Circus of the Grand Design (26 page)

They stopped a few feet from the woman. She faced in their direction, but took no apparent notice of them. She had dark hair and angular cheekbones—a starved, hollow look—and was dressed as if for an elegant party, clothing similar to what Lewis had seen in the fashion magazine—clinging, long-sleeved, gauzy yellow smock-top over a black bra, black skirt.

Miss Linda moved forward. "Can we help you?"

The woman continued her cry, "ce-cee, ce-cee..."

Lewis reached for her shoulder, but stopped, afraid to touch her and break whatever hold the words had on the woman. She turned toward them; he thought her beautiful in a tragic way.

Words rushed out, a plaintive torrent, her voice high and child-like. "I'm a good person, am I not a good person? Please tell me I'm a good person. I'm not a bad person. He brings me orange juice, as if that were enough. I'm a good person. I
have
to be a good person. I was too much for him, that's all. That doesn't make me a bad person. I'm not a bad person, I'm not...I'm not...I'm not..." She went on, her voice growing louder and louder, tearing out of her throat. She began rocking back and forth, the catwalk swaying with the force of her movement.

Miss Linda took Lewis's hand and guided him past the woman. "There's nothing we can do for her," she said. "The souls of the damned, in torment lie, strewn about the sands, their cries, gull flights, tear the sky."

"What's that?" Her words made his spine tingle.

"From de Selby's
Retreat to Memphis
. Haven't read it in years. It fits her."

At an intersection with another catwalk, Miss Linda turned left. "The other way leads back where we came in," she said.

"I know, but we're way above that floor." He remained at the intersection. "Let's stop for a second."

She kept going. "I have to get out of here. Have to have to have to."

She sounded edgy, verging on panic. Must have been seeing that woman. He started after her. The groupings of pipes below them became more scattered. A mound of scrap metal rose several yards. The light grew dimmer. With fewer pipes, the diminished noise jarred him. Miss Linda was still about twenty yards ahead. He hurried after her along the swaying surface. When he drew close he touched her shoulder.

"What," she said, in a flat voice. She increased her pace.

"This isn't the way. Look around. Listen. We're going away from things."

She ignored him. His bruised leg ached from walking so fast. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. She gripped his right arm and pushed; he felt a twinge and before he could react, she had twisted his arm around behind his back and mashed him against the catwalk railing.

"Nobody touches me," she said into his ear.

"Stop it." The cable railing dug into his chest, making it hard to speak. "Sorry. Stop. Okay?" The catwalk swayed. He looked down at a wet splotch, the sheen of oily water. "I just wanted—"

She pulled his head back by his hair, so that their eyes were inches apart. He controlled his urge to fight back, not that there was much he would be able to do.

"Please. Miss Linda. We have to go the other way."

"No one touches me." She released his hair.

"I won't touch you. We'll get out by going the other way. That's all. Please." His throat hurt. He had been shouting. The arm she had twisted hung numb at his side. Fragmentary thoughts flowed: his broken body lying far below, her face rimmed with greenish light, the two of them, naked, making love near the stricken woman, her cries fueling their passion.

"I'm...where? Lewis...it's you. I didn't mean..." She let her hands fall away from his shoulders, then lifted his useless right arm and began massaging it. "I hurt you, I'm sorry." She fell silent, and they stood beside each other; he leaned against the railing while she worked life back into his muscles.

"It's okay," he said. "This place, that crazy woman...we'll be out of here soon."

They held each other, silent in the vast room's twilight. Again, he thought of their making love. It embarrassed him. How many of the circus women could he have sex with? No more, none now but Cybele. She had arranged his trysts to bind him; now there was no need for others. But she wasn't here. Just Miss Linda, and now he felt her lips on his injured arm, which tingled as circulation returned, tingled also from her touch.

He looked at her face; their gaze met. The directness, her total concentration of emotion made him uncomfortable. He couldn't live up to the weight of her wishes. And it wasn't him anyway. All emanated from Cybele—her power hung over him like a transparent cloud, making him appear mysterious, intriguing to others. Miss Linda took a step back and lifted her shirt, cross-armed, over her head. In their closet prison he hadn't noticed the leanness of her body, the texture of her ribs and taut belly. He started to lift his own shirt, his right arm still clumsy and sore.

"Wait, I'll help," she said. After taking off his shirt she unbuttoned his pants, then her own. She folded their clothing, making a neat pile in the middle of the catwalk and stood, naked, in front of him, showing none of her usual shyness. Her breasts were small, with large nipples, appearing dark red in the watery light. He brushed her waist with his fingertips and smiled. She reached for his face and kissed him. When he slid his hands up her ribs to her breasts she started shaking, rapid tremors rising from hips to shoulders, but she kept kissing him, his lips, his neck.

"It's been, it's been..." she said with her lips beside his ear, her voice low. "Not since Lord, since my husband, not since..." She covered his mouth with hers and lowered herself to the catwalk, pulling him along. "Lie on your back so you don't have to hold yourself up."

Her weight on him was nothing; she continued to shake as he stroked her body, the shakes growing more rapid as she neared climax. Then they lay a while, joined, drifting in and out of sleep. He thought he heard something far off, water flowing or the murmur of speech, or a breeze lifting evergreen branches. The pine-covered hillside stretched up behind his shack. The river lay in front. He had situated the shack thus, loving the sound the water made as it ran along its banks, while the hills kept the afternoon sun's heat from his garden. Peas, carrots, potatoes, cabbages: all grew well in this rich soil. It had taken much work to build the shack and plant his crops, but now he luxuriated in his bounty, the fertility of his fields. Above him a crow called. What carrion did it seek here? But he liked crows, their sleek dark feathers.

He turned to show Miss Linda his garden, then woke up, her breath warm on his neck. For a moment he forgot where he was and everything they had been through, their captors, this endless journey. He and Miss Linda...this wasn't supposed to happen, wasn't in Cybele's plan, not here, out of range of her influence.

Miss Linda sat up and reached for her clothes. She smiled at him, and warmth spread from her face, comforting him.

"You should smile more," Lewis said. "You're a clown. You make other people happy—it's time you had some happiness too."

They dressed and resumed their trek, this time in the other direction. He walked behind her, thinking about what they might do once they returned to the train. Maybe they would leave the circus. She wasn't really made for this sort of thing and neither was he. He wanted to do something with his hands, build things.

"What happened back there," she said, pointing with her chin. "We have to work together in the circus, but I don't want to be involved with anyone right now, maybe never. I would prefer there be no problems from...it's not you at all, but that's how I feel."

How long did they travel the vast, pipe-filled room? Steps flowed, one into another, the air became less oily, and they left behind the clanking pipes. Eventually, the catwalk ended at a door, the door led into another corridor, some stairs, and one flight up they found a service elevator that took them to the mall adjacent their hotel. They walked into the hotel lobby.

Dawn, sitting on a couch, saw them and cried out. She ran to hug them. She said Jenkins had found Lewis's bag that morning, and the crew had been searching all day; they had performed the matinee, then scattered again to keep searching.

She hurried Lewis and Miss Linda down to the loading dock, where they found Dillon.

"The horse?" Lewis asked.

"Assuming the abduction was connected to your role as rider, I held it out of the show." Dillon said.

Dillon ushered them back to the train; they sat in the dining car, waiting for everyone to return from the search. Cinteotl brought bowls of a clear, aromatic broth, which he said would strengthen and restore.

János and Desmonica were the first to come in. They hugged Lewis and Miss Linda. Others joined them. Bodyssia lifted Lewis from his seat and raised him over her head, proclaiming her desire to bash the heads of those responsible. Once everyone had returned, Dillon slipped out, and soon came the now-familiar lurch and clouding of the windows.

No one showed any desire to leave the dining car and, tired as he was, Lewis didn't want to spoil the party, so he stayed, drinking whatever was put in front of him and detailing their captivity and escape. Wrapped in viscous air, the faces of the people surrounding him took on shifting qualities, as though unsure of their own appearance. The voices felt distant, and he thought he might be back in the pipe room, or worse, might have never left it, might now be lying, injured, somewhere in that nightmare, not back on the train at all, safe among friends. Through the haze of his fatigue he heard an unfamiliar voice and recognized the red-haired woman from the trapeze in the Colonial Steakhouse. She had apparently been brought in to replace Leonora.

He tried to say something pleasant; his words had to force themselves from his exhausted throat. She said something about it being time to set out in life. She had a high, girlish voice, like Dawn's. He wondered whether Dillon had given her his warning about not being able to guarantee return to the exact place she boarded. Now, knowing exactly what Dillon had meant, would he still have made the same choice?

"Have to go to bed," he said to Dawn. Too tired to speak, he raised a hand in farewell.

His injured knee had stiffened from his long period of sitting, and the corridor grew, keeping him from reaching the haven of his bed. Something about the train seemed different, something obvious yet difficult to place, like the arrangement of paintings on a wall changing after years of being in the same position. He opened his door and found himself standing in front of a naked Lullaby.

"Hey, now you shouldn't be in here," she said, her voice calm, as though nothing unusual was happening. Why had she decided to enter his room and strip? He stared at the six-pointed star tattooed around her navel. The design drew his eye, sharp angles and smooth skin. "I'm expecting József back any minute."

He glanced at the tapestry on one wall and the trapeze swing bolted to the ceiling. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought this was my room." She must think he was an idiot. "I'm totally exhausted...must...don't know...miscounted number of cars?"

But when he turned to leave, she touched his arm. "Maybe you could come back some other time, okay?"

He trudged back to the dining car, then counted cars back toward the caboose. An extra car had appeared between the acrobats' car and the one housing Bodyssia and the other women. Lullaby's room now occupied the position relative to the dining car that had previously been his. He opened his door and peered in; relief filled him when he saw his belongings, his bag, found on the loading dock where he had dropped it, his etching, the fishing lure, and...the scent of rosemary.

The plant now occupied a tan pot larger than a mop bucket, covered with colorful shapes that suggested a complicated scene. He flopped onto the bed and stared at the dusky green plant. Its branches reached toward the ceiling. Cybele must have repotted it for him, so generous, such a warm and giving person. He lowered his head and slept. When he awoke, he lay on his side with Cybele sleeping beside him, her back against his chest. His left arm rested on her belly. He breathed the sweet smell of her neck and felt an erection forming. His penis tingled where it touched her skin. He rolled her onto her stomach and entered from behind, reaching orgasm after a few thrusts, then dozed, molded to her body.

~

Flowers bloomed in wave after wave of translucent blue. The crystalline nature of the field mesmerized him, its long, spiraling form, the way it defined his sight. Once, the field had been quite different, the site of industry and death. Now everything bloomed in vibrant, pulsing light. The sweetness in the air made him giddy. He laughed loud, with his arms spread to embrace the sky, holding tight to the feeling of enchantment. Distant figures moved. He waited for them to draw near, to share this field, the moment of joy engendered here. He couldn't make out who or what they were, even as they came closer; he strained to see them, squinting in the glare from the setting sun.

"You have come to this place unprepared," a male voice said.

"Yes, precautions must be taken," a female voice said.

The female voice occupied a body sheathed in cinnamon, and the male wore white wrapped around his slim thighs.

"What must I do?" Lewis asked.

The cinnamon-robed woman turned to stare at the last fingers of sun peeking over the hills. After it sank from sight, they gripped Lewis's bare shoulders, and from their touch a warm current flowed.

Lewis felt comforted, satisfied that, although answers would not come today, knowledge and understanding were near.

~

Lewis kissed the back of Cybele's neck and sensed the beginning of another erection. But this time he ignored it. While showering he wondered what her level of awareness had been. This mode of...what was it?...sex...lovemaking—it disturbed him. Not that he felt responsible. Although she had apparently slept throughout, she dictated his actions.

In the dining car he met Dawn and the red-haired woman from the mall-town. He accepted a bowl of yellow-white mush from Cinteotl and joined them, easing himself back into the life of the circus.