The audience held their breath as she steadied herself on the thin wooden plank. They let out a soft cry as her knees jerked, threatening to throw her off balance. With both arms spread out to each side, she bended her knees slightly, regaining balance. Then, she straightened her body, lifted her head and made a 360 degrees flip. Sasha landed with both feet planted firmly on the plank. Instantly, the nerve wrecking silence was broken. The crowd went wild, cheering and whistling and clapping. She grinned widely and took a bow, her sparkling white and blue costume gleaming under the bright neon lights.
Brody cheered for her too though she could not hear him. He was still enthralled despite seeing the same act several times. He could memorize each step, each sequence, and knew that the knee-jerk was just a trick to keep the audience’s adrenaline pumping. That was one of the reasons why Brody loved the circus. Everything was coordinated, every move was planned. The performers rarely fell. They never disappeared. They’d entice you; keep you in suspense, made you believe they were gone; then they’d appear again. How Brody had wished his mother’s suicide was a disappearing act too. How he wished she would stand right up and tell him she was reenacting the stunt they had seen at the circus that night she killed herself. But unlike the circus performers, her soul really disappeared into the night, leaving her lifeless body lying in the arms of her eight year old son.
Brody stood up and made his way out of the tent. He was determined to see Sasha Paladie again, the 23-year-old rising star of Ringler Bros. circus. He wanted to tell her she was still beautiful. Sasha was tall and thin, but she was strong. Brody admired her strength and bravery and secretly wished he had the same courage on the battle front.
Sasha was already leaving when he got to the changing room. She walked in a hurry, clutching the oversize trench coat that draped over her frail body. Brody noticed how she contorted slightly when she walked, as if her bright orange stilettos were causing her great discomfort. He decided to trail her home.
They walked for about a mile until she made a turn into a deserted park. In the middle of the park stood a steel freight container, about 20 metres tall and less than 2 metres wide. The blue paint that once covered the container was peeling and light penetrated through the small patches of rust here and there. Sasha pried open the heavy steel door that let out a creak. Then she turned to Brody and said, “Are you coming in?”
Brody was taken back. He shuffled his feet, causing the dried leaves below them to crackle. “H-How did you I was back…?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe I wanted you to be back.”
Brody entered the caravan nervously, visually scanning the interiors of the unique makeshift home. It was the same as before. Sasha had managed to fit in a day bed and a small side table. Under the bed laid a brown leather suitcase that functioned as her closet. Beside her bed was a mini fridge, a cordless boiler and that was it.
“Ouch, damn shoes,” Sasha winced at the blisters on her toes. The size 41 Jimmy Choo leather stilettos had been resoled twice and the heel was worn down unevenly. Although they were polished regularly, a small stubborn spot of grease remained on the left shoe. He had given her the shoes before he was deployed to Iraq. They were the only shoes she had and the sweat-stained indent of her foot in the leather base was proof of her physical and emotional attachment to them.
“I knew you hated them. I’m sorry.” He said.
“So what is it that you wanted to tell me?” she asked.
Brody was sitting awkwardly on her old, dusty day bed. “I… just… wanted to tell you, I still think you’re beautiful… and…”
“…and…?” Sasha was the impatient one, never liked surprise or guesses.
“I finally found out what that word meant,” he said, pointing to the Chinese character tattooed across her back. “Pvt. Chen who had just transferred to our station taught me. It means Loyalty.”
Sasha did not reply. She was always reluctant to tell people what that tattoo meant, just as she never told anyone that she had spent seven years bound in a wheelchair. It was the result of a bad training injury sustained when she was on the national gymnast team. They were just pieces from her past, like a bad movie one should, but never could, forget. What matters is that she’s here now, loyal to her dreams of joining the Cirque de Soleil one day. The dream that her gymnast mother had of her winning the gold medal in the Olympics was over.
The only fluorescent light bulb in the small space flickered as a moth circumnavigated around it. Brody chuckled as he observed the moth.
“You know, I always lie awake on my bunk bed watching that little fellow fluttering around the light bulb above me. Sometimes, it will burn it self and fall dead on me...”
“…I used to think, aren’t we all like that sometimes? Drawn to play with fire when we know it’ll burn us? A lot of pain are self-inflicted I tell you. God up there must be having fun watching us make these stupid mistakes” Brody thought our loud.
“I wanted to come back Sasha. I was tired of firing arms, tired of picking up my dead brothers’ bodies, tired of seeing innocent women and children run when our tanks invaded their homes…”
Sasha did not know what to say. It did not matter anymore. It was too late. At least Brody too, was loyal to something. He was loyal to his country.
“I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.” Sasha said as she turned off the lights. Brody watched as she closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Beside her laid a newspaper cut out that read-
‘Lance Cpl. Brody J. Johnson, 18, was killed while conducting combat operations against enemy forces in Anbar province…’
* * *
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