Dumbo

by Kari Sutherland

  Vandevere stood waiting in the doorway. The Farriers hurried to follow him inside, Medici and Colette tagging along. Joe raced up a set of stairs, tearing across parquet floors and through velvet-curtained rooms. Milly hoped he wouldn’t accidentally knock over a priceless antique or crash into a window.

  “Look at this place!” Joe bounded outside to a balcony that overlooked the whole park.

  Milly found the bedrooms—she’d have her own! One of them had a floor-to-ceiling wall of books and a bed that was made up with yellow-flowered sheets. Walking over to the shelves, she caressed the spines of the books. “A library…in my room.” Her heart felt like it was exploding. Until now she’d only been able to keep a handful of books at a time. Packing light had always been an important part of traveling with the circus.

  She took it all in—the yellow swirling pattern on the floors, the emerald green curtains framing giant windows. It was like they had just made it to Oz.

  Vandevere drank in the children’s expressions. “And the children shall lead them,” he whispered softly.

  What does that mean? Holt wondered, studying Vandevere. The businessman’s lips curved up in a half smile. Shrugging, Holt decided not to ask. He didn’t want to come across as ignorant.

  “We’re all very grateful for the opportunity, sir,” Holt said. The house was incredible. Even after a lifetime of work, Holt would never have been able to buy a place like this. He could hardly believe it. It felt too good to be true.

  “Of course. Your family is mine.” Vandevere’s eyebrows twitched. “If you’d like to settle in later, there’s something on the grounds I’d like to share with you.”

  After this place, Holt couldn’t wait to see what else Dreamland held. He nodded and ushered his kids out of the house—they could explore all its nooks and crannies that night.

  Vandevere led the group to a grand scarlet-colored tent with golden trim. Inside the tent, in the middle of a packed-dirt ring, were twelve beautiful horses, each with a handler. Holt’s heart squeezed. Their coats varied from bright white to honey palomino, chestnut, and dark bay, with one bold pinto perfect for a cowboy. Even more impressive, there were two Arabians, their delicate heads and graceful necks arching as they pranced in place.

  “I brushed up on your story, Mr. Farrier. You were Kentucky’s top trick rider. There’s no reason you can’t be again.” Vandevere waved and a stablehand pulled a rope, releasing a banner.

  Against a patriotic backdrop of stars and stripes, a picture of a one-armed rider on a rearing horse stood out.

  “Except here, it would be as Captain Farrier: war hero!” Vandevere held out his hands, as though framing the words in midair. “A one-armed wonder, a national treasure. We’ll wrap you in a folktale and flag.”

  Really? Holt couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have to pretend here—no fake arm, no mustache or clown’s makeup. “I still can ride,” Holt said. It was half statement, half question. He glanced at Medici, who’d been so sure Holt’s injury would scare people. Judging by his expression, Medici was kicking himself for not having the same vision as Vandevere. Maybe crowds would cheer for a returning war hero—perhaps even chant his name.

  “I know you can,” Vandevere answered.

  Holt surveyed the horses.

  “And you’re going to…right after you get the little elephant off the ground for me,” Vandevere added.

  Ah. So there was the catch.

  “You mean, once his act’s working…” Holt trailed off, wanting to be sure Vandevere was promising what he thought he was.

  “You’re back in the saddle.” The Dreamland owner grinned.

  Holt could respect that—good business was always about a fair trade. If he did his job well, he’d get his own act and a chance to be a star again.

  Milly and Joe rushed over, hugging their dad tightly, sharing in his excitement.

  Vandevere turned to Medici. “Now, we’re still working out times for the rest of the troupe, but on Friday we premiere our little Dumbo.”

  Medici nodded agreeably.

  It made sense that the rest of the crew would need to be fitted into Vandevere’s existing acts, but Holt could understand his eagerness to show off Dumbo. Who could blame him? Dumbo was incredible.

  “Getting goosebumps, cherie?” Vandevere asked Colette. For the first time, Holt saw the actress look ruffled. She’d always projected cool confidence and an air of—what was that word Vandevere loved?—mystique. Now her eyebrows crinkled and her lips pursed in confusion.

  Colette stared back at Vandevere, baffled. “Why are you looking at me?” Usually she had a fairly good idea what her boss was thinking, but this time she didn’t understand the glint in his eye.

  “Because the only thing more amazing than a flying elephant…is the goddess who is able to fly with it.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  Vandevere’s eyes stayed on the ceiling, as if he were already seeing Dumbo and Colette soaring past.

  Colette knew that face—he was serious. She still doubted the elephant could fly, but even if it could, it would surely drop her.

  “What?” Joe stammered as his sister objected, “Fly with Dumbo?”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Medici said. Holt nodded nervously, biting his lip.

  See—everyone who has worked with the elephant agrees. It is impossible, Colette thought. She cocked an eyebrow at Vandevere.

  He met her eyes, and she knew from the fire burning in his that her fate had been sealed. “Dearest Colette, let us not forget from whence we came. You will fly on Friday. For me.”

  Colette silently cursed Vandevere and his stupid “making the impossible possible” mantra. And how dare he bring up her background? Just because he’d discovered her didn’t mean he had the right to drive—or fly—her to her death, did it? All for the sake of a dream.

  “But Dumbo’s never flown with anyone,” Holt explained. Colette felt a stab of gratitude mixed with pity—Holt didn’t know yet that once Vandevere had his mind set on something, he wouldn’t let a little thing like logic ruin his vision.

  “Then perhaps, my elephant trainer, we’re now clear just how much I need you.” Vandevere’s gaze was steely, pinning Holt to the spot.

  The cowboy war hero looked nervous. Very nervous. Great, thought Colette. Just great. My life is in the hands of this fool?

  Spinning on her heel, she stalked out of the tent. As she reached the sanctuary of her suite, two of her maids bobbed their heads. They were packing up for the night and about to leave.

  “Evening, Miss Marchant,” one said. “Have you heard about the elephant?” Her green eyes glittered in excitement.

  “I can’t wait to see it!” the other exclaimed.

  Hmmph. Colette waved them off and slipped inside her room. Sweet lavender perfume filled the air, nothing like the rank animal tents. She sat in front of her makeup table and carefully unpinned the wig she always wore in public. At last, her head felt free to breathe. She ruffled her short milk-chocolate-colored hair, then froze.

  In the mirror, she could see workers outside removing her circus banners—the ones where she was posed on a trapeze. She swiveled and peered out the window, reading the new banner as the men hoisted it up: BELIEVE, it proclaimed, with a dark silhouette of an elephant in flight.

  This was ridiculous. Her act was being taken over by a lumbering, ungraceful creature.

  “Elephants,” Colette muttered in outrage. But there was nothing she could do—Vandevere called the shots. So she’d have to make the best of it. She just hoped that cowboy and his children were decent animal trainers.

  Colette had picked the corner carefully, finding one with the smoothest sidewalk possible. The concrete had been poured just the week before, in fact. She might have also been swayed by the fact that there was a bakery there, reminding her of picking up bread for her family each morning in rural France, although the delicious aromas were now making her stomach hurt, and the memories
of Maman and Papa were bittersweet. They’d been the ones to introduce her to gymnastics, folding her into the opening act for their puppet show and tasking her with warming up the crowd as they traveled through the French countryside.

  The harsh winter had been rough—her maman sick, her papa even worse. When they’d passed away, Colette had moved to Paris and learned how to get along on her own. Street performing brought in enough for food, some new clothes every now and then. When she’d met Francois, he’d taught her how to play to all sides of a group, not just back herself up against a wall, to maximize her crowd size.

  The sun hadn’t even risen yet as she tested out her tricks on the sidewalk, from a handstand to a somersault to a one-footed landing. Audience or no, Colette loved moving her body—feeling her muscles contract, her joints limber up.

  Now if only Francois would arrive so they could run through more of their act. But he wasn’t likely to show for another few hours. He didn’t see the point—not until people were there to watch.

  Mon dieu, if only he understood practice is important. He is as sloppy as a dog chomping up food, Colette thought.

  She wondered how much longer she could keep him on as a partner. But then there were his forearms and how high he could throw her. Nothing thrilled her as much as being surrounded by air, the wind rushing past as though she were a bird.

  As the streets began to fill, Colette decided a little solo performance to keep her warmed up wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She set out a bucket, then waved to the passersby.

  “Bonjour, ladies and gentlemen,” she called. “If you will but give me a moment of your time, I hope to lighten your day with grace and skill.”

  Soon a space cleared around her and a small group gathered at the edges.

  Bowing, she then flew into a series of backflips, her sewn-down-the-middle skirt safekeeping her modesty as she continued through her routine—or as much of it as she could do without Francois.

  A handful of people dropped coins into the bucket, Colette’s heart lifting with each clink. She nodded her thanks between moves, then noticed a set of piercing blue eyes staring at her. The man was handsome and his suit finely tailored, indicating money…lots of it. He was looking at her as though she were a painting, yet the intensity of his gaze unsettled her a bit.

  She launched herself up into the air to catch hold of a flagpole outside the bakery. Swinging back and forth to get momentum, she finally let go and somersaulted through the air, boots clicking down solidly on the cement.

  Yes! Colette loved it when the cheers were this genuine. She delicately picked up the bucket and shyly proffered it around the circle, garnering her some extra money before the crowd drifted away. Only the blue-eyed gentleman remained.

  “Brava! You are incredible,” he said, clapping as he approached. He sounded foreign—American, maybe?

  “Merci, monsieur.” Colette curtsied.

  “My name is V. A. Vandevere.”

  “V. A.?” She’d heard of some high-profile businessmen and politicians going by initials only; maybe they thought it made them seem more important somehow.

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Colette Marchant.”

  “Colette, may I invite you to lunch?”

  Colette hesitated, studying the man. He seemed harmless enough, and if it were a public restaurant then perhaps it would be okay.

  “I assure you, I have the purest of intentions, although your beauty is quite striking. I own a fairground in New York City that we’re developing into a park, and I’d love to talk to you about joining our team.”

  Over the man’s shoulder, she spotted Francois finally arriving, his clothing disheveled. She raised an eyebrow at him. You’re too late.

  Francois seemed to understand her irritation. Shrugging, he turned away and wandered off. Colette would talk to him later, but first, she’d hear what this V. A. Vandevere had to say.

  How did I let V. A. talk me into this? Colette wondered angrily as she stared at the control system in front of her. The airplane cockpit was ridiculously cramped; she could barely move her legs or arms. When V. A. said he could make my dream of flying come true, this was not what I had in mind.

  “Okay,” V. A. called through a megaphone. “We’re ready to do another take. You all set, Colette?”

  She turned her head to roll her eyes at him, but she couldn’t see beyond the harsh lights of the film crew. Of course the pilot goggles encasing her eyes would have stopped him from seeing her annoyance in any case.

  “Oui, I am ready. I am always ready,” she replied testily. She’d been packed into this cockpit for an hour already as the crew moved the lights and backdrop and sound booms and cameras and then shuffled them all again until they wound up back in their original spots.

  “On three, two, one—action!” V. A. chose to ignore her passive-aggressive remark. Fine; maybe she could talk to him about it over dinner. As long as he didn’t have one of their potential new sponsors plopped between them, keeping talk light and upbeat…always upbeat.

  Colette gripped the wheel and pretended the air around her was shaking the plane, curving her mouth into a daredevil smile as she steered through turbulent clouds. Of course, it wasn’t real. She was as stationary as a sack of flour and only three feet off the ground of the studio lot.

  “Cut!”

  What now? There was supposed to be an explosion of smoke outside her window.

  While the engineers huddled in a corner, examining the combustion machine, she fiddled with her helmet, wishing she could just take it off.

  “How are you doing, my pet?” V. A. asked. He was standing on the wing of the plane, eyes dancing.

  A pet? Yes, she was a pet for him now, wasn’t she? Performing tricks as needed, unquestioned loyalty expected. This was not what she had pictured when she had agreed to go into business with him, following him across the ocean to America.

  “V. A., when will we be done with this?” Colette asked.

  “We’ll be wrapping in an hour.”

  She’d meant the film, not the day. But based off her former moviemaking experiences—she had three under her belt already as V. A. expanded his empire, spinning her into a star across stage and screen—Dames Who Dared still had at least another month of on-set time. Followed by another three months of V. A.’s editing team poring over film.

  Colette sighed. The movies were fun to see in the theater and she appreciated that they were the shiny future of entertainment, but everything moved so slowly in film. Sustaining her energy without an audience to feed off, unable to stretch and soar, not getting to do the type of performing she excelled at—it was draining.

  All the drama was meant to come from within, to be conveyed with a tortured smile as the cameras zoomed in tighter and tighter, mere inches from her face. Colette preferred using her whole body—gracefully extending her arms and channeling the power of her legs to leap and balance.

  “Am I performing at Dreamland next week?”

  V. A. cocked his head, reading her mood. “If that’s what your heart desires, then it shall be so. We can use the time to reshoot Bobby’s scenes. Between you and me, he’s so flat, I can hardly get a spark out of him.”

  Colette agreed. Her lackluster costar was yet another reason she found this particular movie so trying to work on.

  “Thank you, V. A. I would like that.”

  Ever the gracious gentleman—as long as it suited his needs—V. A. nodded. “All right. I better go check on those pyromaniacs, make sure they’re not overdoing the powder.”

  Colette watched him saunter away, then closed her eyes and leaned back in the hard leather seat. Soon she would be back in the air, dancing with the ribbon, twirling on a rope. Soon she’d be back at Dreamland. Soon.

  From a few stalls away, Holt could see Dumbo pop to his feet, hay slipping all around him as Holt and his kids approached. The little elephant must have heard them coming.

  Milly and Joe burst through the swinging wooden doors into
Dumbo’s new pen with big smiles on their faces.

  “Dumbo,” they cried, flinging their arms around him. He poked his trunk at their faces and sides, clearly delighted to see them. Holt scanned the pen, making sure Dumbo had food and plenty of water—he knew how much elephants consumed—but Vandevere’s lot had taken good care of the new star. Holt turned to Skellig to shake his hand, but the other man was already addressing two burly guards who’d been posted outside the training tent.

  “Captain Farrier is now in charge. No one sees the animal without his approval,” Skellig said.

  “It’s Holt—just call me Holt.”

  “I thought you were a military man,” Skellig drawled. “I also like to hunt. But not people. Too slow.” He bared his teeth in a grin.

  Holt studied Skellig. His mouth might have been smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Holt think Skellig was only half joking. “Nice boots you bagged there. Sharkskin?”

  “No. So you better keep your elephant on my good side, eh?” Skellig winked and sauntered away.

  Holt hoped he would leave Dumbo alone. Skellig left a bad taste in his mouth—like soured cheese. Any man who took that much pleasure in the hunt couldn’t respect animals the way Holt did.

  Making his way to where his kids were embracing Dumbo, Holt leaned down and patted the elephant’s head. “Hiya, Dumbo.”

  Dumbo’s trunk circled around Holt’s fake arm.

  “Okay, Dumbo, do you mind?” Holt wriggled, but the elephant tugged anyway, pulling the arm off and twisting it into a pretzel. Milly and Joe cracked up.

  “Can I get my arm back?” Holt reached for it as the elephant waved it in the air.

  “And these are the hands I’ll be putting my life in,” Colette said dryly from the doorway of the tent.

  Startled, Dumbo dropped the arm. Holt hurried to reattach it and brush as much of the hay off it as possible. First I nearly toss elephant dung on her and now it looks like I can’t control Dumbo. Holt grimaced, wishing he could rewind and start again, but the famous acrobat and actress was already there. May as well get started.