“In Passing”

How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to break into blossom:

as if what exists, exists so that it can be lost and become precious.

—Lisel Mueller

ONE

THIS IS THE MOMENT I CURSE—THE TRAVELING CARNIVAL materializing before our eyes, a dust devil in the distance that grows large and real and is upon us. Each year Sissy and I wait and hope—Please let them come—and in this we are not disappointed. The carnival always arrives, opening a few days before Christmas and gone by dawn on New Year, slipping away alongside the waning night.

The entrance to our grove is marked by a large wooden sign that reads welcome to juicy acres, with a picture of a smiling orange wearing sunglasses. The sign is old and faded from the relentless sun, and that smiling orange looks like he is missing a front tooth where the paint has chipped away. But the sign is true: our oranges are juicy, and on weekends Sissy and I work our family’s Florida roadside stand, trying our darndest to sell them.

There we sit, just below the Juicy Acres sign, reclining in folding lawn chairs under the rain umbrellas we hold for shade. We prop our chairs on either side of the empty orange crate we use as a table and lay out our prized possessions—Sissy’s battery- operated transistor radio, a Life magazine with Marilyn Monroe on the cover, and our empty autograph books—just in case a star happens to stop for a cup of juice on their way to Miami Beach in the far- off dreamy distance.

Belleville is just a spit on the map. A tiny one-road town split down the middle by Rural Route 13. On one side is the Thirsty Gator Supper Club & Lounge, post office, and Fresh Market. On the other, Hank’s Hardware & Drugs, a single- pump gas station, and the train depot, which has been abandoned so long I don’t ever remember a train stopping. That’s considered the main strip.

A bit farther down, past a sprinkling of stucco bungalows with rusted-metal swing sets and blow‑up pools in their small dirt-patch front yards, is Twistee Twirl Tastee Freeze and the white wooden Congregational church, whose steeple is the highest point in town.

Don’t focus too long on any one thing, or you’ll be in and out of Belleville, racing toward the Gulf of Mexico if heading west or the Atlantic Ocean if heading east, nothing but endless rows of citrus trees as far as the eye can see.

We haven’t had a single customer and are both growing bored and antsy. Sissy keeps switching the dial back and forth between the three stations the radio picks up, in a desperate attempt to find anything but Christmas music. Since turning seventeen, all she wants to listen to is rock and roll.

I love the holiday songs—Frank Sinatra crooning about coming home for Christmas and chestnuts roasting on an open fire. I let my imagination wander to these places that only exist in books or magazines or other people’s lives.

Sissy finally lands on a song she considers acceptable, looks up, and starts screaming, “They’re here, they’re here!”

But I already know what is coming.

The traveling carnival, with its merry‑go‑round and Ferris wheel and bearded lady to entertain us, is barreling toward Belleville in a caravan of buses, trailers, and trucks.

The carnival’s arrival always brings an air of festivity to Belleville that the plastic nativity scene in front of the church and gold- tinsel bells hanging from the lampposts never do. The air fills with laughter, music, sweet smells, and colorful lights when the rides light up at dusk. But best of all, everybody is in a good mood—even Daddy seems to catch the excitement and puts on a clean pair of khaki pants and his authentic Hawaiian shirt he saves for special occasions and calls out to Mama, “Hey, Ada, let’s go dancing!”

We wave as the caravan rumbles past. I count the carnival’s trucks out loud, just like Sissy and I do with train cars when the wooden arm goes down at the crossing, catching our pickup truck on the unfortunate side. We’d both guess how many cars the black engine was pulling out of the horizon, count them out loud as they clickety-clacked on by. We agreed at one time if either of us guessed exactly right—not one car more or less—the loser would buy the winner a box of Hot Tamales. But it never happened. The game just gave us something to block out Daddy’s impatient cursing, something to look at besides Mama’s weary face turned toward her open window, fingers curled around a cigarette, eyes fixed on something only she can see.

Eighteen vehicles are in the caravan, not including the car bringing up the rear, a black convertible, obviously part of the procession, but it stays far enough behind to set itself apart. The car slows as it nears us, the distance growing between the others, then pulls off the road and rolls to a stop.

I don’t know what’s more beautiful—the vision of that carnival arriving or the boy driving that car. He’s like someone out of a movie—shiny and new and so perfect to look at—not like the worn folks of Belleville, with lives of hard work and disappointment etched deep into the wrinkles of their sun- weathered faces.

Sissy and I stand there, frozen, staring at the boy and the car, both positioned for our perfect viewing. The car is faded in places that will never shine again. The interior is deep red, the color of a brick. He doesn’t bother turning off the engine, just keeps it running as he steps out, stretches his arms high over his head, and lets out a satisfied moan. Then he walks slowly, very slowly, toward us.

He is staring at Sissy, who is staring at him—tall, tan, dark haired—wearing jeans, a white linen shirt unbuttoned to his navel, leather flip- flops, and a cross that hangs between his plum-colored nipples on a gold chain.

I hear Sissy gasp, not a scared gasp, just a quick loss of breath like something surprised her.

“Would you like some juice?” I ask. “It costs ten cents for one cup or fifteen cents for two.” Daddy taught us that customers always like a bargain.

“I don’t know,” he says, smiling and showing off the most perfect teeth marching along in a tidy white row. “Is it sweet?” He is looking at Sissy, who appears to have turned into a stone.

“Of course it’s sweet!” I pipe in. “Sissy and I are very careful when we pick our juice oranges. We look for the fattest, brightest ones. See?” I reach into the bushel and pull out a plump sunset-colored orange to make my point. “This grove isn’t called Juicy Acres for nothing, you know.”

Funny thing is, color has nothing to do with the quality of the juice inside. It’s cold air that turns the fruit from green to orange. Folks come to our stand, pluck through the barrels, hold an orange up in their hand, and turn it around. If there is even a hint of green, they toss it back in with the bunch and move on. When they drive away, I figure they are heading to the Piggly Wiggly to buy a can of concentrate, not knowing the juice within probably came from oranges green as grass.

He glances briefly at the orange, then back at Sissy. “Two cups, please.”

Without breaking his gaze, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a quarter, and holds it up for us to see.

“If the juice is good like you say, you keep the change.” And with that, he reaches over and drops the coin through the slit in the coffee can, its light clink snapping Sissy back to life, though I’m not sure who she came back as, because it sure isn’t the Sissy I know.

“I’m Cecelia,” she says. Her voice so sweet and syrupy I’m surprised flies aren’t sticking to her. I have never in my life heard Sissy introduce herself by her birth name. She’s been Sissy ever since I was old enough to talk and Sissy was the best my young tongue could make of my older sister’s slippery name.

Cecelia. The only time I ever hear her name at all is when Daddy is on a rage. Then he uses our birth names, his booming voice hurling Cecelia and Penelope through the house, making us wish they weren’t ours to claim.

“Pip, will you get the juice, please,” Sissy purrs. She casually slides the rubber band from the end of her braid and loosens the twists. With a slight backward toss of her head, she shakes out her hair, the golden ripples hanging down her back her crowning glory.

Sissy, being two years older, assigned our jobs a long time ago. Mine is to pour the juice from the glass milk bottle into the paper cups while she takes the money and makes change from the coffee can. If it is an even sale, she simply drops the shiny, sweaty coin into the slit we have carefully cut into the center of the can’s lid, the sound as it lands ringing of our riches and bringing smiles to our orange-juice-covered lips.

I set out a paper cup and carefully pour the juice, let it rise almost to the rim, but not so full he can’t safely pick it up without spilling.

“Would you like me to strain it for you?” Sissy asks. “That’s how I like it, smooth, so you don’t get those little pulps stuck in your throat and teeth.”

Sissy never offers to strain anyone’s juice, not even the man she was positive was a Hollywood talent scout on his way to Miami Beach. She only strains her own, pouring the thick, pulpy liquid through a small, cup- size strainer she made from chicken wire and a shred of screen.

While Sissy strains, I search for flaws on that flawless face—a slight scar from when he fell off a bike, a rut from a scab he picked. But there is nothing. His nose is straight, his eyes blue as the sky above my head, every bone in his face defined. He is so perfect he looks like a movie star. Even Sissy, who is surely the prettiest girl in town, looks little more than averagely pretty, golden hair and all, when standing next to him.

Sissy hands him the juice, which he drinks in one big swig, his Adam’s apple protruding from his arched neck as he swallows. He lowers his head and fixes his eyes on Sissy. “You just earned a quarter.”

Pink creeps across Sissy’s lightly tanned and freckled cheeks. “Pip, please pour our thirsty customer another.”

I do, taking great care to get the right amount of juice in the cup, then watch in amazement as Sissy again strains, careful not to spill a drop.

Sissy and I both know the importance of not spilling. Spilled juice brings bees. First one, then more, appearing out of thin air like magic, hovering over the sweet liquid before descending in fearless pursuit.

“I guess you’re with the carnival,” Sissy says.

“Yes. That’s easy. But can you guess what I do?” his voice teases.

He doesn’t look like the pimpled boys who serve ice cream and hot dogs, or like the thick- necked men who run the rides, pulling heavy metal levers that make them start and stop.

“You walk the tightrope?” I guess.

He laughs, a deep, rich laugh that would taste like chocolate could I have taken a bite out of it. “And you, Cecelia?”

Sissy tilts her head in a charming way and brings her small hand to rest against her lips while she looks at him and thinks. “The flying trapeze,” she says after a moment.

He clutches his heart and groans. “Ohhhh, my friends, you are wrong. Come. I’ll show you.”

He leads us over to his running car and pops the trunk. Inside is a deep-red velvet heart. It fills the cavernous space. Arranged on it are swords and knives held in place by brass brackets. The smallest blade is about eight inches and the largest nearly two feet. There is also a giant pair of scissors.

Sissy and I lean in to take a closer look at the impressive collection.

“Look at this one,” he says, and slowly slides the longest sword out of its brackets and wipes the blade on his shirt.

“My uncle was a very famous sword-swallower,” he says. “He traveled all over with Ringling Brothers Circus. He taught me how to swallow a sword so that the blade does not slice you apart.”

“How?” I ask.

“By inserting it slowly, very slowly, over and over again, until your throat muscles become used to the touch of cold steel and you stop retching.”

We are hooked.

He slides each of the swords out of their brackets, one after another, wiping the blade with a cloth before pointing out its finer features.

“The length a man can swallow is determined by the distance from his lips to the pit of his stomach.”

He shows us one with an elaborate serpent- headed handle.

“This one nearly killed me when the blade came loose,” he explains. “Luckily, I was able to reach the broken end with my thumb and forefinger and remove it from my throat. Some aren’t so lucky. You must come see me. I am the finale at the Thrill Seekers Show. Do you like thrills?”

His eyes fix on Sissy. The edges of his lips curl into the slightest smile, his body taut and still. I know how quickly she is breathing because I watch our chests rise and fall together. Suddenly I stop. His expression. His frozen stance. How terrifyingly reminiscent of our barn cat before he pounces on his prey.

“I do,” I say, eager to break the tension. “Last year I went on the Crazy Mouse four times in a row. Sissy was too chicken to even go once.”

“Shut up, Pip!” Sissy snaps. “Just because I’m no wild mangrove rat like you.”

Sissy’s words sting like a sharp slap to the cheek. She’s never spoken to me that way. I am suddenly anxious for the boy to leave, for everything to go back to how it was just minutes ago. The two of us, sitting together at the side of the road, singing along to the radio.

I walk away like I don’t care. Don’t want her to see the tears threatening. Don’t want that boy to think I’m a crybaby, because I’m not.

I peer in the driver’s window. A cross bearing Jesus on a string of plastic turquoise-blue beads dangles from the rearview mirror. An empty Coca- Cola bottle is on the floor of the passenger’s side, next to that, a woman’s narrow leather belt with a sequined buckle.

In the back seat is an army duffel with walker stamped in black letters across the side. A faded brown sleeping bag is rolled tight and tied with a piece of dirty line.

“My lovelies, I must go. Thank you for the juice.”

He opens the driver’s door and slides into the leather seat.

“You don’t need a ticket for my show,” he says. “Say you are a friend of Raffy’s.”

Then he winks at Sissy, a wink that seals our fate, and is gone down the road, disappearing before our eyes like a mirage we’ve come too close to grasping.