We Walked the Sky

by Lisa Fiedler

  Quinn and Jenna continued to gush over the album, with Quinn giggling her way through stories of her circus childhood, including her many failed attempts to learn to walk the tightrope, and her first heartwarming encounter with a mischievous baby elephant named Schlubby.

  In fifteen years, Callie had never heard a single word about Schlubby, or even about Toddy Harris for that matter, but she refused to let it sting. Instead, she focused on reading her grandmother’s handwritten notes.

  What’s going to happen next?

  Home is everything.

  Mothers and daughters.

  Quinn had progressed to recounting the adolescent escapades undertaken by herself and her two best friends, two fellow VanDrexel’s “lifers,” Harriet DuMonde, and a boy who was a few years older—Arthur, whose parents were clowns. A photo from Harriet and Arthur’s wedding in the late 1980s showed Quinn as Harriet’s maid of honor, both of them with hair so big it was amazing they even fit it under the Big Top. Harriet was now the head of advertising for VanDrexel’s, and Arthur and their son, the infamous crush-harboring Dabney, had taken over Arthur’s parents’ clowning act and were regarded as some of the best jugglers in the business.

  “So I guess VanDrexel’s was a lot like Lake St. Julian,” Jenna mused. “Essentially, a small town where people tend to stick around for generations.”

  “Present company excepted,” Callie muttered. “My mom’s more of the cut-and-run type.”

  Quinn frowned, rose from the bed, and headed for the door without another word. When she was gone, Jenna closed the album and cleared her throat.

  “So, I assume you’ll be matriculating at good ol’ Lake St. Julian High? Go Conquistadors!”

  “Go who?”

  “Conquistadors. School mascot. ’Cause of Ponce de León? He was the Spanish explorer who landed in Florida and supposedly discovered the legendary Fountain of Youth and—”

  “Yes, I am going to Lake St. Julian High,” Callie huffed; after Quinn’s walk down memory lane, she wasn’t in the mood to hear any more rambling stories from the past.

  “Great. ’Cause I was thinking we could meet in the library before homeroom Monday morning. Y’know, so I can give you a tour of the learning facility and generally start showing you the ropes.”

  Callie shook her head. “No thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m from the circus, not the moon. I think I can handle finding my way to homeroom.”

  “Maybe. But a very wise woman once said, ‘Learn from those who know.’”

  Callie threw her a skeptical look. “Which wise woman was that?”

  “Your dainty yet death-defying grandmother.” Grinning, Jenna placed the Camel wrapper on the quilt and smoothed it out to reveal what Victoria had written there.

  Find someone to show you the ropes. Learn from those who know.

  “Looks like Victoria still has a few things left to teach you.” Looking smug, Jenna popped up from the bed. “Gimme your phone. I’ll put my number in it.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Callie shrugged.

  “So much for not being from the moon. I guess I’ll be seeing you Monday morning—homeroom bell rings at seven thirty so let’s say six forty-five in the library.”

  “She’ll be there,” came Quinn’s voice, calling from the kitchen.

  “Says who?” Callie shouted back.

  “Says the person who’ll be arranging your ride.”

  Biting back a chuckle, Jenna headed for the door. “See you at school, Calliope.” Then she scooted out without waiting for a reply.

  When she was gone, Callie went into the living room and scanned the remaining packing boxes.

  “Way to eavesdrop, Mom.”

  “Small house, Cal. What can I tell ya?” Quinn looked less than contrite. “And I think it’s great that Jenna offered to show you around.”

  “Show me the ropes,” Callie, muttered, using Gram’s words.

  She opened the box marked OFFICE SUPPLIES and rummaged until she found a two-by-three-foot corkboard, dotted with colorful tacks.

  “Can I have this?”

  Quinn looked up from where she was putting an old kettle on to boil. “Sure.”

  Callie took the bulletin board back to her room. Since the walls were dotted with nails from long-forgotten artwork, she had no trouble finding a place to hang it.

  First she tacked the photo of Victoria and James in the middle. The black-and-white image looked stark and artsy against the cinnamon-colored cork.

  Then, one by one, she took each handwritten note out of the jewelry box and tacked them to the board around the photo.

  Know when to call a John Robinson.

  When in doubt, juggle.

  Applause sounds better when you’ve earned it.

  She pinned them up with no particular design in mind, no plan, no rhyme or reason.

  A paper napkin advising: When in the lion’s cage, show no fear.

  And on the back of a business card, Trust the net.

  Callie did this until there was not a single scrap left in the box. When she stepped back to admire her work, she noticed her mother was standing in the doorway holding a cup of tea. “There’s still water in the kettle if you—”

  “Did you know about these?” It sounded like an accusation.

  Quinn shook her head. “Honestly, Cal, I really never knew much about my mother, except that she loved me. I did know that. And she adored you. But she was a very . . . private person.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was small I’d ask her about her childhood, and she’d always somehow manage to change the subject. I got to the point where I started to believe that she’d sprung fully grown from the head of Cornelius VanDrexel.” Joining Callie in front of the corkboard, Quinn smiled over the rim of her teacup. “One time I asked her why she decided to become a tightrope walker. And do you know what she said?”

  Callie shook her head.

  “She said, ‘Because I wanted to walk the sky. Because in the sky, I was lighter than I was on earth.’” Quinn put a hand on Callie’s shoulder. “Poetic, isn’t it? It also happens to be a scientific fact.”

  “I know how gravity works,” Callie sneered, shrugging off Quinn’s hand.

  Quinn sighed and left the room.

  Callie’s eyes remained on the board as she remembered what Jenna had said.

  Victoria still has a few things left to teach you.

  With steady fingers, she removed one of the scraps. Observation is the beginning of understanding. A proverb? A lesson? A rule?

  Callie wasn’t certain, but whatever it was, tomorrow she would try her best to follow it.

  SIX

  New Jersey, 1965

  BACK IN MY TRAIN car, I strip out of my filthy blouse and pants. Since I don’t have a towel, I pull the top sheet off my cot, only to find the job application Mr. VanDrexel so pointlessly presented me with two nights earlier tangled up in it. I toss the form back onto the cot, and then head for the bathroom, wrapped in the sheet.

  While I’m showering, Sharon manages to cobble together a wardrobe of cast-offs and hand-me-downs, cheerfully donated by some of the female performers. It consists of a few VanDrexel’s T-shirts and sleeveless tops, a pair of blue jeans, one cotton sundress, and some shorts—a pair of collegiate-style madras Bermudas and some fraying denim cutoffs.

  “We’ll worry about winter when it comes,” Sharon decides.

  Come winter, I’ll be gone.

  I put on one of the T-shirts and the cutoffs. Then I remember the brooch and quickly retrieve it from my discarded pants, transferring it to my new pocket.

  Cornelius VanDrexel gives me a cash advance on the salary we never got around to negotiating. It’s the firs
t money I’ve ever earned, though technically I haven’t even earned it yet. Still, when Cornelius places the bills in my hand, they feel different from any money I’ve ever held before.

  The red-haired dancer who is now officially my roommate gets us a ride into town. Her name is Valerie, and her father, Gus, is VanDrexel’s chief mechanic. Her mother is Hasty Pudding, the prettiest clown in the troupe. At nineteen, Valerie has never known any life but the circus.

  “I was born in Minneapolis, between shows,” she tells me, as we wait for her father to bring the truck around. “Mama went to the hospital in full makeup. The doctors thought it was a publicity stunt.”

  “Speaking of Minneapolis,” I say, “where do we play next?” It’s not a flawless segue, but at least I’ve broached the subject. I need to get a sense of when and where I’m going to land.

  “Tonight we head to Delaware for three shows in two days, then Ohio—one night only. Then Fort Wayne. After that, we’ll spend a few days in Chicago.”

  My father has a third cousin in Chicago. “Then where?”

  “St. Louis. Then Podunks. July’s just a bunch of Podunks.”

  “Podunks?”

  “Little burgs nobody’s ever heard of,” Sharon explains. “Ass Kiss, Colorado; Pole Up the Butt, Connecticut; Bee Sting, Georgia; Snot Rag, Louisiana.”

  I’m only half certain she’s making these up.

  “Next big city after St. Louie’ll be Houston,” Valerie says, her eyes misting up slightly. “One night there, then two in Austin and after that we’ll—well, you’ll—start heading back up north.”

  Okay, then, Austin it is. It’s not so much a decision as it is a slamming of my heart against my rib cage. I will slip away from VanDrexel’s and disappear for good in Texas.

  “I’m not looking forward to giving you the ol’ ‘See you down the road,’” says Sharon, reaching over to squeeze Val’s hand. Then for my benefit, she explains, “That’s what we say when someone moves on. It’s kind of a circus tradition, like ‘The show must go on.’ We don’t like goodbyes, so we just say, ‘See you down the road.’ It’s less . . . permanent.” She turns back to Val. “But it still hurts.”

  A forties-era Ford pickup appears and Gus waves us in.

  As we ride, Valerie explains to me that she’ll be leaving VanDrexel’s before the end of the season. “Most circus performers are lifers,” she explains, “but I guess you could say I have other aspirations.” The statement contains no malice, it’s simply a fact—and a hopeful one at that.

  “What will you do?” I ask.

  “I’ve got a cousin in San Bernardino. She and I are going to open a dancing school there, so I’ll be parting ways with VanDrexel’s from Austin.”

  “Much to Hasty’s heartbreak,” Sharon notes softly.

  “Mothers and daughters,” Val says with a sigh, as if that sums up everything in the universe. Then she reaches into her purse and produces a shiny little Instamatic camera. “Remind me, I need to buy flashcubes.”

  It’s a short ride from the fairgrounds to town. Gus lets us out in front of Woolworth’s and tells us we have an hour to shop. I follow Sharon through the glass door and breathe in the scent of new plastic mixed with the lunch counter’s daily special.

  Valerie heads straight for the record department, fearing the new Beatles 45, Ticket to Ride, might already be sold out. “Everybody thinks Paul’s the cute one,” she says, jangling her little change purse. “But if you ask me, George is the one with all the sex appeal.” Then she glides away quickly, as if she can’t bear the thought of Sharon or me disagreeing with her.

  I buy shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some other basic toiletries. Sharon guides me to the cosmetics section, where I am mystified by the array of brands and colors. In my father’s house, makeup was on the list of forbidden things, so Sharon chooses a Revlon blush compact, some Maybelline eye shadow in the most perfect sky blue, a frosted coral lipstick, and waterproof mascara. In the apparel department I grab two three-packs of white cotton underwear, a Maidenform bra, some knee socks, and a pair of frilly baby doll pajamas (which are entirely Sharon’s idea). As we wander on, I add to my collapsible shopping basket a hairbrush and a laundry marker (to write my name in the aforementioned underwear; Sharon says this is imperative and that I will thank her for it later).

  “And this!” She zealously points to a very large jewelry box, sheathed in shiny pale-blue vinyl that makes it look as if it once belonged to the tooth fairy. It has a hinged lid and a shallow bottom drawer with a crystal knob and tiny keyhole.

  “It’s beautiful . . . but I don’t have any jewelry.” I’m lying on both counts; my mother’s brooch, which is worth more than the aggregate cost of every item in this store, is still nestled deep in my shorts pocket.

  “Then think of it as a treasure chest,” Sharon suggests, tugging it off the shelf. “A keepsake box. The circus has a way of throwing memories at you, sister. You’re going to need a place to keep them.”

  Since I can’t tell her I’ll be leaving before I’ve amassed enough memories to fill a pillbox, let alone this vinyl monstrosity, I agree to purchase it.

  We rejoin Valerie, whose shopping basket is brimming with film cartridges and flashbulb packs. In addition to Ticket to Ride, she’s also got 45s of Herman’s Hermits’ Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter and I Know a Place, by Petula Clark.

  Emily’s favorites. The songs we would have danced to in the rumpus room if I’d made it to the sleepover. My heart cracks a bit.

  “Val’s single-handedly keeping Kodak and the British Invasion in business,” Sharon quips.

  Valerie helps me pick out sandals, a straw purse with leatherette handles, a faux-silk kerchief, and some sunglasses, while Sharon struggles to tote the unwieldy jewelry box.

  When all is said and done, the objects of my new life come to just over thirty-four dollars.

  Then we’re back in the rusted bed of Gus’s pickup, rumbling toward the fairgrounds. I close my eyes, letting the marshy Jersey breezes caress my face, feeling for the brooch in my pocket.

  Through the whisper of the wind I hear a plasticky snap, and open my eyes to see Valerie grinning; she’s just photographed me with her trusty Instamatic. She advances the film and aims again.

  “Smile!”

  Sharon leans in and we both mug for the lens.

  But even as I pose for the picture, I’m wondering what my father will tell our friends and neighbors in the aftermath of my escape. Where is Catherine? they’ll want to know, and he’ll come up with a good explanation for my inexplicable absence—a visit to some distant relative, perhaps, to distract me from the heartbreak of my mother’s worsening illness.

  But what will he think? That I’ve been kidnapped? Maybe he’ll worry that I’m dead.

  For all I know, he’ll hope I’m dead.

  And in a way, I am. The old me, at least.

  But as the truck turns onto the dusty path that leads back to the Big Top, I realize that I’ve never felt more alive.

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in our room Valerie opens the lid of her portable record player, snaps a yellow plastic adapter into Ticket to Ride and places the disc on the turntable. There’s a brief crackling sound as the needle finds the grooves; then John Lennon’s voice fills the air: “I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s todaaaaay . . . yeah.”

  I empty the shopping bags, nestling my purchases among the hand-me-downs in the bureau drawers Valerie has sacrificed on my behalf. I neatly arrange my mysterious collection of dime-store makeup on top of the vanity, then turn my attention to the bulky “treasure chest” Sharon convinced me to buy. Sitting down on the cot, I haul it onto my knees and open it. Just like my antique jewelry box at home (passed down from a wealthy great-grandmother I never met) this one has a removable upper tray lined with velvet, divided into compartment
s for rings, bracelets, and necklaces. I lift the tray out and see that the cavernous interior is all ruched satin—pale blue to match the vinyl. A key sits on the bottom, small and silver. I pluck it out, jiggle it into the lock, and open the drawer.

  I glance over at Valerie, who is lying on her cot with her back to me, singing along with the record at the top of her lungs.

  Reaching into my pocket, I palm the brooch and place it in the drawer. It’s not that Valerie has given me any reason to mistrust her, but she’s a stranger from a strange world, and I want to keep this piece of my mother safe.

  I close the drawer, silently, secretly, and twist the key in the opposite direction until it clicks. My father would call me stupid for bothering to lock the drawer, since even a half-witted thief would be smart enough to steal the whole box, then bash it open with a hammer and take whatever he wanted.

  Still, I breathe a little easier now that the brooch is hidden, as close to safe as it can get. I wonder what old Louis-François Cartier would think about the great incongruity of his pricey bauble taking up residence in a four-dollar-and-fifty-cent jewelry box from Woolworth’s, which, I realize, is a fairly apt metaphor for my life at the moment.

  Before putting away the laundry marker, I grab the job application from my bed and write down the words Cornelius said to me: Everything will eventually come full circle.

  Followed by: Observation is the beginning of understanding.

  Seeing the words in black and white sets off a slight tingling in my chest; I feel as if I’ve stumbled onto something useful. Unlike my father’s rules and demands, maybe my short time in this colorful world will offer me an unexpected education. So I place the application in the box. Sharon told me to fill it with “memories,” but it seems “lessons” will have to do.

  Lessons. I took so many of them back in Brooksvale—ballet, French, violin, deportment—all of my father’s choosing, and all designed to result in getting a girl properly married. Maybe now it’s time for me to learn something I’ll actually enjoy.

  Plucking my dirty pedal pushers from the floor, I wriggle my fingers into the pocket where the cotton candy cone and the Camel package are still crumpled. I fish them out and unroll the cone first, flattening it out on the lid of the jewelry box to scrawl across the sticky surface: Everyone has a job to do.