Girl on a Wire

by Gwenda Bond

  Mom’s act combined liberty elements with trick riding. Sam was a trick riding natural. And that night he was going to stand tall on the backs of two horses with one foot on each as they raced around the ring. While Mom did the same.

  As we stopped in the kitchen, Sam said, “I wouldn’t mind you showing me the hands again.”

  Nodding, Mom went to the living room. We stayed where we were. Nan hadn’t been up that morning before we left, but now she sat on the couch watching an old movie. She muted the sound without being asked as Mom took over the floor.

  Mom’s feet were not quite shoulder width across, her knees the slightest bit bent as she raised her arms over her head. Her hands moved in a victorious flourish. “If at any point you feel your balance going or the horses become erratic, drop onto Beauty, halt her, and dismount. Safety first. Always. Understand?”

  She waited for Sam’s nod. It came quickly.

  “But don’t worry. Beauty’s a pro. And you are more than ready. I’ve seen you do this like you were born in Russia.”

  She dropped her arms to reach forward and pinch Sam’s cheek.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “Dork,” I said.

  “From you? I’m flattered,” Sam countered.

  Nan was staring at us as if we’d betrayed her in the worst possible way. “Does this mean what I think it does?” she asked, standing and shifting a hand to her hip.

  Dad passed me to go to her side. “What’s wrong?”

  “I mean, am I to understand Sam had his first performance and I wasn’t invited?” Nan turned a gimlet eye on my mom, who suddenly appeared guilty.

  “It wasn’t a full performance,” Sam said, jumping in. “Just a couple of commands.”

  “But tonight you’re performing?” Nan prompted.

  “Only a small part of the act,” Sam said.

  “Then I’m coming,” Nan said.

  Sam started to protest. “Nan, don’t feel like you have to—”

  “Nonsense,” Dad said, using his patented don’t you dare argue tone. “It’ll be an honor for Sam to have you there.”

  Nan relaxed, no longer offended. “This way’s better. Now I’ll get you in your full glory. No first-time jitters.”

  Sam and I exchanged a look.

  He didn’t know I planned to tell my parents that Remy and I were seeing each other later, but he was no doubt remembering his promise to keep Dita a secret from Nan for now. He probably hadn’t shared that tidbit with Dita yet. The night was going to be interesting.

  “Maybe a few jitters,” Sam said.

  Nan scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. Maronis are born with a talent for hiding them.”

  I hoped she was right.

  My performance nerves were a tiny flicker in comparison to the burning candle of uneasiness about how the rest of the night would go. I could ask Remy if we should wait one more day. I was sure he’d understand.

  But it wasn’t like I could just pull him aside and discuss it. Not until my parents knew. The closest we’d come to talking so far tonight was a smoldering look across backstage as I made my way to the curtain. That was a flame I didn’t want to douse.

  I’d just have to be careful about my timing. Remy knew I worried about Nan. I had to keep Nan calm and let her carry on, blissfully unaware of me crossing what she perceived as enemy lines.

  These preoccupations circled while I was doing my act, and it wasn’t my best performance as a result. I still did everything I was supposed to, and the audience still applauded, but it was hard to believe they hadn’t noticed I wasn’t fully in it. Worse, as I left the ring, what I felt most was relief to be done.

  Mom and Sam were heading through backstage with the horses, and I perked up at the thought of watching Sam’s truly big moment. He was even wearing a spiffy costume for a change—black, knee-high equestrian boots that matched Mom’s, and tight blue pants, with a classic black vest embroidered with various colorful designs.

  I jogged over to tell him, “Now those are appropriately shiny boots.”

  “Thanks.” He rolled his eyes at me, but he had the flushed happiness of a new performer in love with the spotlight.

  The music picked up tempo, and Mom entered the ring with the first of the horses. Sam passed me, following with the rest.

  The flash of emerald green on the back of his vest drew my eye because green was never part of a costume. It was another old superstition. The fluttering green fabric looked like it was attached to the vest somehow, not sewn into the fabric like the other designs. But Sam was already through the curtain. He didn’t notice me stop.

  Dad tugged on my arm, “Jules, let’s go watch.”

  Frowning, I let him lead me away. I wanted to see the act, reassure myself I was imagining a problem that wasn’t there.

  “Dad, isn’t green on a costume supposed to be bad luck?”

  He blinked, but he didn’t strike me as troubled by the question. “Yes, but I’ve always heard it’s just an unflattering color under the lights. It makes your skin look green. Like a Martian.”

  “I guess.” Something about Sam’s costume continued to bug me.

  The small crowd clustered at the side curtain made way for us. Dita stood where she’d have a good view. The rest of the Garcia troupe was behind her, showing support for her in a nice way—though Novio looked bored, like someone had twisted his arm to get him there. Maybe Remy had. He stood at his sister’s side.

  He smoldered at me again when our eyes met. I couldn’t help but think of that last kiss the night before.

  I forced my attention to the ring. Sam was waiting outside it, as usual. “Sam looks so dapper,” I said.

  Dad grunted, ignoring me and the Garcias, and watching Mom. Dita said, “He does,” with a shy smile.

  Recent developments might mean she and I could be friends. The thought was a happy one.

  Mom took the horses through their first set of paces, circling the ring, kneeling, and raising on hind legs. They danced in circles in tandem, and she jumped from horse to horse. As Mom’s act went on, I became increasingly convinced that the green I’d spotted on Sam’s costume was nothing. It probably was just part of the design, in some other color that had just appeared green in the relatively dim light backstage.

  About ten minutes in, Mom called Sam into the ring. The horses each raised one of their front legs, letting them hover six inches off the ground.

  Sam commanded their feet down with a verbal cue, and drew a circle in the air with a short—ornamental only—whip. The horses began to trot slowly around the edge of the wide center ring. On their second trip around, Sam leapt onto Beauty, grabbing the thin set of gold reins she wore. All the horses had them. They weren’t for control, but for slight guidance or to use as a steadying grip during tricks like this. He swung onto the pad on her back, crouching there, and the audience applauded. I could just see Mom get up on her horse on the opposite side.

  Mom and Sam slowly rose to their full height as the horses sped around the circle. Sam looked to Mom, and at some silent signal I didn’t see, they raised their arms into the stance she’d demonstrated earlier with perfect timing. They flourished to acknowledge the audience’s applause.

  After one pass, they each signaled a second horse to come alongside their current mount, and placed one foot on its back. They were riding the horses like waves, steady as the ocean.

  When Sam passed our side, with his feet on the two giant horses, I saw it again. I blinked, but it was still there. A flash of green fabric waving off the back of the vest. I had to wait for him to come back around to focus in on it. I stared with all the intensity I could muster.

  There.

  He was moving, so I couldn’t get a great look, but I saw the flash of green again, better this time. It was a square of emerald green fabric. Was it a scarf? Where had I seen a shape like that before? Why was it so familiar?

  Oh God. No.

  T
he old photos on the murder board were all in black and white. But now I remembered the clowns gathered around the old steamer trunk, how one of them had held up a square scarf.

  I stepped out past the curtain, drawing murmurs from the stands nearby. The Cirque’s clowns were also at the edge of the side ring, and one of them said, “What’s she doing?”

  Dad said, “Julieta, get back here.”

  There had to be some way to alert Sam. To stop this. But the horses were moving so fast, and they were big as buses in that moment. What if I interrupted for nothing? What if I spooked them? The act was going fine. But I’d been fine on that wire above the bridge until—all of a sudden—I wasn’t.

  “Jules?” Dita asked, curious.

  Remy left the curtain for my side. “What is it?”

  “Sam’s costume,” I said. Not caring that Dad was witnessing me talk to Remy.

  Remy joined me in scrutinizing the ring, trying to see what had spooked me. “Where?”

  What if the scarf really was part of the costume and not the one from the picture? There was no way to be sure, not when the photo hadn’t been in color. But what if we’d been too quick to dismiss Nan’s worries about the objects? What if it was one and we didn’t do something.

  I started forward, Remy alongside me.

  My dad called, “Julieta! Come back here!”

  I glanced over my shoulder to find him heading after us.

  But it was too late. We were all too late. I knew it as soon as the audience gasped. Not in amazement, in horror.

  When I turned to the ring, Beauty was rearing. Her hooves were the size of dinner plates, pawing the air. Sam was nearly horizontal, hanging off her back by those thin reins. If he didn’t let go, he’d pull her over right on top of him.

  My mother was on the complete opposite side. She dropped down, but I couldn’t see what she did next.

  Sam hung even farther back, Beauty continuing to beat the air with her hooves.

  I screamed. “No!”

  He released the reins and fell to one side, landing hard in the ring. I ran forward, hearing others join me. No one cared about the performance any longer. Sam’s leg was twisted at a terrible angle.

  Beauty was stomping, spooked, sending up a storm of dust clouds. My mother was in the middle of the ring, and she managed to command the other horses into stillness. She was walking slowly toward Beauty, barking a command.

  But Beauty rose again on her hind legs, pawing furiously. We weren’t going to make it to the ring in time to help.

  The band stopped playing in one abrupt, off-key blast. I watched in horror as Sam clawed the dirt, trying to crawl out of the ring, away from Beauty. She lowered her hooves only to rear again over him, her feet about to come down—

  Mom jumped forward to grab the reins, but costumed arms and pale hands knocked her aside. She sprawled in the sawdust, safe. The clown who’d saved her dove out of Beauty’s path. And the horse’s hooves landed on Sam, even as the creature whinnied in fear and tried to shy away.

  On the ground, Sam wasn’t moving. The gem-green scarf was just past him, the square of fabric unmistakable in the dirt. I lunged forward to grab it, but a hand closed weakly on my arm.

  Sam’s.

  I sank to his side, the scarf forgotten. Blood trickled down his temple, and another thin line of it ran from his mouth. His pupils were shot through with red.

  “Oh God,” I said. Not helping. I sucked in a breath, then said, “Hang on. Sam, you have to hang on.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Sam gritted the words out.

  “No, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t—”

  His head shook, the barest no. “Jules, don’t let them . . . don’t let them kill Beauty.” Sam’s eyelids fluttered, and his eyes rolled up and then closed. “Sorry.” And he didn’t speak again.

  “Hold on, Sam. Somebody, help him,” I cried out, and hands were pulling me up. The clown’s.

  I pushed him away. I had to get the scarf. I turned to where it had been moments before. And it was gone. Nothing but sawdust where it had been. The ring was too chaotic to lock on a culprit. Horses milled with disconcerting unease, and people dodged through them to help.

  Remy appeared at my side, and I had a moment’s hope. “Did you get the scarf?” I asked him. “It was green. From the photo with the trunk.”

  “No,” he said, “I didn’t see it. Is Sam . . . Oh no, Jules.” He tried to pull me to him, but I dodged away. There was no time for comfort. Sam couldn’t die. He couldn’t. I wheeled around, trying to find Nan.

  Dad helped Mom off the ground, and she shouted a command loud enough that it was audible over the noise around us. The horses stopped, just stopped. They lowered themselves to the ground and rolled onto their sides, as if they were the ones that had been trampled.

  The trick would have been a showstopper during a performance.

  Beauty was the only one who didn’t obey. The white horse snorted softly and advanced on Sam. He lay sprawled in the ring. Dita, sobbing, knelt beside him now. Thurston was just behind her, calling into his microphone, “Medics! We need medics out here now—”

  Thurston stopped talking, trying to pull Dita’s shoulder to get her up and away as Beauty stalked closer. Mom moved forward in an attempt to grab the horse, and Dita scrambled back from Sam’s side.

  Before Mom could reach Beauty and grab her reins, the horse lowered her big body down next to Sam’s. And she . . . she gingerly nudged him with her nose. And again.

  Sam didn’t move.

  Two stable hands rushed in, in front of a team of blue-uniformed medics. Mom gripped Beauty’s reins, coaxing her to her feet. The noise Beauty made was an apology. A mourning cry.

  Dad hovered near Mom’s side like he was unsure what to do.

  Thurston did his best to calm the crowd. “Everyone please stay seated and let us clear the ring.”

  Nan’s polka-dot dress caught my eye as she lowered herself next to Sam, a medic on his other side pulling back his eyelids. Dita hadn’t left, and she eased down by Nan.

  Nan peered at Dita with confusion, then shock, as Dita said, “Sam, wake up. Wake up, Sam,” over and over.

  Remy and I went to them, separately. He pulled Dita up and into a hug and she shattered against him, sobbing. I went to Nan’s side. Everything felt unreal.

  Mom held Beauty’s harness, offering quiet words of encouragement as the stable hands directed the horses out of the ring.

  Remy said, “He’s going to be okay.” He met my eyes over Dita’s head. “He’ll be okay.”

  I didn’t think so. Not without some miracle. I dropped down next to Nan, and I begged her. “You have to save him. Use your magic. Fix him. Please.”

  Nan shook her head, so sad. Sadder than I’d ever seen her.

  “There’s no magic that does that, Jules. Death cannot be undone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The rest unfolded like a terrible movie that wouldn’t stop. The staff doctor gave CPR, even though Sam’s face was more blue than flesh-toned by that point. It hurt to look at him. I kept flashing on his black, swollen eye the night we’d arrived, and in the days after. Maybe we should have left then . . . but even thinking it, I knew that wasn’t the answer. There were no answers to this.

  Paramedics came. One of them told us all about head and internal injuries. Sam had gone quickly, without much pain, he said. A terrible accident. These things happen.

  They were lies.

  That green scarf had caused this, and whoever put it there. Mom hadn’t been wrong. Sam had been ready. He’d never have made a mistake if that scarf hadn’t been on his costume. Never.

  The person behind this had targeted me until tonight—until Sam had put himself in the spotlight. It couldn’t be coincidence that this happened the day after everyone discovered he was seeing Dita Garcia.

  I had been wrong about what the Tower card in my Three Fates reading had foretold. Falling for Remy wasn’t the shattering of my illusions.

 
Sam’s death was.

  twenty-five

  * * *

  All further Chicago shows were cancelled. Besides being in poor taste, no one would have agreed to go back into the tent and perform at the site of a fatal accident. Sometimes superstition and common sense are the same. There are things that stain the very air.

  Sam’s parents had arrived that morning. Surely they couldn’t believe that they were about to bury their son. Neither could I.

  There are few circus customs that go along with mourning. I suppose it makes a kind of sense, that people who live every day defying death would be the least comfortable around it, would want to leave it behind and move on as quickly as possible. There are exceptions, the legendary funerals of this person or that person, with a full complement of clowns or a circus band.

  Nan told Sam and me a story about an equestrienne’s funeral once, when we were just kids. She made it into a tragedy fit for a ghost story, emphasizing that it was passed down from her mother and hers before that, and we ate it up like sweet, macabre candy on that Halloween night. So it went, the sixteen-year-old May Jackson was in love with the bandleader on the Al G. Barnes Wild Animal Show. One night in 1915, while the show was traveling via train from one place to another, the two of them had a nasty argument. She left mad and drank some sort of poison, was discovered in the morning. Dead.

  The whole circus mourned her. Nan had traced her hands through the air to describe the grieving performers without their costumes and makeup, the band playing a sad tune, which she hummed so we felt it in our bones, clutching our hands together, listening. Sam had been most transfixed by the part of the story where May’s horse was brought out to lead the procession. They had put on the saddle and bridle, but left them empty, and tethered her boots into the stirrups pointing backward. The townspeople were riveted as the circus went down the little Main Street, where six more white horses waited, three on either side, and were told to kneel as her horse ambled past without its favorite rider. She was buried in a small cemetery, and then the circus got back on the train and sped away.

  Sam, well, he only wanted to know what happened to the horse.