All the Broken Things (8 page)

“Come on,” he said. “Not so serious, okay.”

Bo shrugged. He felt sorry for the bear, who had no idea what was going on and was just enjoying the sweetness.

Gerry heard him thinking so hard, and said, “People laugh at whatever makes them uncomfortable. It’s the surprise of it that makes them laugh. See the referee, Bo?”

The referee had made his eyes big and was jerking his face up and down, to the action, to the audience, apparently incredulous at what he was seeing, and also apparently completely incapable of stopping any of it.

“Barry Gillis, a has-been and an also-ran. Bit-part actor, can’t get a job for love nor money these days so he plays the circuit. Crap in the movies, but look at him. Lord, just look at him.”

Bo did. Barry had taken on a tortured look, as if the bear were doing to him what she did to Wolfman. Loralei had now grabbed the edge of Wolfman’s underpants between her teeth and was suckling on them.

“Stop,” Wolfman yelled. “Geez, stop her, ref.”

Gillis stood up, faced the crowd, shrugged. He mimed that he had no idea what to do. The announcer chuckled
into the mic, then said that Wolfman should have opted for the chain and trainer after all.

Bo saw it then.

He watched Wolfman’s arm separate itself from the jumble of body and creature, his hand clenching something. Bo saw the hand unclench off to the side, beckoning the bear. But the Wolfman’s feet and legs told a different story, and the ref, with his antics, covered for him. Wolfman’s lower body found purchase on the mat, just as Bo had against Ernie the day before. This created the sense that with leverage, the body of Wolfman could overcome the body of Loralei. It couldn’t—of course not—but it could appear as if it did. Wolfman bounced, forced himself into a crowbar stance, and grunting, pushed hard. For those attentive enough to see, and few would have been, the hand jostled and cajoled, some treacly smell enticing the bear toward it.

Wolfman timed his jounces so that when the bear lifted, it seemed as if he was responsible. Loralei now looked, to the stupid, as if she might be eating his hand, as if she might tear him to bits. The referee danced around, fake-grabbing her collar and pulling, working the decoy role. She twisted against him and faked him right back, throwing her head and stabbing her paw at him, and in faux fear he stepped back and back into the ropes.

“You see that?”

Bo nodded.

“I saw you seeing it, boy. You’ll make a fine contender, you know that?”

“I saw everything,” he said. “What was in his hand?”

“A blueberry Pop-Tart.”

“She likes that?”

“It’s Loralei’s favourite.”

Bo grinned now, watched the crowd react. “I like them too.”

After the Wolfman was free and the Pop-Tart all gone, the bear did not want to go back into the cage. She bustled around the ring several times, lapping the perimeter, and Bo recalled track and field, and wondered what that would be like with a bear—who would win, could he win? She ran rolling from the back legs to the front, her gait a fluid canter. The crowd yelled and shrieked at her but she did not seem to notice. Her eyes now looked dull, her gaze inward.

Gerry swung himself up over the rope and held his arms out, murmuring gently to her. “Loralei,” he said. “Loralei.
Hmm
…” The hum was a thin dark song coming from his throat. She stopped running in circles and made a slow turn around him and then came closer, him murmuring the whole time.

“Loralei,” he called. “
Hmm
.”

She stopped, nuzzling into him, under his arm, begging him for a pat. Gerry scratched her roughly behind her ear, the soft purr of his words seeming to calm her, drug her, and she rocked against him. It reminded Bo of
Orange, only her small self could never topple him as Loralei seemed about to do to Gerry—the bear leaned on him like he was a tree and he pushed back for balance.

Gerry laughed at her antics, and she tossed her head up and pulled her lips back into a grin. Could bears smile? And then Gerry held aloft his arms and waved them. She responded by moving in the direction of the cage. It was clear she wasn’t happy about this trick of his but didn’t feel powerful enough to contest it.

She lumbered to where the two masked men stood, and when they unclasped the ropes, she walked down the ramp and into the cage, where she was rewarded by another Pop-Tart. Bo watched her from the opposite end of the ring as she turned and turned and turned, seeking some comfort, before she landed and curled in a ball.

It was—strangely—her stench that enticed him. She smelled of nothing he had ever smelled. Bo approached, pushing through the now-dwindling crowd until he was beside the cage, beside Loralei. He moved his hand toward the bars, and had it pulled away. Bo hadn’t noticed the strange man behind him.

“She’ll take your fingers, kid.” Wild black hair flew in all directions from the man’s head. He wore a fitted suit, which shone, and had on the pointiest-toed shoes Bo had ever seen. He was holding a bowler hat in his hand. He was handsome, Bo thought, like a movie star, and there was not a spot of dirt on him despite the dusty
field all around them. The man’s eyes regarded him and he never blinked once.

Bo tucked his hands in his pockets. Gerry was already next to him.

“What’s up, Bo?”

Bo looked at the man who had reprimanded him and then back at Gerry. “I wanted to pat Loralei.”

“Well, go ahead.” Gerry fielded a look from the man. “Caged, she wouldn’t hurt a fly,” he said, more to the wild-haired man than to Bo.

“Jesus,” muttered the man. “I don’t want to see it.” He put his hat on and scissor-walked away, shaking his head. He didn’t look back until he was past the crowd, and then only briefly.

“Who was that?” Bo asked.

“Ach, it’s just my boss. Never mind.” Gerry turned to the bear. “Loralei? Meet Bo. Bo, Loralei.”

Bo pushed his fingers into the bear’s shoulder. The oil coming off her fur was so strongly scented, Bo gagged a bit and laughed when Gerry caught him.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Gerry said. The bear got up and began to pace around her enclosure until she came to face the two. She scented the boy, nose vibrating. “Look at her. Watch her nose go. She’s learning you.”

“Where did you get her?” Bo thought if he knew, he could maybe get one too.

“Found her. Taught her everything she knows—didn’t I, Lora?” Gerry reached in and scratched her chin.

“Found her where?”

“Never you mind. She’s my girl.”

Bo had known this from the moment the cage opened. Loralei was Gerry’s bear. You could own a bear, Bo thought. Own it and train it up. It was a wondrous thought.

“She was the sweetest thing. She came lolloping into the world with my heart on her sleeve. Watch this.” He lifted his arm and Loralei sat to beg. He snapped his finger and she poked her snout out of the cage and made to lick him, licking the air near him instead.

“Neat,” said Bo.

“She’ll do most anything I want her to do.”

Behind them, a crowd had gathered again. With his chin, Gerry indicated the ring, and Bo looked up, away from Loralei, to see two masked wrestlers now grappling, hands clawing and sliding along each other’s huge, greased-up torsos. It was the men who had let Loralei out of the cage earlier, the men from the parking lot, Bo now saw.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” said Gerry.

“What?”

“One as stupid as the next. But they can move.”

Gerry jammed his index fingers in his mouth and whistled. One man held the other man and, squatting slightly, heaved and lifted him so he hung upside down. Sweat rolled along the hanging man’s sternum and dripped onto
the mat. The holding man shook his opponent, once, twice, three times, and then threw him to the side and watched as he clutched himself in what must have been agony.

“Real-life twins,” Gerry said.

Yes, they were twins. Staring at the wrestlers, Bo leaned on the cage having forgotten what was in it, but Gerry was watching. He laughed even before Bo felt the wet tongue sliding behind his ear and jumped away, gasping.

Gerry patted Bo’s shoulder. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly once she’s caged.”

“Will she fight again today?”

“After the main fights, I offer the crowd a go. You’ll see something then, Bo. A lineup of idiots paying to fight her. Paying good money.”

Bo held his hand up for Loralei to lick, trying to grab hold of her tongue. It was a game he’d played with the neighbourhood dogs, which they liked. Maybe a bear was a little like a dog. Loralei eye-rolled just like the dogs, and stuck her tongue out for more. “Let me fight her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not ready.”

Bo said, “You said she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Please.”

“It’s twenty minutes I could be earning money. No.”

Bo searched around for something he could offer, but there was only the crumpled bill in his shorts pocket. “I can pay—”

“I’ll pay.” The voice came from behind him, and Bo turned to look. It was the boss whose clothing shone. Those shoes scared Bo a little. “I’ll pay to see the bear fight that kid.” The money was already thumbed out of the man’s wallet. A twenty and a ten.

“Max,” Gerry said, waving him off.

“My money dirty, or what?”

“Jesus,” said Gerry, but he took the money and nodded at Bo. “Take a walk, Bo Jangles, and get your mood on. I don’t want to see you for a while. Come back in a couple of hours. Loralei needs a nap.”

“You’ll let me?” said Bo. “Really?”

“Go.” Gerry made to chase him, but Bo didn’t stick around, didn’t want any minds to get changed. The fur, he thought, the fur right next to him.

B
O WALKED WITHOUT CARING
where he was heading, just away so that Gerry would not have a chance to call him back and cancel. The midway sugar nestled into his nostrils, cotton candy swirling there just as surely as it swirled around its paper hub. Bo jostled through lineups for the bumper cars, the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round. He did not think these were for him.

He perched on the rail of a steel fence designed to keep a queue in check, no one lined up behind it. The
ride looked busted. A thin boy stood behind it and off to the side. Bo picked a bit at the chipped paint on the rail, blue over yellow. The boy did not seem to mind him being there and so he settled in to watch the surge of young people vying for this or that ride, arguing, gossiping, whatever they were doing. It was about ten minutes before the shiny man, Max, was in front of him.

“I like your moxie,” he said, extending his hand. Bo did not know what this word meant, and the man must have guessed. “Your bravery,” he added.

His hand was firm and warm, a good handshake. Bo had never seen a man with more perfect eyebrows. They looked almost pencilled on.

There was a brush of cloth or skin up against Bo’s back. The boy guarding the ride had come up behind him. “Mr. Jennings?” the boy said.

“Yes, sir!”

“My name is Keith. I want to say thank you. I run the whirligig.” He gestured to the ride behind him, added, “When it ain’t broke.”

“You’re welcome, Keith, though I do not entirely know for what.”

Max let go of Bo’s hand to shake the hand of the other boy.

“You own the whole fair, I think.”

“Well—”

“The freak show is pure genius, sir.”

Max nodded curtly at the boy and muttered, “I prefer the term ‘sideshow.’ ” He tipped his head at Bo indicating he should follow him, and left.

They walked for some time, wending in and out of the teens, the mothers, the small children, the dads, in behind a tent that held the bingo.

“Don’t mind my home,” said Max, pointing to a silver trailer. He opened the door and ushered Bo into a strange plush living space. It was upholstered in soft red material, even on the ceiling. “I live here on and off,” Max said. “My real house is sometimes too far to drive home to. Sit down, sit down!” He gestured to a red Formica table that was bolted into the floor. “For the record,” he said, “I did not start the so-called freak show. The freak show has an ancient history, of course. Lazarus Colloredo and his twin John Baptista must take full credit. They made a fortune, even if they could neither move very fast nor entirely enjoy the gifts of wealth. They were joined at the waist, young man!”

Max’s voice mesmerized Bo. Bo had no idea what Max was talking about but he wanted to keep hearing that voice. He sat at the table watching Max’s fingers dance while he spoke.

“Can I get you a drink, kid? A pop or something?”

“Yes, please.”

Max pulled a ginger ale out of the tiniest fridge Bo had ever seen and plunked it down on the table. He
stood there smiling at Bo and scratching his neck. “I do like your moxie, kid.”

Bo pulled the tab on the pop can and took a sip. “Thank you,” he said.

“I meet a lot of kids looking for work,” Max said. “I tell them to go home to their mommies. But you? You’ve got something. A little glimmer. A spark. And Gerry says you like to fight.”

This was not true. He did not like to fight. He just did it. “I’ve never fought a bear,” Bo said.

But Max was not listening to him. “That teenager at the whirligig? I’ll fire him this afternoon. Calling it a freak show. The audacity. I curate. I am a curator of humankind.” Here he waved his hands about and hit the tips of his fingers on the upholstered ceiling of the caravan.