by Jude Watson
She began to strum the ukulele.
“Find the thing you thought you lost
In the place you never look,
While letting go of what it cost,
Holding tight to what you took.
It leaves too fast, it comes too slow,
The space between us is what I know.”
Blue dropped the ukulele and lifted her hand. A spotlight appeared and hit a young girl high above them, sitting in a sling made of some kind of fabric. Music blasted through the speakers as the girl leaned forward and the sling began to swing. The girl rocked, back and forth, gaining momentum with each sway. She wrapped her legs around the silk and let go of her hands, and everyone gasped. She spun crazily by her ankles while the audience cheered.
March felt dizzy. The lights, the music, the glittery-eyed woman in the top hat, the girl spinning, his own lack of sleep … it all felt like a dream. Pinpoints of white and blue lights began to twirl around them.
Blue climbed the scaffolding and hoisted herself up on the beam. The audience gasped as she threw herself into the air. She had wrapped the fabric around her ankles and she twirled upside down above the ground. The girl tilted backward off the swing and reached out her hands to Blue. Blue pulled herself up until she was level with the young girl again.
The two moved with the rhythm of the tune, entwining themselves again and again in the slender ropes of fabric as they swung upside down and then right side up and back again.
“It’s like every dream I ever had,” the cobalt-haired girl breathed.
“Or nightmare,” her friend said.
That was when they heard the sirens.
The audience stirred, and March caught Blue’s reaction as she just missed grabbing the girl’s hand. Keeping to the rhythm of the music, she pulled herself up, somersaulted through the air, and landed on the ground. She stood, hands on her hips, and waited.
The spotlight shut off, and the police came in with whistles and authority. The audience began to boo and call out in different languages.
“Please to file out,” an officer called in English. “No permit, no show.”
The grumbling increased, but no one wanted to be arrested, and there was a general but slow move toward the exits. Blue went over to the police and began to argue. March tried to lose himself in the crowd, but he felt himself being pushed toward the stage. Somehow he wound up standing with the crew and the performers. The young girl idly swung over their heads, occasionally twining her feet into the sling and flipping lazily upside down.
“Get down off that swing!” the policeman yelled at her in Dutch, then German, then English, as though if he hit the right language, she would obey.
She swung back and forth, just looking at him. Then in a terrific display of strength and agility, she pulled herself up, swung over his head, then flipped over, hung by her heels, grabbed on to a trapeze bar March hadn’t noticed, and swung herself to land exactly three inches in front of him. The policeman stumbled backward. The girl grinned.
“English,” Blue said to the policeman. “Speak English. Yes, I know, but you wouldn’t give me a permit, and the show must go on. Do you know that expression?”
March was so intent on watching Blue — actually it was hard to take your eyes off her — that he hadn’t noticed an officer standing off to the side, who was staring at him. March recognized his mustache with a sinking feeling. He had been there last night.
Every muscle tensed, but he told himself to keep himself loose. He pretended to search the crowd, balancing on his toes, and then moved forward as if he’d spotted someone.
Too late. The policeman blocked him.
He spoke to him in a pleasant tone. “What is your name, please?”
“Matt Henneberry.”
If you’re on the spot, and there’s a chance to get away, give a last name that sounds nonthreatening but doesn’t sound made-up. And add a friendly first name.
“You were there last night,” the cop said.
“Where?” March asked.
The policeman didn’t answer. “You are here alone?”
“I’m here with my mom. She’s a big fan. I lost her in the crowd.” March pretended to crane his neck. “But I see her! So —”
“You are staying in Amsterdam? What hotel?”
Always give them an American hotel. And smile. Americans in Europe always smile at cops.
“The Hilton.”
Now make them an offer. You don’t have to follow through.
“My mom’s probably looking for me outside.” He held up his cell phone. “I can text her; she can come back and meet you.” March started to back away, hiding his desperation behind a grin and a waving cell phone. “I’ll be right back —”
The policeman’s eyes were gray steel and looked older than his face. “Let’s have her find you, shall we?”
No matter how good you are, kid, remember this: Sometimes you get caught.
Munching on a bag of chips, March watched people walk by, attached to huge suitcases they would shortly try to stuff into overhead compartments. People would argue and then finally settle into their seats and wait for free snacks.
All airports were alike. Everybody was in a big hurry and a bad mood. Hurry to get away and leave their problems, hurry to get home and face them again.
The destination sign read NEW YORK. The American official sat next to him, his thick, sweaty arm parked on March’s armrest.
Child Protective Services in the U.S. had been called, and he was being sent to what was called a group home in upstate New York. March didn’t know what the “group” was, and he figured that “home” was aspirational.
The official had told March his name when they’d met this morning, but March kept forgetting it. What he did remember was that, within five minutes, the guy had told him he’d break his fingers one by one if March tried to run away.
March knew he was a peach of a guy within fifteen minutes, when the official had confiscated his cell phone and found his stash of cash behind the lining of his toiletry kit. Then he pocketed it.
“I’ll have to confiscate this,” he said.
“Where’s my receipt?” March asked.
“Smart guy,” he responded.
March knew he’d never see the money again.
Maybe “protective” was aspirational, too.
The official pored over a car magazine, his mouth moving with the crazy rhythm of Juicy Fruit. What was his name? Creydon or Crayfrun or Reydun or Raygun, or should March just call him Mr. Soda? He had a little cooler at his feet, and kept taking out cans. He’d already had three Diet Pepsis and it was barely 10:00 a.m. His conversation was sprinkled with a series of belches and hiccups.
One of the airline guys made the announcement that they’d board in five. It was March’s last chance to run.
Important to know when you’re beaten. Just hang, and wait for your next chance. At least he’d get a free ticket to the States. It would be easier to get lost there.
He’d had a week before they figured out the paperwork and made the phone calls and decided where he was going. A week to think about why Alfie had sent him to the Stick and Rag. Was there someone he was supposed to meet there? Someone holding jewels for Alfie? If that was true, he’d blown it.
Mr. Soda looked at his watch and snapped his magazine. “Where are they? We’re going to board soon.” Burp. “I want to get the overhead compartment.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” he asked, but the guy didn’t answer. “Gosh, I love these meaningful talks of ours,” March added. The official continued to ignore him.
March glanced out the window at the tarmac. It was raining lightly, the soft silver rain he’d come to know in his three weeks in Holland. Somewhere in the cold belly of the plane was a small box. In that box was what remained of Alfie McQuin.
The official had called the box the cremains. March detested the word. It made it sound like they’d turned his pop into a zombie. Or a breakfast cereal.
<
br /> March stared out at the rain. An airport was the loneliest place in the world if you didn’t have a home.
Mr. Soda stood up. “I’m not waiting any longer. Let’s board.”
Just then another official hurried toward them, a woman busting out of her blue shirt and blazer. At her side was a slender, tall girl March’s age, dressed in black jeans and a hoodie. Another orphan, or a runaway, he guessed. She had that desperate vibe. Just like him, he supposed. Now he was a member of that invisible crowd: the kids nobody wanted.
The girl had black hair cut very short and wary gray eyes that shifted from Mr. Soda to March. She looked familiar, and it was with a sense of dumbfounded shock that March realized that she was the girl who’d performed on the swing a week before.
“Time you two met, I guess,” Mr. Soda said. “Julia, meet March. Your long-lost” — burp — “brother.”
March and the girl didn’t look at each other. They looked at the official, uncertain whether he was joking.
“Oh gosh, look at that,” the woman said. “You can see they’re related, cantcha? You both have the same expression. Didn’t they tell you about each other?”
Sister?
March felt like a needle spinning on a compass in a world suddenly without true north.
The girl eyed him warily. She looked just as rocked as he did.
She — Julia — narrowed her eyes at him, and suddenly he saw Alfie in her face. Something in the way her mouth turned down as she concentrated.
His sister.
“You’re twins,” the woman official said. “The kind who don’t look alike. Is that fraternal or … what’s the other word?”
“Doomed?” Julia asked.
He saw anger flicker in her eyes. But was it for him or the officials? Or Alfie?
Alfie, who had told him everything? Except this most important thing?
Twins. They had the same coloring. Black hair, gray eyes that sometimes looked blue.
Every birthday he had, every year with every present, every special dinner, there was a daughter Alfie had been thinking of, too.
March was desperate to run. Fast as he could, weaving through the suitcases and the tote bags and the newspapers and the cups of coffee and all these faces, all these people, so he could get to a place that was quiet and still. So he could think.
“Time to board,” Mr. Soda said. “Those two have plenty of time to get acquainted.”
How do you get acquainted with a twin you never even knew existed? Where do you start? Who was your favorite, Bert or Ernie? Trucks or dolls? Peanut butter or jam?
Alfie had plenty to answer for.
The thought had rushed in so quickly, and now again the hole opened up, the place where he knew Alfie wasn’t here anymore to get mad at.
They heard the sound of a sudden commotion behind them.
Someone shouted, “Wait!”
Blue rushed through the crowd. She was dressed half in her performance attire, the velvet frock coat over jeans. Her eyes were rimmed in makeup that had smeared, and a real tear rolled down the blue-lettered tear.
“Jewels!”
Julia turned.
Blue stopped. “Jules,” she said. The word was a sigh.
Not jewels. Jules. A nickname for Julia.
Find jewels.
No. Find Jules.
The knowledge ripped through March. Alfie wasn’t tipping him off to a fortune, but a person. That’s why he’d sent him to the Stick and Rag.
He wanted him to find her.
Blue walked forward and put her hands on Jules’s cheeks. “I was arrested. I just got out. They wouldn’t let me say good-bye to you. How could they stop me from saying good-bye?”
“Ma’am …” the official said. “We really have to go.”
Blue ignored him. “They said I’m not a fit parent. I’m your aunt.”
If Jules was his sister, that meant that Blue was his aunt, too. Was she Alfie’s sister? Or his mother’s? It was like hearing a pink flamingo was related to him. This exotic creature, this person in a velvet coat with fishnet stockings on her arms and tattoos, was his aunt?
“I raised you!” Blue shot a dark and terrible glance at the officials. “Now suddenly I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“Ms. Barnes, we’ve got nothing to do with this. Just following orders. And we’ve got to go,” the official said, taking Jules by the arm.
March expected Jules to shake the man off and turn to Blue, but she didn’t. She seemed frozen.
Barnes. His mother’s last name. This was his mother’s sister. And he never knew. Alfie told him the family was dead, or scattered.
Texas or Canada, Alfie?
Why did you keep this secret from me?
Blue grabbed Jules tighter. “No! You can’t take her!”
The airline employee spoke into a phone. Security was on the way.
Blue grabbed at Jules’s backpack. “Jules!” she cried, pulling at it, as though she could yank Jules backward into the life they’d had. “Run!”
Jules still didn’t move. She sucked in her lower lip and bit it hard.
Two muscled security officers grabbed Blue by her arms. They force-marched her away.
Jules rubbed her fist against her cheek like a little girl might do. She hunched her shoulders, pulled up her hood, and turned her face toward the plane.
Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, the two officials fell asleep while watching a movie and drinking scotch.
“Why not?” Mr. Soda said, pouring the liquid from the miniature bottle into his can. “We have a” — burp — “per diem!”
March would have liked to sleep, too. It was just that lately he’d had this recurring nightmare about falling. He was climbing a cliff high above a body of water. Sometimes he was trying desperately to snatch at a hand. He could feel the grit of the rock against his palms and scraping against his cheek. He always woke up before hitting the black water.
He didn’t think death by falling was a great dream to have on a plane.
He took out The Moonstone and the pack of playing cards, and placed them on his tray table. Jules had her earbuds in and was flipping through a magazine. He saw her watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“Per diem?” March asked her.
She removed one earbud, and March repeated the question.
“An amount they can spend every day for food and stuff. We’re their meal ticket, basically.”
“Well, the big one stole my wad of cash,” March said. “Five grand I’m not getting back. I should have hit him with a can of soda.”
She took out the other earbud. Things were improving. “Yeah, that would have solved everything.”
“It would have given me satisfaction.”
“Piece of advice for you — never start a fight you can’t win.”
March shook his head. “You sound like Alfie.”
“I doubt it,” Jules said. Her lips pressed together. “I didn’t know he was my father until a couple of months ago.”
“How often did you see him?” he asked. How much of a secret life did Alfie have?
“Only once in a while. He’d show up occasionally at whatever pitch we’d managed to scrounge up.”
“Pitch?”
“The place street performers stake out,” she explained. “We started out in public squares, but then when Blue got the idea of the cloud swing, we moved into abandoned places where we could set up the rigging. We sometimes try to get a permit, but usually it’s easier not to. Plus the audience likes it better if they think they’re doing something illegal. Blue calls it guerilla spectacle.”
“So Alfie would just turn up sometimes?”
“Blue said he was a friend. I didn’t ask questions.” She rubbed her knuckle along her lower lip. “When you live like I did, it’s better not to know things.”
He knew what Jules meant. He’d lived with a thief. Alfie would leave him alone for stretches of time, leave him with instructions and cash
and a smile, and then show up again one day, sometimes tossing the cash on the bed and saying, Easy street, kid!
But Alfie had never asked and March had never volunteered how scary that time alone had been.
Berlin last fall, the girl with the cobalt hair had said. Alfie had traveled there for a few days, casing a job he was thinking about. He said. Had he been there for the Stick and Rag? How many of those times that he’d left March in an apartment for days at a stretch — how often was he really seeing Jules?
How many lies?
You’ve never let me down, March.
He saw his father sitting in a pool of light in an armchair by March’s bed.
I wish I could say the same about myself. There’s things I haven’t told you.
What had March said? They’d been talking because he’d been afraid to go back to sleep. He’d had the nightmare. This time he’d told Alfie about it. He’d liked how his pop had taken the dream seriously, asked him questions about it, even looked as shaken as March felt.
Then he’d dragged over an armchair, close to the bed, saying he’d stay up until March fell asleep again. And even though March was way too old for this, he hadn’t said no.
After this job, we’ll blow town, head for the States. I’ve got things to tell you. Show you. It’s time.
Was Alfie getting ready to tell him about Jules? Was he going to clear up all the lies?
Or just tell another?
March tapped the deck and it fell out of its package into his hand. He fished out the jokers. One was ripped in half and he tossed it on his tray table. He held up the deck. “Poker?”
“Sure …” Jules’s voice trailed off as she stared at the joker.
“What’s the matter?”
“That card.” She leaned over to fish inside her backpack. She brought out a playing card, ripped in half. A joker.
March picked up his half. Holding his breath, he held it out. Jules’s half met his. They matched perfectly.
