by Lisa Fiedler
Quinn looked taken aback.
“I’m upset about . . . something, and when I’m upset I feel off- balance. And when I feel off-balance I deal with it by walking the wire. Because I’m a VanDrexel and that’s where I recognize myself. It’s where I know who I am. How can you not know that about me, Mom, and yet you know the feeding schedule of every animal on this reserve? You know when Gulliver needs his toenails cut, and when Cleopatra has a goddamn ingrown whisker. But you can look your only daughter in the eyes and not even understand that her heart is breaking!”
With that, Callie turned and ran, pausing briefly to peek through the conservatory gate, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of d’Artagnan.
And there he was, pressing his lovably funny face against the bars, blinking at her with those golden-brown eyes. A moment later, he had dashed off into his man-made jungle.
It wasn’t until Callie was back in the carriage house, sprawled on her bed, weeping into her pillow, that she realized why she’d wanted to see the chimp. Because like Callie, d’Artagnan understood how it felt to be completely and totally alone.
* * *
• • •
The curious Lake St. Julianians started arriving just after four in the afternoon.
Some were less curious and more concerned. Others were open-minded and a few were downright hostile. And one, Zach, was only there for the food.
But most of them seemed excited to be taking part in this one-time-only visit during which they hoped, according to the snatches of conversation Callie picked up while trying to be invisible, to glimpse DiCaprio the lion. Or perhaps a tiger. Maybe a bear.
“I just wish people would stop with the ‘lions and tigers and bears’ refrain,” Quinn lamented, smoothing her hair—which was a far cry from messy-bun status today. “It’s just not funny anymore. Why can’t someone for once just say, ‘tigers and bears and lions’? Or ‘bears, lions, and tigers.’”
“Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue,” said Brad, gazing at her adoringly. “Maybe we could try getting everyone to join in a rousing chorus of ‘lynxes and wildebeests and ocelots.’”
“We could, but then we’d actually have to get some lynxes and wildebeests and ocelots.”
Brad gave her a wink. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”
“Speaking of time . . .” Quinn turned to Callie. “What time did Jenna say she was coming? I really expected her and Ellen to be here by now.”
Frankly, so had Callie. And Jenna’s tardiness was only making her mother more nervous than she already was. Quinn had never particularly enjoyed the spotlight, which was one of the reasons why it was Callie and not Quinn who had followed Victoria’s example and become a tightrope star.
She knew it was mean-spirited, but Callie couldn’t help feeling like her mother’s current distress was exactly what she deserved for taking Callie away from VanDrexel’s and dragging her to this ridiculous place, then promptly forgetting all about her.
Callie noticed Brad pressing something into Quinn’s hand. A folded cocktail napkin—but not one of the safari-themed ones Jenna had ordered for today’s event. This one was old, and stained, and very familiar. Callie’s heart thudded.
“I know you don’t like crowds,” said Brad, as Quinn unfolded the napkin. “So I thought a little pep talk from your mother might help.”
Quinn’s eyes got misty as she examined the napkin. “Husky Pete’s?” she read aloud, then gave a soft gasp, and turned to Callie. “James loves Victoria? Callie, is this one of the scraps from the jewelry box?”
Callie gave a curt nod. And if I’d known he was going to use it to profess his love to you, I wouldn’t have let him borrow it.
“Well, this is awkward,” said Brad, with a chuckle. “That’s not actually the part I wanted you to see.” He took the napkin from Quinn’s fingertips and turned it over. “This is.”
Quinn read the handwritten words and laughed. “‘When in the lion’s cage, show no fear.’ Okay, well, I suppose in this context that makes a lot more sense.”
“It’s excellent advice,” said Brad. “And in that courageous spirit, I say we all split up and mingle. Remember, the idea is to educate these folks. Let them know the place is safe and secure, nothing to worry about here. Got it, Cal?”
“Yeah, got it.” Snatching the napkin out of Quinn’s grasp, Callie tucked it into her pocket and strode away.
All around the grand foyer, other Sanctuary employees had been posted to field questions on everything from the history of the grand mansion to the mating habits of the tigers. Jacob, not surprisingly, had a lot of questions about mating habits. Callie positioned herself at the buffet table, hoping people would be less likely to ask her questions with food in their mouths.
Emma-Kate had caught a ride with Kip, and they were now both making their way toward Callie across the foyer. “This place is incredible,” said Emma-Kate, motioning to the high ceilings and marble floors. “No wonder Jenna’s so into it.”
“Where is she, by the way?” asked Kip. “I thought she was giving a speech or something.”
“I guess she’s running late,” Callie muttered. The words on the Husky Pete’s napkin—James loves Victoria—had reminded her of how her father had closed his rejection letter, that bold, masculine script looping out the phrase dai il mio amore a tua madre.
Give my love to your mother.
Fuck that.
“So what’s over there behind those gates?” asked Emma-Kate.
Realizing that in Jenna’s absence she had inherited the unwelcome role of ambassador, Callie led Emma-Kate and Kip over to the conservatory gate, where three furry little attention whores, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, were peeking out through the iron scrollwork. A moment later, Zach and Jake had joined them.
“They look like Marcel from Friends,” Jake noted.
“They’re capuchins,” said Callie, searching the flora for a glimpse of d’Artagnan, even though she knew he was far too skittish to make an appearance.
Suddenly, a ripple of interested whispers rolled through the crowd. Mayor Baylor and his family were making their grand entrance, and the next thing Callie knew, Kristi had floated over and was standing directly between her and Kip.
Closer to Kip. Big surprise.
“I totally have to Instagram these monkeys!” she said, aiming her iPhone, and snapping capuchin candids like some downgraded Jane Goodall with a social media addiction.
When a little girl came skipping over and asked to hold one of the monkeys, Sam, the Sanctuary employee posted at the conservatory gate, dutifully informed the child that although visitors were not allowed to hold or touch the monkeys, he had permission to take one out briefly to give the guests a closer look.
The little girl seemed okay with that, so Sam unlocked the gate—then unlocked it again; then once more.
“Jeez, it’s like a maximum security prison,” said Zach.
Emma-Kate gave a little snort. “You oughta know.”
At last, Sam was reaching his arm inside the opened gate. Maybe the monkeys had drawn straws earlier in the day to decide who would get to make the personal appearances—if they had, then Porthos had been the winner. He scuttled up Sam’s arm and onto his shoulder, then (having obviously been coached) the monkey used his tail to pull the gate closed behind him.
The little girl squealed and giggled and blew kisses. More guests approached the conservatory, cooing and laughing at the conspicuous display of cuteness. Porthos lapped it up like a pro, waving and hopping and covering his face with his leathery little hands as if he were simply overcome by their adoration.
Callie almost wished he’d start behaving like a real monkey and start flinging his capuchin poop around the room. But no, Porthos was a public relations savant. Every flick of his tail and wave of his paw was another sympathy vote in favor of keeping the Sanctuary open.
The walkie-talkie on Sam’s hip gave a staticky hiccup, followed by a voice crackling through the speaker. “Speeches are scheduled to begin in ten minutes. Please guide guests toward the presentation area.”
Sam returned Porthos to the conservatory, locked and locked and locked the gate, then set about ushering the crowd to the part of the foyer where several folding chairs and a podium had been set up. The space overlooked the prettiest and most populated expanse of the reserve.
Cue the endangered animals, Callie thought, contemptuously. Gulliver, are you ready for your close-up? Feel free to belch.
Jake, Zach, and Emma-Kate went to grab a seat. Kip made to follow but Kristi reached out and pulled him back.
“Let’s take a selfie with the monkeys in the background,” she suggested. Or was it a command? “The Queen, the Conquistador, and the Capuchins.”
“Sounds like the title of a horror movie,” Kip joked.
Kristi didn’t seem to find it amusing, but that didn’t stop her from snuggling herself up against Kip and aiming the camera.
Callie turned away. She would have rather watched Porthos flinging poop. She’d taken only two steps toward the presentation area when her phone warbled.
“Is it Jenna?” asked Kip
Callie nodded, opening the message to find that this was not one of Jenna’s typical succinct, abbreviation-heavy, emoji-ridden messages; what Callie saw on her screen was an elongated gray column written entirely in proper, grammatically correct English.
“It’s her speech. I don’t think she’s coming.”
Kip squirmed out of Kristi’s grip to read over Callie’s shoulder, concerned. “Did she say why?”
“No. She just says somebody’s going to have to give her speech.” Callie gripped the phone, willing it to warble again. She’d sell her soul to the devil for a single tears-of-joy emoji, a JK, or even just a simple LOL.
Nothing.
Callie looked at Kip. He looked at her. They both knew Jenna wouldn’t miss this event for anything. Unless . . .
“Go,” said Callie, but Kip was already sprinting for the door.
“Callie?” Quinn was rushing across the foyer. “What’s going on? Where’s Jenna?”
Callie held up her phone. “She’s not coming. But she sent her speech for you to read.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” said Quinn, wringing her hands as Callie held out the phone in her direction.
When she didn’t take it, Callie’s brows shot upward. “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“I think I am.” Quinn offered a hopeful smile. “You’re so much better in front of crowds than I am, Cal—you’re a natural. I’ll just get tongue-tied and make a complete mess of things.”
Callie actually laughed. “Thanks for the compliment, Mom. It’s kind of hilarious, though, how my natural ability with crowds is such a great thing when it’s in your best interests, but when I want to stay with the circus, it doesn’t seem to count for shit.”
Quinn sighed. “That’s not true and you know it.”
Callie shot her mother a challenging look. “I’m not giving this speech.”
“Callie, please.” Quinn’s face was ashen. “Please understand. I need you to do this for me.”
“Well, I needed my wire this morning, but you didn’t understand that, so I guess we can’t always have what we need, can we?”
Kristi let out a little snort. Callie had forgotten she was there.
“Calliope,” said Quinn, her jaw flexing as she tried to control the panic that was rapidly returning the color to her cheeks. “You have five minutes to get comfortable with that speech. Then I expect to see you at that podium. Or tomorrow morning you just might find your tightrope contraption has been donated to the capuchins as a playscape.”
Quinn turned and marched away. If Kristi hadn’t been in earshot, Callie might have shouted one last obnoxious barb in her mother’s wake. But what would have been the point? Defeated, she began to scan the speech. With any luck her phone battery would die halfway through it.
Across the foyer, Brad was stepping up to the podium. He tapped the microphone, kicking things off with the requisite “Is this thing on?” gag. Then his movie-star voice was booming through the PA system, welcoming everyone to the Sanctuary.
Jenna’s speech continued to unfurl on Callie’s screen, elongated text-bubble by elongated text-bubble, replete with phrases like “worthy endeavor” and “collective obligation to all God’s creatures, large and small.” It was a good speech, a great speech.
A speech that might just succeed in keeping this place open indefinitely.
And in keeping Quinn—and by extension Callie—at the Sanctuary for years.
Callie was so engrossed in Jenna’s words that she almost jumped out of her skin when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Kristi. Still standing there. “Can you do me a favor?”
She’s kidding, right?
“Can you get me into that monkey room?”
Callie blinked at her. “Didn’t you just hear Sam tell the little girl it’s not allowed?”
“Yeah, but you . . . live here. I’m sure the rules are different for you.”
“Not how rules work,” Callie muttered, glancing beyond Kristi to the doors of the terrace, flung wide to afford the eager spectators the best possible view. The tigers, including the cubs, perhaps sensing that it was in their best interest to do so, had come out to roam. Tessio and Clemenza romped and rolled, and as though he could not stand to be upstaged, the mighty DiCaprio, handsome and blond and regal, strutted through as if he’d been invited to do a cameo. All the while, Brad’s perfectly modulated voice and crisply enunciated words continued to fill the marble space: “—so glad you all came out to explore our facility in an effort to clear up any confusion—”
“You know,” said Kristi, toying with her phone, “if you were to help me get a close-up with those monkeys, it could be a really good thing for this place.”
“You want to do a good thing,” Callie echoed, scrolling deeper into Jenna’s remarks: community spirit . . . ecological advancement . . . “for the place you and your father can’t wait to shut down?”
“Maybe I’ve had a change of heart about that,” said Kristi.
Callie, who was pretty sure Kristi didn’t have a heart to change, refused to rise to the bait, prompting Kristi to go back to the gate and wrap her manicured hands around two of the iron bars, attempting to yank it open.
“What the hell are you doing? It’s locked.”
“So open it. I’m telling you, you won’t regret it. Do you have any idea how many people will see these pics when I post them on Instagram?”
“Over one hundred animals representing thirteen different species—” Brad boasted to the standing-room-only crowd.
“And I’m telling you that you will regret it,” Callie insisted, still trying to focus on the speech. “Those three little Marcel look-alikes aren’t the only ones behind that gate. There’s a chimp in there too.”
“Currently residing on the grounds of the estate which, as some of you might not know, once belonged to my very own great-grandfather—”
“Can’t you just let me in there for like two seconds?”
Was she really that stubborn, or just that stupid? “No.”
“God, Callie. They’re just monkeys.”
“No, Kristi, they’re not ‘just monkeys.’ They’re my monkeys. And there is no way on God’s green earth that I or anyone else is going to let you walk through that gate.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Callie seethed, her volume rising as steadily as her fury, “if you were to set one foot inside that cage, the chimp you want so desperately to photograph will feel threatened. And if he feels threatened, then he will attack. And if that happens,” she cont
inued, her voice now risen to a shout, “it’s very possible that the chimpanzee could actually . . . KILL YOU!”
The last two words came out in what could only be described as a full-on shriek, amplified by the echo-chamber-like acoustics of the foyer.
In the wake of it, Brad’s voice fell silent.
And suddenly every eye in the room was trained on Callie.
TWENTY
Oklahoma, 1965
JAMES DOESN’T ASK ME back to his car. It is simply understood by both of us that I will be joining him there.
With the beer from Husky Pete’s still bitter on his breath, and the sawdust still clinging to the bottom of my Keds, we burst into his room. Before the door even closes behind us we are tangled in each other, stumbling around the narrow space as though we are dying for each other.
We are.
Between ravenous kisses he asks me questions, which I answer with convincing half-truths.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Near Boston.” Nonspecific, but true.
“Big family?”
Big mess. “Only child.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Dead.” Well, one is. And if there were any justice in the world, the other would have been a long time ago.
Enough. I kiss him more zealously, to the point of distraction; I kiss him right off the subject of who I am, and seduce him into telling me his dreams instead. He is more than happy to comply.
“Someday, I’m gonna visit the great European circuses,” he tells me, pausing in unbuttoning my blouse just long enough to motion to the maps he’s tacked to the walls. “Rome, Marseilles, Lisbon . . .”
“Is that what Gideon meant when he talked about your European tour?”
“Yeah. He thinks it’s pointless. Or maybe he just thinks I am. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want to be rid of me for a while. It’s ironic, actually. He doesn’t want me to have what I want, but he’s constantly whispering in the Ringmaster’s ear that I should go.”
