Matt & Zoe

  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, t
rying 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.

  On Monday afternoon, Gianni comes by the rigging. His right arm is in a sling. Tony’s face darkens, and he drops to the net followed by Mamma. A few moments later, the rest of us gather around.

  “So what’s the news?” Tony asks.

  The response is a head shake. “Doc says I have to take at least a month off the ropes.”

  “A month!” Tony’s eyes flash with anger. “We’re playing in Springfield this weekend. You have to be ready by Friday.”

  Mamma interjects. “Hush, Tony. If the doctor says he’s not ready, he’s not ready. I will not have somebody killed because of a foolish accident.” She glowers at Tony as she says the words. “If we can’t perform the show, we can’t do it. I won’t risk our family’s safety.”

  An uncomfortable silence falls over us, and I realize that Messalina is looking directly at me.

  I had only agreed to practice with them as a fill-in to help through the weekend.

  I have nowhere to go this week anyway.

  I don’t need to be at work. Zoe apparently wants nothing to do with me. Until I get things sorted out at work, I am free.

  I roll my eyes up to the sky. “I can stay through the week.”

  Mamma immediately responds. “You don’t have to do that, Matty.”

  “It’s fine, Mamma.”

  Mamma’s face softens. “I’m glad you’re with us.”

  Messalina says, “Me too.”

  Tony scowls. Then he stomps off.

  That is it. I’ve had it. I don’t necessarily expect to be greeted like the prodigal son, but the barest of politeness would be appreciated. I start after Tony.

  Messalina grabs at my arm. “Matty, let him go.”

  “No. I want to talk to him.”

  I shake her hand off and follow him. He doesn’t make fifteen feet before I grab his arm and spin him around.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” he snarls.

  I back off, holding my hands slightly in the air. “I just want to know one thing, Tony. Why the hell are you so hostile to me? What did I do to you?”

  “Fuck off,”

  I sag in frustration. “I don’t get it. The least you can do is have the courtesy to tell me why you’re so pissed off.”

  “It’s not enough that you’re a self-centered jerk?” He demands. “You were Papa’s favorite. Matty, you’re going to be the catcher. Matty, you’re the steady one. But then when Papa died, you flaked. Go off to college, do something else and leave the rest of us to work with strangers.” He makes a fist, extending his index finger and poking me in the chest. “I’ve been here every day. And you know what? We don’t need you. Go back to your girlfriend and your stupid job.”

  The verbal attack staggers me. “Tony… It’s not like I left voluntarily. They threw me in jail.”

  Tony’s face works in anger. “You think I don’t know that? All we heard before that was you screaming at him. Telling him to stop trying to control your life. Telling him to butt out. Telling them to go to hell. Is it any wonder people thought you killed him?”

  I hear a gasp behind me, Mamma’s voice. “Tony, you know that’s not—”

  I hold up a hand flat behind me to signal stop. “No, Mamma. Let him say it. Do you think that’s true, Tony? Do you think I killed Papa?”

  Tony slams his palms against my chest, knocking me back. I stagger trying to keep my footing. His next words come in a choked shout. “No! He died anyway. We lost everything. He was gone, we left the big top, everything fell apart. And you didn’t bother to come back and help us put it back together. The minute you got out of that jail, you ran away. I want to know why.”

  A maelstrom of emotion floods through me. There are a thousand things I could say, and there’s nothing I can say. I struggle to articulate a sentence, and he shouts at me again. “Why? It was bad enough that we lost Papa, but we lost you, too. Why?”

  The words are ripped out of me. “Because I was ashamed. I was so damned ashamed. The last thing Papa ever heard me say was, I wish you would die. He didn’t hear me say, I love you. That’s the last thing. I couldn’t save him! I tried! I couldn’t hold on, he was a dead weight and I lost him!”

  I’m horrified as the last words come ripping out of my chest.

  I don’t see the fist coming. I hear a howl of rage from Tony, then my vision goes black. This time I’m knocked off my feet. Almost before I hit the ground, Tony shouts, “I’m sorry!”

  As he shouts the words I can hear anguish in his voice. He drops to his knees next to me and grabs my shoulders and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I didn’t… I’m sorry I hated you. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault we lost him, but I hated you anyway.”

  I’m shocked by the words, but not nearly as shocked as I am by the tears which are freely running out of his eyes now. Tony grabs me by the shoulders and throws his arms around me. In a rough voice, he whispers, “Forgive me, brother?”

  I feel an overwhelming flow of grief as he asks the question. Not just grief. Exhaustion. Love. Release. Grace.

  I whisper. “Of course I forgive you. Can you forgive me?”

  He nods, unable to speak.

 
Then I feel another set of arms around me. Mamma. “My boys. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  I'll be there (Matt)

  Tomorrow morning, the circus is packing up and moving to Springfield for three nights. Despite my extreme reservations, I’ve agreed to perform with the family. The reservations are no longer emotional… merely practical. I’ve been out of the ring too long. But for the last six days, we’ve practiced the routine to the point of perfection. I can still catch. I can still fly. I’m sore as hell. I’m exhausted. But I’m doing it.

  I’ve tried to reach Zoe all week with multiple calls. No luck.

  I’m going to have to go in person. She told me to stay away, but I won’t do it without at least some kind of explanation. I deserve that much. On Tuesday I debate just leaving and going to see her. Instead, I decide to give her a few days to cool down. She can’t sustain this kind of rage. Can she?

  After dinner, Mamma says, “We’ll practice one hour after dinner tonight. I want you to get a lot of rest. We’ll move in the morning, go through the routine twice tomorrow afternoon when the big top goes up, then perform tomorrow night.” I nod. That actually sounds fine.

  I stand up from the table and stretch, and that’s when my phone rings.

  That’s odd. The caller is Peggy Young. I answer it immediately. “Hello? Peggy?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on with this bullshit suspension?” She launches into the question without any preamble.

  I sink into a seat. My mother gives me an odd, concerned look. “I don’t know… I think I needed a few days away. And besides, what’s the point?”

  I can hear the anger in her voice. “What’s the point? The point isn’t just you, Matt. It’s that the superintendent can’t just retaliate against people who speak up. He’s abusing his power, and you are letting him.”