From her vantage point in the doorway of the wardrobe tent as she mended the bareback rider’s torn skirt, Ellen Meyer glanced at the sky blackening in the west. None of the flimsy tents scattered about the circus grounds offered any true protection from a fierce summer storm. And right now, hundreds and maybe thousands of men, women, and children packed the main show tent, thrilled by snarling lions and dazzled by trapeze artists.
Geraldine Warner tapped her slippered foot on the dusty ground. “Can’t you hurry up? I’m in the next act. Harriet wouldn’t have let this happen. She made sure the wardrobe was always in tip-top shape.”
No sense telling Geraldine that Harriet was the one who sewed this costume. The former wardrobe designer was well beloved and much missed. Ellen didn’t hold a candle to her. “Stand still. I’ll be finished in just a minute.” A rolling peal of thunder punctuated her words.
The band under the big top played louder. Geraldine rubbed her arms. “Look at how green the sky’s gotten. Like an ugly bruise. I don’t care for the sight of it much.”
“I’ve never seen anything to compare. Does this happen much in the Midwest?” Ellen finished another stitch.
“All the time. Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
“And they don’t have storms like this?”
Ellen shook her head.
“Maybe I should move there. But then I’d miss all of this.” Geraldine gestured wide. The horse trainer clung to the leather lead of a pair of nervous white steeds. At the railroad siding, roustabouts loaded cages containing pacing tigers. One let out a mighty roar, and goosebumps pricked Ellen’s skin. Even Bertha, the fat lady, lumbered with haste over the trampled grass toward the train.
If possible, the sky darkened more. The wind picked up, beating the flap of the wardrobe tent into a fury. The metal support poles rattled, the grommets clanging against them.
“Ellen, can you help me?” Constance Hefner stood frowning in the tent’s doorway.
“As soon as I finish Geraldine’s skirt.” She forced the needle through the gauzy material.
“But the storm is coming. I want to pack the costumes so they don’t get ruined.” The wind whipped the golden ringlets escaping from Constance’s Gibson-girl hairstyle.
Ellen resisted the urge to huff. “Get started. I’ll be right there.” She, too, wanted to move her work to keep the storm from damaging it. In her haste, her needle struck her thimble. She blew her bangs from her eyes and tried to concentrate.
“Ellen, please.” Constance’s whine matched that of the wind.
Ellen whipped the last stitch into place and tied off the thread. “There, Geraldine. Good as new.”
The performer examined Ellen’s work. “I guess that will do for now. I only hope it holds.”
Ellen shared that sentiment. She rose from her stool. “Now, Constance, let’s put away what we can.” Another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rumbled under her feet.
She grabbed her repair kit and hurried into the tent. Earlier in the morning, as she’d set up, Ellen organized the costumes she had responsibility for. Each of them hung on a hanger on a metal pole. To keep from having to press them, she refrained from jamming them together.
In Constance’s area, costumes that required many hours of work to create lay scattered across the benches where the performers dressed. One of the purple velvet gowns used in the spectacular hung into the dirt.
Ellen scooped it up. “You have to be more careful with the clothes. The dust is bad enough, but when it rains, this will get wet.”
“Yes, Mother.” Constance cackled. “Don’t you think I know how to do my job after five years? You’re nothing but an upstart.”
Ellen brushed off the skirt and folded the gown, each move calculated to keep the finery from wrinkling. “It’s common sense, that’s all.” A gust of wind shook the tent, the canvas sides heaving inward under the strain.
Constance grabbed the dress from her hands. “I’ll do it. I’m capable.”
Ellen shrugged and moved to store her costumes before the full wrath of the storm unleashed. The roll of thunder didn’t stop. The tent poles leaned under the force of the gale. Her heart beat a little faster. Her hands shook. “Lucy, come help me.” She motioned for one of the seamstresses.
Speaking was impossible over the cry of the wind. Together, she and Lucy loaded the trunks and shut the lids. Constance lagged. Ellen crossed the tent to help her.
The roar of the gale filled her ears.
Pressure built in her chest. She couldn’t draw a deep breath. What was going on?
Shrieks rose from the big top. She pressed her lips together to stifle her own scream.
The wardrobe tent’s canvas tore away.
One pole sailed through the air. Her knees trembled.
She tried to run, tried to get away. Her skirts tripped her.
She fell.
Blinding pain seared her head.
Her world went black.
“Get that wagon loaded.” Will Jorgensen yelled for the roustabouts to hear him above the storm. The men rushed to secure the tiger cage on the flat car. The wind drowned out their communication with each other. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. This was when accidents happened.
And despite the storm, Mr. Ringling would expect them in the next town tomorrow morning, ready for the day’s shows.
Will was responsible for making it happen.
One of the men guiding the carved, gilded wagon slipped.
“Watch out.” Will rushed forward. As first-year trainmaster, the well-being of all the workers fell to his care.
The man popped up.
“Are you hurt?” Will examined him up and down.
He shook his head. “Naw, ain’t nothing. Been hurt worse than this just getting out of bed in the morning.”
Will relaxed. Until he scanned the skies. Black clouds rolled across the heavens, their underbellies dark green. Lightning burst across the scene every few seconds. After living his entire life traveling with the circus, he’d seen plenty of summer squalls come and go. But none like this.
“Looks like a nasty storm’s brewing.” Art Pavlovic, the wagon master, slapped Will’s shoulder, his hand as big as a bear’s.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a bad one. Let’s get those wagons on as soon as possible. I’ll light a fire under the tent crews. We need to get as much tied down as we can before it hits.”
“Go on. I’ll keep an eye out here.”
“Thanks.” Will yanked down his cap to keep it from flying away and scurried across the hard-packed dirt toward the menagerie tent. Once the rain fell, this place would be a quagmire.
The storm raced in their direction, the clouds each vying for first place. He picked up his pace. Damage to the equipment or injuries to the staff or patrons would be devastating. They had another show tomorrow in Geneseo. Mr. Ringling wouldn’t be pleased if they had to cancel. Not at all.
And it would be Will he would fire.
The roustabouts struggled to pull the pegs from the menagerie tent. They needed to hurry. The scent of rain filled the air. Not long until the deluge hit. “Need some help?”
The short muscular man leading the crew nodded. “Get that one out there. Wind’s making it mighty hard to get the job done.”
Will pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. He tugged on the stake. This area of the country must have been pretty dry this spring. The peg didn’t want to budge.
Another lightning bolt flashed almost at the same time as the thunder cracked. Will’s heart leapt like a bareback rider onto her horse. The wind intensified, swirling clouds of dust. An elephant trumpeted.
He wiggled the stake, and only after he worked himself into a sweat did it release. “Let’s fold it and load it, boys. There’s no time to waste. Going to be some blow down.”
Like the tremors from a locomotive, the ground under Will’s feet rumbled. The wind buffeted him, snatching his cap from his head. He chased his hat as it skittered across the staging grounds. Before he reached it, the gale picked up his cap and carried it away. No sense in following it. The storm bore down. He had to get back to the train and oversee the loading. They needed to finish as soon as possible.
Crack. Bang. More lightning.
His ears popped. His stomach froze, even as sweat dripped down his face.
Horses whinnied.
Women’s screams erupted from the big top.
The band hit a sour note.
The canvas ripped from the wardrobe tent.
He watched, unable to move, as a pole flew through the air, striking the new wardrobe mistress.
No, no. He had to get to her.
The rain came then, in sheets. Before he took three steps in her direction, the dirt transformed into mud. He slipped and slid. His muscles strained forward in his desperation to get to the injured woman.
Soaking wet and slimy with mud, he reached her at last. He dropped to his knees in the muck.
Blood gushed from her head.
No, Lord. Not her, too.