feel like I’m rising from a deep mine, am having trouble placing myself. I appear to be on the bedroll. The train is already moving. But how did I get here and why was I asleep?

Marlena!

My eyes snap open. I struggle to rise.

“Didn’t I tell you to lie still?” Walter scolds.

“Marlena! Where’s Marlena?” I gasp, falling back on the pillow. My brain rolls in my head. I think it’s been shaken loose. It’s worse when my eyes are open and so I close them again. With all visual stimulus removed, the blackness feels larger than my head, as though my cranial cavity has turned inside out.

Walter is kneeling beside me. He removes the rag from my forehead, dips it in water, and then squeezes out the excess. The water trickles back into the bowl, a clean, clear sound, a familiar tinkling. The buzzing starts to subside, replaced by a pounding ache that sweeps from ear to ear around the back of my skull.

Walter brings the rag back to my face. He wipes my forehead, cheeks, and chin, leaving my skin damp. The cooling tingle is grounding, helps me concentrate on the outside of my head.

“Where is she? Did he hurt her?”

“I don’t know.”

I open my eyes again, and the world tilts violently. I struggle up on my elbows and this time Walter doesn’t push me down. Instead, he leans over and peers into my eyes. “Shit. Your pupils are different sizes. You feel up to drinking something?” he says.

“Uh . . . yeah,” I gasp. Finding words is hard. I know what I want to express, but the pathway between my mouth and brain might as well be stuffed with cotton.

Walter crosses the room, and a bottle cap clinks to the floor. He comes back and holds a bottle to my lips. It’s sarsaparilla. “It’s the best I’ve got, I’m afraid,” he says ruefully.

“Damned cops,” Camel grumbles. “You okay, Jacob?”

I’d like to answer, but staying upright is taking all my concentration.

“Walter, is he okay?” Camel sounds significantly more worried this time.

“I think so,” says Walter. He puts the bottle on the floor. “You want to try sitting up? Or you want to wait a few minutes?”

“I’ve got to get Marlena.”

“Forget it, Jacob. There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“I’ve got to. What if he . . .?” My voice cracks. I can’t even finish the sentence. Walter helps me into a sitting position.

“There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“I don’t accept that.”

Walter turns in fury. “For Christ’s sake, would you just listen to me for once?”

His anger startles me into silence. I rearrange my knees and lean forward so my head is resting on my arms. It feels heavy, huge—at least as large as my body.

“Never mind that we’re on a moving train and you’ve got a concussion. We’re in a mess. A big mess. And the only thing you can do right now is make it worse. Hell, if you hadn’t been knocked flat and if we didn’t still have Camel here, I’d have never gotten back on this train tonight.”

I stare between my knees at the bedroll, trying to concentrate on the largest fold of material. Things are steadier now, not shifting so much. With each passing minute, additional parts of my brain are kicking in.

“Look,” Walter continues, his voice softer, “we’ve got three days left before we off-load Camel. And we’re just going to have to cope the best we can in the meantime. That means watching our backs and not doing anything stupid.”

“Off-load Camel?” says Camel. “Is that how you think of me?”

“At the moment, yes!” barks Walter. “And you should be grateful we do, because what the hell do you think would happen to you if we took off right now? Hmmm?”

There is no answer from the cot.

Walter pauses and sighs. “Look, what’s happening with Marlena is terrible, but for God’s sake! If we leave before Providence, Camel’s done for. She’s going to have to look after herself for the next three days. Hell, she’s done it for four years. I think she can last another three days.”

“She’s pregnant, Walter.”

“What?”

There is a long silence. I look up.

Walter’s forehead is creased. “Are you sure?”

“So she says.”

He stares into my eyes for a long time. I try to meet his gaze, but my eyes jerk rhythmically to the side.

“All the more reason to play this carefully. Jacob, look at me!”

“I’m trying!” I say.

“We’re going to get out of here. But if we’re all going to make it, we’ve got to play it right. We can’t do anything—anything!—until Camel’s gone. The sooner you get used to that, the better.”

There’s a sob from the cot. Walter turns his head. “Shut it, Camel! They wouldn’t be taking you back if they hadn’t forgiven you. Or would you rather be redlighted?”

“I don’t rightly know,” he cries.

Walter turns back to me. “Look at me, Jacob. Look at me.” When I do, he continues. “She’ll handle him. I tell you, she’ll handle him. She’s the only one who can. She knows what’s at stake. It’s only for three days.”

“And then what? Like you’ve said all along, we have nowhere to go.”

He turns his face away in anger. Then he spins back. “Do you truly comprehend the situation here, Jacob? Because sometimes I wonder.”

“Of course I do! It’s just I’m not liking any of the options.”

“Me neither. But like I said, we’ll have to sort that out later. Right now let’s just concentrate on getting out of here alive.”

CAMEL SOBS AND SNIFFS his way to sleep, despite Walter’s repeated assurances that his family will welcome him with open arms.

Eventually he drifts off. Walter checks him one more time and then turns off the lamp. He and Queenie retire to the horse blanket in the corner. A few minutes later he begins to snore.

I rise carefully, testing my balance at every point. When I’ve got myself successfully upright, I step tentatively forward. I’m dizzy but seem able to compensate. I take a few steps in a row, and when that works out all right I cross the floor to the trunk.

Six minutes later, I’m creeping across the top of the stock car on my hands and knees with Walter’s knife in my teeth.

What sounds like gentle clacking from inside the train is a violent banging up here. The cars shift and jerk as we round a corner, and I stop, clinging to the top rail until we’re once again on a straightaway.

At the end of the car I pause to consider my options. In theory, I could climb down the ladder, leap over to the platform, and walk through the various cars until I reach the one in question. But I can’t risk being seen.

So. And so.

I stand, still holding the knife in my teeth. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms moving jerkily to the side, like the tightrope walker’s.

The divide between this car and the next seems immense, a great span over eternity. I gather myself, pressing my tongue against the bitter metal of the knife. Then I leap, throwing every ounce of muscle into propelling myself through the air. I swing my arms and legs wildly, preparing to catch hold of anything—anything at all—if I miss.

I hit roof. I cling to the top rail, panting like a dog around the sides of the blade. Something warm trickles from the corner of my mouth. Still kneeling on the rail, I remove the knife from my mouth and lick blood from my lips. Then I put it back, taking care to keep my lips retracted.

In this manner I traverse five sleepers. Each time I leap, I land a little more cleanly, a little more cavalierly. By the sixth, I have to remind myself to be careful.

When I reach the privilege car, I sit on the roof and take stock. My muscles are aching, my head is spinning, and I’m gasping for breath.

The train jags around another curve and I grasp the rails, looking toward the engine. We’re hugging the side of a forested hill, headed for a trestle. From what I can see in the darkness, the trestle drops down to a rocky river bank twenty yards below. The train jerks again, and I make my decision. The rest of my journey to car 48 will be on the interior.

Still clenching the knife in my teeth, I ease myself off the edge of the platform. The cars that house the performers and bosses are connected by metal plates, so all I have to do is make sure I land on it. I’m hanging by my fingertips when the train lurches once again, swinging my legs off to the side. I clutch desperately, my sweaty fingers sliding on the cross-hatched metal.

When the train straightens out again, I drop onto the plate. The platform has a railing and I lean against it for a moment, collecting myself. With aching, trembling fingers I pull the watch from my pocket. It’s nearly three in the morning. The chances of running into someone are slim. But still.

The knife is a problem. It is too long to go in a pocket, too sharp to stick in my waistband. In the end, I wrap my jacket around it and tuck it under my arm. Then I run my fingers through my hair, wipe the blood off my lips, and slide the door open.

The corridor is empty, illuminated by moonlight coming through the windows. I pause long enough to look out. We’re on the trestle now. I had underestimated its height—we’re a good forty yards above the boulders of the riverbank and facing a wide area of nothingness. As the train sways, I’m grateful I’m no longer on the roof.

Soon I’m staring at the doorknob of stateroom 3. I unwrap the knife and lay it on the floor while I put my jacket back on. Then I pick it up and stare at the doorknob a moment longer.

There’s a loud click as I turn the knob, and I freeze, keeping it turned, waiting to see if there’s a reaction. After several seconds, I continue twisting and push the door inward.

I leave the door open, afraid that if I close it I’ll wake him up.

If he’s on his back, a single quick slash across the windpipe will do it. If he’s on his stomach or side, I’ll plunge it straight through, making sure the blade crosses his windpipe. Either way, I’ll hit him in the neck. I just can’t falter, because it must be deep enough that he bleeds out quickly, without crying out.

I creep toward the bedroom, clutching the knife. The velvet curtain is closed. I pull the edge of it toward me and peek in. When I see that he’s alone, I exhale in relief. She’s safe, probably in the virgin car. In fact, I must have crawled right over her on my way here.

I slip in and stand by the bed. He’s sleeping on the near side, leaving space for the absent Marlena. The curtains on the windows are tied back, and moonlight flashes through the trees, alternately illuminating and hiding his face.

I stare down at him. He’s in striped pajamas and looks peaceful, boyish even. His dark hair is mussed, and the edge of his mouth moves in and out of a smile. He’s dreaming. He moves suddenly, smacking his lips and rolling from his back onto his side. He reaches over to Marlena’s side of the bed and pats the empty space a few times. Then he pats his way up to her pillow. He takes hold of it and pulls it to his chest, hugging it, burrowing his face into it.

I raise the knife, holding it in both hands, its tip poised two feet above his throat. I need to do this right. I adjust the blade’s angle to maximize side-to-side damage. The train passes out of the trees, and a thin streak of moonlight catches the blade. It glints, throwing tiny shards of light as I make adjustments to the angle. August moves again, snorting and rolling violently onto his back. His left arm flops off the bed and comes to a stop inches from my thigh. The knife is still gleaming, still catching and throwing light. But the movement is no longer a result of my making adjustments. My hands are shaking. August’s lower jaw opens, and he inhales with a terrible rumbling and smacking of lips. The hand beside my thigh is slack. The fingers of his other hand twitch.

I lean over him and lay the knife carefully on Marlena’s pillow. I stare for a few seconds longer and then leave.

NO LONGER RIDING a wave of adrenaline, my head once again feels larger than my body, and I stagger through the corridors until I reach the end of the staterooms.

I have a choice to make. I must either go up top again or else continue through the privilege car—where there’s every possibility someone is still up gambling—and then also pass through all the sleepers, at which point I’ll still have to go back up top to get to the stock car. And so I decide to make the ascent earlier rather than later.

It’s almost more than I can manage. My head is pounding, and my balance seriously compromised. I climb onto the railing of a connecting platform and somehow scrape my way up to the top. Once there, I lie on the top rail, queasy and limp. I spend ten minutes recovering and then crawl forth. I rest again at the end of the car, prostrate between the top rails. I am utterly drained. I can’t imagine how I’ll keep going, but I must, because if I fall asleep here I’ll fall off the first time we hit a curve.

The buzzing returns, and my eyes are jerking. I dive across the great divide four times, each time sure I won’t make it. On the fifth, I nearly don’t. My hands hit the thin iron rails, but the edge of the car hits me in the gut. I hang there, stunned, so tired that it crosses my mind how much easier it would be to simply let go. It’s how drowning people must feel in the last few seconds, when they finally stop fighting and sink into the water’s embrace. Only what’s waiting for me is not a watery embrace. It’s a violent dismemberment.

I snap to, scrabbling with my legs until I get purchase on the top edge of the car. From there, it’s easy enough to haul myself up and a second later I’m once again lying on the top rail, gasping for breath.

The train whistle blows, and I lift my huge head. I’m on top of the stock car. I only have to make it to the vent and drop down. I crawl to the vent in fits and starts. It’s open, which is odd because I thought I closed it. I lower myself inside and crash to the floor. One of the horses whinnies and continues to snort and stamp, riled up about something.

I turn my head. The exterior door is now open.

I jerk up and scootch around so I’m facing the interior door. It is also open.

“Walter! Camel!” I shout.

Nothing but the sound of the door gently hitting the wall behind it, keeping time with the ties clacking beneath us.

I scramble to my feet and lunge for the door. Doubled over and supporting myself with one hand against the doorframe and the other on my thigh, I scan the interior of the room with sightless eyes. All the blood has left my head, and my vision once again fills with black and white explosions.

“Walter! Camel!”

My eyesight starts to return, from the outside in so that I find myself turning my head to try to catch things in the periphery. The only light is what comes through the slats, and it reveals an empty cot. The bedroll is also empty, as is the horse blanket in the corner.

I stagger to the row of trunks against the back wall and lean over them.

“Walter?”

All I find is Queenie, shivering and curled into a ball. She looks up at me in terror, and I am left with no doubt.

I sink to the floor, overcome with grief and guilt. I throw a book at the wall. I pound the floorboards. I shake my fists at heaven and God, and when I finally subside into uncontrolled sobbing Queenie creeps out from behind the trunks and slides into my lap. I hold her warm body until finally we are rocking in silence.

I want to believe that taking Walter’s knife didn’t make a difference. But still, I left him without a knife, without even a chance.

I want to believe they survived. I try to picture it—the two of them rolling out onto the mossy forest floor amid indignant curses. Why, at this very moment, Walter is probably going for help. He has made Camel comfortable in some sheltered spot and is going for help.

Okay. Okay. It’s not as bad as I thought. I’ll go back for them. In the morning, I’ll grab Marlena and we’ll go back to the nearest town and ask at the hospital. Maybe even the jail, in case the town decided they were vagrants. It should be easy enough to figure out which town is closest. I can locate it by proximity to the—

They didn’t. They couldn’t have. Nobody could have redlighted a crippled old man and a dwarf over a trestle. Not even August. Not even Uncle Al.

I spend the rest of the night planning all the ways I can kill them, rolling the ideas around in my head and savoring them, as though I were fingering smooth stones.

THE SCREECH OF THE air brakes snaps me out of my trance. Before the train has even stopped, I drop to the gravel and stride toward the sleepers. I climb the iron stairs to the first one shabby enough to house working men and slide the door open so violently it bounces closed again. I reopen it and march through.

“Earl! Earl! Where are you?” My voice is guttural with hate and rage. “Earl!”

I stalk down the aisle, peering into bunks. None of the surprised faces I encounter is Earl’s.

Onto the next car.

“Earl! You in here?”

I pause and turn to a bewildered man in a bunk. “Where the hell is he? Is he in here?”

“You mean Earl from security?”

“Yeah. That’s who I mean, all right.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Two cars thataway.”

I pass through another car, trying to avoid the limbs that stick out from under bunks, the arms that spill over their edges.

I slide the door open with a crash. “Earl! Where the hell are you? I know you’re in here!”

There’s an astonished pause, with men on both sides of the car shifting in their bunks to get a look at this loud intruder. Three-quarters of the way down I see Earl. I charge him.

“You son of a bitch!” I say, reaching down to grab him by the neck. “How could you do it? How could you?”

Earl leaps from his bunk, holding my arms out to the side. “Whoa—hang on, Jacob. Calm down. What’s going on?”

“You know fucking well what I’m talking about!” I shriek, twisting my forearms around and out, breaking his grasp. I hurl myself at him, but before I make contact he once again has me at arm’s length.

“How could you do it?” Tears are running down my face. “How could you? You were supposed to be Camel’s friend! And what the hell did Walter ever do to you?”

Earl goes pale. He freezes with his hands still closed around my wrists. The shock on his face is so genuine I stop struggling.

We blink at each other in horror. Seconds pass. A panicked buzz ripples through the rest of the car.

Earl releases me and says, “Follow me.”

We step down from the train, and once we are a good dozen yards away, he turns to me. “They’re gone?”

I stare at him, seeking answers in his face. There aren’t any. “Yeah.”

Earl sucks in his breath. His eyes close. For a moment I think he might cry.

“Are you telling me you didn’t know anything?” I say.

“Hell no! What do you think I am? I’d never do something like that. Aw shit. Aw hell. The poor old fella. Wait a minute—” he says, training his eyes on me suddenly. “Where were you?”

“Somewhere else,” I say.

Earl stares for a moment and then drops his gaze to the ground. He puts his hands on his waist and sighs, bobbing his head and thinking. “Okay,” he says. “I’m going to find out how many other poor bastards got tossed, but let me tell you something—kinkers don’t get tossed, even lowly ones. If Walter got it, they were after you. And if I were you, I’d start walking right now and never look back.”

“And if I can’t do that?”

He looks up sharply. His jaw moves from side to side. He regards me for a very long time. “You’ll be safe on the lot, in daylight,” he says finally. “If you get back on the train tonight, don’t go anywhere near that stock car. Move around the flats and rest under wagons. Don’t get caught, and don’t let your guard down. And blow the show as soon as you can.”

“I will. Believe me. But I’ve got a couple of loose ends to wrap up first.”

Earl gives me a long last look. “I’ll try to catch up with you later,” he says. Then he strides off toward the cookhouse where the men from the Flying Squadron are congregating in small groups, their eyes darting, their faces fearful.

• • •

IN ADDITION TO Camel and Walter, eight other men are missing, three from the main train and the rest from the Flying Squadron, which means that Blackie and his group broke up into squads, riding different sections of the train. With the show on the brink of collapse, the working men probably would have been redlighted anyway, but not over a trestle. That was meant for me.

It occurs to me that my conscience stopped me from killing August at the very moment someone was attempting to carry out his orders to kill me.

I wonder how he felt waking up beside that knife. I hope he understands that while it started out as a threat, it’s since transformed into a promise. I owe it to each and every one of the men who got tossed.

I SKULK AROUND all morning, searching desperately for Marlena. She is nowhere to be seen.

Uncle Al strides around in his black and white checked pants and scarlet waistcoat, slapping the head of anyone who isn’t quick enough to jump out of his way. At one point he catches sight of me and stops cold. We face each other, eighty yards apart. I stare and stare, trying to focus all my hatred through my eyes. After a few seconds, his lips form a cold smile. Then he makes a sharp right turn and continues on his way, his grovelers straggling behind.

I watch from a distance when the flag goes up over the cookhouse at lunchtime. Marlena is there, dressed in street clothes and lined up for food. Her eyes scan the crowd; I know she’s looking for me, and I hope she knows I’m okay. Almost as soon as she sits down, August comes out of nowhere and sits opposite. He has no food. He says something and then reaches across and grabs her wrist. She pulls backward, spilling her coffee. The people around them turn to watch. He lets go and rises so quickly the bench falls backward onto the grass. Then he storms out. As soon as he’s gone, I sprint to the cookhouse.

Marlena looks up, sees me, and goes pale.

“Jacob!” she gasps.

I set the bench upright and sit on its edge.

“Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” I say.

“I’m fine. But what about you? I heard—” Her words catch in her throat, and she covers her mouth with her hand.

“We’re getting out today. I’ll watch you. Just leave the lot when you can and I’ll follow.”

She stares at me, pale. “What about Walter and Camel?”

“We’ll go back and see what we can find out.”

“I need a couple of hours.”

“What for?”

Uncle Al stands at the perimeter of the cookhouse, snapping his fingers in the air. From across the tent, Earl approaches.

“There’s some money in our room. I’ll go in when he’s not there,” she says.

“No. It’s not worth the risk,” I say.

“I’ll be careful.”

“No!”

“Come on, Jacob,” says Earl, taking hold of my upper arm. “The boss wants you to move along.”

“Give me just a second, Earl,” I say.

He sighs deeply. “Fine. Struggle a bit. But only for a couple of seconds, and then I gotta take you out of here.”

“Marlena,” I say desperately, “promise me you won’t go in there.”

“I have to. The money’s half mine, and if I don’t get it we won’t have a cent to our names.”

I break free of Earl’s grasp and stand facing him. Or his chest, anyway.

“Tell me where it is and I’ll get it,” I growl, poking my finger into Earl’s chest.

“Under the window seat,” Marlena whispers urgently. She rises and comes around the table so that she’s beside me. “The bench opens. It’s in a coffee can. But it’s probably easier for me—”

“Okay, I gotta take you out now,” says Earl. He turns me around and bends my arm behind my back. He pushes me forward so I’m bent in the middle.

I turn my head to Marlena. “I’ll get it. You stay away from that train car. Promise me!”

I wriggle a bit, and Earl lets me.

“I said promise me!” I hiss.

“I promise,” Marlena says. “Be careful!”

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” I shout at Earl. For effect, of course.

He and I make a great spectacle of leaving the tent. I wonder if anyone can tell that he’s not bending my arm far enough for it to hurt. But he makes up for that detail by chucking me a good ten feet across the grass.

I SPEND THE ENTIRE afternoon peering around corners, slipping behind tent flaps, and ducking under wagons. But not once can I get near car 48 without being seen—and besides, I haven’t laid eyes on August since lunchtime, so it’s entirely possible that he’s in there. So I bide my time.

There is no matinée. At about three in the afternoon, Uncle Al stands on a box in the middle of the lot and informs everyone that the evening show better be the best of their lives. He doesn’t say what will happen if it isn’t, and no one asks.

And so an impromptu parade is thrown together, after which the animals are led to the menagerie and the candy butchers and other concessionaires set up their wares. The crowd that followed the parade back from town gathers in the midway, and before long Cecil is working the suckers in front of the sideshow.

I’M PRESSED UP AGAINST the outside of the menagerie tent, pulling the laced seam open so I can peek through.

I see August inside, bringing in Rosie. He swings the silver-tipped cane under her belly and behind her front legs, essentially threatening her with it. She follows obediently, but her eyes are glazed with hostility. He leads her to her usual spot and chains her foot to a stake. She gazes upon his bent back with flattened ears and then seems to adjust her attitude, swinging her trunk and investigating the ground in front of her. She finds some tidbit on the ground and picks it up. She curls her trunk inward and rubs the object on it, testing it for texture. Then she pops it in her mouth.

Marlena’s horses are already lined up, but she’s not there yet. Most of the rubes have already filed through on their way to the big top. She ought to be here by now. Come on, come on, where are you—

It occurs to me that despite her promise, she’s probably gone to their stateroom. Damn it, damn it, damn it. August is still fussing with Rosie’s chain, but it won’t be long before he notices Marlena’s absence and investigates.

There’s a tug on my sleeve. I spin around with fists clenched.

Grady raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa there, fella. Take it easy.”

I drop my fists. “I’m a bit jittery. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well. You got reason,” he says, glancing around. “Say, you eaten yet? I saw you get tossed from the cookhouse.”

“No,” I say.

“Come on. We’ll go around to the grease joint.”

“No. I can’t. I’m flat broke,” I say, desperate for him to leave. I turn back to the seam and pry its edges apart. Marlena’s still not there.

“I’ll spot you,” says Grady.

“I’m okay, really.” I keep my back to him, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

“Listen, we gotta talk,” he says quietly. “It’s safer on the midway.”

I turn my head and lock eyes with him.

I follow him through to the midway. From inside the big top, the band launches into the music for the Spec.

We join the lineup in front of the grease joint. The man behind the counter flips and assembles burgers at lightning speed, catering to the few but anxious stragglers.

Grady and I work our way to the front of the line. He holds up two fingers. “A couple of burgers, Sammy. No rush.”

Within seconds, the man behind the counter holds out two tin plates. I take one, and Grady takes the other. He also extends a rolled bill.

“Get outta here,” says the cook, waving his hand. “Your money’s no good here.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” says Grady, pocketing the bill. “Sure do appreciate it.”

He goes to a battered wooden table and swings his leg over the bench. I go around to the other side.

“So, what’s up?” I say, fingering a burl in the wood.

Grady looks around furtively. “A few of the guys that got done last night caught up again,” he says. He lifts his burger and waits as three drops of grease fall onto his plate.

“What, they’re here now?” I say, straightening up and scanning the midway. With the exception of a handful of men in front of the sideshow—probably waiting to be led to Barbara—all the rubes are in the big top.

“Keep it down,” says Grady. “Yeah, five of ’em.”

“Is Walter . . .?” My heart is beating fast. No sooner do I get his name out than Grady’s eyes flicker and I have my answer.

“Oh Jesus,” I say, turning my head. I blink back tears and swallow. It takes me a moment to compose myself. “What happened?”

Grady sets his burger on his plate. There are a full five seconds of silence before he answers, and when he does, it’s quietly, without inflection. “They got tossed over the trestle, all of them. Camel’s head hit the rocks. He died right away. Walter’s legs were smashed up bad. They had to leave him.” He swallows and adds, “They don’t reckon he lasted the night.”

I stare into the distance. A fly lands on my hand. I flick it away. “What about the others?”

“They survived. A couple moped off, and the rest caught up.” His eyes sweep from side to side. “Bill’s one of them.”

“What are they going to do?” I ask.

“He didn’t say,” says Grady. “But one way or another, they’re taking Uncle Al down. I aim to help if I can.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“To give you a chance to steer clear. You were a pal to Camel, and we won’t forget that.” He leans forward so his chest is pressed against the table. “Besides,” he continues quietly, “it seems to me you’ve got a lot to lose right now.”

I look up sharply. He’s staring right into my eyes, one eyebrow cocked.

Oh God. He knows. And if he knows, everyone knows. We’ve got to leave now, this very minute.

Thunderous applause explodes from the big top, and the band slides seamlessly into the Gounod waltz. I turn toward the menagerie. It’s a reflex, because Marlena is either preparing to mount or else is already astride Rosie’s head.

“I’ve got to go,” I say.

“Sit,” says Grady. “Eat. If you’re thinking of clearing out, it may be a while before you see food again.”

He plants his elbows on the rough gray wood of the table and picks up his burger.

I stare at mine, wondering if I can choke it down.

I reach for it, but before I can pick it up the music crashes to a halt. There’s an ungodly collision of brass that finishes with a cymbal’s hollow clang. It wavers out of the big top and across the lot, leaving nothing in its wake.

Grady freezes, crouched over his burger.

I look from left to right. No one moves a muscle—all eyes point at the big top. A few wisps of hay swirl lazily across the hard dirt.

“What is it? What’s going on?” I ask.

“Shh,” Grady says sharply.

The band starts up again, this time playing “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

“Oh Christ. Oh shit,” Grady jumps up and backward, knocking over the bench.

“What? What is it?”

“The Disaster March!” he shouts, turning and bolting.

Everyone associated with the show is barreling toward the big top. I dismount the bench and stand behind it, stunned, not understanding. I jerk around to the fry cook, who struggles with his apron. “What the hell’s he talking about?” I shout.

“The Disaster March,” he says, wrestling the apron over his head. “It means something’s gone bad—real bad.”

Someone thumps my shoulder as he passes. It’s Diamond Joe. “Jacob—it’s the menagerie,” he screams over his shoulder. “The animals are loose. Go, go, go!”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. As I approach the menagerie, the ground rumbles beneath my feet and it scares the hell out of me because it’s not noise. It’s motion, the vibration of hooves and paws on hard dirt.

I throw myself through the flap and then immediately up against the sidewall as the yak thunders past, his crooked horn just inches from my chest. A hyena clings to his back, its eyes spinning in terror.

I’m facing a full-fledged stampede. The animal dens are all open, and the center of the menagerie is a blur; staring into it, I see bits of chimp, orangutan, llama, zebra, lion, giraffe, camel, hyena, and horse—in fact, I see dozens of horses, including Marlena’s, and every one of them is mad with terror. Creatures of every sort zigzag, bolt, scream, swing, gallop, grunt, and whinny; they are everywhere, swinging on ropes and slithering up poles, hiding under wagons, pressed against sidewalls, and skidding across the center.

I scan the tent for Marlena and instead see a panther slide through the connection into the big top. As its lithe, black body disappears, I brace myself. It takes several seconds to come, but come it does—one prolonged scream, followed by another, and then another, and then the whole place explodes with the thunderous sound of bodies shoving past other bodies and off the stands.

Please God let them leave by the back end. Please God don’t let them try to come through here.

Beyond the roiling sea of animals, I catch sight of two men. They’re swinging ropes, stirring the animals into an ever-higher frenzy. One of them is Bill. He catches my gaze and holds it for a moment. Then he slips into the big top with the other man. The band screeches to a halt again and this time stays silent.

My eyes sweep the tent, desperate to the point of panic. Where are you? Where are you? Where the hell are you?

I catch sight of pink sequins and my head jerks around. When I see Marlena standing beside Rosie, I cry out in relief.

August is in front of them—of course he is, where else would he be? Marlena’s hands cover her mouth. She hasn’t seen me yet, but Rosie has. She stares at me long and hard, and something about her expression stops me cold. August is oblivious—red-faced and bellowing, flapping his arms and swinging his cane. His top hat lies in the straw beside him, punctured, as though he’d put a foot through it.

Rosie stretches out her trunk, reaching for something. A giraffe passes between us, its long neck bobbing gracefully even in panic, and when it’s gone I see that Rosie has pulled her stake from the ground. She holds it loosely, resting its end on the hard dirt. The chain is still attached to her foot. She looks at me with bemused eyes. Then her gaze shifts to the back of August’s bare head.

“Oh Jesus,” I say, suddenly understanding. I stumble forward and bounce off a horse’s passing haunch. “Don’t do it! Don’t do it!”

She lifts the stake as though it weighs nothing and splits his head in a single clean movement—ponk—like cracking a hardboiled egg. She continues to hold the stake until he topples forward, and then she slides it almost lazily back into the earth. She takes a step backward, revealing Marlena, who may or may not have seen what just happened.

Almost immediately a herd of zebras passes in front of them. Flailing human limbs flash between pounding black and white legs. Up and down, a hand, a foot, twisting and bouncing bonelessly. When the herd passes, the thing that was August is a tangled mass of flesh, innards, and straw.

Marlena stares at it, wide-eyed. Then she crumples to the ground. Rosie fans her ears, opens her mouth, and steps sideways so she’s standing directly over the top of Marlena.

Although the stampede continues unabated, at least I know Marlena won’t be trampled before I can navigate the perimeter of the tent.

INEVITABLY, PEOPLE TRY to exit the big top the way they entered it—through the menagerie. I’m kneeling beside Marlena, cradling her head in my hands when people spew forth from the connection. They are a few feet in before they realize what’s going on.

The ones at the front come to a dead stop and are flung to the ground by the people behind them. They would be trampled except that the people behind them have now also seen the stampede.

The mass of animals suddenly changes direction, an interspecies flock—lions, llamas, and zebras running side by side with orangutans and chimps; a hyena shoulder to shoulder with a tiger. Twelve horses and a giraffe with a spider monkey hanging from its neck. The polar bear, lumbering on all fours. And all of them headed for the knot of people.

The crowd turns, shrieking, and trying to recede into the big top. The people at the very back, shoved so recently to the ground, dance in desperation, pounding the backs and shoulders of the people in front of them. The clog bursts free, and people and animals flee together in a great squealing mass. It’s hard to say who is more terrified—certainly the only thing any of the animals have in mind is saving their own hides. A Bengal tiger forces itself between a woman’s legs, sweeping her from the ground. She looks down and faints. Her husband grabs her by the armpits, lifting her off the tiger and dragging her into the big top.

In a matter of seconds, there are only three living creatures in the menagerie besides me: Rosie, Marlena, and Rex. The mangy old lion has crept back into his den and is huddled in the corner, quivering.

Marlena moans. She lifts a hand and drops it. I glance quickly at the thing that was August and decide I cannot let her see it again. I scoop her up and carry her out through the ticket gate.

The lot is nearly empty, the outer perimeter defined by people and animals, all running as far and as fast as they can, expanding and dispersing like a ring on the surface of a pond.