The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 10

  “Of course I knew you were the reason why none of the locks in the house worked, Lara. Do you think my magic never came in? I fiddled with the stove and turned the gas on. Nearly blew up the house. At least you didn’t do that.”

  “If I hadn’t helped her, you would have.”

  Audrey didn’t answer her. She motioned toward the big top for emphasis. “That stunt back there means you’re getting stronger.”

  “Stronger than what?”

  “Stronger than me.”

  As they walked in silence, Lara mulled over her mother’s words. Why was she getting stronger? She knew that Audrey claimed to not practice her magic out of principle, but Lara didn’t believe it. Yet her mother was rattled by what she’d just seen.

  They wandered out to the concessions area where T-shirts and mugs were sold and performers were posing for pictures. Lara noticed a fortune-teller’s booth. Madame Fonseca was nowhere to be found. Instead a young boy stood in front of the only empty booth in the circus alley. “Oh, look at him standing over there. I feel bad for him.”

  “Then go get your fortune told,” said Audrey, fumbling with her purse. “We’ve got time until the crowd thins… getting out of here will be a nightmare. If anyone needs her fortune told, it’s you.”

  Lara made a face and approached the boy, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

  “You don’t look like a Madame Fonseca.” Lara pointed to the sign, which depicted an old woman looming over a crystal ball, her hair in a turban—so cliché it was comical.

  “She died two days ago.” A hint of a deep Southern accent in the boy’s voice—Alabama or Mississippi, Lara couldn’t quite place it.

  “Oh.” Lara hadn’t realized Madame Fonseca had been that old. “So I guess you’re Mr. Fonseca?”

  “Hell no.” The boy bowed. “Shane Speer at your service, ma’am.” He was dressed in a blue robe with green piping that looked too big for him, like a choir robe.

  “I like your robe,” said Lara, lying.

  “I have a green one, too.” Shane’s expression was deadpan.

  “I bet you do.”

  She followed him behind the curtain into a small area lined with dark-blue velvet. It felt like they were in a closet, and the room smelled like SweeTarts. Shane sat down opposite her and turned on a table lamp. “Cards or hands?”

  “Dunno. Which is better?”

  “For me?” The boy considered this. “Hands.”

  Lara flipped over her hands. He touched her palms and frowned.

  “So how’d you get into this line of work?” She thought she’d start with small talk.

  The boy kept studying her palms. From somewhere under the curtain came a small brown monkey dressed in a little green tuxedo. “Hello, Mr. Tisdale.” The boy leaned in. “I swear he likes to eavesdrop on my all sessions.” The boy picked up the monkey, lovingly placing him on his knee. “I guess you could say I have a gift.

  “When it comes to the dead, I see things other people don’t.” He fiddled with his fingers on the table. Lara could also feel his leg shaking with energy, the little monkey bouncing. “It was like they were hidden behind my mama’s dirty curtain that had once been clean and sheer. So for a while, people gave me money to visit the places where people had died. Loved ones—you know, to see if I could feel their energy and talk to them.”

  The kid was like a windup toy. He wouldn’t stop chattering. Lara thought he must be nervous filling in for Madame Fonseca. She was a fucking legend. He seemed not to have stopped for a breath.

  “At first, my work was limited to local folks who knew about me—mothers who’d lost their kids. It’s always parents looking for answers.” He went back to her hand, turning it over then scrutinizing her fingers.

  “Why, that first summer, I spent a lot of time standing along the bad dip in County Road 68 down in Alabama where those makeshift crosses were crafted at the hairpin turns, or out on Interstate 10, walking the brim of the highway while the big rigs blew by me.”

  He looked up like Lara should know Interstate 10. “But then Madame Fonseca found me when they were in Montgomery and she helped me hone my ‘craft’ as she called it. She taught me the cards, too.”

  Lara exhaled. The story was done. Shane turned Lara’s hand back around. The monkey reached over and touched the lines on her palm. With his expressive brown eyes and human face, he seemed to regard her gravely.

  “I know, Mr. Tisdale,” Shane said, nodding. “I see it, too. It’s crazy, but this little guy can pick out exactly the thing about each reading.”

  “My fiancé left me at the altar nine months ago,” blurted Lara sardonically. “Did he pick up on that?”

  Shane Speer studied her face, squinting as though he was trying to bore holes in her. She could see an enormous zit forming on his adolescent nose, and she wondered if Mr. Tisdale would point that out, too.

  Shane closed his eyes, more for show than anything, Lara was sure. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” It was the same thing Audrey had said the afternoon of her wedding.

  “It happens,” he said, like he was apologizing for failing to get a boner. “Sometimes, they just aren’t there… this fiancé. He’s gone.”

  “Well, hell, I know that,” snapped Lara. “Gone to where?”

  “He’s nowhere.” Shane shrugged. “That boy is not your destiny.”

  “What did you just say?” Lara leaned in, her voice rising. It was the same thing the man had said to her in the field all those years ago.

  “He is not the point.”

  Lara thought he was exactly the point and the reason she was spending money for this goddamned kid to fondle her hand. “Who are you?”

  In a swift motion, Shane Speer grabbed Lara’s wrist and slapped it down. The cheap table shook and nearly toppled. The boy leaned in so close that Lara could tell he’d been chewing cinnamon gum. She was worried he was trying to kiss her and the thought of it repulsed her. The prospect seemed to repulse Mr. Tisdale as well, because the monkey slid off Shane’s knee and scurried out of the room chirping.

  “I see the dark magic… the Dark Circus in you, girl. It is your destiny.” His voice wasn’t a boy’s anymore; it was deep like an opera baritone. And was that a Russian accent? “You’re part of the Devil’s Circus. You’re the key—the one. But you must beware. She knows and she is coming for you. She wants you dead.”

  Shane shook his head and peered up at her through greasy bangs. “What did I say?”

  “You don’t know?” Lara cradled her sore hand in the other one, studying it to see if anything had been bruised.

  “It comes on that way. It’s why I prefer the hands.”

  “Well, you were gibbering on about a Dark Circus. And you sounded Russian, too.”

  “The Secret Circus?” The boy’s eyes widened. “I was?” The boy looked off, sick almost. “I bet Madame Fonseca is channeling me again. I hate it when she does that. I can do this on my own without her meddling in all my fucking sessions.”

  “You called it the Dark Circus, not the Secret Circus,” said Lara, looking up at the ceiling and expecting the ghost of Madame Fonseca to be hanging up there.

  “Same thing.” Shane shrugged. “Some call it the Secret Circus, others the Dark Circus.”

  “So how does this circus relate to me?”

  “Dunno. Depends on what I said.” The boy looked around, distracted, like he needed a cigarette. “Hey, what happened to Mr. Tisdale?”

  “He fled when your voice got weird.”

  “Oh fuck, really? He ran out?” Shane dipped his head and raised it, looking for the little monkey. “Oh no, I gotta find him. He gets into mischief when he’s loose.”

  “That’s just great,” said Lara, rolling her eyes. She could see he was sweating. “You also said that I was in danger and that she wants me dead. Who wants me dead?”

  The boy was still distracted, but he swallowed hard. Lara could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “Ma’am. If I said t
hat, then you are in very grave danger. I’m sorry to tell you I’m never wrong about these matters. Madame Fonseca said I had the gift and I do.” He reached under the table and pulled out a gray cashbox, thunking it between them. “That’ll be twenty dollars.”

  Lara left Madame Fonseca’s booth feeling a bit dizzy. What on earth was happening? From the corner of her eye, she saw the curtain move. A tiny hand, followed by a small face, peered out at her.

  “Mr. Tisdale?”

  The monkey looked around as though something had spooked him. Tentatively, like a shy dog, the little creature walked over to Lara. In his hand was a package. He held it out in front of him.

  “Is this for me?” Lara bent down. This circus was getting weirder by the minute.

  She took it from his hands and he scampered away. Studying it, Lara saw it was an elaborate flat envelope made of a heavy, shiny gold paper. The envelope was addressed to Mademoiselle Lara Barnes. She slid her finger across the top to open it, but the paper didn’t give way. Trying again, she got a nasty paper cut. “Shit.” A drop of blood hit the envelope’s flap, and it loosened instantly. Sucking the blood from her finger, she opened the envelope with her other hand. There Lara found an old composition book, its beige cover so weathered that it was brown.

  “What on earth is that?” Audrey found her sucking on her cut finger and holding the envelope at an odd angle. Her mother reached into her purse and handed Lara a tissue before taking the package from her hands.

  Lara shrugged. “A monkey gave it to me.”

  “A monkey?” Her mother looked at her, curious.

  “Trust me, that’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me tonight.” While her mother held the envelope, Lara reached inside and pulled out the composition book.

  Eyeing the package suspiciously, Audrey turned it over and examined the flap. “Odd. It was addressed to you. It must be from one of the old circus people. I didn’t know any of them were still around.”

  Lara began scanning the pages as her mother looked over her shoulder. The writing was from another time period, the script looping and artistic, unlike the cursive of Lara’s generation that seemed intent on speed. The faded brown lettering was sharp and precise, with heavy loops on the capitals, but time had made the ink nearly the same color as the paper. It was written entirely in French. Lara could make out names like Sylvie and E. Once a fluent French speaker, Lara was surprised to find her skills rusty, but she was itching to open it and begin translating.

  Her mother took the book and squinted at the cover. “I need my reading glasses.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I’d say it’s a journal.” Audrey looked at it strangely. She looked more closely at the writing on the cover. “It’s from 1925.”

  The journal read: LE JOURNAL DE CECILE CABOT.

  Lara touched the pages tentatively, like they could disintegrate under her fingers. “You don’t think it’s odd?”

  “Well.” Audrey took her keys out of her handbag. “I wouldn’t be telling anyone a monkey gave it to me. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I never knew Cecile to keep a diary.”

  “From the looks of this, she was a young woman when she wrote it.”

  “To me, she just wasn’t particularly reflective in that way. I lived with her a long time and I never once heard her mention a journal,” said Audrey with a shrug, “but who knows. Maybe she was a different person when she was younger. See if you can translate it, then you’ll know for sure. Anyway, it’s a nice gesture; a piece of history that someone thought you should have.”

  As they walked out of the big top, Lara held the cloth spine of the book in her palm. A sense of dread tugged at her. She wasn’t so convinced this had been a nice gesture at all.

  There was a slow drizzle falling and the air was cool. Lara was sure there would be fog in the rest of the valley. The June morning breeze had a lingering smoky scent from plants and trees that had been cooking for days in the heat before finally getting relief from a cool, hard rain. These were the kind of mornings when people stayed in, so the streets were spare, allowing the rain to gently wash the cobblestones. By noon, the sun would beat down and the place would feel like a swamp.

  In the past few days, her father had been out touring with the Dangerous Tendencies reunion band. The first show had been last week in Charlottesville, followed by Durham then Clemson, but last night they did a practice concert in Winchester.

  Lara placed the journal on her desk and sat back in her chair. “How’d it go?” She was settled in for an hour of the play-by-play on the set changes, troubles with the new drummer, and crowd size and energy. She’d toured with him for a year, playing rhythm guitar, but she’d nearly been electrocuted by a faulty wire on a guitar and Jason never invited her back on the road. For years now, his taste had been shifting toward blues and he was seeking out musicians who shared his vision. To the dismay of old fans, his concerts only played a few old Dangerous Tendencies tracks, allowing them to focus on new material. All his Son House, Bukka White, and Hound Dog Taylor records were out in prime positions near his phone.

  Jason sat on the edge of his desk. He was all movement, his face flushed, fingers tapping. “I loved it.” He’d even gotten a haircut for the gig, his auburn curls clipped tightly to his scalp.

  “Really?” She cocked her head. “You never love it.”

  “It was perfect,” he said, looking away with a smile, like he was savoring a memory.

  Jason was a creature of the road. Lara hated caging him up in a desk job, even if it was one that had him playing records like a teenager.

  “I’ve got something new,” he said. “We were jamming a little in the bus. Lots of good vibes among the guys.”

  “You didn’t just say vibes?” She put her hands on her face.

  He put his finger up and picked up his Gibson. “We’ve been working on some stuff. I think this band is actually gelling.”

  “The word gelling is only moderately better.” She grimaced pitifully.

  Jason had wanted to form a new band and make another studio album. Although he denied it, she knew part of the reason he’d agreed to do the syndicated radio show was to find a new audience and catch the attention of a record studio. After his third album, there had been no request for a fourth. Ten years later, she knew it was still a sore subject.

  Her father started with a few bars. It was a nice song. All of his songs were nice, but they had simple, straightforward melodies. They didn’t take on a layered edge until they were in the hands of a good producer. Lara had heard the tracks “before” and “after” a producer, and they were almost unrecognizable. While not the greatest balladwriter, Jason was a brilliant cover musician, so his live performances were usually four-to-five-song segues where each one blended seamlessly into the next. They weren’t the faithful reproductions of a less talented cover band. Jason took them to another level, weaving an overlay of a similar blues style through everything from Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Run Through the Jungle” and “Effigy” to the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.” Like a good mix, you could hear bits of the melody on cue, bleeding through the one he was singing.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” She twirled a pen between her fingers, her legs perched on her desk.

  “Sure.” He continued strumming, working something out with the new arrangement.

  Lara sprang up and grabbed the acoustic Fender—her favorite. “You didn’t backmask anything on the Tending album, did you?”

  “No, why?”

  “I didn’t think so,” she said, grabbing for the guitar and perching it on her knee, checking to see how out of tune it was and tightening the strings quickly. “There was just this weird thing that happened the other night with your album.”

  He stopped strumming, the note fading until he quieted it with his finger and shot her a puzzled look.

  “I decided to play ‘The One I Left Behind.’ As I was cuing it up, I heard a
song.”

  “You need to stop doing the late shift.” He laughed, stroking his beard. “You can hear lots of shit when you’re cuing a record in a studio. You know that.”

  “This was different,” she said. “It was a song, not a noise.” Grabbing the scrap paper with the notes she’d put on her desk, she played a few chords, then started singing.

  “Stop!” His jaw was clenched, and he gripped her guitar so tightly that it seemed like he would snap it in two.

  Lara’s eyes shot up to see he was shaking and pale.

  “Where in the hell did you hear that?”

  “I just told you,” she said, her eyes wide. She wasn’t expecting this type of reaction. “I was cuing your album—”

  “Not that song, Lara.” He cut her off, his voice raised and edgy, like it had been when she was a child swimming out too far in the pool. “That song doesn’t exist, not anymore.”

  Lara stopped strumming. “I… I… told you. I cued up ‘The One I Left Behind’ and when I did, I heard this several times.” She pointed to the tabs on her paper for emphasis. “I tried to get a tape recorder, but I’d forgotten to get fucking batteries. I thought I might be able to get the notes down on the guitar, so I hauled this into the studio. The weird thing is that when Melissa came to relieve me at ten, the song was gone.”

  Jason ran his hands through his hair. “It can’t be.”

  “Can’t be what?” Lara put the Fender back in its cradle. “What is it?”

  “Peter.” He lowered his eyes. “You’ve been hounding me since Todd split, asking me all the time about Peter Beaumont. Well, if you heard that song, then you heard Peter Beaumont. We didn’t record that song, Lara. That song lives only in my memories.” He pointed to his temple. “At least it did.” Jason shot up and pulled a copy of Tending from the record library. “Was this the album?” There were multiple copies around the studio, but she’d specifically used that library copy.

  Lara nodded.

  “You sure?” He tapped the album cover frantically.

  “I always grab the library copy, never your personal one.”

  He walked over to the spare turntable that sat in their office. This set had a smaller channel mixer hooked up to it, nothing like the elaborate one in the studio. She watched her father flip the turntable dial into cue and place the record on the platter. He guided the arm over track three, pulled the lever to lower it, then pushed the START button, stopping the record as the beginnings of a song formed. Twisting the record slowly, he began to rewind it on the turntable.