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I glared at Mink and Bonfiglio, then fished out the dripping sponge and handed it to Miss Lightfoot.
“Oh, you sweethearts,” Miss Lightfoot declared. “I thank you.” She dabbed her arms and face with the welcome water.
Mink grabbed Apollo by his scruff. “A valiant act, my lad,” he said, and dragged him away. I couldn’t believe Apollo looked pleased despite his pulled hair.
That afternoon a thunderstorm took us by surprise. The wind whipped up, the air grew chill, and dark clouds descended like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. I tried to lean back under the canvas bonnet, but the wind drove the rain in on me, and it soaked me like a drowned rat in the blink of an eye. The track we followed churned into a river of mire, and we plodded along with frequent stalls and jolts when the wheels stuck in the mud, then spat dirt as the persevering horses pulled them out again.
At least Miss Lightfoot will be more comfortable now, I thought, and I glanced over my shoulder to see her sitting at the rear of the wagon, with the canvas curtain raised to catch the spray.
As the lightning flashed and forked overhead, I wondered whether it was good or bad that there were few trees. Were you supposed to stay away from them or hide under them? I had a terrible feeling that it wasn’t good to be the tallest thing around in a prairie storm. I prayed I wouldn’t see a funnel cloud.
The storm ended as quickly as it had begun, and the only sign that it had ever been was the line of boiling dark that retreated across the sky, leaving a vaporous white that deepened to blue once more. The grasses sparkled with jewels, and the air tasted of fragile fairy-tale oceans.
We built a fire that evening from dry twigs and sticks Bess had been smart enough to stow away in a b
ox. All of us gathered around the flames—except Mr. Ginger and the giant, who felt poorly once more. Mink had a cane propped beside him. It had a silver skull handle.
“You need to take the giant to a doctor,” said Bess to Mink.
“All giants are complainers,” said Mink. He made me think of a skeleton I’d seen in a medieval picture—Death bringing the plague.
“Giants get sick easy,” replied Bess. “You want a giant to show, don’t you? How’s he gonna sit there if he’s sick?”
Mink glared at her. “I’ve a bottle of stomach bitters in my wagon I’ll give up for him. That’ll set his digestion right.”
Bess didn’t look convinced, but she let the matter drop.
We were all damp and uncomfortable, and no one talked much as we ate tiresome beans again, not even Apollo. “Well, you could have had your bath after all, Ruby,” Mink said, meshing and cracking his bony fingers. He had a satisfied sneer on his thin, cruel mouth. “You could have stripped naked and dangled out the back of the wagon. I guarantee you, my dear, no one would have cared to look.”
Miss Lightfoot lowered her eyes.
“Aw, Doc. You shouldn’t talk to a lady like that,” said Billy, surprising me.
“Sweet on Ruby are you, Billy Sweet?” wheezed Dr. Mink. “Billy Sweet on Ruby.” He chuckled at his own crude joke. “A weasel and an alligator, well, well, well—that would be miscegenation indeed. Keep me informed. I’ll have a job for the offspring.” As he left, he swiped a nasty blow at Billy’s knees with his cane.
Billy yelped and grabbed his legs.
“Don’t talk back to me,” Mink hissed, and his brawny bodyguard laughed.
“Why do you stay with him?” I asked after they had gone. “There are other shows.”
“Why, he’s going to make us rich, of course,” said Billy Sweet. “He’s taking us to Cally-forn-eye-ay, where the streets are paved with gold. Venice, young feller, named after the city in Europe.”
“They have canals with real live imported gondoliers from Italy,” said Miss Lightfoot. “And there’s shops, hotels, theaters, fancy Roman statues, and a pier out into the Pacific with a Spanish galleon restaurant.”
“That sounds marvelous,” I said. “I’d really like to see that.”
Billy Sweet nodded knowingly. “All they needs is some tenin-ones. It’s a prime spot for a freak show.”
“And I’ll train the children,” said Apollo, his eyes wide with excitement. My enthusiasm waned. I didn’t want Apollo to go there; I wanted him to go home.
“Mink says it could be the new Coney Island,” continued Billy Sweet. “Ain’t much competition in California, Mink says. We can make big money. They got money comin’ down from the Klondike goldfields. Mink’s gonna be the new Barnum, and we’re gonna grow rich with him.”
“No one’s gonna get rich with that old miser,” grumbled Bess. “The only one who’ll end up with money will be him, unless you all get wise and ask for your dues after each show. If we stood together, he’d have no choice.”
This had the feel of an old argument. So old no one bothered to argue back. In the silence that followed, I offered to take a plate to Mr. Ginger.
The two-headed man glanced beyond me, and for a second he appeared disappointed, but then he greeted me with shy affection and offered me a stool. The little face in the center of his forehead slept as I told Mr. Ginger of the cruel behavior of Dr. Mink.
