Everything You Came to See

by Elizabeth Schulte Martin

  And this was the other reason, difficult to admit for Caleb, that he had taken to getting to know his interviewees as little as possible—if the circus fell apart, and odds were it would, Caleb did not want to feel the weight of the lives he’d undone when he fired them all.

  HENRY HAD COME TO THE circus with a prop trunk, a letter from his brother, and the black spiral notebook where he kept his ideas for sketches. He’d had thirty dollars, but he spent it on a plate of spaghetti and a room at a motel where even the front-desk clerk looked like a hooker. This was the first time he had auditioned for anything, and he was terrified. He also hadn’t eaten in a very long time—the thought of the spaghetti wrapped in a grocery bag in his trunk made him salivate like a thirsty dog.

  The wind blew so hard as he searched for the circus grounds that he had to crouch and pin his map down in order to read it. His map was hand-drawn on a napkin by the hooker motel clerk. He’d asked her if she knew where the circus was, and she said, “Yeah, I been there once.”

  He followed her directions to what looked like an abandoned trailer park. At the entrance was an electric sign, cursive letters filled with little, red, unlit bulbs that said FEELY AND FEINSTEIN’S INTERNATIONAL CIRCUS set above a metal arch. Henry walked beneath the arch, toward the cluster of trailers. He lowered his head and pressed against the wind, the pulse of air rushing past his ears, deafening him before subsiding into stony quiet.

  When he lifted his head, he saw a man standing next to a huge white horse not twenty yards away. Henry froze. The man was short and muscular with translucent hair and eyelashes. His skin was probably once just as fair, but now it was the kind of ruddy tan that people with his coloring only achieved working day after day in the sun. His eyes were an unusually light shade of blue, and he wore a shirt with no sleeves and black work pants splattered with drying mud. The horse beside him must have avoided the mud that the man had not because it was spotless, nose to hoof.

  Henry had never been this close to a horse. He’d visited a friend once, when he was very little, who lived on a farm and had goats and cows. And he’d gone deer hunting a couple times with his brother and Will Miller and nearly brushed shoulders with a doe that had sprinted past them. But the only horses he’d seen were from car windows, as he drove by their pastures. They were far in the distance, flicking flies, indifferent to Henry. This one was only a few footsteps away and looking right at him.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man who held its reins.

  “Hi,” said Henry. “Are you Mr. Baratucci?”

  “No,” said the man. “I’m Lorne. Who are you?”

  “I’m Henry Bell. I have an audition.”

  The man seemed to consider this for a moment. He said something that Henry couldn’t quite understand because the wind kicked up again and silenced him. Then the man raised his wiry arm and pointed to one of the trailers.

  “Thanks,” said Henry.

  The man nodded and jerked the horse’s bridle, leading it away. When it moved, he could see the muscles undulating beneath its skin—just one neck muscle, Henry thought, looked larger than the biggest muscle in the human body. In spite of how firmly Lorne held its reins, the horse still craned its great neck to look back at Henry.

  His hand was slick with sweat when he offered it to Caleb Baratucci, this hawk-nosed, green-whiskered man he’d been told to find. But he did the best he could to be cool, be sharp, be older—so the man didn’t ask questions. He did not want to spend another night under a table at a McDonald’s or in the bed of some idiot girl or lying in his prop trunk, half-awake all night for fear someone might shut him in it and bury him. He wanted a cozy trailer or train car, to wake up to the same faces more than one day in a row. He wanted someone to mash up some potatoes for him and slop them onto a plate once or twice a day—he’d eat it like it was birthday cake.

  The manager didn’t ask questions about where he came from or where he’d worked before or why he wanted to join a circus, thank God, but he also didn’t laugh at the act. The manager gave him a “We’ll be in touch” and another cold handshake, and, that fast, Henry was alone again, outside in the cool, wet air, in a strange city. It should have devastated him. He had one more night at his motel and no money to go anywhere after that, no idea where street performers did their busking or how to get there. He should have felt hopeless, but he didn’t.

  Without anxiety to keep it stifled, hunger ripped through him straight up his gut, a slash of pain. He realized he was shaking. Had he been shaking when he performed? If he had, it would be no wonder the manager hadn’t laughed. He knew he had to eat or he would black out, so he opened his prop trunk to see if there was any spaghetti sauce to scrape up.

  He pulled scarves and grease paint aside, rifled through red rubber noses and stained spandex. And this was when the miracle happened. He felt a hand on his shoulder and when he jerked around to hit whoever it was trying to push him into his prop trunk and bury him, he saw the tallest woman he’d ever seen, wearing cutoffs and holding what looked like sandwiches in white wrappers in her arms. The woman had high cheekbones and full lips, which pulled back into a smile. Her blond hair was long, freshly washed and staticky, clinging to her back, except for a few oppositely-charged strands that lifted themselves off her shoulders. She was something out of a fairy tale, queen of the giants, a post-cake Alice.

  The giant pried the electrified strands of hair from her face. “Hi. You must be one of the clowns. Sorry to startle you.”

  He stood up straight. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

  “Just got here,” she said. She offered him one of the paper rolls in her arms. “Sandwich?”

  “Don’t you want it?” asked Henry.

  “No,” she told him. “I went overboard at the deli. I got these poor boys for half-price, ten of them. I can never look at another poor boy. Here, take it.” She waved the sandwich at him. She must have taken great care to have beautiful hands, he thought. Her nails were long, squared, freshly enameled, looking hard as jewels. Her hands themselves, though, were large, easily big enough to palm a regulation-size basketball. She moved them daintily in spite of this, and the skin he touched as he took the sandwich from her was soft.

  He unrolled the sandwich from the paper in a clumsy way and devoured it in front of her. She didn’t try to make conversation with him while he ate but pulled a pack of cigarettes as thin as sucker sticks from her purse. As she stood there, watching him, smoking her cigarette and smiling, he wished he could stop eating and say something to her, something grateful or funny.

  She had deep dimples in her cheeks, which for some reason looked strange on someone of her height. Her clothes were all tight, fitting her badly and wonderfully at once, and her breasts were huge, big as fat cats curled under her T-shirt, stretching the words “Southern Blue” across her chest. When he finished, she offered him a cigarette.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “You want a stick of gum?” she asked.

  “What kind?”

  “Big Red. I only chew Big Red.”

  “Oh, man, that’s my favorite,” said Henry, holding out his hand. “It’s so juicy and super cinnamony.”

  She unwrapped the gum before she handed it to him. He couldn’t remember anyone ever doing this for him, certainly not a stranger. In fact, strangers usually held out the pack and let him get his own piece. He considered that she might be coming on to him, but while it was hard to pin her age, he felt certain she was several years older than him. It seemed more likely that she was just weird.

  She said her name was Adrienne and asked what his was.

  “William Henry,” he said, and then added, “Harrison,” and then added, “Bell.”

  “That’s a hell of a name.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s very nice.”

  Henry noticed that one of the rings on her finger was a wedding band. Cheap-looking silver, like his mother’s. A poor woman’s wedding band.

  “You
r mother is patriotic, then?” she asked, dragging from her cigarette.

  “I guess. She liked the Fourth of July.”

  “Are your brothers and sisters named for presidents?”

  “Just me. My little brother is named after Frank Zappa, but his name is just Frank, not Frank Zappa.”

  “I love that,” she said, smiling and grinding the ember of the cigarette into the ground with the toe of her canvas shoe. She tucked her purse in her armpit. “Alright,” she said, “I need to go. Hope I see you around.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “thanks for the sandwich.”

  She turned and walked toward the building with the rounded roof he had just come from, her hips swaying with her enormous strides.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s just Henry, okay? People just call me Henry.”

  It was the second time that day he’d been called by the name that had only ever been used by his mother, and it didn’t sit right with him.

  “Yep. Got it,” she said, and kept on walking.

  WHEN HE FINALLY GOT BACK to his motel, he took a hot bath. The ink and spaghetti sauce on his back soaked off, turning the bath water the color of vomit.

  He dried with one of the thin motel towels and searched for a space big enough for him to stretch out. There were things that needed to be worked out, toxins that were settling in his muscles and organs; toxins caused, for example, by the circus manager. Henry still couldn’t believe he hadn’t been impressed by the bit, even though Henry had perfected it, studied the movements of his facial muscles for weeks and then spent hours with his ass in the air and his knees tucked next to his ears as he practiced mimicking those movements with the muscles in his back. His body was wrecked from practicing it.

  Then there was the toxin caused by regret and hunger. He wished he’d had the wherewithal to get that giant woman’s number, and maybe ask for another one of those poor boys for the road.

  In the space between the end of the twin bed and the television, he sat down on the rug, legs straight out in front of him, and folded himself in half. The carpet was rough and coated with a mixture of humidity and nicotine that had settled into the fibers. The whole motel smelled like semen and stagnant water. There was hardly any room to stretch, even though the only things Henry had cluttered the room with were his prop trunk, his own body, and a grocery bag that held a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a spoon, and the letter from Andre.

  He’d gotten the letter several weeks ago, and Henry had still not answered it. He was beginning to doubt that he was even capable of writing Andre back. With every week that passed, Henry thought of a thousand more things that he could absolutely not live without telling his brother, and so the very idea of starting to write became impossible. There was just too much to say.

  The last time Henry saw Andre, he was twelve. Andre was seventeen. His brother left at night with nothing but a duffel bag, and Henry had watched him go, too small to keep him from leaving, too afraid to wake their father so he could stop him. Besides, it had seemed so unreal that part of Henry figured a cop would drag Andre home before he even got out of town. His brother did not get caught, though. Henry spent the next two years thinking his brother was dead, occasionally finding himself doubled over with stomach pains in the school nurse’s office. He’d thought this all the way up until he’d received the letter, in fact. But the stomach pains were the worst in the beginning, when he was first getting used to the idea of his brother not being in the world, and they didn’t even begin to subside until Christiakov, his Russian clowning teacher, taught him to stretch.

  Christiakov said that if Henry couldn’t stop himself from being anxious (which created the toxins in the first place) he ought to at least be able to stop the physical pain that the toxins eventually caused.

  And so Henry stretched in his smelly motel now and told himself he would get to his brother’s letter as soon as everything wasn’t so uncertain. Moving onto his hands and knees, he lifted his back leg and grabbed the ankle with his left arm, making a hoop of these appendages that strained his spine again but relieved his stiffness. He knew just when enough was enough, like a violinist knows how to tighten the strings on an instrument to produce the right note. It was all about balance.

  It occurred to him now, for the first time, that he should have asked his teacher: Where does the poison go once you move it out of your muscles? Do you piss it out? Sweat it out? Or does it just recirculate and poison some other part of you?

  CHAPTER 2

  IN JUNE, CALEB ARRIVED AT the circus grounds on the first official day of the season. Adrienne accompanied him, as she always did, having baked about four dozen thumbprint cookies to welcome back the performers. They parked in the lot, which wasn’t much more than a muddy hole at the moment, and Seamus met them at the busted sign that marked the entrance, smirking as he shook Caleb’s hand.

  “Well, hello,” he said. “Are we ready for this?”

  “Don’t say ‘we.’ You sound like an asshole.”

  “Fine then.” He continued to smirk, obviously not the least bit bothered by Caleb’s insults. He was used to them, for one, and for another, Caleb knew Seamus didn’t care if he came off like an asshole or not. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Yes,” he said, though he felt anything but ready. At least he had hired the clowns: a young woman from the West Coast, and, at Adrienne’s urging, the high school dropout. There was nothing left to do on that front but pray, and since Caleb wasn’t in the habit of that, there was nothing left to do but hold his breath, watch, and see if two weeks was enough time for the two newbies to figure out how to work together.

  Seamus turned to Adrienne and reached up for a one-armed hug, avoiding her plate of cookies.

  “How’s my girl?” he asked. “Beautiful as ever.”

  “You’re so full of crap, Seamus. Do you want a cookie?”

  “No, thank you, though I imagine they’re wonderful. Watching my figure.”

  Caleb rolled his eyes. Because of his father’s investments, Seamus was now reasonably well-off and had the luxury of taking good care of himself. He looked nearly as fit as he had as a teenager when he and Caleb had lived in Dogtown and spent their every free minute playing baseball. Caleb thought if he had Seamus’s money he’d have a bit less of a gut, too, but he also had Adrienne and would never have turned down her cookies, no matter how much money they made.

  Seamus owed his good position in life largely to his grandfather, Alastar Feely, and the 1904 World’s Fair. The neighborhood where Seamus and Caleb grew up, Dogtown, got its name from an incident that occurred during the Fair. According to that legend, Igorot tribesmen from the Filipino exhibit would sneak into the neighborhood of Dogtown and steal dogs from the residents, mostly blue-collar Irish families, the fathers of which were often absent, working long days and nights. The Igorots ate the dogs, which St. Louisans found disgusting, but the fact didn’t stop them from going in hoards to the Fair’s Igorot village.

  While it was true that the Igorots ate dogs, and obtained them from that neighborhood, it was not the Igorots who did the actual stealing of the dogs. It was done by a very young man, Alastar, the son of a bricklayer who lived in the neighborhood. An Igorot tribesman knocked on his door one night and asked, in battered English, about the availability of dogs for hunting and eating. Alastar, who did not want to be a bricklayer like his father, explained that all the dogs around here were pets, and if the tribesmen got caught taking them from people’s yards, they could be in a lot of trouble. If they wanted dogs, Alastar said, he could provide them, but not for free. They would have to pay for their meat with work. After the Fair was over, Alastar wanted the men to stay on for a few months as an attraction in a show he was assembling himself.

  The tribesman agreed, perhaps because he wasn’t exactly sure what he was agreeing to, and Alastar brought them dogs upon dogs—his neighbors’ dogs, his cousins’ dogs, dogs he knew by name, whom he untied from trees and made off with in the night. Meanwhile, he
bought a realistic-looking mermaid tail for a woman in his neighborhood whose husband had died, and who was scrambling for money. He also purchased a preserved fetus from a medical school, outfitted it with shark’s teeth and clay horns, and attached a modified rubber toy snake for a tail. And this was how Alastar Feely began his circus—with one sideshow of small, muscular brown men, a mermaid, and a demon baby.

  By the time Alastar died, the circus had ten good freaks, two elephants, and three pretty trapeze artists. Alastar passed the circus on to his son, Conall, who partnered briefly with the Feinsteins, grew the troupe into its heyday, and passed it on to Seamus Feely. Who really didn’t do much with it at all.

  Caleb, Adrienne, and Seamus slid between the flaps of the circus tent, which Caleb had paid a team of ex-cons (in cash) to erect. Inside, they found the performers already at work. Lola, Remy, and Chuck, who made up the Flying Delaflote family, were on the trapeze. The Nigerian fire-eater, Azi, had a woman on each shoulder, Vroni on the left, Jenifer on the right, and each woman had a lit lantern on a chain that they spun until they were white wheels of light. Lorne, the trick-rider and animal handler, rode the horse around the ring at a trot, back arched, chin lifted, the pale blue color of his eyes made all the more otherworldly looking by the way the lighting was rigged at the moment. He kicked his commands into the horse’s sides with his heels.

  Lola fell from her brother’s grip then, shrieking and giggling as she dropped into the net. Her fall distracted Lorne, who nearly slipped from the horse’s back.

  “Christ, Chuck, you have the hairiest forearms! I can’t hold on because I can’t stand to touch them. Shave! Please!” she moaned.

  “Always has to fucking scream when she falls,” Lorne said, shooting Lola a glare. The aerialists ignored him and continued arguing.

  “I am not shaving my forearms,” said Chuck. “It will itch like fucking death. I won’t do it!”

  Caleb had known the Delaflotes for five years. They were French-American and he never got tired of hearing them curse and insult each other in French accents.