The Boundless (14 page)

She shrugs. “If you must. You need shoes, too.” She rummages through a box on the floor and extracts a pair of fat white shoes that are twice as big as Will's feet. “Here.”

Will looks at them in mute dismay. “These are definitely clown shoes.”

Maren begins laughing, a surprisingly hearty sound to come out of such a slim person.

“I suppose there's these,” she says, pulling out a pair of ordinary black shoes.

Will takes them gratefully. From another mound of clothing she picks out some socks and underwear without a hint of awkwardness. Will is embarrassed and turns so she won't see him blushing.

“And this, too,” she says, and when he looks over, she's holding out his sasquatch tooth.

He takes it from her. It's warm, like it's been in her pocket a long time. “Thanks.”

“I stole it, kind of.”

His eyes widen. “I thought you just forgot!”

She clears her throat. “No, I wanted to show you how clever I was. I was going to give it back when you came to the circus. Sorry I've had it so long.”

He smiles. “That's all right.” He likes the idea of her having it. He wonders:
Has she been keeping it in her pocket all these years? Did she ever think of me, sometimes?

“Come on,” she says, leading him to a door at the end of the car. “This is the men's washroom.”

Strings crisscross the room, draped with all manner of clothing. The single window has been soaped, so no one can see in. There are a couple of big, circular metal tubs. Through a drain in the middle of the floor, Will sees the dark flash of passing rail ties.

Maren walks to a cistern bolted to the wall. Attached to the spigot is a length of rubber hosing. She picks up the end and turns a tap, and a gush of water pounds against the bottom of one of the tin tubs. After mere seconds she turns the water off.

“That's all?” Will asks.

“That's what you get. The water's got to last a long time.”

“Is it hot?”

She shakes her head. “It's very, very cold. You can wash your clothes in the tub after you've bathed.”

“Bathed” seems a very fancy word for what takes place here.

Even when they lived in that cold-water flat in Winnipeg, he had hot water when he bathed—which was seldom.

Maren closes the door behind her. Will is dismayed that there's no lock. He looks at the thin layer of water in the tub, which itself seems none too clean, and strips off his torn, reeking clothes. He begins to fold them, then realizes it's pointless. He steps quickly into the tub. The chilly water scarcely reaches his ankles. On the tub's rim is a mottled lump that he assumes must be soap. He crouches and dips it into the water, wondering how many people have used this soap, and this tub.

The door flies open, and Will looks over in horror. A burly man strides in with hardly a glance at him.

“Um, I'm having a bath,” says Will.

“I ken see that!” says the fellow in a thick Scottish burr. “Kerry on!”

“But . . . isn't it my turn?” Will asks, and feels immediately childish.

“Lad, how many tubs do you see in here?”

“Two,” he sighs.

“That's right!” The man takes the hose and fills the second tub, strips, and hops into the cold water with great satisfaction. “Ah! That's a
treat
, that is! Haven't bathed since I don't know when!” He lathers himself up. “Nothing like a good invigorating wash and
scrub
!” He stops to sniff in Will's direction. “I think you might scrub a little harder!”

Will sighs. “Yes, it's just some . . . sasquatch urine.”

“Nasty stuff!” the fellow remarks.

Will tries to wash himself as thoroughly and quickly as possible. He keeps glancing back at the door, terrified it will burst open again and a troupe of gymnasts will somersault in. Maybe the giant, too.

He remembers the sandpaper rub of soap from childhood, and finds it strangely comforting. The water turns an unappetizing shade of gray. He steps out and looks around for a towel. Hanging from a nail is a piece of something so threadbare and stained, Will can only imagine it has been there for the last twenty years. It's dry at least. Gingerly he pats himself fast all over.

He dresses in his new circus clothes. From his soiled jacket he carefully removes his watch, his sketchbook and pencil, his muskeg spectacles, money, his sasquatch tooth—and the funeral car key. He swallows, and covers the key with his sketchbook. He glances at the Scottish bather, but he's taking no interest.

Will dumps the whole lot of his soiled clothing into the tub. He pummels them with the bar of soap, then twists them dry and hangs them from an open stretch of clothesline. He's probably ruined the jacket.

For a moment he feels heartsick, thinking of his father on the same train but miles away—probably with no clue what's happened to Will. And if he did know, what could he do? Would he stop the entire train and search it front to back? Would he rescue him? Will frowns as he suddenly realizes that he doesn't want his father to rescue him.

When he opens the washroom door, he finds Maren talking to Mr. Dorian.

“Did you enjoy your bath?” she asks, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Very much, thank you. It's always nice to have some company.”

“Would you care for some breakfast, William?” Mr. Dorian asks.

Breakfast. He looks at his watch. Just past six o'clock. From somewhere comes the smell of bacon, and his stomach gives a long noisy gulp.

“I heard that,” says Maren. “I'll take you to the dining tent.”

“Tent?”

“We call it the tent even though we're on the train. Habit.”

“I'll join you shortly,” says Mr. Dorian.

Will follows Maren through several cars. There are humbler berths here, and long communal washbasins where men shave in their suspenders, or splash water on their faces. The air is muggy with colognes and perfumes. People are hoisting up trousers, fastening belts, combing hair, pulling on stockings, squeezing past one another in the narrow corridor, too early yet to grunt more than a hello. A whole village of people getting ready for their day.

“It's very . . . cozy,” he says.

She nods. “Home away from home.”

The first thing Will sees passing into the next car is a man and a woman on what looks like a giant tandem bicycle, pedaling hard. The bicycle isn't going anywhere because the whirling wheels don't touch the floor. Thick cables sprout from them and disappear into the ceiling.

“What are they doing?” Will whispers as he and Maren walk by.

“Making electricity for the cars,” she replies. “Everyone does twenty-minute shifts during the day.”

“That's incredible!” he says.

“And you thought only first class had electrics!”

She opens a door, and Will is nearly bowled over with the sound of hundreds of people talking, laughing, bawling out to pass the eggs or fetch the coffee. Long trestle tables run the length of the car, leaving narrow aisles that are crammed with people carrying platters heaving with pancakes and roasted potatoes and rashers of bacon and cornmeal muffins and baked beans and pitchers of milk. Will isn't sure he's ever seen so many people seated in one space. As soon as one person leaves, another slips into his seat, and the eating begins again.

Will tries not to stare. But he can't help noticing all sorts of people, the likes of which he's never seen. Mr. Beauprey, of course, is impossible to miss, given his immense size. (“I wanted to throw him off the train,” Will overhears him saying to the fellow next to him, “but they said no!”) Across from the giant is a pair of slim Asian gentlemen who appear to be joined together at the hip. A large woman mops her beard daintily with a napkin. And then Will absolutely
does
stare, because running across the top of a table, carrying a small stack of dirty dishes, is a gray monkey. White fur grows around his face, making him look like a solemn waiter with muttonchop sideburns. And he's not the only one. Across all the tables now Will sees more monkeys hustling about, bringing people cups and pots of tea.

Dazed, he says to Maren, “There are monkeys.”

“Japanese macaques. They're very helpful.”

She takes his hand matter-of-factly and leads him through the crush to a smaller table with a linen tablecloth and a small vase of flowers in the center. When she releases his hand, he looks at it, like it might be transformed. A girl has never taken his hand before.

“Help yourself,” she says, nodding at the platters of food.

Will takes a clean plate and piles it until there is no room left. He's never been so hungry. Where to start? In the end he pours maple syrup over his stack of pancakes and carves himself an enormous wedge. But before he can cram it into his mouth, a monkey taps him on the arm.

Will looks down and sees a macaque expectantly holding out a steaming towel.

“To wash your hands,” Maren says with a grin.

“Oh,” says Will, taking it. “Thank you.”

He washes his hands and then digs in. Fifteen minutes later he's finishing off the last strips of bacon and bits of fried potatoes. As if from nowhere Mr. Dorian sits down opposite him.

“Well, William Everett, it seems as if you've replenished yourself. Are you in a talkative mood?”

A monkey comes and takes Will's plate and cutlery away. Will holds on to his glass of milk. He takes a drink and then launches into his story. He can't explain it, but he trusts Mr. Dorian, and he leaves nothing out. It is a long story, and Will isn't sure he's ever talked so much all at once. But it passes quickly, and he realizes he rather likes telling it. He likes seeing how they listen—more than that, how they sometimes seem
captivated
—and he wonders now if he isn't as bad at talking to people as he thought.

“That is quite a tale,” Mr. Dorian says. “You're a man of hidden talents.”

Will feels his face warm, and knows he's blushing.

“Jumping those trains at night is no mean feat.”

“I think he would've killed me otherwise,” Will replies.

“Quite likely,” Mr. Dorian says. “You're the only witness to a murder. If he's killed one man, he can kill two.”

Will's breakfast suddenly feels unpleasantly heavy in his stomach.

“He wants the key,” says Will, remembering how Brogan's eyes locked onto it, how he offered to spare his life if only Will gave up the key.

Maren nods. Will keeps looking over at her, even though she's not talking much. He likes looking at her.

“May I see it?” Mr. Dorian asks.

Will takes it from his pocket and hands it to the ringmaster, who peers at it carefully, both sides, before returning it.

“The last spike's in there,” Will whispers. “The one made of gold.”

“Is it?”

Will wonders if he's made a mistake. But he wants to impress Maren. And he'd like someone to tell him what to do now.

“We may be getting another visit from Mr. Brogan,” says Mr. Dorian, “and he probably won't be alone this time.”

“There's Mackie,” Will says. “He's in on it.”

“And possibly more. Right at this moment there are brakemen sauntering about overhead, watching the couplings between our carriages.”

“There are?” Will says.

“They suspect you're here, and they expect you to bolt.”

“There's a Mountie on the train,” Will says. “Samuel Steele.”

“Alas, we're a little island unto ourselves back here,” says Mr. Dorian. “There are miles of freight cars between us and colonist class. And we're not scheduled to stop until late afternoon.”

“How about the pigeons?” Maren asks. “We could send a message forward.”

“They're swift but not swift enough to outpace the Boundless at forty miles an hour.”

“Can I stay here until the next stop?” Will asks.

“Of course,” says Mr. Dorian with a kind smile, “but I don't think your problems will end there. They'll be watching for you. If Brogan's as intent on this key as we think, I don't think you'd make it very far without being caught.”

“He could if he joins the circus,” Maren says.

Will thinks she's joking, until he sees Mr. Dorian nod.

“I see exactly what you mean,” the ringmaster says, turning to Will. “We have an agreement with the Boundless to give a number of performances during the journey. You saw the first the other night. When the train stops this afternoon, we're to walk up to colonist class for our second show. Then we're to remain on the passenger cars and make a performance in every class. The finale is in first class on our last night of the journey.”

“You can be part of our show,” Maren says.

Will frowns. “But if Brogan's watching, he'll recognize me!”

“You'll be disguised,” Maren says. “Obviously.”

“Completely unrecognizable,” adds Mr. Dorian. “Madame Lamoine is one of the finest makeup artists in the world.”

Will's eyes have fallen to the tablecloth, his fingers tracing part of the pattern in the embroidery. “But I can't
do
anything.”

Mr. Dorian waves his hand. “Nonsense. Everyone can do something.”

“Not that Winston lad,” Maren remarks.

Mr. Dorian purses his lips. “Well, no, he was completely hopeless—but we still worked him into the show.”

“What did he do?” Will asks.

“We cut him in half every night.”

“Twice on Sundays,” adds Maren.

“Until the accident,” says Mr. Dorian, wincing.

Will stops breathing. “You didn't really . . .”

“Heavens, no,” says Mr. Dorian with a rare chuckle. He looks at Maren. “He thought we actually sawed him in half! No, no. He was trampled by the camels.”

“It's true,” Maren says soberly.