thirteen

 

 

IT’S NOT EVERY wedding that begins with a parade. But then again, it’s not every wedding that is presided over by a man who spends half his days in drag pretending he can see the future. The whole camp was roused to help bring the horses out of the storage silo. White Arabians with golden bridles. A black stallion with silver hooves and flame-red eyes, nostrils flared as if he sped from the depths of Hell itself. Palominos and painted ponies without saddles, carved as if they were running free on the back of a prairie wind. Horses with barding as if headed for a knightly joust. Plodding, decorated elephants, a fearsome lion, a pair of stalking tigers, lazy camels. The menagerie made its way to the merry-go-round. Brass poles polished to a gleaming shine, the work was done. Assembled, the carousel presented several tons of art. Sooner than you could hum a tune, the animals were fixed into place, and the steam boiler began to rumble.

Slaney guided Crash through the workings of it and, I’m certain, gave him a little bit of a lesson on what was expected of him as master of this particular ceremony.

The Professor sidled up beside me. The scoundrel was dressed to the nines in his purple tail coat, a black vest with a silver chain dangling from it. He’d waxed his moustache into wide handlebars. He touched the brim of his top hat and, in his own Scottish accent, he asked, “First time at a circus wedding, Dandy?”

I nodded. “I take it this ain’t your first.”

“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “Been around the wheel myself a few times. Forwards, backwards. Once three times in the same night!”

I searched his vicinity for the inevitable shadow, but couldn’t find her. “Where’s Maeve run off to?”

“Why would she be here?”

“You really don’t give a care for that girl, do you, McGann?”

“What? Of course I do! I feed her, don’t I? Give her a place to live. A winter like this would’ve probably killed her had I not shared my roof with her.”

“There’s more to caring,” said I, “than a roof and three squares a day.”

I didn’t bother to waste another breath educating him. Instead I shoved off to the other side of the galloper where a crowd of people were massing up. Crew folk like myself and the roustabouts were in their cleanest duds, but the cast folk—they went all out. Sequins glittered in all the colors God made, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Belly dancers jingled and swished as they made their way next to acrobats, clowns and sword swallowers.

And not a one of ’em looked a bit better than Miss Artemesia and her intended as they walked together arm-in-arm. Being as Jonny’s costume generally bared more skin than a koochie girl’s frock—and being that it was January and he had a right gaping wound in his flank—the strongman wore a respectable suit and wingtips polished just for the occasion. No amount of washing would clean the ash out of the lace gown the bride had hoped to wear, sadly. But Miss Proust held her head high and proud at her man’s side, in a blue silk dress that still let others enjoy the artwork drawn on her pale skin.

Crash smiled at them with genuine warmth. “Mr. Mars. Miss Proust.” He bent over her hand and kissed it, ever the gentleman. “I’ve heard a rumor that the two of you are fond of one another.”

A small chuckle spread through the assembly. Artemesia’s cheeks blushed pink and Jonny nodded ’til I thought his head would pop off.

“Well, then,” Crash continued, “I suppose you wish to do something about it, make it official and all that? And, though the gods can only guess at your questionable taste, you’ve asked me to do the honors of setting you about it, eh?”

Jonny beamed, his chest heaving to the point I feared he’d bust his stitches. “Aye, Crash. You’re family to us.”

Some of the cool, cocksure swagger melted off my prodigal roommate at the words. His smile faltered and his eyes became sober. And—write it down in stone for the ages—on that day in January, Sanford “Crash” Haus found himself at an utter loss for words.

Beside me, Martha giggled and squeezed my hand. I put my arm around her and held her to me, cherishing the warmth of her body and the closeness of her spirit. Staring at Jonny and Artemesia, I wondered if this was what the future had in store for me and the missus. No church or courthouse in the land would see a white woman and a negro as fit to wed one another. The law didn’t abide by such a union. But here, as Martha’d said, the rules made themselves. Would the woman so many knew as Mrs. Hudson consider taking a ride with me to become Mrs. Walker?

I let out a small chuckle. A few days spent relishing her company and I was already entertaining notions. Time would tell. I turned my attentions back to the wedding at hand just as Crash led the two up to the carousel.

Jonny and Artemesia squeezed into the loveseat together. Well, truth be told, most of it was full of Jonny’s bulk, but they managed all the same. Nor did they seem to care about sharing such close quarters. The chariot had been carved to mimic a peacock. Its jewel-bright blue body formed the front, its head curling up sinuously with ornate flourishes of gold and green paint, and its signature tail spread out to form a feathery canopy over the couple.

Beside me, Martha bounced and beamed like a young girl. I smiled down at her. “You’re a sight, you know that?”

“Just dreamin’,” she said, her round face flushing even pinker.

I gave her a tight squeeze.

The bride and groom settled, Crash moved to the side of the carousel and took a place near the large red boiler. With a heave of a lever, a valve hissed and the gears turned. The horses and elephants and other creatures lurched forward, and a melody wheezed into life. Both were sluggish at first, but soon the contraption gathered a good head of steam and the waltz jangled out into the air. Jonny and Artemesia sat happily as they made their first circuit. On the second pass, they waved merrily. The third time around, Artemesia was in Mars’s lap, layin’ a whopper of a kiss on her newly minted husband.

A roar went up from the assembled mass, crowing and howling their congratulations. The missus and I just looked at one another like a couple of goofy kids. It was all I could do to stop myself from scooping her up and jumping onto the carousel with her right then.

 

 

PROPERLY WED BY the only terms that mattered to them, Mr. and Mrs. Mars descended from their ride and weathered a storm of embraces and hugs. Meanwhile, Slaney took over operation of the merry-go-round so others could have a ride—innocent and carefree, not the betrothing type. Mrs. Hudson scampered back to her cart to dole out the feast, complete with sweet cakes she’d rustled up out of her own pocket money for the bride and groom.

Soon the fires were going, the hooch was flowing, and the evening was awash in sounds. The carousel continued its waltz while the carnies near the fire played their own tunes in a very different key. The cacophony of it was intoxicating as any moonshine, or the scent of Martha’s perfume. The music even enticed Maeve out of her den. (Of course I’m saying it’s the music, when it easily could’ve been the promise of time with her young juggling friend.)

Round about sunset, I found Crash standing near the carousel, just watching others ride with a grin on his face.

“I’m going to write to Moira,” he said quietly.

“Are you now?”

He nodded. “It’s like you said. She’s family. I’ll put the letter in the post some time tom—” He stopped abruptly, stare fixed at the center of the galloper.

“What is it?”

I may as well have been talking to that damn wax dummy again for all the good it did. Crash gaped, unmoving, the lights and glimmer of the mirrors around the middle of the ride flashing across his features.

He cocked his head to one side. Brought up a hand. Waited.

A heartbeat later, Crash was wearing the persona that fitted him best. Wild eyes widened, his demeanor blazed with a ferocious hunger. This was Crash, the molten core of his whole being.

“That’s it!” he snarled. “That’s it!”

He tore off then and I hustled to keep up with his pace as we made our way back to the wagon. Haus threw open a steamer trunk and rifled through it, tossing out bald caps and suspenders and tubes of greasepaint. He came up with a roll of ticker tape unspooled across his shoulders and a charcoal pencil. Without a word he was off again. He stopped only long enough to grab the Professor by his ear and drag him to the man’s own blue vardo.

McGann, of course, sputtered curses and epithets as only a Scot can. Crash heard none of it, so fixated was he on the goal in his mind.

“Crash,” I said, “you gonna let someone in on what’s going through that head of yours?”

In answer, Haus kicked open the vardo door and threw the Professor in.

“What the devil are you doing, Haus? What’s this about? I was only going to have a bit of a poke at the dame, nothing else.”

Crash thrust the pencil into McGann’s left hand and spread out the ticker tape across the floorboards. “Draw!” he commanded. “Draw the figures in the precise order they appeared.”

“All three of them? Crash, you didn’t drag me here for this, did you?”

The Professor made to stand up but Crash knocked him back to sitting with an open palm to the chest. “No. They’re not the same. There are ten or eleven different drawings just in this wagon. You said it yourself, the first time you showed me, that each of them is different.”

“Well, only by a slight angle of the arm or something.”

“Draw them. Now.”

“All of them?”

“Yes! Draw them all, it’s not like I’m asking you to copy a Rembrandt!”

Crash poured his focus into the Professor’s shelves, searching the myriad contraptions collecting dust. “No, no, no... come on, I saw it here...”

Eyes on his paper, McGann quietly asked, “What is it you’re searching for, Crash?”

“Shut up and keep scribbling. Not this one, where is it? Damn you! Where the hell did you put it?”

“Might help if I knew specifics.”

“Ah-ha!”

Crash pulled down a tiny replica of a carousel. Well, sorta. The carousel itself was a squat wooden cylinder with ornate embellishments and the customary horses and such painted on its slat-like sides. It was attached to a pedestal of polished wood. With a single finger, Crash set the ride to spinning on the pedestal just as easy as the behemoth version out on the lot.

“Alright, Haus,” the Professor grumbled. He stood up and offered the ticker tape to Crash. “Now what’s this about?”

Without taking the drawings, Haus used two fingers to slowly, reverentially lift the striped roof of the minute merry-go-round, revealing the inside of the contraption. Like our galloper, the center cylinder was a thick pole covered with mirrors. Around the inner face of the carousel itself, however, was nothing but blank white space. With the top off, I could now see the slits cut every inch or so along the wheel.

Crash placed the tent topper down on the nearest surface, then placed the spinning wheel in my hands. He plucked up the ticker tape and spooled it in, tearing it off at the appropriate length, and pinned it into place with tiny metal prongs.

“It’s a zoetrope,” I said. “I ain’t seen one of these since I was a toddlin’ babe.”

“Aye,” McGann intoned, “and that one is older than you by a stone’s age, I’d wager. Belonged to one Phineas Taylor Barnum.”

Crash shook his head. “No, it didn’t.”

“It did! He put it in my hands himself.”

“Impossible considering he died in ought-eight and the black, vomitous slime that spawned you didn’t do so until five years after the fact. Unless you’ve had congress with the Other Side, or PT Barnum was also a six-or-seven year old child named Maryanne Miller—whose name is inscribed on the bottom of the pedestal—you will shut your lying mouth until I bid you open it again.”

The Professor snarled and spat, opening his gob to say something that might offer some satisfaction. But Crash of course wouldn’t allow it.

“Now watch,” he said.

He set the zoetrope to spinning, and the stick figures began to dance.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

The Professor stared into the zoetrope, Crash looking ever like the Cheshire cat with a horned-moon grin. Together we three watched the little men. It quickly became apparent that they weren’t dancing, they were struggling. Two people, arms locked, punching back and forth until one ended up flat. Over and over the cycle repeated. Punch. Punch. Fall. Punch. Punch. Fall.

“Incredible.”

“Coincidence,” the Professor countered.

“Coincidence?” Crash glowered at his foe. “You can’t possibly be so daft. The evidence is staring you in the face.”

“But what does it all mean, Haus? Tell me, if you’re so bloody brilliant, what the blasted little pictures mean?”

“It means that...”

Once again his voice trailed into nothing and his eyes fell on something far, far away. When he resurfaced from the depths of his thoughts, he drew in a deep breath.

“Oh. Oh, dear.”

“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

He clamped the top on the zoetrope and shoved me toward the door. “Dandy, we have to hurry. If we don’t set the trap soon, we won’t be able to work the miracle.”

The Professor’s voice oozed with derision. “Miracle? Fishes and loaves again, Crash?”

“Hardly. We’re going to solve two mysteries tonight, and you’ll be on the road by breakfast.”