He’d always thought "hopelessly in love" a cliché, but here he was, in love and hopeless as all hell. And he knew he was being a complete sap about it. He also knew he had to hide his feelings deeper than he'd ever hidden anything before. Because off the trapezes Ginger wanted no part of him.
He could live with that. You don't grow up with a deformity like his without getting used to the idea that there are some things you'll never do, some things you'll never have.
She gave him the nod and they dropped off the platforms and went into their swings. Soon she'd be tumbling through the air toward him. Soon he'd get a chance to touch her, to wrap the ends of his arms around her wrists. Soon he'd feel truly alive for the first time all day.
2
Oz parted the flaps of the main tent and watched George and Ginger do their act. At times it seemed one of them must fall. He hoped it wouldn’t be brother George. Oz had set up another kind of fall for Octoman.
He switched his gaze from the gracefully spinning and tumbling aerialists to the rapt crowd of flukum-swilling, corndog-munching, popcorn-crunching, pickup-driving rednecks who took so much of their quotidian existence for granted.
Enjoy it while you can, folks. While you can.
Maricopa County, AZ
Atop the trapeze tower, Ginger felt as if she were suffocating. All the heat and sweat from the crowd that had flocked in from Tempe and Phoenix seemed to have settled up here in a moist, ripe cloud.
She rubbed extra resin into her palms. She was perspiring heavily, and from more than just the heat. Tonight, for the first time, she and George were doing their act without a net.
It shouldn't matter, she told herself. And so you shouldn't think about it. Because if you think about it you may hesitate, you may throw your timing off a fraction of a second, and that fraction could mean the difference between a catch and a miss.
Don't think about it.
After all, what was there to think about? They'd already done it so many times without a hitch, in practice and in public, that the presence or absence of the net should mean nothing . . .
Nothing but the difference between life and death.
Ginger readied herself inside and out. As she adjusted the straps on her bikini top she looked across the void at George, waiting for her signal. Everything was going to be fine. She was used to the feel of his handless arms now, and she'd come to have complete trust in his flawless timing.
She nodded to him, he nodded back. Ready.
She swung out, matched her arcs to George's, then began her series of flips. It went smoothly, just as it had all those other nights with the net. She started out simple and built the complexity, from spins to single flips, to double flips, to the big finish—the quadruple flip. She needed a strong swing for the finale—extra height, extra speed. She increased her arc, once, twice—
Some of her sweat had somehow gotten on the bar. An instant before she released into her quadruple she felt her left hand slip and she knew she was dead. Panic squeezed her throat and she made a futile backward grab for the bar, throwing off her timing even further. Out of control, she tumbled upward toward the top canvas. She bit back a scream as gravity reasserted its control and began tugging her toward the floor. If she was going to go, she'd go quietly, not like a howling jackass. The crowd had no such compunctions. She heard it screaming in horror as she plummeted earthward. Ginger spread her arms to slow her fall on the one chance in a million that—
Suddenly a rope coiled around her wrist and nearly yanked her arm out of its socket, and then she was swinging instead of falling and it wasn't a rope it was one of George's hands coiled around her wrist in a death grip—no, a life grip—and she looked up and saw his red face and bulging eyes as he strained to maintain his grip. He was hanging by his ankles and must have stretched his body to the breaking point to reach her. But reach her he had and now he was hauling her in. She climbed up his body until she reached the bar, then helped him back to an upright position.
Below, the cheering crowd went berserk with relief and amazement. Yet strangely, Ginger found herself calm. Her hands were shaking and her knees were as boneless as George’s arms, but that was the adrenaline. Mentally, emotionally, she was calm. She'd slipped, fallen, almost died. But almost was the key word. She was okay. Her partner had saved her. They were a true team now, and something deep within her told her she'd never fall again. She straightened to a standing position on the bar and tugged George along to join her.
"Stand up, George," she said over the joyous tumult rising from the crowd.
"I can't. I'm going to be sick."
"Don't be sick. You're a star. They probably think it was part of the act, the greatest gag they've ever seen. Don't let them down. Wave. Smile. Bow. This is show biz, guy."
George did as he was told, but he looked pale and shaky. Not a trouper. But a good guy. He'd damn near killed himself catching her.
"I almost lost you," he said.
Lost you? What did he mean by that? Did he blame himself? He shouldn't do that. She gripped one of his tentacles and held it aloft for the crowd. The cheers redoubled.
"These things really came in handy today," she told him. "If you'd had hands I don't think you'd have caught me."
"Yeah," he said, finally smiling. "I guess they have their uses."
Los Angeles County, CA
1
After lying awake half the night planning it, George still needed most of the morning to get up the nerve to ask her. When they’d finished checking the ropes and cables for tonight's show, he made sure no one was in earshot, then quickly turned to Ginger.
"Want to go see the town?" he blurted. "You know, Beverly Hills and all that? That is, I mean, if you don't already have plans."
He steeled himself for the inevitable rejection. He just hoped she didn't laugh.
"As a matter of fact, I do have plans," Ginger said.
"Oh. Okay."
Mixed deep within the disappointment was a vague sense of relief. At least his life was holding true to form—no tricks, no curves, no surprises, just straight-ahead frustration.
"Some other time then."
"Sure. But today I'm heading out on the highway and checking into one of those cut-rate executive motels and staying there till show time." Suddenly she turned to him and smiled. "Say. Why don't you come with me? We can split the rent."
George tried to speak but his mouth was as dry as the desert they'd passed through on the way to L.A.
Alone with Ginger . . . in a motel room.
He swallowed. "Uh, yeah. If you're sure you want to."
She gave him a puzzled look. "Why wouldn't I want to save a few bucks? Meet you in front of my trailer in ten minutes."
2
Ginger drove. George sat in the passenger seat and watched the scenery, trying not to let his fantasies run wild. He didn't understand what Ginger was up to, but he was more than willing to follow wherever she led.
He wasn't a virgin. That had ended during his freshman year in Gainesville, thanks to the expert tutelage of the redoubtable Gothzilla—Consuella Marques on the student register. Connie had been a senior and the most outrageous woman on campus.
Overweight, orange hair, black lipstick, lots of leather, and pierced in the most unusual places, she spotted George in mid-September and took him under her wing . . . or rather, under her breasts, under every part of her. She was voracious, insatiable. She taught George all about sex and devised ingenious uses for his tentacles when the rest of him ran out of steam. He’d had no illusions about their relationship. They enjoyed mad couplings, but they weren’t a couple. He knew that taking the freshman freak to her bed was just one more way for Connie to thumb her nose at the society she abhorred. George didn't care. He was a horny teenager who none of the girls in high school would even date, let alone allow to first base. College had proven very educational.
But soon Connie lost interest in him. And after the gymnastics council changed the conference rules, so di
d Florida State. He spent years scrounging around until Oz found him. And now he'd found Ginger.
And they were heading for a motel.
They found a Red Roof out near the airport.
"Didn't you bring a change of clothes?" Ginger said as she unlocked the door to their room. She was carrying a blue airline bag.
"Why, uh, no. Should I?"
"You're going to get all cleaned up and then get back into the same clothes? You surprise me."
Cleaned up?
George followed her into the room. He closed the door behind him as she turned on the TV and began playing with the channels. He stood staring at her. God, she was beautiful. That skin, that upturned nose, that fine red-gold hair pulled back in a banana clip, exposing the soft length of her neck. He stepped toward her.
"You can use the shower first," she said, still flipping the channels. "Take your time but don't take too long because as soon as you're through I'm going to take a bath, a good long soak." She turned and looked at him. "Well, come on, George. We haven't got all day."
3
The shower was wonderful. Glorious, in fact. George shampooed his hair three times and let the endless supply of hot water run over his skin until he heard the impatient knocking on the door.
"Come on, George," Ginger called. "Save some for me."
He wanted to tell her to come in and make him get out, but decided not to risk queering things. He was beginning to have an idea what this was all about.
4
"Doesn't it feel great to be really clean again?" Ginger said when he emerged from the bathroom. "I do this whenever I can afford it. I get so sick of bucket baths. No matter how hard you work at it, you never feel clean."
She squeezed past him into the bathroom.
"What do I do now?"
"Sit in the AC and watch cable TV and enjoy just being alone. When was the last time you were really alone, George?"
He almost said, I'm always alone, but thought it might come off too self-pitying.
"See you in an hour," she said and closed the bathroom door behind her.
George flopped back on the bed. He understood the motel trip now. Nothing sexual. Just a chance for a shower, a bath, all the hot water you could use, the opportunity to sit on a real toilet—donniker, as the folks in the show called it—and to be alone. You were never alone in the circus. Always noisy, always somebody yakking a few feet away, always crowded, always something to be done. This motel room was an island of peace and a bastion of simple civilized comforts.
George closed his eyes and reveled in the quiet.
5
"Wake up, sleepy head."
Someone was poking him in the ribs. George opened his eyes. A turbaned Hindu stood over him.
He blinked. It was Ginger, swathed in a terry-cloth robe, a towel wrapped around her hair. Her cheeks glowed red from all the hot water and scrubbing.
She smiled. "I thought you were dead."
"Sorry."
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. How long had he been out? Thank God he didn't have an erection.
"Nothing to be sorry about." She dropped into the chair next to the bed, loosened the towel around her head, and began rubbing her hair dry. "I was thinking while I was in the tub: I don't know a thing about you. Where were you born?"
They talked then. Really talked. He told her about his boyhood in Missouri, his talent for gymnastics, his trophies, his disappointments. Ginger in turn told him about herself, her mother's circus ties, her own history in gymnastics, her determination to get into the circus.
And as she spoke, George realized how comfortable she was with him. Too comfortable. Almost as if he were another girl.
That was it. She didn't think of him as a male, didn't seem to ascribe any sort of gender to him. He was sexless as far as she was concerned. A buddy. A pal. Maybe even a pet?
He should have been hurt, but he wasn't. He was here with her, close to her, alone in a tiny room. He'd have to resign himself to the fact that this was as good as it was going to get. Was it enough?
Yes, he decided, blocking out the dull ache of desire in his pelvis. It was enough. What choice did he have? It had to be enough.
6
"We’ve got a problem," Tarantello said.
Oz’s heart lurched against his chest wall. He stiffened in the easy chair that took up far too much space in the front room of his trailer.
"You couldn’t find the Piece?"
But Tarantello’s expression showed amusement rather than concern.
"Oh, I found it. It’s just . . ."
His expression shifted to perplexed. Tarantello exhibiting uncertainty . . . this did not bode well.
"It’s just what?"
"Inside him."
"Who?"
Tarantello opened the door to Oz’s trailer and jerked a thumb at the darkness outside.
"Him."
Oz rose and looked. At the foot of his steps stood a hulking shape. A man. In the wash of light from the open door he saw a drooling ugly face with minimal intelligence in his eyes.
"Meet Mr. Spencer Wilkinson," Tarantello drawled. "A man with a country club name but hardly the country club sort."
Oz frowned. "In him? How?"
"I couldn’t possibly say. But I know it’s there. I can feel it."
So could Oz. He could almost see it through his skull, lodged in his brain.
Tarantello said, "I guess how it got in doesn’t matter. It has to come out."
Oz didn’t think it was so simple.
"I see a problem: He’s one of us."
Tarantello turned and stared at Wilkinson. "And your point is . . . ?"
"He’s our brother."
Tarantello smiled. "Ah, I see. This is a moral point with you."
Wilkinson could hardly be expected to survive removal. Taking it would be a form of fratricide. Oz couldn’t abide the thought.
"We’re near a number of medical centers now, and we’ll pass others on the tour. Maybe someone, somewhere will be able to remove it without harming him."
"And maybe not."
Oz could tell Tarantello did not share his compunction.
"We’ll wait and see. Keep him locked up until we know."
Clackamas County, OR
Oz sighed with relief as Clementine squeezed her doughy girth through the door and exited his trailer. She was gone but her sour effluvium remained, like the refrain from an old song. She refused to bathe. Small wonder why the other members of the troupe disliked her—she was as unpleasant within as without. She might have horns, and a long black face with a white triangle on her forehead, and might perform as Elsie, the Human Heifer, but she was anything but contented.
He shook his head. He had enough trouble without dealing with a case of bad attitude. They'd had to pull Janusch from the show after the San Bernadino debacle when he’d been forced to kill to gain a Piece. As an added precaution Oz had had one of the Beagles steal Caniglia’s sketches of Janusch—just to be sure. The Bear took the blame, of course. Caniglia would "find" them sometime next week.
Tarantello entered then. He fanned his hand before his face. " Clementine?"
Oz nodded. "The one and only."
"I keep leaving bars of soap on her doorstep but she doesn't get the hint."
"Did you drop off fresh tobacco for Peabody?"
Tarantello grinned. "He sends his thanks. He's totally malleable now. If you suggested driving the circus off the edge of the Grand Canyon, he'd think it was a marvelous idea. Oh, and by the way . . ." He pulled a small onyx container from his pocket and held it up. "Another contribution to the Fuel supply."
"Really. Who?"
"One of the roustabouts got rough with Carmella."
"You took him for a walk?"
He nodded. "When he’s missed they’ll figure he blew the show. But he didn’t. He’s right here."
"Excellent. Put it in the freezer with the others. Oh, and how's our friend George doing?"
Tarantello fl
uttered his hand over his heart. "Hopelessly in love. Unrequited love."
"Is there any other kind? How long before he confesses his feelings, do you think?"
"And takes the Big Fall?" Tarantello scratched his head. "Before Chicago, I'd say."
"That soon? No, I think George is shy enough to wait until we get into the Northeast. I'll say Massachusetts. Bet?"
"You're on," Tarantello said.
They shook hands.
Sweetwater County, WY
Oz hovered over the tiny table in his back room. The Device was taking shape now. Still a ways to go, but he'd been able to interlock five of the Pieces. He compared the construct seated on the platform before him to one of his father's old photographs. Yes. Some of the larger supporting elements were missing, but it looked right.
Now . . . the test.
He rotated the copper cup, swirling the defrosted Fuel in one of the onyx boxes. He’d forgotten who this was—not that it mattered. It was ready, so he poured it over the assembled Pieces and the loose extras. As he had so many times before, Oz watched the thick liquid coat their surfaces, steaming as it began to evaporate. Once again he was ready for another in a long series of disappointments.
That was why he suspected a trick of the light when a shimmer ran along the edges of the uppermost Piece. He leaned closer. It happened again. Another shimmer . . . and then it spread, rippling down over the others, even the ones not interlocked with the central five, dancing over the bubbling surface of the liquid pooled in the basin of the platform.
A blast of light burst from the Device. Oz squinted into the pale violet glare suffusing the tiny room. Shadows moved around the platform. And then with a soft pop, like air rushing to fill a vacuum, the light vanished.