“You shouldn’t have followed me,” I said. “You really shouldn’t have.”
Apollo sounded surprised. “Why not, Abel? You’re my friend. I love you.”
How could I argue after that?
The fellows were mighty surprised to see me when I came through the door that morning.
“We thought we’d lost you,” said one of the acrobats, shamefaced.
“Oh, I knew he was all right,” said the vulgar clown, although I didn’t see how he could be so sure.
I edited the truth and told them I had spent the night with the elephants.
“Whew! And you smell like you did,” said one of the lads.
Right after I freshened up, I followed the tracks to the train depot and enquired what the train fare to Maryland was. I was shocked. One ticket was a week’s salary, and I hadn’t even had my first pay envelope yet. If I took Apollo home, we would have to wait twice as long for me to have the fare for both of us. That left more time for Apollo to be discovered. I’ll have to think about this some more, I decided.
Brightly colored posters covered every available flat surface I passed on my walk back. Sometimes several layers were stacked up—posters of past shows covered over, or maybe those of rival shows still on their way. I knew that the advance men made a war of this; each show tried to obliterate all evidence of the competition. Someone had been sloppy, however. On a wooden fence the edge of a black-and-white notice still peered over the top of a luminous lithograph. DR. MINK’S TRAVELING MONSTER MENAGERIE, the gothic letters proclaimed. All the way up the path to the circus I wondered what those monsters might be. I took a professional interest in such things, and I liked animals, even those that nature had chosen to play tricks on. We had a dear five-legged goat at Faeryland who behaved sweetly with children. I hoped I might have the opportunity to see Dr. Mink’s show.
As I passed the office, I noted with curiosity a well-dressed gentleman of color hustled out the door by Mr. Geoffrey Marvel himself.
“We don’t hire freaks,” said the circus owner. He slammed the door.
The man scrambled backward down the steps and almost fell. He lost his hat in the process. I hurried to pick it up. Did the Marvel brothers consider Negroes freaks? I was not so naive as to be blind to the common scorn heaped upon the Negro race, but this didn’t usually go as far as to term them sports of nature. We had people of color on our staff at home and in the troupe, and I had yet to remark upon any particular handicap. When there were those among us who were set off from the common man in such exceptional ways, skin color seemed the least of considerations.
“Your hat, sir,” I said, and handed him his bowler. He appeared to be no older than my uncle Jack, if that. I smiled and met his eyes, for I most honestly hoped that he wouldn’t judge all show folk based on Mr. G. Marvel.
He brushed his hat off with the sleeve of his coat and placed it on his head. “My thanks,” he said. “That is most gracious of you.” He returned my smile, but it didn’t wipe the sadness from his eyes.
He sounds like an educated man, I
thought with surprise as I watched him go. While intelligence was common to his race, the opportunity for education was not. I wondered what act he had to offer.
I peeked into the elephant car on my way to change for the performance but found two men in blue jeans and whiskers there cleaning out the stalls. I hoped Apollo would stay out of sight until I could get him out of this predicament.
When I took off my trousers, paper crinkled in my pocket, and I remembered the letter from Phoebe. I hesitated. Did I care to read words that berated me for my cruelty? Curiosity got the better of me, however, and I opened the dirty, smudged envelope.
Dear Abel, I read, I wanted my father to present you with this news, as it seemed appropriate and polite, given your interest in me, but perhaps someone has already alerted you to my situation, because your treatment of me of late has been so cold.
News? Situation? Fear clutched my chest. I had only kissed her. I was prepared to swear to that. Maybe my fingers had strayed once or twice, but she had nipped that in the bud.
I read on breathlessly:
I admit, then, the news is true. My father has affianced me to Mr. Thomas Robinson, known in the business as the Monkey Man of Baltimore. If only you had spoken for me, but I am afraid that our love is not to be and all tenderness between us must cease. My father considers this a most promising personal and business engagement. Mr. Robinson will join our act, and if there is any issue of our union (I blush), the chances are the family business will continue into the next generation. I beg your forgiveness….
“Well, damn you and your furry little children,” I snapped as I crumpled the letter. I had thought that I was the apple of her eye, and now she was consorting with monkey men. There I was, running off into the night, and she had no designs on me after all. It stung.
All through the act I either stewed about Phoebe or chewed at my problem with Apollo. I didn’t notice if Mr. Rose came close to sticking me or not. Worn out with thinking, I stayed by the back door after my turn to watch the rest of the show and take my mind off my cares.
A spiral track had been raised in the center ring while Mr. Rose and I performed in the front-end ring and the jugglers entertained at the back. Now a cart drawn by Shetland ponies, driven by a pretty girl in riding skirts, brought in a large, colorful wooden ball. Two of the biggest clowns lifted the heavy sphere and laid it at the foot of the track. The crowd hushed in expectation, and people craned their heads looking for the performers, but none arrived. Instead, as if by magic, the ball moved, and the audience inhaled audibly.
The ball edged up the track. I knew the man inside was on his hands and knees and must move the center of gravity forward but not side-to-side, else he would lose control. This acrobat was clumsy. The ball wobbled ferociously at times; once it even rolled backward, and I didn’t think it would stop. I had never seen the act performed so awkwardly.
The bicyclist next to me mumbled an oath. “LaPierre had one too many glasses of wine with dinner tonight,” he said to no one in particular.
That’s when a horrible idea hit me. I could barely draw breath as the ball made its hesitant ascent around the track. Perhaps they wouldn’t guess. Perhaps he’d roll it up and down again safely. Perhaps he wouldn’t emerge at the end to take his bow. But Apollo wanted to impress the Marvels. He would take his bow, and all tarnation would break loose.
All tarnation didn’t wait until Apollo’s bow, however; it came in the form of Monsieur LaPierre through the back-door flaps, his leotard legs smeared with mud. He shook his fists in the air and babbled in French. The elephant trainer followed close behind him.