Girl on a Wire (18 page)

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.

There was one way the circus still honored some of its dead. A handful of cemeteries known as Showmen’s Rests existed, with plots set aside for those performers who wanted to be buried where the larger community could find them. Chicago had one of the largest such cemeteries in the country, a section of Woodlawn in Forest Park that was home to the victims of the famous Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus train crash and resulting fire in the summer of 1918. And many others besides.

I knew being buried there was what Sam would want, and so I insisted. Thurston could make anything happen, and when Sam’s parents agreed, he took care of the arrangements.

Once I finished donning the only completely black dress I owned, I went out to the living room to meet my family and head out to Sam’s funeral service. I was far from ready. But I could never have prepared for this.

Nan and Mom sat on the couch, both clad in dresses absent of color. They stood as I entered. Dad had on a dark suit, and paced like a tiger in a cage.

“Shall we?” he said.

The four of us walked to the big top. Everyone was meeting there an hour before the funeral was set to start at a nearby cathedral rumored to be an old and impressive local landmark: Old St. Pat’s. I didn’t know where the idea for the processional came from, but I approved. Sam deserved it, more than they could know.

Nan glided along like a Mafia widow, complete with a hat and veil, alongside me, Mom, and Dad. When we reached the tent, the tableau outside resembled a circus escaped from the underworld. Everyone wore black, no spangles or sparkles. No overdone makeup, no greasepaint, no stilts. Just black and gray and quiet. They wore sadness like a costume—put-on grief for a Maroni or maybe guilt at how they’d treated him, but my bones ached with it.

I felt someone watching me. Remy. He was a heartbreaking specimen of handsome in a tailored black suit, a dove-gray shirt beneath. He even wore a tie.

We needed to talk about what caused this. I needed his arms around me. But I couldn’t have that. Not now, not until this was over.

Nan blocked my view of him, and I put my arm through hers. When I glanced back over in Remy’s direction, his attention was on his sister. His arm curved around her, her black eye makeup already in tatters above a suit the twin of Remy’s. Novio joined them, his hand gentle as he took Dita’s chin and said something to her that earned a soft nod. He didn’t look that well rested.

Maybe he wasn’t a total jerk.

The horn section started up then, emerging from the tent in a cluster. Their usual bright tones had been transformed into a dirge, the register almost out of tune, underscoring the wrongness of the occasion. They were going to lead the procession.

The crowd parted to make way for them. I nearly moved to follow when they passed, but Dad’s hand on my arm stopped me. Thurston left the tent flaps, holding them to let the two people behind him pass through.

Sam’s parents, hunched over in black like crows. They hadn’t blamed my mom and dad, but it was somehow fitting that they were slightly apart from the rest of us. An invisible force field of grief surrounded them. After the two of them had passed, with Thurston behind them, we fell in line, and then everyone else did.

When we reached the streets, the sidewalks were thronged with people.

“The papers,” Dad said.

The front pages of the big daily newspapers had featured a story about Sam’s death and the funeral. One had included his last class picture and a larger candid of him working with the horses, his grin spread wide over several columns. A cruel photo to use.

The people who’d come to watch didn’t call out or move forward. No flashing cameras, and only a few phones held up for pictures. Children on their fathers’ shoulders waved. Men took off their hats—Cubs caps, mainly—and held them to their chests. Some people were crying. The city was making a beautiful gesture to honor Sam. I told myself it mattered, even if he wasn’t here to see it.

The half hour we took to get to the cathedral floated by like a bird in the air. It took forever. It took no time at all.

The Gothic structure was appropriately solemn, turrets thrusting into the air above. Several TV cameras and reporters jostled for position in the park opposite.

We made our way in, past a stone basin of holy water and up the center aisle. We fanned into the rows along either side, shoes scuffing on the floor.

Sam was in a coffin that seemed bigger than the entire building from where I stood, and we were expected to go and gawk at him in a gleaming wood box that would go in the ground. To pay our last respects. And so I did.

I went with Nan and Dad, each of them gripping one of my hands. I shuttered my eyes so they were nearly closed. I might regret missing my last chance to see his face, but I wasn’t able to look. I wasn’t able to grasp that I would never see him again, never tease him again, never fight with him again. Too many nevers.

We went back to our pew.

I stared at stained glass without seeing it, listened to the gentle tones of the robed priest who presided over the service without paying attention to what he was saying. The whole time I wondered how I could ever manage to tell Sam good-bye, to apologize for not managing to protect him. The circus was supposed to be
a family. And someone in that family—someone probably under this roof—had caused his death.

I wouldn’t forget that, grand gestures or not.

A fleet of hired cars and vans drove the entire circus out to Forest Park for the burial. When we reached the cemetery, I climbed out and admired the pale stone elephant statues that guarded the Showmen’s Rest section. Our party assembled at a tent erected over the freshly dug grave. The clowns acted as pallbearers, setting down the casket on the green cloth that covered the gaping hole Sam would soon be lowered into. The friendly cigar smoker was the one who had saved my mother. He’d accepted my thanks with a bent head and apology that he hadn’t been able to help Sam too.

The priest began to speak again, which resulted in more muffled weeping. Mom and Sam’s mother held on to each other and sobbed, while Nan stood straight and tall next to my dad and his brother. All around our family were the miserable faces of people who hadn’t known Sam. Except for Dita, no one had known him but us. I couldn’t take it. I didn’t want a rose from the flower arrangement to remember Sam by. I didn’t want to toss a handful of dirt into that hole.

Without making a scene, I backed away slowly, passing Kat, whose sympathetic expression nearly brought on tears. Once I was clear of the group, I ran across the grass to the other side of the nearest elephant statue.

I reached out and stroked the stone flank like Sam would have stroked Beauty’s. There had been whispers about putting her down, but I had intervened. His last wishes were clear.

Beauty would never see the inside of a ring again. That much was inevitable. She was being sent to a rehab home for old horses. It would have broken Sam’s heart.

Another never: even though I’d tried to tell him, he would never know that what happened hadn’t been his fault. I sank down to the ground and leaned back against the base of the monument.

I would not cry. Not where whoever put the scarf on Sam’s costume could see me.

Footsteps sounded through the grass behind me, and I expected Dad. But Remy eased around the side of the statue like he was approaching a skittish horse, and I reached up for him. He sat down beside me, putting his arm around me and pulling me in tight, so my head lay against his chest.

Anyone could notice that we’d disappeared, or round the monument to check on me and discover us. But right then, I didn’t care. I slid my hand inside his coat and held on to the fabric of his shirt. It was the first time since Sam was pronounced dead that the world around me stopped shifting and heaving, too unfamiliar to get my bearings in.

“We shouldn’t,” I said.

“I don’t care. Shh.”

There were a million things I wanted to say, but all that came out was, “Sam.
Sam.
”

“I know,” he said.

And that broke my grief open. I cried until the ocean inside me was dry.

It was Nan, her mascara streaked on one cheek behind her veil, who came, who discovered us. “Up,” she said to me. And to Remy, “Wait here until we’re clear.” Then to both of us: “No one can see you together. Do you understand? You can’t be seen. I will not lose Jules too.”

This was not the time to argue. I went with her.

twenty-six

Mom and Dad weren’t with us when we arrived back home. They’d gone with Sam’s parents to their hotel. So it was just Nan and me alone for the first time in weeks. Since the night she’d given me that fateful tarot reading.

She asked me, quietly, “I gather Sam had been seeing the Garcia girl?”

There was no point to lying now. “Yes.”

Her fingers worried at her lip, pinching it as she thought, the usual red lipstick long since worn away by the day.

“Tell me, how long had they been together? Or, rather, how long had others known?”

“For a while, but they only let everyone know the other night. The night before . . .” I didn’t need to be more specific.

She took in the information, but I had more to tell her. Now that I was certain she’d been right all along. There was no way Sam would have screwed up without that scarf on him. “Nan, there was a green scarf on the back of Sam’s costume. A bright square, like we’d tie around our necks . . . or maybe like someone would use in a magic trick or a clown would use in a gag. I only saw it when he was running out to perform . . . but I couldn’t be sure it was anything to worry about, not until it was too late. When I ran to him, I saw it in the ring—it must have come off during the accident. But someone took it before I could pick it up.”

“The scarf.” Wrinkles cut deep lines in her face. Nan always tried not to frown, said it protected her face from telling all her secrets. “It caused him to fall. I see now . . . How did you know about it?”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“Where?”

I hesitated.

She pressed. “It’s like the elephant hair. Maybe worse. The scarf went with the trunk, they were used together. It’s what I was looking for when I threw your things out onto the ground. I hoped that its absence meant it was lost. Where did you see it?”

There was nothing for it but to tell her. “Remy showed me a photo of it. But it was in black and white, and the trunk was in the photo too, so I didn’t recognize it fast enough. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I could’ve . . .” I stopped for a breath. No point attempting to change the night, no matter how much I wanted to. The past was done, fixed. That was why it cast such long shadows.

“Remy found a corkboard with old photos and news clippings. It was outside with his family’s gear the day they transferred their things from their house in Sarasota out to winter quarters to join the Cirque. He doesn’t think anyone else saw it. Whoever made that board must be the person who planted those objects on me, and on Sam.”

“You should have told me. It’s happening all over again. The objects, people dying who shouldn’t. Someone is punishing us. Sam was punished because he got involved with a Garcia. I won’t let this harm you the same way. We’re going to pay the Garcias a visit.”

“What?” I asked, confused. “No. Why would we?”

“Come with me, if you’re coming.”

I had little choice. Nan marched us through the darkened, tight-packed RV maze like she was head of a battalion.

I’d seen Nan focused and in command, but never like this. She must have been tired—
I
was bone-weary beneath the adrenaline, and I’d gotten used
to nights with less sleep sneaking out—but she showed no sign of it.

When we reached our destination, she paused to take in the RV’s elaborate mural. Remy’s likeness grinned out, Dita flying above him, a beaming Novio holding her wrists. But Nan was looking at the patriarch, Roman Garcia, one arm thrust up as he stood on a platform, with a few other men rendered in less detail behind him.

Her expression gave away nothing. She finished the trip to the door and raised her hand to knock. I reached out to grab it. “You’re not going to accuse Dita . . . or Remy . . . of anything, right? They didn’t do anything.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t stop me if I was, but no.”

I let go, feeling foolish.

She knocked, and I expected it to take a minute or two for someone to rouse and come to the door. But it swung open almost immediately. Remy and Dita answered it together. They had changed, but they didn’t look like they’d slept.

“Jules?” Remy said. His tone communicated both concern and relief to see me standing there. He peered past Nan, eyes only for me.

“Remy,” I said.

“Invite us in,” Nan said.

“Of course.” Remy was looking a question at me. “Sure, please come in.”

Dita clenched the rail by the steps like she’d collapse if she released it. Her short hair was in spikes. She was wearing a plain black T-shirt, dressed the most informally I’d ever seen.

The hush inside the RV wasn’t like normal quiet, a simple absence of sound. It was the loud silence of things not yet said.

Dita released her grip and escorted Nan by the gleaming marble counters and into the many-cushioned living room. Remy grabbed my hand as I passed him, our touch concealed by the bar that divided the two areas.

I wanted to fold myself against him and let him hold me again and tell me we’d figure it out, to tell me everything would be okay.

But I didn’t know if it could be, ever again.

The gentle pressure of fingers as he held mine, giving a light squeeze of support, helped ease the desperate pressure inside me.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said, low. “Remy, I didn’t get to tell them yet . . . about, you know. Us.”

“I figured,” he said. “But your grandmother knows. How are you?”

“I’m . . .” I searched for the word that would make him understand, and it came to me with the speed that only the truth can. “Furious. I’m furious.”

An echo of my own anger flared in him.

“Me too,” he said.

“Jules?” Nan called from the couch. “Join me.”

Remy gave my hand one last squeeze, and followed me toward the living room. He stopped at the bar, leaning his hip against it. Dita emerged from the back with her mother, Maria, in a fuzzy belted robe. Remy’s father and Novio were behind them. Novio hadn’t even taken the time to put on a shirt. The two of them blinked in the opening of the hall.

Maria wasn’t the least bit drowsy. Her sharp eyes settled on Nan. “What are you doing here?”

Nan didn’t back down. “I figured you’d rather I accuse you to your face.”

“What are you talking about?” Maria asked.

Nan smiled a smile as chilly as the Arctic tundra. I went over and joined her. Even though I wasn’t sure where she was headed, I didn’t want her to be alone. We were family.

Dita said, “I don’t understand.” Her confusion was plain.

Nan reached into the pocket of her coat and removed the tarot deck. “Shall I give you a reading, Maria? See what the Fates have to say. Or will you answer my questions?”

Maria Garcia stood for a long moment, unmoving, and I had to remind myself to keep breathing. Then she walked to the bar, pulled a chair out so it was facing us, and sat. “You’re accusing me of . . . ?”

“This has to stop. Now,” Nan said. “A boy is dead. I’m not the one being punished anymore.”

“What do you think happened?” Remy asked, watching me despite the question being for Nan.

I was pulled between them, my loyalty to Nan and my knowledge that Remy wasn’t the enemy. “Nan, I don’t think they had anything to do with this.”

Nan said, “You don’t know.”

“Wait,” Maria said.

She reached into the pocket of her robe and removed a pack of cigarettes. She shook one out, the lighter
snick
ing as she lit it. She sucked in a long drag, blew the smoke out in a billowing screen. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to come in here and point your finger at me. Everyone knows
you
were the witch. What you did—”

Maria broke off. Another long drag on the cigarette, another smoke cloud. “My father was never the same. He was convinced you’d stolen his luck. Even when he was dying, he kept saying it. ‘Nancy Maroni stole my luck.’ He and my mother . . . they might as well
have been strangers after that summer. You were
never
the one punished.”

“I lost everything,” Nan said. “Roman kept his career. His life. So is it you, somehow, behind this? Because you’re still angry that he cheated on your mother? I don’t blame you, but you have to stop this. If you planted the thing on Sam that caused this . . .” She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up fiercer than before. “These children are innocent.”

Remy’s dad put his hand on Novio’s chest to keep him in place. Novio’s eyes were hollowed out by shadows. Maria ignored the rest of her family. She stood and stalked over to Nan. The tip of the cigarette glowed at the end of her fingers. She put one hand on her hip. The other waved the lit end of her smoke, as if for emphasis.

“Get out of my house. Or search it, if you want. Look high and look low. You’ll find nothing here. I admit I had the cards, but I thought
you
left them here.”

I blinked. “What—” Nan had claimed she’d given them the cards, as a peace offering. She reached over and put her hand on my wrist, and I swallowed the question. I could ask her later.

Maria went on. “I admit, I think about that time too much, still. I do blame you for my parents’ unhappiness—that was when it reached the point of no return. Nothing was good enough for Dad after we ran you out of the show. Especially not Mom or us kids. He was a bitter man for the rest of his life. But I would never hurt a member of this circus, no matter what their family had done. Remember, Nancy, the Garcias aren’t your only enemies. We weren’t the only ones hurt by
you
. Take your accusations elsewhere.”

Nan absorbed that. I waited, not sure what her next move was. For my part, I believed Maria Garcia was telling the truth. She sounded too affronted not to be.

Nan said, “You swear on your father’s grave that you aren’t behind this?”

The two of them stared like they could see inside each other.

Maria said, “I swear it on my father’s
and
my mother’s graves.”

Nan rose, tucking the cards away. She reached for my arm and pulled me up. “We’ll see ourselves out. My apologies.”

She wasn’t softer when she said it. She was—if it was possible—harder. Brittle. I worried she’d crack into a million pieces. Gone was the strength that had carried us here.

Remy was blocking our way. But when I gave him a slight shake of my head, he pressed against the sprawling marble counter, allowing us to pass. Slinking out together, it was like we’d committed a crime, rather than come to avenge one.

We didn’t speak on the way home, and when we got inside, Nan pushed me down onto the couch as she went into the back. “Wait here.”

I melted into the cushions, knowing if I closed my eyes I’d be out no matter how much I didn’t want to sleep. I expected to have one of those terrible nightmares, and that it would be about Sam and Beauty. He had died because of something that had taken place decades before. Something everyone blamed Nan for. He died because of magic.

Magic.
Yes, finally I was almost convinced it was real. Which was a
crazy
thought, but what made the most sense. Even Sam would probably have been forced to agree with me at this point. Except he couldn’t anymore.

Nan returned, and I didn’t miss that her right hand was closed in a loose fist. She was holding something. She settled down, facing me.

I sat up. “What do you have?”

“In a moment,” she said, “I’ll explain in a moment. I wish I knew this was the right thing.” She tapped her empty hand against the back of the couch, watching me. “But there’s no way to be sure. It’s all I have.”

She was clearly talking to herself, so I waited until she finished. I asked, “Your affair with Roman Garcia back then . . .”

Nan sighed. Every line in her face showed under the overhead light. She looked much older. “It’s not important. Not right now.”

“He had a family,” I said. “So did you—didn’t you?”

“My boys were still little. I don’t know what your dad would remember. I think he only knows what people said when we left.”

“You weren’t married, but Roman was.” She claimed it wasn’t important, but it had to be.

“The woman is always at fault in an affair. At least, as far as everyone else cares. I was the one who got blamed. Roman . . . he was magnetic. He could get his wife to forgive anything, even that.”

“It doesn’t sound like it worked out that way,” I pointed out. “The Garcias hate us.”

“And we them. Or we should.” She sighed again. “Are you just mad that it turns out I had a relationship with your boyfriend’s grandfather?”

I stilled.

“So he is your boyfriend. I thought so, after that scene at the graveyard.” And then she unfolded her fingers and held up her palm between us, as if that fact alone had decided her.

The light didn’t reflect off the small, round object. It was metal, but dulled by the passage of time. Bronze, maybe? A coin of some kind.

There was something that pulled me. My hand rose before I could stop, reached out to touch the coin. The effect was the opposite of what I’d felt when I touched the elephant hair. I wanted to grab it.

I hesitated.

“Take it,” Nan said. “It’s the only way.”

The coin warmed in my fingers, or at least I was almost sure it did. Having it in my hand made me feel different. I studied the small bronze coin. Roman numerals were engraved on it, and the rough shape of someone’s head. “What is this?”

“It is from the Circus Maximus, the very first circus of any kind. An ancient Roman coin the Garcias passed down to their family patriarchs. I don’t know who got it to begin with, or where, but it was their luck. The reason they said they never had bad accidents and always achieved great performances. Roman . . . treated it like a talisman. I took it from him when I left the circus.”

I had to digest that. “You stole it?”

“He owed it to me.”

Holding it in my hand, it was hard to imagine letting it go. Rationally I knew that was an insane thing to think. But when magic begins to make sense, rationality leaves the building. I weighed the coin’s unusual warmth in my palm and started talking.

“The people who were hurt . . . killed . . . that summer. Those tragedies had to do with those other objects, didn’t they? Were those things his too? What happened?”