Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  And I could pick out my dad in the audience. He sat in the third row, and he seemed kinda impressed. He’d missed last year’s production, so this was his first taste of what his son could do.

  That moment of fame, it lasted a heartbeat and was done. The curtain closed, and we were instructed to get out of our costumes and back into our street clothes. Annie had found her tooth shard, and a worried Professor Johnson brought her a container of milk in hopes it could be glued back on. Danny and me, we went back to the dressing room and took baby wipes to clean the pancake makeup off our faces.

  “I look like a girl,” he said as he scrubbed his cheekbones.

  Sure, the makeup artist had been a little heavy-handed on the highlights, but he didn’t appear too feminine. Still, I razzed him a bit, and he mocked my Alabama accent with something that sounded like a cross between French and Russian.

  After I had my costume all hung up and sorted out, I went to find my dad. He was still in the third row. He waved at me when I came out, and stood, clapping. “Great job, Skip.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, somewhat taken aback.

  Dad shook his head and pulled a cigarette from his button-up shirt’s pocket. “Can’t believe you got the guts to get up there in front of everyone and do what you did. It takes some nerve, I think.” He went to light the cig, but seemed to remember where he was and stashed his lighter away. “And some skill.”

  This had to be the best day of my life. My heart hadn’t felt so happy in the longest time, and it felt ready to burst out of my ribcage. “You think I did good?”

  “Good?” Dad said, waving my words away. “You were great.” He leaned away and coughed into his fist. “Let’s get out of here. Mom wanted me to pick up dinner on the way home.”

  I pretty much skipped to the car . . . as much as a sixteen-year-old boy skips. Maybe it was more a polka step, something we’d learned in junior high. Whatever the case, I couldn’t believe my dad, the most uptight man I’d ever known, thought my acting was not only good, but that it was great. So I didn’t mind it when he yelled at me on the car ride home.

  “Get your feet off the dash!”

  And I didn’t snap at him when he turned my hip hop music down and called it trashy noise. How could I be mad or talk back to someone who had paid me such a compliment, especially my dad?

  We’d gone out of our way to pick up some fried chicken and two liters of pop— “To celebrate!” Dad said—the car smelled like a feast, and I was starved. It was hard not drooling all over the grease-saturated paper bag the food had come in.

  I was leaning forward to close my air vent when we turned down our street. “Mm.”

  “Don’t get grease on my—What the . . . ?” Our car slowed, and I wondered what he might be gawking at.

  There were two police cars and an ambulance sitting in our pristine lawn, my dad’s pride and joy. Our neighbor was now parked in front of our driveway, blocking it, so we had to park illegally in the street. “Wow, wonder who’s hurt?” I said, setting the chicken on the floor.

  Dad looked at me like I was an alien. “Skip, I think they’re—Hanna!” He threw the car into park, not bothering to shut it off before bolting out of the car.

  It took another five seconds for my brain to come to the same conclusion my dad had. “Mom!” I tripped all over myself, unbuckling and running after my dad, who was cursing our long driveway and our neighbor’s parking job.

  When we made it to the side door, we were both panting and cursing and screaming for my mother. “Hanna.”

  “Mom. Mom, are you all right?”

  We were greeted by a policeman with a sour expression. He tried to stop me, but I pushed him aside and ran to Mom’s bedroom. An EMT stood outside talking with another police officer. “Where’s my mom?” I demanded. She had to be all right. Mom was tough. She’d survived three affairs and a drinking habit. Nothing would get her . . . I hoped.

  The EMT gave me a weak smile, and the policeman nodded at him before going to join his partner at the door with my dad. “Are you Skip?” he asked.

  “Mom! I’m here!” I reached past the EMT for the doorknob, but his voice and gentle hands stopped me.

  “You’re mother’s all right, Skip.” He grimaced and looked over my shoulder.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Skip? Sweetheart?” It was Mom, but her voice sounded funny. It sounded like she was talking through a mouthful of spit, the way she slurred. I wondered if she’d been drinking again.

  I choked down some tears of relief and made another attempt at the door. “Move,” I said to the EMT, who gave way. The second I stumbled into that dark room, I wished I hadn’t.

  It smelled like urine and blood and all kinds of terrible, rotten things. Someone had tried to mask it with bleach and air freshener, making the smell so much, much worse. I ran from the room, vomiting all over myself.

  Mom was resting comfortably. At least, that’s what Dad told me. I could hear her though, sobbing and asking for me. Then she got her pills from Dad, and soon everything went quiet. Too quiet.

  It’s not like I’d wanted another little sister, but Mom having to lose one was awful. I tried to make myself feel sad. But there was just a sense of “Oh well.” I tried to cry. No go.

  Boy, am I a terrible human being. All I could think about was tomorrow’s performance and would Dad still give me a ride? Was he still proud of me? Or would today’s events affect how he felt about my acting? Needless to say, my sense of triumph had vanished.

  I’d changed out of my puked-on shirt and pants and showered. Twice. It was only seven. I was getting hungry, and everything downstairs was still, so I snuck down there to see if I could find anything to eat. That’s when I saw her sitting in the dark, paler than any ghost, staring into nowhere.

  “Julianna?” I asked, flipping on the lights.

  She didn’t jump, didn’t move, she just sat there. And the closer I got, the more I noticed. Her hands, which she usually kept neat and clean, were crusted over with dark red blood. There was a smudge on her face, where she must’ve itched herself, and a great big splatter on her yellow blouse. Her hair was messy, and there were sweat stains on her under arms.

  “Why all the blood? You cut yourself?” I asked before I realized where the blood had come from. I cleared my throat, trying my best not to gag; I couldn’t start throwing up again. I might never stop. “Julianna, you were brave, helping Mom.”

  No response.

  Should I get Dad? He’d know how to talk to her . . . maybe. “Are you in shock or something?” I moved closer and waved a hand in front of her blank face. “Earth to Julianna.” Now I was getting scared; normally my sister wouldn’t shut up. “Come on, you need to go take a shower or something. You don’t like being dirty, remember?” I snapped my fingers in front of her face, and she blinked; there was hope . . . I hoped. “You did the right thing, calling the ambulance.” Shaking, I took the seat next to her. “But we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

  Another blink, maybe out of appreciation.

  Encouraged, I continued. “The play went well today.” Silence. I cleared my throat. “Do you want a glass of water? You must be thirsty . . . or not. Is it okay if I get one? Yeah? Okay, I’m still here. Just getting a drink.” I made a lot of fuss and noise about getting that glass of water, slamming cupboards and shuffling around like an angry old man. “There was a good audience. They all laughed at the right parts.” I took my seat again and gulped down half of the water I’d poured myself out of the fridge. “Sure you don’t want any water?” There was more silence. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?

  Julianna blinked seven times. But she didn’t say a word.

  And she continued not saying a word for two weeks.

  Chapter Eight

  Ardal

  1999

  “You’re old enough to choose,” Mum said over the din past airport security. It was true. I was eighteen, man enough to ma
ke my own decisions such as the one I was making that moment.

  But I hesitated, one foot planted in the land where I’d grown to be the man that I am, the same land where my parents had grown apart. The other foot dangled into an abyss, the great unknown that was the United States of America. Could I tear up my roots so easily?

  “This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight BA1 to New York City.”

  Mum stood aloof and glanced at me and my father. The divorce wasn’t finalized, but it might as well have been, what with her putting an ocean between them both and all. When she spoke, her voice was crisp, businesslike. “Ardal, best say your farewells.” Her eyes went to my father. She wanted him to want her to stay.

  Clearing my throat, I went to embrace Ardal Senior but was met with a firm handshake instead. “I don’t know where you get this hugging nonsense. Must be from your mother’s side.”

  I blushed.

  It was his turn to clear his throat. “Give us a ring when you can. And I’ll see you summer next.” Always the stoic, him.

  “Now boarding: flight BA1 to New York City.”

  “Will you be all right?” I said, lowering my voice so Mum wouldn’t hear.

  Dad grunted and waved my question aside. “You mind yourself, Ar, and don’t get into trouble with those American girls. They’re only after one thing, you know.”

  I gave him a frown and stepped aside for some Irishman in a hurry. “Right. And what might that be?”

  Dad chuckled. “Lad, you’ve got my looks but your mother’s modesty.”

  “—This is the final boarding call for—”

  “Son, you’d best see after your mother.”

  My teeth skimmed my lower lip. I made to leave but paused to take my father in for the last time that year. “Love you, Dad. Take care of yourself.” My chest hurt something dreadful, and I could feel tears building. This was it. I was actually doing this. “I’ll ring often.”

  “No you won’t. Now off with you.”

  People were elbowing past me, muttering their sincerest apologies as they boarded the flight. My dad always called me the emotional one of the family, though I could see his eyes glassing over as I waved and handed my boarding pass to the woman behind the desk.

  “Just in time,” said the flight attendant, an American or Canadian—I couldn’t tell which. “You’d better get on board.”

  I nodded, waved at my dad, and disappeared into the queue.

  “There you are,” Mum said, welcoming me into first class. “I thought you’d changed your mind.” Her tone was joking, but her eyes were relieved as I walked down the gangway.

  I took my seat next to her and strapped in. “And let you have this adventure all on your own? Never.”

  An attendant offered us each a glass of champagne, but Mum declined for us both. “No. I can’t abide the stuff.”

  “And me?” I asked. “I’m of age, if just.”

  “Here, yes, but not in the States. You have to be at least twenty-one where we’re going. You might as well get used to being underage again.” As I watched the other passengers board, Mum produced a pair of eyeglasses and began solving a word puzzle.

  “Tourists, you think?” They looked it, most of them. Cameras in their cases, all exchanging excited chatter as they accepted their champagne.

  Mum smiled at me, her eyes twinkling. “You’ll do well in America,” she laughed.

  I frowned, uncertain whether or not to feel insulted. “How so?”

  “They do enjoy—ah, ‘people-watching.’” She squinted down at her puzzle. “Ardal, what is a ten-letter word for Roman garlic bread?”

  “Bruschetta. What are Americans like?”

  She stared at the overhead compartments as if searching for the words up there. “Americans? Well, they’re loud, emotional hagglers. Ah, how do you spell bruschetta, dear?”

  I spelled it out for her as the lights flashed and the intercom dinged. I ignored the pilot’s and the attendants’ instructions, having flown several times before. Something was troubling me. A few somethings, all truth be told. “Will we be too conspicuous, you think?”

  Mum was silent for a moment, returning her attention to her puzzle. “We shouldn’t care so much what others think, now should we?” She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, her lips twitching.

  I gave her a knowing look—she was nervous as well, and she’d visited the United States on numerous occasions for business. “So,” I said, casting around for a subject.

  “Yes?”

  The tourists were getting rather rumbustious and as we began to ascend, some of them let out small screeches of laughter. I assumed they’d had something to drink before the flight, besides the champagne they’d just imbibed.

  I seized at the first subject to cross my mind. “The house is ready?”

  Mum seemed relieved I’d changed the subject. “Yes. It’ll be larger than what you’re used to, I’m afraid.”

  I fought a bemused smile. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “That’s my son. Always the, ah—trooper.” We leveled off, and the attendant who’d served the champagne before take-off was being reprimanded for not following protocol. My mother and I exchanged a panged glance, and tried not to add to the man’s humiliation by staring.

  “The help has been hired, so you needn’t worry about laundry anymore.”

  “I don’t mind—”

  “And I’ve hired a cook so your studies won’t be interrupted.”

  But I was already shaking my head. “Absolutely not. I enjoy cooking, as you know well, Mum. It’s not a bit of trouble. Honestly.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be going to uni, and I don’t want you falling behind with your coursework.”

  I knew she meant well, that she didn’t believe I was serious about pursuing a career as a chef. Plus, she’d always wanted me to go into business and architecture, just as she had. And I didn’t want to whinge or argue. So I kept my mouth shut, but not before first saying, “It’s still my gap year.”

  “Mm. I know, Ardal. I don’t want you to wear and work yourself to the bone.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” And I left it at that. I’d make her see my way. Someday.

  The remainder of the flight was uneventful for the most part. The tourist section, which had attempted a drunken singalong early in the flight, fell asleep halfway through the trip to New York. When we landed, they were quiet, perhaps still somewhat tanked.

  There was a three-hour stopover, so Mum and I found an open kiosk which sold large slices of pizza. “Ten ninety-five,” said the man with an accent thicker than his hair. As fast as everyone in the airport moved, this man seemed in no hurry to serve us.

  Having half-understood what he’d said, I asked him to repeat himself, and the price went up another dollar. “Mum, would you—”

  My mother took the foreign currency from my hands and paid the man what he was demanding. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We nodded, and as we turned to find a place to set down on our hand baggage and eat, I heard a muttered, “Tourists.”

  And that was my first impression of the United States of America: land of the that’ll-cost-you-extra, and home of the bigot. But I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. First impressions are often misleading.

  “Would you like me to buy something to drink?”

  “A fiver and then some for two slices of pizza,” Mum said with a laugh. “We’ll be in the poorhouse in no time. I think we’d better hold our wallets more tightly, yes?”

  I rose. “Well, then, in the words of Marie Antoinette: Let them drink water. I’ll be back in a moment.” And if I thought the pizza was expensive, I was gobsmacked by the cost of two bottles of water. No one would give me a cup for free; I’d have to buy something. So I returned with two tiny cups of water with ice and a bag of crisps.

  This baffled my mother, but she opened the bag regardless. “Americans eat crisps with pizza?”

  I shrugged. “Wh
en in New York, do as the Yanks do. Cheers.” The pizza was cool by this point, the cheese congealing into a greasy mess. I choked the whole thing down anyway, and my mother didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. We hadn’t eaten since the beginning of our flight, and that had been only one bag of peanuts shared between us both.

  Once I’d finished my slice, I did what my mother always accused me of doing: I people-watched. People were in such a hurry there. I mean, everyone rushes through airports to get to their connecting flight, to see their loved ones, to use the public toilet, and so forth. But there in New York it was madness beyond the normal rush. Unless we kept pace, I was certain we would be trampled.

  Was all of America like this airport and the till operator at the pizza kiosk? If so, they were not only fast but loud and rude. But I knew better than to give in and believe stereotypes. What I would have to do was make a wide acquaintance of both American men and women and then judge for myself whether or not I would do well here.

  Mum must’ve read the expression on my face as I watched the hustle and bustle. “It’s best to view the States like Europe,” she said.

  I turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

  “Each state has its own—ah, its own way of being.”

  “You’ve traveled much in the States?” We never had talked much about Mum’s holidays and business trips. Dad would always use her travels as an excuse for the deteriorating state of their marriage.

  She stiffened a little, perhaps intent on ignoring that I’d spoken at all. But after a moment her posture relaxed, and she would look me straight in the eye again. “North, south, east, west—home’s best. Yes, I’ve seen a bit more than you might think.”

  I cast around for another subject. “It’s hot where we’re going, yes?”

  And she laughed her first genuine laugh since we left the UK. It was a splash of cold water to a dying fish, my mother’s humor that evening. It’s what saw me through the rest of the flight to our hot destination somewhere in Nevada, not twenty miles from the seam that sews both our new home state and California together.