by Anne McAneny
“But the nurse said a small man who spoke broken English brought me in, and that he’d disappeared without a trace.”
Rafe grinned. “The Galassos are masters at disappearing. And he was small because his wife used to shoot him out of a cannon. He told them that he saw you fall from the platform, and that your arm was sliced open by a rusty nail on the way down when you tried to catch yourself.”
I harrumphed. “My dad convinced himself to believe that; not sure my mom ever did.” I gazed at Rafe. “But why were you at the train platform that night?”
“It was the night the circus was supposed to come to town. I knew you’d go. Just didn’t know you’d be bringing whiskey—and a knife.”
“I still don’t see how you—”
“I just knew. That you’d want something positive, like the circus train, to be a connection between life before and life after. You used to be such a hopeful girl, Chloe. I pestered my uncle to take me, and when we got there, we found you bleeding. I was so upset; I couldn’t lose another person I cared about.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “After we dropped you off, my uncle and I returned to the platform. He kept screaming at me, but I wouldn’t leave until I scrubbed away all your blood. To make it like it hadn’t happened. Never could find the knife, though.”
“It was in my shoe. Can’t believe the nurses didn’t find it.” I glanced at him shyly for a fleeting moment, feeling like an awkward 15-year-old again. “I still keep it in a lockbox.”
“Why? As a reminder?”
“No. To finish the job it was supposed to do.”
He grabbed me by both arms. “Chloe, why? You have so much to live for.”
“They say time heals all wounds. I say bullshit. I’ve lived life, but from very far away as it passes me by, like I’m watching from a distance. Words can’t explain what I felt when you and Macy were both just . . . gone.”
“Let me try. Rotted and dark. Ripped apart in places you can’t reach or pinpoint.”
“A pit so deep, you forget to remember the way out,” I added. “I couldn’t get a full breath most days, not without it crashing up against my insides. Figured it had to be better wherever you and Macy were.” I forced a lame smile and made jazz hands. “But I’m still here. In this dirty snow globe of a town, still searching for a reason to go on.”
Rafe failed to sniff back his tears this time, letting them fall. I’d never seen Hoop Whitaker cry. Was I seeing it now?
“Your tattoo,” he said, tracing the pattern along my arm. “I know what it is.”
“It’s just a random design I sketched to cover the scar.”
He shook his head. “Look at it, Chloe.” He forced my arm up. For once, it didn’t burn. “It’s a bike chain. Anyone can see that. It’s a bike chain.”
My face went slack. He was right. “Sometimes, it moves,” I whispered. I’d never admitted that to anyone but myself.
“Of course it does. Your mind is fulfilling your fondest wish. For Macy’s bike to still be pedaling. For the pedaler to still be alive. For my bike to still be whooshing down Old Pleasant Road.” He stroked my arm, a single finger traversing the length of the pattern. “I saw your tattoo through my telescope the day I moved in. Reminded me what a rough go you’d had of it. It’s why I suggested the twelve-year anniversary story to your editor.”
“You are making the anonymous donation to the paper?”
“Thought you might finally write yourself an ending. And I do intend to give you an ending. One in which you can spell out every single word in that crazy brain of yours.”
“Tell me now.”
He gestured to his ceiling. “The final scene is being written. The stage is being set.”
I glanced up at King Lear. “Is a god going to fall from the ceiling?”
An eerie ring tone sounded on his phone, accompanied by a picture of the caller: a narrow-faced woman with a ghastly pallor, jet-black hair, shadowed eyes, and a nose that ended in a severe point. The wicked witch?
He glanced at the phone. “I have to take this. It’s my aunt.”
“Shocking,” I said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“I must bid you adieu now, Chloe. Until tonight. My car will be in front of your house at eight-thirty.”
“I really don’t think—”
The phone, which had ceased its ringing, started up again. The picture of the same woman appeared, but somehow, she looked angrier.
Rafe ushered me to the door and blew me a kiss. “Until tonight.”
As I descended the stairs, I heard him mumble something into his phone before calling out to me.
“Clover?” he said.
I turned back. “Yes?”
“I know you can keep a secret. Keep ours. For just a little while longer.”
Reality roiled with confusion in my head; my old friend had left me hanging, a fool twisting in the wind, battered like a piñata, for almost half my life.
He noticed my moment of hesitancy. “I know. You think I betrayed you on some level. But I promise to regain your trust.” He stared at me, the honest and open face of boyhood peeking out from behind the man.
“I’ll keep your secret,” I said.
He stepped back into the house and closed the door.
I shivered as I ran to the dock. What had happened to the boy? I thought of the lonely nights lying in my bed thinking how he couldn’t possibly have dealt sanely with the dual loss of father and girlfriend, how such a tragedy would permanently alter a person.
I feared I was right.
Chapter 48
When I reached home, still reeling from Rafe’s revelations, I remembered that the dress I wanted to wear tonight had been sitting at the dry cleaners for a month, unretrieved. It would require a quick trip across the bridge, but the distraction would be a welcome one. I combed out my hair, made myself somewhat presentable, and picked up my dress. The man behind the counter gave me only a couple nasty side-eyes while mentioning that he was running a cleaning business, not a storage facility.
While crossing the bridge to return home, I caught a glimpse of the graffiti on which the Carver boy had used nail polish for certain anatomical details. Did the kid really think the more sensitive parts of the female body would cast a neon glow in order to show him the way? Sorry, kid, gonna have to hunt and peck like the rest of the male population.
From the apex of the bridge, I spotted a flurry of activity on Dirt Hill, with three shiny trucks climbing to the peak. Out of curiosity, I drove over and encountered several dozen men, women, and children, all of whom resembled one another like a tight-knit camp of gypsies. They looked eerily familiar—a childhood memory streaked with a dose of nightmare—and when I spotted a jagged scar on one man’s neck, I realized I was looking at the remnants of the Forenza and Galasso families sans make-up and costumes. Carnies in their natural element. What a sight to behold.
About a month ago, a tent the size of a football field had been erected next to the main pavilion on Dirt Hill. From street level, it hadn’t looked quite so enormous, but up close, it resembled a stadium. It consisted of heavy white material with multiple tips trying to poke the sky, but without colorful balloons or flags adorning those tips. The whole structure looked like a flavorless lemon meringue pie—with the peaks of meringue not nearly browned enough.
“Excuse me,” I said to a wisp of a man who repeatedly dashed in and out of the tent. “Can you tell me about tonight’s show?”
He smiled and pantomimed something that looked like an explosion, then returned to his task. The responses I got from others were equally as perplexing. In absolute silence, they functioned like a colony of ants, transporting myriad equipment into the tent: mirrors, lights, chairs, projectors, screens, and all manner of paraphernalia. None of it hidden. None of it under wraps. I felt like I was watching the deconstruction of a jigsaw puzzle, and from it, I was meant to decipher what it had once been and what it might be again.
I feared I might know.
&nb
sp; An hour later, I understood that I, Beulah’s humble crime and features reporter, needed only to do my job for the rest of the evening. News was about to unfold in a way this town had never seen.
Back at home, I called the hospital to check on the sheriff—awake and doing well. I gave silent thanks that he and Jacqueline and Chad would be absent from tonight’s show. Then I charged my camera and phone batteries, stocked my briefcase, and called every reporter and photographer on The Herald staff to make sure they’d be on the scene. I donned my lavender dress, dug up some rarely-worn three-inch heels, and applied enough make-up to make Adeline DeVore proud. Then I waited with a nervous energy I hadn’t felt in years.
At precisely 8:30 p.m., on what had turned into a beautiful, clear night, a stretch limo pulled into my driveway. No Rafe in sight, but a professional and courteous driver emerged from the front seat to open the rear door for me.
“At your service, m’lady,” he said with a knowing smile and a gallant wave of his arm. I sensed he was more than a chauffeur, and as he pulled out of the driveway, I heard the squeal of a small monkey from the front seat.
The driver took a right, and we were off to the show.
Chapter 49
Short, raven-haired men and woman stood at each entrance of the tent’s perimeter. As they ushered in the many hundreds of guests, they displayed the grace and confidence of seasoned performers. My driver pulled up to a dark entrance that no one else was using. No sooner had he opened my door than a waif of a woman with a penetrating stare appeared. I felt sure I had seen her face earlier today—on Rafe’s phone screen perhaps? She indicated with the subtlest of motions that I should exit the car and follow her into the tent. Somehow, it became clear that I, and only I, would be permitted access via her entryway. She emitted a matronly air, and despite no words passing between us, I got a strong sense that she was Rafe’s circus mother—a woman who had loved him as her own.
The moment I entered the huge structure, a young man who could have passed for my driver’s twin extended his arm and escorted me toward the stage. From the bland, nondescript exterior of the tent, one would never anticipate its interior. It resembled a beautiful, stately theater, with professional lighting, an elaborate wooden stage, a thick velvet curtain, and loads of high-tech equipment, most of it suspended from above.
The young man showed me to the second row and flitted away before I could thank him. I took my seat in the center, noting the sign: “Reserved for R. O. Borose and Guest.” Inside, I felt a rush of pride; of all the people here, I alone understood the meaning of my host’s name.
The chair next to me, I knew, was destined to remain empty.
I was seated for less than the duration of two short breaths when I was pulled back in time to the Forenza-Galasso Circus—to the parade of elephants making an entrance in showy fashion, displaying the promise of their performance in bejeweled capes. Groomed and shimmering, they’d always been magnanimous in their power and size. Tonight, however, the crowd was treated to only one elephant—one that might require the dreaded hook—for our sole elephant was none other than Richie Quail.
Melanie LeGrange clung shyly to his arm. She looked even more beautiful than she had the night before, in a form-fitting red dress with small pleats on the skirt portion. She wore a gold shawl, elegant diamond earrings, and a delicate pendant necklace. Quail wore a rancher’s hat with a silver buckle, a pair of snazzy, alligator-skin shoes, and a bespoke suit that actually slimmed his frame. The two of them were escorted down the center aisle by a short man in a classic tuxedo. Beneath the man’s penguin suit, however, I detected layers of muscle, strength, and self-reliance, and I wondered if he doubled as a bodyguard. He showed his charges to the front row, two seats over from me. With all the hubbub, they didn’t notice my presence, and I chose not to alert them to it.
The prime location of the seats seemed to both surprise and please Mrs. LeGrange, though she appeared somewhat uncomfortable with the attention—or perhaps envy—from those in the audience who weren’t quite so lucky.
I felt a sympathetic ache for her. As she glanced at the stage, she seemed both awed and perplexed. After all, as far as she knew, no other attendees had been flown in first class to bear witness to the events about to unfold. And on her birthday, no less. But unfortunately, what was about to unfold would most likely devastate her.
Quail slung his arm across the back of the empty chair next to him, creating a gust of fruity cologne that he’d no doubt broken out specially for his old high school crush. He took note of the sign on the empty seat next to him. I’d already caught a glimpse of it. It read: Reserved for Strike Ryker. Quail turned to his date and spoke in his usual booming voice. “Poor Strike, it ain’t looking too good, and he sure ain’t gonna make it tonight. Might as well get comfortable.” He proceeded to spread his legs wider and stretch out his arm more fully.
Mrs. LeGrange at least had the wherewithal to look horrified by Quail’s nonchalance in regard to the sheriff’s condition.
The crowd was soon seated, but we were all treated to one final pièce de résistance: the arrival of Adeline DeVore—cuffed and coiffed. And dang if she didn’t look pulled-together despite metal rings around her wrists and a female court appointee leading her down the aisle. Still, the dismay on her face gave the impression of a caged alien being brought forth for public examination. She looked so out of sorts that I surmised she hadn’t been told of her destination or why she’d been granted temporary reprieve from federal interrogation.
The court employee shoved Adeline rather unceremoniously into a seat beside Mrs. LeGrange, who looked more than affronted by the intrusion. Upon noticing the new arrival, Quail quickly glanced at the Reserved for Strike Ryker sign on his other side, and then took a renewed and horrified interest in Adeline’s presence. If my profile view of him didn’t deceive, I saw something in his expression I’d never seen before: fear.
Adeline returned the look, but they seemed to make a silent pact to face whatever was coming together, in stalwart fashion, full denials at the ready.
Quail faced forward again, inhaled deeply, and gazed forward. His frightened yet stoic expression was the last thing I saw—for the tent suddenly rocketed us all into alarming darkness. The crowd hushed, and the stage was set for revelation, drama, and most of all, for truth.
A single, narrow spotlight hit center stage like a bolt of lightning. A moment later, from the invisible slit separating the two halves of the curtain, Rafe Borose appeared in full tuxedo and tails, stunningly handsome as he emanated elegance and grandeur. Like the born master of ceremonies he was, he commanded every iota of attention in the room—the ultimate feat of the skilled ringmaster.
My heart leapt onto stage with him.
Chapter 50
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, thank you for taking a chance tonight.” Rafe’s voice reverberated through the tent, from the meringue peaks of the tent to the sleek wood flooring below. “A wild chance! A questionable chance, and yet, you already know you have made the right decision. This night, I promise, will fill you with heart-palpitating disbelief, stun you with the unthinkable, and force you to imagine the unimaginable. Not your typical magic show because, gentle people of Beulah, it is not magic at all, while at the same time, it is the best magic there is. I call it . . . disillusionment.”
The crowd rumbled with murmurs of intrigue mixed with disappointment. They’d hardly gathered their little ones and trudged up Dirt Hill to be disillusioned; they wanted clever deception to carry them away from dull reality.
“You will be transported,” Rafe continued. “That I can assure you. You will see things in a way you’ve never seen them before, and you will be startled beyond belief, because sometimes, truth proves the mightiest trick of all.”
Rafe extended the fingers of his right hand. Sparkling shards of light seemed to burst forth from them in every color of the rainbow, ending with a burst of illumination so bright that it blinded and became almost painf
ul to the retina.
“But first,” he continued as our eyes adjusted, “some tradition and a little fun.”
At that, the curtains parted and the spotlight zeroed in on an eight-inch-wide round table, supported by nothing but a rail-thin pedestal. On it sat a black top hat from which Rafe pulled a huge white rabbit with glistening fur that looked softer than any cloud God had ever created.
When the applause and amused laughter died down, a hand other than Rafe’s reached into the spotlight and whisked the rabbit into the blackness. Rafe reached into the hat again and pulled out three more rabbits to the delight and multi-toned shrieks of children, accompanied by subdued oohs and ahhs of their parents.
As music from an accordion blossomed, additional lights came on and Rafe cued four monkeys who appeared out of nowhere and performed a gymnastics routine. Then he produced multiple flowers and ribbons from the palm of a single hand before gesturing above, where a male acrobat of inhuman flexibility proceeded to perform a high-wire act that not only defied expectation, but also gravity.
Forty-five minutes of intense, frenzied activity followed, complete with: a black light show; three women performing insane feats on a trapeze; a man who appeared to be eaten whole by a lion before emerging intact from a cannon; toned athletes executing death-defying moves while dangling from translucent ribbons that seemed incapable of supporting even a butterfly; wire-bound women contorting themselves in midair before launching into airborne dances that stretched the limits of the imagination. Between acts, we were entertained by the requisite clowns on unicycles, the sight of which sent shivers down my spine, but their wild antics spurred others to laughter. The spectacles went on and on, and the crowd exhaled a collective sigh of delighted relief when Rafe once again took center stage, bringing the madness to a needed lull. As he spoke, the beautiful music that had become part of the fabric of the atmosphere began to soften, allowing us to be drawn deeply into his hypnotic voice. I felt as if I were alone with him in a softly lit room, and yet I knew he was conveying that sensation of intimacy to every person in the tent.