by Lisa Fiedler
“What do you want?” Kristi asked, refusing to look up from her Instagram feed, where Porthos had gotten more likes in the last twenty-four hours than Kristi herself had earned over the entire course of her social media history.
“I want you to give your father a message for me,” Callie said.
“I’m not his secretary. She’s the one who sits at the desk outside his office—which happens to be the biggest one in city hall. Even a circus freak can’t miss it.”
Callie grinned. “Tell your father the Sanctuary is important. The animals are important. They need to be taken care of, and studied, and protected. The fact that we can recognize this is what makes us human.”
Kristi smirked. “Sure you don’t want to hit pause till your violin player gets here? Sappy speeches like this are always so much better with a soundtrack.”
“It may be sappy, but it’s true.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, what I said about the chimp being able to kill someone was also true. But here’s what I didn’t get to say. That particular ape, d’Artagnan, is a frightened creature, who, prior to being rescued by Mr. Marston, lived in a cage roughly the size of your Gucci backpack, where he was starved, neglected, and beaten every day of his life.”
Jake’s eyes went wide. “Beaten? Damn, that’s fucked up.”
Callie was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered outside room 103, which meant that word of the Kristi versus Callie confrontation had spread like wildfire. Not a problem; Calliope VanDrexel was used to keeping her cool in front of an audience.
“My mother’s been working with d’Artagnan every day, because that’s what she’s trained her whole life to do. But that kind of trauma’s not the sort of thing that goes away overnight. So you see, Kristi, the reason we triple locked the gate, and refused to allow you or anyone else inside the conservatory, was because after a lifetime of horrific abuse, that sweet, innocent chimp, my chimp, just wasn’t quite ready to put his trust in strangers, or to be gawped at by a crowd that still wasn’t sure they wanted him as a neighbor. And he sure as hell wasn’t ready to pose for a selfie.”
“Don’t you get that everything you just said basically proves exactly what my father’s said all along,” Kristi sneered. “The Sanctuary is dangerous.”
“Actually—” It was Jenna, shouldering in through the knot of people clogging the doorway. “What she said proves that the Sanctuary is safe. Or didn’t you hear the part about the locks on the gate, and the Instagram junkies not being allowed in?”
“Exactly,” said Callie. “The Sanctuary is as safe as anything of its kind can possibly be. Not one hundred percent, because nothing ever is.”
“And just to be clear,” said Jenna, “we all respect your father for wanting to protect our town. Unless of course his motives for evicting the animals weren’t entirely about safety and were actually about paving the way for that five-star resort that fell through. The one he surely would have been given the option to invest in, if the deal had been made.”
Kristi glared.
“If the mayor wants to do away with everything in this town that doesn’t come with an iron-clad guarantee of total safety,” Callie went on calmly, “he’s going to have a very long list. Starting with the croquet league—”
“Just ask Zach,” said Jenna.
“And shop class,” Jake added. “I almost broke my thumb three different times building Ponce de León’s stupid boat.”
“And all the liquor stores,” Jenna added meaningfully. “And the gator gumbo cook-off, or have we forgotten about the Food Poisoning Debacle of 2012?”
“And the Surfing Conquistador Competition.” From the doorway. Kip.
Kristi rolled her eyes, but this time she did not push back. Instead she just tossed her hair and said, “I’ll give my father the message.”
Then the homeroom teacher was shoving his way through the crowd and into the room. “Get to class, people,” he commanded. “Bell’s about to ring.”
“Nicely done, Calliope,” said Jenna, as they squeezed out with the spectators into the hall. “But you do realize that if it works you may have just saved your mother’s job. Which means you probably won’t be going back to VanDrexel’s anytime soon.”
“It really wasn’t her job I was thinking about.” Taking out her phone, Callie found one of the videos she’d searched for the night before, attached the link, and hit send. “I mean, it would be a shame if somebody like you couldn’t afford to go to college.”
Jenna ignored the dinging of her phone to fake a pissy look. “Somebody like me?”
“You know . . . preposterously gifted.”
“Profoundly gifted, wiseass. But you know what I’ve always wondered? After something preposterous happens, is that considered postposterous?”
“I think you’re both pretty preposterous,” said Kip.
“I’ve been called worse,” Callie noted, attaching another link, causing Jenna’s phone to ding again.
“Are you texting me right now?”
“Yes. And for the record, I think what would be truly preposterous would be you sleeping on that hospital couch another night. You’re staying with us. I already cleared it with my mom, who’s clearing it with your mom as we speak.”
Jenna’s phone pinged again. “I think you mean as we text.”
“Whatever. You’re moving in with us.”
Jenna smiled, tapping on the link to the first video, and tilting the phone so Kip could watch too. It was a clip of a trapeze artist spinning through the air and being caught by his partner . . . only to slip from his grasp and drop into the net.
“Oooh,” said Kip, “somebody didn’t get paid that day.”
Jenna swiped, and a second video appeared. She tapped the play arrow and another troupe of aerialists swung into action, two of them launching themselves across the Big Top, somersaulting toward their partners who were hanging from the trapeze bars by their knees; the catchers reached for the flyers’ outstretched arms, but both missed the grab by mere inches. The tumblers fell out of the sky, again to land bouncing in the net.
“Interesting.” Jenna looked up from the screen to quirk a brow at Callie. “‘Trapeze artists failing miserably.’ What are you trying to tell me?”
Callie just smiled and said nothing.
To her very pleasant surprise, Kip leaned over and brushed a kiss on her cheek just as the bell rang. Then he followed Jenna, who was still staring at her phone, perplexed, into room 105.
Callie began the long walk to room 127. On the way, her phone tingled.
SOMETHING TO DO WITH FRIENDSHIP??
YEP.
AND IN THIS SCENARIO I AM A TRAPEZE ARTIST?
CORRECT.
AND I’M FALLING?
CORRECT.
SO THAT MAKES YOU THE ONE FAILING TO CATCH ME?!
GUESS AGAIN.
As Callie slipped into Mr. Kurtz’s homeroom, there was a brief delay during which the borderline genius struggled to decipher the meaning of the videos.
OKAY . . .
SO THERE’S THIS TRAPEZE ACT. AND I’M THE FALLER, BUT YOU’RE NOT THE CATCHER.
DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!!! THERE’S NOTHING ELSE YOU CAN BE.
ISN’T THERE?
OKAY.
IF YOU’RE NOT THE FALLER AND YOU’RE NOT THE CATCHER, WHO THE F#@% ARE YOU?
Slipping into her seat in the back row of room 127, Callie grinned and thumbed her reply:
I’M THE NET.
TWENTY-EIGHT
New York, 1965
I GO BACK TO my car to sit with this a bit, just me, by myself.
And of course, my baby.
I perch on the vanity stool with my hands on my belly, which is still mostly taut, but I can’t stop myself from caressing it anyway. I thin
k back to the night when James talked circus to me after we danced the Watusi at Husky Pete’s. He wrote that he loved me on a cocktail napkin.
That was the night. That was the night.
I’m pregnant and in any other world, in Brooksvale certainly, this would be catastrophic news. I am sixteen, unwed, and I am carrying the child of my seventeen-year-old boyfriend. In school, at my father’s country club, in deb circles—in all of those places I would be considered the worst kind of tramp. I would be shunned.
But this is the circus.
And here . . . it will all be different. This baby, this child of the lion tamer and the wire walker, is already a tiny miracle, made of miracles. He . . . or she—my God . . . she! The image of a soft, small girl with James’s cupid’s-bow lips and green eyes and my dark hair has my heart melting in my chest. She will have a father who can teach the deadliest of beasts to be gentle, and who runs toward adventure at every opportunity. She . . . or he—oh, how darling my and James’s son would be! Funny, and sweet and smart. And brave . . . brave, because he’ll have a mother who survived a tyrant’s fists and found the courage to make the circus her home.
I change out of my costume, brush my hair, and put on the nicest of my hand-me-down blouses. Then I unlock the drawer of my jewelry box, take out my mother’s brooch, and pin it just below the collar.
Outside, the midway is all bells and barkers and laughing teenage girls and children awake long past their bedtimes. I smell sizzling funnel cakes and roasting peanuts. It is that first night all over again; everything feels new and dusted with magic.
I find James coming out of Cornelius’s office car.
“Hi.” I press myself into his arms.
“I was just coming to find you.” He kisses the top of my head.
“I was coming to find you! I have something wonderful to tell—” I pause at the sight of two men wearing business suits coming out of the office after him. They are carrying briefcases and looking . . . victorious. “Who are they?”
He pushes me away gently, holding me at arm’s length. “My father’s sold the circus.”
I blink up at him. “He . . . what? James, is this another Baby Bongo joke? Because—”
“Not a joke.” His face is tight with anger, maybe even shock. “We all knew the money was tight, but Cornelius and Gideon never let on how bad it really was. Not even to me.” He gives a dark chuckle. “Especially not to me. I guess because they knew I would never have let them sell.”
I frown down at my Keds, thinking back to all the times I’d seen Cornelius toting his ledger around, looking through the pages with a pained expression. “Maybe they just didn’t want to upset you. You were so upset about Boo.”
“Or maybe they just thought what they’ve always thought—that the only thing I was good for was squiring brainless mayors’ daughters around. The point is, we were going broke and I barely had a clue.”
“But what about Allentown? And Poughkeepsie? We’ve been playing to packed houses for weeks. And here, in Albany . . . we’ve been selling scads of tickets. Loads of them.”
James shakes his head. “Wasn’t enough. The only good news is that the corporation that bought us out made Cornelius a very fair offer and they agreed to keep him on as Ringmaster. He can stay as long as he wants. Same goes for everyone else, every clown, every acrobat, every roustabout.”
I open my mouth but realize I have nothing to say. All I can picture is that old handbill in Cornelius’s office. VanDrexel’s Family Circus: Three Rings of Fantastical Fun. What would Oskar say, and Lukasz? I think of the little boy who set up the rings, believing they were infinite.
“Oh . . .” James drags his hand through his hair and sighs. “And we get to keep our name.”
A kind of enchantment.
“How?”
“I fought for it. You should have seen Gideon, looking daggers at me, trying to get me to shut my mouth. But I said if we couldn’t keep VanDrexel’s on the marquee, Cornelius wouldn’t sign and there wouldn’t be a deal. The corporate vultures weren’t crazy about it, but I stood my ground until they agreed.”
My fingertips go to my abdomen as I picture the moment—James in his VanDrexel’s T-shirt challenging those men in their expensive suits, fighting for his name, for his father’s legacy, with Gideon glowering all the while, wanting him gone.
“Cornelius must have been proud of you,” I say, my voice wobbly.
“Yeah.” He smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “I think that’s why he’s letting me go.”
“Go?” My breath catches in my throat.
“He’s letting me go overseas. To Europe.” James grasps my hands and brings them to his lips to kiss. “I think he finally saw that I’ve got something to contribute besides my damned charm. He wants me to go do what I’ve been talking about all these years . . . visit the European shows to study with the masters. He’s giving Gid and me each a third of the buyout money. We would have inherited it anyway, and now I can afford to make the trip.”
“The trip?” I echo, dully, stupidly.
“To Rome, Madrid, Nice.”
Even though I have only the flash of the midway lights by which to gauge his expression, I can see that the hurt and anger are already subsiding and his eyes are twinkling.
“Everywhere there’s a circus, that’s where I’ll be.”
“That sounds . . . very exciting.”
He brushes a wisp of hair out of my eyes. “I’ll only be gone for a couple of months,” he whispers, sensing my change of mood. “Three at the most. And God, Victoria, I’m gonna miss you so much, but—”
“I know,” I whisper back. And I do know. I felt the same way in Austin, when I decided to come back to this dream I didn’t even know I had. It was less a choice than it was a need, and his need, his dream, is to go off and collect the dust of those European circuses onto the soles of his buffalo sandals, and bring it back here to mingle magically with the soil of every small town and city VanDrexel’s has the privilege to play. My dream was to stay; his is to go, and if the tightrope has taught me anything, it’s that the world is always a study in balance.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “It’s just, well, what if the thing Cornelius has always been afraid of is true and you are like your mother? What if you decide not to come back?”
“That won’t happen,” he whispers into my hair. “I swear it. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here.”
With your unborn child growing inside me, I think, and it takes incredible effort not to say it out loud. Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close while I still can.
“My father has connections with every decent circus on the continent, so he’ll make all the introductions. Victoria, I’ll be working with the best Europe has to offer. It’s amazing, right?”
I nod against his chest. It’s not quite as amazing as my news of course, which would change everything were I to blurt it out right now.
After all, he deserves to know.
Doesn’t he?
As much as Europe means to him, all I have to do is tell him I’m pregnant, and he’ll stay. Because James VanDrexel, who huddled beside a dying lion, would not miss one second of becoming a father. He simply wouldn’t go. Not for three months, not for three hours. He’d stay with me, with us, the us we’re on our way to being.
“James, are you sure this is a good idea?”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’re kidding, right?”
I manage a smile. “I’m sorry. I know this is what you want.”
What you need. He’s just lost his circus, the circus he was born into; I imagine it’s like losing a family member, a hundred family members. And there are still nights when he cries out in his sleep, calling for his lion. Watching Cornelius sign those pa
pers must have been like hearing that gunshot ring out all over again.
So if Europe is what he wants, I won’t deny him. It’s time for James to become James. Just as Catherine—who would have been terrified to see him go—became Victoria . . . who, perhaps more than anyone, understands the power of freedom.
And of dreams.
But none of that stops me from feeling crushed at the thought of seeing him go. The tears well up behind my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
“So what were you going to tell me?”
I shake myself out of my reverie. “Hmm?”
“What you were going to tell me?” His chin is resting on the top of my head, his fingers are caressing the small of my back.
Stay.
No.
Go.
“Before I told you about the sale,” he reminds me. “You said you had something important—”
“Wonderful,” I murmur. “I said wonderful.”
“Even better. So what is it?”
My throat aches with the words I can’t say: A promise infused with fate. A baby; our baby. Instead, I brush my fingers over my still-quiet belly on their way up to cup the brooch at my collar. “I was . . . I was just going to tell you that . . . um, well, I found this pin I’d thought I’d lost. Val found it, actually, when she was packing, and I’m just . . . I’m just so glad to have it back.”
“Okay.” He cocks an eyebrow. Maybe he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t pursue it. I almost wish he would.
Looking down at the ground, I ask, “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “It’ll be easiest to just fly out from New York City.”
“Sure, of course, since it’s just a few hours’ drive to Idlewild from here.”
He laughs, pushing a wisp of hair behind my ear. “It’s JFK now. They changed it, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” I shake my head. “I forgot.”