Girl on a Wire

by Gwenda Bond

  Remy held the clothes up with one hand while he carefully removed a corkboard from the bottom of the drawer with the other. The board was almost too big to fit the space, and he lifted it out awkwardly. The first nonsmooth move I’d ever seen him make.

  “Our house is in Sarasota.” He held the board to his body so my view of the things hanging on it was blocked. “When we got to winter quarters to officially join the Cirque, I found this near our trunks and the other gear we brought across town from home. I’m almost sure I’m the only one who saw it. I don’t know if it was my mom’s or if it was my grandfather’s and she had it with her. Or if someone planted it with our stuff. I found it right on top, like it had been left there for us to discover. I . . . I snuck it away and hid it, as fast as I could. I didn’t want anyone else to see it. And no one ever acted like anything was missing, which means it could have come from anywhere.”

  “What is it?”

  In response, he laid it on his rumpled bed, a few of the photos and clippings pinned across the surface fluttering before they settled. I couldn’t make out the details from where I stood.

  “Cops would call it a murder board,” he said.

  “A what?”

  “Sorry. That’s how I’ve thought of it. Too many mystery novels on the road.” He glanced over at the stack of books. “The trusty detective always cracks the case. And Mom watches Law and Order. All of them. I just mean evidence. It’s evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. But it can’t be good. Murder boards never are.”

  I stepped next to Remy. My shoulder brushed his. I dreaded seeing what was on the board, but couldn’t keep myself from looking.

  The largest photo was of Dad, looking so light on the wire that it was as if his feet weren’t touching it. My semiblurry face and blonde hair were visible behind him. I must have been on tiptoe, doing one of our occasional duo sets. The picture couldn’t have been more than a year old.

  Much of the rest of the board was taken up by black-and-white snapshots from decades ago, clearly taken long before the age of digital cameras. All of them featured performers. Two tiny girls, one standing on the other’s shoulders so her hand was high enough to rest on the flank of an enormous elephant wearing a fancy headdress. The girl highest up had a familiar-looking rose pinned to her chest. In another picture, a ring girl for Barnum wore an uneasy smile and a hat with a tall peacock feather. A third featured a group of clowns standing next to a leather steamer trunk that looked old and beat-up, with a distinctive pattern of gold studs embossed on the top. One of the clowns was mugging for the camera, holding up a square scarf with an exaggerated eyebrow raise.

  The rose. A peacock feather. My breath caught in my throat.

  There was also a faded newspaper clipping with the headline “Clowns fired after malfunction blinds three, kills two.” Another clipping read, “Elephant, ‘Tiny,’ kills two performers in escape.” And one more: “Ring girl dies in fall at 19.”

  Remy reached out and tapped a washed-out photo I hadn’t noticed yet. It was creased at the edges in a way the others weren’t, like someone had handled it often. “This is an old picture of my grandparents,” he said.

  A handsome young man with broad shoulders easily held a smiling beauty perched on his forearm, while his other hand extended forward with the palm open, something in it glinting in the camera’s flash or the sun.

  I turned from the board, my breath still caught. I released it. “What do you think this means?”

  “I saw the feather in your hair when we were in the crowd, walking toward the tower. I thought it must be a joke,” Remy said. “I wasn’t going to say anything to you, even after I saw it. I didn’t think any of this meant anything. I assumed the board was someone messing with us, or maybe something my grandfather would have kept. But . . . now, I don’t know . . . These photos are like proof of some of the stories people tell about your grandmother. Proof that the accidents happened.”

  Anger rose up in me. “You saw the peacock feather. Why didn’t you tell me on the bridge that it was something you thought was linked to my grandmother?”

  His expression was pained. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I didn’t want to talk nonsense. Because the thing is, I don’t believe in magic either—it seems crazy. But my grandparents always did. My mom does. And then, I saw the feather, and you were up there and you stopped. And I thought, What if the board does mean something? What if that ring girl died because of the peacock feather? Or the others? That picture of you and your dad . . . I didn’t even know who it was for sure until you guys showed up in Sarasota. That’s why I came over to dance with you during the masquerade party. To see if you knew us.”

  “I’d heard of the Garcias, that we . . . didn’t get along,” I said. “But I knew almost nothing about you.” I examined the ominous collection of items on the board again.

  “My mom was beside herself when she heard the Maronis had been hired. I thought maybe she could finally let the past go after Granddad died. He was her dad, and he was as hard on her as on us. But your family’s name brings out the worst in her.”

  “Do you think she would . . .” I didn’t want to finish the accusation, and I didn’t have to.

  “No. I can’t imagine my mom doing anything to you, besides being unhappy you’re here. But somebody made this board, and whoever it was might. So before I knew what I was doing, there I was, climbing that bridge tower. Just in case.”

  “Remy . . .” I wanted to tread carefully. “This is sounding a little crazy. What are we talking about here?”

  His face hardened, the stubble adding to the effect.

  “You admitted you were in trouble up there,” he said. “Is there a logical explanation?”

  Sure. I could explain it lots of ways. The wind, the height, my nerves. But what Remy was talking about, well, the only word for it was magic. I couldn’t make myself believe that was the answer.

  “If someone is out to get my family, they wouldn’t need magic to kill us. We’re in a dangerous line of business.”

  Remy said, “There’s something else.” There was an envelope pinned to the bottom of the corkboard, and he unfastened it. He handed me the letter inside, handwritten on fancy paper and addressed to Roman Garcia. I read it, shaking my head.

  I’m starting a new circus and I hear the most fascinating stories about the Amazing Maronis and what they are capable of, why they were cast out of the community. I’m told you are the one who can tell me the truth of things. Please contact me at your earliest convenience with any guidance you can share that will help me bring them back into the fold. The circus needs all its old magic back. Don’t you agree?

  It was signed Thurston Meyer. The date at the top was from last year.

  “From Thurston to my grandfather,” said Remy.

  “He never comes right out and asks if Nan is magic . . .”

  “But I bet he did when they talked.”

  My hand trembled. Remy noticed and lifted the sheet away, folded it carefully, and gave me a moment to collect myself.

  “Remember at that first party, I had a rose after the lights came back on?” I asked.

  “The rose you asked me about on the bridge?” He looked chagrined. “Like I said, I had nothing to do with it. But . . . I am sorry for coming on like such a jerk that night.”

  “Well, you’re gifted at it for someone who doesn’t want to be a Romeo.” I paused, deciding how much to tell him. I might as well say it all. “Anyway. I wore it the next day to rehearse, and I fell. I hadn’t fallen since I was four years old. When I got home, Nan saw the rose and freaked. She unwrapped this gross strand of hair from around the stem. Claimed it was an elephant hair.”

  I hesitated.

  “What?” he asked.

  “She said someone had left it to rattle her, and that it made me fall. Then she burned it. I caught her.”

  “Do you think the stories about her are true?”


  He said it softly. Like he didn’t want to ask.

  “No.” I wouldn’t believe that. I couldn’t. “There must be some other explanation. When she burned it, she told me she was making sure that it couldn’t hurt anyone. I don’t know what happened in the past, but I know somebody wants revenge. I can’t let anything happen that could ruin my family’s future. I’ve worked—we’ve all worked—too hard to get here.”

  “I understand.” Remy reached out to touch his grandfather’s photo. “Before he died, he started talking constantly about how he’d lost his luck, how it was stolen from him, a long time ago. How he’d lost our family’s place on top.”

  “But your family is on top. Always has been.” It was the Maronis who’d shuffled off into the shadows. It was me fighting to get us back in the spotlight. It was Nan who’d suffered.

  “It’s not been as easy as it looks from the outside.”

  Before I could say anything else, he went on. “We were raised to think the Maronis were awful. And, like I said, my mom has been extremely weird since you guys arrived. Wanting to know where we’re going, what we’re doing. Climbing up on that bridge—I might as well have asked for them to watch my every move. That’s why I gave you the note.”

  “Similar story here.” Though, in my case, Sam was charged with the watching. “Remy, is it possible—just possible, I’m not saying I think this—that someone in your family planted these things on me? I know you said it couldn’t be your mother. But . . . could anyone have had access to these . . . bad luck objects?”

  “I’ve looked everywhere, and found nothing. I don’t think so. I hope not.”

  “But then where does that leave us—Thurston?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but we need to find out. You could have died on the bridge.”

  I swallowed. “We could always die.”

  There was no way to dispute it. “There’s one other thing I have for you.” He took my arm, and even though his grip on my forearm was light, I felt his touch as acutely as a burn. He tugged me along behind him, up the hall toward the kitchen. He stopped at the low dining table attached to the wall, plush chairs dotting its edges.

  His hand left my arm and he pulled out another drawer, this one on the side of the table. I saw a jumble of candles, matches, and place mats.

  “This isn’t going to be another murder board, is it?” I asked.

  But I recognized what he removed from this drawer immediately. The painted faces were as familiar as my childhood. Nan’s deck of cards. I hadn’t seen them since we arrived in Sarasota.

  Remy laid them on the table. “The night you got here, after the fight, I brought Novio back home, and my mom was sitting at this table with those in front of her. She shoved them in that drawer and hasn’t touched them since, from what I can tell. Everyone knows your grandmother used to give readings for people from her one-of-a-kind hand-painted circus tarot cards. Even me. This is hers, isn’t it?”

  I stared. Did that mean someone in the Garcia family was behind the break-in? But that wasn’t possible. They were all accounted for. Nan had visited Maria Garcia and her husband that night, and Remy, Dita, and Novio had been at the party. And Nan hadn’t said a word about the cards being missing . . .

  “Yes. They’re hers,” I said.

  He frowned. “Does she know they’re here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The front door banged open, only steps away, and I almost jumped out of my skin. Over his shoulder, Remy said, “Dita, give us one more minute.”

  She was breathing hard. “That’s all you’ve got. Everyone else is on their way back.”

  But she left us, back out into the night chill and grass to wait. I jerked my head back toward his room. “Does she know about . . . ?”

  “You’re the only one besides me who does. I told her you were in love with me.”

  “You what?”

  “It was the most believable story I could come up with on short notice.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “There’s no time to be mad about it.”

  “There’s a little time,” I grumbled.

  He picked up the deck of cards and pressed them into my hand. “Take these. See how your grandmother reacts to them.”

  “She’s not guilty of anything,” I said, automatically defensive. “I don’t want to upset her.”

  “Jules . . . it’s a good first step. Just see how she reacts.”

  I took them. “Fine. I’ll give it a shot. How will we talk?”

  “Thirty seconds. Hurry,” Dita called from outside.

  “I can text you. What’s your number?” he asked.

  “I don’t have a phone.” I was against them on the grounds that text speak was inelegant. Plus, I’d never needed one.

  He lifted his eyebrows, but said, “The school trailer, then. I get there a little early for afternoon classes. Say you need to use the computer. And be careful.”

  “You too.”

  “I’m not the one being sabotaged.” He lifted his hand, trailed his fingers along my arm. “Take care.”

  He was already dashing back to his room to conceal the board. I banged down the stairs and out into the night with a heavy sigh.

  Dita raised her eyebrows. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled to her elbows, and she raised an arm in good-bye. “See you around, Jules.”

  “You will.”

  “Oh, and tell Sam hi.”

  She was inside before I could ask why she wanted me to do that.

  I had believed Remy’s answers would make things clearer, but they were only getting more complicated. Now I officially had suspects, plural. Not to mention a suspicion that something was happening between the two of us—and that I wanted it to.

  twelve

  * * *

  I couldn’t put off showing the tarot cards to Nan forever, but I’d decided to try another tactic first. One that took me an extra day to arrange, given our travel to the next stop in Raleigh and, once we arrived, my walk between two buildings that were a mere few stories tall. What that added up to was two nights of restless sleep after Remy’s murder board revelations.

  And when the morning of truth came, I wasn’t sleeping, but waiting for Nan to wake up. As soon as I heard her stirring in the RV kitchen, I bounded out of bed.

  I walked in to find Nan, with her red dressing gown wrapped around her, sitting at the table, her hand resting on a white coffee mug. She claimed her morning caffeine was the “threshold between being asleep and being me.”

  Schooling my face into its very best helpful, solicitous, adoring-relative expression, I eased down across from her, leaning my elbow on the table. I hadn’t run my new approach by Remy, because he couldn’t understand what she’d be like with the tarot deck back, and able to make grand pronouncements again. Pronouncements that might be enough to sway Mom or Dad into listening. No, I needed more intel first. And the more I thought about Thurston’s letter to Roman Garcia, the more I was sure it had to come through the billionaire himself.

  Nan could help, without realizing what she was doing. I batted my eyes at her.

  She gave me a small smile. Wary, but real. “Yes, Jules? Don’t you have your next stunt to rehearse?”

  I wasn’t doing a bridge or building walk in every city, and she knew it.

  “You’re finished with coffee?” I asked.

  “With round two of coffee. This might be a three-round day.”

  “But . . . do you have any other plans today?” Before she could answer, I added, “We haven’t been spending enough time together. I know you’re mad at me, but I miss you.”

  It was true, and the attention pleased her. I knew it would. In this way, all Maronis are alike.

  “We just watched Hildy and Walter the other night, and you’ve been busy. You’re becoming a star. Just like you wanted. And you’ve managed to stay safe. So far.”

  She sounded approving, but there was still worry beneath it. I couldn’t put the corkboard out of my mind. I’d had a nightmare
about that ring girl, her mouth stuffed full of peacock feathers, smothering her . . . one of my worst dreams ever. The sheets had been soaked when I’d woken up in the middle of the night. I’d lain there trying to picture Roman Garcia, wondering whether he’d spent his life wishing for bad things to happen to us. Someone out there was picturing me and wishing for them now.

  “Plus,” I said, “you’ve been staying in way too much.”

  “Jules,” Nan said, “what are you after?”

  “I made us an appointment.”

  She drummed her fingers on the table. The perfect red nails on each tip were a relief. “For?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Her lips pursed. She picked up her cup of coffee, took one last swallow, and handed it to me. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “I learned from the best. But I think you’ll enjoy this.”

  No reason for her not to, depending how our visit to Thurston went. He could be charming, no matter what he was up to, and maybe it would even have the side effect of making her see our presence at the Cirque in a better light. I’d get to watch him with Nan and look for any sign that he believed in the “old magic” he’d mentioned to Roman Garcia in the letter.

  Nan sighed. “Get me round three and I will begin the necessary improvements to go out.”

  Nan’s preparations took a good hour, but I’d factored that in. She’d already been beautiful sitting at the breakfast table without a speck of makeup on. There was something quietly incognito about her in the mornings, yet her star power was always intact. Seeing her was like spotting Katharine Hepburn dressed down and hiding behind sunglasses. For people like them, it was impossible to pretend not to be exceptional.

  But I understood her need to wear armor. She emerged from the back in a calf-length silk dress with a swirling pattern of black and white stripes and black heels. Her lips were Monroe red, as usual.

  “Now I’m the one who’s underdressed.” I adjusted the maroon bandeau I wore with jeans and a Chinese-style silk jacket I’d liberated from the cast-offs corner in the costumer’s trailer. The dragon on the back was missing a wide swathe of gold detail, but it was still pretty.