The Book of Speculation (33 page)
“Good. Feel better?”
“Yes.” My ankle hurts and my head still aches from where I hit it, my eyes are bloodshot, I’m gutted from destroying a priceless book, and I nearly incinerated myself. I feel remarkably good.
We watch the fire devour the last of the curtains, leaving nothing but the chains, glowing snakes in the sand. The wind picks up and carries sparks across the beach and into the water. Ashen remnants of Peabody’s writing.
Doyle sniffs. A snap cuts through the air, a searing blue flash set upon by thunder. Then, then it begins to rain.
The wagon struck a stone, jostling Peabody and sending pages of correspondence fluttering to the floor. As troupe master, he eschewed driving in favor of minding the books, plotting routes, and managing the direction and composition of the acts comprising the show; the pitfall of the arrangement was suffering Nat’s reckless hands at the reins. The previous day the strongman had driven over a large root, causing Peabody to spill a bottle of ink on the only cushion he’d not sacrificed to the Les Ferez act.
He was moving in the direction of sophistication. To see this progress he need look no further than Amos—from savage to mystic, to courtier with lovely wife—a remarkable transformation. The next step would be to get the troupe off the road. Peabody nipped at the end of a seagull-feather quill he’d acquired; the birds were unpleasant but made for excellent writing nibs, firm, yet flexible enough for sketching.
The ratio of days spent in each town versus the time in travel was disheartening. He lacked funds for anything approaching the arena he’d trained in.
Boats,
he mused. Were he to obtain a boat, they might float from city to city, alight for shows, and sleep aboard at night. The cart bounced as it hit a rut. A boat would mean no more impassable roads and no more of Nat’s infernal driving.
He returned to his correspondence—a letter from his son. Zachary knew his father’s routes and made a habit of sending word to towns he frequented, and the boardinghouse in Tanner’s Ferry held his letters for months. The letter had come from Philadelphia.
June 1798
. Peabody grimaced. Had he known that Zachary had been in Philadelphia, he would have skipped New Castle if only to set eyes upon the boy again.
Man,
he corrected. Zachary was no longer the sprite he’d taught sleight of hand; he was grown.
Dearest Father,
I am certain this letter finds you well at Tanner’s Ferry, and that you acquired an oilskin while in town. I recall your wagon being prone to leaks. Please do take care. You are not as young as you once were.
I have found employment at the hands of a wondrous fellow, Mr. John Bill Ricketts, and cannot help but think that you would find his company enjoyable. He is a spry fellow and the most skilled eques trian I have had the privilege to see. I have witnessed him dance a hornpipe on horseback, Father. Perhaps you have met? Mr. Ricketts has said that he trained with the Joneses in London. While I know you threw in firmly with Astley, it is not so large a circle we move in. The entertainments Mr. Ricketts presides over are almost beyond believing. He has arenas in Philadelphia and New York, each with a proper circus for equestrian pantomimes and a stage for entre-act diversions. A man called Spinacuta—a silent type—has become my instructor. Mr. Spinacuta performs upon a tightened span of rope. In this he is easily as skilled as Mr. Ricketts is on horseback. Father, I’ve seen Spinacuta perform a reel on his rope—with baskets tied about his feet!
I am employed in the diversions, part of a comedic scene that requires me to tumble while bound in a flour sack. I am not yet so good as Mr. Spinacuta. Provided that I do not break my arms, I am confident I shall improve.
Mr. Ricketts is an excellent man to learn business from, Father. I believe all you lack is a proper venue, an arena of your own. I think too that Mr. Ricketts might benefit from your knowledge. He is eloquent, but not half the speaker you are, and though he is confident and skilled in his performance, were he to fall, his enterprise would be unable to continue. You are wise to leave the entertainments to others when your mind is so keen with business matters.
I cannot say I am saddened to hear of Madame Ryzhkova’s departure. While I am certain that you must be dispirited at the loss of her income, I must tell you that she was terrifying. Though it seems foolish to write, I am quite certain that she killed a little frog I once kept. Do not grieve her loss.
I must end this letter, as Mr. Spinacuta insists it is time to rehearse—endless rehearsals. I shall remain at this address until the fall, at which point I will travel to New York and Mr. Ricketts’s second amphitheater. I shall take rooms at Larsten’s Boardinghouse, as I have fond memories of our stay there. Be well, Father.
Your Loving Son,
Zachary
Peabody carefully tucked the letter inside his jacket. He missed his son, but envy stabbed him. Ricketts was the man he might have been had he not fallen at Astley’s. Mindful of the wagon’s rocking, he dipped his quill and began to sketch, first a curve and series of bumps, then a swift straight line. It was a moment before he realized that the thing he was drawing was the wicked-looking creature Benno had pulled from the dead river. He might easily call it a Sea Devil and display it. He toyed with the idea but decided against it, unable to shake the image of dying fish on the riverbank. A disturbing piece of business.
He blew the ink dry on the sketch. The world was changing. Fortunately, he was excellent with reinvention.
New potential,
he thought.
New things make us young again.
The Les Ferez idea had come along smartly. He found an empty spot of page and began sketching an elaborate water vessel, replete with rooms and stages, resplendent, yet light enough to float atop a shallow river.
While Peabody sketched and dreamt, the line of wagons followed the crooked road that ran the length of the Catawba. Axles whined and protested, cart doors swelled and stuck, and an uncommon damp settled over the procession as they moved blindly forward into the fog.
JULY 23RD
There is little to say about storms in Napawset other than they’re never small, always dangerous, and any theater for the soul that accompanies thunder and lightning is replaced by fear of death by flood or falling tree.
Cursing and grunting, we climb the steps as rain pummels us. Water courses over the bluff, crushing the beach grass as it runs to the shore. Enola drags me by my arm while Doyle jogs behind. “Excellent stuff, man. Excellent,” he crows.
A storm this strong means Hull Road has already flooded, the bend by the school is on its way to being impassable, and anyone who hasn’t left Port is stuck; if they’re bold enough to attempt to leave, the sea of floating cars on Main Street will stop them. We duck into the house.
“We can wait it out here,” I say.
Enola disappears into the kitchen. “Where do you keep the hurricane candles?”
“Cabinets on top of the fridge.” The last half of my answer is lost under a loud groaning. Doyle and I look up. Enola peers around the kitchen door. A dark oval on the living room ceiling pouches out like a pregnant belly, drips of water pooling at its bulging center.
“Shit,” Enola grunts.
Seconds later a stream of rainwater hits the floor with such force that all three of us jump.
What follows is a dance of pots and pans, mixing bowls, mop buckets—things so long unused I’d forgotten they existed—emptying pots as they fill, and anticipating new leaks. We keep it up for an hour or so, rotating emptying and shuffling, until our hands are wrinkled and hair is soaked. Enola looks at me. “We can’t stay here. The ceiling’s going to come down. Simon, it’s time to go.”
In the past I might have gone to the McAvoys’ house and asked to ride it out on their couch. That’s off the table. I would go to the library, but I no longer have keys. Getting a room in Port is out of the question.
“We’ll swing back by Rose’s,” Doyle says, touching Enola’s arm. She pulls away as if stung.
She shakes her head. “Can’t get there if Hull is flooded.”
The roof creaks in earnest. “Get your stuff and get in the car,” I say. “I think I know where we can go.” I hope.
Doyle and Enola scramble outside. I grab my notebook and the stolen library books and dig through the closet for a bag to put it all in. Mom’s coat is still here. I stared at that dark brown wool while she zipped me into a stiff red snowsuit, zip and snaps. I cried. It was too hot, too tight, the wrong color—not blue. She pulled a crumpled paper towel from her pocket and roughly wiped my nose. Yanked an itchy hat over my ears.
We can’t have you freezing. If you keep crying you’ll freeze your eyes shut.
I can almost remember her face just then, almost. Dad’s coat is with hers, breast to breast.
I close the door behind me and hear a loud wet thump from inside. Don’t look—it will still be there tomorrow. Now we need to leave.
Enola and Doyle wait in the car. She’s put on a dark blue hoodie and has her hands stuffed deep in the pockets. Doyle is in the back, a duffel bag on the seat next to him. I ask what’s in it. He says, “Stuff. Bulbs. Got to keep limber.”
“Where are we going?” Enola asks.
“Alice’s.”
They both whistle.
“Think Frank told her?”
“Don’t know. I hope not.”
It’s a slog to get to Woodland Heights. The roads are littered with downed branches and it’s impossible to see anything but the rain on the windshield. No one says a word until we pull into the lot by Alice’s apartment.
“We can crash in the car,” Enola says. She’s looking up at the lights in the apartments, the neat little balconies, glass doors, and porch lamps. I can’t imagine what she sees.
“If you’re with me there’s a better chance she’ll let me in.” Alice might turn me down if she thinks I’m trying something—am I trying something?—but she wouldn’t put three people out in a storm.
She doesn’t answer when I ring the bell. We wait for a few minutes, rain soaking our clothes. Doyle rocks back and forth on his heels, his skin squirming.
“She’s not here,” Enola says.
“She might not be answering because, you know.” Doyle shrugs. “Weird guy with tats ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night. I’m cool with staying in the car. Used to do it all the time,” he says.
“She’s not like that,” Enola says.
“Wait, just wait.” I knock, this time using my whole forearm. The dead bolt slides, the lock turns over.
Alice cracks the door. Swollen eyes, a red nose, face bruised from crying.
Frank told her everything. I’m sorry and wish we’d never come. The worst is she’s a pretty crier and learning that is awful.
“Oh,” she says. “Simon. What are you doing here?”
I tell her about the house leaking and not being able to get anywhere else. She opens the door a little wider, revealing a worn blue bathrobe, pajamas, and a pair of ugly gray socks with one of the toes out. She looks at Enola, then Doyle. Doyle waggles his fingers. Enola mumbles a greeting.
“I’ll make coffee,” Alice says.
“You don’t have to.”
“I’ve got to do something. I’ll make coffee. It’s what I do.”
We stumble inside. Alice asks us to take off our shoes. We toss them into a pile by the door, sole meeting sole, sand mixed with carnival dirt. Did I do this last time? Despite having been here multiple times, I remember little of the apartment; I just remember her, leaning on a counter, falling on her bed, the refrigerator light and how she’s the only person in the world who looks good in it.
Enola and Doyle hunker into an overstuffed love seat, brown birds huddling together. The taupe and peach apartment makes them look flat. I take the armchair beside them.
“Nice place,” Enola says.
“It’s good,” he says.
“If you like this sort of thing.”
“I’m not real big on leases.”
“Me neither.”
“I kind of like wheels,” he says.
“Yes,” she says. “Me too, me too.”
Alice reappears with three cups on a white serving tray. Her shoulders hunch like she’s been broken. She sets the tray on the coffee table, flops onto a peach chair, and curls her legs beneath her. “You can wait here for a little while for the roads to clear, but I don’t think I can let you stay,” she says. “I just need space tonight, okay? It’s not you.”
“You talked to your dad?” I say.
“Fuck him,” she says, like a punch. She looks at some invisible point to the left of my shoulder. “He’s like a wound that won’t stop bleeding. Now that it’s all come out he won’t shut up. All those years he never said a thing, and now he has to tell us. Selfish bastard.” Her voice cracks and she sniffs and swallows, an awful sucking sound. “Why the hell don’t people understand there are some things you don’t talk about? You keep it to yourself so you hurt fewer people. You’re supposed to pay with guilt. Guilt is penance,” she says.
A soft ruffling to my right—Enola playing with cards. Doyle sips his coffee, holding the cup as though it’s a delicate piece of glass.