The Flying Circus

by Susan Crandall

  Gil landed the Jenny and people finally stopped oohing and aahing over Cora and began to drift away. Henry jerked her aside. “That was so damned stupid!” The words shot from between his clenched teeth. “You could have broken your fool neck.”

  “It’s my neck.”

  His fingers dug deeper into her arm.

  “Ouch!” She tried to pull away, but he held tight.

  “Yes, it is.” Henry barely refrained from shaking her. “And I reckon you’re welcome to break it when no one is looking. But we need to make sure these stunts are going to work every single time before doing them in front of an audience.”

  “But that’s what they like! Daredevils!”

  She was so damned green. “They like the idea of a daredevil. It’s excitement they want; the possibility of disaster. But none of these people wants to see a woman get broken to bits. Not one! That kind of publicity can ruin everything. You have big ideas for this show.” He pointed a finger in her face, his own face heating up. “Keep that in mind when you get the itch to do something this stupid again. If the newspapers get convinced we’re going to kill someone—especially a woman—if they decide to write about our foolish recklessness instead of about our amazing show, we’re through.” He was through. Accidents brought investigations . . . and the law.

  Her eyes grew wide. “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Well, think on it.” He leaned over her, his breathing rough. “When public opinion turns against you, nothing you do will change the course.”

  Henry snatched Mercury from her arms and walked away, his hands shaking hard enough that the dog’s ears quivered.

  “Henry!” she called after him. “Come on. Don’t get in such a lather.”

  He knew better than to stop. He’d been lucky Mercury had saved him.

  Throughout his life, Henry’d had plenty of practice controlling himself. He’d thought himself a calm person, able to weigh out consequences, put reason before reaction. Only lately had he become aware of the danger that lived behind the bars he kept on his emotions. Something had been growing. Building. Once it broke free, it thrashed like a wild beast, wounded and blind.

  Henry sneaked out of camp while Gil and Cora were still talking to the hangers-on. The weather had closed in and put their day to an early end, a reprieve for Henry. He needed some time alone to sort himself out. He walked under a gray shroud of sky that draped itself clear to the ground; a hot summer sky that should, but wouldn’t, rain. The air smelled of sluggish rivers and his lungs felt clogged with wet cotton. The dense air bent, muffled, and amplified the sounds of birds, of his footsteps, of a barking dog.

  He moved through the stifling haze separate from the world. Looking not outward, but in toward his deepest self.

  His temper still simmered, just below a boil. Was that the price for locking it away all of his life—a restless soul on the verge of eruption, edgy and volatile?

  Airing out the soul posed a certain danger. Open that door just a crack and the currents stirred the cobwebs, revealing the shrouded shapes beneath, things he’d fooled himself into believing he could leave behind.

  It was growing dark as he neared town. The thickening of people and vehicles all seemed to be flowing in a single direction, toward a large white tent in the center of a firefly-studded field. The canvas top glowed with light from within. A melody rose and fell, distant and broken, yet the scraps he could hear were familiar. He strained to listen. He knew that song. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and could feel his ma on one side and Peter on the other. They’d been in a tent similar to this one, arm to arm with their neighbors, riding the beauty of the music. He’d been too little to know the words, but he’d liked the way all of the voices came together as one sound. He remembered how his insides had grown quiet and calm. He’d been . . . safe.

  He opened his eyes and let himself be drawn into the flow of people, across the field and into the airless tent.

  “Welcome, brother,” a man said as Henry filed past, and “Welcome, sister” to the woman behind him.

  There were no chairs. People crowded close to the stage, shoulder to shoulder, oblivious of the heat. Paper paddle fans with a picture of Jesus bathed in a heavenly glow fluttered below chins, waved over babies. On the stage stood a woman in a white robe, flowing sleeves moving as she led the crowd in song.

  Henry stepped out of the slow, steady tide of bodies and stood near the wide opening of the entrance.

  Next onstage was what looked to be a family, outfitted with guitar, a banjo, and a tambourine. They did a couple of songs unfamiliar to Henry that set the crowd to clapping and offering shouts of “Hallelujah.”

  Then a young girl, maybe ten or eleven, dressed in all white stepped onto the stage, her holy Bible held high over her head. The place got so quiet Henry heard his own breathing.

  “Many of you have come tonight for the Lord’s healing. And he will heal you. He will heal you. But first, come to Him with your troubles and your sins. Let Him carry your soul to glory so your body may follow.” Her voice was amazingly strong and loud for such a little thing.

  “The devil is sin!” She waved her Bible in the air, her voice even louder.

  “Amen.” It seemed Henry’s was the only silent voice.

  “The devil is darkness!”

  “Amen!”

  “The devil is hate!”

  “Amen!”

  “You must repent for your sin!” She smacked her hand against the Good Book. “Spurn hate !” Thump. “Shun the devil !” Thump. “Yes, brothers and sisters, do this and embrace the word of the Lord, God Almighty.

  “Do not fall for the devil’s lies, his denouncement of the Word, his blatant rejection of Adam and Eve and the wonder of God’s creation. ‘Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature.’ ” Her voice had built to a shout. Then it dropped low. “There are those who say God did not make man. Those who try to tell you man came from ape . . .”

  Her voice, the people, the tent, all faded.

  One word kept echoing in Henry’s head: hate. Hate was the devil. Disaster must be his child.

  When had Henry’s hate started? No one was born with it, were they? When he’d beaten the crumbs and scraps of it back and stuffed it away, had it grown in the darkness like a fungus?

  All of the petty childhood cruelties, all of the death, all of the loss—when had he turned all of those corners that led from disappointment, to hurt, to anger, and ultimately to hate?

  Looking at the whole of his life, he saw the moment when the real hate started.

  If he’d understood the dark, manipulative forces of jealousy, his life on the Dahlgren farm might have been different. But even after his jagged, cutting childhood, he’d been slow to learn too many lessons. At first he’d been deluded—or maybe outright deceived—into believing Mrs. Dahlgren was his only adversary on that farm. It turned out the enemy you didn’t see coming was the most dangerous.

  From the outset, the three littlest Dahlgren sisters had been giggly and curious, spying shyly around corners and from behind bushes—against their mother’s admonitions. Over time Henry had coaxed them into the open, using games and kindness the way a person would use a handful of grain to lure a timid but starving fawn. However, the four older girls, with the exception of Emmaline a few days after that first Christmas, hadn’t exhibited much interest in him at all, offering only the occasional sidelong look when they passed at an influenza-avoiding distance in the barnyard. At the time Henry had assumed they were simply more obedient to their mother’s rules than the young ones. An idea that turned out to be laughable.

  Once the epidemic had passed, the three little ones openly trailed behind him like puppies. He fished lost shoes out of the mud, retied hair ribbons, and answered end
less questions about everything from where butterflies came from to where their favorite pig had disappeared to during slaughter season. That last one had been tricky, but he’d managed to tell it in a way that didn’t leave them crying over their morning bacon. As they’d grown older, one by one they’d joined the ranks of the distant older sisters. All except the youngest, Johanna, who, up until Henry had been forced to flee, occasionally still spent time with him. She rarely asked questions though. She was self-conscious of her stammer, which hung up most severely on the J in her own name. Henry couldn’t blame her for staying quiet. Her sisters pelted her with relentless teasing, and her mother was convinced that a sharp rap on the knuckles at each hung-up consonant would break the offensive habit.

  Henry worried about Johanna now that he was no longer there to offer her silent solidarity.

  One morning, eighteen months after Henry had moved into the Dahlgren barn, he’d been surprised when Emmaline, the second eldest, stopped as they passed one another as he was headed to roll up the carpets and carry them outside to be beaten. She told him that with the epidemic over she would like them to be friends. Then she pulled a gold chain bracelet from her apron pocket. On it was a nickel-size, gold four-leaf clover. “Keep it in your pocket. It’s lucky. Orphans need luck.”

  Henry had barely gotten his stunned “Thank you” out of his mouth before she walked on. He looked down at the shiny charm in his hand. Henry had no idea if it was real gold or not. He looked at Emmaline’s retreating back, feeling as if maybe his luck was turning.

  He spent the rest of the day feeling the warm presence of friendship in his pocket.

  The next morning Mr. Dahlgren was waiting outside at the barn door. “Young Henry! Do you have something to tell me?”

  His tone made Henry’s mouth go fresh-straw dry. Mrs. Dahlgren might consider Henry a farm animal, but Mr. Dahlgren had always favored him; treated him like a son, even if he did live in the barn.

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  Mr. Dahlgren frowned and stayed quiet, waiting for an admission. Yesterday’s chores ran through Henry’s mind. All done. No shortcuts taken. No mistakes that he could think of.

  “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Do you have Emmaline’s gold bracelet?”

  Henry reached into his pocket. When he opened his palm, the charm lay there like a burning accusation.

  Mr. Dahlgren’s gaze cut to the kitchen door. For the first time, Henry noticed Mrs. Dahlgren and Emmaline standing there. Emmaline’s shoulders shook with hanky-muffled sobs.

  “She said it disappeared from the top of her dressing table yesterday—after you had been in the house to carry out the rugs.”

  Henry shot a jittery look toward Emmaline and her mother. On her most charitable days Mrs. Dahlgren’s expression looked as if she suffered from dyspepsia. That day she was red faced with fury. Her fists opened and closed at her sides, looking as if it took all of her restraint not to fly down those back steps and club Henry to death.

  Confusion swirled a cold, crackly leafed wind in Henry’s soul. Had Emmaline gotten in trouble for giving it away? Had she lied to lessen her mother’s anger? Why not just ask Henry to give it back?

  He faced Mr. Dahlgren and held the man’s gaze with the conviction of the truth. “Emmaline gave it to me yesterday, sir. For luck.”

  “Ah, Henry.” Mr. Dahlgren heaved a sad sigh. “What am I to believe?”

  The truth! “I didn’t take it.”

  “If you want something, you should come to me. I will make sure you have what you need.”

  “I didn’t take it! I would never—”

  Suddenly Emmaline was beside them. Her blue eyes glittered with tears and she gasped at the sight of the gold bracelet in Henry’s hand. “Oh, how could you, Henry? After all Papa has done for you—after he took you for his son?” That last word held the poison of bitterness. She snaked her hand around her papa’s arm and clung tight. “How could you steal from us?” She sounded as heartbroken as Mr. Dahlgren looked.

  “You gave this to me! Right here on this path,” Henry shouted. Hot, shameful tears stung his eyes. “Tell him!” The image of the book lying in the mud came into his mind. He’d thought it had been just a reaction to his newness. Jealousy over the gift.

  Emmaline shook her head as if he were a pitiable idiot. “Why would I give it to you? Papa gave it to me for my seventh birthday. It’s my favorite thing in all the world. Right, Papa?”

  The disappointment in Mr. Dahlgren’s eyes cut Henry deep.

  “I didn’t take it! Honest. Why would I?”

  “Please give it back to her.” Mr. Dahlgren’s voice was flat.

  Her hand came out, palm up.

  Henry dropped the gold clover into it, staring into her eyes, trying to shame her into telling the truth.

  She closed her hand around it and turned to walk back to the house. As she did, she gave Henry the tightest, coldest smile he’d ever seen.

  That day laid the foundation for what was to come. As careful as Henry tried to be, Emmaline somehow always outmaneuvered him, making him appear responsible for taunts and damage to her possessions. Mr. Dahlgren always admonished Henry in a halfhearted way that said he had doubts about his daughter’s claims. Mrs. Dahlgren’s favorite punishment was the only one in her control, the withholding of food.

  Henry grew to hate Emmaline in a way he’d never thought possible.

  She’d been his nemesis. And in the end, she’d won.

  God damn it, she’d won.

  Henry slipped out of the revival tent, no closer to settled than when he’d come in. It seemed anger relived was as powerful as anger in the moment.

  A hand touched his arm. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the dark, but he knew it was Cora even before she said his name.

  “Did you follow me?” His voice was sharp. Lashing out felt good.

  “Jeepers, Henry, what’s eating you?”

  He clamped his teeth together and shrugged his arm away. “I just want to be left alone.”

  “In a tent crammed with people?”

  “Damn it, Cora! Leave. Me. Alone.”

  “Come on, Kid. Don’t be mad. I’m sorry I did the ramp. What more do you want me to say?”

  He started walking, hoping she didn’t follow.

  He heard her trotting along behind. “Well, to be perfectly honest, you surprised me. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  He stopped and spun around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You actually showed some emotion—although I wish it hadn’t been anger with me. But still. Bully for you! Where I come from, nobody says what they’re thinking and certainly not what they’re feeling. And you, Henry Jefferson, you always think before you open your mouth, measure the consequences. You’re afraid for anyone to see inside you.”

  He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple. “You make me sound like Gil.”

  “No. Gil’s different, a charred and burned shell protecting the soft flesh underneath. But you, you’re just deliberately cautious.” She touched his arm. “Something made you that way.”

  “You don’t know either one of us, Cora. This business we’ve got going will work a whole lot better if you leave it that way. Neither of us needs to be unearthed.”

  “Oh, come on! I just meant it seems like you’ve been knocked around by life. What deep, dark secrets could a nice fella like you possibly have?”

  He looked beyond her. Breathing in. Breathing out. “No secrets here.” In. Out. “And leave Gil alone. We’ve already pushed our luck with him.”

  She waved his words away. “I promise I won’t dig into Gil—I kind of like all of that mysterious brooding.”

  She was such a silly girl. “Then pretend I’m a mysterious brooder, too.” He sighed and rubbed the throbbing in his temple. “I just want this s
how to work.”

  “Me, too. So, on that score”—she made an X over her heart—“no more stunts in front of customers without first perfecting them. Thank you for believing in our show.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Now come back to camp. Gil’s opened a fabulous can of beans.”

  He wanted to send her on her way, to spend the night wandering through the darkness on his own. But it was getting late and camp was a couple of long, dark, lonely miles away. Who knew what kind of trouble might find her?

  She held on to his arm as they walked, until Henry pulled it away. Everything grated on him, even her touch. For a while he thought she’d at least give him the peace of silence. Then she said, “Do you believe all of that faith healing and Bible banging? Or are you a follower of Darwin?”

  He shrugged, hoping his lack of response would discourage talking.

  “And that was just a little girl doing the preaching! Not that I don’t think girls can become preachers . . . if that’s what they want. It just seemed she’s too young to know anything about the real world.”

  “You’d be surprised what a kid her age could have experienced.”

  “Well, I think it’s all theater—ballyhoo. You just don’t come in there blind as a bat and walk out fully sighted because a little girl says so.”

  “Hard to say. I left before the healing started.”

  “And I don’t think you have to choose between God and Darwin. I mean, what if evolution is God’s plan? How are we to know?”

  “Stop talking. My head hurts.”

  “Look there! You said what you thought again. This could be a real breakthrough.”

  “I mean it. Shut the hell up.”

  She sucked in a little breath of surprise.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  He left her at their field with Gil and walked on into the night. Alone.