Goldenland Past Dark (16 page)

Explorer Hank was a favourite of audiences, or at least of children, who cooed with wonder anytime the baby tigers came onstage. Once, at a particularly successful performance, a little girl had bravely slipped from the front row when Hank’s back was turned to stroke Ginger’s humming throat, her flicking toylike tail. They had all felt the danger that night, huddled outside the tent’s back door—though small, Ginger still had teeth and claws far fiercer than an ordinary kitten’s—but the audience had trusted her completely, had even rippled the bleachers with spontaneous applause.

Now, though, that had all changed. Fred, perched on the bottom of an upside-down trash can, looked half-grown and feral, despite the bow tied around his neck; when the lights came up he was bent double, one leg in the air, licking himself. Ginger, still small as a bobcat, was a patchwork of thinning fur and angry, irritated areas of skin. The light caught Explorer Hank still setting up a steel hoop between the cats, and he looked out at the audience blinking in surprise for several seconds before he spoke.

“Well, hi there guys and gals, let me start out by saying that me and Ginger and Freddy here’re real glad you all came out for the show tonight. Before we came on stage, the kids were saying to me, ‘Boy, we sure hope that we get to show off our tricks tonight, Hank!’ and I was saying, ‘Gee, I do too, because otherwise I’m out of a job!’ Ha ha. We like to joke a little, the kids and me. But anyhoo, how many of you have seen a real live tiger before?”

Whenever Explorer Hank came onstage, some part of Webern shrivelled inside. Hank was folksy, ingratiating, but he was also desperate for approval, and the need shone on his face like sweat. He was struggling now, losing ground. The two cats, trained to bat a beach ball back and forth, balked tonight; Hank tossed it at Fred, who batted it off stage, hopped down from his trash can, and slunk away in the opposite direction. As Hank ran to scoop up Fred and return him to his post, Ginger jumped down from hers and began rubbing the abraded skin of her back on the tent’s dirt floor. All the while, Hank kept up a stream of patter that sank from self-deprecation to apology to muttering to himself: “There you go, now stay, if I can just get these guys to stay put a minute—oh no you don’t—okay, then I’ll—” By the time he finally got the two cats ensconced again, the crowd was so restless he had to raise his voice to be heard.

“Well, since you folks’ve been so patient, let me go ahead and skip to the big finale,” Hank announced, his smile a slice of pain cut from his face. He lit a match and held it to the steel hoop, which suddenly blazed. “The kids just love to show this one off, let me tell you.” Hank positioned himself on the side of the hoop by Ginger, looking over at Freddy through the ring of fire. “First, Freddy, you jump through. I’ll be here to catch you.” Hank reached out his arms. “Come here, big guy. You can do it.”

Freddy yawned and stretched, then made to jump down to the ground again.

“No. Through the hoop, buster.”

If Webern hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he saw Freddy shake his head. The cat yawned a second time, then curled into a donut of orange fur and closed his eyes. Hank, arms still outstretched, stood flabbergasted.

“Boys will be boys,” he finally said. He walked around the ring of fire and poked Freddy, who released a guttural snore. “But Ginger, you’ll show the nice people what you can do, huh? Baby girl?”

Ginger, staring through the fire at him, began to stiffen; her patchy fur bristled, and her lips parted to reveal teeth in a nervous snarl. She batted at her face with one paw. Webern tried to imagine leaping through the hoop without his glasses on. He wondered how many whiskers she had shed, but Hank had forgotten, or else no longer cared.

“Ginger girl, don’t leave Daddy waiting.” Hank held his arms out. “You can do it. You’ve done it a million times.”

Ginger’s eyes opened wide. Finally, hissing, she drew away from the fire. This time, Explorer Hank didn’t apologize or explain. He drew out his whip from the belt of his khakis and cracked it in the air. Still, Ginger didn’t move. She kept her head turned away. Hank cracked the whip again, and again, but she wouldn’t look at him, nor would Freddy stir. Explorer Hank’s smile shrank to a scowl, and he lowered the brim of the pith helmet to shade his eyes.

“Funny thing about kids,” he said. “You can love ’em all you want, but they test you. Yes they do. So you have to show them who’s boss. I’m doing this for your own good, Gingie.”

Hank strode over to Ginger, picked her up by the scruff of the neck, and threw her through the hoop. The cub hit the dirt floor like a sack of flour. She did not land on her feet, and she limped a little as she scampered, whimpering, out the back entrance.

That night, Webern and Nepenthe made love with the last of the circus’s citronella candles burning in the darkness. Nepenthe crouched over him, the blanket draped around her shoulders like another tent, one just big enough for the two of them. In the flickering light, the sight of her scales, ash-coloured and earthy smelling with sweat, reassured him. Even with everything else in shambles, at least they still had each other to hold onto.

Afterwards, Nepenthe yawned, “Nice lay, Bell boy,” shut her eyes and fell, abruptly, to sleep. Webern was getting used to it: every night she turned her back to him, made herself very small, and with a whimper or two, disappeared into a land of dreams he could only imagine. He lay awake for a few minutes; a luna moth spiraled closer and closer to one of the citronella candles. When its wing finally caught aflame, Webern stood up, pulled on his jeans, and stepped out into the night.

He walked out onto the beach, down toward the water, feeling the salt spray on his face. The beach in Delaware had soothed him with its lapping waves, but California’s ocean pummelled the sand, gulping and sucking whatever it could. Mermaids here would know better than to come near the shore.

Webern rubbed his hump and continued out. His bare feet smooshed the wet sand and gluey seaweed—low tide. He didn’t know why he felt so lousy. He had a girl who liked him, who loved him, probably, and, if Schoenberg’s circus really did dissolve, he and Nepenthe were free to do anything they wanted together. They could travel—work odd jobs—maybe even buy a house and settle down someday. But for some reason, that thought didn’t comfort him either.

Webern thought of Dr. Show as a little boy, his walls covered with pictures of magicians and amusement parks, and then of his own room back home, the unicycle leaning in one corner beside the wrenches and the tire pump. He thought of his clown notebook, its pages spilling out with acts, and for the first time, it occurred to him that he wasn’t entirely free. The circus had staked its claim on him. Even if a surgeon could fix his spine, Webern knew he was beyond saving now.

A steely wave smashed down a few yards away; cold slivers of froth reached Webern’s feet, and he shivered. It almost sounded like the wind was calling a woman’s name, forlornly, over and over. Then he saw where the voice was coming from. Some yards away, Explorer Hank stood, swatting the surf with his riding crop, bawling, “Ginger! Ginger! Ginger!”

“Hank?” The animal tamer didn’t respond until Webern tapped the sleeve of his safari jacket. Then he shuddered.

“Have you seen Ginger?” Hank asked. He didn’t look at Webern; the brim of his pith helmet shadowed his face. His voice was hoarse from shouting. “You haven’t seen her, have you?”

“No, Hank, I guess I haven’t.”

“I let them out of their cages—for one minute, one ever-loving minute, so I could change the newspapers. You’d’ve thought she was a cheetah, she ran so fast.” Hank waded out farther. The churning foam gave him no reflection. “Ginger!”

“Cats hate water. I’m sure she’ll come back when she’s ready.”

“Of course she will. I know that.” Hank sounded angry. “I’m just a worrier, that’s all.”

“You want to walk back up to camp together?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Water swirled around the tops of Hank’s boots. For a moment, he held perfectly still—he looked almost peaceful. Then he hurled his riding crop into the waves and pulled his revolver out of one pocket. He fired a blank with each wild cry: “Ginger! Ginger! Ginger!”

Webern turned away from the ocean and jogged back up the beach. Suddenly, he felt afraid that when he returned to the tent, Nepenthe would be gone, too. But she was still there, sleeping soundly as before. He blew out the citronella candles, all three, then took off his jeans and lay down beside her. In the darkness, he touched her back beneath the blanket. Muscles moved under her craggy skin like tectonic plates shifting stone.

The living room is only missing one thing:
its fourth wall. In the centre of the ring, it sits displayed for all to see, like the parlour of an enormous dollhouse. Inside, an overstuffed sofa and an easy chair face each other, separated by a small table bearing a plate of cookies and a mug of warm drink. A furry rug spreads across the floor. A fire roars in the fireplace. Books line the walls. The room exudes warmth and comfort. Over the mantle hangs a portrait of the ringmaster. His eyes look curiously alive.

The clown, dressed as a hobo, enters from a door stage right. At first, still holding closed the lapels of his ragged coat, he’s suspicious and ill at ease, but as he takes in his surroundings, he relaxes. His red mouth spreads into a goofy grin, and he pulls off his hat to reveal a scraggly grey wig with a noticeable bald patch. He kicks off his shoes and wiggles his toes. Finally, he swaggers over to the fire, warms his hands, then turns around and bends to warm his backside.

Ouch! The fire flares and the clown jumps a foot in the air. He hops on one foot and rubs the seat of his pants. Singed. But he’s known worse. Unfazed, he saunters over to the easy chair and sinks into it. Now this is the life. He takes a cookie from the plate beside him and licks his lips. He opens his mouth wide, then chomps down hard.

The clown throws the cookie across the room; he works his jaw to make sure it isn’t busted. He picks up a second cookie and strikes it against the tabletop.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
It might as well be a glob of cement. The clown shoves the plate away in disgust, then settles back in the chair and closes his eyes. At least he can get a little rest. And look, the chair even reclines. The clown leans back, back, back, until, with a
crack!
the chair snaps upright again, popping him in the head and making his eyes cross.

Still a little dizzy, the clown gets up and staggers to the sofa. Much better: here he can stretch out. Yawning, he lies down on the cushions as if getting into bed. He puts on his hobo hat and pulls it down over his eyes.

Sproing
! The clown leaps to his feet; a scowl spreads across his face. He points accusingly at the quivering spring that pokes up between two sofa cushions. Does he break everything he touches? Or is the room conspiring against him? He looks up angrily at the portrait of the ringmaster, shakes his hat in its direction, then paces back and forth. He gestures wildly, as if delivering a stream of insults. The portrait’s eyes follow him wherever he goes.

The clown puts his floppy shoes back on, fixes his hat squarely on his head, then strides over to the door he entered through. He grasps the knob and tugs, but it just comes off in his hand. An expression of panic spreads across his face. Trapped!

He cannot hear the laughter coming through the missing wall. He can only see one way out. He pounds on the door, to no avail. He kicks and punches it. He rams it with his hump. Then, just when he’s finally given up, the whole thing comes off its hinges and falls straight down, knocking him flat.

Webern woke that morning to the smell of elephant dung. It wasn’t too hard to guess where it was coming from. The mound stood two dozen yards away from their camp, lumpy, brown, and steaming.

Webern glanced around the campsite, but it was deserted. For the second day in a row, he was the first one up, and for the second day in a row, he wished he were still in bed. Al leaving had upset him, but this was just gross.

They were camped near a two-lane side road that twisted along Lemon City’s shore. In the past, they’d avoided such locations for fear that a police cruiser would happen along to evict them. But lately they’d gotten careless. Now, the dung brimmed out of a deep ditch that ran alongside the road’s shoulder, where the pavement met the beach’s sand.

Webern walked up to the road. He tried to keep upwind of the hill of shit, but he ended up having to hold his breath anyway. He stood in the middle of the asphalt and looked first in one direction, then the other.

It was the big top he saw first—the Other big top. Yellow and red striped, it dominated the landscape even from a distance. Alongside it stretched a long black train of the romantic old-fashioned kind. Puffs of steam rose from its engine, and even this far away Webern could see swarms of people milling around the boxcars. Trucks and wagons parked willy-nilly around the periphery of this scene, and to one side milled the elephants themselves, grey and cumulous as low-hanging storm clouds.

Of course, it was bound to happen eventually: they’d crossed paths with one of the bigger outfits—the Mulligan Bros., maybe, or Scarsdale & Lowe. Schoenberg’s original travelling schedule had avoided the routes followed by train shows, but now, zigzagging willy-nilly across the country, they’d finally bumped into one of their rivals. Now, it would be an embarrassment, a hassle; they’d have to leave town in a hurry, this morning even, maybe. Another day wasted. And yet . . .

Webern’s eyes lingered on the Other Circus. The more he looked at it, the harder it was to look away. Even from this distance, the colours seemed too bright, the action too frenetic, to be real. This big top especially looked like something from one of his dreams. He wished he had a pair of binoculars. As much as he wanted the Other Circus to disappear, he also wanted to see straight into its centre ring: the high wire, the roving spotlights, the giant balls for bears to balance on, the hay strewn here and there for horses.

Webern shook his head. He turned around and went back to Nepenthe’s tent. Inside, she lay sprawled on the dirt floor, sleepily reading obituaries from a newspaper she’d bought in the last town.

“I can’t believe it. That director Tod Browning just dropped dead. There goes my movie career, I guess.” Nepenthe stretched, then wrinkled her nose. “Jesus God, something stinks out there.”

Webern went over to his suitcase and pulled out a fresh T-shirt and a bar of soap. It did stink. Just smelling it made him feel disgusting. “Nepenthe?”

She was reading an advice column. “Mmm-hmm?”

He hesitated. “Something weird happened, is all.”

“Weird how?” The newsprint crinkled beneath her elbows.

“Come outside and see.”

Out on the road, Nepenthe looked from the elephant dung to the Other big top and slowly shook her head.

“We have the worst luck,” she said through her pinched-up nose.

Heat rippled the distant forms, and Webern thought of mirages.

“It’s really there, isn’t it? It’s not just an illusion or something?”

“Isn’t that proof enough for you?” She jerked her head toward the elephant dung. “Ugh. Why did they have to empty their toilets right here?”

“Maybe to drive us off?”

“Oh, yeah, I bet they saw our tent and got really intimidated.”

Webern looked down at the puny white T-shirt in his hand. He tried to imagine the Other clowns. Lithe, athletic figures mimed and tumbled across a sawdust floor.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

Nepenthe snorted. “Well, I guess a little competition can’t be a bad thing.”

The circus players loitered around the campfire all day, always with the backdrop of the Other Circus hanging in the distance. There was no purpose to staying in Lemon City another day, not with a real circus in town, but the matter remained unspoken. Their own big top, dingy and stunted, remained up like a parody, and their fire, without new wood to feed it, grew pale and whispery. No one moved to disassemble the bleachers, or to make a trek to town. But for all the apparent indolence, the players burned with a restlessness that flushed their skins like fever. Vlad and Fydor paced, Eng flexed and rotated his arms around and around in their sockets, Hank busily cleaned Freddie’s ears with rubbing alcohol, and Nepenthe smoked cloves and rolled her eyes at the slightest provocation. Brunhilde twisted the chain of her locket tight around her neck.

Webern speared a hot dog and held it over the flames until it split and bubbled. He wasn’t hungry. He had thought that his curiosity might fade with time, but the longer he sat here, the more he wanted to go explore the Other Circus. Only Dr. Show, who never emerged from his tent, seemed immune to the strange pull of the wagons and rattling boxcars out across the rolling sand.

The circus players watched as giraffes stilted from train to tent, casting long shadows. Their eyes followed a jouncing fire truck and a dozen ponies trussed up in gilded saddles. When a line of shining pale cars began to move along the highway from town toward the Other Circus, Explorer Hank threw down his packet of cotton swabs and pushed Freddie off his lap. His face had changed since Ginger’s disappearance; there was no softness in it now.

“All right,” he announced, “let’s go already.”

So they went. Hank detached the red trailer from the jalopy and those who couldn’t fit in the cab piled into the bed of the truck. But when Webern started to hop up among the others, who sat on old costumes and blankets folded like seat cushions, a parallel image flashed vividly to mind. Again, Webern saw the yellow Cadillac, angled there on the street before his house, its passenger door agape, a box of Mexican jumping beans jittering in the backseat—the moment he’d stepped into his current life.

“Did anyone ask Dr. Show to come?” he asked, poised to hoist himself up.

Vlad and Fydor exchanged glances, and Eng shrugged. Nepenthe folded her legs Indian-style. She’d wrapped a white scarf around her head so only her eyes were showing.

“I think we all expected you to do it,” she said. “You’re his right hand man, you know.” The cloth muffled her voice, and Webern couldn’t even guess at her expression. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that she might be making fun of him. He stared up at her for a long moment, then, when she dropped her eyes, dashed over to the drawn curtains at the entrance to Schoenberg’s tent and stopped there, panting.

“Dr. Show?” Webern called. No response. “Dr. Show, you in there?”

He touched the curtain, then glanced back over his shoulder. Someone honked the horn of the jalopy. Webern bit his lip. He gave the velvet one more shake.

“We’ll be back, okay?” Webern turned around and ran back to join the others.

On the way over, the players sat tensely in the back of the truck, their heads turned to the wind. Out here in the dunes, Nepenthe looked like an Arabian princess with eczema around her eyes. She took Webern’s arm, and he felt the cool satin of her glove slip against his skin. She said something to him through the scarf, an apology or a joke, but Webern couldn’t hear it and he just nodded.

Dust rose up from wheel ruts and hoofprints; the midway choked with it, and Webern blinked in the sandy-coloured haze. Concession stands bearing tanks of green and pink lemonade, castles built from Cracker Jack boxes, and drippy ice cream rose up on all sides. A giant neon thermometer (flashing “Strong—Stronger—STRONGEST!”) took a beating from a blond boy with a red rubber mallet. A novelty stand fluttered with pennants and parasols. A strange old woman sat in a booth by herself, surrounded by writhing chameleons safety-pinned to the walls by their tails. Webern clutched Nepenthe’s hand as they pressed through the crowd. Slowly, he grew aware of a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years. Here were normal people, hundreds of them. But no one was looking at him—no one was pointing at him—no one was paying any attention to him at all.