Some children grow up in stable homes. I grew up in a revolving cast. Husbands came, wives went, and the script was always being rewritten with a new cast — all without bothering to hand me the new pages. So I learned to improvise… and never miss a cue.
The pretty balls whirled above the child’s head. Daddy had bought a small circus for the day, so it was only right to name the spinning colors after those she loved. Blue—Aunt Ruth. Green—Uncle Don. Red and yellow for Mommy and Daddy. Pink for Aunt Helen. Orange for Wanda. White for Duane.
There were not enough colors for everyone—Butch and Sandy, Claudia Jo and Donna Ruth, Grandmother and Pampa. The girl cried. She knew one of the ever-faster globes would fall and ruin the show.
Front row seats at the Ice Capades. Chubby fingers reached out to touch the back of a skater resting in the dark, waiting for her cue.
“She’s warm, Daddy—she’s real.”
The skaters flashed through rainbow lights in a fairy-tale world.
But the show ended. The lights went out. The fairy tale ended in a bar.
“Just one, honey, and we’ll go home.”
There are no real happy endings.
The princess wore gold satin and white majorette boots with tassels. Cameras flashed. The winning number was called. She was lifted down by cheering adults.
Later, the gold typewriter was gone. The adults went to watch the stripper.
“How could you?”
The fight went on into the early hours while she buried her head in the pillow to muffle the sounds.
She did not know she was different until the day she sat in the principal’s office.
“You have to put her in school. I know she’s barely five, but test her.”
“She has the mind of a ten-year-old. We can start her in the third grade.”
“No. Keep her as close to her own age as possible.”
The child sat politely still and listened. She had her books. She could read anywhere.
She was different: the teacher’s pet, the outsider, the smart one—alone.
She became a juggler with invisible balls. Mother. Father. Aunts and uncles. Teachers. Schoolmates. A different face for each.
Keep them all in the air.
If one falls, the world ends.
California. Arizona. New Mexico. Washington. Oregon. Nevada. California again.
A great circling road.
The dream began—running faster and faster down a long, winding road, shadowy figures behind her, until she woke in a room that was always lit. Being alone at night was enough; she did not try to do it in the dark.
There was a stepfather, then a stepmother, two stepsisters, another stepfather—and how many of her mother’s friends? She lost count.
Home was wherever she happened to be that night.
“Here’s your ticket, honey. Get off the bus in Fresno. Call a cab and give them this note. You can stay there until I can keep you again.”
Planes. Trains. Buses. Dusty terminals across the western United States.
They became familiar.
They were places without anyone she knew—and that made them friends.
“You lousy, mother-fuckin’, son-of-a-bitchin’—”
The litany went on into the night. Dad made phone calls when he drank.
Get up again. It’s 4 a.m.
“Daddy, I love you. Talk to me. That’s the closet, not the bathroom. I’ll take care of you. Please—talk to me.”
“Stinky, bring your friends home.”
“Oh, Daddy, I’m twelve. Don’t call me that.”
“Here’s $20. Buy yourself a record.”
“Thank you. Go to bed now. Please.”
Don’t let a boy know how smart you are. You’ll never get married. With your brains, you should have been a boy. If you had been a boy, you could have gone to West Point.
Variations on a theme.
She did not like to compete. There were enough fights at home. She coasted. Reading was enough.
“You are not working up to your potential.”
“You could do so much more.”
It wasn’t important. Not as important as balance.
“Mother, Bruno is dead. I’ll drive you. We can call the coroner from home.”
“You don’t know how to drive.”
“I can.”
At thirteen, she drove for the first time.
She ran away at fifteen—in her own way.
“I’ll be at this address for the rest of the summer. If you need me, call this number. No, I won’t be home until September. I’ll be fine.”
She laughed all the way to three months of freedom.
The room was dirty, but the time—and the man—were more important.
“No, I’m not afraid. Go ahead.”
A woman returned to her junior year.
The image held: cool, composed. Behind it, the juggler worked harder than ever.
Church choir on Wednesday. Youth group on Thursday. Church most of Sunday. Clubs after school. A job from six to ten.
Stay busy. Stay away from home.
There were boys now. More balls to keep in the air. They were strangers—and there were already enough intimate strangers.
Always searching for a place to stay until the world allowed her to be grown.
Death moved in closer.
Janice. Aunt Ruth. Uncle Don.
And then her mother—the bright, flickering light—went out.
She had shimmered and entranced for forty-two years. Now she was gone, crushed and broken.
It did not feel like murder. It felt inevitable.
Men cannot be trusted. They hurt you if you care too much.
College at last. A job, of course.
“I’m pregnant.”
“We’ll get married.”
“We’ll get divorced as soon as the baby is born.”
“Okay.”
It was traditional—and not.
Her certificate of adulthood weighed seven pounds, fifteen ounces.
Ten months alone with the baby. The divorce didn’t hold. They remarried.
Suburban life followed. The right clothes. The young matron and the rising executive.
Work filled part of the day. The house and children filled the rest.
A new dream came—the strangler.
She woke choking, walls closing in. In a ten-room house, there was not one inch that belonged to her.
The balls kept circling.
Sometimes a question surfaced:
Who tucks me in at night?
Who takes care of me?
The answer was always the same.
I do.
The second divorce held.
Two children. No safety net.
She became a government to and by herself—preserve and protect.
I will not do to them what was done to me.
She searched for answers: encounter, gestalt, primal, religion, yoga.
There was only one answer.
She was responsible. She was in control.
There were lovers—kept secret even from herself.
She refused to be a jailer.
If you don’t want to be here, you will leave.
No tears. They walked out through open doors.
I will stand alone until I can stand alone with someone.
The children stabilized. Money was tight, but she was there.
They grew independent. Perhaps too independent.
For the first time in over thirty years, she had time—time that belonged to no one else.
They would make it. Not undamaged, but not shattered.
“I only go to bed with my friends—and you aren’t a friend yet.”
As a first-date line, it worked well.
The truth usually does.
There were a few men who saw her as a person first, a woman second. They stayed for a while, then left for their own reasons.
She chose men who would leave. She knew she was not ready for one to stay.
From the good ones, she learned—slowly—how remarkable she was.
How slowly the old fears died..
She was her own person.
“You’ve come a long way, baby.”
That commercial always made her laugh.
They had no idea how far.
One day—she did not know when—the laughter and tears became real.
The juggler took her bow.
She set the balls down carefully.
Not one had been dropped.
From now on, they would have to fly on their own.
She was a survivor.
I love you all—but I have finally learned to love me.
Now… where was that man?
She was ready for company at last.
She found him and acquired a theme song while sitting next to the piano.
