she wished that the Congolese had been forced to stay. Maybe in the sideshow, she could have been "The Ugliest Congolese Woman!" Maybe there, standing next to saucer-lipped women, she could have been beautiful.
Â
HER FATHER worked for Ollie Hofstadter (son of Hans the elephant trainer), who'd opened his own business, Clown Alley Cleaners. After school, Verna met her father at the store, and every day Mr. Ollie said, "There's my big gal, the spitting image of her grandmother," like it was a compliment to be compared to Pearly (Verna had seen pictures). But even his insensitivity couldn't keep her away from her bedroom window on summer nights. That's where Verna sat listening to the snatches of stories floating up to her from the porch below, where her father and Mr. Ollie often sat passing whiskey between them. One night toward the end of a bottle, Mr. Ollie took a familiar story (his short-lived clowning career) all the way to its never-before-spoken endâthe night he killed his best friend, Jo-Jo the Clown.
Their act was pretty standard. Big guy (Jo-Jo) terrorizes little guy (Mr. Ollie). Tables turn. Little guys gets revenge.
Laughter!
They'd done it hundreds of times, but that night they were drunker than usual, so drunk that Jo-Jo forgot to put on his wooden wig. When Mr. Ollie struck Jo-Jo's head with the hatchet, he felt not the familiar
stick
into the wooden wig, but rather a sickening
give.
Jo-Jo fell into the sawdust.
Laughter!
Clowns emerged with a stretcher to carry Jo-Jo away, but they'd grabbed a prop stretcher by mistakeâthey lifted the poles, leaving him on the ground.
Laughter!
The spotlight followed Mr. Ollie as he ran across the center ring crying, tripping on his big, floppy shoes.
Laughter! Applause!
He waited for the band to play Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever," the circus emergency song that would prompt the ushers to clear the tent, but instead, they broke into "Strike Up the Band."
Mr. Ollie sighed. "It was all my fault."
"Now, he was drunk, too," Gordon said.
"Still." A long pause. "Whose fault was it my father died?"
Another story she'd never heard before. Verna heard ice tinkling against glass, then another long swig. The two men on the porch were quiet for a long time.
"I know he died down at the river, but no one would tell me much else," Mr. Ollie said. "My momma never spoke of it, except in these nightmares where she talked to him in German."
"What'd she say?"
Mr. Ollie sighed. "I never learned German."
Silence. Finally, Gordon told him. Like this:
Hofstadter arrived the morning of April 25, 1901, still sick from flu, smelling of sweat and camphor. Elephant Jack, his assistant handler, was nowhere in sightâsleeping off an all-night drunk. He'd taken a vacation in Hofstadter's absence, and the barn stank of moldy hay and dung. The elephants tugged on the chains eating at the flesh of their tree-trunk feet, a sign he'd neglected to remove the leg irons each day and walk the elephants around the paddocks. Their trunks swung hypnotically, heads rocking back and forth, the malady of boredom. Hofstadter chomped an unlit cigar in his furious jaw. Unlocking the chains, the keeper hustled the elephants out of the barn to the river for a bath. He was standing on the bank when, out of the blue, Caesar picked him up with his trunk and tossed him ten feet into the air. Hofstadter landed with a smack in the middle of the river. His head struck a rock, and that was it.
"It was quick," Gordon said. "He didn't feel no pain. It was bad luck is all. A hoodoo."
"No wonder Elephant Jack took such good care of my momma and me," Mr. Ollie said. "He neglected the animals and spooked them. My mother always told me circus animals is cared for the very best. I guess that wasn't always the case."
"No, it wasn't," Gordon said quietly.
Mr. Ollie thanked him and teetered home.
Later, Verna found her father in the kitchen. "Grilling," he called itâcracking eggs into a skillet with
Â
HER FATHER worked for Ollie Hofstadter (son of Hans the elephant trainer), who'd opened his own business, Clown Alley Cleaners. After school, Verna met her father at the store, and every day Mr. Ollie said, "There's my big gal, the spitting image of her grandmother," like it was a compliment to be compared to Pearly (Verna had seen pictures). But even his insensitivity couldn't keep her away from her bedroom window on summer nights. That's where Verna sat listening to the snatches of stories floating up to her from the porch below, where her father and Mr. Ollie often sat passing whiskey between them. One night toward the end of a bottle, Mr. Ollie took a familiar story (his short-lived clowning career) all the way to its never-before-spoken endâthe night he killed his best friend, Jo-Jo the Clown.
Their act was pretty standard. Big guy (Jo-Jo) terrorizes little guy (Mr. Ollie). Tables turn. Little guys gets revenge.
Laughter!
They'd done it hundreds of times, but that night they were drunker than usual, so drunk that Jo-Jo forgot to put on his wooden wig. When Mr. Ollie struck Jo-Jo's head with the hatchet, he felt not the familiar
stick
into the wooden wig, but rather a sickening
give.
Jo-Jo fell into the sawdust.
Laughter!
Clowns emerged with a stretcher to carry Jo-Jo away, but they'd grabbed a prop stretcher by mistakeâthey lifted the poles, leaving him on the ground.
Laughter!
The spotlight followed Mr. Ollie as he ran across the center ring crying, tripping on his big, floppy shoes.
Laughter! Applause!
He waited for the band to play Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever," the circus emergency song that would prompt the ushers to clear the tent, but instead, they broke into "Strike Up the Band."
Mr. Ollie sighed. "It was all my fault."
"Now, he was drunk, too," Gordon said.
"Still." A long pause. "Whose fault was it my father died?"
Another story she'd never heard before. Verna heard ice tinkling against glass, then another long swig. The two men on the porch were quiet for a long time.
"I know he died down at the river, but no one would tell me much else," Mr. Ollie said. "My momma never spoke of it, except in these nightmares where she talked to him in German."
"What'd she say?"
Mr. Ollie sighed. "I never learned German."
Silence. Finally, Gordon told him. Like this:
Hofstadter arrived the morning of April 25, 1901, still sick from flu, smelling of sweat and camphor. Elephant Jack, his assistant handler, was nowhere in sightâsleeping off an all-night drunk. He'd taken a vacation in Hofstadter's absence, and the barn stank of moldy hay and dung. The elephants tugged on the chains eating at the flesh of their tree-trunk feet, a sign he'd neglected to remove the leg irons each day and walk the elephants around the paddocks. Their trunks swung hypnotically, heads rocking back and forth, the malady of boredom. Hofstadter chomped an unlit cigar in his furious jaw. Unlocking the chains, the keeper hustled the elephants out of the barn to the river for a bath. He was standing on the bank when, out of the blue, Caesar picked him up with his trunk and tossed him ten feet into the air. Hofstadter landed with a smack in the middle of the river. His head struck a rock, and that was it.
"It was quick," Gordon said. "He didn't feel no pain. It was bad luck is all. A hoodoo."
"No wonder Elephant Jack took such good care of my momma and me," Mr. Ollie said. "He neglected the animals and spooked them. My mother always told me circus animals is cared for the very best. I guess that wasn't always the case."
"No, it wasn't," Gordon said quietly.
Mr. Ollie thanked him and teetered home.
Later, Verna found her father in the kitchen. "Grilling," he called itâcracking eggs into a skillet with
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