Black Eyed Susan

by Elizabeth Leiknes

  Underneath, in parentheses, it said, “Best Show on Earth … If you don’t get out much.” Suddenly, I knew why we were there, but how could she have known that going to a circus was on my list? Calliope, looking both proud and mischievous, put her arms around Will and me.

  Her twinkle was back. “How bizarre!” she said. “What are the odds of bumping into a traveling circus?” She threw her hands in the air. “We might as well enjoy the show now that we’re here,” she said, calling to Leo, who was observing from the safety of the car.

  Leo, Will, and Calliope talked about the circus attractions while I examined the entrance sign, particularly the painted-on characters, floating in quirky swirls. Just below the top border resided the nine muses’ parents: Zeus, the king of the gods, and Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. I wondered if Mnemosyne relished her millions of memories, or if they were more of a curse.

  As I examined the nine goddesses flying around the sign’s perimeter, I decided it would make a fantastic album cover. The muses were beautiful, not only because they were stunning, but because they would remain young and stunning forever, and immortality is always beautiful. Each of the nine pictured muses stamped out grief and despair in her own personal way. As I made my way around the sign for the first muse—Terpsichore, muse of dance—the last one caught my eye: Calliope, muse of epic poetry. In the picture, Calliope read a book, which she held with her right hand, and when I looked over at my Calliope, she held an identical pose to the mythical Calliope, her right hand clutching the circus brochure.

  She rested her glasses on the bridge of her nose and squinted slightly to see the fine print. Upon further examination, as her silky black hair sparkled in the midday sun, I noticed she no longer looked like an ex-exotic dancer. Dare I say, she looked normal. With her long dancer legs, perfectly flat belly, toned arms, and bulging D-cup, she still turned every man’s head, and most of the women’s, but she looked different. She looked smart.

  Her tattoo, still covered by a shroud of gauze, continued to conceal her past, but she was evolving right before my eyes, leaving behind the old Calliope on a smoky, lonely stage in Vegas. When she caught me looking at her, she walked over to my side, and as if she were reading my mind, she stared at the nine muses and spoke to me:

  “In every woman lies the power to be

  The author of her self-made history.

  The future’s hers to mold and redefine

  And recreate again for all of time.”

  Calliope then walked away toward the entrance gate and the spectacle that awaited us.

  The air, heavy and humid, hung thick with intangible mystery and magic. The four of us walked through an arched metal gate teeming with wild vines. When we got through to the other side, we saw the conditionally Best Show on Earth preparing its second show of the day, and the last show of its one-month stint in Normal.

  Though it was a small production, something about the way the circus workers moved convinced me the show was especially important to them. Two or three dozen people, children and adults alike, ran about doing specific jobs, all of them looking like they were meant to be there, like they belonged.

  The circus’s main attractions were nestled in a mini-valley, its backdrop a giant hill covered with dandelions. The performers and workers appeared a self-contained community, living the kind of life where every day was a birthday party, and no one was uninvited. No one was a freak because they were all freaks. And each of them was industrious: baton-carrying acrobats, aerial artists, clowns, and one chimp on a bike. Dogs jumped rope, a liberty horse galloped on an invisible track with no riders, and roustabouts peeked out of secret nooks and crannies.

  There was one giant Ferris wheel, one ornate merry-go-round not unlike the one in Story City, a shiny Fun House with two jesters flanking the entrance, and in the center of everything, one large ring. The ring, covered with a big white tent-like canvas top, was the focal point of all goings-on, and when the bugles announced the show’s start, guests and performers filed in through the ring’s entrance.

  An anxious Leo fired one question after another—“Who’s that? What’s gonna happen? Can those animals get loose?”—all while he watched a tall bearded man dressed in a tuxedo tip his top hat and speak into a microphone.

  “Welcome to …” the man said, pausing, then winking, “… the Best Show on Earth! I am the Master …”

  “Bator,” Will said under his breath, his eyes still focused on a crossword puzzle he’d begun when we sat down.

  “… of this one-ring circus,” the Ringmaster continued. He then introduced the first act as the ring came to life with acrobats, clowns, and costumed, dancing animals. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Ms. Mabel, and …” And then, on cue, the music roared and a five-hundred pound male lion exploded out of a tunnel from outside of the ring. The lion snarled a thunderous roar, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth and mean spittle. “… Shredder!” shouted the Ringmaster, who seemed half excited and half frightened.

  Noticing Leo’s obvious fear, Will gave him some advice: “Use the force, Leo.”

  Leo, shaky with dread, said, “I’m … outta … here,” but his body remained frozen on the metal bleacher, paralyzed by the sight of Mabel and her King of the Beasts.

  I knew that animals could smell fear in those around them, a pheromone receptor thing, but I’d never read about how far their sense of smell extended. According to what happened next, I’d say it’s about thirty yards.

  When Shredder fixed his gaze on Leo, over the small retaining wall that separated us, Leo sat even more still than before. Out of the side of his mouth, he said in a terrified mumble-whisper, “Why’s he lookin’ at me?”

  The big cat stood at attention, ready to pounce, singling out Leo like he was an injured baby gazelle in the Serengeti. Even at thirty yards, it was clear who’d caught Shredder’s attention, and everyone in the audience now stared at Leo, too. When Leo gulped, the lion twitched one ear, cocked his head to the side, and began to growl, saliva trickling down his fur.

  Mabel the lion trainer held up her right hand, and in one crisp, clear motion, snapped her fingers, simultaneously giving the chunky chain-leash a powerful yank, forcing Shredder to release his fixation on poor Leo.

  And that’s when something strange happened. Mabel, a giant and frightening woman by any standard, locked eyes with Leo, and at the very second she did, Leo relaxed. He released his formerly clenched hands, took a deep breath, and with a glimmer in his now unafraid eyes, smiled at her.

  And when she smiled back, her made-up face, complete with dark, arched eyebrows and painted-on lips, softened as they exchanged flirty smirks. Standing at over six feet tall and weighing in at about half a Shredder, Mabel nearly spilled out of her satin corset and bulged at every seam of her riding pantaloons. Her page-boy haircut was chiseled into a perfect bob of dark hair, complete with blunt bangs, and she looked like Carnie Wilson of the Wilson Phillips group, but crankier … and before she lost all the weight … and taller … and on steroids.

  When she gestured with her arms, it was as if she were cracking an invisible whip, and a mere roll of her eyes made Shredder, a full-grown lion, cower and apologize with a retreating half-growl.

  The Ringmaster piped in with a thankful voice, “Let’s hear it for Ms. Mabel Spark, everyone. Give her a hand!”

  Leo clapped like a spastic monkey, hooting and hollering in Mabel’s direction. She responded with a serious, confident wink, sort of like what a stern grandmother would do if she were a six-foot-tall dominatrix.

  “Hey!” Will said to Leo, who didn’t respond. He just stared into the ring, consumed. Leo was not himself. Or was he?

  Will tried again. “Hey, Loverboy, mind sharin’ your cotton candy?” Again, no response. In a dreamy voice, Will tried a third time. “Oh, no. It wasn’t the airplanes,” he said. “It was Beauty killed the Beast.”

  Leo, still not listening, passed the stick of cotton candy toward Will, all the while keeping his
eyes on Mabel, now talking to the Ringmaster and pointing at Leo.

  Leo pointed to himself and shrugged, trying to look surprised, but within a few seconds, the Ringmaster had a clown make a delivery. The clown, approaching us, mimed his directions and motioned for Leo to choose from three strings hiding in his gripped hand. Leo took one, I took one, and Will took one. When our strings were revealed, mine was the shortest.

  Leo’s, on the other hand, was the longest, therefore earning him a trip to Mabel’s ring of death.

  And just like that, Leo, the little person afraid of his own shadow, pranced hand-in-hand with a circus clown and entered Mabel’s world. He looked happy. He also looked like lunch.

  Leo greeted the giant creature with surprising ease, like he was seeing an old friend.

  And then he said hello to the lion.

  Mabel helped Leo onto the dancing dog’s pedestal, placing him above all other things in the ring, while a confused audience waited for her and Shredder to begin their tricks. But the tricks were going to be slightly delayed. Instead, two people stood, seeing eye to eye for the first time in their lives. Against all odds, and against his strong aversion to spontaneous attraction, Leo fell in love at first sight with a tall, scary lady with a flesh-eating pet for a best friend. Mabel Spark was everything Leo Mayne never wanted.

  With three quick waves of the maestro’s wand, the circus band began the designated song for act one, the love dance that was supposed to be between a woman and her giant pussy … cat.

  In one swift move, staring straight ahead, Will placed my hand in his, and together, we waved to Leo inside his perfect circle.

  At that moment, I thought about me and my friends in mathematical terms. If Calliope, Will, and I equaled three, then the addition of little Leo had put us somewhere in the numerical value of Pi—more than three but less than four. But the thing about Pi is that it can only be an estimate. Since the dawn of decimals, the quest to find a finite number for Pi has continued, but after eons of trying to find the answer, we now know there is no such exact value.

  I watched Leo and Mabel. “He’s not coming with us, is he?” I asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

  “Nope,” Will said, smiling as he watched one lion tamer and one recovering lion act as if no one else existed. “It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  Leo, finally a whole man, had come full circle and was put back together by an unexpected goddess in an unexpected town.

  And then there were three.

  THIRTY

  Leo’s new life was just beginning and for a while I was naïvely happy, until I remembered mine was rapidly coming to a close. The setting sun rudely reminded me of this, and the sky, its co-conspirator, taunted me with its various shades of death gray.

  But then, halfway between Chippewa Falls and Stevens Point, the central Illinois landscape gave me a gift. Through the backseat window, I witnessed a forest sprouting out of a nearby hillside. It was on fire—or, more precisely, aflame with color. Oaks, maples, and aspens shimmered. I’d read about scenic views like this, but seeing what had to be rich, autumnal oranges and yellows for the first time made me understand, after a lifetime of wondering, why Robert Frost had been inspired to write an entire poem about a goddamned tree.

  But like a robust tree withers over time, everything vibrant became colorless. The rich, autumnal landscape disappeared as we drove past, and so did my all too brief ability to see colors. Eventually, the patches of bright blue sky turned gray again, just like the heavenly tree line.

  What did it mean, my fleeting moment in the world of color? My gut made me wonder if it was not a positive sign, but a warning that time was running out. And my last hope was waiting for me in New York, even though she didn’t know it. I knew we had to keep heading east to get to my sister, so I proceeded with the radio game from the comfort of the backseat.

  Calliope drove, waiting for further instructions from the radio, and Will tuned in to the first station he could find.

  “How apropos,” he said when he recognized the song.

  I gave Calliope a look of warning because I knew she was going to mistake this coincidence for something more. “Don’t even,” I said, focusing on the atlas.

  She glanced out her driver’s side window at the almost complete sunset, and hummed along to a familiar song. “It’s a sign,” she said, shrugging, accepting the lyrics as some sort of omniscient truth. Elton John had made his second radio game appearance, this time with “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me,” and Calliope was confident. “Someone doesn’t want the sun to go down.”

  Will, getting more tired and ornery by the minute, said, “I think he said, ‘Don’t you think it’s fun to go down … on me.”

  Calliope drove and pondered. “Now, why would one of us not want the sun to go down?” She tucked her perfect hair behind her perfect ear, and gave Will a playful poke. “Will, are you afraid of the dark?”

  Ignoring the question, he said, “Maybe it’s not us at all. Maybe it’s an outside force trying to help one of us.”

  “Although I search myself, it’s always someone else I see,” Elton sang.

  Right. Someone who’s not me, but looks like me. My sister. Creepy. “No, no, no,” I said. “It’s much simpler than that. ‘I’m growin’ tired, and time stands still before me’ means we should stop for the night and get some rest.”

  Calliope, skeptical of my explanation, said, “What about ‘All my pictures seem to fade to black and white’? Sounds like he’s talking about colorblind Susan.”

  Will rescued me by changing the subject. “Where do you think we go when the sun goes down?”

  “You mean when we die?” Calliope asked.

  “D’ya think we just disappear? Vanish into nothingness?” Will asked, and I could tell by the way he said it that he was hoping for something more than the proverbial ashes to dust answer.

  I was avoiding the topic for obvious reasons, but Will kept at it. “Do we go to a place where everyone wears white and floats around on a cloud all day, or do you think we decompose into oblivion?” He paused, as if he’d forgotten another darker possibility. “Or maybe us moderate sinners end up being contestants on some Wheel of Fortune game that never ends.”

  I laughed because he was completely serious. “So that’s your idea of hell? A never-ending game of Wheel of Fortune?”

  Will was sure. “Ever seen the show? Everyone’s an idiot, it takes no real skill to play it, and Pat Sajak and Vannah White look like they’re wax-museum zombies. When I think of hell, I envision a geriatric version of Wheel of Fortune, where all the players are too feeble to vigorously spin the wheel, and it clicks its way around in slow fucking motion, only to land on ‘bankrupt.’”

  He looked to Calliope next. She shrugged. “Different cultures have different notions of hell.” She plopped a giant wad of gum in her mouth, and began to smack and talk at the same time. “Gehenna in Judaism, Jahannum to Muslims. I like the Chinese and Japanese versions, where you can pay off the leader of hell with bank notes. For me, my personal hell …” She trailed off and mumbled, “Dale.” The ex-boyfriend she’d mentioned back in Las Vegas.

  After an uncomfortable silence, both Calliope and Will stared at me, waiting for my response, so I gave them my reluctant but honest answer. “Okay,” I said in a tone that begged them not to make fun of me. “I have this recurring nightmare about hell. I’ve been having it ever since high school. The first time I had it was the night I watched The Exorcist and Moonstruck back to back.”

  “You’re so full of shit!” Will hollered into the backseat.

  “I swear on my life,” I said, pausing for a silent laugh at the cruel and ironic semantics. “It’s the exact same dream every time. I’m in hell, taking orders from a devilish taskmaster, who is none other than Cher herself. Only instead of yelling at me like Satan, she scolds me only in song, that thunderous, husky voice of hers booming all day and night while I shovel hot coals. I stare at two giant double-doors to
freedom, while she dances around in the bare-butt leather number from that ’80s Navy boat video.”

  After a long, bizarre discussion about Cher, and several hours of driving, we stopped at the Acropolis Inn, a hotel in Athens, a small town in southern Ohio. Getting one room with two double beds was fine with me, but Calliope insisted on getting two rooms.

  She winked at me as we left the check-in desk. “You two might need some alone time.”

  But it was a moot point, because five minutes after we settled into our adjoining rooms, I checked on Calliope, asleep on her bed, and came back to Will, asleep on ours. I was now alone with my sister’s letters. Afraid to read them, I stared at them for a while. What if she wasn’t what I thought she was, or what I was counting on? What if she couldn’t help me? I thought I’d been saving the letters so I would have something to look forward to, but it was really because deep down, I feared disappointment.

  I went back to turn out Calliope’s light, pulled her sheet up over her, and walked back to Will’s bedside. When I kissed his cheek, he cleared his throat as if to say good night, and I snuck out of the room with the letters tucked inside the big atlas.

  The hotel’s pool area, an indoor courtyard plaza in the center of the hotel with one big swimming pool and a tiled Jacuzzi off to the side, was unpopulated and quiet, so I sat down in a slatted, plastic chaise lounge chair and opened my sister’s second letter.

  March 12, 1988

  Dear Ruby,

  It’s been three weeks since I found out about you and I can’t stop thinking about it. I feel like I need to tell you everything that happens to me. I’ll try to stick to the highlights.