Matt & Zoe (30 page)

“Why did you come?” Tony asks. His tone seems to indicate he’d have been just as happy if I hadn’t.

I look at my brother, studying his face. He barely responds when Mamma upbraids him for his words. I don’t understand why Tony is so hostile to me. We were close once. All of that changed my senior year, or what would have been my senior year. He never visited me in the jail. We’ve barely spoken a word to each other since.

“I guess I thought it was time,” I say.

“So are you like a tourist? You’re gonna come around for a few days, then drop out of our lives again?”

Messalina says, “Give him a break, Tony. What’s your problem?”

Mamma says in a sharp tone, “You don’t use language like that at my table.”

Tony starts to say something else, and Messalina interrupts him. “I mean it, Tony. Stop it.”

Tony sits back, annoyance on his face.

In as careful a tone as I can muster, I say, “I don’t want to fight with you Tony.” He snorts.

I sigh. There is no point in engaging in this right now. It’s clear that Tony’s not interested in anything I have to say. And the truth is, I don’t have anything to say. I don’t know why I’m here. Why now?

There were a lot of reasons I never came back. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to leave behind that life. A life with no stability. There’s a lot to be said for a life on the road with the circus. But almost all of it is negative. No stability. No normal friends—everyone I knew and saw more than a few months in the winter, were also transients. On top of that, no matter how careful we were, no matter how much we focused on safety, accidents did happen. You can do everything you want to try to prevent them, but there’s still some level of luck involved. After all—my dad might have lived through the heart attack if he’d been sitting in an office somewhere instead of flying through the air.

No point in dwelling on all of that. I’m here now. After breakfast, Mamma announces that we’ll begin practice immediately. I’m still in good shape but that’s still a long way from being able to catch and hold a person flying through the air. Even though I’m only standing in for the weekend … I want to do it right. If only so I can show Tony.

After eating, I step out of the trailer and take out my phone and dial Zoe’s number. If it was anyone else, there’s no way I’d call this early in the morning. But Zoe’s usually up well before five. My call goes unanswered—in fact it doesn’t even ring. Maybe she forgot to charge her phone. I start to dial the house phone, but at that moment Tony and Lina come out of the trailer. They’re dressed for practice.

I send Zoe a text to let her know I’ll be out of touch most of the day and that I’ll check in at lunchtime.

Five minutes later, we’re standing around the practice lot. It’s cold out, but we’ll be warmed up soon enough. The rigging and nets are set up outdoors in the parking lot, forty feet high. This all has an incredibly familiar feel—Mamma has continued Papa’s years of precision in how the nets and rigging are configured. Any one of us could walk on to any lot in America and find our setup to be the same. The objective, of course, is to take advantage of unconscious reflexes. Not having to worry about the location of the apron or the safety lines meant that we can focus on the act, each other, and above all, safety.

Mamma motions for us to gather around her. Her eyes dart from Tony to Messalina to me. She purses her lips, then says, “It’s finally time all my children were together again. The flying Paladinos were once the premier trapeze act in America. We headlined Ringling Brothers. Your father was the first flyer to ever perform a quadruple. And the three of you are part of this family.”

Tony groans a little and mutters, “Mamma, come on. We know all this.”

“Did I ask you to open your noise hole, Tony? You listen!”

Tony freezes. I feel like I’m twelve.

“We’re not what we once were, and we never will be again. Your father, God rest his soul, is gone. But we do have this chance to shine.”

Tony mutters, “Until Matty quits again.”

I feel a surge of rage, and start to open my mouth, but Messalina beats me to it. “Shut up,” she hisses at Tony.

Mamma continues. “Matty has a good career, Tony, and I’m proud of him. You need to stop. He won’t be with us anymore, except these few days, and that’s fine. We have this chance. And I want to make it count.”

Tony doesn’t exactly acquiesce, but he does stop talking.

Mamma continues. “We’ll do matching stunts. Classic trapeze, Matt and Tony catching. We’ll start with the basics, since Matty hasn’t been in the ring.”

Tony murmurs, “Neither have you Mamma, pretty much.”

“It’s time then isn’t it?”

I try to hide my unease. Mamma is in great shape for fifty, but I’ve already lost one parent in the ring. I also know that no one on earth could dissuade her from this course.

“I’d like a few minutes to get the feel again before we attempt any catches. I don’t know how my timing is.”

“Go.”

I walk to the ladder and stare up into the rigging. My heart begins to thump in my chest, but I swallow, place my hands on the ladder, lift one foot and begin to climb. My anxiety is much higher than it was when I was up in the rigging with Mamma a couple weeks ago, when I knew I was only going to stand on the platform. Now, I’m planning to do the one thing I said I would never do again. When I reach the platform, I wipe my hands in rosin, then reach up to the chalk bag and dust my hands carefully. Then I reach up and take the bar, lift high, and swing out.

My stomach lurches as I go into free-fall and swing at the end of the pendulum across the lot and back up into the air. At the top of the swing I jackknife my legs up, pull my body straight, and flip over so I’m facing back toward the ground. Then I swing my legs in front of me and begin the descent again, this time nearly twice as fast.

As I swing back down at the lowest part of the arc, I realize that I’m completely comfortable. It’s been years since I’ve been in the rigging, but everything feels very familiar. I flip again as I reach the top of the swing, then come back down. The air whooshes in my ears as I build up speed, and on the end of the fourth swing I let go of the bar, flip myself over and position myself in the catch trap. Then I swing back down, arms outstretched and feet in the ropes. I swing all the way back up, testing the feel and my stability. This is the essential point. When I’m in the trap, I have to be absolutely stable. At the height of the swing, I’ll be taking hold of a hundred pound weight moving at two G’s. I could lose my grip on Mamma or Messalina, sending them flying off into the net or the apron.

That’s exactly what happened after Papa had his heart attack.

At the end of the next swing up, I let go with my legs again and flip up, grabbing the bar with one hand. I let myself swing with one hand all the way back up the arch again, flip over, and do a high arching dive into the net.

That dive always elicits screams from the audience, no matter how much they know that there are nets underneath. At the last second I roll into a ball, and bounce on the net. A second later I’m on the ground.

“Looks good,” Tony says. “But your right foot wasn’t wrapped properly, you’d lose it if you’d caught someone that way.”

Mamma nods. “He’s right. You need to practice that.”

I nod, taking the criticism in stride. People’s lives depend on this being correct.

We practice for hours. From the beginning, I’m focused on re-learning the basics. Timing. Positioning and grip on the ropes. Getting the feel of the catch trap again. By the time it’s close to noon I’m trembling. I need to eat, a lot and as soon as possible. Mamma looks at me and says, “One more time before lunch, Matty. This time I want you to catch me.”

I freeze up at the words.

The pain starts at roughly the center of my rib cage and slides upward along my sternum toward my throat. I have to remind myself to breathe.

“Matty. You are ready to do this. Your father’s death was not your fault.”

I stare at her, barely understanding. I can smell the heat of the lot in Texas where he died. I can hear the voices of the animals at the lot. I can see his red angry face as I shouted at him, “
I wish I wasn’t your son! I wish you were dead!
”

I’d do anything to take that back. Anything in the world.

“Matty?” Messalina’s voice breaks through my concentration. I look up, almost startled, and say, “I’m ready.” I can’t look at them. I turn away and climb up into the rigging.

Everything seems to move in a painful ragged slow-motion. I keep thinking of the possible problems. What happens if I’m too slow? If I only get a good grip with one hand? Or if I slip? Am I strong enough to hold her? Will I have to compensate for loss of strength because of her age? These thoughts race through my mind even as I take hold of the bar and swing out over the lot.

The already cool air chills me when it blows past my sweat. I swing forward and back, forward and back. On the third time as I’m about to reach the apex of my return swing I call ready. She drops into her swing the same time I start to descend.

We hurtle toward each other, and at the right moment she launches into space toward me. It’s all happening in incredibly slow detail. She flips forward in an easy double forward somersault, extends her arms, and our hands and wrists slap together.

Instantly my hands closed around her wrists, taking her weight as we swing into the return. We are face-to-face, and like Papa always used to have, she has a grin on her face. In addition to that grin, her eyes are wet with tears.

With a graceful arc, we return back to the center and she releases with a half twist, perfectly reaching the bar and swinging back up, even as I drop to the net. I’m breathing again, but I feel oddly numb, even as Messalina runs over to congratulate me. After all, it’s the first time I’ve caught someone since the day my father died.

I realize that right now the only person I want to talk to is Zoe. She doesn’t know anything about this part of my life. Somehow doing this… it’s time to tell her. About my Dad. About the time I spent in jail. All of it. We break for lunch, and instead of going in directly to eat, I retrieve my phone. One missed call, one message, both from Zoe. I decide to listen before I call her. I have a dumb smile on my face as I dial into my voicemail, but the smile erases itself instantly.

Her voicemail is clear, cold and direct.

“Matt. I’ve had it with your secrets and lies. Don’t call me again. Don’t come here. I’m having Jasmine switched to a new class, and you goddamn well better stay away from my sister. I don’t want to hear from you ever again. Goodbye.”

I listen to the message with mounting disbelief and shock.
That’s not possible.
I sink down, my back against the trailer, in shock.

No.
I dial her number, but something strange happens. It doesn’t go to voicemail, and it doesn’t ring. Instead, it clicks to silence. I try the home number, but get an automated message, “The caller you are trying to reach is not accepting calls at this time.”

She’s blocked calls from me?

I don’t understand! I know I cancelled at the last minute last night—and didn’t give a very good excuse. But … seriously? I close my eyes and press my hands against my temples, trying to shut out the suddenly blooming headache.

Chapter Twenty

My boys (Matt)

On Sunday night, I had to tell my mother and siblings the truth.

“The thing is, I’ve been suspended at work. The superintendent was angry I represented the union, and even though we won, I’m getting the backlash.”

Messalina and Mamma looked shocked. Tony stays expressionless.

“So… That’s why I’m free for at least another week. Maybe longer. I don’t know.”

As is custom with my family, we eat a light meal for dinner… There’s no performance for another week, but it’s an ingrained habit to not eat much food before going into the ring. Heavy meals are reserved for lunch and after performances. Because it’s Sunday, Mamma has no plans to regroup for practice tonight after dinner.

When I walk out of the trailer, it’s already dark. Winter is on its way, and along with the darkness I feel the chill in the air. For the hundredth time that day, I take out my phone. No messages. No texts. For the first time in my life, I regret not having a smart phone. Maybe Zoe has updated her Facebook or Instagam or whatever else it is she uses. I don’t know which ones, because I don’t use them. First, I don’t have a smart-phone, and second I don’t need students… or their parents… friending me online.

I wasn’t alone amongst my peers in refraining from social media, but I also wasn’t in the majority. It wasn’t just a question of students and their parents to be honest. If anything, my lack of Facebook or Instagram is merely a symptom of my greater social isolation. I go out with Tyler for drinks every once in a while, but that’s it. I’m not part of a larger community. I don’t go to church, or social clubs, or family events.

Somehow, without my even realizing it, Zoe and Jasmine have broken me out of that isolation. Now, with Zoe not returning my calls, I feel it like a stab through the gut.

Uselessly, I dial her number again. The automated response: the caller you are trying to reach is not accepting calls at this time.

In other words, she’s blocked calls from me.

Earlier today I even tried her from Lina’s phone. Zoe answered, I started talking, and before I could get half a dozen words in, she’d disconnected.

I don’t understand why. I know there’s been a couple of weekends when I broke off our dates with no warning, but this seems drastic as a response. Then again, sometimes responses just don’t make sense.

On Monday morning, instead of waking up and heading to school, I get up and practice with the family. It has a rhythm that is so deeply familiar, I fall right into it. Warm-ups, followed by crossovers, followed by the more difficult stunts and finally running through the whole routine twice. Mamma runs the practice like a drill sergeant, her emphasis on safety as intense or more than even my father’s had been.