The Flying Circus (29 page)

“Well, I promise not to tell anyone you’re responsible. I’m the most envied woman in the city right now. Don’t want to ruin the fairy tale by telling them Prince Charming punched my lights out.”

“Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone anything. Especially those reporters out there.”

“Henry Jefferson! You’re supposed to be the promoter. How could we pass up an opportunity like this to bring attention to the circus? You’re as good as a war hero right now. They’re going to take our photograph as soon as you’re able to stand up.”

“I’m serious, Cora! I don’t want photographs—or news stories.” He only hoped that with all of the movement and chaos, the newsreel footage was fuzzy enough that no one would be able to recognize him.

She gave him a sharp look. “Why?”

“I just don’t.” He took her hand. “Please.”

“Well, it’s not just me. You saved the pilot, too.”

“How is he?”

“Broken in lots of places. Going to be here awhile. But he’ll survive.”

“Good. The other one?”

She shook her head. “I heard they haven’t even found his body yet. Too much fire. I also heard if you hadn’t pulled this pilot out, he’d have burned, too.”

Henry shook his head. “It wasn’t that close. Somebody would have gotten to him in time.” Then he looked at her. “How did
you
hear all of this already?”

Her gaze shifted away from him. “From the newsreel fella.”

“Who you already talked to . . .”

“How was I supposed to know you didn’t want me to?”

“Cora. You need to go back out there and tell him he can’t use that film he shot.”

“Henry! I know you’re modest, but this is ridiculous! Once this gets out there, Marcus is going to be swamped with people trying to book us. He’ll be able to negotiate more money—”

“I’ll tell him myself.” Henry sat up and nearly fell off the table. He also realized that under the sheet draped across his lower half, he was naked.

“I don’t think you will.” She forced him to lie back. “Besides, he’s gone. No one but the newspaper reporters are out there now.”

“Everyone knows our names?” Not that his name was a huge concern. It was that damned film footage.

“Of course.”

Henry closed his eyes, his stomach rolling from dizziness. He forced himself to breathe slowly, get his wits about him. One thing he knew for certain: he was going to have to go back to Indiana. If he waited until they came after him, he wouldn’t have a chance.

21

B
y the time their train arrived in Greenwood, Mississippi, Henry’s fever was so high that, even with Cora tucked under his good arm, his knees buckled and he crumpled like a rag doll in the aisle of the passenger car. “I told you, you weren’t ready to travel.”

He tried to pull himself up, his left arm useless in its sling, and was embarrassed to admit defeat. His weakness surprised him. How could he deteriorate so rapidly? He’d been able to change trains to the Illinois Central in St. Louis, unsteady but under his own power. He’d only needed marginal help from Cora in Memphis when they changed to the Yazoo and Mississippi Valley line. Now he was helpless.

His shoulder was a hot, throbbing thing that felt too foreign to be a part of his own body. He’d left the hospital under the protest of the doctor—and the silver-haired nurse—the day of the crash. It had taken two days to convince Cora to book a train to Mississippi. That they were both running low on cash—they’d vacated the Hollywood Hotel for something much less expensive first thing Sunday morning—had probably been what had made her relent, not his determination. With the approaching holiday, they couldn’t book two passengers until the nineteenth. By then he’d felt he was on a backslide in his recovery, but kept quiet for fear Cora would cancel their tickets.

He had to get Cora back to Reece’s farm. He hadn’t decided if he was going to tell them the truth before he left for Indiana or just disappear. The coward in him was leaning toward the latter.

The past day and night had passed in foggy flashes and muddled thoughts. Cora urging him to drink. Chattering teeth. Sharp awakening when the train jolted his shoulder against the window. The changing landscape every time he opened his throbbing eyes. A cool cloth on his forehead. Cora hovering close, whispering words of comfort.

“I’ll get the porter,” she said. The train car was almost empty; only an old man with a cane and a woman with two small children remained. No new passengers had yet boarded. “And then I’m taking you to the hospital.”

She was gone before Henry could argue.

Luckily, the porter was of substantial proportions. He practically carried Henry off the train and laid him on a bench in the new-looking depot. Then he retrieved their bags. When Cora tried to tip him, he politely declined. “I don’t take advantage of the sick, miss. Happy to help. Merry Christmas, now.” Henry lost the struggle to keep his burning eyes open. He heard Cora thank the man, and then the sound of his footsteps as he walked away.

What day is it? The twenty-second? Twenty-third?

He couldn’t seem to do the math.

He felt the eyes of others in the depot on him. He should sit up. Stop making a spectacle. But his body refused to move.

“I’ll leave a note with the ticket clerk for Reece. Then we’re going to the hospital.”

He managed to grab her hand as she turned away. “No. Reece doesn’t need to waste his time on two trips to haul us back to his place. It’s Christmas. I’ll be fine. I just need a good night’s sleep.”

“This is ridiculous, Henry. You need a doctor.”

“We can call one when we get to Reece’s.” He licked his dry lips. “Can you get me some water?”

She nodded and walked away.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

When he woke up, his head was in Cora’s lap and Reece was standing over him with a concerned look on his face. “You need a doctor,” he said.

“I just need some sleep. And maybe some of Nell’s cooking.”

“No doubt about the cooking.” Reece frowned. “But I’m not sure that’s going to fix you.”

“Come on,” Henry managed to sit up under his own power. “I’m just exhausted. A train from California is better than a Conestoga wagon, but not much.”

“If I’d known he was in this bad of shape, I’d have booked a Pullman,” Cora said.

“Our tickets were day coach,” Henry said.

“I’d have figured a way.”

When he looked at the stubborn set of her face, he knew it was true.

“You’re sure?” Reece said. “About the doctor?”

“I’m sure.” Henry counted on the man not to overreact.

“Then let me take these bags out and I’ll come back and help you to the truck.”

“I can get there under my own steam.” Henry stood, determined to get to that truck or die trying. Death seemed preferable at the moment.

Reece had parked near the door, thank God. Henry made it into the seat beside Cora but was so light-headed and shaky he couldn’t have gone another yard. His vision was graying on the edges when Reece closed the door. They crossed the Yazoo River before he welcomed the darkness entirely.

B
rightness pinked his closed eyelids. Warmth was on his face. Henry slowly opened his eyes and didn’t know where he was. A fancy glass light fixture hung from the ceiling. A lightninglike crack in the plaster radiated from its base. The bed was pushed against a wall with yellow, rose-patterned wallpaper. On the opposite wall, lace curtains were open to a rising winter sun. His mouth and throat were as dry as if he’d been eating sawdust in his sleep. The bedsheets were wringing wet.

He shifted. The pain in his shoulder brought everything back. The crash. The train. He looked out the window again. The sun was just peeking over the roof of Reece’s barn on the east side of the house.

He heard a snort. Close. The straight-backed chair next to his bed was empty. The room was too small to conceal anyone.

Another snort.

He rolled onto his right side and looked on the floor. There, wrapped in a quilt with her head on a pillow, Cora slept with her mouth hanging open and those god-awful snorts coming about every third breath. Mercury was beside her, laying on his back with his jewels exposed for all the world to see.

“Pssst.” He didn’t want to wake her, just rouse her enough to stop snorting. Why on earth was she sleeping there? What would Reece and Nell think, her in his room overnight?

She shifted. Her mouth closed. Her breathing quieted.

Mercury rolled over, looked at Henry, then jumped on the bed and offered a faceful of morning doggie breath.

“Whew, buddy, what did you eat for dinner?” Henry whispered, his sandpaper tongue scraping around inside his mouth. “I’m sure mine’s no better.”

He spent a moment getting his mind in order. Sunrise meant he’d been here a day. So that must make today . . . Christmas Eve?

He slowly sat up, his head swimming. After a few steadying breaths, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to step on Cora. He eased onto his feet, having to keep a hand on the mattress for balance.

He lifted one foot to step over Cora and tumbled forward. As he put out his arms to catch his weight, fire exploded in his left shoulder.

“Son of a bitch!” With a pitching stomach, he sucked in and blew out breaths between his teeth until the shock of the pain eased. He was on his hands and knees over Cora’s now-flailing body.

“What are you doing!” She scrambled to sit.

He blew out two more breaths. “Getting up.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re soaking wet.”

“I didn’t pee the bed. I promise.”

“Your fever finally broke!” She put a hand on his forehead and smiled. “Oh, look, you’ve started your shoulder bleeding again.” She helped him up.

Once he was upright, he swayed like a man with no feet.

“Get back into bed.”

He sat on the mattress and looked at the bandage on his shoulder. It bloomed bright, fresh blood. “Must have pulled a stitch.”

“I don’t think so. The doctor had to take them out to flush it and let the wound drain.”

“Doctor? I must have really been out of it. I don’t remember anything after the train station.”

Cora put her hand under his chin and lifted his eyes to meet hers. “We left the train station three days ago. Reece went and got Dr. Shelby the next day. He said you’d be lucky to make it, as festered as that wound was. Gave me a real earful for letting you travel and not watching the wound more closely. I’m so sorry, Henry.”

“Three days?” How could three days have gone by without his even noticing?

She made him lie back. “I need to change that dressing. Then I’ll get you some broth. Nell has it ready to heat up. Everyone’s been so worried.”

As much as Henry wanted to stand up and walk to the bathroom, clean up like a man, he found he could do no more than nod. He must have drifted to sleep, because he awoke with her gently removing the bandage. “Dr. Shelby told us that back in the olden days they used to set maggots to work on a wound like this.” She visibly shivered. “Can you imagine?”

“Thank God for modern medicine . . . Do I want to know what he did do?”

She shook her head and gently pulled the bandage away. “At least the fresh bleeding helps keep this from pulling. Now that you’re awake, it might hurt.”

He turned to look, but she put a hand on his cheek and turned his face to the ceiling, then went back to work.

“Have you been doing this every day?”

“Yep, twice a day. Call me Florence Nightingale.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

There was a light knock on the door before it swung open. Nell came in with a tray. “So happy to see you finally on the mend. I’d love to feed you something heartier, but the doctor said to start you out with broth and tea.” Nell had the softest, most beautiful Southern voice. It made him feel safe and childish at the same time. “Reece always tells me my chicken broth can cure anything, so you should be up and about by tomorrow.” She grinned and left the room.

When Cora was finished with the bandage, she propped pillows behind him, set the tray on his lap, and handed him the spoon. After he twice dribbled the broth all over his chest on the way to his mouth, she silently took over. “You’re just weak. Anybody would be after so long without nourishment.”

As he ate, he thought about how many days had passed. If the newsreel made it into the theaters, it would be soon; maybe it already had.

“Is Gil back?” Henry was going to have to explain to him before he went back to Indiana.

“No. Did you think he would be?”

Shrugging with his good shoulder, Henry wondered how Gil’s own reckoning was going. Would he come back healed or tattered?

“Henry? Do you know what he’s doing? Whatever it is, his moodiness said he wasn’t looking forward to it. Which means it’s either not about his wife, or he doesn’t like her very much.”

“He loves her, or he did. Theirs is a complicated relationship.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized his error. He braced for a barrage of questions.

But Cora only said, “What relationship with him wouldn’t be?” There was no jealousy, or fire, or longing. She said it in a way that gave Henry hope her fascination with the man was truly gone. The way she was looking at him bolstered that hope.

“You really stayed in here the whole time?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Because it’s what people do for those they care about.”

Mr. Dahlgren had cared about him, in his way. But no one had cared
for
him like this through the long, cold years between the disintegration of his family and now.

Then he thought of Johanna Dahlgren. Tiny Johanna with her big eyes and silent ways. The second year he’d been on the farm, he’d had a bad cold. He’d avoided seeing anyone from the house; Mrs. Dahlgren already thought him a disease-ridden varmint. He’d been chopping wood, stopping after every other swing with a coughing fit. Suddenly in the middle of one of those fits, there she’d been, a tin cup in her hand. “I-i-i-i . . .” She’d stopped and he’d seen the concentration on her face. “It h-helps. G-g-inger tea.” She’d handed him the cup.

The back-door screen squeaked open. Johanna’s eyes had grown wider and her body stiff. A startled rabbit, convinced holding still would make her invisible. All Johanna had ever wanted was to be invisible.

Henry had looked up. Emmaline had stood on the top step, her hand on her hip. “Get away from him!” Then she’d yelled over her shoulder, “Mama! Mama! Johanna’s out there with that dirty orphan!”

By the time Mrs. Dahlgren had made it to the back door, Johanna had fled. Henry had known where she’d gone. She always climbed into the hayloft and hid behind the bales.

“Johanna!” Mrs. Dahlgren had yelled. “You come here this instant!”

Henry had drained the cup and gone back to chopping. Johanna’s secret would always be safe with him.

“You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Cora said. “Are you feeling sick? The doctor said the first food might not agree . . .”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I was just remembering another kindness someone did for me.”

“Was it that rare of a thing, then? Kindness in your life?” Her eyes looked wounded and she took his hand.

This time when the need to confess washed over him, he didn’t resist. He owed her the truth. What he’d do after that, he just wasn’t sure.

Before he could start, Cora got up and walked over to the small chest next to the window and pulled open a drawer. When she turned back around, she had a package tied with a red ribbon.

“You missed Christmas.”

His stomach sank. “But . . .”

“I didn’t get this because I wanted a gift in exchange. I bought it because I thought you needed it.” She held out the smallish box.

His hand was shaking when he took it. At least it wasn’t heavy. Didn’t that mean the gift inside was less expensive?

He looked at it in his lap for a long while, reluctant to pull on that ribbon. “I’ve never—” He clamped his mouth closed.

“Oh my God! Henry? You’ve never received a Christmas gift?”

“I have, but . . .” How could he explain the sparseness of his life, when she came from a world of plenty? His only real gifts had come from Mr. Dahlgren, no doubt at an expense that went beyond monetary.Back when Ma had been alive, he and Peter had hung small stockings she’d knit special at the foot of their bed on Christmas Eve. In the morning they’d find a stick candy or taffy. The first year they’d hung them after her death, they’d still been empty Christmas morning.

Suddenly he felt more poor and ashamed than he had since his arrival at the Dahlgren farm.