by Anya Allyn
Grandfather extends a hand to me. “What are you doing here, Jessamine?” His tone is sharp, harsh. It hurts to have him speak to me like that.
“I came looking for you, but didn’t want to disturb you when you I saw you had people here.”
He grunts in reply.
“Well everyone,” he says, “I will be in contact again shortly. I trust that every one of you understands the vast importance of keeping this private.”
People shuffled from the tent, their heads and shoulders bowed as though held down by a great weight.
“I’ll see you at the ball, sweet lamb,” says Mr. Baldcott to me as he leaves.
Grandfather doesn’t hear him—he’s wrapped up in his own thoughts, thumbing his beard absentmindedly.
“I don’t like him,” I say.
“Who?”
“Mr. Baldcott. Henry and Audette say he wants to court me and that I should let him.”
“Hmmm, I see. Well, he is a very wealthy man and the circus needs him right now. Just keep your manners about you. In any case, soon it won’t matter. There are changes coming, little Jessamine. Changes I can’t explain to you just yet.”
Madame Celia’s words claw the edges of my mind like a cat. Grandfather dismissed her silly fortunes when I told him about her, but hadn’t the people here tonight spoken about great dangers?
My bottom lip trembles. "What’s happening? Why did that man talking about going back to the past?"
Grandfather sits heavily on his rocking chair and draws me onto on his lap. I feel awkward, way too big to sit there—but I know I am still a child in his eyes, a little girl.
"We can't return to the past, Jessamine. That's impossible."
"Is that why you were angry with him?"
"Jeke is a good man. But there's something he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand that sometimes you have to take great risks for those you love."
I shake my head slightly. I don’t want to tell him that I still don’t understand. Grandfather already seems exhausted by the events of the evening. His skin is grey underneath the slightly reddened surface.
"Jess-of-mine," he says softly. He's called me that as long as I remember. “What would you give to see your father once again?"
"Everything," I whisper, surprised by the turn of conversation. I clutch the wooden clown to my chest. The sudden memory of the day daddy gave the clown to me flashes through my mind.
We were in Mexico City, caught in the middle of fighting from revolutionaries. They had cut off access to the road out of the city. I was five years old and terrified. Daddy stole away from the small villa we were staying at, and returned with a small wooden clown. He said he hoped it would cheer me up. It wasn’t much of a clown—it was stiff and painted in dull colors. But I loved it from the moment he gave it to me.
Grandfather leans his head back, closes his eyes. "Listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you… This world you see around you… it's not all there is. It's not the only world. There are infinite copies of our universe. All the stars and the constellations of stars, all the planets and all the galaxies of planets—they have copied themselves an infinite amount of times.”
I look out of the tent to the small patch of inky sky framed by the flaps and wonder how he knows any of that. The tiny stars are mere pinpricks of light and planets are nowhere to be seen. No one has been to a planet, not even to the moon.
His hand reaches for mine. “And you and I, we live over and over and over. Infinitely.”
I turn to look at him, and can’t keep a frown from forming on my face. But I don’t speak. He told me to listen and I must do this.
He gazes at me intently. “A very wise sect of people from centuries past made a discovery. They discovered a way to pass through. Over the past five years, I have been collecting their literature. Obtaining accurate translations have proved difficult, not the least of which has been finding trustworthy souls to do the translations. And the passages, even in the best translations, are obscure. Their research culminated in the writings of two books—two books that were lost from the world until recently.”
His eyes close squeeze shut. “I’ve invested a great deal of money into this—everything I have in fact. The people here tonight have heavily invested also.” He exhales with smoke-laden breath. “I've seen glimmers of the other worlds, tantalizing snatches. I have seen… I have seen your grandmother… and your father.”
Tears wet the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. “You saw them?”
“Yes. We are connected to the other worlds, Jessamine, even though we don’t know they exist. We sense them, we dream of them. And they dream of us. Time is a dream in which all possible things happen.”
My throat is dry. A thought comes to me, but it’s too terrible to speak it. And a young lady should never speak of things she cannot formulate properly in her minds. My governess tells me that. But I am on the edge of a vast blackness, staring into an incalculable hole. I could fall, and fall forever. I must know and I must ask.
“How do you reach these worlds?” My voice is a whimper. “Does it hurt?”
Grandfather is silent. I am acutely aware of sitting here, with time slipping from us, each moment swiftly becoming the past. I cannot return to the second before this, even though nothing has changed in this second.
He shifts in the chair, and I know he does not want to answer me. His eyes drift open. "We need to die, in this world, before we can pass through."
My heart is a tight ball. "I don't want you to die."
He gently rocks the chair and says no more.
12. MR. BALDCOTT
"Jessamine, you're looking particularly tasty tonight."
"Mr. Baldcott, you're looking quite...tidy." It is the best thing I can find to say. He normally has mussy hair and dark sweat patches under the arms of his shirt, but tonight he has made an effort to tuck in his shirt and attend to himself.
Henry and Audette have given me dire warnings on being pleasant to Mr. Baldcott tonight. He was about to funnel a good deal of investment money into the circus. It seems he has endless wads of money—investing in the circus affairs as well as grandfather’s private venture. Grandfather made me promise not to give a thought to all that was said that night in his tent, but I couldn’t simply erase it. Fear stalked my days and I’d become what others saw as irrationally clingy to grandfather.
Heat from the New Orleans night passes through the myriad open doors and windows of the grand hall. I smooth down the skirt of my gown as the quartet begins to play. Men lead their women onto the floor. Mother watches dolefully from her chair. No one asks her to dance. A woman in a wheelchair cannot waltz. Still, she wears her best dress and has done her hair with baubles and pearls. She is beautiful—so much so that single men cast regretful looks as they pass her in order to ask lesser beauties to dance.
The ball is some sort of charity affair run by the wealthy of New Orleans. I would be excited to wear my first ball gown and practice my dancing if not for the presence of Mr. Baldcott. Awkward-looking young men keep close to the walls and steal glances at me. I should like a chance to waltz with one of them, but Mr. Baldcott practically took possession of me the moment I entered the hall. In any event, we are leaving town tomorrow and there will be no more occasions on which I’ll be required to exchange pleasantries with Mr. Baldcott.
“Might we dance?” Mr. Baldcott nods his head towards the dance floor.
I accept his hand and he leads me into a waltz. A cloud of cologne masks a vague musky odor and his body heat closes into me. His hand is cold, clammy. Inside I squirm. We whirl past Henry and Audette. Henry smirks at me and Audette bobs her head approvingly. Mr. Baldcott leads me between the hundred or so other couples on the floor, as though showing me off as a prize.
The waltz ends and we clap. Mr. Baldcott takes my elbow and steers me towards a quieter corner of the hall.
He leans in towards me. "Might I make some simple suggestions on your performance outfits? Now
that you're growing rapidly into a woman, perhaps something a little... flirtier… would find favor with the audience? Even your attire tonight is more suggestive of a child than a woman."
He hooks a finger onto the neckline of my dress and tugs it outwards and downwards.
I step backwards so quickly I stumble on my heel. "Grandfather chooses my performance outfits," I tell him stiffly.
"Well, you could let me take over that little job. After all, I’m about to own a good proportion of the circus."
I attempt to stretch my mouth into a smile. "Grandfather will still have final say over how things run."
"In name only. Naturally, you needn't worry your sweet head over such things. I will bring about the changes the circus is in dire need of. The other big circuses are running past the Fiveash circus. Interest in your grandfather’s mutant animals is waning. No one cares about five-legged goats anymore. Water performances are quite popular now. The Fiveash circus must bring in the new, or perish.”
“Grandfather has been… distracted of late. But I am certain he will agree to changes, if needed.”
His eyebrows arch in his low forehead. “You were there that night in your grandfather’s tent. You must know by now that he is never coming back onboard with the business side of things. He has gone, as they say, off the deep end.”
“You’re calling him insane,” I say flatly.
“Not in the least. He’s an eccentric old buzzard. I humor his eccentricities, more than anything.”
Could all that grandfather had said to me really just be the ravings of an old man? How could they be when all those other people had been discussing the same things?
Mr. Baldcott stares into my eyes for such a length of time I have to look away. “You and I might become quite good friends, if you’ll allow it. We’ll be seeing a good deal of each other from now on."
“We will?”
“Oh yes. I’ll be flying in to manage the circus affairs quite often, wherever in the country that may be.”
I try not to show my disappointment. “I didn’t realize. But, of course we can be friends. There is virtue in maintaining cordiality towards those around you.”
“Oh, you misunderstand. I’m speaking of more than mere cordiality. I find you extremely attractive. I’m suggesting a romantic attachment, once you’re of age.”
I want to run— deep into the night. “There are other girls in the circus who might appeal more than me. The girls who perform with the elephants are far more voluminous than me.”
“I believe the word you’re reaching for is voluptuous.” He chuckles in amusement. “You are a treasure. That governess of yours should be fired, for all she teaches you.” A serious expression enters his eyes. “I could send you to the finest French finishing school, where you’ll no longer be a little circus brat with airs. You’ll learn all the things a young lady should know in order to function in high society. And you’ll learn to speak properly.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, which I know is the most childish thing I could do at this moment, but I need to shut him out. I would desperately like to go to a finishing school, but not with Mr. Baldcott paying for it. He speaks as though I am part of the fixtures of the circus—something he can own.
“In any case,” he continues, “I’m not looking for voluptuous. My tastes do not run that way. Besides, you are the granddaughter of the great Mr. Fiveash. And on that fateful day he kicks the bucket, the circus will pass onto your shoulders. You'll be needing support and direction. You'll need a husband's guidance."
"Excuse me?" My eyelids fly open.
"Sweet Jessamine, I'm asking you to marry me." He plunges his hand into his trouser pocket and fishes out a ring with a large, gaudy diamond.
I raise my palms to him. "Mr. Baldcott, please, put that away."
"It isn't attractive to protest too much, you know. It's attractive to a point but after that, it just becomes tedious. I have already discussed this with your cousin Henry, and I was led to believe that you were rather flattered about a proposal from me."
Every one of my muscles tenses. "Henry cannot and should not speak for me, and I am not flattered. I am not interested in marriage."
"I see." He nods his head as though considering his next move. He deposits the ring back in his pocket.
"And if all you want is to marry into the circus, are you forgetting my mother?” I glance over at her. She still sits with her hands in her lap, watching.
He shrugs his eyebrows. "She's a delightful woman of course... but how shall I put this delicately...? I am a man of means, with a view to marriage and starting a family. Your mother is past the bloom of youth and she's hardly able to bear children...."
"My mother is thirty-two. And it is not certain that she cannot bear children. How old are you, Mr. Baldcott?"
"Thirty-nine. Prime of life, for a man."
I try not to stare at the shiny bare patch on his forehead or the rotund waistline that threatens to pop the buttons of his waistcoat.
"If you'll excuse me, I need some air." I gather my skirts and rush from the hall. Men stand outside on the steps, puffing on cigars and loosening their collars. A few turn to look at me in mild surprise. I struggle to contain my upset. A lady’s emotions should never be on public display.
“Jessamine,” my mother calls from the hall entrance. She wheels her chair out to the deck.
“I felt a little faint. Just taking in some air,” I tell her.
She asks a couple of the burlier men to help her down the stairs. Her cheeks tinge with shame as they lift her in the wheelchair and place her on the ground. The wheels squeak and grind as she catches up to me.
“I’m bored in there,” she says. Her skin is luminous under the lights, her gray-blue eyes matching her silvery dress. She doesn’t notice my distress.
“We’ll soon be on our way out of here and on the train. Just one more night.”
She breathes out a deep sigh. “The nights are so long. I need something to get me through. Would you mind picking me up something in town?”
I turn my head beyond the bright lights of the grand hall to the darkness of the streets of New Orleans. “What do you need?”
She digs around in her purse and thrusts some notes at me. “A bottle or two of absinthe? Oh, and some sugar cubes."
My mother, always fond of wine, had begun taking on the New Orleans habit of sipping absinthe that had been dripped through a cube of sugar.
"You want me to go out there into the streets?" It shouldn't have surprised me.
“It’s not far. Not for someone with young, strong legs.”
“Very well, I’ll go. At least I’ll be getting away from Mr. Baldcott.”
“Why would you want to get away from him?” Her pale forehead creases. “He seems quite charming. I see him about quite a bit of late. I know he’s an important investor.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t you know? Henry and Audette have been plotting for me and Mr. Baldcott to get together.”
Her eyes widen. “How does Mr. Baldcott feel about that?”
I chew my lip. "He just asked me to marry him."
Her eyes register shock as she leans forward. “What did you say in reply?”
I want her to soothe me, to be indignant about Mr. Baldcott’s bold proposal. I want her to call Mr. Balcott awful names and for her to laugh at the idea of him and me ever being together. But her interest in the matter is fixed solely on my reply to Mr. Baldcott.
I wave a hand in the air. “What do you imagine I said? I told him no, of course."
"You did what?"
"I said it nicely. I minded my manners."
Gripping the armrests of the wheelchair, she struggles to rise. Reaching a slim white arm out, she slaps me hard across the face.
My cheek pains. I’m too shocked to speak or move. She slumps back in her chair, spent.
"You... could have a decent life with Mr. Baldcott,” she accuses. “You could ensure the future of the circus. I could onl
y dream of being fortunate enough to be proposed to by a man such as that. If the circus folds, if the old man abandons it, where will we all go?"
Blood charges to my head before I can stop it. "Perhaps you could go find yourself one of those men you’re always entertaining.”
Anger stitches itself into the planes of her face. I know if she could stand and knock me to the ground right now, she would.
I sprint into the night. I don’t know which way to go. I have barely left the circus grounds since we arrived here. The low roar of the ocean echoes the turmoil in my head, and I’m drawn to it.
Lights shine on the wet surfaces of the docks. Shipments of fruit sit unloaded in the ships—the heaviness of over-ripe oranges and bananas sickening the air until I can scarcely breathe. Creole women walk with white men, their arms interlinked, laughing in high, tinkling tones.
My chest feels like it will explode.
Two men approach me from a ship. “Want to come spend some time with us, maybe?” one of them says.
I run along the docks. The ocean pushes relentlessly against the hulls of the ship. I cannot swim but want to jump into its waters.
Hands come down on my shoulders.
I turn sharply. Madame Celia stands behind me, darkness pooling in the crevices of her face. "Where are you off to, child?"
The men stop, placing their hands up as though to guard themselves from Madame Celia. They retreat to the ship.
“You’ve been following me,” I tell her. “I see you in the circus and around the grounds.”
“I wanted a chance to speak with you again.”
"Stay away from me. Grandfather says you're a witch. He says some people are so jealous of other's good fortunes that they make up the most outrageous lies about them.”
Her eyes grow sad. "I only speak of what I see."
“Well, what you see isn’t true. Those stupid cards are just cards. Pictures and nothing more.”
“It is little to do with the cards. It is me. Since I was small, I have seen things. I saw the horrors that were coming. I just didn’t know when or who would bring them. Now I know. I see a tree, and the tree is spreading its roots all over our world, strangling it.”
