Page 3 of Scythe & Sparrow
“And I need bananas.”
“All right—”
“And a pineapple. Some of those little cocktail stick things too.”
“What the hell?” It’s not unusual for the other circus performers and crew to send me out for random items or treats from the towns we stop in. I’m one of the few who has a second vehicle to escape the grounds with. I don’t have to uproot my whole home just to go to the store. But that means I’ve had requests for an assortment of shit. Condoms, frequently. Pregnancy tests too. Vegetablesin season. Fresh croissants from a local baker. Books. Whiskey. But … “A pineapple?”
“Mom said she’d get me a PlayStation when she finally gets a vacation. Since there’s a fat chance of that, I thought I’d bring the vacation to her.” Baz crosses his arms and squares up his stance as though he’s about to go into battle. “Take it or leave it, Rose.”
I thrust my hand in his direction, my heart a little warmer than it was before. “Deal. Just be careful, yeah? Egghead is trouble.”
Baz nods and pumps my hand once and then he’s gone, darting off to fulfill his mission. I watch as he weaves his way through children with their popcorn and cotton candy and stuffed animals, and teenagers chattering about the best rides, and the couples who come from the haunted house, laughing with embarrassment about how much our actors scared them in dark corners. These are the moments I usually love about my home with Silveria Circus. Moments of magic, as small as they might be.
But today, the only magic I’m after is the dark and dangerous kind.
I watch as Baz maneuvers close to the two men. My heart rolls against my ribs as he comes up behind Lucy’s husband and pulls his wallet from his back pocket when the man is occupied with a laugh. When Baz has it in his hand, he pivots a turn, just long enough to open the wallet and pull the license from its slot. The money is next, and he slips it into his jeans before he finishes his spin. Within a handful of heartbeats, the wallet is back in the man’s pocket.
Grabbing my tarot deck and selenite, I leave the tent, turning theOPENsign at the entrance toCLOSEDas I go, even though I’m about to miss another reading or two as another woman closes inon the tent with a twenty-dollar bill clutched between her fingers. I catch the brief flash of disappointment on her face, but Baz never leaves my field of vision. And I don’t leave his. We pass each other as I head in the direction of my RV. I barely feel it, only noticing because I know to expect it. A slight brush of a touch at my hip.
When I enter my motor home, I pull the license from my pocket.Matthew Cranwell.I open my phone and check his address on the map of Nebraska. Twenty miles away, close to Elmsdale, the next town over. One with a bigger grocery store than Hartford. Maybe more hope of finding a good quality pineapple. I run my thumb over the photo of Matt’s weathered face. With a faint grin etched across my lips, I change into my leather pants and tank top, slipping his driver’s license into the interior pocket of my motorcycle jacket.
It’s the first evening of performances here in Hartford, and the big top is packed with locals who have come from the surrounding network of towns to see the show. And Silveria Circus prides itself on a great show. I watch from behind the curtain as José Silveria introduces each performer. The clowns, with their miniature cars and their juggling act and their slapstick comedy routine. Santiago the Surreal, a magician who wows the audience with a series of tricks that he keeps as a closely guarded secret. Baz helps with the routine, always an eager apprentice, the only person Santiago trusts with his secrets. There are trapeze artists and aerial silk acrobats, Baz’s mother, Zofia, the lead performer of their group. The only animals we have are Cheryl’s troop of trained poodles, and they always delight the kids, especially when she calls for volunteers from the audience. And last up, the final act, is always me and the twins, Adrian and Alin. The Globe of Death. The scent of themetal mesh and exhaust fumes, the flood of adrenaline. The roar of our bikes as we speed through the cage that seems too small to fit all three of us. The rush of the cheering crowd. I love the speed and the risk. Maybe I love it a little bit too much. Because, sometimes, it feels like not enough.
I roll out of the cage after our set is done, stopping between Adrian and Alin as we wave to the audience. Matt Cranwell’s license burns in my pocket as though it’s branding my flesh.
The moment I can slip away, I do.
I exchange my dirt bike for my Triumph, my performance helmet for my custom-painted ICON, pocket my mini tool set, and then head to Elmsdale, the lowering sun chasing me through the straight, flat roads. I’m a whirlwind through the grocery store, grabbing bananas and a sad-looking pineapple and anything else that looks remotely tropical, along with a flimsy tube of cocktail sticks. When I’ve paid, I stuff them in my fraying backpack, resolving to find a better one at a future stop.
On my way out of the shop I bring up my phone and double-check Matt Cranwell’s address, entering it into the map. The route is straightforward on the grid network of small-town streets. He can’t be any more than ten minutes out of town. The weather is perfect, the sun still high enough that if I do a little drive-by to scope it out, I’ll still be back at the fairgrounds before dark.
The memory of the Tower card lies over my vision of the map like an opaque film. My nose scrunches. I stop next to my bike and slide my phone into the mobile holder mounted to my handlebars.
Maybe this is a bit insane. It’s not my usual gig. But I’ve really wanted to change things up lately. I know I need to. I’ve known itfor a while. If I’m going to keep helping women like Lucy totake flight, it’s not enough to just give them the means to do it anymore. If I’m going to go for it, I should reallygo for it, you know? Rev it up. Full throttle. Motorcycle references aside, it’s not right to be on the sidelines of the action anymore. I might be supplying the means to right a few wrongs, but I’ve always been a step removed from the actualdoing.
I glance down at the tiny carnation tattooed on my wrist. My fingers trace the initials next to it.V.R.I can’t let what happened last year happen again. Notever.
Not only is it wrong to pass off the responsibility of ending a life to someone who might be ill-prepared to do it, it’s a bit boring too. I want to take someone like Matt Cranwell down with my own two hands.
At least, I think I do.
No. Ifor suredo. It’s right …ish… and I definitely have the urge, and maybe that will scratch the itch deep inside my brain that cravesmore.
Besides, there’s nothing saying I need to do it right this second. I just have to swing by and scope the place out. And then I’ve got a few days to make my move and we’ll be on to the next town. The next show. Always a next woman who lives in fear. Who asks for my help in coded messages and worried glances. A next man to take down.
I swing a leg over my bike and start the engine and then pull away from the parking lot and onto the country roads.
It doesn’t take long before I’m rolling to a stop just before an expanse of cornfields and a gravel driveway that leads to a small farmhouse and outbuildings. I park in a dip in the road where mybike will be obscured by cornstalks. My heart jumps up my throat as I pull off my helmet and just listen.
There’s nothing.
I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe an obvious sign. But nothing seems to come. I just stand at the end of that driveway and stare at the small but well-kept house that could be anyone’s. Swing set in the yard. Bicycles discarded on the lawn. A catcher’s mitt and a baseball bat next to raised beds of a vegetable garden. Flowers in hanging pots, a flag flapping in the breeze. An all-American country home.
For a moment, I wonder if I have the wrong house. Or maybe I imagined everything I thought I saw back in the tarot tent.
And then I hear yelling.
A screen door slams. The kids leave the house and head for their bikes, picking them up to peddle away from the chaos with their bare feet. They disappear around the back of the property. The yelling continues inside as though they never left. I can’t make out the words. But the rage in his voice is clear. Louder and louder until it feels like the windows will crack. The house is alive with it. And then a crash, something thrown inside. And a scream.
