Page 88 of Catcher's Lock
The first thing I notice when I enter the tent is the pole.Mypole, anchored stage left in its usual spot like it’s been waiting for me to return.
The second thing I notice is Ellis making it his own. He’s better than I want to admit, especially once I readjust my brain to look for technique and skill, rather than what will pull the most cash out of horny bachelorettes. His smaller, lighter frame easily lends itself to dynamic moves, and his lines are clean.
“What do you think?” Josha asks, sidling up behind me in the entrance. His hand brushes the small of my back, and I lean into the featherlight touch, seeking anchor.
“He’s good,” I admit.
“Yeah.” His breath tickles my ear. “But he doesn’t make my dick hard.”
I turn around and press the low thrill his words elicit onto his mouth, relieved when he doesn’t shy away. No one’s watching,but it feels like a win.
“Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, bringing his hands up to cup my neck. “I have to go work on some set pieces in the shop. You can come with, if you want.” He looks so worried that I fight off my impulse to lie.
“I’m not sure.” Do I want to follow him around like a lost puppy? Yes. But I also want to see if I can handle returning to the scene of so many crimes. And despite my nerves, I can’t deny the underlying sense of coming home that’s settled somewhere in my chest. “But I’ll come find you if I start to spiral. Deal?”
He leans in for another swift kiss, and I hope the little shit on my pole is watching. Then he’s gone, leaving me with the ghost of his smile in the haunted haven of my childhood.
The last time I was here is a sodden fog. It was the night I got shipped off to rehab, and all I remember is flashes of noise and blurred images—my mom’s anger; my dad standing in the corner with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and tears in his eyes; Cheyenne on the phone, her hand on my mom’s back. And Josha peering down at me, freckles stark against his ghost-white face, asking:
“What did you take?”
Everything, of course. But also not nearly enough. Because I didn’t know they were planning a goddamn intervention, so I hadn’t had a chance to go trolling to replenish my stash, and all I’d had was a handful of Xanax.
Cold sweat prickles the back of my neck and seeps nastily down my spine.A couple ofXanax would fix that.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I shove the thought away and scramble for better memories.
Late nights in the tech booth with Josha, listening with half an ear while he explained filters and wattage settings like he had no doubts I’d understand.
Watching him conquer his early fear of heights through sheer force of will, balanced at the top of the extension ladder with his auburn head level with the truss, calling questions to my dad about carabiners and tri-swivels. With sudden, vivid clarity, I remember lying on the stage one afternoon, bored and wheedling for him to come down and go adventuring with me. And then looking up to catch a glimpse of the bulge in his white briefs through the leg of his loose cargo shorts, squirming while a ripple of heat shot through me.
God, I was a clueless idiot.
This tent may belong to my parents, but it’s full of Josha too. And wherever he is, he’s always made space for me to exist with him.
Pointedly ignoring Ellis, I wander through the shadows, noting the changes and the ways everything is exactly the same. The scattered wrought-iron benches have been repainted a shamrock green that matches the tent’s stripes. The concessions wagon sits dark against the west entrance; a counter piled with boxes and totes is visible through the cashier windows, and the faint scent of old popcorn and burnt sugar seeps from the corrugated walls.
The knife-throwing target is propped upstage opposite the pole, tricked out with a new border of steampunk-style wires and gears. Cans of paint and brushes wrapped in cellophane line one side of the stage, and a stack of at least two-dozen hula hoops leans precariously against the backstage curtain, broadcasting my mom’s absence—Shilo would never invite such potential for clattering disaster, but Cheyenne has always courted a bit of chaos. It might make me like the bitch better if it didn’t serve to remind me that she constantly gets away with what I never could.
She’s outside now, the crisp cadence of her voice muffledthrough the heavy walls, mingling with Josha’s low murmur. Tensing, I brace for her to push through the untied flap and deliver another scathing rebuke, but their voices fade, headed in the direction of the shop.
When I turn back toward the interior, a tall, wiry man with a cap of graying, close-cropped curls is heading my way.
“Hi, Oscar.”
“Gemiah.” He pulls me in with a dap, startling me with the uncomplicated welcome. “I heard you were back in town.”
I wait for the inevitable questions, but he only leans against the nearest side pole, folding his arms across his chest with a friendly smile.
Oscar has been a semi-regular fixture at Big Top since its inception, MCing three of the five shows I was around for. He trained in improv in his twenties and worked as a stuntman in LA for eight years until an injury sent him in search of less hazardous work. My parents love him because he’s reliable and great at crowd work, and they hire him whenever he’s available.
Last time I saw him, he was also thirteen years sober from a painkiller addiction, so maybe that’s why there’s no judgment on his face.
“How’s the show coming along?” I ask, curiosity outweighing my unease. “I like the steampunk vibe.”
“That was mostly Josha’s idea,” he tells me.
“Sounds about right. He’s always had a kink for the welder. I bet he’s going crazy on the set pieces.”
