All Fall Down Read online

  Archie Carsisi sprints from the tent like he’s been shot from a gun. The other members of the sweep crew stand in place as if they’re glued to the floor. All their faces are turned towards the centre bleachers, their expressions horrified.

  Colm looks back to my father, the two of them only a few metres apart but separated by a gulf of air. Colm’s projected words are calm, firm. ‘Okay, Mr Klatsch, listen up, now. I’m gonna throw this over, and you’re gonna tie it around your waist. You got that?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Daddy says lightly.

  ‘Okay, here we go. Don’t try to catch it. Just wait for it to come to you.’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Daddy says. There’s a tremble in his voice. I make an agonised groan, and Zep squeezes my shoulder. My whole body is shaking now.

  Colm spins a lasso of rope once, twice…then casts it across the void. Every person in the Spiegeltent seems to hold their breath.

  The rope goes exactly where it’s supposed to–it catches right over the rail beside my father…and stays.

  My relieved gasp comes out like a sob.

  Daddy releases his death-grip on the scaffolding so he can reach for the rope. He moves carefully, so carefully.

  ‘Make a couple of loops around yourself,’ Colm calls encouragingly.

  ‘Got it.’ Daddy glances at Colm as he untangles the lasso. He’s trying to work fast but smooth, no sudden movements. ‘Son, when this is over, remind me to give you a raise–’

  And that’s when the top tier of bleachers collapses under my father like a house of cards.

  Two

  ‘Fleur.’

  I’m on the trapeze board, waiting for the ‘Hup’ that will signal me to swing out over the drop. The Spiegeltent is empty: no audience, no music. Just one blinding spotlight that tracks my every movement.

  Even as I jump off into space, I know I won’t make the distance. But I feel compelled to try.

  I make one long graceful swing, but it only gets me halfway. I kick my legs on the force-out for more momentum. Just as I’m about to launch myself forward, I look down and realise Dee is watching. She mouths something I can’t hear.

  I say, ‘What?’ and she says it again: ‘Drop, Fleur.’

  My momentum slows. But I can’t drop–what if the net fails me? It’s happened before…

  ‘Drop,’ Dee repeats. ‘It’s okay. It’s safe, now. Let go.’

  Suddenly the fly bar disappears from between my hands, and I have no choice: I’m dropping, falling, whether I like it or not. My body turns as I fall, my arms flailing out, and I–

  ‘Fleur, wake up. Wake up, darling girl.’

  My eyes snap open. Eugenia is holding my hands–I think I was flailing in my sleep.

  ‘Okay.’ I pull my hands back, shove at my hair. My voice sounds hoarse. ‘Okay, I’m awake. What is it? Is Daddy–’

  ‘No, sweet. He’s still asleep. They’re keeping him asleep for a while, yet.’ Eugenia looks ragged. Her makeup is worn off, and her outfit is wilted. She’s been here for hours, even though there’s no action, nothing to hear except the steady beep and hiss of machines, and nowhere to sit but on these hard-cushioned armchairs.

  I’m sitting on one now–well, sprawling on one. They’re no great shakes for sleeping, either. My back feels as if someone grabbed me top and bottom and twisted me like a sponge.

  I check the bed, where Daddy’s lying, but he’s still quiet. Still hooked up and motionless. He doesn’t look like himself. His eyes are closed, and that lack of colour and animation in his face… He’s always so energetic. Now I hardly recognise him.

  My father was transferred from ICU at about four a.m. this morning. He was operated on twice: once to stabilise him when he came in, and then again at midnight, when his vitals started slipping and they realised the damage to his spleen was too serious.

  I had to sign the forms to let them remove his spleen. I had to give permission for that.

  My father has no spleen now. Because of me.

  And now I need to get out of this room.

  ‘Genie, I’m going to the bathroom.’ I stagger up and head for the door.

  Eugenia watches me carefully. ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Daddy.’ I hold onto things–the arm of the chair, the metal foot-rail of the bed–as I leave.

  Outside in the hall, I pull myself straight and get my shit together. Smooth down my shirt and jeans–Gabriella came to the hospital last night with a change of clothes, thank god, or I’d still be wearing my costume. It must’ve been a hell of a sight for the staff here last night, with a whole crew of costumed circus performers arriving on their doorstep. Bearded ladies and trapeze artists and equestrian performers and strongmen, all traipsing through the hospital corridors, trailing feathers and dropping sequins on the floors…

  The bathroom is only a short distance away, and my legs are starting to work properly by the time I push the plastic Women sign on the door. I go into a stall and use the toilet, flush, then close the lid and just sit. It’s weird; I’ve been sitting, waiting in rooms for news, for nearly fourteen hours, but when I have a break, the first thing I want to do is sit down.

  It’s…I check my phone…nearly seven a.m. now, and Eugenia needs to go back to the lot and coordinate tonight’s show. We cancelled last night, and there’ll be a whole list of refunds, which Allan, the box office manager, will have to handle. He’ll need to ring everybody and offer them a transfer to tonight’s show, if they want it, or just refund their money if they don’t. Mitch can organise rebuilding the bleachers, and set up for another sweep. Eugenia can handle the performers–she might need to call a whole-cast meeting. If we make a few running adjustments, we’ll be fine.

  Once I’ve got it all straight in my head, I get up and leave the stall for the sink. An annoying muzak version of ‘Drops of Jupiter’ is playing in the bathroom, at a low level. I drown it out by running water into the basin. I splash my face, run my finger over my teeth, spit a mouthful of water, rub behind my ears. Only then am I brave enough to look in the mirror.

  …aaand I basically look like a horror show. Most of my makeup is gone, and the rest is smeared over my face, mostly around my eyes. My up-do became a down-do, at some point: I yank out the rest of the pins so my hair just falls like normal, in a dark brown curtain, but I desperately need a hairbrush for all the snarls. My skin is ghost-like, which makes sense because I feel transparent.

  Crap, where to start. I wipe off the remains of my makeup with a paper towel, then pinch my cheeks. Better. Still not great. My hands are shaking. I try to get a grip.

  I clear my throat, practise smiling into the mirror. ‘Eugenia, I need you to help me deal with tonight’s show.’

  It doesn’t come out right. My inflections are all off–cracked and shrill.

  I clutch the porcelain basin, try un-pursing my tight lips. ‘Eugenia, I need you to help me deal with tonight’s show.’

  That’s an improvement. I look at my reflection in the mirror and remind myself: I’m capable. I’m strong. I don’t put up with bullshit and I don’t let anything get in my way. Klatschs carry on. That’s what we do.

  Okay.

  I take a deep breath, leave the women’s bathroom and return to my father’s hospital room.

  When I walk in, Eugenia looks up from where she’s sitting, holding my father’s hand. ‘You look better.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I scrape back my hair again. ‘I feel better.’

  She tilts her head. ‘Actually, sweetie, you look like hell, but I can see you’ve made an effort. I don’t think you need to worry. Nobody’s going to judge you because you’re too preoccupied to tidy your hair.’

  I hold onto the foot-rail of Daddy’s bed, because I have a script and this isn’t part of it. I don’t need to be told I’m struggling, I don’t need sympath
y. I just need…to stick to the script.

  ‘Eugenia, I need you to help me deal with tonight’s show.’ My voice sounds right–calm, firm.

  Eugenia looks at me for a moment before she settles my father’s hand back on the sheet. ‘Fleur, sweetheart… There’s not going to be a show tonight. We’ve shut down the show. Mitch and I talked, and–’

  ‘You what?’ I sway a little despite myself.

  ‘We’ve closed the show for tonight,’ Eugenia says. She stands, steps closer. ‘Maybe for the rest of the week. It just didn’t seem like–’

  ‘Well did you even ask me about it?’

  ‘We didn’t need to.’ Eugenia seems genuinely confused. ‘Fleur, we have no choice.’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘Fleur, I know you’re upset–’

  ‘I’m not upset.’ My knees tremble, but I steady them. ‘I’m not upset. But I am angry. Eugenia, we can’t close the show. We just can’t. First of all, people are relying on us–they need to keep earning a living. And secondly, you and Mitch can’t just close the show without talking to me about it.’

  Eugenia frowns. ‘Sweetie, you’re not being reasonable. We can’t keep the show going without Terry–’

  ‘We can. We do. We don’t close the show when Daddy gets a cold, or, or goes on vacation…’ My father has never gone on vacation, not in my living memory. That’s not the point. ‘Look, I know this is a bad situation–’

  ‘A bad situation?’ Eugenia looks aghast. ‘Fleur, your father has been in surgery. Twice.’

  ‘I’m aware.’ My voice is like ice.

  Eugenia’s tone softens. ‘Then think about it. Our troupe leader is down, we’ve got no ringmaster, there’s a saboteur trying to hurt people and we’re covering our asses before every performance–’

  ‘Don’t you think–’ I pause, look at my sleeping father. With a gargantuan effort, I master myself and lower my voice. ‘Don’t you think I know all that? Don’t you think I understand what we’re up against? Genie, I get it, okay? I do.’

  Eugenia looks away, her expression lost. ‘We haven’t had a crisis of these proportions since… Well, since we set up the fairground, I suppose.’

  I want to hug her, but I have to be steadfast now. ‘Genie, you’re right. It’s a crisis. But Daddy–’ I glance at my father, which is a mistake. I blink hard. ‘Daddy wouldn’t want us to close. You know he wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘I know.’ She pulls a crumpled tissue from the cuff of her sleeve, dabs at her eyes.

  ‘Genie, we got through the set-up storm, and we can get through this. Provided we all work together.’

  Eugenia exhales, then her expression firms. ‘All right. We work together.’

  ‘Good. Great.’ My shoulders slump with relief. With Eugenia on board, this will be so much easier. ‘So I want you to talk to Mitch, and tell him we’re performing.’

  ‘The bleachers are still a mess,’ she confesses.

  A welter of images and sensations suddenly floods in. My father’s body tangled under a Pick-Up-Stix jumble of scaffolding…the panic and the blood…the ambulance siren screaming through the lot…my own sweat…my own heart, beating so fast I thought it would burst right out of my chest…

  I bite my lip, let the flood swirl and eddy away. I wait until my voice is under control before I speak. ‘Okay. Then tell Mitch he’s got today and tomorrow morning to get repairs done. We’ll cancel tomorrow’s matinee, but tomorrow night, we’re back on. Tell Mitch no one but essential crew inside the Spiegeltent. And he’ll want to organise the security sweep team for tomorrow afternoon, before the show. Get Jones going on some advance PR. Allan can handle receipts…’

  I spend the next fifteen minutes talking details with Eugenia, then she hugs me and leaves to start making calls. The room seems very quiet now. But I know this is only a lull; soon my phone will start beeping with texts and calls I’ll need to return out in the corridor. On any given day, my father can hardly go ten minutes without being called on to do something show-related. This quiet is just the eye of the storm.

  I push the uncomfortable chair closer to Daddy’s bed and sit down beside him. His skin looks colourless, and he has something over his mouth and nose, to help him breathe. At the moment, it’s just another barrier to us communicating. Plus, yeah, the fact that he’s unconscious.

  I lean forward and take his hand again. His fingers are floppy and cold.

  ‘Dad?’ Maybe he can’t hear me if I whisper. I swallow and try again. ‘Daddy?’

  He looks like a mannequin. Maybe this isn’t really my father, here on this bed. Maybe this is all some elaborate practical joke. The grand finale of the ritual exclusion and humiliation I’ve endured over the last few months. Maybe Dee, or someone else from the show, decided I needed to learn a bigger lesson, so they…

  I catch myself before I lose the plot completely.

  I know this is my father. A million tiny details–his nicotine-stained fingers, the shape of his ears, the grey hairs at his temple that he thinks make him look distinguished instead of old–make it impossible to deny. It doesn’t matter that he looks different in the hospital gown. This is my Dad. This is all true. This is all real. This is all actually happening.

  I curl over my father’s hand and cry, just for a little while.

  If I thought my dream last night was a nightmare, the next thirty-six hours are worse.

  It’s like when you go through a tunnel in a train, and your ears pop because of the combination of the train’s velocity and the air rushing inside a confined space–everything is happening, all at once, and my brain feels compressed inside my head.

  I spend all day Friday between my father’s hospital room and the corridor just outside it, fielding phone calls and helping get the show organised. At first I sound kind of shrill and demanding, but then I think of Dad and find the right tone: confident, relaxed, as if I fully expect the person on the end of the line to do exactly what I ask.

  I can pull off relaxed over the phone. Nobody has to see what I actually look like. Nobody has to see what it costs me.

  My biggest advantage is that I sound as if know what I’m talking about. This is another of Dad’s skills: giving the impression that he’s the smartest person in the room, at least on the subject of the circus. Funny thing is, I actually do know what I’m talking about. I’ve stood by Dad’s shoulder every day that Klatsch’s has been running. I’ve participated in the daily organisational stuff, learned what goes on behind the scenes to make it all happen. The things I don’t know, I defer, and ask Eugenia or Mitch about later. For the things Eugenia and Mitch can’t advise me on, I just talk to the person who I think might know the most about it, then take my best guess.

  Eugenia finds me out in the corridor, wrangling some parts for the repair of the bleachers. I’ve already negotiated for a deal on rental scaffolding, because the poles we need are a special order and won’t be available until next week. But trying to get more than a measly ten percent cost reduction from this manufacturer is like trying to get blood from a stone.

  ‘…that’s right…Yes, and I know my father would be very appreciative if you…Well, we can’t afford it at that cost. But if you were interested in a larger reduction, then we wouldn’t have to look elsewhere for the poles…’ I make hand gestures at Eugenia, encouraging her to stay. ‘…No, I wouldn’t like going to another manufacturer, either…Well, I appreciate that. And I know my father will appreciate it, too…Yes, that would be very kind…Thank you…All right, I’ll get Mitch Gibson to call. Yes, he’ll be in touch soon. Thanks.’ I disconnect and accept the takeaway coffee from the cardboard tray Eugenia’s carrying. ‘Ohmigod, thank you.’

  ‘You’re doing a good job.’ Her grin is wan, but she’s dressed sharp as always, and her face looks less tired.

  I sip my coffee and revive a little. ‘Is this what it’s alwa
ys like? Does Daddy do it this way?’

  She thinks on it. ‘Terry has a knack with people, and he always seems to have everything under control, but he has no system that I’m aware of. He just tackles every item as it comes along.’

  I tuck my hair back behind my ears. ‘I just want to make sure I’m doing it right.’

  ‘You’re doing fine.’ She pats my shoulder. ‘You don’t have to do it Terry’s way. You have your own way.’

  I don’t stop to consider whether ‘my way’ is going to work. It has to. We have to get this circus back up off the ground. In the days of Barnum & Bailey, shows that suffered a mishap would put on something grander and more exciting to draw the crowds back: a new elephant, or a spectacular new artist’s spot. There’s no way in hell I’m getting an elephant anytime between now and tomorrow night, so I decide to focus on getting a spot.

  Yet another corridor phone call. ‘Hi, Lee, it’s Fleur…thank you, yes, he’s improving every day…Lee, I wanted to ask about the new spot with Ren. I know it was scheduled to go ahead next Tuesday, but I was hoping we could put it on tomorrow night…Yes, I know it’s a bit of a rush…’ More wheedling. More finagling. My voice is hoarse from so much finagling. ‘…Well, that would be wonderful…no, I don’t think that will be a problem…Fantastic, well you just…All right, great. No, thank you, I really appreciate it. All right, get back to me when you hear from Vi…Okay, Lee, thanks.’

  Eugenia comes by again in the afternoon with a change of clothes and a dukey box she’s brought all the way from the mess. ‘Eat. You look pale.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. But yay for clothes, I’d love a shower.’

  She steers me back into Daddy’s room. ‘Sit. Eat.’

  ‘Eugenia, I’m–’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘I…’ Can’t actually remember. I sigh. ‘Okay, sheesh.’

  ‘It’s Judy Wilkinson’s special chicken curry.’

  That makes me more enthusiastic. ‘How’s Judy? How are the workers coping with all this?’ It’s one thing to stay on top of what the performers are doing, but there’s a whole community of crew and lot workers whose livelihoods depend on us. On me.