Nest was divorced, no kids.
“No luck.”
We itemized the papers. Records from a bankruptcy, deeds of transfer. World War I going on somewhere, the stock market heading south. We settled on a grainy black-and-white from late August 1914, according to the thin scratches along its margin. The steps to the Italianate main house, a spread of people in front, a white tent top off to the left. Thin and mustachioed Guy Van Nest at the center of the spread, on the pea-stoned entry, dressed for dinner and flanked by women with parasols, then farther out by dark and hairy and dramatic creatures, acrobats in jumpsuits belted at the waist, a pair of midgets, a body builder, a 7-footer. A bearded figure of indeterminate gender with his or her arm around a clown, and past them, housemaids and gardeners and livery on the upper steps. Everyone staring at Guy, who had a smile on his face, a lion at his feet, and an elephant looming behind him, its trunk draped around his shoulders like a shawl.
“What about the rhino?” said Chickie.
I looked up.
“What rhino?”
“The one he kept at Fleur-de-Lys after the circus left. What happened to that?”
I shrugged.
“Heck if I know,” I said, out of deference to Florence Banish. “How do we know if there even was a rhino at Fleur-de-Lys?”
“There was a rhino at Fleur-de-Lys,” Florence Banish said. “There still is.”
We looked at her. She was standing in the door of our little project room, leaning a frail hip against the frame and looking dreamily out a side window. If she’d had a thin cigarette, she could have been in a movie. After a second, she gathered herself, took a look out to the main reading room, and then crossed slowly to us. She moved some papers around and centered the circus photo before us. She stared at it for a moment, then bent a bony finger toward one of the housemaids, second step, third from the edge.
“That’s my mother,” she said.
Chick and I walked from his room at the Horse Head. He was limping a little bit, holding his left side.
“What’d you do?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably nothing. Just getting old. The knee aches when it’s cold out.”
He was twenty-eight, six months younger than me.
I clicked the unlock, and the truck blinked. Chick had blown his ACL out in the second fight with Tim-Rick Golack, somewhere near our foul line, at the bottom of a pile of kids. It had never healed right. They had to call the game with six minutes left in the fourth quarter. Tim-Rick had been in a different pile of kids near the baseline, his head in the crook of my arm, but the game was in our home gym and he took the blame for the injury, both from the fans and, the next day, in the paper. Which is what made his resurrection as a local businessman such a surprise.
“Nice ride,” Chick said, looking at the Escalade. “Not as nice as Jimmer’s, but not bad.”
Jimmer was somewhere in Silicon Valley, doing something with numbers.
I’d had the Escalade for two years, got it shortly after law school, a gift to myself from those bottomless first paychecks. It was a stupid ride to own in Boston, where everyone either took cabs or the T, and where 15 feet of available curb was hard to find. And driving it I always felt like I was heading to an AND1 Mixtape game. But I liked it. It looked good parked next to all those little BMWs in the South End, like a killer whale in a school of clownfish. It announced my presence in the city, a kid from the sticks no longer. I came to play. I came to scale the walls. Plus, it helped me to feel wanted, because someone was always moving a couch.
My ride was the only ride in the parking lot.
“Where’s your car?” I said.
Chick opened the passenger door.
“Don’t have one.”
“How’d you get here, then?”
He looked at me.
“Where? Here, Gable?”
“Like, here.” I motioned to the Horse Head. It was a long walk from anywhere. “Last night, how did you get here?”
“Oh,”
“No luck.”
We itemized the papers. Records from a bankruptcy, deeds of transfer. World War I going on somewhere, the stock market heading south. We settled on a grainy black-and-white from late August 1914, according to the thin scratches along its margin. The steps to the Italianate main house, a spread of people in front, a white tent top off to the left. Thin and mustachioed Guy Van Nest at the center of the spread, on the pea-stoned entry, dressed for dinner and flanked by women with parasols, then farther out by dark and hairy and dramatic creatures, acrobats in jumpsuits belted at the waist, a pair of midgets, a body builder, a 7-footer. A bearded figure of indeterminate gender with his or her arm around a clown, and past them, housemaids and gardeners and livery on the upper steps. Everyone staring at Guy, who had a smile on his face, a lion at his feet, and an elephant looming behind him, its trunk draped around his shoulders like a shawl.
“What about the rhino?” said Chickie.
I looked up.
“What rhino?”
“The one he kept at Fleur-de-Lys after the circus left. What happened to that?”
I shrugged.
“Heck if I know,” I said, out of deference to Florence Banish. “How do we know if there even was a rhino at Fleur-de-Lys?”
“There was a rhino at Fleur-de-Lys,” Florence Banish said. “There still is.”
We looked at her. She was standing in the door of our little project room, leaning a frail hip against the frame and looking dreamily out a side window. If she’d had a thin cigarette, she could have been in a movie. After a second, she gathered herself, took a look out to the main reading room, and then crossed slowly to us. She moved some papers around and centered the circus photo before us. She stared at it for a moment, then bent a bony finger toward one of the housemaids, second step, third from the edge.
“That’s my mother,” she said.
Chick and I walked from his room at the Horse Head. He was limping a little bit, holding his left side.
“What’d you do?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably nothing. Just getting old. The knee aches when it’s cold out.”
He was twenty-eight, six months younger than me.
I clicked the unlock, and the truck blinked. Chick had blown his ACL out in the second fight with Tim-Rick Golack, somewhere near our foul line, at the bottom of a pile of kids. It had never healed right. They had to call the game with six minutes left in the fourth quarter. Tim-Rick had been in a different pile of kids near the baseline, his head in the crook of my arm, but the game was in our home gym and he took the blame for the injury, both from the fans and, the next day, in the paper. Which is what made his resurrection as a local businessman such a surprise.
“Nice ride,” Chick said, looking at the Escalade. “Not as nice as Jimmer’s, but not bad.”
Jimmer was somewhere in Silicon Valley, doing something with numbers.
I’d had the Escalade for two years, got it shortly after law school, a gift to myself from those bottomless first paychecks. It was a stupid ride to own in Boston, where everyone either took cabs or the T, and where 15 feet of available curb was hard to find. And driving it I always felt like I was heading to an AND1 Mixtape game. But I liked it. It looked good parked next to all those little BMWs in the South End, like a killer whale in a school of clownfish. It announced my presence in the city, a kid from the sticks no longer. I came to play. I came to scale the walls. Plus, it helped me to feel wanted, because someone was always moving a couch.
My ride was the only ride in the parking lot.
“Where’s your car?” I said.
Chick opened the passenger door.
“Don’t have one.”
“How’d you get here, then?”
He looked at me.
“Where? Here, Gable?”
“Like, here.” I motioned to the Horse Head. It was a long walk from anywhere. “Last night, how did you get here?”
“Oh,”
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