Here I laySome motions you know by heart. That much I know. I watched Lochlan slip on a mask of concentration, and then over that he placed his facade of theatrical hesitancy mixed with charm. He always played his doubts to the crowd and then at the end he would act relieved that nothing went wrong. This would elicit a collective relief and a round of heavy donations from the dispersing crowd. It was my job to start on the outside and run to the first folks to break away from the circles and convince them to appreciate the entertainment with a little silver or maybe a paper bill or two, working my way back to Lochlan who would be pouring water on the batons and packing up his gear, slowly because he would keep one eye on me.
Still and breathless
Just like always
Still I want some more
Mirrors sideways
Who cares what's behind
Just like always
Still your passenger
Chrome buttons, buckles and leather surfaces
These and other lucky witnesses
Now to calm me
This time won't you please
Drive faster
Roll the windows down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees anything
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Lochlan stood up and winked at me and then asked the children if they were ready. He turned around and checked the sunset, which was happening right on schedule and then he lit the torches.
Then he put them out to a chorus of disappointent. He thought for a moment, telling the kids that maybe it wasn't a good idea, he was rusty and something could go wrong. He winked at me again. Ruth caught the wink and egged him on. So did Ben, with loud encouragement. Henry had a moment where he wasn't sure and then he realized that Lochlan was joking and he clapped his hands and called for fire.
So Lochlan lit the torches once more, with his first warning, as always, to not try this at home and also to consider putting something in the hat, if even for a moment, we found this entertaining. And then he began.
He was not rusty. It was like riding a bicycle, or he never would have tried at all. He has no interest in losing his beautiful strawberry curls, or an eye for that matter, or messing up his hands, or scarring the children emotionally. He threw fire for almost a decade. Talents you hone become like breathing after a fashion and the challenge falls away leaving only muscle memory and a keen eye.
I lost twenty-five years of my life in a single instant, when the first baton flew up into the night air, somersaulting over itself, flames mesmerizing every last one of us. I saw it in slow motion and when it landed in Lochlan's other hand, I was fourteen years old again.
Oh, hell.
Not this.
I've been waiting for this. it stalks me around every corner. It beckons to me to come closer, just for a moment. Remember, Bridget. Close your eyes and smell the corn dogs and the gasoline and grease. Open your eyes and see the pretty colored lights, just like Christmas but never sad like Christmas is. The anticipatory excitement of every single sunset at the midway, a handful of incredibly specific mollifications reamin dear to me and here he is conjuring these memories on a chilly November night as far away from the fairgrounds as we will ever get, and happily so, in the place where he was born. All of his history was written far from here, maybe so that when he returned, the slate would be clean. A quarter of a century later and never in between.
Lochlan would do that. He was always like that. He planned ahead for us. And I skipped forward down the road, ruining his plans with my impulsiveness at every bend, knowing that when the last ticketholders had gone home and the darkness was complete I would turn and throw myself back into his arms for sleep, for love. For his approval.
Tonight as I sat on a lawnchair wrapped in Ben's hoodie with the lights of my brand-new giant oceanfront house blazing behind me, my belly full of warmth from dinner, my healthy, perfect children clapping their hands with delight it occurred to me that this was what he was waiting for. Coming around that bend in the road and seeing the future from the past. Everything turned out okay. We did eat. We didn't freeze or wind up stranded or in jail. We weren't ripped apart (though we have tried. Oh, have we tried.) We still have all the time in the world for each other and if given a choice will give the same answers and think the same thoughts. We still plot escape first and list needs in order of emergent necessities. We still think like carnies and I was only ever a summer girl, leaving each fall to say goodbye and return to school, arms bound, legs kicking mightily, screaming in indignation. I would stare out the window in misery all day (except for Creative Writing class) only to hear the bell ring and fly out of homeroom, down the hall, down the steps and through the doors to Lochlan's truck because he had been out of school for a while now.
Little ever changes. I still hate regular routines, I hate it when he isn't around, and I hate that life has obligations beyond keeping an eye on showtimes and where to sleep but at the same time, you can take a girl away from the midway without taking the midway away from the girl. There is still a value to a green paper dollar that to me runs far beyond what most people in this day and age place on one and there are still many tiny thrills to be had when the only person you can rely on is a teenage boy who tells you the names of the stars in the night sky and makes sure you get enough food so that you don't cry later when you are hungry. The same boy who shakes you out of nightmares and rocks you back toward dreamland, the very first watchful sentry who made a promise and kept it, the only one so far.
I asked Lochlan once if he still felt as though he were the same teenaged boy who lived with the show, traveling to seaside shows and living on a shoestring, if he felt as if he ever progressed past those years maturity-wise. He cocked his head and squinted at me slightly, in his usual way, wondering where I was going with my questions, wondering if this conversational road was the right one to go down right now, weighing his words as comforting lies versus his usual logic, his pragmatic sense. He weighed while I watched him.
Finally he said no, that he didn't feel like that anymore. That those experiences helped him to always see the big picture and not take the little things so seriously, that he grew up so fast, being responsible for me, and he made so many mistakes that he is far beyond that boy from the cornfields, from the circus. That he is a man now and not a boy pretending.
This is probably why he didn't bring the fire until tonight. He advanced into adulthood by necessity and left me behind. Not in the abandonment sense but in the sense that he was forced to grow up and take charge and he did just that, so I wouldn't have to. So he could watch me flit down the road like a foolish fluttery butterfly and know for certain I would still be waiting for him when he caught up to me.
This time I was there. Right where he knew I would be. I stopped moving. I stopped running ahead. I understand now that his reluctance to display any of his former surprising gifts had nothing to do with competing with Jacob or out-egoing Ben, he just didn't want to unlock the part of my brain that he secured such a long time ago. He locked it up and hid it well. I don't think anyone was prepared for what was supposed to be a milestone in the family. The children were finally old enough to sit still and remain far back enough to enjoy a fire show. Or so we have told ourselves all along.
We thought we were far enough away from it, far enough away from history and definitely far enough away geographically to risk it. But Lochlan smelled like gasoline and nostalgia, and it proved to be too soon.
Here I lay just like always
Don't let me go
Take me to the edge