by Lisa Fiedler
The show must go on whatever the show turns out to be. And it does.
So Victoria’s little Cartier masterpiece would go up for auction, and while most of the money would be put in trust for Callie, a portion of the proceeds would be spent on the best alcohol rehabilitation program they could find, where Jenna’s mother would be allowed to stay for as long as she needed in order to find her way home.
Because home is everything.
And finally, a small amount of the cash would go toward covering the cost of two airplane tickets. To Boston.
Callie knew that people often left instructions about where they would like their ashes to be scattered. Victoria had left no such directions, and to be honest, Callie wasn’t ready to part with the Victoria-ness she believed was still in some way present in the powdery contents of that pretty pewter urn. Indeed, she might never be ready.
But she had the notes . . . the lessons, written in her grandmother’s distinctive penmanship, written from her heart. For Callie there was no doubt that a glimmer of Victoria’s essence could be found in every one of those mismatched, inexplicable scraps.
So on the day before she and Quinn were scheduled to fly to Boston, Callie removed all the notes from the corkboard one by one, taking the time to read each sentiment again, contemplating how it was that Victoria had come to write this rule on this scrap, and trying to guess in what order the lessons had brought themselves into her life. Of course, these were things she’d never really know for sure, but there was something deeply warm and wishful in the wondering.
When nothing remained on the bulletin board but the black-and-white candid of Victoria and James holding hands beside the lion’s cage, Callie gathered up the notes, placed them in a shallow tin pail, and set them aflame.
As she sat in the driveway of the carriage house watching them curl up and turn to char, somewhere not far off, the mighty DiCaprio chose that moment to offer up a roar. It filled the gathering twilight and seemed to shake the stars.
In the pail the fire went small, then cool. And what remained were the ashes she would take with her to Boston.
* * *
• • •
Finding the Brooksvale fairgrounds was a bit of a challenge, since most of the field to which Catherine Hastings had run on that spring evening in 1965 had been developed or paved over decades ago. A small grassy park was all that was left to bear witness to the magnificent fact that twice, a long time ago, the circus had indeed come to town.
Quinn and Callie found a place to set up the portable tightrope they’d brought from home, and when the line was taut and ready, Callie mounted the wire. Onlookers whispered, but she didn’t care; she was used to whispers like that.
In each hand she held a fistful of ash, and in her heart she carried the words she’d heard Victoria say a thousand times—Shoulders back, Calliope! Center of gravity! Keep moving forward . . . always moving forward . . .
Gliding to the midpoint of the wire, Callie slowly stretched her arms outward and unfurled her fingers. Feeling the nearness of the sky, the ashes began to stir against her palms. With her breath in her throat, Callie flung up her hands to release the words and wisdom of a life hard-earned:
When in doubt . . . show no fear . . . come full circle . . . those who know . . .
Beneath Callie’s feet, the wire felt friendly and alive; above her head the cinders caught the breeze, powdering the air with Victoria’s memories, which swirled and drifted until they disappeared. For all the gifts her grandmother had given her, Callie knew that this was the most precious, and the most permanent thing that she could give in return:
A place where a girl named Catherine could always remain safely above dangerous ground, where lessons are taught and lessons are learned and somewhere along the way, they are elevated from lesson to legacy.
The air above Brooksvale took in the ashes, and made them a part of itself, just as Cornelius and his circus had taken in a frightened girl, and made her feel safe and worthwhile—just as any sanctuary of any kind will always seek to protect those who need it most.
Step right up . . .
Prepare to be enchanted.
And always, keep moving forward.
Because this is how you make your mark on the circus. This is how you make your mark on the world.
This is how you walk the sky.
EPILOGUE
March 13, 1966
My Dearest Quinn Emily Sharon VanDrexel,
If you’ve found this, it is meant to be. If you, my darling girl, daughter of the circus, star of my life, have discovered this letter, then it is meant to be that you should know.
I am writing to you just moments following your birth on this, your opening night, in the midst of my debut performance as your mother.
What I am about to record are the things I have decided not to tell you about how you came to be born into VanDrexel’s Family Circus. These are the parts of the story—my story—that are so painful, so complex, or simply carved out of places so deep inside of me, it would be impossible for me to tell them to you out loud.
But if you’ve found this, then it’s meant to be.
First, about your name. Your grandfather Cornelius always said that a name should be a kind of enchantment, and I am confident that you will grow into yours, live up to it, and come to cherish it for the blessing that it is.
You are here, you exist, because of the grace of three women:
A woman called Sharon, who never got to Hollywood, but found a place where she could walk the sky.
A girl named Emily, who was one hell of a liar.
And my mother, Meredith Quinn, who, on the day the circus came to Brooksvale, found the strength to send me away with a priceless brooch clutched in my trembling fist. (Since you have opened the drawer, you know that I was never forced to sell it as she intended, so it is yours now, to do with as you wish.)
I’ve named you after all of them, in the hope that a bit of the magic I took from each will forever sparkle inside of you, along with the magic you’ve inherited just by being of VanDrexel stock. Cornelius was both a conjurer and a saint, a teller of tales and a finder of those who were lost. He was a showman, a Ringmaster, and the only day of his life that he did not throw off sparks was the day his son—your father—was taken from us.
My life spun forth from what can only be called a whimsical cliché. I ran away to join the circus! But it did not begin as some glittering dream, or happy ambition. It began as an escape. I will never tell you because I do not want you to feel sorry for me. I only want you to look at me and see the luckiest woman who has ever lived. But before I was lucky, before my name was Victoria, I was Catherine Hastings of Brooksvale, Mass.
My father was Davis Winston Hastings, a man of so-called success and refinement, who was never more delighted than when he was feeling the force of his hand crashing against my face.
My mother was, in every way, his opposite and his superior. She was smart, she was kind, and in the end, she was fearless. Meredith Quinn was forced by the mores of her time to submit to her husband’s arrogance. He hit her, I believe, harder and more frequently than he hit me, and I know that was how she wanted it. Because if his fists were landing on her, they were not landing on me. If his barbs and insults were slicing into her, then that was one moment in which I would not be made to feel worthless, less-than, despised. I am sorry to tell you that she never asked for help. I think she feared that it would have only made things worse, and she was probably right.
So she sent me to the circus.
And at the circus, I fell in love. With many things, actually. The giggling-angel sound of the calliope, the quiet majesty of the animals, the miracle of learning to walk across a wire in the sky. But more than any of that, more than all of that, there was James.
James VanDrexel, who called himself the younger, braver, more interesting
son of the Ringmaster, who knew that a lion could be taught but not tamed, who dreamed of traveling far across the sea, so he could return home again better than he was when he left.
I did not join the circus ever intending to stay. I did not join to meet elephants, or to sew buttons, or even to walk the tightrope like a star. But then, I discovered that among clowns and dancers, sharpshooters and lion tamers, I could be funny and brave. I could be someone I truly liked, and I could have a home. Because home is not a place. Home is the people who take care of you when you need it, and even when you don’t.
I never did tell James the truth about my past. I think perhaps I was ashamed of the life I’d lived before I came home to the circus. I didn’t want him ever to equate his Victoria with someone else’s Catherine, a girl whose own father could hold her in such low esteem. This, I believe, is something all creatures who’ve been abused must feel. After being hit enough times, you come to think of yourself as worthy of nothing except being hit.
You already know (because this is something I will tell you when you are old enough to understand) that your father died in an incident overseas, but the whole truth is that he was killed in an altercation with a man who’d been brutally beating a lion. As the story was later told to me by the Monsieur Loyal whose misfortune it had been to watch the tragedy unfold, James had witnessed a French lion tamer punishing a lioness by attacking her with a metal rod. He immediately intervened, warning the abuser that if such violence were repeated, he would sorely regret it. The man did not heed the warning, and when your father saw him again days later punishing the cat in the same manner, he threw himself into the cage to put himself between the man and the lion. But the man did not back down; instead he turned his metal rod on James, and began beating him as relentlessly as he had beaten the cat.
When it was over, my beloved, heroic James lay dead in the lion’s cage.
And I confess that it was all my fault.
You see, your father was only there because I chose to keep the news of you a secret from him. He never knew, not even for the space of a heartbeat, that you were there, waiting to be his, waiting to be ours. If only I had told him about you, I’m sure he would be alive today, gathering you into his arms. But he’s not.
And for that, Quinn, I am more sorry than I can ever say.
We learned that we lost James in a telegram, which I have enclosed here. On the back of it is written something I’ve heard repeated again and again since the day I arrived at the circus, but did not fully understand until the day we heard of James’s death. It was the last time I would ever write down one of my lessons. I suppose I thought that in losing James I’d learned everything there was to know, and in the worst possible way.
But then, one day . . . this day, Quinn . . . there is you. Small and sweet and perfect, resting now in my arms, but how fitting it seems that up until this moment, the place in my body where I carried you is the place where all true balance begins and ends—my center of gravity. For nine months you nestled there, and the anticipation of you is what kept me on my feet. Once, on a breezy day, in a rumbling truck, I heard a friend utter a phrase in a way that made me think it contained the answer to every question in the cosmos. “Mothers and daughters,” she said, and it was as though she were sure it was the most powerful prayer in the whole wide world. And today, because of you, I understand that she was right.
The night we learned that your father was dead, I walked the wire. Before I climbed the ladder, I asked your grandpa Cornelius to introduce me for the first time as Victoria VanDrexel. And as the crowd looked on and cheered, I felt my heart take comfort. Then I went back to my train car and wrote down the greatest truth I would ever know: The show must go on. And so it does, and so it will.
Of all the many wishes I have for you, the greatest is that when the time is right for you to choose your dream, you will go after it with everything you are. As I look at you now, with your tiny fingers fluttering gracefully, I can clearly picture your father’s hands, reaching out to stroke a trembling lion, to pat a charismatic camel, to feed a charming elephant, and I wonder if perhaps you have already inherited his great love and respect for animals, his noble instinct to protect and to appreciate these mysterious, innocent creatures. If that turns out to be the case, well, I will be more proud than I can say.
But for now, little one, I welcome you to your home in the circus, my darling, my coconspirator, my child.
Your loving mother,
Victoria
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Fiedler is the author of novels for children and young adults. She divides her time between Connecticut and the Rhode Island seashore, where she lives happily with her very patient husband, her brilliant and beloved daughter, and their two incredibly spoiled golden retrievers.
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