The Sixteen Burdens by David Khalaf

newspaper onto the bed. The top headline read “BIG PANIC UNDER BIG TOP.” It recounted the shots fired at the circus from a mysterious woman in black. The eyewitness stories from there diverged wildly, but the police couldn’t find anyone from the show to question. The circus had abruptly pulled up stakes, leaving town days earlier than it had advertised.
    “We have some time,” Chaplin said. “Atlas won’t kill her until he gets what he wants from her. She’s a strong-willed woman, and far from helpless. Don’t worry just yet.”
    “I ain’t worried. Just curious.”
    Last night Chaplin had to practically lock the car doors to keep Gray from running back to the tent. But that was last night, when he was all worked up. In the calm of morning, it was easier to remember the strange woman who had dropped him off on the front steps of the boys’ home with all the ceremony of an empty milk bottle. And yet, that same woman had also stepped into the ring last night and sacrificed herself so that Gray could escape.
    “Don’t be too quick to judge her,” Chaplin said. “She made great sacrifices to keep you close. You’re the reason she went into hiding.”
    Gray recalled Pickford’s face, and the beauty that had completely transfixed Atlas.
    “Those rumors of a botched surgery are bull.”
    “Spread by her, of course,” Chaplin said. “To mislead people. By the time you were born, her beauty had become unmanageable. The rest of us were luckier.”
    “The rest of you?”
    “You think she’s the only talented one?” Chaplin said. “I’ll have you know, my comedies outsold your mother’s dramas nearly two to one.”
    “So she’s pretty,” Gray said, “and you’re funny?”
    Chaplin opened his mouth in mock offense.
    “I thought the pickles made that self-evident.”
    Gray got out of bed and slipped into his pants. They had been washed and pressed, which helped the dirt but only made the holes more conspicuous. When he slipped on his jacket, he got a whiff of Pickford’s perfume from when she had embraced him.
    “Thanks for the bed.”
    “Going so soon?” Chaplin asked. “How about some breakfast first?”
    He nodded to the pedestal table near the door, where a tray was loaded with eggs, bacon, muffins, pancakes, oatmeal, fruit, and a full tea set.
    Gray shook his head even as his stomach rumbled.
    “I gotta see a man about a dog.”
    Favors were like gifts wrapped in twine. They were great to receive but they always came with strings.
    “Not even some tea? Every proper gentleman drinks tea.”
    “I ain’t proper. Or a gentleman.”
    Gray grabbed his fedora. It was dusty and stained with his blood on the inside rim. He stepped out of the room and looked both ways down a long hall.
    “I could tell you about your father,” Chaplin said, pouring himself a cup of tea.
    Gray stopped. It was bait, clear as a squirming worm on a fishing line. But he couldn’t resist a nibble.
    “Harry,” Gray said.
    “Yes. Harry Houdini.”
    Chaplin added a big splash of cream to his cup. Gray’s mouth dropped low enough to drive a Chevrolet into it.
    “Houdini—the magician?”
    “The very one. Handcuffs, straightjackets, disappearing elephants.”
    Chaplin took a swig of the tea.
    “Harry was a friend and a mentor of sorts. He tried to organize us, and we rebelled. It cost him his life.”
    A woman in a brightly colored bath robe popped her head in. She had sleek raven hair that cascaded around her high cheek bones. Her eyes locked on Gray.
    “Who’s this?”
    “A friend in need,” Chaplin said. “A friend indeed.”
    “We have enough friends. Most of them want our money. Get rid of him.”
    “Your hospitality, Paulette, is truly legendary.”
    The woman gave Chaplin a contemptuous smile, then was gone as quickly as she had appeared.
    “Never mind Paulette,” Chaplin said. “She’s a talented actress, though she can’t seem to master the role of wife.”
    Chaplin hopped up and checked his