Circus

by Claire Battershill

  After what feels like hours, but, according to the alarm clock, is only ten minutes of insomnia, he rolls over and strokes Lisa’s back. He wants to tell her about stealing the bike, about riding it down to the CNE as if he were racing in the Tour de France. But it seems too important to share, too personal even to whisper – eye-watering wind and the lift of that wheel off the ground, his body fully aware of itself, belonging only to him. Instead, he describes the man at the store. “You remember Rick from NYU?” “Nnnhmmm,” she says, with a little twitch of her lovely hand on top of the sheets. He lowers his voice even more: “The guy at the store was like him, but even more peculiar. You’d know what I mean if you saw him.” Lisa’s breath is slow and smooth. Jay stops moving his hand and rests the whole of his palm on the curve of her back. “I just want to know if you still …,” he starts, but can’t finish. “Actually, I don’t. You don’t have to answer.” When she responds by snuffling unintelligibly, he kisses her shoulder through her pajamas.

  He rests there beside her for a moment and then sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and fixes his feet on the ground. He walks through the dark and opens the door, turning the handle slowly so the latch makes no sound. In the empty living room, he turns on the light and begins to do sit-ups in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. He switches to push-ups, straightening himself out into a plank. He braces himself there for a moment before lowering his chest to the ground and then rising up again, repeating the movement over and over, each one the same as the last. He works out until there is sweat dripping onto the carpet and his core starts to tremble as a warm ache pulls across his chest and blooms in his arms. He knows he should go to bed, should try to sleep, should try to get back into a steady rhythm, but somehow he can’t bring himself to stop. Right now, this is the best thing he can do for his heart.

  THE TRIP WAS BOTH MORE AND LESS THAN Edna Crawford had imagined it would be. The Big Apple itself had been uninspiring, which was a surprise, because she thought she was so well prepared. After all, she and Calvin read the New York Times every day. She couldn’t help her postcard-glossy expectations: the rousing swing of the Wonder Wheel’s unsteady seats at Coney Island; the popping of her ears during the elevator ride to the top of the Empire State Building. The Travel section has been Edna’s favourite part of the paper since they started a family, and she could easily spend hours reading about the beaches of Belize and the tortoises of the Galapagos, mapping out fantasy itineraries. She always stayed up late after the girls had gone to bed, occupying the time before Calvin got home from the restaurant by costing out hotels online and reading traveller reviews, as though they would be able to afford the time and money to go.

  New York was their first real vacation together since their oldest, Emma, was born twelve years ago. Sure, there had been summer cottage stays and campground weekends, but they hadn’t been outside the drivable Pacific Northwest and they always brought the girls. Edna couldn’t wait to take a vacation that didn’t involve water slides and Flintstones-themed adventure playgrounds. She expected it would be tricky to pick a destination when the time came, but she surprised herself by being decisive. She had full itineraries ready for Paris, London, and Tokyo. They could have breathed the lavender air in Provence, or joined an Alaskan cruise. This year, though, she had in her grade eleven class a new student from Brooklyn whose accent was full sun against the temperate West Coast drizzle the rest of them spoke. His way of talking marked him not as an outsider, but as the king of the teenagers. He was only fourteen, but he had known what it meant to live at the centre of the world, rather than on the edge of the sea, on a wobbly tectonic plate that was always threatening to slide into the Pacific. Edna took his arrival in her class as a sign.

  “New York,” she’d replied when Calvin asked where they should go.

  “I think that might be the most definite choice you’ve ever made,” he said, elbowing her gently, and teasing, “Don’t I get a say?”

  “Nope. That’s what I want.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go.” Calvin gave her a noogie, rubbing the top of her head with his knuckles the way he would do to one of the girls. Clearly, they needed some time to themselves.

  They arranged to leave Emma and Liz with her sister for the week. The girls came to the airport to see them off.

  “Can you get me a Yankees jersey?” asked Emma, who was the star pitcher on her little league softball team.

  “Consider it done,” said Calvin. Too quick as usual with his promises, as far as Edna was concerned. Those shirts are expensive.

  “We’ll see,” she said, wanting to avoid false hopes, “but we’ll bring you both back something nice.” She kissed Liz’s cheek. “What do you want, Lizzie?”

  “A hug,” said Liz.

  Calvin picked her up and swung her around in such a wide circle that she stumbled and put her hands to her dizzy head when he set her back down. “Right, kiddos. We’re off!”

  Though Liz was struggling not to cry, Emma waved exuberantly at them and held her little sister’s hand as Edna and Calvin waved back from the security lineup.

  As they boarded the plane, Edna felt defiant about having left her saggy one-piece swimsuit behind in her underwear drawer so she could bring her only negligée: a red, semitransparent lace number. Throwing it in her suitcase was an optimistic gesture, since she almost certainly wouldn’t be able to close the hooks and eyes now; even so, its presence in her impeccably packed luggage was a small triumph. She pictured the two of them frequenting Art Deco cocktail bars – her in a fur shrug and a shapely black gown and him in a suit – holding each other passionately by the elbows like a couple in the movies. The New York version of her was slim, with bare, smooth legs rather than thick, sturdy calves in support socks. And surely as soon as the plane touched down at JFK, she would instantly know how to apply liquid eyeliner precisely and her hair would emerge in elegant finger waves when she lifted her head from the neck pillow. Once they arrived in the metropolis, she and Calvin would weave as naturally as shoaling fish through the crowds of glimmering bodies, darting and disappearing in the multitude.

  As it turned out, the real New York was oddly quiet. Of all the things she thought it would be, she hadn’t imagined the modesty, the general ordinariness. Regular trees, empty sidewalks, average-sized dumpsters with normal amounts of garbage. Even the Statue of Liberty was smaller than she had imagined. And Calvin had laughed at her for that, for thinking it small when it was clearly colossal. He quoted from the guidebook, which claimed that it measured 111 feet from the heel to the top of the head. “Think about it,” he said. “I’m just over six feet, and that’s pretty tall for a real human being. She’s massive.” Then he leaned his head back, his eyes tilted up to her crown. Still, Edna felt that there was something underwhelming about poor Liberty.

  Even Macy’s had been a disappointment. All the empty clothes came in size Triple Extra-Large. The whole place was picked over, just as insipid as the rest of the city. Lonely. Not only because of what happened six days into their holiday, but in a broad, atmospheric way.

  Sitting in the airport, waiting for the plane to take her home, Edna lets herself think, again, about whether she could have changed anything. If she had paused just for a second, had waited for him rather than walking on. If she had given them more breathing room between Central Park and cocktails. She stops herself and tries to think about something else. No use regretting or worrying, right? Because those things don’t alter the landscape. You can only do what you can do, as Calvin liked to say. Worry is useless. It’s like wool that won’t knit up right. It’s like wool without knitting needles. She still doesn’t understand why knitting needles are no longer allowed on planes. If they were, she would have something to occupy her hands right now: the fan-lace scarf she’s working on for Liz. Who doesn’t know yet. She’s picked up the phone in the hotel room several times in the past few days and each time she’s put it down again without dialling. Because … how? How will she s
ay what she has to say? When she tries to phrase it in her head it comes out in spools of yarn instead of words, looping and tangling and folding in on themselves. What if everything stayed woolly? If she says nothing about it out loud, has it really happened? To distract herself, she starts clicking the end of her pen and watches the ballpoint poke in and out, in and out of the plastic shell. That would have driven Calvin crazy. But surely the pen was just as dangerous as a knitting needle? If ever the need arose you could poke a pen into all sorts of vulnerable places, someone’s eye or neck for instance, and you could do a lot of damage. Edna wouldn’t hesitate to protect herself, now that she was on her own. She might be from Victoria, where a stranger was more likely to open a door for you or give you a pat on the back than attack you, but she knew that much about the wide world. No use worrying about what you would do if someone harasses you. Make a plan. Have a pen handy. There are all kinds of everyday-looking things that can be used for violence if necessary. That’s not worry. That’s action. It’s been a long, long time since she’s had to worry about her own safety. If only she was knitting right now, rather than trying to figure out sudoku, having finished the last crossword in Calvin’s abandoned book of puzzles. The status of her plane on the departures board continues to say “Delayed” in glowing red letters, with no indication of when this delay will end.

  Edna and Calvin met in university. He sat next to her in first-year Calculus and copied all her answers. They kissed at a dorm party and then Edna got bashful, so they didn’t start dating until several weeks later, when he showed up unannounced at her shared dorm room and declared his intention to marry her someday. He dropped out the following year, and moved from job to job until he enrolled in culinary school, where he didn’t have to copy his fellow students. Edna would come home to plastic buckets overflowing with slivered onions when he was practising knife skills, and even, on one occasion, to a whole pig sectioned into its tastiest cuts, the trotters cleaned and bubbling into gelatin on the stove. It suited him: buzzing around the kitchen, stirring, flipping, and poking the sizzling delights, then plating tenderly with his hands. Edna almost never cooked. The most she ever made was toast. But instead of the usual clumsy homemade sandwiches, the girls were brought up on duck confit and day-old baguettes from the restaurant.

  His main interest, New York–wise, was the food. Normally, they almost never ate out, but they splurged on a fancy meal at a restaurant he’d chosen on the first night. This was his only contribution to the planning of the trip. Edna ordered a spot-prawn risotto and then white wine–poached pears in star anise for dessert, and the meal was so delicate and finely flavoured she was practically floating above their dining table. The only other time she remembered feeling as though she were levitating was when she shimmied exuberantly into the second hour of a Zumba class and the endorphins made everything shiny. Calvin was less impressed with his poussin and his chocolate fondant, but that was the attitude he took towards all meals he hadn’t made himself, so Edna knew not to trust the dismissive arch of his eyebrow. The chocolate probably tasted super-nova fabulous. She suspected this was the case because he hadn’t offered her a single bite. Her meal that evening was the only thing about New York that hadn’t let her down.

  In the airport lounge, Edna sits opposite a family of four and a small lost bird. The little boy of the family, who looks to be about five years old, keeps his eyes on the sparrow as it hops along the carpet.

  “I wonder how it got in here,” his teenaged sister says, watching the bird as she untangles the cord from her earphones. “Fucking depths of the building, et cetera.”

  “Leave it alone, Alec.” Their mother has been staring at the same page of her magazine for the last hour and tapping her foot like a madwoman, occasionally glaring at their father, who is stretched out across four chairs beside them, napping. “And you,” she says, without looking at her daughter, “can watch your mouth. Last thing we need right now is a hassle.”

  The daughter gestures rudely at her mother and puts one earphone into her ear.

  “Do birds die if they can’t be outside?” Alec is now tapping his foot rapidly as he warbles his concern.

  “I am going to die if we have to stay here much longer.” The girl puts in her other earphone and starts head banging theatrically to music that Edna cannot imagine. For the next few minutes, she can’t help herself from staring as the girl’s shoulder-length hair swishes around in the recirculated air, obscuring her face. Once it is clear that her mother is sufficiently irritated but unlikely to outwardly react in any strong way, the girl combs her hands through her hair and ends her private party. She slips off her sneakers and sits cross-legged, tucking her knees under the awkwardly placed armrests. Closes her eyes like a yogi.

  Edna has seen this girl before. Dozens of her. She has seen every conceivable version of this girl over the years in her classes. Hard to tell if she will snap out of her rudeness eventually, or if she will remain spoiled. She’s exactly the kind of girl who would make Emma feel stocky and unbeautiful once the earthquake of adolescence struck. Who would tease her at school for wearing jerseys, for failing to comb her hair. But Emma would be okay. Liz, too.

  When Edna and Calvin left the hotel on the sixth morning of their trip, they didn’t have an itinerary for the day. Edna had wanted, at first, to pack the vacation full of sightseeing, to take it all in and really get the most out of their ten days in the city. She purchased three guidebooks and had been reading selections aloud to him for weeks before they left. She’d marked relevant pages with Post-it notes, and drawn up daily schedules.

  “Once a teacher, always a teacher,” Calvin said, flicking a pink Post-it in the Attractions section.

  “Oh, shush. If it was up to you, we’d aimlessly wander the streets for ten days, stopping only for gourmet donuts.”

  The museums were open earliest, so they started their days with dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum or hideous abstract paintings at the Guggenheim before taking a preplanned scenic route to their next destination. She’d spent hours on Internet forums seeking out-of-the-way cafés where the locals ate. With all her energy focused on one place, rather than the travel offerings of the entire world, she came up with more things to see and do than they could possibly have managed in ten days.

  They were snuggling against the wind on the ferry coming back from Ellis Island – Edna reading aloud from the guidebook’s section on the history of immigration – when Calvin tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and said, “Listen, honey. I enjoyed sprinting from the subway to the terminal to catch the boat, especially when you elbowed that old guy on his walker out of the way” – he paused to kiss her forehead – “but I’m not sure you’re getting the hang of taking a break. What if tomorrow we just took it a little slower, eh?”

  So, instead of lining up outside the MoMa, they went in search of authentic New York bagels for their breakfast. This way they could be both touristy and relaxed: a compromise, said Calvin. At first, spending a couple of hours in the morning reading the paper and drinking coffee just as they would have done at home seemed a waste. But Edna’s breathing soon became deep and full again, and she could tell by the softening of his squint that Calvin was relieved to have a break from traipsing around museums. Somehow the disappointing gentleness of what was supposed to be the most exciting city in the world bothered her less once they were back to their regular routine.

  “What can I getcha?” The waitress had the upright posture of a ballerina, and she held her pencil above her ticket with a delicate arch of her wrist.

  “Two New York bagels and two coffees, please,” Calvin said.

  “You can just call them bagels, hon, but sure thing! Cream or milk or sugar for the coffees?” Her lips were watermelon-pink and shimmery.

  “Milk and sugar, thank you.”

  “Your accent is super-adorable! You from Minnesota?”

  “Canada, actually,” said Calvin, meeting her gaze and then letting his eyes wander.r />
  The waitress laughed. “Awesome! America’s hat, my dad calls it.” She paused for a moment and her perfectly smooth forehead furrowed. “Is that offensive? I don’t mean it like that. I love Canadians!”

  “That’s okay,” said Calvin, and then with the first real enthusiasm Edna had heard him muster on the trip: “We love New Yorkers!”

  The waitress hadn’t looked at her at all through this exchange, so Edna started drumming her fingers on the Formica table-top. Taking Edna’s cue, the waitress slid her pencil back into her apron and said she’d be right back with their order.

  Calvin was clearly infatuated, but Edna focused on her paper, pretending his stray glance didn’t bother her. She knew it was harmless, and she herself had been known to be flirtatious from time to time, like with that new IT developer at school who happened to be an ex-jeans model. Not that he took her seriously when she complimented his new jacket while tucking her hair self-consciously behind her ear: not this forty-year-old mum with straggly hair and a wardrobe of shirt-dresses and comfortable shoes. Calvin coughed a little, adjusted his glasses, and reached for her hand. As she leaned across the table and kissed him lightly, she wondered once again how many times a day Calvin thought about her. It was a question that surfaced more and more frequently as the years passed. He had the nicest tasting lips of anyone she’d kissed, and each time she tasted that little hint of toothpaste and sweetness, it still took her by surprise. Even after fifteen years. Maybe how many times a day was not the right question, because the best answer would be one time: all the time.