The Circus in Winter Read online

  The next night, a winter storm warning was in effect, more than ten inches predicted. The first flakes floated down like dandelion fluff. When Chicky walked into Snake Eyes, the temperature inside was warm, but the reception was ice cold, nothing but turned backs and hard stares. Undaunted, Chicky clambered up onto a barstool, plunked down a dollar bill, and asked Buddy for a draft. The bartender stood with folded arms and didn't move.

  "Hey. Can I get a drink or what?"

  "Depends," Buddy said, finally walking over. "Are you gonna fix what you done. Or what?"

  Chicky looked around. Everyone was staring at him, except for Marty Cutter whose eyes were fixed on the black-and-white above the bar. "I don't know what you're talking about, Buddy."

  "Lemme show you then." He walked around the bar, yanked Chicky off his barstool, and shoved him outside onto the sidewalk. They walked into the alley that ran alongside Snake Eyes. Buddy was in shirtsleeves, his arms and nose flushed red in the cold. "What the hell do you think you're doing writing shit like this on my place?"

  There on the brick wall. Spray painted. GAY POWER. A foot and a half off the ground.

  "I didn't do this, man." Chicky looked around nervously. A few guys had followed them into the alley.

  "Don't give me that shit, Chick. It's a perfect match." Buddy thrust him toward the wall. The graffiti just met him at chest level. "I don't want to see you around here anymore. Got me?"

  Marty came out, mug in hand. "Probably has AIDS or something." He started to take a drink, then seemed to think better of it and threw his mug at the words behind Chicky. Shattered glass settled on Chicky's shoulders like icy snow. "Like that kid over in Kokomo trying to go to school and spread it all over."

  "Ryan White," someone said.

  Marty nodded. "Yeah."

  A Son of KY pulled a knife from his boot. Chicky scanned the cold, hard faces of the men surrounding him. They stood shifting on their feet, crunching the frozen earth beneath them. Clouds of warm breath spilled into the sky. Chicky felt tears coming and ran out of the alley.

  "Don't y'all come back now, ya hear?" Marty said.

  For the rest of the night, the snow fell thickly, coating the streets and sidewalks that Chicky roamed. Last call in Lima was at one, so he stood across the street from Snake Eyes, hidden in shadows, to watch them all stumble into their cars and fishtail it home. Then, Lima was silent but for the buzz of streetlights. Stop signs shook in the increasing wind, and stoplights swayed pendulously, their green, yellow, and red faces clotted with snow. Chicky turned toward home, his heart so despondent he doubted his ability to put one foot in front of the other.

  Two blocks later, he passed the Lima County Historical Museum. He'd toured its contents on numerous school field trips, passed it almost every day without noticing it really. Tonight though, Chicky saw that they'd moved the elephant skull from its pedestal and placed it in the display window. They'd framed the 1901 newspaper article, and for the first time, he stopped to read it, starting with the bold headline:

  ELEPHANT IS KILLED

  CAESAR IS BROUGHT TO JUSTICE

  Pays the Penalty for the Murder

  of Hans Hofstadter with his Life

  Elephant Jack Pursues the Beast

  to the Fields and Shoots Him

  Chicky stared into Caesar's eye sockets, empty for almost ninety years. There was no picture accompanying the framed story, but Chicky could see it anyway: a posse of men full of drunken self-importance surrounding the wounded animal, taking potshots. How many people had read this clipping and believed it, he wondered. Caesar wasn't a murdering beast any more than he was what Buddy and Marty thought he was. His great-grandfather hadn't been a Boela Man, or even been a real pinhead! Lies, he thought. The world was a web of lies—written on walls and in newspapers, sitting under museum glass, and worst of all, lodged deep inside people's heads, impossible to remove.

  But maybe not, Chicky thought. He took off at a run toward home, but returned dragging his old Flexible Flyer, a blue saucer sled. In a nearby alley, he found a brick and flung it through the plate glass window of the museum. There was no alarm, no one around to hear the glass shattering or Chicky's grunts as he scooted all that remained of Caesar onto his sled, no one there to watch a black dwarf dragging a sled laden with an elephant skull down Broadway toward the Winnesaw River.

  At the riverbank, he gave the sled a shove. It skimmed over the ice until it reached the still-flowing middle. The weight of the skull sank the sled like a bowl in dishwater, and in a second or two, Caesar was gone. Chicky knew the museum would still try to tell the story, repeating all the same inaccuracies, but without the skull, fewer people would stop to listen. Maybe in another ninety years, no one would remember at all. He could paint over the words in the alley, but not the rumor, and Chicky had no intention of waiting around ninety years for it to go away.

  IN THE NEXT day's paper, the theft of Caesar's skull made the front page:

  CIRCUS ARTIFACT NABBED

  FROM LOCAL MUSEUM

  No suspects were reported, and the curator said: "It's an unfortunate loss, but not that unfortunate. We acquired the skull from the Indianapolis Zoo in 1955 to provide a historical display to accompany the story of Hans Hofstadter. The stolen skull actually belonged to a much smaller female elephant. We've contacted the zoo, and another skull should arrive within the next few months."

  But by the time the paper hit the stands, Chicky was already headed South. He'd hitched a ride on a snowplow out to the truckstop on the highway. There he found a trucker heading to Florida. Interstate 65 from Indianapolis to Louisville was down to one lane, and the herd of semi trucks inched along single file at barely thirty miles per hour, but Chicky didn't care. He was too busy picturing himself in the Gibsonton post office, stepping up to the window for midgets and dwarfs, and mailing Verna a Sunshine State postcard. Dear Mama, You'd love it here. Love, Chicky. When he walked down the street, he'd say good morning to the Alligator Man and Monkey Lady and Lobster Boy, and they'd say, "There goes Chicky Bowles, the Last Member of the Boela Tribe."

  THE CIRCUS HOUSE

  —or

  The Prettiest Little Thing

  in the Whole Goddamn Place

  WHY DID SHE fall in love with Colonel Ford? This is what Mrs. Colonel thought: It was the War Between the States. It was nothing but boys and old men to look at for months at a time. It was his uniform. It was his orders to report back to the front and the subtle way her people encouraged quick marriages to keep up morale. It was being fifteen.

  But this is how she told the story: She was only fifteen the first time she saw him—at a cotillion to raise money for the cause. He was only a captain then, dashing in his gray uniform and muttonchop whiskers, galloping up the shaded drive. All the other girls wanted to dance with him, but he followed her with his eyes the whole night. He knew when her cup of punch was empty, and a new one appeared in her hand, like magic. When he finally asked her to dance, she refused, but he persisted. And so she danced with him, and he whirled her away. After a week-long courtship, they married.

  There you have it. The good part anyway.

  In 1900, Wallace Porter, proprietor of the Great Porter Circus & Menagerie, hired the Colonel out from under P. T. Barnum's nose, but the Colonel took the job as general agent with Porter only on the condition that his wife, Mrs. Colonel, would have a decent roof over her head. For twenty years, she'd accompanied her husband on the road, spending her days cooped up in hotel rooms and her nights trying to sleep in Pullman cars. "I'm tired of traipsing around like a gypsy," she'd complained. A week later, a telegram arrived from Wallace Porter that read, "MADAM YOU WILL HAVE YOUR HOUSE STOP".

  On a hill overlooking the winter quarters was Wallace Porter's mansion, two-storied and four-pillared. But once, he'd lived at the bottom of the hill in a clapboard farmhouse. It had stood empty for sixteen years, abandoned to the wind and rain. Sparrows nested under the eaves; at dusk, they rose from the trees like a wave against th
e sky and descended on the house for the night.

  Porter ordered a group of roustabouts to fix the house and drive the birds away. The men knocked down the nests under the eaves with long-handled brooms. Inside, they cleared away the cobwebs draping the doorways and the piles of mouse droppings. The milky light filtering through the clouded windows lit up a universe of floating dust motes. For days, the roustabouts wore bandannas like masks, lifting them to their eyes to rub away dirty tears. While Colonel Ford tended to his business in the barns or in Porter's mansion, Mrs. Colonel flitted through the house in her black lace dresses, shaking her black parasol at the roustabouts like an angry señorita.

  ONCE THE HOUSE was restored to order, Mrs. Colonel spent her days strolling through the winter quarters, paying visits to the circus people. All those years alone, she'd dreamed of a home to furnish, a porch where she could sit on hot summer nights, a landscape that changed only with the seasons, and most of all, a circle of intimates to entertain and amuse. This was the life Mrs. Colonel had been raised to lead. She decided, My husband mostly runs this circus, and that makes me First Lady, of sorts. She knew the duties this role required: entertaining, taking up causes, providing a woman's influence, softening the circus's rougher edges by genteel example.

  Each day on her stroll through the winter quarters, she brought with her a loaf of bread, a cake, a plate of cookies, and one by one, Mrs. Colonel visited the bunkhouses of the performers. "Now that we're to be neighbors," she'd say, "we'll want to get acquainted." Startled by her cordiality, the circus people scrambled to serve her tea in chipped cups. The Hobzini Sisters, Bareback Riders and Equestrienne Beauties, were still lounging around in their nightgowns well after noon. They took turns escaping to dress, put up their hair, and dot their cheeks with rouge. The Fukino Imperial Japanese Acrobatic Troupe smiled and nodded their heads in appreciation when Mrs. Colonel spoke, although they understood no English, a fact Mrs. Colonel chose not to notice.

  After the elephant trainer Hans Hofstadter was killed by one of his bull elephants, Mrs. Colonel asked her husband what was to become of his widow. "I suppose we should keep her on in some way," he said, "after what happened." A few days later, Mrs. Colonel paid a condolence call. She found Nettie Hofstadter half dressed, nursing her newborn son, Ollie. Mrs. Colonel asked, "Would you like to work for me? I could use the help." Nettie looked up then, her eyes blank. Mrs. Colonel leaned in closer. "It'll be better than working in the cookhouse or sewing. The Colonel and I weren't so blessed, so it will be nice to have a child around." Mrs. Colonel touched the down on the child's head. Nettie said without enthusiasm, "Yah. I work for you." Mrs. Colonel hugged her. "We have to take care of one another, don't we?"

  The next day Mrs. Colonel visited Jennie Dixianna. The acrobat answered the door in a red satin robe, hair snarled, eyes puffy and bruised. Mrs. Colonel was going to apologize for disturbing her until she smelled the sour whiskey on the acrobat's breath. A ruby bracelet hung around Jennie's wrist, and Mrs. Colonel bent slightly to get a better look, but found that it wasn't a bracelet at all, but an open wound with jewels of blood. "I wanted to pay you a call, but I see you're indisposed at the moment. I'll be on my way then."

  That night in bed, she asked the Colonel about Jennie's wrist. He described her aerial act, the Spin of Death: "She spins herself around in a blur of red, white, and blue for the finale. Chronic rope burn on the wrist, and I can't get her to wear a glove. Doctor says she'll die of gangrene eventually, but I don't believe it myself." He rolled over, his back to his wife, and a few minutes later began to snore. Mrs. Colonel considered sending over a salve, but decided against it, remembering the loud slam of Jennie's bunkhouse door.

  WITHIN TWO WEEKS, Mrs. Colonel had visited every bunkhouse but one, a small cabin on the far side of the winter quarters, half hidden by trees. She heard no sound within and was turning to leave when she noticed a blanket draped over ropes strung from the eaves. Behind the curtain, Mrs. Colonel found a young man sleeping in his suit, collar unbuttoned, an open book on his chest. Mrs. Colonel studied him carefully, noting his smooth pink cheeks, aristocratic nose, curly brown hair and long fingers. He reminded her of a sleeping prince from fairy tale books, perfectly formed and beautiful. Most circus men, Mrs. Colonel had found, were either hulking brutes or skeletons with bad coughs. Oh, but this one, she thought, this one is a gift from God.

  He awoke then with eyes wide. Mrs. Colonel said, "I beg your pardon. How rude of me."

  The man jumped up and straightened his coat. He closed a small suitcase sitting on the chair next to his bed. Before the lid snapped shut, Mrs. Colonel caught a glimpse of starched white shirts and long underwear. "Please excuse me," he said. "I wasn't expecting company."

  "I'm Mrs. Colonel Ford. The Colonel is my husband," she said drawing out the last word, huzzz-band. She offered her limp, black-gloved hand.

  "Jeremy Trainor. Painter." He bowed ever so slightly.

  Mrs. Colonel noted how gently he'd taken her hand, as if it were a flower he didn't wish to bruise. She thought a firm handshake very common. "I brought these," she said, pulling out a bundle from her drawstring bag. "Peanut butter cookies. I'm trying to acquaint myself with everyone."

  Jeremy Trainor asked, "Won't you have a seat?" but Mrs. Colonel blushed, since the only place to sit was on his bed. He offered her his arm. "On second thought, please join me, my lady, on the veranda." She laughed. They spent the better part of the afternoon sitting on the bunkhouse stoop, eating the cookies and talking. He'd been with Porter's circus for over a year, painting the advance posters and touching up the calliopes and wagons with gilt daubings. He shared the bunkhouse with six other men, carpenters and blacksmiths, coarse and crude. They found him sissified, so he'd strung up the partition to keep himself separate.

  Mrs. Colonel sighed. "I did the same all those years traveling on trains, but I suppose I've resigned myself to the fact that these are my people now." She told him how she'd ended up the wife of a circus man—the Waltz at the Cotillion Story—and he told her how he'd ended up a circus painter. He had been raised to farm his family's patch of stony soil. As a child, he'd drawn pictures in dirt and ashes, the only medium available. But when his father and brothers saw his work, he was whipped and sent to his room without supper. "I ran away two years ago to be an artist, and look how far I've gotten."

  Mrs. Colonel remembered then that first ladies performed another important function. She said, "I have a whole house in need of an expert's hands. It's just the thing to get your career off the ground." Their relationship began that day, that old and regal association called patronage.

  INSTEAD OF WALLPAPER, Mrs. Colonel Ford wanted to cover the walls of her house with murals by Jeremy Trainor. "Imagine," she said. "Floor to ceiling. Every wall. It will be magnificent." She sent a note to Jeremy, and the next morning, she waited for him on the porch. A fog had risen from the Winnesaw, and she saw him walking through that low-hanging cloud, dressed in overalls. Mrs. Colonel imagined all those winter days, standing at the foot of his ladder, sending up words of praise. She imagined for a moment that the young man walking through the mist was actually her lover. It had been years, even decades, since she'd felt that old ache, and it surprised her that her body was still capable of producing such a want.

  Inside the parlor of ghost furniture, they drank coffee and discussed what Jeremy would paint. "I thought a nice lawn scene would work well in the dining room," Mrs. Colonel said. "Lords and ladies. Croquet. As a girl I visited a plantation in South Carolina that had a fox hunt." Her expression turned dreamy, faraway.

  Jeremy shifted in his chair. "I was thinking of something more local, like the circus."

  Mrs. Colonel laughed. "You already paint the circus."

  "I want to do portraits, paint the landscape." Jeremy Trainor swept his hand wide across the room.

  "I thought you weren't fond of the land?"

  Jeremy took a sip of coffee. "I'm not fond of farming the land." He sat forward in his cha
ir, elbows on his knees, staring earnestly into the eyes of Mrs. Colonel. "I have a vision."

  She patted his leg. "Well, honey, of course you do."

  He took Mrs. Colonel's hand and squeezed it softly. "I paint posters. Do you understand?" She did not, and Jeremy explained that when the circus paraded through towns, he saw people along the sidewalks sitting on his posters. "They fold them like accordions and fan themselves." Later, he said, the posters littered the streets and fluttered on fence posts. The wagons he painted chipped in the wind and rain and had to be restored with the same colors year after year. "But your house will last," he said. "It's very important to me."

  Mrs. Colonel swallowed hard. "What would you start with?"

  "Hofstadter and the elephant."

  She knew that at least one room of her house would be dedicated to the memory of the elephant keeper and the awful circumstances of his death. Oh dear, she thought. What will the Colonel think?

  The Colonel was not amused. He bellowed and roared. "This idea of yours has gone far enough. I'll not have my house turned into a maudlin museum by some two-bit artist." Mrs. Colonel tried everything. She stroked his hands, played their favorite waltz on the Victrola, held the match as he lit his pipe, and brought him brandy sours, his favorite drink, on a silver tray. All the while she spoke in soft tones about increasing the value of the house, about posterity, but the Colonel would hear none of it.

  Mrs. Colonel nurtured her longing in private. She took naps every afternoon with the door closed, and before sleep, imagined the Colonel had relented. Jeremy came to the house each day to paint and to see her. She acted the story out in her head, complete with dialogue, long afternoon teas, shy looks, and passionate embraces. Often when she awoke, she found that her hips moved of their own accord.