Matt & Zoe (21 page)

“You’ll come now.” His tone brooked no argument.

Carlina looked troubled. “I can take care of the horses, Matt.”

I swallowed, fearing the worst. I followed my father as he stomped away.

Don't You Know That's Dangerous? (Matt)

You’ll come with me.

Those words marked the beginning of the war between me and my father.

I know that it’s a little bit of a cliché. Young man, extending his boundaries; conflict with father who wants to keep him under control. It’s the subject of a thousand plays and novels, it’s the core of every good coming of age story (well, the ones about boys anyway). All of that is because there’s a certain core truth to it. We read it in stories and believe because it reflects and is shaped by the reality we see every day.

In my case, Carlina was secondary to the conflict. It was all about the rigging and the spotlight, it was all about Papa being the star of the circus and wanting his children to continue that, it was all about his expectation and his pride.

As we walked back to the trailer that day, Papa didn’t say a word. I could tell how angry he was, because I had trouble keeping up with him. His back was rigid in an unnatural way and occasionally the side of his neck twitched. I followed along, just to his right and one step behind, waiting for the moment he exploded. He turned on me just as we reached our trailer.

“Matty. You’ve been learning trick riding.” The words shot out one at a time, equally emphasized, each of them angry in its own way.

I swallowed. “In my free time. I’ve been doing my practice and chores and school.”

“You’ll stop today.” He phrased it is a simple statement of fact. But I was done being pushed around. I was done having Papa tell me what to do, when to do it, and how to do it.

“I’m not quitting.”

“You defy me? While you live under my roof, you do as I say!” Papa punctuated each word with a finger pointing at my chest. The last four words this finger made contact, pushing me back a few inches.

“Papa, I’m at practice every day. I’m never sick. I never tell you I’m too tired. Every day I work hard for the family. Why won’t you let me have something for me?”

His nostrils flare, and he shouts, “And what will I do when you break your stupid neck jumping off of a horse? Don’t you know that’s dangerous?”

He couldn’t possibly be serious. The first person to ever do a quadruple somersault in the air, setting an extremely dangerous world record when he was 17 years old, was telling me that riding an old horse was too dangerous?

“And flying through the air isn’t? Do you think I’m immune to getting hurt up there?”

His face flushed. “At least I can control safety up there. Nobody defies me up there. I won’t lose another family member. Not on my watch, young man.”

Bitterly, I spit out my response. “Your caution didn’t save Uncle Mario from being crippled.” I turn away from him and began walking away. He grabbed my shoulder.

“You think I don’t know that? Don’t you think maybe I see my brother falling to the ground every night when I try to sleep? You’ve never lost a family member right there in front of your eyes, Matty. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I shrug away from him and step back. I know better than to bring that up. In August 1996, just a few months after the Flying Paladinos were covered in Life Magazine, the family suffered a horrible tragedy. During a performance in Nashville, Dad’s brother and his wife hit the wrong way and went careening to the ground. Ordinarily the worst they would have suffered might have been some bruises and rope burns, but the safety net failed; she was killed and Mario crippled. I barely remember the accident and the aftermath—I was still very young when the family was in its heyday.

I veered away from that subject and just responded quietly, “I’m not quitting Papa.”

He takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. “It’s that girl isn’t it? The one who dumped you right before the dance.”

I wouldn’t have been more staggered if he had thrown a bucket of ice water on me. He knew that she’d blown me off? He knew that I hadn’t gone to the dance? All that time ago? I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand him at all. For the first time in this discussion— for the first time in a couple of years—I felt myself wanting to cry. “You knew? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Papa’s shoulders sagged, a deflated balloon, all the anger flowing out of him in a rush of air. “Matty,” he said in a low tone. “We could see how bad you were hurt. I didn’t want to make it worse for you.”

I didn’t understand him. All the anger was gone out of me too, replaced with a roiling sea of confusion. “Papa,
please
. Please don’t make me quit.”

He sighed, looked up at the sky, and muttered, “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” He looked back at me. “Fine. Keep risking your neck. But don’t let it interfere with school or your practice. You’re shaping up to be the best catcher this family ever had, Matty. That may not matter to you, but it does to me. It does to your grandfather and great-grandfather, looking down on you from heaven.”

Aggravated all over again, I sighed. He’s got to bring in the ancestors, he’s got to lay on the guilt. Whatever. I had gotten what I was asking for. “I won’t, Papa. I promise.”

I kept my promise. There were two weeks left of the touring season before we returned to Florida, and during that time every day after practice I walked to Carlina’s and we rode together. I kept up with my chores, with my school work, and almost every night performed with the family. Then I would collapse into a deep dreamless sleep.

***

The last day of our tour for the season was a few weeks before Thanksgiving in Tuscaloosa Alabama. It was late afternoon when Carlina and I had finished riding, grooming the horses and led them to their cars. As we walked out of the second car, she touched my sleeve.

“Matt. Wait…”

I stopped. I was intensely conscious of her proximity, just inches away in the cramped space. Her fingertips touched my sleeve, and the space between us seemed to shrink even more. “I just wanted to say thank you… For spending so much time looking out for me.”

As I looked into her seemingly huge eyes, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to kiss her. “I’ve loved every second we spent together.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

I leaned forward in what seemed like slow motion. My lips brushed against hers. I’d never kissed a girl before. The sensation was an epiphany. Her lips were supple and warm, and as the moment extended I instinctively put my hands on her waist. Her lips parted, just barely, and her eyes closed. The moment was magic… And fleeting.

She pulled away from me. “I’ve got to go.” Her voice was rough.

I opened my mouth to respond, but she turned away and half ran to her father’s trailer.

I stood there for a long time listening to the crickets and bullfrogs with their ringing song. All of my attention was focused on the memory of that kiss, the shock of the sudden separation and her running away. I was buffeted by confusion.

Eventually I turned and began walking across the lot, back to my parent’s trailer.

***

Tom Neighbors, the general manager for the circus, had a zero tolerance policy for fighting. People had been ruined by fighting on the lot—sometimes docked half a month’s pay, others suspended or even fired. So I had been fairly confident as I went about my day-to-day business that I wouldn’t have to worry about Red coming after me.

I was as wrong as I could be.

The attack that night came out of nowhere. I was halfway across the lot when a crushing blow hit the back of my head and my vision went black. I staggered to my knees as my vision came back, just in time for Red to kick me in the stomach. I fell backward, the pain excruciating, and before I could recover he aimed another kick. I screamed and curled into a fetal position. I was in good shape from years of swinging on the rigging, and practicing as a catcher had forced me to develop a lot of upper body strength. Red attacked me by surprise and put me down before I had a chance to do anything.

He kicked me -- once, twice, a third time, before I could roll away, scrambling to get on my feet. Just as I got up, I heard someone shout.

“Hey! Who’s fighting?”

Someone was approaching in the darkness. Red gave me a vicious look, then turned and ran. I sagged, falling to a crouch and letting my elbows rest on my knees. I felt nauseous. Rory Nelson, one of the circus handlers, approached. When he saw me, he leaned close and said, “Matt? Are you okay?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah.” My voice came out as not much more than a growl.

“Who was that? You know they don’t tolerate fighting on the lot.”

I shook my head. Instinctively, I kept my mouth shut. “He hit me from behind. I don’t know who it was.”

Why didn’t I identify Red on the spot? I didn’t owe him anything. I think maybe I had an idea I would be the one to dish out punishment to him. Whatever it was, instinct, natural cussedness, I don’t know. But I came to regret it.

“You sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I wasn’t, but I didn’t want any trouble. I stood up, carefully hiding the pain in my ribs.

“If you’re sure,” he said.

“I am.” Then I turned to walk to my family’s trailer.

***

I didn’t see Red again that year. I don’t know where he and his father went for the winter, and I didn’t care. I was glad he wasn’t in Florida.

It was Carlina’s senior year in high school and my junior year. As it often was, the first two weeks back were a scramble to catch up so we had some idea of what was going on. We were in different grades, but we ended up taking two classes together, economics and drama. I was thrilled… We were the only circus kids in either class, so it was natural for us to spend time studying together.

Papa and I were at a stalemate. I continued to ride whenever I could with Carlina, but practiced with the family every night. It was grueling, but I knew if I slacked even in the slightest, Papa would forbid me to see her. Late fall faded into a frigid winter, with temperatures plunging into the twenties, the frost killing off large swatch of orange groves. Dad grumbled for days about having to buy winter coats for all of us—he grumbled, but of course he did it. When March came, we were back on the road.

Carlina and I continued to spend time with each other, but by July, it was clear something was wrong. I showed up one day to ride and she wasn’t there—and no one could tell me where she was.

The next day, same story.

On the third day I found her as she walked across the lot toward the main ticket booths.

She was walking with Red.

I approached, feeling my body and lips go stiff. Her eyes widened. Red crossed his arms over his chest.

“Carlina…” I couldn’t continue the sentence. I didn’t know what to say.

“Go away.” Red’s words were pugnacious.

“No… this is between me and her,” I said.

Tears started to run down her face. “Matt—I’m sorry… just let it go. I don’t love you, I never did.”

It was like she’d reached into my insides, grabbed ahold of my guts and twisted. I almost gasped. Red approached me closer. “Go away, little runt,” he said.

I’d been trained from an early age to keep a hold of my temper. Papa didn’t tolerate fighting or emotional outbursts. But this set me off. Without a second thought I let out a yell and punched Red in the face.

I felt his nose crumple under my first and he fell back, yelling in pain. I hit him with another blow to the face, then another, before he began to recover. Carlina screamed, “Matt,
no!
”

That just stoked the rage even more. Red had pushed me around and bullied me for years. He’d treated her like crap too, and now she was going back to him. I charged him, throwing punch after punch at his midsection. He doubled over and I kneed him in the face.

Red went down just as two of the pitchmen grabbed me, holding me in place. I struggled to get away from them as Red rolled away from us. Carlina was crying, and Red got up even as the two men started to lose their grip. They didn’t lose their grip quickly enough—he charged, knocking me off balance and out of the arms of the pitchmen. I tripped over a generator and fell backward, narrowly avoiding hitting my skull on the pavement. Now the pitchmen were holding
him.

I staggered to my feet.

“I’ll kill you,” Red shouted. “You. Are. Dead.”

I just shook my head.

An hour later, both of us were standing with our fathers as Tom Neighbors, the general manager, dressed them down for not keeping us under control.

“This is your only warning, and I’m only giving you
that
because you’re still a kid,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “I don’t care if your father could
levitate
up to the bar. You don’t fight on my lot, understand?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He repeated a similar warning to Red.

All I could see was Carlina. Crying.
Why was I so stupid? Why didn’t I see it?

***

A week later, I’d finally reached the point I couldn’t handle it any longer. I’d spent days doing nothing but the trapeze and sleeping. I had to know. Why?

But when I went to the paddock, her father’s trailer wasn’t there.

What the hell?
Urgently, I began to search around. Everything was as it should be in the area—except the missing trailer. I ran over to the paddock and shouted to one of the riders. “Where’s Nick? Carlina?”

The rider shrugged. “Gone. Nick was fired.”

“What?”

He shrugged again.

Fired. What the hell? He’d been with the circus forever.

Then the suspicion began to rise. My dad knew the fight with Red was over Carlina.
He knew it.

I began to run back to our trailer.

***

I arrived just as Papa came out of the trailer, followed by Mamma. They were preparing to head to the arena for the show.

“What did you do?” I shouted. “She’s gone!”

Papa’s face twisted in anger. “And good riddance!” he shouted. “She’s a whore! She used you then went back to that shit-for-brains Red. Her father was a drunk who was stealing!”