charred. We put the buckets just inside the entrance of the stock cars. The inhabitants—camels, zebras, and other hay burners—kick and fuss and make all manner of protest, but they are going to have to travel with the meat because there is no other place to put it.
The big cats travel on top of the flat cars in parade dens.
When we're finished, I go looking for August. He's behind the cookhouse loading a wheelbarrow with the odds and ends he's managed to beg
off the cookhouse crew.
"We're pretty much loaded," I say. "Should we do anything about water?" "Dump and refill the buckets. They've loaded the water wagon, but it won't last three days. We'll have to stop along the way. Uncle Al may be a tough old crow, but he's no fool. He won't risk the animals. No animals, no circus. Is all the meat on board?"
"As much as will fit."
"Priority goes to the meat. If you have to toss off hay to make room, do it. Cats are worth more than hay burners."
"We're packed to the gills. Unless Kinko and I sleep somewhere else, there's no room for anything else."
August pauses, tapping his pursed lips. "No," he says finally. "Marlena would never tolerate meat on board with her horses."
At least I know where I stand. Even if it is somewhere below the cats. Sara Gruen THE WATER AT THE BOTTOM of the horses' buckets is murky
and has oats floating in it. But it's water all the same, so I carry the buckets outside, remove my shirt and dump what's left over my arms, head,
and chest.
"Feeling a little less than fresh, Doc?" says August.
I'm leaning over with water dripping from my hair. I wipe both eyes clear and stand up.
"Sorry. I didn't see any other water to use, and I was just going to dump it, anyway."
"No, quite right, quite right. We can hardly expect our vet to live like a working man, can we? I'll tell you what, Jacob. It's a little late now, but when we get to Joliet I'll arrange for you to start getting your own water. Performers and bosses get two buckets apiece; more, if you're willing to grease the water man's palm," he says, rubbing his fingers and thumb. "I'll also set you up with the Monday Man and see about getting you another set of clothes."
"The Monday Man?"
"What day did your mother do the washing, Jacob?" I stare at him. "Surely you don't mean—"
"All that wash hanging up on lines. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."
"But—"
"Never you mind, Jacob. If you don't want to know the answer to a question, don't ask.
And don't use that slime to clean up. Follow me." He leads me back across the lot to one of only three tents left standing. Inside are hundreds of buckets, lined up two deep in front of trunks and clothes racks, with names or initials painted on the sides. Men in various states of undress are using them to bathe and shave.
"Here," he says, pointing at a pair of buckets. "Use these."
"But what about Walter?" I ask, reading the name from the side of one of them.
"Oh, I know Walter. He'll understand. Got a razor?" "No."
"I have some back there," he says, pointing across the tent. "At the far W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
end. They're labeled with my name. Hurry up though—I'm guessing we'll be out of here in another half an hour."
"Thanks," I say.
"Don't mention it," he says. "I'll leave a shirt for you in the stock car." WHEN I RETURN to the stock car, Silver Star is against the far
wall in knee-deep straw. His eyes are glassy, his heart rate high.
The other horses are still outside, so I get my first good look at the place. It has sixteen standing stalls, which are formed by dividers that swing across after each horse is led in.
If the car hadn't been adulterated for the mysterious and missing goats, it would hold thirty-two horses.
I find a clean white shirt laid across the end of Kinko's cot. I strip out of my old one and toss it onto the horse blanket in the corner. Before I put the new shirt on, I bring it to my nose, grateful for the scent of laundry soap. As I'm buttoning
The big cats travel on top of the flat cars in parade dens.
When we're finished, I go looking for August. He's behind the cookhouse loading a wheelbarrow with the odds and ends he's managed to beg
off the cookhouse crew.
"We're pretty much loaded," I say. "Should we do anything about water?" "Dump and refill the buckets. They've loaded the water wagon, but it won't last three days. We'll have to stop along the way. Uncle Al may be a tough old crow, but he's no fool. He won't risk the animals. No animals, no circus. Is all the meat on board?"
"As much as will fit."
"Priority goes to the meat. If you have to toss off hay to make room, do it. Cats are worth more than hay burners."
"We're packed to the gills. Unless Kinko and I sleep somewhere else, there's no room for anything else."
August pauses, tapping his pursed lips. "No," he says finally. "Marlena would never tolerate meat on board with her horses."
At least I know where I stand. Even if it is somewhere below the cats. Sara Gruen THE WATER AT THE BOTTOM of the horses' buckets is murky
and has oats floating in it. But it's water all the same, so I carry the buckets outside, remove my shirt and dump what's left over my arms, head,
and chest.
"Feeling a little less than fresh, Doc?" says August.
I'm leaning over with water dripping from my hair. I wipe both eyes clear and stand up.
"Sorry. I didn't see any other water to use, and I was just going to dump it, anyway."
"No, quite right, quite right. We can hardly expect our vet to live like a working man, can we? I'll tell you what, Jacob. It's a little late now, but when we get to Joliet I'll arrange for you to start getting your own water. Performers and bosses get two buckets apiece; more, if you're willing to grease the water man's palm," he says, rubbing his fingers and thumb. "I'll also set you up with the Monday Man and see about getting you another set of clothes."
"The Monday Man?"
"What day did your mother do the washing, Jacob?" I stare at him. "Surely you don't mean—"
"All that wash hanging up on lines. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."
"But—"
"Never you mind, Jacob. If you don't want to know the answer to a question, don't ask.
And don't use that slime to clean up. Follow me." He leads me back across the lot to one of only three tents left standing. Inside are hundreds of buckets, lined up two deep in front of trunks and clothes racks, with names or initials painted on the sides. Men in various states of undress are using them to bathe and shave.
"Here," he says, pointing at a pair of buckets. "Use these."
"But what about Walter?" I ask, reading the name from the side of one of them.
"Oh, I know Walter. He'll understand. Got a razor?" "No."
"I have some back there," he says, pointing across the tent. "At the far W a t e r for E l e p h a n ts
end. They're labeled with my name. Hurry up though—I'm guessing we'll be out of here in another half an hour."
"Thanks," I say.
"Don't mention it," he says. "I'll leave a shirt for you in the stock car." WHEN I RETURN to the stock car, Silver Star is against the far
wall in knee-deep straw. His eyes are glassy, his heart rate high.
The other horses are still outside, so I get my first good look at the place. It has sixteen standing stalls, which are formed by dividers that swing across after each horse is led in.
If the car hadn't been adulterated for the mysterious and missing goats, it would hold thirty-two horses.
I find a clean white shirt laid across the end of Kinko's cot. I strip out of my old one and toss it onto the horse blanket in the corner. Before I put the new shirt on, I bring it to my nose, grateful for the scent of laundry soap. As I'm buttoning
Similar Books
