The book fell open of its own accord to a center page, where a slightly faded sepia-tone photograph had been pasted, carefully covered with cellophane.
“These were the Flying Santellis the year before I was born,” said Liss, “which always makes me feel as if I’d spoiled things.”
Lucia put an arm around her daughter’s waist. “If you throw that up at me again, Liss, I might start believing it.” She spoke carelessly, but there were two narrow vertical lines between her beautiful brows.
Tommy bent curiously over the picture. How old was Liss? The picture had been taken twenty-five years ago, maybe. “Papa Tony looks just exactly the same,” he noted.
“Flyers never get old,” Angelo said, “just their nerves.”
Stella asked, “Who is the dark one? It can’t be Mario—he wasn’t born yet, was he?”
“Joe, of course,” Liss said, “and that’s Daddy. My father. Matt Gardner. The first one.”
Tommy thought that the tall blond man at the center might have been Johnny, taller, older, somehow more sober. “That’s you, isn’t it, Lucia?” he asked.
“Why don’t you wear your hair that way, Liss?” Stella asked. “You’d look just exactly like her.”
Liss shrugged. “That’s why.”
Leaning over them to look, Mario said, “Lucia is the only woman alive who ever looked pretty in those bulgy romper things women flyers used to wear over their tights.”
Joe laughed aloud. “Oh, they looked just as pretty to us as those slick-looking things like bathing suits look to you today. We weren’t spoiled by seeing acres of female skin on every beach.”
“Speaking of beaches,” Johnny said, “we never did get to go. I wanted to take Stella. Why don’t we ever get to the beach?”
But Stella was still studying the photograph.
“Who’s the second girl? Was that Angelo’s wife?”
“Good God, no,” Angelo said. “I was twelve years old when that was taken.”
Lucia smiled remotely at the picture, where her younger face and figure smiled out from the center, small and queenly. At her side was a small, impish girl, her arm tucked through Joe’s.
“Oh, no. She’s not a Santelli. Though for a while we thought she would marry Joe.”
“Taking my name in vain?” Joe asked.
“Just wondering what would have happened if you’d married Cleo.”
“That’s perfectly simple,” Joe said, burying his nose in the newspaper again. “We wouldn’t have Clay and Barbara.”
“No, she never had any children, did she,” Lucia said, frowning at the picture.
Stella demanded, “But who is she? I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere!”
“No doubt you have,” Lucia said. “She was a talented little girl who joined the circus the year I married. She was one of Barney Parrish’s pupils, and I encouraged her to learn to fly. Then, when I had to leave the act because Liss was on the way”—her fingers touched, fleetingly, the end of her daughter’s braid—“she stepped into all my routines. A couple of years later she married Jim Fortunati and went into their act.”
“Cleo Fortunati—of course,” Stella said, awed. “I didn’t know she’d ever worked with the Santellis!”
“She doesn’t exactly advertise it,” said Lucia dryly, “but we’re related to the Fortunatis, you know. My mother was Carla Fortunati. Jim and Lionel are my first cousins.”
Liss said, with a mischievous twinkle, “You know there’s still a big argument among flying people about whether Lu or Cleo was the greatest woman aerialist—”
“Oh, stop it, Liss,” Lucia said impatiently. “The question simply doesn’t arise!” Her foot tapped restlessly on the floor. “When I was center ring, women didn’t try to do the big tricks; we were supposed to look pretty and graceful, not display our muscles. I got more publicity for a back double in those days than Matt does for his triple! Just the same—turn the page, Liss, and show them the fancy pictures.”
She obeyed, and Tommy caught his breath. The magic of color film had captured a woman soaring, arms outstretched, from a catcher at full swing: golden tights, dark curls, above her the tense green-clad body rounding the full turn of a somersault.
Lucia spoke briskly, but her eyes held a faraway smile.
“That was one of the first stop-motion color photographs ever made,” she told them. “It won an international photography contest in 1936, was put on the cover of Life, and things like that. That’s Jim Fortunati in the catch trap, and me, and Joe, in the midair pass.”
Stella burst out, “Oh, I wish, I wish I could have seen you, Lucia!”
Tommy said nothing, but he looked with new eyes at Lucia, brusque and forever earthbound.
Joe said warmly, “For pure form, there was never anybody—anybody!—like you, Lulu. Cleo may do all the big tricks, but she’ll never be what you were, Lu. You were an aerial ballerina.”
Lucia smiled. “And when you consider I had had four children inside five years—”
Angelo pointed to the caption of the photo. “‘Flight Dreams,’” he read. “That chap knew why flying appeals to so many people. The old dream of flying. Everybody dreams about being able to fly. And the flying trapeze acts out that dream for them. That’s why there’s nothing in the world more beautiful than a beautiful flyer. Man or woman, they’re all so beautiful.”
Liss said with sudden hilarity, “Look who’s making speeches!”
Angelo shrugged and grinned at her, trying to push it aside lightly. “Shall I show them the pictures of you with braces on your teeth, kitten?” he teased, and the mood dissolved as quickly as it had come.
Soon afterward, Lucia and Liss went upstairs with Stella to help her pack. Angelo went to do a similar service for Johnny, and the others drifted away. Tommy, Mario, and Barbara sat on in front of the fire, Mario cracking walnuts in his fingers and throwing the shells into the fire. Barbara lay flat on her stomach, her silky head propped up in her hands, gazing dreamily into the flames.
“Stella’s so beautiful. Mario, do you think she and Johnny will get married?”
“How would I know, honey? Yes, probably, why not?”
“Did Liss ever fly as well as Stella?”
“No,” Mario said, “but don’t tell her I said so.”
“I wish Lu would let me fly,” Barbara said. “Johnny said I’m ready.”
“Next year.”
Barbara rolled over and sat up, leaning against Mario’s knee; Tommy, watching the cousins, felt suddenly shut out, lonesome, almost homesick. Mario handed Barbara a nut-meat and said, “You kids want any more nuts, crack them yourselves; my hands are getting sore. Tommy, come over here where you can see the colors in the fire. We go out every fall to hunt for driftwood along the beaches. It’s the salt soaked into the wood that makes the colors.”
“I’ve never seen the ocean.” Tommy moved closer, watching the blaze and interplay of sulfur-yellow, wild green, lurid cobalt, leaping up and dying.
“Never seen the ocean?” Mario asked, “Barbara, what are you doing tomorrow?”
“What do I ever do on Thursday? School. Ballet class at three-thirty.”
“Hell, is it Thursday? I was going to invite you to play hooky. School you can miss—Lucia won’t care—but you can’t miss class. Listen, Tom, you can’t leave California without a look at the Pacific. Let’s drive out to the beach tomorrow. Since Barbie can’t come, do you think you can put up with my company for a whole day?”
“Sure,” said Tommy, and suddenly he felt lonesome no longer.
“Look,” said Barbara, “that’s just the color Lu picked for Stella’s costume—” She pointed to the blue blaze in the fire. “Why don’t you pick some time other than Thursday, Mario? It’s not fair!”
“You kids asleep?” The light snapped on overhead, dimming the hypnotic pulsing of the fire, and Johnny and Liss came in. “What are you doing here in the dark?” Liss asked.
“Baby-sitting,” Mario said, laughing.
“Thank God my baby’s down for the night,” Liss said. “Matt, I’m leaving in the morning. Will you come out for a walk with me? I kind of wanted to talk to you.”
Mario hesitated, then got to his feet. “All right, sweetie, we’ll walk and talk a while. Where’s Stella?”
“Lulu put her to bed,” Johnny said. “The kid was beat. Lu wouldn’t even let me come in to say good night.”
Liss said primly, “Now, Jock, you watch your step. That girl’s in love with you. In case you didn’t know.”
Johnny laughed nervously. “Oh, come on, we’re just pals. Has Lulu been matchmaking, putting ideas into your head?”
“I’ve got eyes,” Liss said. “Seriously, Jock, will there be someone with the show to look after her? Moorcock Shows isn’t much above carny level—anything goes with that outfit.”
“Liss, darling,” said Johnny, “come out of the Dark Ages. Stella is a big girl now. Did you enjoy it, having Angelo or Lulu standing over you every minute, making sure you—what is the polite term for it?—kept your virtue intact?”
“In other words,” Liss said, “mind my own business. I’m not ashamed I was brought up decent, and it meant a lot to David, too. If you’re going to marry Stella, Jock—”
“Damn it, Liss, you’re worse than Lucia!” Johnny flared.
She shrugged. “Okay, okay. You’re both grown up. Maybe I ought to talk to her!”
“You butt in,” Johnny said, grabbing her by the wrist, “and I’ll break your neck!”
“Lay off, Johnny,” Mario said. “Let go of her!”
Johnny started to laugh. “Just like always, ganging up on me. What’s the matter, Liss, jealous? Already sick of being stuck in San Francisco bringing up the baby?”
Liss laughed, an odd self-deprecating laugh. “Maybe, a little.”
Johnny threw back his head. “Hey, that would solve everything. Why don’t you come along with us, Liss? You could chaperon Stella, and morality would be satisfied, and you’d be away from all the Renzo in-laws.”
Liss’s grin was wry. “Don’t tempt me!” She put her arms around Johnny and hugged him. “Have a wonderful season, Jock. Both of you.”
“We will, Sis. Look, take care of yourself. And when you get back up to San Francisco, say hello to old Mark for me. God, I’d like to have seen the guy. Tell him so.” Johnny kissed her forehead, then turned and gave Barbara’s curls a tug. “Next year I want to see you doing all Stella’s tricks, honey. So help me, if Papa Tony doesn’t teach you to fly, I’ll teach you myself next spring!”
Tommy grinned hesitantly and said, “Have a good year, Johnny.”
“You too, kid.” Johnny’s face turned grave. “Hey, listen, Tommy, you mind if I sound off a little? The first year on tour can make you or break you. Take it easy—don’t get too down if you have a bad time, don’t get a swelled head if things go good and you’re lucky.” He gave Tommy a light slap on the shoulder. “See, Matt? Papa Tony himself couldn’t turn out wiser advice.”
“Ah, take the chip off your shoulder.” Mario put both hands on Johnny’s shoulders. “Damn it, Jock, I wish you were going with us instead of heading off with that damn rag show!”
“Maybe sometime, big brother. Listen, Matt, don’t break your goddamn neck inventing a three-and-a-half or something, willya?” He threw his arms around Mario, and to Tommy’s surprise and mild embarrassment the brothers kissed each other on the mouth. He had never seen grown men kiss; he could not remember that his father had kissed him since he was a tiny child.
Johnny yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I guess I’ll go on up. I’ll be driving tomorrow.”
He started up the stairs, and Mario said, “You kids better go on up, too. Tom, I’ll pick you up early tomorrow morning. Come on, Liss, get your coat. We’ll walk around the block if you want to, and talk.”
Johnny and Barbara went up, but Tommy, delaying, heard Liss and Mario in the hall.
“Listen, Matt, why don’t you come and take classes in Berkeley next year? You could stay with us. Dave wouldn’t mind.”
“I would.”
“Don’t be like that, Matt!”
“Anyhow, how would I manage it, sweetie? I never get in till October, and I have to leave—”
“You could work something out, pre-register for the fall semester or something. People do.”
“Anyhow, you know what happened, sweetie—”
“Matt, don’t talk like you were Al Capone or somebody! You were only on probation for three months. They’d take you back without any fuss . . . .”
“Look, if you’ve got to talk about it here,” Mario said angrily, “for God’s sake keep your voice down till we get outside!” Tommy heard the door slam behind them, and hurried up the stairs, baffled and distressed.
~o0o~
It was still dark the next morning when Tommy heard steps and voices in the hallway. He knew that Johnny and Stella were being roused, saying their final good-byes. There were hasty scurryings up and down the stairs, an early smell of coffee somewhere, the noise of the MG pulling away. He did not leave his room. This was strictly a family affair, and again he felt himself an outsider.
Some hours later he awoke suddenly to see daylight in his room and Mario bending over his bed, smiling. “Awake?”
“Sure.” Tommy sat up quickly. “You didn’t have to come in and wake me up—you could have banged on the door.”
Mario turned away, looking out the window, “Bring along your swim trunks. You looked so peaceful, I hardly had the heart to disturb you, but I thought we might as well get started before everybody else is up and Clay starts hollering to come along.”
Tommy slipped into his clothes and they went out into a cool, pearly world of gray fog. At first, Mario’s car moved slowly through the streets, but the fog burned off quickly as the sun rose higher.
It was a strange day, and Tommy retained, always, a few sharp pictures from it. There was the polished floor and wall-length mirror of the ballet school, where he waited for Mario to finish his early-morning class. Mario stood slim and straight in the center of the class, shepherding the students, all younger than Tommy, with soft words and crisp finger-snappings through complex groupings—half dance, half acrobatics—that Tommy’s untrained eyes could not follow. Tommy stood at one side, out of the way, watching with an odd jealousy. The students clustered around Mario, demanding attention as Tommy never dared, calling him “Matt” or “Mister Gardner” more or less at random. One boy of eleven or twelve, short and slim and amazingly compact, seemed to be the class show-off and favorite; he kept posing, doing incredibly high kicks, spinning dizzily. Graceful and gay and impudent, he had a thick mop of dark curls, and his bright eyes followed Mario everywhere with obvious adoration. He was in the center of every group, and after one demonstration he rushed up and spoke to Mario in a fast, breathless voice. Tommy didn’t hear what he said, but Mario put his hand in the middle of the boy’s back, lightly supporting him as he bent further and further; abruptly the boy tensed like a coiled spring and turned a quick, neat back flip. Mario smiled as the child came to his feet. “Not bad, Eric. See, you can do it by yourself—you don’t really need me to help you.”
Then he tilted his head, meeting Tommy’s eyes, and suddenly Tommy’s formless jealousy vanished. Mario was gentle and familiar with these children where he was rough, abrupt, and demanding with Tommy, but Tommy realized now that the difference was the greatest compliment Mario could have paid him. They were partners, fellow professionals, and Mario, scorning any indulgence, demanded the utmost Tommy could give.
Later they drove along a scenic highway overlooking the ocean, and spent hours on a sandy, deserted strip of beach. It was too cold for swimming, and Tommy found himself a little frightened of the noisy surf. Nevertheless, they went in for a few moments, and Tommy never forgot the shock of surprise when the seawater on his lips actually tasted salt. On the sand, in the lee of the rocks, it was warm and sheltered; they lay stripped to trunks, and
Tommy had the curious sensation of being rolled on the surface of a spinning world, caught so deeply in the heaving in-and-out thunder of the tides that there was no need even for articulate thoughts. Dazzled by the sun and the sand, in a lethargy of content so full that he had drifted into a dream deeper than sleep, he lay there with one outflung elbow just touching Mario’s shoulder, warmed through, in a happiness so absolute that it defied analysis. He was startled almost to pain when the incoming ripples of the tide finally reached and washed cold over their toes, and Mario turned over and said sleepily, “I guess we’d better go.”
The sun was huge and red at the edge of the water, the sea on fire. Silently they picked up their towels and walked back to the car. Tommy turned for a brief glance at the tangerine and gold brilliance, where sky, sand, and sea came together in a blaze of color, memorizing it. I’ll never forget this, he told himself, fiercely, never. He never did.
As they struggled into their clammy, cold dungarees, all the color had faded from the sky, leaving only a pale red at the edge of the water. As Mario started the car and turned it away from the beach road, he sighed. “I wish—dammit, I wish you looked a few years older, Tommy.”
Tommy blinked himself awake. It was the first time that day he had been conscious of the difference in their ages. He wondered now if this remark preceded one of Mario’s abrupt changes of mood, when he would become sharp, bored, and restless, dismissing Tommy back into childhood and withdrawing into that life where Tommy had no part. But for once it didn’t. Mario turned from the wheel and smiled at him.
“I didn’t mean—it’s just that I’m in the mood to have supper at one of my favorite places, and I’d like to take you there. But you’re—how old? Fourteen, is it?”
“I’ll be fifteen in a few weeks and you know it.”
“Even so, I couldn’t pass you off for twenty-one in a bar. Not this bar, anyhow. Forget it. Would you like to have supper at one of those drive-in spots, fried chicken or shrimp or something, or would you like to drive out to the amusement park where Joe works?”
The Catch Trap Page 18