by Lisa Fiedler
Jenna grimaced.
“Oh, c’mon, honey. I’m just getting into the spirit of the day. You really need to lighten up, Jenna. Have a Yoo-hoo. In fact, have Two-hoo!”
Jenna turned away from Mrs. Demming just long enough to thrust the stack of flyers into Callie’s hand. Then she grabbed hold of her mother’s arm and firmly but gently led her away from the bar.
Nobody said a word until King Ferdinand piped up. “I gotta say, I thought that vermouth line was kinda funny.”
“It’s not funny,” said Emma-Kate. “It’s why we never see Jenna anymore.”
“Kristi’s mom told my mom that Mrs. Demming got a DUI last week,” said Jake.
“Shut up,” Emma-Kate admonished. “Don’t spread rumors.”
“It’s not a rumor if it’s true,” Zach muttered.
“Oh, okay, King Ferdin-ass! Maybe you can pardon her then.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick, Emma-Kate. I’m worried about Jenna too.”
“Look, Callie,” said Emma-Kate, her tone serious. “I know we didn’t exactly make a great impression the other day, and I’m sorry about that. But we all care about Jenna a lot. I don’t want you to think we’re just gossiping. This is for real. Okay?”
Callie nodded, her eyes shooting to Mrs. Demming’s empty martini glass, still waiting to be filled. Then she tossed the flyers onto the Taberna table and dashed off into the laughing crowd of hippies, bobby soxers, and popped-collar preppies to find Kip.
SIXTEEN
Illinois, 1965
IN CHICAGO, THE NOT-SO-DISTANT smell of the stockyards, with all that blood and fresh meat, has the three tigers on high alert. Or maybe it’s something else that has Scruff and Clemmy pacing in their cage while Prince Edward stays low on his haunches and keeps his ears pressed back. Among them, there is no chuffing to be heard.
I work with Sharon (on a wire that is now at four and a half feet) until Vince summons me to one of the concession stands outside the Big Top, where I start off the night selling Pepsi-Cola and hot dogs, felt pennants and full-color programs. But just before the Spec, there’s a rush on snacks and souvenirs, and as I frantically dole out paper straws and mustard packets, I accidentally give change for a twenty to a man who paid with a five, and vice versa.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Jolly Joe, the concessions manger. “But all of these people start to look alike after a while.”
Joe cracks a smile at that remark, but it does not stop him from promptly releasing me from my sales duties. So I slip into the tent and take my usual place in the front row, just in time to watch the big cats perform, half wondering if, subconsciously, I messed up the money on purpose, just so I could see James.
Cornelius’s voice booms through the tent when he announces his sons, who saunter in like a pair of Roman gods. Around me, girls point and giggle at the sight of the two handsome young men who are about to face down certain death with nothing but a leather whip and a boatload of ego. Clemmy, Scruff, and Prince Edward appear behind them, trotting into the large fenced enclosure where they perform their act. Baraboo enters last, and although the effect is breathtaking, my eyes are locked on James.
Other than in passing, I haven’t seen him since our rainy kiss in Indiana. I’ve been telling myself he’s been busy, but I haven’t asked myself with whom? Another mayor’s daughter, perhaps? A councilman’s pretty sister? Maybe he’s been entertaining Evangeline in (or out of) her skimpy satin dress.
The band plays a fanfare and the performance begins. The tiger triplets are a huge hit, standing on their hind legs, bestowing kisses on James, and hurdling over each other like children playing leapfrog. Clemmy playfully swats Gideon’s backside with her tail and he pretends to be insulted. All over the Big Top, females swoon. Baraboo, however, seems off. He’s lethargic, inattentive, and missing his cues. Once, he even growls at Gideon, lifting one mighty paw as though he might swipe. The crowd gasps, but a sharp whistle and a clap from James have the animal retreating to his place. Gideon throws his brother a look, but James won’t meet his eyes. Over the anxious whispers of the crowd, Cornelius’s voice calmly fills the tent. “Will John Robinson please report to the main entrance? John Robinson . . .”
And as if a spell has been cast upon them, the VanDrexel brothers immediately take their bows. I’ve seen their act enough to know that they are, at best, three-quarters of the way through. But there they are, making their exit.
Fortunately the audience doesn’t realize they are being given short shrift, and the VanDrexel brothers receive their usual standing ovation.
As I rise to my feet with the crowd, I sense a flicker of motion near the top of the tent and assume it’s Sharon preparing for her act. But it isn’t Sharon; the movement isn’t even coming from the wire, rather from a small perch used by the lighting team. It takes me a moment to recognize Forget It, the roustabout with the indigo eyes. He is lowering an object from his shoulder to his side. Something long and narrow made of metal and wood.
A rifle.
My heart spins in my chest as he begins his long climb down. I am momentarily mystified, and then Vince’s advice to Gideon in Jersey comes back to me in a nightmarish rush.
“Another word for ‘deadly.’ I hate to say it, Gid, but we might need to start thinkin’ about positioning a sni—”
Gideon had interrupted before he could finish pronouncing the most important word in the entire conversation—the word, I realize now, used to define a gunman perched high above a crowd: sniper.
Forget It was up there in the event of something unpredictable. Something deadly.
I don’t wait for the applause to die down; I run.
* * *
• • •
I sit there for almost an hour waiting for him to arrive. I’ve turned on one small lamp, which makes the atmosphere moody and strange.
He startles when he sees me. For a moment, only surprise registers on his face, but then a smile teases up the corners of his mouth. I’m not naive enough to imagine that this is the first time he’s returned to his train car to find a girl sitting on his bed. But when he notices my hands folded tightly in my lap, my spine as rigid as the king pole holding up the Big Top, his smile wavers. Nothing in my bearing suggests that I am just another lovesick girl who’s snuck into this room to surrender her virtue to a lion tamer.
“Hi, Victoria.”
“Hello, Gideon.”
A lock of his hair has shaken loose from the shiny hold of his Brylcreem; it flops over his eyes, making him look boyish and slightly nervous.
“This looks serious.”
“It is. I saw him.”
“Who?”
“John Robinson.”
“What?”
“The roustabout up in the grid, Gideon! The one with the rifle. You know . . . the sniper.”
Gideon’s hands slide into his pockets, and he stares at the toes of his boots for a long time. Through the train car’s open windows I hear Cornelius introducing Bailiwick’s bowling pin gag, which means the show will be ending soon; everyone else will be scurrying now, preparing for the finale.
But Gideon doesn’t budge. Swearing under his breath, he sits down beside me on the narrow bed. “First of all, his name isn’t John Robinson. It’s Shaw.”
“Then why did he climb down when Cornelius called for him?”
“He wasn’t calling for John Robinson, he was calling a John Robinson. It’s a signal to shorten the act, to go right into the final trick and get the hell out of the ring before something goes terribly wrong. My father saw how Boo was behaving and called a John Robinson before anyone could get hurt. Including Boo.”
“In Jersey, you told Vince it was too soon.”
“That was Jersey. This is Illinois.”
“Thanks for the geography lesson.”
Gideon lets out a chuckle that becomes a ragged exh
ale; he tries to smooth his hair back into place, but his oily pomade seems to have given up for the night. The hair falls back onto his forehead. “Baraboo is sicker now. I don’t think you were watching that night in Delaware when he took a poke at me, and then he roared like he might . . .” He trails off, shaking his head. “I never heard a crowd gasp like that.”
I do remember that night, although Gideon is right, I wasn’t watching. I was dreaming. And even in my sleep I heard the roar.
“Every day he’s weaker and in more pain,” he tells me, “which means we can’t anticipate what he might do in the ring. If something were to go wrong—”
“If something were to go wrong, a tent full of children will have to watch a beautiful lion get shot in the heart.”
He snaps his head up. “You’d prefer they watch my brother and me get mauled to death instead?”
I open my mouth. I close it. Then I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“And for the record, you don’t euthanize a lion by putting a bullet in his heart. You aim for his brain, so death is instantaneous and painless. Shaw knows that. And Shaw doesn’t miss. I chose him because he’s a trained sharpshooter. He’s supposed to be in Nam, but . . . that’s another story. The point is, if he ever did have to shoot, Boo’s death would be fast and humane.” Gideon’s face tightens on a sigh. “Miserable and heart-wrenching, but fast and humane.”
We’re quiet again, letting the magnitude of the dilemma set in. “What about a tranquilizer dart?” I venture. It’s a term I heard once on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, but really, I have no idea what I’m talking about.
“Not fast enough,” says Gideon. “Ideally we’d just retire him, keep him comfortable, and let him die in peace.”
Retire him. The absurd image of a lion receiving a handshake and a gold wristwatch flashes in my mind. “Why don’t you, then?”
“Because James refuses to admit there’s anything wrong with him.” He attempts a wry grin. “You may have noticed my little brother can be a real pain in the ass. And besides, retirement only solves part of the problem.”
“You mean because Boo’s suffering?”
“The pain is bad but it isn’t constant. Not yet. But he’s weak, and he gets confused, and that’s what makes him dangerous. Thank God he’s still comfortable most of the time, but who knows how long he’ll stay that way.”
“What does Cornelius think?”
“He loves Boo just like the rest of us, but I’m willing to bet he’d rather lose a lion than a son.” He rakes his hands through his hair.
“Willing to bet? You mean he doesn’t know about Shaw? Gideon, he’s the Ringmaster.”
“I’m aware of that, Victoria.” Dropping his face into his hands, he groans. “But my father has other things to worry about at the moment. We had to cancel three shows in Alabama. After that violence in Selma a while back, nobody down there is in much of a circus mood. Can’t say I blame them. But that’s a helluva lotta tickets that won’t get sold, and a whole lot of cash that won’t be coming in. Or going out in the form of paychecks. My father worries about that, and so do I.”
I don’t see any point in mentioning that after Texas, at least they’ll have one less employee to worry about compensating.
The music rippling through the windows tells us it’s almost time for final bows. Gideon quickly composes himself and rises from the bed. “The show must go on,” he says, and it sounds almost like a prayer. “Promise me you won’t say anything to James. It would only rattle him.”
Since a rattled lion tamer sounds like a bad idea, I reply with a nod, though I don’t see it as being an issue since, apparently, James and I don’t speak anymore.
Outside, I watch Gideon head back to the big tent, but I don’t follow. Suddenly I have no interest in watching the cast bid their raucous farewells to another adoring crowd.
Instead, I climb back up the train steps and head to my room.
* * *
• • •
When I open the door, I’m met by an explosion of light. Valerie and her Instamatic again—another candid, this time with a flash. She’s in full costume for the finale. Blinking away the spots before my eyes, I notice she’s got a goofy smile on her face.
“You’ve got company,” she says, sweeping past me into the tight space of the train’s corridor.
My first panicked thought is that my father has finally tracked me down.
Then I see James sitting on the vanity bench.
“Hey.” That slow, seductive smile appears. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine.”
“Haven’t seen you since . . . Fort Wayne, was it?”
“I don’t remember.” Yes I do. And before that, Jersey. Thanks to Valerie, I even have a snapshot of the two of us holding hands by Boo’s cage tucked into my jewelry box.
James stands and takes two tentative steps toward me. “I’ve missed you.”
I feel the words like silk across my skin. “You have?”
When he smiles, it’s like Delaware and Ohio never even happened. “Of course I have. It’s been hell, you know . . . leaving you alone. It nearly killed me but I wanted to respect your wishes.”
Now I’m confused—beyond confused. “What wishes?”
“Gideon said you told him to tell me to leave you alone.”
“He said . . . I said . . . what? Why?”
“Because you needed to focus. He said you wanted me to keep my distance for a few weeks, because you were really committed to learning to walk the wire, and seeing me would be a distraction.”
Of all of that, only the final six words contain an ounce of truth. James VanDrexel is the very definition of a distraction. But I never said anything even remotely like that to Gideon, and I certainly never asked for James to leave me alone.
I don’t pretend to understand Gideon’s motives—jealousy, perhaps, at the thought of his brother having one more person adoring him? Or maybe he feared that our extended flirtation might distract James from his more important responsibilities, such as staying alive in the lion’s cage. Possibly, Gideon is interested in me himself. In any event, his trickery has been to my benefit. Without James to divide my attention I’ve thrown myself into learning the skills Sharon’s been so eager to teach me. Not that I think I’ll have much use for them once I’m gone, but the sense of freedom and power it gives me makes it a little easier every day to forget how it felt to be a prisoner in my father’s house.
Something deeply cynical in me can’t help but wonder if posting the sniper is not the altruistic act Gideon’s insisting it is. Maybe he just wants to take Boo away from James. I don’t want to believe that, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s possible. Maybe Gideon himself doesn’t even realize it.
“So . . . can you do it yet?” James asks softly, interrupting my thoughts. “Can you walk the wire?”
“I’m . . . getting there.”
He steps closer and touches my cheek; flashcubes ignite in my belly.
“I had a feeling you’d be good at it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I mean, you’re kind of . . . well, you’re basically amazing.”
I realize society girls are supposed to play hard to get with ordinary boys, and I suspect that maxim is even more critical when it comes to lion tamers. But right now, James VanDrexel is settling onto my neatly made cot and he looks like Christmas lights and birthday cake and summer rain and all I want to do is put myself in his arms.
Which is exactly what I do.
His kisses are warm along my collarbone, and my hands are in his hair. His are on the snap of my jeans.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
“Okay,” he whispers back. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
We don’t. But I won’t think about that now.
Outside, the music of the f
inale swells, triumphant and thunderous. I am suddenly, deliciously without my shirt and he is without his. There is a bruise on my shoulder blade from falling off the wire, which he frets over in soothing little whispers; for several moments his lips linger there, just there. But I feel it everywhere.
“No more mayor’s daughters,” I tell him—it is both a wish and a command.
“No more mayor’s daughters,” he repeats; his voice is raspy but his hair is as soft as dandelion fluff as he moves from my shoulder to the small of my back. “No more anyone, Victoria. No one but you.”
I nearly correct him. In the heat of my dizziness I nearly whisper Catherine. But it is suddenly clear to me that I was never as much the Catherine I was as I am the Victoria I’ve become. The girl who ran off with the circus.
The girl in James’s arms.
The girl on a wire.
SEVENTEEN
KIP PARKED HIS WRANGLER in the Demmings’ driveway, and he and Callie hurried up the crushed-seashell walkway to knock on the front door.
Jenna answered almost immediately, as if maybe she’d heard the Jeep crunching up the drive. Rather than inviting them in, she angled herself out through the half-opened door and joined them on the front porch.
“Hey,” she said, her brows knit quizzically. “What are you guys doing here?”
“I was in the mood for some gator gumbo,” said Callie. “You said knock on any door, so here I am.”
Jenna managed a smile. “Ha. I see what you did there. Nice. But unfortunately we’re fresh out.”
“Personally I’m not a fan of the gumbo,” Kip said. “I try not to eat anything that, if given the opportunity, would try to eat me first.”
Everyone laughed; everyone fell silent.
“So what’d I miss?” Jenna asked at last.
“Well, Emma-Kate ended up making out with Jacob, but who didn’t see that coming?” Kip reported. “Zach drank about fifty Yoo-hoos, as per Yoo-hoo-sual.”
