by A. C. Wise
“Darlene. Hey, Darlene!”
Ruby clenches her jaw and doesn’t answer. Her white plastic name tag clearly says Ruby, and it’s the only name she’s answered to for years. Only her grandparents were allowed to call her Darlene, no other exceptions. But Harv Salmetti has told her repeatedly that as long as she cashes his checks, made out to Darlene Shickley, he can call her whatever he damned well pleases. If she doesn’t like it, she can take her job and stuff it.
One of these days she’s going to take him up on the offer. And she has a very clear idea of where she’ll localize that stuffing.
“You giving me the silent treatment, or what?” Mr. Salmetti slides past her; there’s ample room, but he makes a point of brushing against her as he does.
He leans against the refrigerator, blocking her path to the sink. There’s no point in trying to step around him. Ruby sets aside the steel wool, raising her chin.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Salmetti?” She refuses to call him Harv to his face; they are not friends.
He stares pointedly at her chest. “No hot date tonight?”
Ruby doesn’t cross her arms or look away. Those aren’t the things that require self-control; it’s not kicking her boss in the shins that takes all her willpower.
“You know how the cleaning shifts are divided,” she says, keeping her voice as even as she can. “We draw straws. I guess I have bad luck.”
“Are you sure? Or were you maybe feeling a little lonely? We could keep each other company.”
He steps closer. He smells worse than the grill. On him the fried scent is mixed with too-sweet pipe tobacco, reminding her of carsickness.
Mr. Salmetti leans in, stopping just short of touching her. Ruby balls her fists in the stained apron about her waist. She mentally counts the stains, an exercise to hold her calm. Bitter coffee. Too-sweet cherry pie. Smears of grease. Her arms tremble, but it’s the only thing keeping her from gut-punching her boss and bringing a lawsuit on top of a lost job.
She made the mistake of letting him touch her once. And he expected—still expects—her to be grateful. “A girl like you doesn’t have many options,” he’s told her more than once.
Ruby wasn’t grateful then, and she isn’t grateful now. What she was, at the time, was drunk and filled with the kind of ennui only fake plastic wreaths and tinsel strung up around a diner can bring on. Mr. Salmetti had been even drunker, and the truth was she felt sorry for him. She knew he didn’t have anyone to go home to after the staff holiday party.
So she didn’t push him away immediately when he’d sloppily kissed her cheek, using the excuse of the mistletoe strung over the door between the diner and his office. Or when he’d moved from her cheek to her neck. She’d even let him squeeze her breast, but she didn’t follow him into his office, and stopped him when he tried to hike up her skirt. She didn’t slap him either, which seemed like a kindness at the time, but ever since has felt like a huge mistake.
“No thank you, Mr. Salmetti.” Ruby makes each word precise, firm as the shove that ended the holiday party, hoping he’ll finally get the message.
For a moment, Mr. Salmetti seems genuinely confused, unable to comprehend why she would turn him down. She should be grateful, after all. Just like she shouldn’t have plans other than TV and ice cream, because doesn’t the skin, the shape, the body, define all of a person? When Ruby doesn’t let her expression falter, a muscle twitches in Mr. Salmetti’s jaw. Slowly and deliberately he knocks over the bucket of greasy water and scrapings from the grill.
“I guess you’ll have to stay even later than you thought.”
His grin is smug, predatory. He’s only an inch or two taller than her, and under his fat he’s soft. Ruby could break him in half if she wanted to. He crosses his arms again, waiting for her move.
Maybe he expects Ruby to cry. Maybe he expects her to apologize, or take him up on his offer after all, like a bucket of greasy slop water is the key to getting her libido going. Ruby feels sorry for him all over again. But her sympathy only goes so far. He’s a shitbag, and she’s sick of his bullying. He’s nothing to her other than a paycheck and fuck it—she’ll deal with the loss of that tomorrow.
Ruby unties her apron and folds it into a neat square. She unpins her white plastic name tag and shoves both into Mr. Salmetti’s stunned hands.
“Clean it yourself, asshole.”
She slams the diner door on the way out, so hard the glass shatters. It is the most beautiful sound in the world.
THE TREMBLING DOESN’T SET IN UNTIL RUBY GETS HOME. SHE LEANS over the bathroom sink, fighting the urge to vomit as the adrenaline fades.
“What the fuck am I going to do now?” she asks her reflection. Scared-wide eyes stare back at her.
She lives paycheck to paycheck in the bungalow her grandparents left her. Who knows how long it’ll take her to find another job. Mr. Salmetti will tell his friends about her. Warn them. She can picture him lying, saying he caught her stealing from the register or some other bullshit. And retail and customer service are all she’s qualified for.
Bitter laughter-that-is-panic shakes her, tears of hilarity smudging her make-up. “Maybe I should run away and join the circus.” It’s an old joke, one she’d used to deflect her friends when they were all getting their college acceptance letters. She couldn’t afford the tuition and she’d failed utterly to qualify for any scholarships.
“I’m going to run away and join the circus. Everyone loves a clown.”
She even looks the part now—sad Pierrot eyes lined in jagged streaks of mascara, cheeks alternately flushed too-red and shocked pale, lipstick smeared from slurping water against the imaginary taste of bile. As abruptly as it started, the laughter stops. Ruby lets out a breath, grips the edge of the sink, and straightens.
“Fuck it.” She’s not a quitter. Of all the stupid ideas she’s ever had, joining the circus is not her worst plan.
RUBY SURVEYS THE ITEMS LAID OUT ON HER BED: A SLINKY DRESS, cut low, slit high, slithering with sequins the color of her name; bright red cowboy boots with white stitching; three dyed-red ostrich feathers; glittery eyelashes, a good half-inch long, and sparkly lipstick like fresh-spilled blood. The last item she bought is a bus ticket. Together, they ate her paycheck whole. After this, she’s fucked.
She dons the clothing, applies the make-up, and sets the ostrich feathers in her carefully curled hair. Bus ticket clutched in her sweaty hand, she steps out the door.
Ruby ignores the stares, the whispers, as she walks to the bus station. She continues to ignore them as she boards the bus. She keeps her hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead, pretending she’s the only person in the world through the jouncing two hour ride. From the end of the line, Ruby walks. Cars whiz by, and even though she’s separated from them by the railing of the pedestrian walkway, the hum of the tires seeps up through her boots and wind buffets her as she crosses the bridge.
Sun beats on the back of her neck, exposed by her feather-topped updo. It’s almost impossible not to feel wilted, with sweat gathering at the small of her back and the blistery rub of her brand new boots. She feels ridiculous. Until she reaches the midpoint of the bridge and the circus comes into view, taking her breath away.
Tents bloom in a rainbow of color, like a colony of poisonous mushrooms covering the tiny private island that used to belong to a local convent. The central part of the island is now a bird sanctuary, but the circus obtained special permission to use the outskirts while they’re in town. Her heart swells as Ruby forgets everything but the memory of sawdust and cotton candy, walking between her grandparents and holding their hands, looking at everything with wide-eyed six-year-old wonder. It takes everything Ruby has not to break into a run.
Yet this circus smells nothing like the one she remembers. She sniffs the air, breathes deep but cannot identify the dry, neutral scent, touched ever so faintly with plastic from the tents dotting the fairway. She can see them all beyond the gate, but the p
imple-faced kid doesn’t want to let her in. She has no money for a ticket, and besides the circus doesn’t open to the public until tomorrow.
Ruby draws herself up to the fullness of her less-than-impressive height, and smiles her sweetest smile. She has an appointment. An audition, really, with the circus manager, Mr. Forsythe. If she didn’t, why would she be dressed this way? The kid rings Forsythe’s office, receives no answer, and finally shrugs her through, bored. He directs her to a trailer at the back of the grounds.
Ruby pauses outside the trailer, checking her make-up in a small hand-held mirror. She wipes her palms and the back of her neck with a wad of crumpled napkins from the diner, and shoves everything back into her purse. Ruby knocks. The grumbled response is inarticulate, but she hasn’t come this far to quit. She eases the door open, poking her head inside.
“Hello?”
A cloud of cigar smoke envelops her. Somewhere within the blue fog is a squat man behind a desk—an incongruous thing of heavy oak that has no place inside the tin-can of a trailer.
“The hell you want?” The man’s brows draw together, shaggy caterpillars engaged in making love. Or war.
“Sir, my name is Ruby—”
He plucks the cigar from thick lips with thick fingers, scowling. “You lost?”
“No, sir, I’m here—”
“Well you shouldn’t be. Get out. And close the door. You’re letting in the air.” He replaces the cigar, still scowling, and turns his attention back to the pile of receipts covering his desk.
Ruby notes the lack of computer. There are only paper-swollen folders and an adding machine with smoke-yellowed keys. She resists the urge to draw another deep breath, afraid of pulling more blue smoke into her lungs and choking to death. She speaks as fast as she can, getting the words out before he can interrupt her again.
“Sir, my name is Ruby and I’m here to apply for a job.”
Mr. Forsythe freezes, cigar halfway between mouth and ashtray. A chunk of ash drops to the desk and he blots the papers with unnecessary force to prevent the whole thing going up in an inferno.
Taking advantage of his distraction, Ruby squeezes her way into the trailer. There’s no chair on this side of Forsythe’s desk, so she plants herself firmly in front of it.
“A job?” Forsythe sets his cigar aside, lips pulling up unattractively on one side. “We’ve already got a fat lady. You’re wasting your time.”
Ruby opens her mouth, but Forsythe holds up his hand, sneer deepening.
“Not that you couldn’t give her a run for her money. How much do you weigh, sweetheart?” When Ruby opens her mouth again, he waves dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. No one wants to pay money to see a queen-size queen. Get lost.”
Ruby’s lip threatens to tremble, but she raises her head. She’s spent years dealing with Harv Salmetti and putting up with all manner of shit from the customers at his diner; this is nothing.
“I don’t want to be your Fat Lady. I want the Strong Woman job,” Ruby says. “I’ve done my research. You don’t have one.”
The man pauses in mid-reach for his cigar, mouth hanging, then bursts forth with an exaggerated “haw,” slapping both palms flat on his desk, scattering receipts. The laughter turns into a coughing fit, shaking his entire body. Ruby waits it out, refusing to let her heart sink, digging her nails into her palms. Forsythe wipes his eyes.
“Lady, you are some special kind of crazy.” He pauses to wheeze, then goes on. “Only thing people want to see less than a queen-sized queen is a queen-sized queen giving herself a heart attack trying to lift a dumbbell. You think I want the trouble of hauling your sorry, tarted-up corpse out of my circus when you keel over from what’s probably the only bit of exercise you’ve ever done in your life?”
He goes on, his lips moving like an exaggerated parody of speech in a silent film, but the words are lost in the roar of blood in Ruby’s head. Her cheeks flush hot, but when her voice emerges, it’s perfectly even and calm.
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the job. But just so you know what you’re missing, consider this my audition.”
Ruby steps forward, moving her body, yet floating somewhere just beyond her right shoulder, watching. Her hands—are they hers?—grip the edge of Forsythe’s heavy desk. The ostrich feathers in her hair bob as she yanks the desk forward, and with barely a grunt of effort, flips it over.
The trailer shakes. Forsythe lurches back, narrowly avoiding getting his feet crushed. A blizzard of receipts fill the air, and in their midst, Ruby turns on her heel and walks out the door.
She’s deep in the maze of tents, blooming all around her like a wild garden, when it strikes her. She crashes back into her body and her knees buckle, dropping her to the ground next to a tent striped blue and gold. A sob breaks free. She has no job, nowhere to go, and she spent the last of her money on the stupid dress and the stupid bus ticket and she has nothing to show for it.
Ignoring the pain, Ruby rips the false eyelashes from her lids. She digs in her purse for a napkin, but she used the last one to dry her sweaty palms. The contents of her bag clatter as she up-ends it, pawing through them as they tumble into the dust.
“Here you go, honey.”
Ruby starts, her head snapping up. A hand holds out a tissue.
The tissue and the hand belong to one of the tallest women Ruby has ever seen. Her skin is dark and flawless; her hair straightened to a silky black ponytail hanging halfway down her back. She’s also wearing one of the skimpiest outfits Ruby’s encountered outside of a beach or swimming pool. In fact, if it weren’t covered in dark blue sequins, Ruby might have mistaken it for a bathing suit, with high-cut sides, a peek-a-boo diamond revealing the woman’s belly button, and a heart-shaped bodice. The outfit is complemented by a choker around the woman’s throat, dripping with blue teardrop beading and a single peacock feather.
In the face of the woman’s elegance, Ruby’s tears do something complicated, her sobs turning into a kind of strangled laughter as she accepts the tissue.
“I must look like a raccoon rooting in garbage.”
“Not especially.” The woman’s voice is throaty—velvet and smoke. “You look like someone in an awful lot of pain. What happened?”
“The manager…” Ruby waves in the direction of the trailer. “Mr. Forsythe…”
“Oh. He’s an asshole. Speaking of, I have to do a set to impress said asshole’s investors, but I can sneak you in if you want to watch the show. After I’m done, we can get coffee.” She offers a smile. “Or something stronger. You look like you could use a good talk.”
The woman extends her hand; her grip is surprisingly callused for the smoothness of her skin.
“Oof.” She grunts as she helps Ruby to her feet, then offers a wry smile, looking Ruby up and down.
“My name’s Sapphire, by the way.”
“Ruby.”
“Well look at us. Twin gems.” Sapphire parts the tent flap, ducking through.
Ruby follows, thoughts racing to catch up. Twin gems. The words echo, warming Ruby’s cheeks, her belly, spreading outward. It lessens some of the ache, makes her not care about the feathers wilting in her hair, or her smudged make-up, or how she’s going to pay for groceries. Or anything else, for that matter.
The tent flap drops closed, encasing them in dusky twilight. Ruby follows Sapphire through the narrow space behind a tiered row of bleachers.
“Sit anywhere you like. If anyone gives you any trouble, you tell them you’re my special guest.” Sapphire pauses long enough to squeeze Ruby’s hand before hurrying off.
The strength and warmth in Sapphire’s grip sends a fresh spike of heat through Ruby’s body. She’s never had a friend—acquaintances, co-workers, people from high school she sees occasionally when they come home to visit their families—but no real friends. And even though they’ve only just met, Sapphire feels like a friend.
Spotlights swing over the ring in the center of the tent, leaving the seats in darkness. Ru
by slips into the first available spot. One of the lights snaps upward, illuminating a swing. Then all the lights go out, plunging the tent into darkness.
When the lights return, they’re trained on the swing. Sapphire perches on the narrow bar, a train of peacock feathers trailing behind her. The very picture of royalty, Ruby thinks, if royalty was prone to wearing skimpy almost-bikinis. She stifles a giggle.
The giggle turns into a gasp as Sapphire flips backward, her knees catching the swing and the peacock feathers flaring in a halo behind her. Ruby’s heart lurches, then soars, linked to Sapphire by an invisible thread. Utterly rapt, Ruby forgets about everything beyond the circle of spotlights and Sapphire moving above her like liquid grace. She drops, glides, swings, trades the swing for lengths of silken cloth she weaves around her body like a spider. She is a bird, an angel, a chimerical creature.
When the show ends, Ruby is on her feet, thundering applause before she even realizes it. There’s a small knot of men in suits, presumably the investors, and one of them glances her way. She slips outside before anyone can question her.
“That was amazing,” Ruby says when Sapphire emerges, dressed in loose, flowing pants, a light blouse, and heavy leather sandals. Only the jeweled choker remains around her throat, a reminder of her performance.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t stay.” Sapphire smiles, and Ruby’s cheeks warm again. “You looked like a flight risk for a good while there.” Sapphire takes Ruby’s arm, ignoring the height difference between them and leads her away from the tent. “Coffee or something stronger? I know a place that does both.”
“I don’t really drink,” Ruby says.
“I can cover that for both of us.”
“WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT?” RUBY GAPES AT THE DRINK THE WAITER sets in front of Sapphire.
