Circus

by Claire Battershill

  “Snack?”

  “This is your first mission,” Edward replies. “The snack is in the car, and it is your task to find it.”

  Sam giggles. He looks at his granddad and rolls the window up and down, pretending to search outside.

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Not much of an effort.”

  Sam sticks out his tongue slightly to the side in concentration, suddenly concerned about the strange challenge, when he’s so used to being immediately handed a treat. He has inherited his grandfather’s worrywart tendencies, which seem to have skipped a generation. When Sam opens the glove compartment, he finds a sandwich, a map, and a ninja star inside. He grabs the snack and stares earnestly at his grandfather.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise!” Edward says, and then pauses to reconsider how much he should tell Sam. “But first we have to stop for gas.”

  As they pull up to the gas station, Edward suspects it would be best if he called his daughter to make sure she received his earlier message. He doesn’t want her to be suspicious about the change to their daily arrangement. Jess usually stops by Edward’s house after work to collect Sam, though she seldom comes inside. Sam is never quite ready to go home. As he gathers his things and slowly ties his shoelaces – making one side of the bow and then the other, and then starting again to make the loops more even – Edward and Jess stand on the porch and chat for a few minutes about her work at the gallery or her Sunday art classes. Despite his warnings, Jess had somehow failed to realize that her artistic skill would never earn her a proper wage – that no matter how inventive her sculptures, how careful her drawings, it was never quite enough. For a while she juggled three jobs while taking care of Sam and barely made anything beautiful at all, until finally Kevin had told her that they would still manage if she cut back on work. Edward had moved by then, hoping that he would be able to help by taking care of Sam after school. But her small complaints about the community centre have accumulated in the past five years, and so their porch conversations are nearly always vocational. Lately, he has noticed a tiredness in her face that never used to be there, and a small red vein just below her eye has burst, like a beauty mark gone wrong.

  She tries on new job ideas for him like outfits. When she told him her latest idea of going back to school to train as a chef, Edward tried to catch himself, to think of what Wendy would have said, but instead he blurted out, “Hard life. Terrible hours.” He has always been the first to point out the drawbacks in someone else’s plan.

  “I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t be the best thing for Sam. I just wish I had thought it all through a bit more, you know, longer term. I knew that the sculpture course was right at the time. It wasn’t even a question. Now, I’m just not so sure about it, you know? Like maybe it was wrong and now it’s too late to switch up my whole plan.”

  “Well, I’m not the right person to ask.” Edward couldn’t help but feel that he’d told her so: that if she’d done what he’d wanted her to at the time and taken chemistry at university, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  “No. No, you’re not.” She touched him lightly on the arm as she spoke and Edward interpreted this as a gesture of affection. As soon as Sam was all set, Jess rushed him into the car, leaving her aspirations at Edward’s door, and reversed out of the driveway without waving.

  At the gas station, Edward hands Sam a dollar for candy and sends him into the convenience store while he waits outside beside the phone booth. Edward picks up the receiver and tries to remain calm as he dials her number. Of course Jess is happy for Sam to sleep over, and Edward is amazed by the brightness of his own voice as he reassures her that the two of them are getting along famously. “Great! We’ll see you tomorrow after school, then!” His hands are strong and unwavering too, wrapped around the base of the phone. Perhaps he is cut out for this kind of escapade after all.

  Sam returns with two licorice sticks and some fuzzy peaches. Only then does Edward notice that he’s still wearing his soccer shoes and hasn’t brought a jacket. After spending a whole afternoon preparing for their trip, he can’t believe he still managed to forget Sam’s green windbreaker, which is hanging on a hook by the back door at home. Well, there’s a rain slicker of his own in the back that Sam can borrow if the March air gets chilly. They climb back into the Toyota. Not the most ninja-appropriate vehicle, Edward decides, momentarily regretting the pine-scented cardboard tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. But, then, Edward himself is still wearing an argyle sweater-vest, so even the Batmobile or James Bond’s Aston Martin would have done little to counteract the quaint exterior of their research expedition. Ninjas have many enviable skills, but peer-reviewed articles are not, Edward supposes, their usual contributions to culture. Perhaps the Toyota is for the best.

  Edward has not been shopping for clothes since Wendy died. Actually, he is wearing the last pair of trousers she bought for him the year before she went to the care facility and, eventually, to hospice. Jess has tried to buy him a shirt or two for Christmas, but it was no use. He has to become accustomed to his clothes before he can really wear them, and the shirts that Jess bought him came in horrible patterns and were not very soft. Before his retirement he had managed to buy a few new ties, at least, thinking that these would spruce up his teaching wear and that strips of coloured fabric would be difficult to get wrong.

  Wendy used to choose his suits, trousers, and shirts for him by rubbing the fabric between her thumb and index finger, then holding them up against him and offering him two choices so that Edward would feel that he had picked the clothes himself. There was never any dithering and she had a good eye. She had done this for him since they got married, when his mother had stopped buying his clothes. It is strange, he often thinks, the skills one doesn’t acquire when one is taken care of, and how difficult new things can be to learn.

  As they begin to drive past the single row of shops on the main drag, Edward can tell that Sam is uneasy about being on this road trip instead of at home in front of cartoons. Sam doesn’t say anything, but he begins to stretch his neck as he gazes intently out the window, as if he’s keeping track of each detail in case he never sees it again. Then, he begins to tap out a rhythm on his knees with his fingers. To keep his grandson occupied, and to ease his own anxieties about having lied to Jess, Edward poses a complicated question. “What do you suppose is the collective term for ninjas?”

  “Collective …?” Sam looks quizzical for a moment. “Oh, like the poster in my room. A murder of crows, a bellowing of bullfinches, an ostertation of peacocks?”

  “Ostentation of peacocks. But yes, that’s what I mean. Ninjas?”

  Sam and Edward ponder the possibilities. Edward loves the educational poster he bought for Sam. It depicts groups of animals acting out their collective nouns, so there are crows wielding bloody knives and aristocratic peacocks preening in front of a gilt-rimmed mirror. Sam generally prefers the World Flags poster, but he has nevertheless memorized the names for each animal group.

  “Swarm?” Edward suggests.

  Sam is unimpressed. “That’s taken. Bees come in swarms.” He pauses. “How about a surprise?”

  Edward imagines enormous cartoon eyes peeking out through a ninja mask. “A surprise of ninjas. That will do.”

  Sam seems to be contemplating his own genius by biting his bottom lip.

  They are both beginning to relax as they pull out onto a stretch of road that leads to miles and miles of farmland. The rounded hay bales seem to fall behind them like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs dotting the path home. Edward loves the prairies. They could drive for hours and not see another person. On the radio, a lexicographer talks about the introduction of the word crunk to the dictionary. It’s not long before Sam’s head is cradled in the shoulder strap of his seatbelt and his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. Riding in the passenger seat beside Edward always makes Sam sleepy. Jess had been the same way. When she was ten, Jess
heard that a schoolmate’s grandmother had “died in her sleep,” and so she had refused to go to bed, because she worried every night that she was closing her eyes for the last time. For weeks after, Edward drove her all over North Vancouver after dark because it was the only way to get her to sleep. Sometimes he wishes he could still do that – drive until she closed her eyes, until he was sure it was a deep slumber, and then head home, open the car door carefully, and gather her up in his arms. Sam looks just the way Jess did sleeping in the car, lips parted as if he’s about to say something and every so often letting out a quiet almost-snore. Edward keeps both hands on the wheel. How much longer will the ninja phase last? he wonders. How long until the ninja stars and nunchuks are not just hidden away but forgotten? How long until Sam’s secrets remain his alone?

  Edward tries to concentrate on the road. An old cassette that Jess gave him when she upgraded to CDs is in the tape deck of the car, so he pushes play and turns it down to a low volume, careful not to wake Sam. It’s Crosby, Stills, and Nash: his daughter’s driving track of choice. This reminds him of the moral grey area he’s currently occupying, having misled Jess about the reason for the sleepover, so he quickly turns the tape off again. Edward has never been an impulsive man, nor has he ever been a brave one. He tries to imagine how he would describe himself, but all he can think of are negatives – the kind of person he is not. Not charismatic. Not outgoing. Not cherished, not truly, or at least not anymore. He lets out a slow breath.

  They pass three separate prairie towns and several gas stations, and finally, at seven p.m. Edward pulls over. The lights will be more spectacular in an hour or two, but he likes to arrive at his chosen spot early to hear them grow louder as the sky darkens. He gets out of the car to stretch his legs. He paces along the ditch by the side of the road and unzips his pants to pee into it. He walks back to the car and looks through the window at Sam, who is now curled up in the seat with his feet tucked up underneath him. He understands now why Jess wouldn’t want to wake him. Eventually, Edward opens the trunk and removes the ninja clothes. He unfolds them carefully, then opens the passenger-side door and lays the heroic outfit over Sam, tucking his grandson in. Edward opens the trunk again and gets out his notebook and his frequency meter. Then he sets up his lawn chair in his usual spot by the side of the road, and prepares himself to listen, as always, alone.

  WELL, HELLO THERE! YOU’RE JUST IN TIME TO join us. Don’t be shy, there’s plenty of room on the tour. I was just about to say that the world was never small in the way that Jemima Hendricks wanted it to be. No matter how long she spent super-gluing exquisite bows onto miniature hairlines, or embroidering tea towels the size of hamsters’ toes, there was no potion that could make the world shrink, Alice-in-Wonderland style, to the size she had in mind. Still, you wouldn’t think that figurines no more than a third of an inch tall could ever take up much space, but even the smallest things become clutter when there are too many of them.

  That’s my interpretation, anyway, of how the Hendricks Memorial Miniatures Museum came to be. My name is Amy and I’ll be taking you through Miniatureland today. That’s what we call it around here because the whole memorial thing is such a mouthful. I hope you’ll feel cordially welcomed at our establishment, which has been voted the top tourist attraction here in Dithers for five years running by Tip Top Tourists magazine. That’s a province-wide publication, so the award is truly an honour.

  As your guide, I feel it’s important that you all get to know Jemima. A lot of tourists come through here without ever learning a thing. Those are the people who make the regrettable decision to decline this tour – or to go with one of the less qualified guides here, but don’t tell anyone else I said that. I don’t mean to be catty but honestly, you met Cody at the front desk on your way in, right? Just look at him out there now: standing by the door, smoking a substance that I suspect from the particular cock of his wrist is not a cigarette. Paragon of emotional maturity, he is not! I hope you weren’t turned off by that first impression. But I shouldn’t be so hard on him: I wouldn’t choose to be a teenager again for all the money in the world, would you?

  Our wander through the wonderful world of the tiny will take about sixty minutes, but you can stay afterwards and look around all day if you want. The ticket price includes unlimited entry. The tour shunners don’t take advantage of the full-day policy. No, they prefer to breeze by the fairy-tale castles and the battleships and the model railway, pose like amateur catalogue models in front of the mini Colosseum, and take pictures with flash. Some holiday-makers are in and out in less than half an hour. Refusing the tour strikes me as especially rude since the gorgeous specimen of Arts and Crafts architecture in which you now stand used to be Jemima’s home. So, I appreciate the time that you are taking with me today. You three are going to get the best experience that this place can offer.

  Jemima was born in 1932 and started her work in miniatures when she was nine years old. The first of her models was a gift from an English uncle who claimed to be called Barnaby Supple, though everyone knew that this wasn’t a family name. She met him only once, when he showed up unannounced at the door of her family’s home in the summer of 1941. He likely declared his presence using the original feature you no doubt noticed on your way in, the brass monkey’s head knocker. Although Mr. Hendricks had not seen his older brother since before Jemima was born, I like to imagine that he opened the door slowly and shot a worried look at his wife, as if Barnaby might try to sell them an afterlife they didn’t want.

  Barnaby was a barber by trade, which anyone could see by observing his own luxuriant waxed mustache. Years later in her diaries, Jemima reflected on that day and wrote that she had never met anyone like him – and certainly no one who seemed to have thought more about the appearance than the function of his clothes, or who had a sense of style beyond the necessities of day-to-day life. She could not stop staring at his striped trousers and his tweed waistcoat with its flat ivory buttons that sat smooth even over his rotund tummy. He looked like a sea-bedraggled walrus in its Sunday best, bringing the whole ocean in with him. Jemima’s mother scolded her for staring, and sent her to fetch the tea, which Jemima made and carried back to the living room as quickly as she could. Once he’d settled in and the tea was steeping on a tray beside him, Barnaby knelt down on the floor beside Jemima and shook her hand with the same level of formality he had offered her parents. Then, he reached into his battered suitcase and handed Jemima a Make-Your-Own Victorian Dollhouse kit. On the box was an illustration of a girl prettier and sweeter and blonder than Jemima, holding up a giant pair of craft scissors.

  Along with the dollhouse, Barnaby gave Jemima bangs that made her face look as round as a dinner plate. Her new ragged haircut accentuated the worry lines she had already developed on her forehead, and she tried unsuccessfully to blow them out of the way when she sat with the grown-ups at dinner. The wrinkles deepened when she opened the box carefully and started to lay out the pieces of her first project on the floor. This very floor, in fact, where we stand now, though at that time there was an ornate floral-printed area rug. She wanted to unpack the toy in just the right way, and was nervous about disappointing Barnaby, who sat close by, waiting expectantly for her reaction to the present. The people in the kit were two-dimensional figures cut in perforated lines and all she had to do was pop the shapes out of thin wooden sheets as you would with a paper doll. The house had clear instructions: slot A fits into B, then C into D, then on go the two pieces of the roof and there you have it! A bungalow! The house came together so quickly and looked so professional that for a moment Jemima could almost imagine that she was not herself after all, but was the girl on the box: all ribbon and satin and handmade glory.

  Uncle Barnaby helped with the kit by galumphing onto the floor, settling on the carpet beside her, and holding the house still as well as his trembling hands would allow him while Jemima daubed glue onto the chimney. (Apparently, he also played with the dolls and made them kiss each o
ther, which scandalized Jemima, who even in her youth preferred construction to play-acting.) No adult before Barnaby had ever knelt on the floor with Jemima and made knowing eye contact with her, as if she too were grown up. Her parents, for instance, preferred the safe distance of the sofa, where they existed slightly above Jemima, in a private world of anxious murmurs about fish and finance. In fact, Jemima imagined growing up as a process of ascending – floating up from the carpet to the couch.

  When the dollhouse was assembled, Barnaby praised it lavishly. He lifted Jemima’s arms up in victory as if she’d won a wrestling match, and she felt, for the first time, like she’d accomplished more than she’d set out to do. Unfortunately, Barnaby was unable to assist Jemima with any more of her projects, since he left as abruptly as he arrived, a matter of days after he first appeared at their door. He departed in such a rush that he left behind a trail of stray objects: a book of the seven wonders of the ancient world, into which he had pasted photographs and written notes from his own travels, a flask half full of pungent liquor, and a single, size twelve, black-and-white wingtip shoe. As you’ll see upstairs, the seven wonders book provided the inspiration for at least, well, seven of the dioramas we exhibit. Barnaby’s dollhouse will be the last item we’ll see on this floor before we head upstairs. It’s displayed alongside the book, the flask, and the shoe.

  Even with this earliest model, Jemima went beyond the kit’s instructions. The parts provided were delightful, but after Barnaby’s departure she couldn’t help but feel that there was more work to do. She added to the house gradually over the following three years, constructing a bathtub, for instance, out of an old sardine can and papering the walls in layers of bright candy wrappers. She painted expressive faces on the dolls and clothed them in printed dresses and tailored suits made out of scraps from her mother’s sewing basket. In her early teenage years, Jemima began to add extensions to the house, including a cellophane greenhouse containing a single bird of paradise fashioned in origami from a postage stamp.