by Lisa Fiedler
“The flyers seem to have had a huge impact,” Callie added. “I heard lots of people talking about coming on Sunday.”
“Great.”
There was another brief silence, during which Jenna fidgeted and kept glancing behind her at the door.
“Is your mom feeling any better?” Callie asked.
“My mom’s feeling nothing,” Jenna said, and it was the first time Callie ever heard her sound bitter. Or was it scared?
“Listen,” said Callie, “I need a favor. The only way I can earn a gym credit this semester is if I join a recognized sports league, and Coach Fleisch suggested the croquet team. Problem is, I’ve never played. So I was wondering if you’d give me a few pointers. Show me the ropes, I guess you could say. Kip says you haven’t played in a while, but you’re still the best.”
“Well, that goes without saying,” said Jenna, quirking a grin. “But just so I’m clear about the whole PE thing—you can swing by your ankles on a trapeze ten billion feet above the ground, and do backflips on a tightrope the approximate width of a hot dog, but the Holms County Board of Education is refusing to award you phys ed credit until you prove you can hit a pastel-colored ball through an oversize paperclip?”
“Pretty much sums it up,” said Callie with a shrug.
“Go figure,” said Kip.
Moments later, they were barreling through the paling sunlight toward the croquet courts. Callie noticed that Jenna’s mood had improved the minute the Wrangler’s wheels left the driveway.
“Hey, Kippy, put on your helmet!” Jenna shouted from the back, shoving the shiny morion between the two front seats. “I’m being chauffeured by the Surfing Conquistador, and I want the world to know it.”
Obediently Kip put the stupid thing on his head.
With the Wrangler’s roof and doors absent, the wind made it impossible to carry on a conversation, so Kip took the opportunity to introduce Callie to more of his favorite music.
Callie felt an unfamiliar tingle in her pocket and realized it was her phone. She fumbled it out and saw a text message from the girl in the back seat.
But it wasn’t just a message. It was an image. A vintage photo of a female tightrope walker appeared on the screen. Callie had to guess it had been taken in the 1950s. The girl wore a tutu-skirted costume that looked like the sort of thing a toddler might wear in her first tap-dancing recital.
Before Callie could turn to give Jenna a questioning look, the phone warbled again and another picture appeared. Another tightrope, but this time two performers stood upon it, balanced in perfect symmetry.
Another alert, another image. Three men on a wire; one of them riding a bicycle.
Warble. Two men, two women; the women were standing on the men’s shoulders.
Warble. A distant, fuzzy shot capturing one of the most dazzling tightrope performances of all time—the Wallenda family, seven of them, brandishing poles (and talent . . . and courage) to execute their signature stunt: a high-wire human pyramid.
Callie stared at the photo, then swiped back, and back again, experiencing a kind of pictorial countdown, until she was back to the solo performer in the tutu.
Another alert. Words this time. JUST WANTED TO SHOW YOU THAT SOLO ISN’T THE ONLY OPTION.
NOT AS EASY AS IT LOOKS.
NOTHING EVER IS.
EIGHTEEN
Missouri, 1965
IN ST. LOUIS, SHARON raises the wire to a height of six and a half feet. It has less give, and feels more dangerous.
“Just keep moving forward,” Sharon instructs from where she’s stretched out on a quilt in the sun, her skin coated in a gleaming mixture of baby oil and iodine. “We call that ‘directional inertia.’ It’ll help you stay balanced, as long as you just keep moving straight ahead.”
I remember thinking the very same thing the day I arrived at the Brooksvale fairgrounds, making my desperate beeline through the crowd, knowing that if I stopped pressing forward for even one second I would lose my nerve.
I take a tentative step, then another, and suddenly, it seems as if the wire is welcoming me . . . as if I’ve earned my place upon it simply by not giving up. Only now do I realize that this is not a solo act; the wire has life in it, motion and chance, and we must yield to each other because only by agreeing do we succeed in this ill-advised and astounding collaboration. A girl on a wire; a wire supporting a girl—for no other reason except that it can be done. It is all so remarkable and strange, and therefore miraculous. Grace, I realize, has two meanings, and right now, I am living both of them—the elegance of motion and the favor of the gods.
Sharon leaps up from the blanket. “Center of gravity!” she sings, and although she’s said it a thousand times before, this time it has the effect of some mystical incantation . . .
The words hit their mark. All of me that matters is suddenly compressed into that tiny, all-important place right below my ribs and just above my belly button: that place where I engage in battle with one of the greatest forces the universe has to offer. Focusing all of my awareness into that spot, I let grace work its magic. Tipping is not an option; shaking is the beginning of the end, and falling . . . I am just so goddamn tired of falling.
So I don’t. I decide to excel instead, choosing to remain upright, steady, in charge. By embracing the improbability of this task, I’ve made it conquerable. I am walking on a wire . . . a wire, less than an inch wide.
“Confidence, sister,” Sharon shouts through her laughter. “That is what keeps us from landing on our asses!”
Standing taller, I toe-heel my way to the center of the wire, then summon my courage, and go up on my toes to perform one perfectly elegant turn. An about-face, in every possible sense.
I am not surprised to see James, standing a few yards off, watching. I think maybe I knew he was there all along. I think maybe I felt him, urging me to succeed.
Cornelius is with him. He looks pleased. Proud.
With the Ringmaster and the lion tamer watching, I widen my arms into a dainty half circle, as if I would gather the whole world into my embrace. Then I dip my chin, and bend one knee, letting my opposite foot drop well below the tautness of the wire—this is not the stiff curtsy of a debutante, but the grateful bow of a tightrope artist discovering what she can do.
Sharon lets out a little hoot of celebration, stamping out her cigarette into the dirt. “I didn’t even show her how to do that!” she cries out, delighted. “Some things you just can’t teach! Some things you just know.”
Yes . . . some things you just know. Like when you’re falling in love with a boy who’s slept with tigers at the foot of his bed.
Sharon goes right on cheering. James is smiling—because, like he said that night in my room, he knew I could do it. And Cornelius is applauding.
“What d’ya think, Mr. VanDrexel?” Sharon calls out, planting her hands on her hips and shaking her head in awe. “Not bad for a beginner, huh?”
“Not bad at all,” Cornelius agrees, rewarding me with a tip of his hat. “Looks as though we’ve got ourselves a natural.”
It is the very best and very worst thing I have ever heard.
Because every day, we get just a little bit closer to Texas.
Oklahoma, 1965
We’re somewhere in Haskell County. I’m sure the town we’re playing has a name, but Sharon’s just been calling it East Dung Beetle, and it seems like a good fit.
That night I watch her on the wire, feeling her steps in the soles of my own feet. There is no John Robinson during the big cat performance; somehow Gideon has talked James into giving Boo-boo the night off to rest.
After the show, a bunch of us go into town; Duncan has an old friend, Husky Pete, who owns a bar. The place is a real dive, a wonderful dive, with sawdust on the floors and dirty words scrawled on the walls. There’s a jukebox and a dartboard, and the knife thrower,
Tobias, places his partner, Angelique, in front of the bullseye and dramatically throws darts at her, delighting the bar patrons. Round after round of drinks and shots are purchased for us by the regulars. Recalling my hangover, I decide to go easy on the alcohol, so James orders me one drink called a Harvey Wallbanger, which is, in a word, yummy.
Duncan pops a few coins into the jukebox, chooses a song, and suddenly everyone is crowded onto the dance floor, dancing the Watusi, just like Luci Baines Johnson and Steve McQueen.
“Let’s dance,” I say.
James looks skeptical. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Oh, come on!”
He grins, shrugs, slides off his barstool. “Okay. You asked for it.”
I grab his arm and pull him into the crush, only to find that he wasn’t kidding—he’s got even less natural rhythm than the rescued dogs! But he refuses to be intimidated, and gamely wiggles his hips and even throws in a few of the requisite jerky arm movements, none of which are even remotely close to being in time with the music. Honestly, if I didn’t know he was dancing, I’d be calling for a doctor—he looks like he’s having some kind of convulsion. Duncan’s laughing and Husky Pete is laughing and I’m laughing; I’m laughing so hard I nearly pee my pants. I’ve never seen anyone look so utterly ridiculous and so completely self-assured at the same time.
The song fades and another begins—The Tokens’ “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Without missing a beat James pulls me close.
“They’re playing our song,” he teases.
“We have a song? And this is it?”
“That’s what you get when you fall for a lion tamer, sweetheart.”
It’s not your typical slow dance but neither of us cares. We sway against each other and he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m leading.
“Told you I couldn’t dance.”
“And yet, you totally pulled it off. How did you manage it?”
“First thing I learned on the job,” he whispers, kissing me just below my earlobe. “When you step into the lion’s cage, show no fear.”
“So to you, this”—I glance around to indicate the dance floor—“is a lion’s cage?”
“No,” he says, indicating me in his arms. “To me, this . . . is heaven.”
Settling my cheek onto his shoulder, I sink into the song. Across the bar, Sharon is snuggling in a booth with Vadim. They look cozy, blissful, smitten. Our eyes meet and we share a smile. She’s trying to tell me something. But at the moment I’m too lost in James to know what it is.
When the song ends, we go back to the bar where my watered-down Wallbanger waits on a cocktail napkin with the Husky Pete’s logo printed on it. I borrow a pen from the bartender, turn the napkin over, and proceed to print carefully on the damp paper: When in the lion’s cage, show no fear.
James watches me, taking a long swig from his beer bottle. “What’s that about?”
“I’ve just been writing things down lately,” I tell him, trying to sound offhanded, in case he finds it silly. “Life lessons.” I grin. “Circus-life lessons, actually. Things I should know. Things I want to remember.”
“Here’s something I want you to know and remember,” he says. Taking the pen from my hand, he turns the napkin back over, inscribes something on the front side and slides it back to me.
James loves Victoria.
I read it twice. Three times. My heart races. I’m afraid he doesn’t really mean it.
I’m afraid he really does.
When I look up from the napkin to meet his gaze, his face is calm, almost unreadable, but there’s something in those green eyes of his—something anxious and hopeful—and I realize he’s just put himself back in the lion’s cage. He’s trying not to look frightened when, in fact, he’s petrified.
Baby Bongo of the Congo is not in the habit of falling in love.
So I lock my arms around his neck and pull his mouth to mine, kissing him as thoroughly as I know how. More than anything, I want to tell him I love him back. I want him to know that I’d be happy to Watusi with him, however horribly, for the rest of my life.
But I can’t. Because the rest of my life can’t happen here in this loud, crowded, unpredictable traveling circus. Not that it isn’t wonderful. But there are just too many connections, too many things to lose, too many people to miss when they’re gone—See you down the road. I think of the brooch when it was pinned to my mother’s bathrobe, this precious thing that ultimately served only to weigh her down. I think of those cherished photos she had to burn in a desperate effort to protect me from the law. The more you love a thing, the more it can, intentionally or not, bring you pain, so to love and be loved by a family as vast as VanDrexel’s would be the most reckless kind of gamble I could take. I’ve been hurt enough already.
The rest of my life, by my own design, will be something different. Quietly manageable, normal in the extreme, unencumbered by wonderfulness, by connection. I can do without those, if it means I can finally know what to expect from tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that. And in place of excitement, and mystery, and love, I will give myself all the things my father took away from me long before I even had the chance to sample them.
Agency, self-reliance, freedom. That’s my dream.
And it starts in Austin, Texas.
NINETEEN
THE LETTER WAS WAITING on Callie’s dresser beside Victoria’s urn when she got home from dinner on Saturday night.
Brad had taken Quinn, Callie, and Jenna to the priciest restaurant in Holms County for dinner, to discuss the final details of the open house and to celebrate their anticipated success. He’d even invited Mrs. Demming—Ellen—to join them, which had turned out far better than Callie had thought it would after the scene at the PDLF. At dinner Ellen had been polite and engaging, and it was clear that Jenna had inherited all that wit and intelligence from her. She was younger than Quinn by quite a few years, but the two moms really hit it off.
When Brad ordered champagne for the table, Jenna had gone pale. But Ellen politely declined, opting for sparkling water instead. And when Quinn made a toast to Jenna, lauding her creativity and hard work, Ellen had looked pleased and proud. By the time the salads were served Jenna had completely relaxed and they all had a terrific time.
Now, with trembling fingers, Callie tore open the envelope and read the response from her father, only to discover that the only thing worse than Marcello’s attempts to write in English was his response to her request.
Cara Mia,
I am so sorry to hear that you and your mother have leaving VanDrexel’s. You know that wonderful circus holds a most especial place in my heart, as do you, my Calliope. Your question to be joining me here in Italia has truly to make me feel the joy and pride. And as much as I would enjoy to have my talented and beautiful bambina here with me, I cannot be able to say sì to your warming the heart request. We are traveling very much and I am busy always with the business of running Un Piccolo Circo. I fear it that I would have not the time to be the kind of devoted papa a girl the age of you is needing and hoping for. I invite you to please to come to Italia soon for the vacation when the time is for your school to be finished for the summer. Until then, per favore dai il mio amore a tua madre.
Con tutto il mio cuore,
Marcello
* * *
• • •
At eight o’clock Sunday morning, Callie stormed up to the mansion, strode across the marble foyer, and burst through the doors of Marston’s office.
“What happened to my wire?”
Quinn and Brad looked up from the last-minute adjustments they were making to the open house schedule.
“I said, where the hell is my wire?”
“I had the landscaping crew take it down last night,” said Brad, looking waylaid. “It was visible from the back terrace, and your mother and I were concerned it might b
e a distraction for the guests. I assumed she told you we’d be dismantling it for the day.”
“She didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. It slipped my mind,” said Quinn, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“Yeah, what else is new? And what’s so distracting about a wire?”
“It interrupted the view.”
“It’s a wire.”
“Still . . .” Brad gave an apologetic shrug. “It just looked out of place. And honestly, a little sloppy.”
“It’s a wire.”
“Callie, stop it,” Quinn warned. “You know it’s not just the wire, it’s the cross bar and the platforms and the legs—the whole apparatus looks like something out of a medieval torture chamber.”
“Or out of—oh, I don’t know—a circus.”
“We’re just trying to make a good impression today,” said Brad. “A professional impression.”
“And my tightrope was interfering with your posh, upscale aesthetic? You do realize this whole place reeks of elephant shit, don’t you?”
“Callie!”
“She’s not wrong,” Brad allowed with a chuckle. “And, Callie, I promise you, we’ll put the wire back up as soon as the open house is over.”
“Lotta good that does me now.” Callie stomped out the door and into the foyer. Seconds later she heard her mother’s sandals clicking behind her on the marble tiles.
“Calliope, don’t you dare take another step.”
Callie stopped stomping.
“That was completely out of line. You know how important today is.”
“How come only the things that are important to you are important?”
“I don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss about this. Brad told you he’d put the wire back up as soon the guests were gone.”
“But I needed it this morning.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You didn’t need it.”
“How can you say that? You have no idea what I need. Because I’m not a tiger, or a camel. Or Jenna.”
