by Lisa Fiedler
Leaning my cheek into his chest, I listen to his heart. I wonder if he feels how madly mine is racing, imagining him en France, chasing down all those fantaisistes and dompteurs and funambules.
“I want you to enjoy every minute of this adventure,” I tell him.
He is sweet enough not to say, “I will.” Instead he whispers, “I’ll miss you.”
And the secret remains a secret. For now. My pregnancy will become apparent soon enough, and although James will be taming lions in Siena, or Toledo, or Prague when it does, I can take comfort in the fact that I will be here at VanDrexel’s (still VanDrexel’s, always VanDrexel’s, thanks to James) with the family I’ve chosen for myself.
Or perhaps they’ve chosen me.
I suppose, like all good and lasting things, it’s been a little of both.
And when James does come home, we’ll be another kind of family. A family within a family, but a family of our own.
And it will be wonderful.
* * *
• • •
The morning after Cornelius signs away the circus, James goes down to the Western Union office in Albany to wire Hadrien Archambeau, Monsieur Loyal of a small but accomplished circus, presently situated in Toulouse but planning an early autumn jump to Paris.
Gideon, with his eyes unreadable, sees to the task of purchasing his brother’s airline ticket. Cornelius, groggy from a difficult night spent with his trusty flask but looking as immaculately suave as ever, wraps his son in his arms, blesses him softly, and wishes him well. Then he retreats to his office and pretends to be busy.
I put all my faith in my center of gravity and offer to help the father of my unborn child pack for his journey. He reminds me repeatedly that he will miss me like crazy, but he is also excited. So excited. He is standing on the precipice of his dream, and the happiness that spills over from his heart finds its way to mine. I will be seeing him soon enough—and then I’ll tell him everything, and we’ll start again, except this time, we’ll already be in love.
“Three months” is how he says goodbye through the open window of the taxicab that will deliver him from the Big Top in Albany to the airport in Queens.
And then he is gone and I am rushing back to my car to prepare for the night’s performance. James is gone, but still the calliope sings and whistles and sighs in his wake, and the barker in his straw hat cries out what my friend Sharon once described as the most seductive words in the English language:
“Step right up . . . the circus is in town!”
TWENTY-NINE
BRAD MARSTON WAS NOTHING if not a gracious host. When he heard that Quinn and Callie would be entertaining the Sanctuary ambassador as their houseguest for the foreseeable future, he purchased a second queen bed with a wicker headboard, paid extra for one-day delivery, and had it set up in Callie’s room.
“What is it with Florida people and wicker?” Callie mused, helping Jenna with the fitted sheet.
“It goes great with the gator gumbo,” Jenna replied with a perfectly straight face.
“Which I still have no desire to taste. Although, think about this: if I’d ordered takeout from Gumbo Hut that night instead of Benigno’s Pizza, you never would’ve had the chance to force your way into the Sanctuary—and consequently my life—and we wouldn’t be here right now.”
Jenna paused in making the bed. “Yeah. About that. There’s something I feel like I should tell you.”
“Lemme guess: you’ve got great hair?”
Jenna took the folded flat sheet Quinn had left on the dresser and shook it out. “Seriously, Calliope. I need you to know that there were actually two reasons I was so anxious for us to be friends.”
“Okay.”
“One is that it was pretty obvious the day I delivered the pizza that you had landed in unfamiliar territory. And I guess because I already had so much experience with taking care of people, thanks to the fact that I am what we in the business refer to as the child of an alcoholic, I just sort of defaulted into compassionate caregiver mode and decided to take you under my wing.”
“Show me the ropes,” said Callie, wriggling one of the new bed pillows into its case.
“Plus you looked like you could be a fun person to hang with, and of course, you had your own lion. So there was that.”
“There was that,” Callie echoed, handing over the other pillowcase.
“But it wasn’t all a completely selfless gesture on my part.” Jenna paused, smushing the pillow into place. “See, I’d kind of become a solo act myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I quit hanging out with my friends, and I stopped inviting people over because the house always smelled of either booze or barf. And since everybody felt like they had to walk on eggshells when I was around, it made me a total buzzkill.”
When Callie quirked an eyebrow, Jenna laughed.
“Okay, given the context I suppose that was an entirely insensitive metaphor. The point is, I just couldn’t take the way they were always looking at me with these worried looks, these concerned faces.”
“Wow. Friends who cared. That hadda suck.”
“It didn’t suck. But it was like, to them, I wasn’t just Jenna anymore—I was Jenna with the alcoholic mother. But then you showed up and you didn’t know any of that shit and I guess I saw my opportunity to just be Jenna Demming again. Didn’t work, of course, since I’m now the child of an alcoholic who is living in your garage apartment.”
“Carriage house,” said Callie.
In response, Jenna flung the pillow at Callie’s head.
As she ducked out of the projectile’s path, Callie’s elbow bumped into Victoria’s empty jewelry box, knocking it to the floor where it landed open, on its side. There was a metallic clink as a miniature key fell out from the satiny depths of the chest.
Callie and Jenna looked at each other, then simultaneously dove for the key.
“How did we miss this?” said Jenna, plucking it from the floor.
“I guess it was buried in all that ruching,” said Callie, righting the box.
Jenna offered her the key, then, just as quickly, yanked her hand back.
“I swear, Jenna, if you say ‘psych’ right now—”
“What am I, nine? I wasn’t going to say ‘psych.’ It’s just, before we open this ugly little blue vinyl drawer, I have one more tiny little confession.”
Picking up her phone from the bed, Jenna tickled the touchscreen until she’d opened a website. A beautiful website.
Callie’s website. The homepage featured several stunning photos, all from Victoria’s album, most of them taken when Callie was mid-trick on the tightrope, but there were some of her with Victoria, and even one candid of Callie with Quinn. There was also a shot of her wearing her first costume, the purple-and-pink ruffled nightmare.
“I can take that one down if you want,” Jenna offered.
“Don’t you dare” was Callie’s reply. “But you told me you never got around to making this.”
“I lied,” said Jenna, her voice catching.
“Why?”
“You have to ask?”
No. She didn’t. A month ago, perhaps she would have. But now Callie understood what it meant not only to have a friend, but to need one. As difficult and prickly as Callie had been since the day they met, Jenna still didn’t want her to go.
“Just remember,” said Jenna, “I’m gonna want front-row tickets whenever your circus comes to town.”
“Of course,” said Callie. She hadn’t meant it to come out in a whisper, but it did.
Clearing her throat, Jenna pointed to the site’s navigation bar—which she’d somehow managed to make resemble an actual tightrope. “Okay, so here’s the link to your videos, and this”—Jenna tapped her finger on an email icon—“is where you get your mail.”
“Mail? I have mail?”
“Yeah, Meg Ryan, you’ve got mail.”
“But how is that possible?”
“Callie, don’t you know me by now? I was hired—or, more accurately, indentured—to do a job. So I did it. I’ve been sending queries and resumes to every circus in the western hemisphere.”
“But you were so busy with the open house. And your mom.”
“What can I say, I’m a hell of a multitasker. And look.” Jenna opened the first email in Callie’s inbox. “These guys are definitely interested in meeting you.” She tapped again. “And so are these guys, and so is this French circus—can you say oh là là—and this show, which I think could be a good fit for you, except it’s out of Washington State, so I hope you don’t mind the rain.” She shrugged. “You told me you were a star. Obviously, you were right.”
Callie stared at the phone she was clutching. It was like she was holding every dream she’d ever had in the palm of her hand. “That’s a lot of job offers,” she said.
“Sure is. So I guess after we open this ugly little blue drawer you’re going to want to start going through them, huh?”
“Not necessarily.” Callie grinned and tossed the phone back onto the bed. “I’m no expert but I’m thinking a quick Delete All should take care of it.”
“You mean—” Jenna swallowed hard and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Oh. Okay. Cool.”
“Now gimme that key.”
With her heart racing, Callie slipped it into the lock. Taking hold of the glass knob, she slid the drawer open and blinked at what she saw inside.
A brooch, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, pearls.
“Holy shit,” Jenna murmured.
But there was something else. An envelope, slightly yellow, but smooth, unwrinkled.
Unopened.
Callie removed it and read the inscription on the front. Then she smiled at Jenna, who smiled too.
“Hey, Mom? Can you come in here a sec?”
Quinn brushed into the doorway, an expectant look on her face. “Need more pillows?”
Shaking her head, Callie held up the envelope so that her mother could read the name written across the front in Victoria’s elegant handwriting. To Quinn.
Quinn’s hand flew upward to cover her mouth, but a breathy “Oh!” escaped anyway, and her eyes welled with tears as Callie slipped the letter into her mother’s hand.
When Quinn opened it, a goldish slip of paper—a telegram—that had been tucked in along with a letter slipped out and fell to the floor.
Callie picked it up, not in the least bit surprised to find that Victoria had written yet another lesson in marker across the back of it: The Show Must Go On.
She placed this in her mother’s hand, kissed her gently on the cheek, and asked softly, “Shall I go and put the kettle on?”
“Yes,” Quinn whispered, her eyes fixed on the telegram. “Go, Calliope.”
THIRTY
Massachusetts, 1965
THE TRAIN ROLLS INTO Boston during the pre-daylight hours of a Tuesday morning.
I am wide awake, peeking through my window as the roustabouts disembark. They fan out in waves of denim and muscle to start and finish in mere hours what it took God six whole days to create—an entire world.
As I watch my circus spring to life, Rabelais trumpets as though to summon the sun, and it obeys him. I can picture the way the suburban Boston light will be falling across the kitchen table at the house I grew up in.
Six months I’ve been gone.
Six months ago, Cornelius and I struck our silent bargain.
Everything will eventually come full circle.
If the Ringmaster has any concerns about me being back in the hometown from which I fled, he has not expressed them to me. Then again, he’s been preoccupied with transitioning the circus from something old and personal to something new and corporate, and of course, his heart is heavy with missing James.
We all miss James. Scruff and Prince Edward and Clementine feel his absence as acutely as they feel Boo’s. I’ve talked myself into believing that the child inside me misses him too, and the fact that I can’t tell anyone about it—not before I tell James—has begun to take its toll.
I need to share this with someone. Sharing is a kind of safety net, after all, and I’m in an emotional freefall.
Luckily, there happens to be a safety net nearby.
At nine o’clock, as though everything is perfectly normal, I go have breakfast in the pie car with Duncan.
“Any word from James?” he asks me, slathering a piece of rye toast with marmalade.
“He sent one postcard from Toulouse,” I report. “And a letter came just yesterday, from Paris.”
“How’s the show?”
“The show is exceptional. One of the best, he says. But he’s not getting on well with the cat trainers. He caught one of them beating a lioness and . . . well, let’s just say he and James had words.”
Duncan somehow manages to frown and laugh at the same time. “That sounds like James. No question he’d get rough with a guy over that. I mean, Christ, what kind of bastard beats an animal?”
He’s quiet for a minute, and as I sip my orange juice, I wonder if he remembers that this is where we met six months ago, same town, same fairgrounds, same table in fact.
“One time,” says Duncan, sipping his coffee, “when the boys were real young—Gideon was about ten, so James couldn’t have been more than seven—there was a group of teenage boys came to the midway just to cause trouble. Started out harmless, stealing candy, hassling the barkers, just being disruptive and crass.” He pauses to take a bite of toast. “And then they got to the menagerie.”
The spoonful of oatmeal I’m about to put in my mouth stops midflight. I don’t think I like where this is going.
“At the time, we had an old camel, Virgil, funniest-lookin’ thing you’d ever wanna see, but sweet. And we all loved him, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you who loved him most.”
“James.”
Duncan nods. “So these rowdy punks come upon old Virgil in his pen, and they start shoutin’ nasty things at him, laughin’ and calling him an ‘ugly-ass bastard’—pardon my French. Then one of the punks scoops up a rock and just chucks it at poor old Virgil, smack! Right between those big, gentle eyes.”
My stomach clenches, turns to ice.
“The next punk picks up another rock and hurls it at the camel’s chest. And if you’ve never witnessed a camel crying out in pain, I’m here to tell you, it’s a sound you don’t ever want to hear. It’s a sound that’ll break your heart.”
Around us, the pie car has gone quiet. The silverware has ceased clinking; all conversation has ground to a halt. Everyone wants to hear the story, even though they don’t. Not me, or Evangeline or little Arthur, who are all hearing it for the first time, or Hank or Gus or Vince the gaffer, who were there when it happened.
But it’s a story of our circus, so we have to know. And Duncan goes on:
“The punks were gettin’ a real kick out of Virgil’s pain, and when Cornelius hears tell of it he comes running, strutting like nobody’s business, ready to throw their sorry asses right out of his circus. But then, outta nowhere, comes this little human missile, this seven-year-old rocket, hurling himself at the punk who cast the first stone.”
“James,” I say again.
“The punk goes down, and James throws himself on top of him, pummeling him, fist after fist, punch after punch, this little pipsqueak just pounding away on a guy three times his size. And for a minute, the guy doesn’t fight back—I figure he was in shock, and who wouldn’t be, by the sight of that little bitta nothin’ sitting on his chest, sluggin’ him in the face like a miniature Jake LaMotta. We were all stunned. Me, Cornelius, Vince.” He turns to Vince for validation. “Remember, Vince? Remember h
ow we all just stood there, stunned?”
Vince gives a slow nod and says, “I remember.”
“But the shock didn’t last long and the next thing we knew the guy had pulled out a switchblade. He pulled a switchblade on a seven-year-old kid! Course, I didn’t see it right off, neither did Cornelius. But Gideon saw it . . . Gideon!—ten years old, jumps in to pull his brother away, at the very same second the punk lashes out with the knife, catching Gideon in his forearm, and suddenly there’s blood everywhere.”
“Blood,” Hank repeats dully. “Everywhere.”
I remember the scar on Gideon’s arm . . . the one I noticed the day he opened the door to the wardrobe car for me.
“By this point, the roustabouts had been sent for and they all come a-runnin’, grabbin’ hold of every last one of those punks, and haulin’ ’em off the grounds to . . . well, truth be told, I don’t really know where our guys took them rowdy little sons a bitches, or what they did to ’em. But whatever it was, they sure as hell had it comin’.”
“Sure as hell had it comin’,” Vince echoes.
And Hank agrees. “Had it comin’.”
“Anyhow.” Duncan leans back against the booth and lifts his coffee cup for another sip. “All’s I’m sayin’ is that this French lion tamer son of a bitch just better think twice before he goes beatin’ on some poor lion again. At least while James VanDrexel’s around.”
* * *
• • •
I take a taxi to the lovely affluent neighborhood that is technically still my neighborhood, though I have not set foot here in six months. It is a back-to-school morning that makes me think of new shoes and freshly sharpened pencils. The day is clear with a fall crispness that people typically call exhilarating, but to me, today, it just feels cold. The houses are quiet because the women are out doing Tuesday morning things . . . hair appointments, charity work, tennis lessons, bridge.
The men, of course, are at work.
In a million years I never would have thought I would do what I am about to do. But she is so close. Too close. And I am missing the boy I love, and there is no one else I can tell my wondrous secret to.