by Lisa Fiedler
I creep in, scramble all the way to the back, and press myself into a shadowy corner where Rabelais’s enormous form conceals me. As expected, Francie has not gotten around to mucking out the trailer yet, and I have never in my life been so happy to smell elephant manure.
Several minutes pass with me crouched in the back of the cage, occasionally murmuring reassuring things to my gigantic friend. He responds with soft rumbles and friendly chirps. He even flaps his ears, which, according to James, means that the elephant is relaxed.
Well, that makes one of us.
In the confined space, the motion of those oversize ears stirs up the stale air and magnifies the intensity of the stench.
“Keep flapping, Rabelais,” I whisper.
Finally, I hear Cornelius’s voice. He is guiding the sheriff’s deputy to Rabelais’s trailer, and I nearly burst out in nervous laughter because suddenly all I can picture is that scrawny, bumbling character from The Andy Griffith Show.
But this isn’t Mayberry; this is East Dung Beetle.
And the sheriff’s got a grudge.
When they reach the opening of the trailer, I peek around the gray girth that is my host, and see that this deputy is a far cry from Don Knotts—this is no comic sidekick, this is a burly lawman: a modern-day cowboy with a badge.
He immediately steps back, covering his mouth and nose with his hand.
“No need to be trepidatious. Rabelais is quite docile, I assure you.”
The deputy gags. “It smells like shit in there.”
“Well, of course.” Cornelius chortles. “Did you imagine that an elephant could be housebroken?”
The deputy leans into the trailer a fraction of an inch, and I shrink deeper into the darkness. He gags more violently, as if he’s about to hurl up whatever he had for breakfast. Despite my terror, I roll my eyes. The mayor’s prissy daughter in her Lilly Pulitzer and pearls did not protest this much.
“Anybody in there?” he shouts, his voice ricocheting off the trailer’s metal walls. “Hey! Hello?”
The elephant, ever the professional, responds without missing a beat, just as he’s been taught to—with an exuberant wave.
Wummppff.
Rabelais’s trunk collides with the deputy’s head; he staggers backward and lands on his ass a good six feet from the trailer.
I can just glimpse Cornelius, who politely—though none too urgently—offers the deputy a hand up.
“My good man, are you hurt?” he asks, knowing full well that Rabelais’s signature move is all for show, and doesn’t pack much of a wallop.
The deputy grumbles, swatting away the Ringmaster’s hand.
“Had his handler been present he would never have done that,” Cornelius informs him breezily. “Unfortunately, she’s currently in her train car, being interrogated by your superior officer.”
The deputy snorts.
“Now then, would you care to see if anyone might be hiding among the tigers? They aren’t quite so friendly as the pachyderm, but they do smell slightly better.”
The deputy mumbles something that from here sounds a lot like “No fuckin’ way, you freaky circus bastard,” and I am indignant on the Ringmaster’s behalf. But Cornelius does not deign to address the insult; he simply leads the lawman away from the elephant trailer, leaving Rabelais and me alone, and safe.
But I don’t dare move, not yet. I remain hidden behind the elephant for another hour at least, just to be sure the cuckolded sheriff and his olfactory-sensitive sidekick have given up and gone home, leaving the mystery of Catherine Hastings’s whereabouts to remain unsolved.
When at last I remove myself from the trailer, I spy a small white rectangle on the ground. A business card.
HASKELL COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT
CARL HOLLIS LAMBERT
DEPUTY
It must have fallen out of the lawman’s pocket; I take the card back to my car. Valerie, arranging her red curls into a loose braid, does not ask me where I’ve been, but I notice my cot has been hastily stripped of its linens. I strongly suspect this was done to make it appear as if she bunks alone.
So maybe she knows, and maybe she doesn’t. I am certain of this much, though: neither of us will ever speak of it.
Trust the net.
I write this on Deputy Lambert’s business card and place it in the jewelry box.
Then I head for the shower, anxious to wash the blessed odor of Rabelais’s waste off me. But it isn’t the smell that is making me feel sick to my stomach right now; it’s knowing that if Oklahoma’s answer to Barney Fife had found me in the elephant cage, there would have been hell to pay for Cornelius and his beloved circus. And not only would I have no hope of finding my independence in Austin, I would likely find myself being hauled back to a certain brick mansion in Brooksvale.
I am now more determined than ever to leave VanDrexel’s.
The sooner the better.
TWENTY-THREE
ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, QUINN picked Callie up at school and they went to visit Ellen Demming in the hospital.
Ellen Demming, as it happened, was not in the mood for visitors. She was cranky and uncomfortable—turns out, administering painkillers to an alcoholic is a bit of a medical minefield and the doctors were still working out the kinks. And Ellen’s attitude was not making things any easier for them.
The fact that she was going through withdrawal didn’t help either.
Jenna looked exhausted and smaller than Callie remembered her when she peeked into the hospital room and saw her drowsing on the munchkin-sized couch across from the bed. When Quinn suggested a quick trip to the coffee shop across the street from the medical center, Jenna was more than amenable.
They took a booth in the back and ordered one slice of key lime pie with three forks.
“So I’ve been thinking,” said Jenna without preamble, “about this whole chimpanzee thing. I think we need to draft a press release: part retraction, part public apology.”
Quinn reached across the table to pat her hand. “Honey, you don’t need to concern yourself with that. You’ve got plenty of other things on your plate right now.”
“But I want to fix this. It’s my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” Callie asked. “You weren’t even there.”
“The open house was my idea. The only reason people were allowed in was because I suggested it, so we could convince everyone that the Sanctuary is safe. Which it is.”
Quinn sighed and took a small taste of the pie. “It is safe. As safe as it can be. That was always our point. We’ve never denied that our residents were dangerous.”
“Well, it’s kind of a no-brainer. People know what animals are capable of.”
“Yeah,” said Callie, with a guilty sigh, “but it’s probably better when someone doesn’t scream out a reminder of their potentially deadly aggression in the middle of a catered event.”
“Anyway, I don’t think an apology is going to matter,” Quinn said softly. “Brad’s decided to close the Sanctuary.”
Jenna’s mouth dropped open and Callie whipped her head around to gape at her mother. “What?”
“If the cards weren’t stacked against us before, they certainly are now. The irony is that Brad is so obsessive about safety. He’s got alarms on all the enclosures, state-of-the art locking mechanisms on everything from DiCaprio’s fence to the file cabinet in his office.”
“I know,” said Jenna. “I put that in my speech.”
The one that no one got a chance to hear, thought Callie, cringing.
“The fact that the chimp could have hurt someone has to be balanced against the fact that Kristi, or anyone else for that matter, couldn’t have gotten into that conservatory with a blowtorch,” Jenna fumed.
“Of course not. But as we know, perception is reality,” Quinn observed, “and the m
ayor has made a pretty convincing sound bite out of Callie’s, shall we say, poorly timed but not entirely incorrect statement. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s printing up bumper stickers as we speak.”
Jenna’s mouth twisted on a sigh. “Okay, so not to sound like a complete megalomaniac here, but if the Sanctuary closes . . . I’m out of a job, right?”
Quinn gave her a sad smile. “I’m afraid so, honey. But at least you’ll be in good company.”
Jenna shook her head. “That’s a problem. Like, a major fucking problem. My mom’s gonna need round-the-clock care for weeks, and after that, hell, let’s face it, she’s gonna have to check in somewhere to get sober. And that shit’s expensive.”
“I’m sure insurance will cover some of it,” said Quinn.
“It would if we had some,” Jenna grumbled. “And everything I’ve ever earned has been put away for college, but I guess that’s about to be sacrificed to the gods of rehab. So, see ya around, higher education.”
Callie felt awful for Jenna, she really did. But something her mother had said had been spinning around in her brain—you’ll be in good company—and suddenly a tiny curlicue of possibility had begun to unfurl in her belly.
“Mom, if the Sanctuary closes, what happens next?”
Quinn toyed with the pie. “I guess we’ll have to find other rescue facilities for the animals.”
“No, I mean to us. We go back to VanDrexel’s, right? We go back home.”
Quinn’s brow wrinkled. “Callie . . .”
“Where else would we go?” Her eyes were shining now. “You left the circus because you wanted to work at Mr. Marston’s with Antony and Cleopatra and Gulliver and the others, but if there’s no Sanctuary, why can’t we just go back to VanDrexel’s, so I can start traveling and performing again? Or we’ll find a different circus, one that still has animal acts.”
The scrape of Jenna’s chair shooting back from the table cut Callie off. “Thanks for the pie.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the hospital.” Jenna was already halfway to the door.
“Wait.” Callie jumped up and followed her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I guess I just forgot how much you love your solo act. And in the spirit of going solo, maybe you should figure out a way to send out those circus applications for yourself. I’ve got my own job search to worry about now.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re mad?”
“I’m not mad, I’m tired.” Jenna scrubbed her hand over her face. “And I’m scared, because I don’t have any idea how to do this. Some borderline genius, huh.”
With her sad, ragged ponytail whipping behind her, Jenna stormed out the door.
TWENTY-FOUR
Texas, 1965
THREE WEEKS HAVE PASSED since my near miss in East Dung Beetle. Since then, VanDrexel’s has played to small audiences in small towns throughout Oklahoma and the northern part of Texas, and though Sharon has been spending much of her free time with Vadim, she sets aside an hour every day to coach me on the wire.
I have become quite proficient at walking the sky. Knowing that in mere days I will no longer have an outlet for this budding talent brings on waves of grief and regret I can’t even begin to describe.
Today the cast played a matinee to a packed house in Houston. Tomorrow the train will carry the show westward to Austin, but tonight we’re staying put so Cornelius can throw a farewell party for Valerie. She will be leaving from Austin the day after tomorrow to meet up with her cousin further west in El Paso; from there they’ll travel on together to the coast.
At the send-off bash, Hasty Pudding is inconsolable; she is only able to speak audibly when reprimanding Gus for drinking too much alcohol or devouring more than his share of the jumbo shrimp Hank has included in the party spread.
But there is nothing like a circus party. This is where the clowns who spend their lives amusing strangers can burn off some of the laughter they’ve saved for themselves. Tonight, the music and the merriment are not for public consumption. Tonight, the circus is a command performance by invitation only. Friendship here is of a most unique caliber; born of our common uncommon experience, it envelops us under softly glowing lanterns that twinkle brightly in every color the circus can dream up.
Valerie snaps pictures like crazy. She can’t wait to go, and she can’t bear it either.
I know just how she feels.
Austin is the place where I will move on.
If you’ve found it, then it’s meant to be. The one rule I have not tucked into my jewelry box. The one rule I’m choosing to break.
Cornelius stays at the party only long enough to make a toast in Valerie’s honor, which of course ends with a heartfelt “See you down the road” that is echoed by all in attendance. I raise my glass to Val, but imagine the promise is for me.
Then, because he is mostly made of magic, the Ringmaster disappears, perhaps to perpetuate the illusion that he is a little left of human, or perhaps simply to let his beloved employees cut loose and party freely in his absence.
“Gus, please! Remember your gout!” Hasty scolds, and another fresh burst of tears begins.
James and I dance close, like we did at Husky Pete’s. I snuggle against him and commit his heartbeat to memory. He ducks away briefly to smoke a joint with some of the roustabouts. Forget It—also known as Shaw—is among them and I wonder if James would be so willing to smoke with him if he knew that the last few times Boo’s performed, Shaw’s been in the rafters aiming a rifle at the lion’s head.
I try not to be mad about that. Boo, for all his gentleness and dignity, is at heart a thing that’s wild. As is James, who returns from the shadows, smiling in slow motion with his eyes at half-mast.
“Hi,” I say, as he sweeps me into his arms.
“Yes, yes I am.”
When I kiss him, I can taste the earthiness of the pot on his breath, and promise myself I’ll remember it. He takes my chin on his thumb like he did that first time we kissed and looks at me with sincere but bleary eyes. “I love you, Victoria.”
I can’t stop the sob that escapes me, and he looks so alarmed that I have to laugh.
Then Duncan is shouting, “It’s Madison Time,” and suddenly we’re all in a big strong line, doing the popular party dance with all the silly moves. Sharon slides into place beside me and we laugh at each other’s mistakes. The Madison becomes the Alley Cat, and then the Hully Gully, a complex dance to which only Valerie and the other dancers do justice.
Finally, when Gus is good and drunk, and Hasty Pudding is all cried out, the celebration comes to a close. I hug Valerie so hard she gasps.
“Good luck,” I manage in a strangled voice. “I’ll miss you.”
“It’s for the best,” she assures me, and when she whispers, “See you down the road,” I know that she knows I’m not long for this circus, and never was. I press a kiss to the dancer’s cheek, then take James by the hand and escort him back to his room. I will spend the night with him, though based on his present state—which is to say altered—I don’t expect much in the way of romance.
Perhaps that, too, is for the best.
My belongings are packed in the Woolworth’s bag most of them came in. My mother’s brooch will come with me, but the jewelry box is too cumbersome for the sneaky getaway I’m planning. I’ve arranged to ride ahead to Austin with Rick, the advance man, spinning some vague yarn about visiting old family friends who live there.
But I won’t return to the train. I’ll sell the brooch and use the cash to find an apartment. Given my lack of documentation, I’m sure it won’t be in a particularly reputable building, but at least it will be a start. Tomorrow I’ll look for a job, though I doubt anyone in the city of Austin, Texas, is looking to hire a former debutante turned amateur tightrope walker.
I thought I might leave a letter
for James, but after many false starts discovered that there really wasn’t anything I could say that would make any of this all right.
So I will vanish from his life, just as I vanished from my father’s—without a word. The difference, of course, is that this time I wish I didn’t have to go.
We put ourselves to bed. James musters enough energy for one goodnight kiss, then crashes off to sleep while I cry softly into the pillow beside him.
* * *
• • •
The motor of Rick’s battered Chevrolet is already sputtering when I slip into the front seat at twenty minutes to five the next morning.
“You’re late,” he snarls.
“I know, I’m sorry . . .” My nerves are so frazzled that I actually had to stop twice to upchuck during my short walk from the train to the Chevy.
I set the bulging Woolworth’s bag on the seat between us. He lifts an eyebrow.
“Oh . . .” I give a casual toss of my head. “Just some circus souvenirs for my friends in Austin.”
Rick nods and throws the car in gear, and we ride the next three and a half hours in silence. Fine with me; I’m sure if I tried to speak, I’d end up weeping instead.
So I aim my eyes at the rose gold of the horizon, clutch my mother’s brooch, and tell myself that whatever I find in Austin, while not necessarily meant to be, will have to be enough.
* * *
• • •
Rick drops me at a corner I pretend to be familiar with. “They live just down the block,” I lie, climbing out of the car.
“Little early to be payin’ social calls, ain’t it?” he asks.
I smile brightly. “It is, isn’t it? I guess I’ll have some breakfast first, maybe do a little shopping. But thanks for the ride and I’ll see you later, at the fairgrounds.”
I wait for him to turn the corner, then start down Congress Avenue. The capitol building looms importantly, catching the rays of the already scathing Texas sun.
I grab a copy of the Austin Daily Texan at the first newsstand I pass, then hunker down on a stool in a coffee shop to search the real estate rentals, circling all the one-bedroom apartment listings. Back in Brooksvale, I had a bedroom larger than any studio apartment all to myself. But in the train car, I got used to Valerie humming herself to sleep.
