Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  So what? What business is it of his? I shrug and set my comb to the side. Ringmaster must think I’m about to answer, but I lift a bottle of anti-frizz serum and pump two drops into my hand. I’d gone out shopping after Ardal had walked me back to the store. I’d watched him leave in his expensive car, and walked down to the shop on the corner, a drugstore. The girl behind the counter had braces, and she recommended the serum. With the rest of the money Ringmaster had given me, I bought some body spray that didn’t smell too revolting.

  “Hey, earth to Scotch!”

  My eyes snap up to meet his. “What?” I say through my teeth.

  He raises his hands to ward off my sharpish question. “Sheesh. So, are you two together now or something?”

  I groan. This conversation is not going to happen, not now, not ever.

  “Hey, I’m just saying he’s been coming around here a lot lately, and if you two are . . . well, you know.”

  I frown and stare at him through narrowed eyes. “No, I don’t.”

  He squirms and clears his throat, which sounds full of mucus. “Well, don’t do anything stupid, okay? We don’t need you getting knocked up and—What?”

  I am beyond furious and nauseated all at once. How does this have anything to do with my boss? And it’s not like that. I’m not like that. “Do you mind leaving? I don’t feel so great.”

  “The elephants again?” He points to the back of my head and bites his lower lip. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t supposed to mention any of this. It was part of our deal, wasn’t? Crap! You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  I snort, my whole body shaking with some strange, conflicting emotions. “When was the last time you saw me cry?”

  He pauses, frozen to the tips of his toes. “Is this a trick question?”

  “Get out.” I throw my comb at him, wondering at myself and my sudden loss of self-control.

  “All right, all right.” Ringmaster moves toward the door, but pauses, raising a finger in warning. “But don’t think you can always talk to me like this just because you’re a basket case. I can only deal with so much crap right now.” He slips out and slams the door, rattling the whole room.

  When I hear him out in the shop, I flop down onto my bed and curl up into the fetal position. “I am a basket case, aren’t I?” For three minutes I will the tears to come. Don’t they say it’s a relief to cry? That tears have healing power? Well, if they do, I don’t find out; I’m as dry as the Sahara.

  A note arrives the next morning. Or rather, I find it taped to a large brown box sitting outside the shop. I look right and left, but it’s too early for many people to be out. And now I’m thinking of a note taped to the door a few weeks ago: “U owe me big. Won’t wait 4ever. – D.A.R.” What could that mean for me? It was obviously a threat, and I should have told Ringmaster about it, but there is only so much paranoid lunacy I can take from him.

  Chewing my bottom lip, I hesitate, make to lift the parcel, and pause again. “Is this a trick?” The question is directed at no one. “It’s not going to explode, right?” But I am overreacting . . . I hope. The first note had been a joke, surely. And a lady with a cocker spaniel is giving me the stink-eye, walking a beat faster as she continues to shoot me worried glances.

  “I’m not crazy,” I say and then amend with, “mostly.”

  I tap the box with the toe of my tennis shoe and retreat a few steps. Nothing happens. “Good enough.” Hefting the rather light box into my arms, I re-enter the Antique Boutique and lay my burden to rest on the filthy countertop.

  With care I ease the letter free of the tape and open it. The handwriting is a little familiar, looping yet tidy on the thick, off-white stock. All it says is:

  “Chez Ardal, 6:30? I’ll pick you up. Send regrets only.”

  Tremulous fingers, too neat to belong to me and yet do, untie the bit of twine holding the package closed. The box’s flaps flop heavenward, and I pounce. There is a bunch of packing paper inside, which I rip out and toss onto the floor. And I pause, staring at a blinding-white apron, embroidered with the word “miss” done in deep teal thread. My heart beats a little faster as I rub some of the starch-stiff fabric between my thumb and forefinger. “Chez Ardal?”

  With a smile tugging at my lips, I slip the apron over my head. Ardal had said he liked to cook . . . But why give me an apron? I can’t remember if I’ve ever touched a stove in my life.

  My smile fades. Memory is dangerous. This I know. But there are even greater dangers, like the unknown. “Happy people are often wrong,” I say to the woman in the antique mirror next to the Van Gogh replica. Who is this Ardal? And who am I? What if he’s some psychopath who’s good at pretending to be normal? What if I’m the psychopath and he’s going to trust me with sharp kitchen knives?

  Maybe it’s time to know who’s who. Maybe it is time to try to remember and burst a few bubbles. Without paying attention to what I am doing, I remove the apron, fold it up, and place it back in the box.

  I am going to risk Ringmaster’s wrath. I go to the door, lock it, and turn the sign to closed. Then I slip back into my living quarters and pull out my laptop. “Here goes.”

  With the last of my online gift cards, courtesy of Ringmaster’s “generosity,” I purchase two books: At the Bottom of the Glass: A Guide to Putting Down the Bottle…for Good and Know Thyself: A Five Step Workbook to Reacquainting You With Yourself. That’s a start. Maybe.

  Next, I reach for my music player, a relic of my forgotten past. All I know is that it is purple and no longer charged. “Okay,” I say, jumping to my feet and diving for the closet. I pull out my brown leather messenger bag, another memento from my days of yore, and study it. There’s a worn spot with lots of sticky stuff like someone had ripped a sticker off and rubbed and rubbed, unable to get all of the glue off.

  With a curse, I flop down onto the floor and rifle through the bag’s contents. There are sheets of paper all crumpled up at the bottom. These I unfold only to find the name “Scotch” written dozens of times in a sloppy cursive. But at the bottom page there are several words crossed out. “Ann, Anna, Emily.” Odd. I wait for the torture on my brain to begin, but I am only a little niggled. It’s funny how when I want to have memories, I am no longer able.

  Giving up on the papers, I find my cord, plug my device in, and download the needed software. I blow a strand of the auburn nuisance out of my eyes and watch with interest as my playlist begins to show up on my laptop.

  The first song to come up is some 1980s rock ballad. I click on it and start to listen. The melody is kind of familiar, which makes me hope—for a moment, until I remember hearing it on the oldies station the other day. I’d said it was strange hearing the song, since it was obscure. “Some group from Australia? New Zealand?” I can’t remember, but this is a start. I type the song’s title into a search engine and click on the first link that pops up. “Australia. Huh.”

  If there’s something special about this song—for me, that is—I’m not going to find it online. I return to the music menu on my computer and click on the next song. Some pop band, again, obscure. This one is not even a little familiar. I look at the band’s name and the song’s title and enter them into the search engine. “‘Welsh Christian band, established in the mid-nineties.’ Huh.”

  Every song after is from a different country, no two overlapping. A lot is from Europe, but there’s a Canadian boy band in there and even a few from South America tunes. But none of these songs sound familiar to me. With a groan I click on the last song. It’s by some band I can’t find anywhere on the web, Thanks for the Raspberry Jam. The song is called “Dad’s Apology.”

  It starts off with an acoustic guitar strumming, and a few beats in, a man begins singing:

  “Won’t you take my hand,

  Prove me wrong this time?

  Can’t we just forget

  That I was out of line?

  I thought I knew and had it all

  When our love was spring,

  But now
it’s fall.”

  The song goes on to talk about how the man, who calls himself “Daddy,” still loves her, still wants her, doesn’t care about who wronged whom, but will she—Jenn, darling—please come home?

  By the end, I feel like I’ve been run over by a pack of elephants. It’s too heavy, too deep for me to process. The tune itself is a little familiar, but part of me wonders if I just want it to be.

  “This is getting me nowhere.” I close out of my laptop’s music player and glance at the clock. Not half an hour has gone by.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  With purpose, I get to my feet and storm into the shop. Something has to be done.

  There, behind the counter, sits the bag full of Ringmaster’s latest offering: booze, booze, and more booze. I hesitate for a moment, and I hear a voice in my head: “Alcoholic.” That is enough to propel me forward. I snatch up the bag of problems and march them to the door. Gritting my teeth, I open the door and thump my burdens down on the sidewalk. There sits the drink, and with it sits the drunk, my former self—or, so I imagine.

  I curse at the bag and give it one good kick before returning inside. Victorious, I slam the door shut and slide down along the wall ‘til I’m sitting pressed against it.

  The shop is quiet but not peaceful. Something is missing. Something has been missing for a long time.

  My head turns to look at the circus, my miniature circus, perhaps the root of my madness or my last shred of sanity. The elephants are there, both of them. The acrobats stand, poised to do their tricks. The ringmaster—the real porcelain ringmaster—doffs his hat and stares into the crowd, which consists of myself and the rest of the shop. The clowns are in place, and the lions remain in their cage. But something is missing. And I know, deep down I know that this is vital to my memory.

  “Find what’s missing,” I say, dragging myself to my feet, trying to forget about the bottles outside the door. I give the door one wistful glance and move away from it. No, the drink will only make me forget. I’m done with forgetting; it’s time to remember.

  The circus, the drinks, the shop, Ringmaster . . . all are somehow connected. If I remember what they mean, then maybe, just maybe my sanity will return and I won’t lose Ardal. Or myself.

  I must’ve played connect the dots as a child. I can do this.

  I start with Ringmaster. The other week, he almost seemed familiar to me. Granted, I’ve seen him every day for three years, but this was different. Perhaps he is someone from my past. But wouldn’t he just come out and say it?

  I move onto the shop. I’ve been working here for three years. That’s when my memories start. A horrible thought comes to me: What if Ringmaster abducted me from somewhere, wiped my memory, and is now using me to run his shop? The thought is so ridiculous I abandon it almost at once.

  Again, this is getting me nowhere, and I’m too wound up for much more introspection. I get to my feet, look out the door, and freeze. There is a tall man standing at the door, the man who is not Ardal, the man who stopped to stare at my display the other day.

  He is staring at me in an unnerving sort of way, seeing me but not seeing me. Then he comes to his senses, gives me a sneer, waves, and walks away. Odd.

  There is a hollow nagging inside my chest. I am thirsty, but no, the old Scotch—oh, what a terrible name for a recovering alcoholic—she is dead. Almost dead.

  “I could join AA.” Yeah, that would go well: “Hi, my name is Scotch, and I am an alcoholic.” I let out a snort that echoes through the shop.

  6:30 can’t come soon enough.

  As I shower, I try not to remember. I am afraid to now, so it’s put off for a later date. Me and Memory, we’ve been circling each other for some time now, searching for the chink in the other’s armor. There are so many chinks in mine I know he’ll get me eventually.

  While I get ready, I try not to think about alcohol. Instead all my concentration goes to twisting up the auburn nuisance into a loose bun, which is floppy and lifeless, so I dismember it and start again. With a sigh of defeat, I decide to let it flow down my shoulders. “Don’t remember, don’t drink,” becomes my mantra as I dig into the back of my closet.

  The black gown has been tucked into a clear plastic garment bag. I can barely make out the shape of it, so I hang it from the top of the closet door and undo the zipper, letting the fabric breathe. It smells of old perfume and moth balls.

  Wrinkling up my nose, I remove the garment and hold it up against me. The dress is made of polyester and spandex with a sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder two-inch straps and a mermaid hemline. It is the last pretty thing in my closet, so I hesitate. I remember buying this on the web. It had been gorgeous on the model and was cheap and reminded me of my favorite fashion era: the 1950s. I wonder how it will look on me.

  I throw on the right underthings and ease into the flowing confection, giggling to myself. As a girl I must’ve liked to play dress-up or something.

  I hurry into the bathroom to see myself. The floor-length gown fits my form, but how am I supposed to walk in this thing? And it’s loose at the bust. This bothers me, and I think about just wearing my jade green mini dress, when the phone begins to ring out in the shop.

  I am about to throw on some bronzer but glance at the clock. It is six forty. Panicked, I quickly find my bottle of body spray, spritz myself and dash into the shop. The phone stops ringing; the answering service must have picked up the call. And there is a gentle wrapping at the shop’s door.

  “Crap!” I spin around, and there is Ardal, standing outside in the heat, eyebrows raised.

  “Wow!” he mouths, eyes traveling down my dress.

  I look down as well, and when I meet his gaze again, he’s smiling. And I flush. He’s wearing casual gray slacks and blue button-up shirt. “Can you give me a minute?” I ask, opening the door a crack. “I need to change.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Why? You’re beautiful.” He is sincere and still smiling when he says this. “Did you get the parcel I left?”

  It takes a moment of complimenting to convince me to wear the silly thing. I turn on my heels and hustle for the parcel.

  Once I’ve retrieved the apron, Ardal escorts me to his car and helps me inside. It takes both of us to fold my ridiculous dress in with me, and pretty soon I’m sweating and we’re both laughing: him because he finds my dress amusing; me because I’m trying to cover how mortified I am.

  We’re both silent as he drives me out of town, passing houses that keep getting bigger and bigger, and my knuckles are turning whiter and whiter from clutching the seat. He is comfortable with the silence. I hate silence with Ardal. It makes me . . . think. I put a grimace in check as he sneaks a peek at me from the corner of his eye.

  “What?” His eyes are wide with concern, so I force a smile. He’s not buying it; I can tell from his expression he’s hoping I don’t fall apart.

  “What was the apron about?” I asked, hoping to avoid any awkwardness.

  He laughs as we pull into a driveway, drives through two large gates, and pull up to a house too large to be allowed. It is hard not to gawk. The house is about three stories high, sprawling, with enough rooflines to make another house or three. “It looks like a cheerier Thornfield,” I say, referencing the estate in Jane Eyre, before I can stop myself.

  Ardal jumps out of the car and jogs to my door, but I am already climbing out and stumbling over my dress, I get to my feet. “Should’ve changed.”

  “Are you hungry? Or would you like a tour first?” he asks, leading me through the front door, which is painted an enticing green. It makes me think of mint frosting.

  I’m about to say I don’t care, when something catches my eye, hanging right there in the entranceway. “Hmm.” I catch him watching me studying the uber-tacky painting. It’s too ugly to be called retro, what with its screaming neon shades and weird squiggly black and white lines that must have had some meaning . . . but the meaning is escaping me just now.

  “What
do you think?” he asks, his face deadpan, but his voice cracks a little.

  I decide to toy with him, just a bit. “A feast for the eyes,” I say, my voice steady, but my lips twitch. “It’s tasteful, just shy of striving too hard to be thought-provoking. It has a certain edge that is understated—What?”

  His shoulders are shaking and his face is tight with suppressed laughter. “You like it?”

  I squint one eye and put up one thumb to better study it. “It has its merits.”

  “Ha!”

  I laugh. “It’s hideous, isn’t it?”

  “Like a hangover from the eighties.”

  “Why do you keep it, then?”

  “Oh, this isn’t mine. I’m renting.”

  I blink at him. “You’re renting a painting? A painting that looks like something Picasso rolled over and threw up in his sleep?”

  “No, I’m renting the house.” He taps my nose and walks a ways ahead down the long hall. “You’ll need the apron, I’m afraid.”

  I’m on his heels, as much as I can walk in this ridiculous gown. “What’re we doing?”

  The hall ends, and I know why he chose this house to rent. We’re standing in an enormous kitchen, all stainless steel with a good three yards of counter space; overhead hanging storage; and all the equipment you’d expect a professional chef to own, from mixers and blenders to two ovens and two refrigerators. And the counter space already hosts a canister of flour, a few other dry and wet ingredients, a mixing bowl, and a hand-cranked pasta-machine. The room smells of fresh bread—which must be the two Italian loaves cooling on a rack in the corner—and garlic. My mouth waters as Ardal motions for me to join him at the island counter.

  “Aprons on,” he says, his tone serious as he pulls out a crisp, white apron and throws it on over his head.

  I follow suit with mine. “I don’t know how to cook.”

  “You’ll learn quickly enough. Now, first thing when I’m in the kitchen, I like to make certain I have all the necessary ingredients and tools laid out and within easy reach.” He gestures to everything he’s already set out for us. “Obviously, we’re going to be making pasta.”