by Niall Howell
A few seconds pass before I answer. But in that few seconds, the traffic jam in my head decongests a little, leaving me with only one question to consider. Do I want to be a headliner again? For a few nights, do I want to climb back up that platform and do what I was born to do?
“Of course.”
“Good.” Genevieve slides her chair back and stands up, making to effort no hide the fact that she’s been dying to make that move for probably this entire meeting. “We’ll spend the day tomorrow working out a routine. Rowland has assured me that the big top will be back up by dawn and that we’ll have the place to ourselves for the day. We won’t perform tomorrow—”
“Yes,” Rowland cuts in, “we’ll push the next show to two days from now. I know you’ll still be rushing a bit, but you’re both top-notch professionals. Even at your worst, you’re better than most.”
“You can quit with the ass-kissing, Rowland,” Genevieve says. “We’ve both already agreed to go ahead with it.” She turns to me. “Toby, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to start early tomorrow morning.”
“It’s tomorrow morning now,” I tell her.
She consults her wristwatch, nods once. “Right. Seven this morning, then. Rest up. We’ve got a lot to do.”
THE CRISP OCTOBER BREEZE MOVES THROUGH THE makeshift streets and avenues of our trailer maze with a soft, ghostly whisper. Very few windows have lamps burning behind them at this hour. In the distance, I hear the cacophony of the big top going up. The barking of orders, the disgruntled chatter that accompanies late-night toil, the creaking of pulleys, the rustle of wind tonguing across limp canvas. I know I’m being followed back to my trailer. But tonight the marvellous clamour of the tent coming to life is enough to make me not care right away. When her fragile dancer’s steps finally grow close enough that the hushed brushing of feet over dead and dying grass no longer blends in with the rest of the night, I turn around to greet Gloria. She freezes when she’s spotted.
“What all did you hear?”
“Hear? I-I didn’t, Toby. I’m sorry. I followed you to Rowland’s trailer, but I didn’t do any snooping beyond that.”
I take a few steps and close the gap between us. “You remember what I said? About us playing it safe?”
“I am playing it safe. I’m looking out for myself.”
“Goddamn it.” I grab hold of her arm and hurry her to my trailer. “Shut the door. And lock it,” I say as I feel around the table for the box of matches that I know is there somewhere. Once I get the lamp going, we both take a seat at the table. “Now, what the hell’s got you so worried that you’re sneaking around and following me like this?”
“Damn it, Toby, I’m scared! I mean, our whole plan—you come back here yesterday morning all flustered and telling me how things went south in Baltimore, saying we can’t leave like we’re supposed to and that you killed the wrong guy—”
“Don’t say that. You cannot say those words, Gloria.”
“I’m sorry!”
“And keep your damn voice down, would you?”
“I’m sorry!” she says only slightly quieter this time. “Can…can we have a drink before we talk about this?”
I get up and fetch the half-full bottle of gin and plunk it in front of her. “You have a drink. I don’t need one right now.”
Gloria gets up and finds her own glass. “I don’t need one either,” she says as she pours. “I want one. To calm me down. Christ.” She takes a long drink, then another. Then she needs a refill. She takes a sip of the refill and sits back down, content to nurse it for the time being. “Like I was saying,” her tone is more cautious now, “things went south in Baltimore and now we have to deal with the change in plans. That’s fine. I understand that, Toby. But I can’t help but be at least a little worried—and can you blame me? First you tell me we can’t be seen together for a while, and next thing I know, I catch you sneaking off to some secret meeting with Rowland and Genevieve of all people?”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I assure her. “Everything’s going to be fine. Rowland just told me that even though Andrew’s locked up, the cops don’t think he did it. Earlier that night, some chump got something started with him and Rupert, the Syc. I guess the bunch of them got in a fight and this fellow—whoever he is—made some threats, and boom! He’s suspect number one.”
“So there’s no reason to think that they suspect you had anything to do with it?”
“That’s right.”
“But what about Andrew? I mean, the reason we went to all this trouble in the first place was so we could bump him off before we skipped out of here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that part isn’t ideal, but it’s not so bad. As far as I can tell, he’s through here. Ruined. Genevieve seems like she loathes him now. You should see it. The way she cringes at the mention of his name. I figure, at most, she’ll finish the touring season with him if she can stand it, but after that, he’s done.” Gloria smiles at that and takes another sip of her drink. Her smile is quick to fade, though.
“Why was she with you tonight in Rowland’s office?”
“Rowland needs the two of us to headline the show for a couple nights until Andrew gets back.”
“What? The two of you, headlining—well, you can say no, can’t you?”
“Sure, I could say no, but I don’t see why I would do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Will you tone it down a notch here? Holy hell. For one thing, I don’t want to do anything that’d throw any suspicion on us. Rowland knows I’m the kind of guy who’d do whatever needs to get done if it’s best for the show. He and I aren’t pals or anything—far from it, and you know that—but I think it’d look fishy if I just up and left after all that’s happened. Besides, I don’t even think we can leave here until the police have given the go-ahead to do so. So if I’ve got to stay here and if Rowland wants me to headline, then that’s what I ought to do.”
Gloria nudges her chair back, crosses her legs, and looks away, her drink cradled safely in her hands. “I’m sure that’s the only reason you want to headline,” she says with a roll of her eyes.
“Well, I’d be lying if I said the idea of headlining a couple nights wasn’t part of the appeal. But that’s just icing, Gloria. The main reason I’m going ahead with it is because it’ll make sure we don’t have any heat on us when we ditch this place.”
“Right.” There’s that eye roll again.
“Yeah. That is right.” Out of instinct, I grab the bottle. I raise it about an inch off the table before I realize what I’m doing and set it back down.
“You don’t want a drink?”
“It’s not that I don’t want one. I don’t think I should have one. Need to be tip-top first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah,” Gloria mumbles, “better make sure you’re tip-top for that bitch.”
“Aw, Christ, would you give it a rest? The reason I’m doing this—the main reason—is because it’s the smartest move for us. Do you not understand that? I don’t like the idea of working with Genevieve any more than you do, but if I just stick it out for two or three shows, we can still walk out of here in a few days with the money. And actually, it’ll be more money than we’ve already got. Rowland is paying me a pretty penny to go through with this. Really, you’re benefiting from this just as much as I am—maybe even more, considering that you don’t need to do the work—so I’d appreciate it if you’d lay off with the goddamn attitude.”
After mulling it over for a few seconds and a few sips, she says, “Fine.”
I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says with a hint of reluctance. “It’s late and you’ve got an early start tomorrow. I should go.”
“All right.”
I walk her to the door. She gives me a kiss and then leaves without saying another word.
I GET UP A FEW HOURS LATER AFTER A NIGHT OF TOSSING and turning and not reall
y getting much sleep. Or maybe I didn’t get any sleep at all. I’m not sure. For all I know, I closed my eyes and slept a quick, dreamless sleep, only to return to consciousness minutes later and commence my fidgeting. Or maybe I slept all night, but I dreamed that I was lying awake in bed. Who the hell knows? The mind is funny like that. Something could have only just happened to you and your recollection can be mint, or it can be spottier than a litter of Dalmatians. When you’ve spent a night teetering on the cusp of sleep, you can go through your entire day—sometimes even longer—thinking that whatever you dreamed about really happened until something triggers a thought and makes you believe otherwise. Once I got up this morning, as I cleaned myself up and got dressed, left my trailer and got some breakfast, I found myself bouncing back and forth as to why I was up that early in the first place. One second I’d be thinking, Sure is something that I’m getting ready to go work with Genevieve after all this time, and the next second I’d think, Odd that I’d have a dream where Genevieve and I agreed to work together again.
At any rate, despite my lack of rest, by the time I’ve eaten a small breakfast, I feel as fresh as ever. The sun is still inching up as I make my way to the big top a few minutes before seven.
The flap has been pinned open; she must already be here. Must be eager to get started. I step inside and see Genevieve sitting on the ground, leaning forward, stretching with her legs spread out in a wide V. Her hair is tied up with a kerchief that matches her navy blue shorts. She is wearing a black swimsuit top covered with white polka dots. The audience’s door, which is much wider than the performers’, is pinned open too, so the whole place is lit with a cozy, ethereal glow. With the exception of Rowland, who’s standing a few feet from Genevieve puffing away on a cigar, the place looks perfect.
“Top of the morning to ya,” Rowland says. I don’t know if he’s trying to be cute or funny or chummy or what.
“I didn’t realize that you wanted this to be a three-piece act.”
Rowland barks a laugh. “I don’t think you’d be able to keep up with me.” He lets that remark hang for a moment, then says, “I’ll be out of your hair in a second, but I just wanted to pop by and see that things get off to a good start.”
“They won’t get off to any start until you march out of here.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Toby. I always appreciate your subtlety.” He pauses for a beat, then tugs on the lapel of his jacket. “Is seven hundred each reasonable? I can tell you right now that I think it is, but I’m not the one putting on the performance.”
“That’s fine with me,” Genevieve says, her tone carrying a hint of indifference.
“Me too.” I try to mask my surprise. Seven hundred? I hadn’t given the money much thought really, but I sure wouldn’t have figured it’d be that much.
“Good, then. I’ll leave you two to it. Just remember not to overexert yourselves—I know neither of you is rusty, but given how long it’s been since you worked together, I want you to make sure you’re doing a straightforward, safe routine.” He starts to make his exit, but as he’s leaving, he tags another point onto his goodbye. “Especially since we’re not using the safety net.”
“Hold it, Rowland,” Genevieve commands. Rowland obliges, freezing in his tracks, his back to us. “You’ve somehow got it in your thick head that we’re going to do this without a net?”
“You and Andrew perform without a net. And Toby, if I may say so, is a far superior acrobat,” Rowland says to us over his shoulder.
Genevieve walks around Rowland so that she’s in front of him. She pokes her index finger into his gut with such force, I’m surprised some of his breakfast doesn’t come shooting up. “You son of a bitch. This has nothing to do with Toby’s skill. Andrew and I do a simple act and we know each other’s moves inside and out—that’s why we’re able to perform without a net.”
“But I would expect that you and Toby would come up with a new routine that is equally simplistic and no less dazzling.”
“In a day?”
“You’re both professionals.”
“You’re even more full of shit than I thought,” I tell him.
“Am I?” Rowland shouts. “We’ve already done a run of shows here. Do you realize how difficult it will be to fill this place for another two, three—hell, maybe more—nights? If we can’t give them more than we have the previous shows, we’ve got to at least match the standard that we set. You and Andrew,” he points his finger at Genevieve, “did your act without a net. How are we supposed to entice people to come? ‘You’ve seen acrobats without a net, now, Rowland’s World Class Circus is proud to present: two acrobats performing with the safety of a fucking net!’”
“Well, I wouldn’t make that your pitch,” I say.
“And I’m giving you seven hundred dollars each!” he says, stomping his feet.
“You think the money matters that much? Rowland, you could give me ten thousand dollars a show—if it’s me and Toby up there, I will not perform without a net! Now, you can pay us less and still get a good performance with a net, or you can just not pay us at all and we won’t have to worry about performing. Your choice, buster. At this point, I’m fine either way.”
Rowland’s face goes through a couple different shades, all of which remind me of different root vegetables. “Five hundred each,” he growls after some consideration, “and you can keep your precious net.” With that, he straightens his lapels yet again and then marches—actually fucking marches—out the audience’s entrance, grumbling all the way.
It takes close to an hour to get the net set up. Genevieve sticks around for the length of one cigarette, then takes off somewhere. I stick around and oversee the whole operation, puffing my way through almost half a pack before the damn thing is ready to go. When the five crewmen leave through the audience’s door, Genevieve enters through the performers’ flap. “A bit of a later start than I was planning for.” She sticks her arms out and arches her back, then winds her torso from side to side like a kid playing airplane.
“You and me both.”
“Let’s waste no more time, then. For obvious reasons, we’ll need to keep this simple. We’ll have to stick to a limited repertoire of manoeuvres. I was thinking we could do a backend planche, a layout half—those ones always worked well in the past. The double angel return is one I think we could pull off, but let’s see how the easier ones are for us and decide from there.”
I nod along. “If we do a double angel—which I think we’ll be fine with—we should make that as complicated as it gets.”
“Of course.”
“What about a whip?”
She thinks on that for a second. “A whip will be fine. Full twist?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
The way we talk to each other is so different from the way it used to be—all rigid and business-like, as if we’re two acrobats meeting for the first time, feeling each other out, which, in a sense, I guess we are. The way we talk feels different, but standing under this roof with Genevieve, hashing out a routine…
That part feels nice. That part feels right.
We come up with an order of manoeuvres, starting with the elementary and working our way up the more complex, which really aren’t a fraction as complex as what we used to do. Once we’ve got it all worked out, the two of us walk toward the ladder.
I pause and motion for her to walk up first. She gives me a nod that you could almost call cordial if you looked at it in the right light. I start climbing once she’s about halfway up. Goosebumps sprout up all over me, moving in a wave further and further across my body with each step climbed. When I reach the top, I move the centre of the platform and look out, my eyes moving from the rigging, then across to the other platform, then slowly down to the ground. Maybe I did fall asleep after all. And what a beautiful dream to splash around in.
I look to Genevieve. She’s clapping chalk onto her palms. I walk over and do the same. She unhooks the bars from where they are fast
ened against the frame and hands me one. I start laughing. Real hard. At first, Genevieve just stares at me, her face blank. But after a while, blank becomes confused, then confused becomes curious, and then next thing I know, she’s laughing along with me. Not as hard, mind you. I’m practically doubling over by the time she gets going, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. But she is laughing. Laughing her darling laugh. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in years, a sound I’d forgotten about altogether. And I didn’t know just how much I’ve been missing it until this moment, when I was reminded that it even existed at all.
She recites the plan we came up with when we were on the ground. “You got that?” she asks. I nod yes. “Then say it back to me.”
“We do a knee hang and then a backend planche. We return to the platform and repeat that three more times.”
“All right,” she says, then she takes a second to brace herself and swings out.
I follow. The only nervousness I feel comes just as I step off the platform, past the point of no return, but the feeling washes away an instant later and the thrill of soaring replaces it.
During the first couple times, I can feel the tension in our limbs as we meet midair, but by the third run-through of the knee hang and backend planche, we move with the fluidity we moved with years ago. In the following set, we work on a layout half twist and a full twist whip. Both manoeuvres evolve to perfection in the same way the earlier two did—the first couple attempts going fine but being a bit rigid, and the following two being bang-on.
From there, we move to the double angel return. It’s not a particularly difficult move to pull off, but as Genevieve and I stand on the platform talking through it before attempting, I notice a note of hesitation in her voice. A double angel requires me to flip her upside down by an arm and a leg and then return her to her bar. It takes some convincing, but eventually she caves. Her eyes are bright and eager as we discuss the timing of the manoeuvre. Our success up until this point seems to have instilled faith in her.