“What was that about?” my mother asked, sitting in the chair and sipping her coffee.
“Nothing, just the same old routine,” I answered, ignoring her embarrassed frown as she buried her shame in her cup.
I was released the next day with a prescription for painkillers I would never fill. The pain was a physical reminder to tell the truth until I healed. It worked as a personal punishment to ensure it never happened again.
I walked into my father muttering over a messy stack of papers on the table, a bottle of bourbon next to him. He looked up as I grabbed a glass from the cupboard.
His glare burned against my spine. “Everything good?”
“Yeah, just some bumps and bruises.” I gulped turning the faucet on. My hand shook knowing he was still watching me. I held my breath until I felt the release of his gaze.
“Good. Sit down.” He downed the last of his glass and refilled it with what I’d quickly learned were three shots of dark amber liquid. The time I measured two I ended up with a bloody nose and a broken finger. Since then I knew precisely where the liquid should hit the glass.
Scanning the pile, I saw maps with arrows and scribbles, and a pad of paper with cities listed with a few scratched out. Sipping my water, I watched him tap the pen against the table before rapidly writing down another location. He circled it on the map, then drew a connecting line to a nearby mark.
“Are these for the show?” I asked carefully. He nodded and turned the map toward me.
“We can start here.” He pointed to our city. “Since people know us, the word will spread quickly. Then we will move east” he traced the pen to the next circle, “and continue north before looping west and dropping down south.”
My nerves were beginning to settle and I set the now empty glass down gently. “So, we do a big loop around the country?”
“Precisely.” He pulled the map back and examined it again.
“What about the states in the middle?” I wondered, noticing the gap in the map’s center.
“If we can make time, we will hit them. Especially here.” My father pointed to Utah and a few surrounding locations. “Once our name is out, we can certainly add extra stops along the way, but for now the biggest cities are where we will draw the most attention.”
We sat at the table, the only sound was the scratching pen and my father’s swirling ice in the glass until my mother swept into the kitchen with a bright face.
“How goes the planning?” she chirped, peeking over my father’s shoulder before moving to her place at the stove.
“Great! Once we sell the house, we can begin.”
My vision blurred but I blinked the sudden dizziness away. “Wait, sell the house? We have to sell the house? But what about our stuff?” I asked in shock.
“It’s just stuff. Pack the important things, and leave the rest. You don’t need it anymore.” My father looked up at me with steel in his eyes.
“But where will we live? In the car? There’s no way!” I yelled.
“I sold the car,” he deadpanned.
I stood, the chair screaming across the floor. “What!”
“I’ll be using your bike until I find a better vehicle to travel in. It’s summer. You don’t need it to get to school.”
I turned to my mother for help, but she shrugged and stirred a sizzling pot of onions and peppers, their rising steam circling her nervous orange aura. Growling, I turned to my father, whose hazy grey energy churning into an ugly brown as his frustration grew.
“You can’t—” I began, but my father slammed his glass against the table.
“I can, and I will. This is my house and my car, and I will do as I please. You are my son, and you will listen to me. Trust me, if I could force your obedience, I would. It would sure make my life a hell of a lot more bearable.”
“Then why don’t you just do it!” I challenged, feeling the blood race through my veins. I kicked the chair behind me. It clattered to the ground, startling my mother.
“Jacob,” she gasped. Her aura shifted from orange to deep purple as her shock and disappointment rippled through me.
“We share blood which means, unfortunately, my sway will not work on you,” my father spat before continuing as though I were a simpleton. “We can’t manipulate each other.” He glared at me through eagle eyes, ready to strike at any moment.
“Is that what you do to mom every time you want her to forget the beatings?” The words came before I could stop myself. My father struck like a snake, slithering and jumping at me all at once.
“How dare you!”
His fist crashed into my face, jerking my head sideways. The sting radiated through my ears, filling them with an angry buzz. He grabbed my arms so tight that I knew his grip would leave bruises behind.
“Your mother has never been under my control, but she knows her place and how to keep her mouth shut.” He shoved me back. My head flew against the wall, the plaster cracking slightly under the impact. “Unlike you.”
Head spinning, I turned to face my father, furious at the tears pricking my eyes. We stared at each other, breathing heavily, as the aura around him turned inky black and slithered around his body, enveloping him in darkness.
“Jacob.” My mother's soft voice pulled me back.
I turned to her sad, hazy blue aura.
“Why don’t you go start packing.” When I didn’t move she spoke to my father. “Honey, let him go organize. The quicker he packs, the quicker we can leave.”
The vice on my arms released and I swiftly escaped. Running up the stairs, I made sure to slam my door before I tossed myself onto my bed and finally let the tears fall. Crying showed weakness—another lesson my father taught me when he found me crying after an accident on my bike. He dragged me inside, stumbling over chubby six-year-old legs and beat me with one of my mother’s wooden spoons until I stopped crying.
“Men don’t cry,” he repeated with every stinging hit. “You will remember that.”
And from that day, I never let him see me cry.
IV
We sold the house, packed our bags, and before I could blink we were driving down the road in a dirty, smelly old motorhome that my father found for a “steal.” The fabric of the chairs reminded me of a bad 70’s comedy and the carpet was so thin that visible holes dotted the main pathway. A queen bed sat at the rear of the camper and even from where I stood at the opposite end, I could see how lumpy and uncomfortable it would be to lay on. The thin roll out mattress that I would use on the overhead bunk smelled of dust and sweat and the crawl space I was being confined to was narrow enough to be considered a coffin...probably worse than a coffin.
Passing county after county, our new home creaked and groaned its way to our first destination—a sleepy, yet full town in the center of Arizona.
I had never been to Arizona before, and from the moment I stepped outside, I hated it. The heat wrapped itself around me, and I began to sweat intensely. My shirt stuck to my skin and the air I gasped in was hot and dry, suffocating me with every breath.
“Whoo,” my mom exclaimed, fanning herself instantly. “That is some heat!” She beamed with excitement as she shielded her eyes from the scorching sun.
“Whose idea was it to begin in Arizona...in the summer?” I grumbled, but she only bumped my shoulder and laughed gently. A dust cloud of vehicles rolled in behind us as the rest of the troupe arrived. Parking their rigs, a few members began to jump out and set up camp while others opted to hide inside their air-conditioned vehicles rather than face the melting heat.
My father beamed with exhilaration. Dressed in his new velvet jacket and satin top hat—it seemed the summer rays never touched him—he remained cool and commanding as if he could persuade his own body to never sweat.
“Let’s get the tent up; it will be the most difficult. Then we can start handing out fliers and practicing,” he announced as the troupe gathered around him. “I want to view each act personally with my son to ensure you are pushing
to be the best. I will post a schedule in the dining hall; please be prompt and prepared.”
“Or else,” I muttered under my breath, kicking the bottom of a small cactus by my feet. My father’s glare blazed into me hotter than the cursed Arizona sun itself. Not risking a glance, I headed to the dining hall—a long building used during fair season for food prep—to unload the cases of water and snacks into the fridge and to find some relief from the heat. From the side window, I watched as the men lifted the tent, just as they did before, and begin hauling in folded metal stands and different pieces to create the seating arrangement around the stage.
“It sure is hot here,” a female voice sounded so close behind me that I jumped. She laughed and raised her hands in apology. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Unscrewing the lid of the half-frozen water bottle, Miss Tink took a swig and sighed heavily. Her thick braid draped over her shoulder and I could already see loose pieces of hair sticking to her neck and forehead. Sweat lines dotted her white tank top, highlighting her bra, and I swiftly averted my eyes before she noticed my stare.
“It’s okay. I didn’t hear the door open.” I looked up as the group of aerialists strolled in and headed to the newly stocked fridge.
She squeezed the water bottle between her black polished nails and held a wide grin. “Can you believe this is really happening? Oh, I’m so nervous to perform.”
“You shouldn’t be nervous—your act is really good.”
“Really?” She looked at me with emerald puppy-dog eyes.
“Yeah, who else could find tigers and then learn to train them? That’s impressive.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the support beam next to me.
“Thank you,” she said. “I should get back to them actually. They may be jungle animals, but we’ve never actually left Southern California before. I just ran in to check the schedule and grab an extra water. I’ll see you at rehearsal. I look forward to seeing your act!” She winked and ran off with her bubbly pink aura bouncing along with her.
I watched her hustle back to her trailer and her sleeping tiger cubs and tried not to think about how this show could ruin her forever.
After watching the aerialists soar through the air, the clowns juggle and play tricks on each other, the magician create illusions and perform card tricks, and everything in between, it was finally Miss Tink’s turn to rehearse. I watched her dance gracefully with the tiny beasts and saw how they fell into a soft trance at the look in her eyes. They followed her every command, without hesitation or fear, as she spun her arms in the air around herself.
“That was magnificent!” My father clapped when she and the tigers bowed. Quickly, she released them and shuffled them to their thick cage on wheels.
“Thank you,” she said, bouncing with excitement. I saw the sweat on her face as she wiped it away, shaking the drops out onto the ground.
“Are you worried about how they will behave in front of a crowd?” he asked, watching her intently. I could tell he was slowly worming into her mind to ensure her honesty. The last thing my father needed was a lawsuit or a mangled body caused by a scared tiger.
“Nope!” Miss Tink beamed. “Not one bit. They are very well behaved and I can control their emotions to make sure they aren’t scared. I can comfort them if they begin to worry.”
“Fantastic!” He clapped. “Thank you, we will see you tonight for dinner.”
She walked off, pulling the small trailer behind her. When she was out of earshot, my father turned to me and grabbed my arm hard.
“Is there a reason you decided to act all shy and not say a single damn word this entire time? You are making yourself look weak.” His voice was gravely and gripped each word, as if the mere flex in his tone would make them hurt me more. And it usually did.
Dropping my head I let out a measured breath. “I...I didn’t have anything to say,” I responded, unsure why he cared.
“Then you better invest in a dictionary because I expect you to use words next time we watch performances. You are my son and you will play a role in this business. One day this could all be yours and I expect you to care.” He yanked me close enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Next time you will be in charge of rehearsal, and you will be a better leader. Do you understand me?” He pulled his eyebrows tight and breathed a quick, short breath. When I didn’t answer right away, his grip tightened, and he shook my arm. “Answer me!”
“Y-yes. Yes. I understand. Sorry,” I murmured, averting my eyes to my dust-covered sneakers. “I’ll be better.”
“Good.” The vice on my arm released and I felt the blood rush back to the area, the pain pulsed with the rapid beat of my heart. “Now go help your mother in the kitchen. Maybe you’ll actually be useful to her.” He pushed me toward the door where Miss Tink had turned to watch us. Noticing my gaze, she quickly hurried off. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I realized she was the first person to ever witness my father’s anger so closely.
V
I hate to admit that my father had actually done something worth uprooting our entire lives for, but he actually did—the show was a success.
After only five performances, our name began to spread through newspapers and even the radio. Every time the reporters began to mention The Monroe Circus of Wonder, my father would cheer and honk his horn to let the troupe trailing him know they had done it again, and a wave of honking echoed after us as our caravan flew down the road.
We set up in our next location, and I went out with a group to pass out flyers and hang up posters on poles and in local shops. There were six of us, and we separated to ensure proper coverage of the town, but I quickly found myself dropping posters as I tried to staple them one-handed while babying the arm my father had bashed in an earlier beating. It wasn’t unusual for him to slam me into a wall or the floor when he was sober, and even more sure to happen when he was drunk. Normally, my mother and I were cautious of what we said during his liquor escapades, but living in a tiny space, him constantly breathing down my neck, my nerves had been pulled too tight. I said the wrong thing at the wrong time and his grip was tight and unyielding as he jerked me around in forced submission. The bruises would heal, the muscles would recover, but the look on his face was burned into my memory. It didn’t matter though, I took the worst of the blows so my mother wouldn’t have to, and even then I couldn’t always protect her.
“Piece of shit,” I growled after the umpteenth time dropping the stack. Sucking in the fresh air to calm myself, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Need help?” a familiar voice asked, and I turned to see Miss Tink holding up her stapler. She playfully clamped it shut twice and smiled. I looked at her, taking in her long wavy hair and freshly sprouted freckles and froze. Even with the flush from the heat, she was radiant. She puckered her lips, waiting for me to speak or acknowledge her but I found my throat tight and my eyes wondering over her mouth wondering what they’d feel like against mine. The lipgloss she wore was probably flavored. Cherry, strawberry, I thought and found myself licking my lips.
“I, uh,” she cleared her throat, snapping me from my day dream. “I was watching you struggle. Here.” She handed me a stack of fliers. “You hold these and I’ll staple. Deal?”
My cheeks warmed, but I nodded. “S-sure, thanks.” I smiled as we continued down the street stapling circus posters to each one in silence. When we finished, she let out a heavy sigh. I glanced at her and saw her aura glowed brilliant yellow as she tilted her head and closed her eyes against the rushing breeze that flung her hair off her shoulders. Fall was coming, and that meant the rain, mushy leaves, and cold winds along with it.
“Don’t you love the wind,” she asked, taking a spin as the breeze died down.
I scoffed. “No. It’s annoying and always blows dirt in my eyes. Who would enjoy that?” I asked.
“If you close your eyes you won't,” she teased, “But I guess if you’re mean and angry or a grumpy cat, of course, the wind would bother you like that.” She
rolled her eyes, laughing.
My eyebrows rose. “Did you just call me a grumpy cat, Miss Tink?” I gave her my best sarcastic tone.
“Why, yes, yes I did. And you can call me Lottie.” She bumped my shoulder gently, and I winced. Lottie gave me an I’m sorry look.
“Lottie?”
“Yes, it’s short for Charlotte—my name, you know. You’re always calling me by my show name, but since we are becoming friends and all...” She held her fist out, waiting for me to bump it.
“Friends, huh?” I hesitated and watched her smile pull higher as she nodded. Shaking my head, I returned the gesture. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. I’m starving.” I nodded to a small cafe across the street that had been taunting me with its aroma of coffee and baked goods. She weaved her arm in mine and tipped her nose into the air.
“I’m completely fammish. Let’s go,” she chirped. For the first time in ages, I laughed. The giddy sensation she caused me to feel, was like uncharted territory and yet, I found I liked the idea of spending time with her.
It wasn’t as if I’d never had a girlfriend or been with a girl before, but they never lasted long. When it got to the “meet-the-parents” stage, I often ended our relationship with some lame excuse of being too busy, too bored of them, or the like. Girls stopped trying to get with me the more I pushed them away. But Lottie, she’d be with us for a long time. Her contract bound her to the circus and she knew...she saw...how our family was. Maybe this could be the chance I’d been waiting for.
“You know,” Lottie said through a massive bite of a turkey and cheese, “You can talk to me about stuff if you need to.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks as embarrassment fell over me. “Oh. Thanks.” I tugged my shirt sleeves down further and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Since the show had started, the beatings had become more frequent and brutal, although my father was careful not to send me back to a hospital for fear of delaying any performances. He was trying to force an ability from me, to beat it to the surface or manipulate it from my mind himself. As always, nothing worked. The only gift I had was reading people’s auras and that was a waste, according to my father.
Rise of the Ringmaster Page 2
