We Walked the Sky

by Lisa Fiedler

  “Well, for starters, you’re the only girl I know who can walk a tightrope, which kind of makes you—”

  “A circus freak?” Her voice broke on the phrase, which somehow made it sound even more shameful. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall in front of Kip. She’d already experienced enough embarrassment for one day.

  Shoving the door open, she bolted for the Range Rover and climbed into the back seat.

  “Well,” said Quinn, smiling anxiously. “How was your first day?”

  “I definitely didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of eating lunch alone, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Quinn beamed.

  “How about your classes?” asked Brad. “Learn anything exciting?”

  “Oh yeah. Tons of great stuff. I learned all about Queen Isabella, and property values.” Tossing her backpack onto the floor, Callie sunk into the Rover’s lush upholstery and sighed. “Oh . . . and nooses.”

  TWELVE

  New Jersey, 1965

  MY ARMS CROSS OVER my chest in an attempt to hide what Evangeline’s sequin-trimmed neckline doesn’t. “Well, if it isn’t Billy Bongo, the monkeyless boy.”

  “That’s Baby Bongo,” he corrects, grinning. “Nice dress.”

  Myrtle’s face breaks into a smile of pure delight. “Hello, handsome,” she coos, giving his cheek a motherly squeeze. “Problem with your costume?”

  “Nothing fatal.” Seems like a risky word choice for a guy who performs with lions, I think. “I just suddenly find myself in need of a button.”

  “Oh, I bet you do.” Myrtle chuckles.

  Her knowing eyes flick from James to me, standing there half-swathed in satin.

  It takes a moment for realization to dawn. She’s implying that the button emergency is just an excuse. He’s here to see me. And given my sudden foray into the world of fit modeling, he’s seeing a whole lot more of me than he expected.

  But James is sticking to his story. “It’s a pretty important one, as buttons go,” he says pointing to the empty place on his waistband where the button should be—they’re the safari-style pants he wears in the show. Nice touch.

  Myrtle, who was not born yesterday, heads for the door. “I think I’ll just run over to the pie car for a cuppa tea,” she singsongs. “Victoria, you know what to do.”

  If she means “stab him with the scissors,” then, yes, I do. But murdering one of Cornelius’s star attractions—not to mention a blood relative—might be construed as ungrateful, so I grab a black velvet cape from a hanger and slip it on over the dress I’m almost wearing. Then I dig around in the coffee can again until I’m holding a flat taupe-colored button that looks to be the right size. I clear my throat and say in as professional a voice as I can muster, “Take off your pants.”

  His smile is pure gloating as his fingertips go obediently to his fly. “Would you mind turning around?”

  I spin away from him; unfortunately, I now have a perfect view of his reflection in the full-length mirror.

  The next thing I know, James VanDrexel is standing there in his—

  “Boxer shorts,” I blurt, stupidly.

  “What were you expecting? A loincloth?”

  “Shut up and give me the pants,” I hiss. I’m not about to tell him I’ve never seen a boy in his underwear before.

  Oozing smugness, he steps out of the khaki puddle that is his trousers and hands them to me. I thread the needle—first try, thank God!—and set to work, dipping the point in and out, in and out, again and again through the four tiny holes, pulling tightly each time, until the button is secure. Then I thrust the pants back at him over my shoulder, keeping my eyes averted until I hear the zipper go up.

  “Are we done?” I snap. “Or is there some camel spit somewhere you need me to mop up?”

  “Oh, c’mon,” he says, tucking in his shirt. “It wasn’t that bad. You got to hang around with Rabelais, didn’t you?” Without warning, he breaks into a dead-on impression of Rabelais’s trumpeting noise and I smile in spite of myself. The next thing I know, he’s whinnying like a horse, then roaring like a lion, then hopping around like one of the poodles until I’m laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.

  “You have a great laugh,” he says.

  “And you have a great whinny.” I tilt my head at him. “You, James VanDrexel, are a one-man menagerie.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” When he winks at me, I quickly glance away, but without any permission from me, my eyes go immediately back to his and hold there. I’ve seen Emily do this a million times with boys, but I didn’t know why until just this moment.

  “Thanks for the button,” he says, his voice dropping one sultry octave.

  “You’re welcome,” I murmur.

  His eyes slip to half-mast and he gives me the full voltage of his showman’s smile. The next thing I know, he’s leaning in to kiss me.

  Slaaaappp! My palm connects with his cheek smartly enough to send him staggering into a rack of jugglers’ costumes; the impact knocks a mountain of crisp white tutus from a shelf, and they tumble down on him like a crinkly avalanche.

  I am immediately sick to my stomach. While it’s true that in my world, girls are supposed to slap boys who get fresh, I know that my reaction is more about me than about James. My hand trembles. I’ve spent my whole life ducking cheap shots like that one—hitting, I realize, feels almost as shameful as being hit.

  James squirms his way out of the pile of crinoline and gold lamé. “I guess I had that coming,” he concedes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

  I get the feeling he doesn’t use that phrase very often, but since I was about to apologize to him for resorting so readily to physical violence, his mea culpa brings me up short. How can a person be so smarmy and so charming at the same time?

  So . . . smarming.

  To my surprise, James actually starts tidying up the mess we’ve collectively created, righting the tutus and replacing the juggling suits neatly on their hangers. I’m basically paralyzed, so I just stand there and watch him do it. And then I hear myself saying the silliest thing:

  “Well, at least your pants stayed up. Maybe I’ve got a future in wardrobe after all.”

  He smiles, turns to leave, then turns back. “Hey. Come with me, okay? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “What? No.”

  “C’mon.”

  “I’m . . . I’m on button duty.” I wince at how ridiculous that sounds.

  “And I’m the heir apparent to this little dog-and-pony show, and I say the buttons can wait. So can the snaps. And the eyehooks.” His broadening smile brings out a pair of rugged dimples in his cheeks. “I know the belt buckles have a reputation for being impatient, but screw them, they can wait too! Let ’em complain to the zippers. Just come with me, Victoria. I swear, I won’t be a jerk.” Pointedly, he rubs his jaw.

  “Are you sure Myrtle won’t be mad?”

  “I’m positive,” he promises. “She kind of adores me.”

  Of that I have absolutely no doubt.

  Moments later, I’ve changed back into my own clothes and we’re on our way to the menagerie, the section of the grounds where the animals are displayed before showtime.

  On the horizon, the final shimmer of daylight is melting like candle wax out of the sky; a jewel-toned twilight swells above, coaxing out the stars. The show won’t begin for another hour, but already a crowd is on hand to experience VanDrexel’s oversize petting zoo. The more docile animals are enclosed in portable gates, ready and willing to be cuddled.

  “Popcorn?” James offers, plucking a bag from a vendor’s cart.

  As we walk, he tells me little anecdotes about each animal. He talks about them like most people talk about their families—openly, honestly, critically at times, but always with the deepest affection
: the horses are spoiled but lovable. There’s a camel called Toast who loves ice cream, and Chubs, the black bear, who “talks” in her sleep. We pause to watch a troupe of dancing dogs billed as the Barkettes, all of whom are former strays rescued from dog pounds around the country. A terrier named Miss Kelly politely shakes my hand, and Shakespeare, a collie, sits up on his hind legs to wave hello. A quintet of poodles delights the spectators with what can only be described as a canine kick line.

  “To be honest, most of them don’t have any rhythm at all,” James confesses in a stage whisper. “But we let ’em dance anyway. They dig the applause.”

  “Do all circuses do that?” I ask. “Adopt abandoned dogs, I mean?”

  “Some do. Not all. But Gid and I insist on it. Another thing we insist on is no beatings.”

  For a second I think he’s exaggerating, but there’s something somber in his tone that makes me understand he’s not.

  “There’s a right way to interact with an animal, and there’s a wrong way,” James goes on. “The right way isn’t about control, it’s about mutual respect.”

  I think of all those times my father raised his fists to me in an effort to exert control, and I realize James is right. The fact that I am here proves that control doesn’t come with any guarantees.

  “At least you and Gideon agree on that,” I venture.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I just wish he had a little more respect for me.”

  Emboldened by his candor, I ask, “What did Gideon mean about you going to Europe?”

  James hesitates. “Just this plan I’ve got,” he says vaguely. “Well, kind of a plan, kind of . . . I don’t know, a dream. But I guess everybody has one, right?”

  I shrug, thinking of the things that passed for my own dreams before I joined VanDrexel’s, and feel strangely empty inside. I want to ask him the details of his, but something tells me he wouldn’t be willing to share it with me.

  Yet.

  We’re quiet for a moment, and I watch Toast steal a Creamsicle from a giggling child. I marvel at three white horses bowing to an elderly woman who curtsies back to them as if they were knights in shining armor. Chubs, the black bear, happily shakes her enormous bottom to the music of the calliope. It horrifies me to imagine that anyone could ever hurt any of these creatures in the name of entertainment, or for any other reason. I’m already in love with them.

  Rabelais is holding court beside his trailer. A gaggle of children fawn over him and he seems to be enjoying himself—every time a child shouts hello, he waves his trunk and the magical noise of their giggles gives the calliope a run for its money. A woman in a spangled dress stands beside the elephant, watching proudly.

  “That’s Francie,” James tells me, munching the popcorn. “I guess you could say she owes you a favor.” When I give him a curious look, he explains that Francie is Rabelais’s official trainer and handler, and confesses that he purposely sent her on an errand yesterday morning so that he could be the one to introduce me to the elephant and instruct me in the finer nuances of shoveling shit.

  I remember how James and the elephant had behaved as if they were best buddies. “That elephant’s as smitten with you as everyone else around here.”

  James laughs. “Can I help it if I’m charismatic?”

  “You probably could if you tried.”

  We arrive at two colorful wagons containing four fabulous cats—three tigers share one of the ornate cages, while in the other, a regal-looking lion enjoys the privacy befitting his King of Beasts status. The tigers peer out through the bars as though they believe it’s we humans who are on display for their enjoyment. The lion knows better.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I say, cautiously taking in their silken coats and bright green-gold eyes from a gap of no less than three feet. “What are their names?”

  James points to the smallest of the three tigers, small being a relative term in this case since, if I had to guess, I would put the cat at about three hundred pounds. “This is Clementine.”

  The tiger makes a sound like a powdery drumroll, which she repeats several times. James responds in kind.

  “She’s chuffing,” he explains. “It’s their happy sound.”

  It’s certainly making me feel happy.

  “Clemmy’s our only female,” James goes on. “Very mischievous, very smart. She’s kind of like the little sister I never had.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard or the weirdest,” I tell him. Then I let out a little shriek, because James is reaching into the cage to stroke Clementine’s orange fur as casually as if she were a pampered housecat, and not one of the most dangerous creatures on the planet.

  “How’s it weird?” he challenges. “I’ve known Clemmy since she was a cub, I watched her grow up. I protect her and I teach her stuff, just like any big brother.”

  “Quizzed her on her multiplication tables, did you?”

  “Taught her to jump through a fiery hoop.” His forehead wrinkles with a frown. “Didn’t want to, but the crowds were seeing it elsewhere, and this is a competitive business so we gave it a shot. Once. She totally cleared the flames, but I nearly had a heart attack watching her do it. The next day Gid and I decided it wasn’t worth the risk and took it out of the act for good.” He shrugs, then presses his lips together and lets out a whistle. A second tiger reclining near the back of the cage leaps up and lumbers over to us. He’s much larger than Clemmy; instinctively, I step farther back from the bars.

  “Scruff, say hello to Victoria.”

  Scruff lets out a growl that makes my knees buckle. I would have much preferred a chuff.

  “He’s Clemmy’s brother. So’s that big lug over there, but he’s a little shy. Gideon named him Prince Edward.”

  “After Queen Elizabeth’s baby?”

  James nods. “These three were born last year in March, same day as the prince. They came to us when they were just four months old. Right after their mother died.”

  Again, my knees threaten to give out on me, and I feel an instant, heartrending kinship with these three enormous orphans.

  “When we first got ’em, they’d take turns sleeping at the foot of my bed,” James boasts, rubbing the tiger’s massive neck.

  “Interesting alternative to a teddy bear,” I observe. “Or did you cuddle up in bed with Chubs when she was little too?”

  “How else would I know she talks in her sleep? And for the record, she’s a major pillow hog.”

  I laugh, then we both go quiet for a moment, letting Scruff enjoy his neck massage.

  “So, I guess if this is going to work, I’m going to have to learn to be a whole lot more gallant,” James says.

  “If what’s going to work?”

  “Us.” He looks at me sidelong. “Wait a minute . . . You didn’t think I was done flirting with you, did you?”

  I blink at him.

  “Oh . . . you did. Well then, let’s be clear . . .” He stops petting the tiger and places his thumb gently under my chin, lifting it until my face is nearly even with his. “It’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a few tutus to the head to discourage me, Victoria.”

  I hold my breath, certain he’s going to kiss me.

  But he doesn’t. He lets go of my chin and nudges me on to the next wagon, where the lion is posing regally.

  “I know I shouldn’t say this,” James whispers, “but this guy’s my favorite.” I can certainly see why. The lion’s mane, his coat, even the tuft of his tail rival my mother’s most expensive fur stoles, and his eyes are the palest shade of topaz. I know it sounds crazy but I’m sure I see wisdom in them.

  “He’s been with VanDrexel’s as long as I have,” James explains. “He’s pretty old for a lion. Just turned eighteen.”

  The cat stirs, lifting his head from his paws as if he knows we’re talking about him. I’m
captivated by those glittering eyes, which somehow manage to soothe and terrify me at the same time. This animal is fully aware of his own might, of the threat he poses, and yet, despite his fangs and claws and staggering weight, he has made the choice to be gentle. Even so, I can’t bring myself to step any closer to the bars.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Baraboo. My father named him after the town in Wisconsin where a couple of brothers by the name of Ringling grew up. Maybe you’ve heard of them?”

  I laugh. “Uh, yeah. I think it rings a bell.”

  “Technically they’re the competition, but without them there’d be no us, so . . .”

  “Baraboo,” I echo, liking the tribute.

  “Wanna pet him?”

  He’s kidding, right? I shake my head emphatically. “No thanks.”

  James rolls his eyes and reaches between the bars to rattle the metal food dish, but the lion doesn’t budge. “When I was little, I couldn’t say Baraboo. Best I could do was Boo-boo, and it stuck.”

  “Wait, this is Boo-boo? The one who didn’t eat breakfast?”

  “Didn’t eat dinner either. I’m sure it’s no big—” James snaps his gaze from the lion to give me a curious look. “How’d you know that?”

  “Vince mentioned it.” I muster the courage to knock on one of the bars of the cage. “Hey, big fella. Hello there, sweet boy.”

  Boo-boo’s tail flicks.

  “Not hungry today?” I prompt.

  He tilts his head; one massive paw flexes as he curls his lip to make a sound that is the friendlier, less-threatening cousin of a snarl.

  Again, James nudges the metal dish in the cat’s direction, but he does not interrupt what is swiftly becoming a conversation.

  “That meat looks reeeeally delicious,” I croon. “C’mon, sweetie. Have a taste, just a little one. Please.”

  My chest fills with . . . I’m not sure what—Fear? Excitement?—when Boo-boo rises to his feet, stalking toward us with his nose twitching, his whiskers quivering.