John Warner - This Is Not A Story About Grief (Story from Fictionline.com)

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May 1, 2001

Fictionline.com: Story #1

THIS IS NOT A STORY ABOUT GRIEF

by John Warner

Years back, after the Great Lorenzo fell from the great height, even as he

lay dying, cradled in daughter Graziella's arms - her sequined bodice stained by

the mix of her father's blood and her own tears - the blame washed over the

circus, searching for the cause of the great acrobat's fall, until finally it settled on

the rigging boy, who in turn raged in his private grief and woe over the great

man's horrible death, at the unfairness of it all, the false impugning of what he

knew to be his flawless rope and knotwork, until frustrated, sad and furious, the

rigging boy fled the whole mad scene on his motorbike. Engine whining and

tires churning dirt and midway mud, he sped away for parts unknown as the

thronged and hungry press shot picture after picture after picture after picture.

With a wracking cough and shudder, the Great Lorenzo was pronounced

by rheumy old Doc Combes, then gathered and wrapped in his own starred and

glittered cape to be carried away from his final audience that, at the last, stood,

heads bowed in respect and reverence as Graziella began singing her sweet song

of grief.

A circus feeds on the fuel of traveling town to town to meet the fresh

crowds of amazed, clapping hands and newborn looks of wonder, and as the

circus stayed still and mourned the Great Lorenzo, everything slowed, shriveled

and withered.

For weeks, only the barest of things happened. The fallen big top

shrouded the three idle rings while the freak show - Mavis the bearded lady, Dan

the two-headed man, Roy the lizard-boy, and Plunder the legless wonder - lazed

about their trailer and played endless rounds of aimless pinochle and asked:

What is to become of us?

Are we attractive in and of ourselves?

Will people still desire to see us?

And lastly:

Is it love that shall save Graziella? Will it save us?

The big cats, restless, unsure, looked askance at the hastily offered meat

scraps and half-rotten carcasses. Elephants pawed the ground; their trunks lazily

swayed as great, gobbing tears dropped and puddled at their feet. All the while,

Graziella's grief song arced over the circus and traveled, traveled, traveled, until

Fictionline.com, Story #1 (May 1, 2001)

finally the call went forth, urgent and urging, and we three were summoned: the

musician, the mechanic, myself.

I liked my chances. Remember, this was long ago when I was handsome

and strong, when my fortune was intact, when I was known as a somebody.

Nevertheless, I planned carefully. My hair was arranged with pomade in

the most attractive style of the day. I wore my best three-button suit and buffed

my ultra-fine shoes to an impressive gleam. While waiting my turn, I slicked a

hand along my temple and practiced what I believed to be a shy yet engaging

smile. As I said, if I were a betting man, I was betting on me.

We all gathered round, for first was the musician, shabby-dressed and

skillful. For Graziella he played and played, joining her song with his deft runs,

nimble arpeggios, and the hushest of caesuras. This mingled music danced

around our gathering, lovely lovely-like, but soon enough, with bow frayed and

strings wrung out and dulled, the musician staggered off, rubbing his arm,

failing, in the end, to slake Graziella's grief.

I was next. Standing before the gathering, fingers at teeth, I whistled the

heavy machinery - manned by my minions - to life, set them to plowing under

tent and rings, barker booths, thrill rides, food stalls, port-o-sans, trailers and the

rest of the old circus works, then, ditch-filled, next came the toadies, the creeps

and flatterers, wielding their flame throwers with decided skill and a resolute

sense of purpose, ignited the whole blessed pile.

The pyre climbed the sky as I took Graziella's hand and brought her

toward the flames.

Things looked hot. Things looked...promising.

I spoke to her of ashes, of redemption and rebirth, of reclamation. As we

approached the fire, it nearly singed us, but she held fast to my hand and I told

her of my love.

I said:

"What you see here, I could do again and again for you. It is in my power

to remove those things that stand as obstacles to your happiness. I have the will

and the means and I stand ready to use them."

I swept my arm in a grand gesture across the scene, the heat and flame,

that bathed us in light's glow, and said in a voice that I imagined large at the

time:

"Look, look what I can do, and have done...for you."

You would think that I should not remember what happened next so well,

that it should be only a vagueness, a blur, but I have found that the reports of

numbness and disassociation following a heavy emotional blow (such as the loss

of love) are mythic and wrong, that we are in fact doomed to remember and

revisit the scene of our shame many times over.

That night, the torched circus burned to its embers and we gathered to the

ground for some rest. After awhile, Graziella slept, curled against my leg. I

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John Warner - This Is Not A Story About Grief (Story from Fictionline.com)

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