Goldenland Past Dark (3 page)

“Wow.”

“Oh, but wait, it gets even better. Enrique runs outside, because, when he’s not betting on chicken fights, he’s a fairly rational guy. He hears some shouting, and then all of a sudden, his tent collapses—collapses to the ground. Mars Boulder wrestles his way out and starts pulling the canvas up, slashing at it with his sword like he’s fighting a ghost or something. But Dr. Show isn’t under the tent. He isn’t anywhere.” Nepenthe lowered her voice. “He’s
vanished
.”

“Jeez.” Webern tucked in his shirt. Dr. Show didn’t ply his illusions very often, but when he did, they were masterfully crafted and expertly timed. “That sounds like something to see.”

“Um, right. It sounds to me like Dr. Show pissed off the wrong guy and then pulled some crazy stunt. Makes a good story, though.” Nepenthe tapped ash on the fender. “Dueling. Jesus God, what an archaic custom. Leave it to Dr. Show to get killed like an eighteenth century nobleman. What do you think they were fighting about, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Money or something, I guess.”

“I bet they have some kind of sick history. Maybe Dr. Show kidnapped his legless sister and sold her to a sex fiend with a dungeon in his basement. Now the guy can’t rest until Show’s impaled on the blade of his sword. Freud’d love it.”

Webern forced a smile. “You don’t really think that’ll happen, do you?”

“What, the impaling? I sure hope not. He owes us all two weeks back pay, doesn’t he?” Nepenthe stubbed out her cigarette butt and, without another word, strode across the parking lot toward the diner. Webern watched her go. She walked like it was an inconvenience, like she might just fling herself down any second. Only once, when she reached the door of the restaurant, did she look back over her shoulder to see if he was following.

Actually, Nepenthe was wrong.
Dr. Show didn’t owe them two weeks back pay—he owed them three. Once a week, Dr. Show was supposed to give each of the performers—except for Vlad and Fydor, whom he compensated as if they were one and a half people—a small stipend out of the returns. Even when he paid up, it was hardly a living wage, but he also provided for their meals, supplies, gas for the vehicles, and all expenses for the show, which included costumes, props, makeup, and sets. From time to time, he even threw in a new case of Magic Pirate rum, or bourbon so cheap it burned like gasoline.

Most of the players, Brunhilde especially, grumbled about this set-up—they argued that they could buy their own tights and groceries, and better ones too, if Dr. Show would just fork over the cash. There was no denying that Dr. Show could be pretty chintzy about food and supplies. They ate a lot of hot dogs stamped “irregular” by the manufacturer, and Schoenberg mined the bargain bins of grocery stores for dented mystery cans whose labels had peeled off in the summer heat. What they grabbed at diners came out of their own pockets, but was worth the loss, compared to their reused coffee grounds and the enormous drums of fruit cocktail they consumed around the campfire to ward off scurvy. And they hadn’t had toilet paper since June.

Even if he complained along with the rest of them, though, it was obvious to Webern the current arrangement was the best thing possible for the circus. It wasn’t like Schoenberg was keeping the money for himself. Every dollar he saved went straight back into the show. Schoenberg bought velvet and gold braid for Brunhilde’s costumes; he equipped the single spotlight with bulbs that glowed so brightly they sometimes burst like an explosion of stars. He paid for Al’s barbells and supervised with a megaphone the afternoon they all assembled an elaborate mail-order obstacle course for the tiger cubs. When he couldn’t find a muralist who satisfied him, Schoenberg bought vials of rare paint—ochre, cerulean, jade, magenta—stretched canvases, and lovingly painted the circus’s posters himself. And every now and then, a few new packets of twisting balloons for Webern or a hooked cane for Vlad and Fydor’s comedy routine turned up inexplicably in the Cadillac’s trunk. Still, it was never enough. Props were always getting broken or lost or—like Enrique’s swords—gambled away; costumes tore, and the tiger cubs never did learn to walk the A-beam or dive down the tunnel slide. No matter how much money Dr. Show spent, the circus was constantly vanishing around him.

And now he had vanished along with it. Empty coffee cups, crumpled-up napkins, bacon grease, and toast crumbs littered the tabletop in the diner, and still Dr. Schoenberg had not appeared. Webern glanced at the clock that hung askew on one wall, but the minute hand had hardly moved since he looked at it last. He took a deep breath and continued doodling in the ketchup on his empty plate, using a French fry for a pencil. So far he had drawn a top hat, a sword, and a tiny head with X’s for eyes.

Across from Webern, Al sat slumped; his chin rested on one gigantic palm. He’d lost his appetite just halfway through his third stack of pancakes. Beside him, Vlad and Fydor argued in Russian, completing each other’s sentences even as they disagreed. To ease his tension, Eng sat on the floor, legs twisted into a full lotus, and beside Webern, Hank brushed Ginger so hard that her orange fur fluffed out in all directions. Only Brunhilde, who sat at the head of the table, smoothing the long curls of her beard, appeared to have her mind on other things.

After picking out her tenth song on the jukebox, Nepenthe returned to the table. The waitress followed her, hanging back nervously.

“You guys are like a bunch of existentialists. Stop it with the moping, already.” Nepenthe pulled out the chair next to Brunhilde and flung herself down onto it. “Jesus God.”

The first strains of “Mack the Knife” filled the air. Several feet away, the waitress timidly waved a receipt.

“I have the check for y’all,” she offered. Her voice raised an octave in forced levity. “Now, who gets it?”

“Give it here.” Nepenthe turned around and reached toward her. Between the glove and her sleeve, an inch of flaky grey skin revealed itself. The waitress smiled, but the receipt trembled in her hand.

“All righty.” The waitress continued to smile as she edged around the table.

“No, give it to me, I said.” Nepenthe straightened her veil, but behind it her green eyes burned.

“Here you go.” The waitress reached in and dropped the check. “Oops.”

Nepenthe snatched it out of the air. Her tight grip crumpled the lower corner. She stared at the waitress, who grinned back, frozen with terror.

“Now, let’s see, what’s the damage.” The waitress darted back into the kitchen. Nepenthe unfolded the bill against the table and peered through her veil at the list of charges. “Who ordered the tomato juice? That you, Eng?”

Since Webern had first met her, Nepenthe had come a long way in controlling her temper. Once, several towns back, a saleswoman in a department store had refused to let her try on a dress, and Nepenthe had thrown a tantrum, knocking over mannequins and screaming about “contagion” until two security guards dragged her out of the store, hissing like a snake. She hadn’t talked to anyone for hours afterwards, hadn’t even come out of her tent for dinner. When Webern brought her a plate of cold franks and beans, she would only say, “I wish to God that bitch knew who my father was. I just wish to God she knew that.” Webern had nodded, not knowing quite how to respond. Even he didn’t know who Nepenthe’s father was. She’d never told anyone her last name.

“I can’t make sense of this.” Nepenthe shoved the check away and leaned back in her chair. “Somebody else divide it up, huh?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t pay yet,” said Webern.

Brunhilde reached over and picked up the check from the table. She removed her pince-nez from her pocket and carefully scrutinized the numbers.

“We have to keep waiting for Dr. Show. We should order another pot of coffee or something.”

“Let us not be like little children. We cannot stay here all night.” Brunhilde lifted her embroidered handbag up onto the table and reached inside for a handful of dimes. She stacked them deliberately beside her plate.

“Maybe not, but where are we supposed to go?” Explorer Hank scratched the white fur of Ginger’s belly. “Bernie’s right. Doesn’t make sense to cut out just yet.”

“I suggest we all check into a decent hotel. In the morning we will return here to retrieve Schoenberg, if he has arrived at all.” She folded her hands and looked around the table at each face. Though she was probably only in her early forties, her beard made her look older at such moments—even presidential. Maybe part of it was the way she dressed, in watered silk evening gowns that draped like old opera curtains. She always wore nylons, even in muggy weather, and around her neck hung a locket, as heavy and round as an ancient gold coin, which she never took off. She fingered it thoughtfully now. “Tonight’s events are his fault, are they not? He should be the one to wait.”

Al snorted. “Hotel, sure. And how we gonna pay for that?” He shook a forkful of pancake in Brunhilde’s direction. “I’m not gonna blow the last of my dough on room service.”

“We have the cashbox. Schoenberg keeps it in the Cadillac’s glove compartment. Have you not seen him put it there?”

“And the key?” asked Vlad.

“I believe Nepenthe could help us get it open.”

Nepenthe sat up a little straighter. She cracked her knuckles inside her gloves.

“I believe our minds will be clearer in the morning. If Schoenberg has not arrived, we can discuss then what it is we should do.” Brunhilde looked around the table. Most everyone seemed to agree. Here in the warm, dry diner, clashing swords and leaky tents seemed very far away.

Webern looked down at his plate. He rubbed the French fry into the little top hat he had drawn until it became an unrecognizable smear.

“I don’t know if we should,” he said. His voice sounded plaintive and whiny, even to him—a boy’s voice, not a man’s. “Dr. Show trusted us with that cashbox. It’s not like he’s dead. At least—I mean, he’s coming back. He’ll be pissed off if we go through his stuff, especially if we take his money.”

“His money?
His
money?” Brunhilde exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh. “Webern, when was your last paycheque?”

“I dunno. Same as yours.” Webern peeked up at the faces scrutinizing him from around the table. They gazed back, not hostile but not smiling either. Nepenthe flipped her veil back down; he couldn’t read her expression. Brunhilde’s arms were folded, and her eyes probed him. He imagined her pulling his German name off like a mask, exposing the American underneath. “I just—listen, okay, it’s not
his
money. But it’s not ours either, not really. It’s the circus’s. If we just blow it all on a bunch of hotel rooms, that’s it, we’re sunk.” Webern shaped his hands into an airplane and, with a low whistle, nose-dived it into the table.

“It’s the circus’s money, sure.” Nepenthe shrugged. “But what if Dr. Show doesn’t come back? How long are we supposed to wait, Bernie?”

“Longer than a couple of hours, anyway. You said he’d meet us here.”

“He told Enrique that, yeah. But I’m not sure we can hold him to it, under the circumstances.” Nepenthe lowered her voice. “Think about it, kiddo.”

“Yes,” said Brunhilde. “Schoenberg may not have had a chance to make his escape. But let us be honest with each other. Even in the best of times, when has he really kept his word?”

Vlad and Fydor exchanged a glance. Eng touched his forehead to the diner’s floor. Hank sighed, and in his arms, Ginger mewed plaintively. Even Al gave a reluctant nod. Webern pushed his plate forward on the table. It was true, of course—Dr. Schoenberg certainly hadn’t kept all of his promises, at least not lately. He baited them with luxuries he could never afford, fame that eluded them with every measly audience that half-filled the bleachers in their big top. And now he was getting himself killed over a sword he’d most likely stolen from a psycho named after another planet. But he still seemed inherently honest, despite it all. He’d rescued Webern from an empty life in a town filled with the skeletons of houses. Was that really enough, though? When
had
he kept his word?

“I can think of a few instances.”

The circus performers turned in the direction of the voice. There, in the diner’s doorway, stood Schoenberg. His top hat and tuxedo dripped with rain, and a fresh bloody slash marked his cheek. But he held a sword. His dark eyes blazed. Walking out of the kitchen with a coffee pot in her hand, the waitress saw him and shrieked.

A few hours later, the yellow Cadillac was climbing a twisting mountain road; the jalopy followed not far behind, slowly negotiating the rusty red trailer around the curves. Both cars still burned their headlights, but all around them, the world was waking up. In the dishwater grey of early morning, Webern, sitting shotgun, looked out the windshield at the clapboard stands that stood along the roadside, selling bullets and maple syrup, and at the houses that clung to the slope on rickety stilts. Lights winked on in kitchen windows.

The circus had been travelling through New England for only a few weeks, but now the leaves were starting to change—it was time to head south. Next stop was Paradise Beach, Delaware. The circus chased summer all year long, first south and then west. It was a practical decision, mostly—heating the tents would cost money, and who would go to a circus in the snow?—but to Webern it still seemed magical, a little arrogant even. It reminded him of the fairy tales he’d grown up reading, filled with men who outsmarted death with riddles and boys who brought home treasures from their dreams. The Boy Who Ran From Winter—yep, that was him.

Webern settled back and looked over at Dr. Schoenberg, who sat beside him in the driver’s seat. Schoenberg had changed into dry clothes; he now wore the black and white checkered coat that made him resemble a deranged vaudevillian. Much to Webern’s relief, the slash on his cheek, now bandaged with a fistful of paper napkins from the diner and several strips of Scotch tape, had proven to be only a shallow wound. As he drove, the pain didn’t appear to bother him in the slightest; his dark eyes focused on the road ahead with steely intensity.

Webern looked into the back seat where Nepenthe, Brunhilde, and Explorer Hank sat side by side by side, all three fast asleep. Ginger the tiger cub had returned to her cage in the red trailer. In a low voice, trying not to wake anyone up, he whispered to Dr. Schoenberg, “So, you had a close call with that Boulder guy, huh, boss?”

“Close call—ha! I only wish my opponent had been worthier. Alas, pity required that I spare his life.”

Webern glanced into the backseat again; Nepenthe’s eyelids fluttered, but otherwise the sleepers didn’t stir. “Brunhilde called him a Klingenschmiede. What’s that? Some kind of sword-maker?”

“That brute was no craftsman, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“He’s a keeper of accounts.”

“Like a bookie?”

“Nothing like that.”

Webern nodded and looked out the window again. A passing sign predicted an avalanche of large, tumbling rocks. He yawned and was about to close his eyes when Show spoke again.