Grumpy Puck

22. Michael

Chapter 22

Michael

“ T here.” Calliope gestures at the circus parking lot.

So, she was serious. Her family really does live at the circus.

Once we’re parked, I get the box of candy and bouquet of flowers from the trunk while Calliope sighs again.

“I told you, you didn’t need to bring anything,” she says for the umpteenth time.

“And I told you—Russians can’t go to dinner empty-handed.” And no one really should.

She leads me through the stage area, and among all the oddities, the one that catches my attention is an old woman walking on tightrope near the ceiling.

“That’s my grandmother,” Calliope explains.

I look for a net under the rope and find none. “Does she have some sort of a safety harness attaching her to the ceiling?”

Because I can’t see one of those either.

Calliope sighs heavily. “She claims she doesn’t need such silliness now that she’s eighty years old.”

I point at the people practicing right below, on whom the grandmother would land if she were to take a misstep: a guy swallowing a sword, a fire breather, and a mime. “What about them? They all seem too young to be killed by her fall—or to be traumatized by?—”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Calliope says. “And if you find a way to convince my grandmother to take safety precautions, the rest of the family will give you a medal.”

“Hey, cousin!” shouts the mime with a big grin. “Is that your new boyfriend?”

Calliope tsks-tsks. “You’re in full costume. Are you allowed to talk?”

The mime jerks off her right glove. “There. Please don’t tell anyone I broke character.”

Calliope snorts. “I do have WMO on speed dial, so…”

The mime pales. “Seriously. I didn’t?—”

“If you can get everyone here to the dinner table, I’ll never tell a soul,” Calliope says.

“So,” I say when we’re out of earshot of the neurotic mime. “You’re not just mean to me.”

Calliope glances at me. “Was I mean? The last thing I want is for her to give me the silent treatment again.”

I narrow my eyes. “Was that a mime joke?”

She nods.

“And what’s WMO?” I can’t help but ask. “Another joke? It sounds like some sort of mime mafia.”

“World Mime Organization,” she replies. “But hey, mime mafia sounds like an unspeakable horror.”

I snort.

“They use guns with silencers,” she says and continues making mime-related jokes as we walk up to a hallway with a bunch of doors.

“That one.” Calliope gestures at number ten. “That’s where I lived until recently.”

She knocks.

No one answers, though I can hear boisterous laughter and loud conversations happening inside.

“Typical.” Calliope pulls out a key and opens the door.

The sounds grow louder, and we enter, ending up in a kitchen. The first person I notice is an older woman who looks so much like Calliope that it is easy to guess this is her mother. She’s sitting in a split, a chopping knife in her handand a cutting board on the floor next to her. A man standing near her is juggling vegetables. Calliope’s father?

“Aromatics,” the woman says.

The juggler adroitly tosses an onion in the air in such a way that it lands squarely on the cutting board. Then he does the same with a clove of garlic.

“Thanks, honey,” the woman says and starts chopping without coming out of the split.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” Calliope says.

Clearly startled, her dad drops a turnip, and her mom leaps to her feet, both examining me with unabashed curiosity.

“Hi,” I say, and thrust the flowers at her mom. “This is for you.” I give her dad the chocolates and curse myself for not bringing a bottle of vodka as well.

“You must be Boo Boo,” Calliope’s dad says.

“No. Just Boo. Singular,” Calliope corrects. “Right, Boo?”

I grunt in the affirmative.

“Just Boo?” Her mom frowns. “But the internet?—”

“Would have you believe I’m Honey,” Calliope says. “When in reality, I’m his Pit-Check-Uh.”

“It’s pronounced ptichka .” I smile at the parents. “It means little bird.”

“Aww,” the mom says. “That’s much better than ‘Honey.’”

“But just one Boo is a downgrade from Boo Boo,” the dad chimes in. “Though I’m sure you’ll come up with a better endearment for him over time.”

“I prefer it when she calls me Michael,” I say.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Michael,” the dad says. “I’m Zephyr.”

Should I tell him that’s a name of a Russian confectionary that’s very similar to meringue?

“And I’m Xanthe,” the mom says.

“It’s a pleasure,” I reply. On a whim, I take her hand and give it a light kiss.

Xanthe gasps, grabs her daughter by her shoulder, and very loudly whispers, “You’d better marry this one. We could use a Klaunbut with manners.”

“He wouldn’t be a Klaunbut,” Zephyr says. “She’d be a?—

“Mom, Dad, please stop,” Calliope says, her cheeks burning. “This is our first official date, so talking about marriage is?—”

“Hello,” says a guy who seems to have materialized out of thin air. “I’m Calliope’s brother. I’m sure she’s mentioned me.”

Actually, she hasn’t talked about her family all that much, but I’m not about to tell them that. “I’m Michael.” I extend my hand.

“Tortellini,” the brother says, and everyone around him groans.

Like the round Italian pelmeni -like things?

“He’s actually called Torey,” Calliope says with an eyeroll.

“But Tortellini is my stage name.” Torey/Tortellini shakes my hand, and as he pulls it away, a face-down playing card remains on my palm somehow.

“Quick,” Tortellini says. “What card do you think that is?”

I peer at it. “The Ace of Spades?”

Looking triumphant, Tortellini tells me to turn the card over.

Well, I’ll be damned. It is the Ace of Spades. “So… you’re the magician of the family?”

He frowns. “My name didn’t give it away?”

“No.” But it does make me hungrier for dinner.

“Haven’t you ever heard of Houdini?” he demands. “Or Slydini? Or Cardini? Or Cantini?”

“Only the first one,” I say. “Whenever someone escapes a tight situation on the ice, Coach tells them they’ve ‘pulled a Houdini.’”

Tortellini nods with great enthusiasm. “He should use the others too. If someone is very sneaky with the puck, he could say they’ve pulled a Slydini, and if?—”

“How about you let me introduce Michael to more of the family,” Calliope says sternly to her brother and drags me away before there’s an answer.

“Sorry about Torey,” she whispers. “Magic to him is what rats are to me.”

I wave it away. “I respect passion, and there seems to be a lot of it in your family.”

“Sure. Let’s call it passion,” she says, stopping next to a door on which she knocks.

“Come in!” shouts a female voice.

“Are you decent?” Calliope shouts back.

“Sure. Why not?”

Calliope opens the door. “This used to be my room.” She points at the ceiling. “And that’s my sister and former roommate.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point, but it’s still a shock to find said sister hanging upside down, like a bat.

“I’m Seraphina.” She extends me her hand, and I shake it, a surprisingly disorienting gesture when the other person is in that position.

“I’m Michael.”

“I know.” Seraphina waggles her eyebrows. “Calliope has told me all about the koala-ty time you’ve had together.”

I blink. “Koala-ty?”

Calliope groans. “Seraphina doesn’t know how much you hate bear-related jokes, so that was an attempt at one, I think.”

“I’ve used up all the best ones already,” Seraphina says with a pout. “Now I’m scraping the bottom of the bear-rel .”

“And that’s our cue to leave,” Calliope says sternly and drags me out of the room.

“Sorry about her,” she says. “She didn’t know about your thing.”

I shrug. “When the puns are that bad, I don’t feel offended. I actually pity the punster.” Especially if he’s a guy, because I’d still punch him, on principle.

“All right,” Calliope says. “Let me introduce you to a few more people.”

“A few” turns out to be an understatement. I meet so many Klaunbuts I barely remember their names, and even their circus specialties start to blur.

“Dinner is ready!” calls Xanthe.

Calliope leads me to the circus cafeteria, where someone has pulled all the tables together into one giant, circular arrangement.

“Sit next to us,” Calliope’s parents say to her. “We want to get to know Michael, and we haven’t seen you in forever.”

So we sit near them, and they pepper me with questions about hockey and growing up in Russia until I steer the conversation back to their family and, by extension, the circus.

Turns out, it’s been a family business for generations. At one point in time, they were carnies, with all that it implied. For instance, a great-grandmother of Calliope’s was a bearded woman who was married to both halves of conjoined twins. Said husbands shared a torso and therefore a penis, but had separate heads and personalities.

My head spins just picturing that.

Eventually, the focus shifts from me to their regular family banter and bickering, giving me a chance to simply eat and observe the Klaunbut clan. As I do, I can’t help but feel an ache in my chest, alongside something uncomfortably like self-pity tinged with envy. I’m not sure if these people realize just how lucky they are. As an orphan who is pretty much alone in this world, this here is my idea of heaven, and I’d give anything to?—

Calliope grips my forearm. “I’m so sorry I dragged you here. I can tell you’re having a horrible time.”

Fuck. She’s misinterpreted my expression. “That’s not true,” I tell her. “All is well.”

She tightens her grip. “It’s Voldemort, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

She gestures at a woman with a snake around her neck. “That’s my aunt, Azalea, but some of us call her Voldemort on account of the snake she always walks around with. The snake’s name is Nancy, by the way, but should have been Nagini.”

I snort. “Should a person with a rat on her shoulder really throw stones?”

“Well, if you’re not bothered by Voldemort, then what’s wrong? Is it my youngest sister?” She gestures at a young woman who looks a lot like her—except for the fact that she’s eating while twisted into a pretzel-like shape that doesn’t look beneficial for digestion. “I keep telling her that contortionist shit is horror-movie creepy.”

I have no idea how I can explain the yearnings her big family makes me feel, so when my phone dings with an email, I’m grateful for a moment of reprieve. When I see what the email is about, though, my whole body goes on full alert.

The sender is the manager from the hotel—and she’s finally come through with the security video footage that I’ve been waiting for. The footage that will tell me who Calliope’s stalker is.

Now, I know I probably shouldn’t play this video here at the dinner table, but I can’t help myself. My finger clicks on it, and I watch intently, at first unable to process what I’m seeing.

Once I do, my hands ball into tight fists and a rage unlike any I’ve ever felt rushes through my blood.

I never for a second thought the stalker would be someone I knew. But it is—and the fucking bastard doesn’t know it yet, but he’s a dead man.