A short boy with stubby legs, broad shoulders, and a squashed-up face, Donny Clatterbuck hated team sports—baseball, football, and basketball. He was quick and strong, he could climb a rope in a flash, and he was good on the rings and the pommel horse, but nobody cared about gymnastics. When he turned fourteen, Mr. Yates recruited him for wrestling.
“Every boy needs a sport,” the coach said. “Sport is more than training the mind and body. It’s a preparation for life.” Mr. Yates never spelled out how this was so. For him it was simply true.
Donny gave wrestling a try. But the foul mats, the other sweaty boys, and their obsession with body weight put him off. There was also the question of talent. The coach favored some boys with pats on the back, pocket money, tips on dealing with injuries. He told the rest to buck up and stick to it.
“Nobody likes a quitter.”
Donny angled for more than a stock phrase.
“You want my honest opinion, Clatterbuck? If you work hard enough and set your mind to it, you can achieve anything.”
Donny’s father had skipped out years ago, before he could form a distinct memory. A photo showed a dark figure wearing a baseball cap. The visor hid his eyes. Donny didn’t know where he came from, where he went, or what he was like. In their one conversation on the subject, his mother was no help.
“That man gave a different story every time you asked. Sometimes he said he was mixed race, and sometimes he said Mediterranean, which covers a lot of territory.”
“Were you married?”
“You’re legit, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“What about the last name?”
“He had more than one to suit the occasion. I kept my name to stay out of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Debt collectors, court subpoenas. He was in and out of jail.”
“Do I look like him?”
She turned her attention from the sock she was darning to the boy who was becoming a man.
“You look better.”
“Honest?”
“That too.”
Donny giggled.
“If people ask if you’re black or white or what, tell them you’re a Clatterbuck.”
Janine Clatterbuck was preoccupied with earning a living as a waitress, meeting the payments on the mobile home, and dealing with Donny’s older sister. Annabelle was a girl of exceptional beauty and extreme low pressure, like a tropical system that sucks up all the energy nearby and spews it back in a torrent.
Like his mother, Donny’s teachers had their hands full. They saw him as a quiet boy who never acted out or shone in any subject.
The summer he turned fifteen, Donny took up juggling. The how-to book said it was low-stress, an exercise you can do anywhere, a way to improve muscular coordination, and a skill that would come in handy in any social situation. The book was illustrated with drawings of a faceless human figure surrounded by little numbers and arrows, like a cloud of midges.
Daily practice was the key. Donny was determined. By the last year of high school, he could keep four tennis balls in the air, sometimes five. He could also spin a plate on a stick, twirl small hoops, and balance a chair on his forehead, though not all at once.
His grades were passing but mediocre. Donny was not college material. He wasn’t trailer trash, either. Annabelle was, but she fixed that. After a stormy argument with her mother, she left town with an older man who claimed to be a photographer. Annabelle was destined for a career as a fashion model and actress.
“A pair of boobs,” Janine said. Whether she meant the couple or Annabelle’s main attraction was open to discussion.
Juggling practice kept Donny out of trouble, but it was a solitary pursuit. He had no friends. And no enemies, thanks to his build. Bullies looked for easy prey, sissies and shrimps.
Despite the promise of How to Juggle Practically Anything, nobody in high school or the mobile home park cared much for juggling. They watched Donny for a while, then grew bored with the repetition. A routine that would last several minutes and keep a crowd enthralled had yet to emerge. Practice was its own reward, like playing a musical instrument or running a mile every day. Skill was a secret kind of pleasure.
Donny graduated in May and got a job installing asphalt shingle roofs. Construction paid well, and Donny liked being high above the ground. He had no fear of falling. But the roofing contractor sent men out in teams, and Donny’s foreman harped on teamwork. Another talking point was the efficient use of material and labor. Donny’s coworkers wasted both. The game was to see how much they could get away with.
Janine Clatterbuck said Donny could stay in the mobile home so long as he was clean and quiet, which he was. He paid for food, contributed to rent and utilities, and saved the rest of his wages toward a vehicle. He wanted a pickup truck, but he bought a used compact car with good fuel mileage. The tires were almost new.
At the end of August, a traveling show came to the county fair, an old-fashioned troupe of acrobats, belly dancers, clowns, and sword-swallowers. Donny drove to the fair after work. The sky was still bright. He wanted to see if anyone juggled.
A young woman did, with a girl assistant who gestured like a ballet dancer, as if to say: Behold! Their routine was not much better than his, a few minutes of balls and hoops. They played music on a boom box, up-tempo and loud, and they wore a costume of tights and spangles. When the bowling pins dropped to the ground, nobody booed. They laughed, like it was a good joke.
Donny wanted to talk to the jugglers. What would he say? When the set was over, he strolled in, picked up some balls, and started to juggle. The girl ignored him, but the young woman watched. Donny finished with a behind-the-back flourish and bowed. No one else was watching, and there was no applause.
“Where did you learn?” the young woman said. Up close she looked to be Donny’s age. Browned by the sun, she had black hair.
“At home. I taught myself.”
“Not bad.”
“Thanks.” Donny was elated.
“Not good, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not enough to have the moves. You need to wow the audience, create a little suspense, make them gasp in awe. Or laugh.”
“Can you teach me?”
The girl snorted with impatience. She wanted to pack up. The young woman was interested.
“Who are you?”
“Donny Clatterbuck.”
“Mara. That’s my sister, Juliska.”
Juliska grabbed the balls from Donny’s hands.
“You live here?” Mara asked.
“Yes.”
“You have a job? A car?”
“Yes.”
Right then and there, Donny wanted to tell Mara the story of his life. The way she screwed up her eyes made him stop. Somehow, she already knew. And didn’t care. No, that wasn’t true, she cared, but not about where he had been, only where he was headed. Donny saw himself through Mara’s eyes, and he felt giddy.
“The fair closes tomorrow,” she said. “We move on to the next gig, and then the next, until the season is over. My father is the leader, more or less. Everybody is their own boss, but he puts together the tour. His name is Arpad.”
“Are you gypsies?”
“Hungarian.”
Donny shrugged, and Juliska laughed.
“Big difference. And you?”
“You want to know if I’m black or white?”
“Or what.”
“I’m a Clatterbuck.”
“Nice.”
“Can I meet Arpad?”
“He’s busy. Come back tomorrow.”
“Should I bring my stuff?”
“That depends.” Mara gave Donny that gimlet look again. “Bring whatever you’ll need on the road and be ready to go.”
In a fever of anticipation, Donny went home. Janine was out, working a dinner shift. Anyway, how could he explain to his mother what he was about to do? He wrote her a brief note and put it in an envelope with some money, what he owed for the month. He packed one bag of juggling equipment and one of clothes. He went to bed expecting to lie awake for hours and woke at dawn from a sound sleep.
Janine’s bedroom door was closed. The rule was: Do Not Disturb. Donny left the envelope in plain sight on the kitchen counter. He loaded the car and drove to the fairground.
In the cool of the morning, kids were picking up trash, toting bales of straw, spraying water from a hose, and tending pigs, cows, sheep, and a lama. Prize ribbons were pinned to the pens. Donny knew some of the kids from school. The animals were their projects.
A village of campers, trailers, and tents had sprung up, out of the way and under some trees. Donny asked around. Soon he was standing face to face with a lean man in his forties. The man wore rumpled khaki pants, a collar shirt open on the chest, rolled-up sleeves, and a felt hat. Black eyebrows and a mustache gave him a fierce expression. This was Arpad.
“So you want to run away from home and join the circus, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can pay you nothing, only food and bed. For that you must work hard, chores like a farm hand. There is no glamor in this life. You understand?”
Donny nodded, a lump in his throat.
“You have good timing. I need a young man to replace the one who disappeared last week. Into thin air, just like that!” Arpad snapped his fingers. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“The same as my Mara.”
As if waiting to hear her name called, Mara emerged from the camper. She acknowledged Donny silently and stood beside her father. Donny saw the resemblance, except that Mara was not fierce. In the dappled sunlight, she was beautiful. Instead of the showbiz costume, she wore jeans and a faded, oversize shirt, one her father had discarded.
“You are free? No strings?” Arpad said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mara tells me you can juggle. Mara tells me the truth always. You will show me what you can do later. First, we have a little test, a . . . what do you call it?” Arpad turned to his daughter.
“Initiation,” she said.
“It is nothing,” Arpad said. “It is entertainment!”
“We do a knife-throwing act,” Mara explained. “My father is an expert. In many things, but with knives he is the best. Normally I am the victim, the one who stands still in front of the target.”
Mara gestured to a six-foot tall board on which thin punctures formed the outline of a body, a ghost of herself. Meanwhile Arpad retrieved a black leather case. It snapped open to reveal a row of steel knives. They glittered in the sun.
“If you will be so good as to stand there,” Arpad said. He took a knife from the case and examined the blade.
Donny looked at Mara, and she smiled.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said. “Stand perfectly still. Don’t flinch. The knives must stick as close to you as possible, or there is no point.”
In a daze, Donny moved into position. Mara made sure he was flat against the board, her hand pressing against his stomach.
“One more thing,” Arpad said, a knife in each hand. “Keep your eyes open. If you blink, I know you do not trust me.”
Donny blinked rapidly, then raised his eyelids as far as they would go.
“So, you juggler, you fearless young man,” Arpad said, “you who dare to speak to my daughter, the one I love more than my own life—are you ready to face death?”
Panic raced through Donny from head to foot, but he held firm. Loud and clear, he shouted:
“Ready!”
#
author bio:
Robert Boucheron grew up in Syracuse and Schenectady, NY. He worked as an architect in New York City and Charlottesville, VA, where he has lived since 1987. His stories and essays on architecture and literature appear in Bellingham Review, Fiction International, London Journal of Fiction, New Haven Review, Saturday Evening Post, and Stone Canoe.