But the big story was weather, “weather” being the circus euphemism for bad weather. Rain is tolerable in this worldview; wind is not. We heard both were coming. Doug was worried about Rock Hill. The first time I met him he had told me that certain lots were dangerous and Rock Hill was one of them. Located behind a mall, it was a clay lot two hundred feet by six hundred feet: plenty of room, but long and thin, and “unable to take rain.” All week long people were speculating. Kris was hoping we would have two extra days and he could continue chasing Angie. Angel Quiros, the wirewalker, wished for the ultimate fantasy—a day off. But by early evening on Good Friday, when we knew we were going to Rock Hill anyway, the talk had shifted from if the “weather” would come to when it would come, what it would be like, and how much it would affect the next lot. As it happened, a drizzle came during the final show in Ladson, but the downpour held off until just after the finale. As we moved northwest, along 1-26, then 1-20 and 1-77, from the southeast corner of the state to the lip of the North Carolina border, the weather reports became more ominous—steady showers overnight, tapering off the following morning, accumulation of several inches. The narrative was under way.

By morning the rain had stopped, but the lot was unplayable. The mall, however, refused to let the show move onto its new asphalt parking area. Doug was furious: the ads had run on the radio, free kids’ coupons had been distributed, the newspaper had run several promotional stories, including one inviting farmers out to the lot to receive free all-you-can-haul elephant manure for their gardens. At the final moment a compromise was reached. The show could play on the asphalt, but we could drive only a limited number of stakes into the blacktop. This meant the show would be done without the tent. It would be an open-air show, known colloquially as a sidewall, in which the four center poles would be raised, limited rigging hung from them, and the rings, seats, and side-walls laid out as normal.

An open-air show was a rare occasion and added a certain amount of stress to the weekend. The clown tent was not pitched and we clowns had to dress, prepare our props, and put on our makeup in the back of a crowded semi. The juggling act was cut from four jugglers to one, and the high-wire act didn’t perform at all, forcing the clowns to move the second gag to the end of the show. All of this confusion meant the clowns didn’t have time to change costumes before the finale, and since I was the announcer for the gag, I would have to lead the parade of performers who ushered in the world’s largest cannon for the final bang. This was not my normal spot.

Waiting behind the curtain, I was cutting up a little, and when the flaps opened for the cast to enter, I went shooting onto the track and started lifting my hand to wave at the audience. My hand never made it. As soon as I stepped onto the track I felt the elongated legs of Barrie Sloan, the veteran stilt walker and surrogate godfather to the show, brush against my side. Before I could free myself from his towering green silk leggings, Barrie, a virtual tree of life, was falling fifteen feet toward the pavement, clutching his arms around his knees and crying out in terror. As soon as he hit the asphalt several people rushed to his side. I reached for his top hat, which had spilled from his head and was wobbling drearily on the ground like a penny in a mournful spiral. Jimmy James came hurrying to the scene and urged us all to go on with the show. I felt sick to my stomach, a swell of fear in my throat. At the moment I didn’t know how hurt he was: I knew he had undergone two knee operations in the past and had recently survived a heart attack. I didn’t know if I had caused him to fall. What I did know was that I felt responsible.

After the show the performers rushed to the cabin of Barrie’s truck, where he was lying on his back cradled in the arms of his wife, Shelagh. The long legs of his costume trousers dangled helplessly off the back of the truck. His face was covered in perspiration and his nose was already starting to bruise. He was all right, he said, nothing broken; I felt a surge of relief. He didn’t know what had happened, he added, though Shelagh said she thought someone had run into him. I took a step backward and hurried to my camper. I didn’t bother to take off my makeup and just locked myself in the one place on the lot I knew I could be alone. At that moment I was ready to quit. My joining the show seemed like a horrible conceit. These people were professionals; this world was dangerous; I clearly did not belong. I had confirmed what Dawnita had said: I was an outsider, I had made a mistake.

Fifteen minutes later I stepped out of my camper. The first person I saw was Guillaume, Fred Logan’s teenage grandson, who worked in the elephant department.

“Hey, I heard you pushed Barrie Sloan over,” he said.

“You did?”

“Marcos told me.”

I closed my eyes in despair. I had seen gossip fly around the lot, but never this quickly. The ring of rumor proved even more powerful than I could have anticipated. Shaken, I had two immediate concerns: first, dealing with what might or might not have happened in the tent; second, coping with everyone blaming me. I wandered around the asphalt for several moments in a daze. The lot was ominously empty, the water mirrored on the pavement. After a moment I knocked on Dawnita’s door. A longtime friend of Barrie’s who had known him since their days in England, she seemed shocked when I told her what people were saying. She told me to knock on Barrie’s door immediately and talk to him directly. I went to do as she said.

The Sloans were remarkably cordial under the circumstances. Barrie was lying on the sofa in their dimly lit Holiday Rambler wrapped in a blanket with a wet towel over his head. When he fell he hurt his elbow and bruised his chest, he said, but he would never truly know what had happened. I told them I had been upset by seeing the cliché “The Show Must Go On” come to life so vividly, so uncaringly. Barrie said he was once knocked over during spec on the Ringling show and they just dragged him out of the way so the elephants could pass. After several minutes Shelagh announced she was serving dinner and I turned to go, feeling better but still slightly queasy. She came over and put her hand on my arm. “Just let them talk,” she said. “They always will. Whatever happened, it was an accident. Barrie will be okay. It was nobody’s fault.” It was less than half an hour after showtime. I was still wearing my face.

Outside I ran into Kris. He came over to my place to have a glass of milk and some ginger snaps. He told me he had heard somebody knocked Barrie over, but he didn’t know whom. I knew he was lying to protect me. He told me I couldn’t possibly feel worse than he did when one of his girlfriends the previous year was accused of stealing a hundred dollars from Sean’s trailer. He made me take off my makeup and dragged me to the movies, where, one after another, various performers shared their versions of the episode with me. That night was the first time I felt the power of the circus community in all its intensity. Some people reached to embrace me—Dawnita, Kris, ironically even Shelagh—while others seemed willing to let me remain outside and feel the cold slap of the group on my face. Walking back home, I stopped by the back door to look at the open-air skeleton of the tent. With no big top to contain them, all the colors, smells, and illusions of the circus seemed to evaporate into the sky high above the rings.