We Walked the Sky

by Lisa Fiedler

  “Do you think Kristi ambushed me in the lunchroom because she saw me juggling with Kip?”

  “Word on the street is Kristi’s still got it bad for old Kippy, so yeah, that’s probably what put the target on your back. Then, when she found out about your connection to the Sanctuary . . . Well, let’s just say that fed right into little Miss K-Bay’s ever-evolving Daddy Issues.”

  “Daddy issues?”

  “Not the creepy, deviant, unscrupulous kind, it’s just that Mayor Baylor’s a textbook example of the high-achieving distant father whose career comes before his kids. So there’s poor little Kristi jumping up and down, waving her arms in the air determined to get him to notice her while we all just stand back and try not to get whipped in the face with that luxurious Pantene commercial hair of hers. I swear, if the Honorable Keith Baylor would just ask his daughter about her grades, or her field hockey stats, or her Miss America aspirations once in a while, we’d all be living better lives.”

  “One more question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did Zach really get hit in the head with a croquet mallet?”

  “Twice,” Jenna reported. “And both times, he was the one holding the mallet.”

  “Come on.”

  “Hand to God,” said Jenna, and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Quinn, appearing at the top of the stairs with her hair in its customary messy bun, and smelling a bit like, if Callie weren’t mistaken, camel (also customary).

  “Nothing,” said Callie, her tone frosty. “But Jenna was just telling me how she lost her job at the pizza place, and I was thinking she’d make a perfect Sanctuary ambassador.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” said Quinn, beaming at Jenna. “You know Mr. Marston and I were so impressed with your open house idea that we’ve decided to do it. But since we’re currently dealing with acclimating two new tiger cubs we just rescued from a ghastly roadside zoo, it would be great if you’d jump in and handle the event planning.”

  “Absolutely,” said Jenna, brimming with gratitude. “You know, the Ponce de León Festival is this Friday and it’s a pretty huge deal. The whole town shows up. You’ve got to picture it. A decade-by-decade cosplay-a-palooza.”

  Quinn looked to her daughter, wide-eyed, for a translation, and since Callie was slightly further along in Conversational Jenna for Beginners she attempted to provide one. “I think she means everybody comes in costume.”

  “Right!” Jenna confirmed. “The theme is Fountain of Youth, so they actually fill coolers with like a zillion bottles of artificially flavored chocolate drink and call it . . . ready? . . . the Fountain of Yoo-hooth.”

  Quinn laughed. “Very creative.”

  “And in the spirit of recapturing said youth, all the alumni and their guests come dressed in the fads and fashions that were popular the year they graduated from Lake St. Julian High. So visually, you’ve got this Renaissance Festival meets Woodstock meets Saturday Night Fever meets MTV meets Kurt Cobain’s Seattle Grunge Scene meets Britney’s Breakdown meets the Obama Administration.” She shrugged. “The PDLF is a valiant effort all around, although it seems the pre-Internet founders of the festival were a little fuzzy on the difference between the Renaissance and the Middle Ages, resulting in some pretty glaring historical discrepancies. Technically Ponce de León was more of a Middle Ages kinda guy rather than a true Renaissance man. But since I’m pretty sure Mr. Wu the AP History teacher and I are the only ones who’ve ever noticed, I say why spoil the fun?”

  “What’s any of that got to do with the open house?” Callie asked.

  “Nothing, except that somewhere in all of that craziness there’s a whole ton of small-town camaraderie. Which is why I think we should use PDLF as an opportunity to promote the open house. We can pass out flyers, sell tickets, maybe do a Q and A about the Sanctuary to get people interested. We could even take advantage of the festival momentum and hold the open house this Sunday.”

  Quinn was taken aback. “That soon?”

  “Mayor Baylor’s pretty determined to shut this place down.”

  Pursing her lips in thought, Quinn considered it. “Well, the animals certainly don’t need any time to prepare. I’m sure Brad has catering connections, and the weather’s going to be gorgeous. Okay, let’s do it!”

  Half an hour of rapid-fire brainstorming ensued, halfway through which Jenna and Quinn started finishing each other’s sentences. The profoundly gifted borderline genius was smarter than the average bear when it came to . . . well, bears, and every other species represented at the Sanctuary. She asked all the right questions: What time were the tigers most likely to show themselves? Could they count on DiCaprio to make an appearance? What were the chances of the camels doing something cute? Because if they wanted the Sanctuary to remain operational, the animals were going to have to endear themselves to the townsfolk.

  Jenna actually used that word . . . townsfolk. Callie wasn’t sure why it annoyed her. After all, getting Jenna this job had been her idea—a means to the end of getting her mother to quit harping on her social life. But while she might not have been a borderline genius, she might have had something to contribute if one of them had bothered to ask.

  “We should probably get started on the flyer,” Jenna suggested. “Have you guys got a computer?”

  “Not down here,” said Quinn. “But Brad’s offices are crawling with them, so we’ll have to head back up to the main house. Maybe you should give your mother a call and let her know you’re going to be here a little longer.”

  Callie thought she noticed the briefest dip in Jenna’s enthusiasm, but she recovered quickly, assuring Quinn that her mother wouldn’t mind.

  Jenna and Quinn continued to brainstorm while Quinn quickly tidied up her hair and applied some lipstick. They were halfway down the stairs when she remembered to call out, “Callie, honey, you wanna join?”

  Callie’s answer was to march into her room and slam the door.

  FOURTEEN

  Delaware, 1965

  I AWAKE TO THE rhythm of sledgehammers clanging against iron rods—percussion and promise—as gangs of men transform the empty acreage of this Delaware meadow into a kind of dreamscape. Vince is a magician and a mathematician, laying out the angles and corners of the tremendous Big Top with a precision that would impress Pythagoras himself. The sun is just coming up and the tent rises along with it, as if some great tectonic shift has occurred and a striped canvas mountain is being born.

  Sharon has raised my practice rope to three feet above the ground. She teaches me a sit-mount, which requires me to first settle the right half of my bottom on the wire; as it bobs gently under my weight, Sharon, with her cigarette poised in the crook of a peace sign, talks me through bringing my right foot up, then my left, tucking it close to my body. We practice until I can lift myself to a standing position—which is to say hours. I feel clumsy and inept, but Sharon assures me that I’m making great progress. We work through breakfast and before I know it, it’s time for lunch and I rush off to the pie car where the cook, Hank, enlists me in handing out dukeys—boxed lunches—to the crew. I spend the rest of the day learning the finer points of scouring a griddle and cleaning out the deep fryer.

  Later, unseen in the far corner of the kitchen, I overhear a very glum conversation between the strongman, Alberto, and one of the dog trainers, Hale. Alberto is so enormous he barely fits in the booth. Hank brings them two cups of tea and a small mountain of shortbread cookies. Hale immediately slips one of the cookies into his pocket for Miss Kelly.

  Soon enough, the topic turns to money. Or, more accurately, the lack thereof. It seems they’re both dangerously close to being forced to look for jobs with other shows. Neither wants to, of course. But funds are low.

  “I’ve talked to Cornelius,” Alberto says, the quaver in his voice belying his monumental muscular bulk. “He says he understands
if I decide to go, says he’ll even help me find a position if he can. But this is home.”

  Hale sips his tea. “What do you think about that girl who came on board in Boston? The one who’s always wearing that pricey hunk of gemstones?”

  “Seems like a sweet kid. Why? Wha’ d’you think?”

  “I think if she can afford a brooch like that, she’s got no business being here, taking pay out the mouths of poor workin’ stiffs like us.”

  “Aahhh, you don’t mean that, Hale,” Alberto says. “Besides, far as I can tell, she’s workin’ just as hard as the rest of us.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right.” Hale frowns and takes one last long sip from his cup. “Don’t mind me. This whole money thing’s just got me cranky.”

  Alberto rises out of the booth like an iceberg swelling out of the sea. “So maybe you should give yourself one of them distemper shots like you give your mongrels,” he jokes.

  “Hey! Don’t you be callin’ my babies mongrels.”

  That night, I put my brooch in the bottom drawer of the jewelry box, turn the key in the lock, and vow not to take it out again until Austin.

  Then I fall into bed exhausted and miss the show entirely.

  I dream deep, of a girl tiptoeing across the sky, of horses with braided manes, and a ballet performed by clowns on tiny bicycles. In the dream I think I hear the far-off roar of a lion and the collective gasp of a crowd, but the dream tells me to ignore it, so I snuggle close into the gentle forgetfulness that encircles all our dreams, protecting us from waking, shielding us from the world.

  In the dream an aging lion suns himself on the whitewashed steps of an elegant Brooksvale porch.

  My father is bleeding. My mother is free.

  And someone is humming—not Petula, not Herman, not John.

  But me.

  She’s got a ticket to ride but she don’t care.

  Ohio, 1965

  Sharon presents me with a pair of pliable leather slippers. I execute my sit-mount, and when I’m vertical I attempt the slow heel-to-toe walk she taught me back on the ground in Jersey.

  I only manage one step before I start to wobble.

  “Redistribute your weight!” Sharon commands as the rope bounces, pitching me into the pile of crash mats she had Duncan arrange on either side of my makeshift tightrope. Thanks to my father’s temper, I’m used to much harder landings than this; I immediately spring to my feet and return to the wire.

  “That, sister,” says Sharon, nodding through a halo of smoke, “that right there is half the battle.”

  She leaves briefly and returns with a long flexible pole for me to carry; it immediately improves my balance.

  Sharon continues to shout out tips and corrections until the day burns off to evening. That night, I’m back in Myrtle’s trailer, finishing up the buttons I never got around to in New Jersey.

  This time, unfortunately, James does not make an appearance.

  Indiana, 1965

  I don’t hear from him in Fort Wayne, either, where over hot coffee on a rainy morning Sharon regales me with stories of Charles Blondin and Maria Spelterini, two funambulists who were among the best ever. They each made their mark tightrope walking across Niagara Falls.

  “Niagara Falls,” she squeals. “Can you imagine? So many variables! Wind, moisture, not to mention all that ferocious water, roiling beneath them.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I say absently, watching through the pie car window as James rushes past. He’s flanked by Gideon and Cornelius. Cornelius looks glum; he’s holding his ledger, which he’s rarely without these days. Gideon, as though he’s part of the storm, is gesturing wildly, trying to make his brother comprehend something.

  But James does not appear to be in a comprehending sort of mood.

  I glance away from the window when I sense Sharon popping up from the booth. Vadim, one of the Russian stilt walkers, has just entered and they’re smiling at each other.

  “Gotta go, sister,” Sharon says, slugging back the rest of her coffee. “Got me a hot date with Mr. Very Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

  “Does this mean I can take the day off?”

  “You betcha,” she calls over her shoulder. Then she molds herself cozily against Vadim and together they slink out of the car.

  When I turn back to the window, the VanDrexel boys are gone.

  I decide to head into the city, to the public library, where I can begin to do some research on Austin, Texas. Every day that passes brings me a little closer to the life I left Brooksvale to find, and I want to be prepared. They may even have copies of the Texas newspapers, so I can start calling ahead to inquire about jobs and lodging.

  I’ve narrowed my job options down—in those moments when I remember to pause in petting camels or popping popcorn to think about my real future—to salesgirl, waitress, or (if I can find a family trusting enough to hire me without references) live-in nanny, which would carry the added bonus of room and board. I have no delusions about the kind of apartment I’ll be able to afford on my own, but such is the cost of independence.

  Exiting the pie car, I step into the downpour and head for the main road that will take me into town.

  I feel the sound before I hear it, a direct hit to the heart. At first I think it’s just the howl of the wind, but there is no wind, only rain.

  And it’s not a howl. It’s a roar. A roar filled with agony.

  Changing direction, I make my way through the deepening puddles and thickening mud to the menagerie, where I splatter past the tiger triplets. They’re curled together against the storm, a warm knot of black-and-orange fur, bright against the damp gray world.

  I find Boo huddled at the end of his cage, silent now, taking short, anxious breaths. The rain slices in through the bars but he doesn’t seem to notice. I, too, am beyond feeling it now, though my clothes are drenched and my hair drips rivulets into my eyes and down the back of my neck.

  “Hello there, handsome,” I say, minding my three-foot comfort gap from the cage, speaking loudly above the relentless drumming of raindrops on his roof. “Nice day for a nap, huh?”

  He lifts his head, only slightly. Another roar, weaker, more desperate.

  Without intending to, I step closer. “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well.”

  His coat, where the rain has reached it, clings to his ribs, and I can see now how truly thin he is. With his chin resting on his paws he looks melancholy and resigned, all alone there in his cage. When I’d first seen his accommodations, I deemed them “private,” seeing his solitude as an honor, a reward for his great and singular strength. Now it just looks like what it is—loneliness.

  I take two more steps, needing to be closer, and when I press my cold wet face to the cold wet bars, a chill wracks me. “What can I do for you?” I whisper into the cage, feeling helpless. “Tell me what I can do.”

  He blinks his lion’s eyes, which today hold no brightness.

  Again, I hear myself speaking in my mother’s voice, softly through the rain: “Poor baby. Poor, beautiful baby.” I see my hand moving before I even realize I’ve lifted it, see it reaching through the space between the sturdy steel bars that separate us, and I watch my fingers settle near Boo’s shoulder. My touch—unexpected by both of us—elicits a gasp from me and a rumbling sound from deep within his weakening body.

  I hold perfectly still, feeling the slight rhythm of his breath. Then, slowly, I begin to stroke his damp fur, gently, carefully. To my relief, he does not object. He accepts the meager comfort I am suddenly so willing to give.

  “You’re not alone, Baraboo,” I tell him. “Not here.”

  “Neither are you.” The Ringmaster’s son; the favorite one.

  I don’t turn away from the lion as James puddles his way closer to Boo and me. His footsteps throw muddy water onto the backs of my legs. He, too, is soaked from the s
torm. He’s holding a metal dish, and in it I see, of all things, meatballs. Four of them. Raw.

  “I hope that’s not what Hank’s calling the lunch special,” I try to joke, but the words come out thick and dull.

  James is able to muster a chuckle. “Didn’t you ever wonder how medication is administered to an apex predator?”

  “Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”

  We try so hard to laugh, and so hard not to cry as Boo gives another pathetic roar. I step back as James steps forward, angling the bowl into the cage. “Eat up, buddy. C’mon, pal. Eat up.”

  And miraculously, the lion does.

  We stand there for a moment, watching him feed, but the effort is great and it’s difficult to witness. So we step away for our own sakes, landing in front of the tiger cage, where the striped siblings untangle themselves, probably anticipating some James-devised fun. Scruff snarls; Clemmy chuffs hello.

  But I don’t think James even hears them. I want desperately to ask him where he’s been, why we haven’t talked, or laughed, in weeks. But I’m afraid of what the answer might be, so I just stand there, letting the rain have its say. And then:

  “Victoria.”

  He speaks it like it’s the only word he knows.

  I shiver closer, lifting my face, feeling my lashes clinging to each other. I hold my breath; I hold his breath . . .

  And then the lion tamer brushes a kiss against my lips, a whisper of a kiss; it’s there and gone in the very same heartbeat, almost not a kiss at all.

  The one that follows it comes from me—surprising us both. I hear myself sigh into it, and feel his arms going around me. I am aware of Clementine and Scruff ambling away from the bars toward the far side of the cage, and of Prince Edward nestling his face into his paws. In my altered state of awareness I imagine they find our public display of affection to be in very poor taste.

  They’re probably right.

  But I have no idea how kisses end. Luckily (or not) James does.

  When he pulls away I actually wobble. Sharon would be distressed to know that I’m having a great deal of trouble controlling my center of gravity . . . and a few other places, as well. The rain is coming harder and a streak of lighting rips through the sky, snapping like Cornelius’s whip, making us both jump.