The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (31 page)

“This circus has be
en a lot of places.
A lot of places that might as well be thin air.
”

There was a time in his life where he would have kissed her, back w
hen his heart wasn’t so mangled
and his life so screwed up. Her body was all angles, her limbs moved in deliberate motions. She took his right hand in hers, petting the top of it with delicate strokes. Bagg wasn’t sure of the last time he’d been touched like that. It was the way a child sometimes
tried
to comfort an adult.
Grown
-
ups sometimes
forgot
the power of gentle touching.

“So I should start checking the thin air?
”
he asked.

“Of course you should.
”
Amira
leaned close
and kissed Bagg very softly on his unshaven cheek. “If all that’s left is thin air, then that’s
definitely
where she is.
”

Tommy Bonjovi was an outlaw, livin’ life large behind the wheel of a ’95
Chrysler LeBaron
convertible he’d
hot
-
wired in a pancake house parking lot in Ship Bottom. With the AC cranked and the wind whippin’ his long hair, Tommy popped out the car lighter and sparked a fat spliff, the joint catching evenly with one long, even pull. The fucking rain had left him antsy
;
his cabin
fever had turned to
full-
blown swine flu. Tommy was feelin’ the need for an adrenalin
e
jump
start, as the sun had come back shinin’ bright and hard.

The pot was courtesy of his old man, a lazy, fat-ass cop. He kept a secret box in his closet stuffed full of all sorts of good shit he’d collected by
shakin’
down the kids he nabbed dealin’ or
buyin
’.
Pussies who didn’t have balls enough to stand up to that piece of shit deserved to get ripped off. Still, it was a wonder none of
’
em ever snuck up and popped the prick in the back of his sweaty, bald head. It made a big enough target, for sure.

Having an asshole cop for a father did have its advantages when it came to slippi
n’
out of his own squeezes with the law. His old man wasn’t trying to do him any favors, though. He just didn’t want the embarrassment
of
a son sent to juvie for criminal mischief, whatever the fuck that meant. Criminal mischief? Like he was some sort of fuckin
’
mischief-makin’ elf! And then there was the burglary, the vandalism, and the garage he accidentally set on fire. Whatever. Shit
happened
, then you
got
old and die
d
.

“This is one great day, you little bastards!
”
Tommy shouted at a group of small children splashi
n’
around in a backyard kiddy pool, making a left turn for the sake of
makin’
a left turn. The road was still steaming off the last of the rain, and the
LeBaron
’s ass-end tried to
pry
loose. Accidentally spinning out and killing a group of preschoolers in a plastic pool too close to the fucking road would make him a legend. Especially in a jacked ride, oh boy! Tommy was tempted to make a u-turn but remembered the Rollins Band cassette in the inside pocket of his leather jacket on the passen
ger seat. Time for some tunes
. He
drove with one hand and
slammed
the tape into the car’s player and cranked the knob.

“Ha, I knew swipin’ a ninety-five was for a
motherfuckin’
good goddamn reason!
”
A car with a cassette player might have been dumb luck for your average criminal, but everything was shittin’ gold nuggets for the badass behind the wheel of this ride.

The voice of Henry Rollins began preaching out of four speakers. Henry Rollins was the God of all gods, the
toughest
of all punks. There was heavy metal, and there was hardcore industrial grunge. And then there was Henry Fucking Rollins, far and away the toughest mo-fo to ever live. Rollins told gruesome stories and could cave any motherfucker’s skull with one punch. Tommy had every Black Flag and Rollins Band tape made, including
all
the pirated versions
he could get his hands on
.

Tommy
was gonna
get the same SEARCH & DESTROY tattoo across his shoulders, which was the coolest ink on the face of the planet
, once he got out of the fat fuck’s house
. For now, Tommy mouthed the words to “Liar
,
”
because that’s exactly what
he was. The song was a story, split up
by blastin
’
riffs and intense
motherfucking
vocals.

“I’m a liar
;
yeah, I’m a liar!
”
Tommy shouted to the music, pounding the steering wheel to the throbbing beat. It was an epic son
g,
the
blow by blow
of Tommy’s
own screwed up
life. The music and lyrics bounded from
fast to slow, then back to fast, and
Tommy totally understood the pace, the frustration, the need to be fucking heard.

“Anybody around better know that everything I say and all the nice friendly smiles, were all just lies to burn up their wussy souls.
”
Tommy spoke these words slowly, mixing in some of his own. He could do it because the song belonged to him, too. He personalized it like a dog pissin
’
right
on
top of some other dog’s piss. “Yeah, I’m a nice fellow
, a sweet talker.
I let you feel good and warm inside, until it’s time to cause hurt and some really bad fucking pain.
”

“
’
Cause I’m a liar!
”
Tommy shouted along with Rollins, swerving the LeBaron to almost hit a rabbit darting out onto the narrow road
,
which
was smooth as silk under his hot rubber. “Nobody gets in Tommy’s way,
’
cause I’m a liar, baby! A liar!
”

Tommy took another hit off the joint, choked on the smoke, then popped the
burnin’
roach into his mouth and chewed it up. Amped on the tunes and buzzed from the pot, he stomped the accelerator to the floor on a road that was as straight and long as a freakin
’
runway. The LeBaron’s engine thundered as the white arm of the speedometer slid across the one hundred
ten mark.

Scraggly trees skimmed
past
like a picket fence, and even the music became lost to the howling wind. Tommy’s hands were clamped to the wheel in a death grip, arms straight out, head tilted back for some serious speed.
Stealin’
a quick glance, he just about had the needle pinned at one hundred
thirty miles per hour when something large and black came lumbering up out of the marsh grass from the right side of the road. It was the biggest fuc
king dog he’d ever seen
and
he
didn’t have time to even consider moving his right foot from the accelerator to the brake. Instead, to avoid a head-on collision, Tommy shifted the wheel ever so slightly,
clippin’
the ass-end of the monstrously big dog and what appeared to be some sort of pin
k dress covering its hairy ass.

“What kind of asshole puts a dress on a dog?
”
Tommy asked, as the wind surged under the car, lifting both right-side wheels up in the air. A tornadic gust snatched Tommy’s leather jacket and it took off like a startled bat, while the horizon
assumed
an entirely different perspective. It was one insane, fucked-up instant, but Tommy had enough time to imagine he was up at Six Flags ridin
g
the Nitro. Man, that was one sick ride, Tommy thought, as the road was now over his head, still rushing by at an impossible speed.

In the next seconds, there was a whole lot of crunching metal and breaking glass, as the LeBaron slid along Great Bay Boulevard upside down, finally coming to a dripping and ticking halt, one tire still spinning like crazy.

Had Tommy Bonjovi survived the impact, he might have heard the
whimpering
circus bear.

Chapter 40

The smells were sweet and sour and everything in between. The sun was warm and the mud was deep and squishy. The marsh over in this spot was filled with big bugs cling
ing to the tops of grass blades,
and when you got close, their wings spread out and they took flight, whirring crazily. The vibrating air tantalizing, Gracie imagined these playthings must taste delicious, although she couldn’t quite seem to get hold of one.

Gracie’s small brain actually came close to making the connection between the truck
that
spread that awful tasting water and the lack of bugs, and how the marshes f
a
rther away from her
good man’s
nest were alive and buzzing. But
awareness
came and went, and there was all the chasing to do.

Gracie ran across the marsh to see what all the commotion was with the big white birds who were huddled up, barking at one another in bird language. As usual, the birds scattered when they saw her coming, abandoning an especially large and prehistoric looking horseshoe crab they’d been snacking on.

Waste not want not, thought Gracie, who gummed away at the dead crab’s belly, the jealous seagulls skulking around at a safe distance, not the least bit
happy with th
is
development.

That’s when Gracie first noticed the most beautiful bug she’d ever seen in her bear life. This bug flew like a bird but danced like a bear. It even wore a beautiful orange dress, as it fluttered high and low. Gracie was hypnotized by the elegant magic its wings created. The bug came to visit Gracie, seemed set to land on her nose, but changed its mind at the last second. Instead, it flittered here and flickered there, and the entranced old bear left the remaining crab for the cranky gulls
in order
to follow the delightful bug.

Gracie rose up, stirred into her own dance, as the butterfly wobbled and wiggled ahead of her. The bear had been a little worried about her new pink tutu
,
which
her
good man
had been too drunk to help her take off, but
his oversight
had turned into a wonderful bit of luck. Gracie strutted for the bug, managed a pirouette of her own, showing off her own pretty outfit. She pawed at the air in her least menacing way and tried to mimic the graceful moves on display above her.

Gracie marveled at the bug, who was sometimes caught in gusts of wind, occasionally toppled in the crazy turbulence. But there was no need to panic when you had such fine wings. The breeze was blowing the exquisite or
ange butterfly across the marsh
and Gracie did her best to keep up. Imagine being able to dan
ce and fly at the same time?

Gracie was nearly swooning from happiness when she followed the mesmerizing creature up out of the marsh and onto the hot pavement, where another movement caught her eye.

The old bear might have screamed if she’d had more time, but what she really wanted to do was say goodbye to the butterfly
,
who had risen way up high in the air, away from the sudden danger down below. Gracie was wistful and sad she didn’t know the bug’s language. But surely the butterfly, who had witnessed Gracie’s gracefu
l dance, must know her thoughts, t
he spirits of these two dancers bridging any barrier of mere language.

Gracie’s last words, right before being struck dead by the Chrysler LeBaron, were, alas, spoken with gratefulness and hope in her own bear language.

“Goodbye, little frie
nd, and thank you for the dance.
”

Chapter 41

Some ran and
some walked, but every last person made their way back over the Fish Head Island bridge on foot to investigate the terrible sounding crash. The screeching metal against unforgiving pavement was a shrill summons.

A few had made daily trips into the town at the end of the road, while others had only been on the rushed scavenger hunt sorties. The
L
aundromat business in West Tuckerton was booming, its owner raking in buckets of quarters from the muddy circus people. But for some, like bear trainer Slim Weatherwax, this was the first time off the island since the procession of tired circus trucks had arrived, himself pinned under the hurriedly stowed canvas tents.

Slim hadn’t seen Gracie since she’d wandered out into the marsh to do her early morning business, which
almost always
included rechecking a hundred of the same snake and groundhog holes as the day before, pooping, sniffing the tide line for new smells, then going back to see if ther
e
were any snakes or groundhogs to interrogate. The routine had
mostly
kept Gracie out of
Slim’s
hair so he could drink in peace, and she wasn’t pouncing on
napping roustabouts as often, s
o
they left him alone, too
. With all the cottontail rabbits darting here and there, often tantalizingly close, hunting down a snoring human was only fun when she was feeling lazy and only up for some easy prey.

S
lim’s gut was
telling him something bad as he walked up and over the bridge, where they all got their first clear view of the single car crash
that
was smoking and steaming, a few hundred yards up the road. By the look of the wreck, they were gonna need a big spatula to
remove
whomever was ridin’ in that mess of metal and glass. It barely even looked like a car. Heck, if they’d been walking on a runway, the wreck could have been a plane. In a junkyard, it could have been mistaken for a tangle of appliances.

But what tore at Slim’s gut was what had caused the crash in the first place. There were no trees along here to slam into. There were no second cars, no train tracks, and there were sure as hell no icy spots on this slab of hot top.

“Maybe the sand
.
”
Slim ambled closer, looking out into the marsh for his Graceful Gracie. “Maybe them tires lost it in the sand.
”

From beyond the pile of metal, people crowded around what must have been the driver or passenger, f
a
rther up the road. There were the sounds of sirens carried on the wind, along with a horn
that
whined like
an
air raid siren. Slim looked up in the sky for enemy aircraft, but there was just one old biplane off to the south. It pulled along a flapping sign for some brand of suntan lotion, or a beer special at one of the crazy dance clubs up on Long Beach Island.

“Slim!
”
someone called back to him from the group of people who’d run and jogged up ahead of the rest. About a dozen were standing
or
kneeling down, all worried and upset.

“Why the hell you callin’ my name,
”
Slim said, low to himself. “I sure as hell ain’t no doctor.
”

But Slim knew.

Fact was, when you lived your whole life in a traveling circus, you came to expect the worst damn thing
s
to happen. Bad things. You started feelin’ good and comfortable, and they’d come right up outta wherever the hell those things slinked around
in
. They yanked you right down. They’d get you by the ankle or right by the head. Sometimes they’d pull you down by your heart.

Slim knew it was his heart up there in the road.

Slim Weatherwax walked
past
the mangled car without more than a glance and was thirty feet or so from the circle of folks. His feet stopped moving as they all turned their heads to him, every eye b
or
ing
into
him like he was one of them freaks passing off a tumor as a horn, or something.

“Why the hell you lookin’ at me?
”
Slim said,
barely
loud enough for them to hear over the sirens wailing in the distance. Slim stood his ground, knowing if he didn’t get any closer, just maybe things would stay like this. Knowin’, but not knowin’. Slim looked away from the group of people, some of them crying like babies. He looked out at the marshes on the side of the highway. Right then and there, he swore to God he’d give his entire life to see his Gracie still runnin’ free like the dumb old bear she was.

Slim stood in the middle of the hot highway, with the smell of burning rubber all around, and the sirens getting closer and closer. That stupid bear was like a magnet for ticks, Slim thought, looking out over the grasses where the little bloodsuckers lived. Slim would spend hours pickin’ the damn things off her as she la
y
back, showin’ her fat belly to him. Gracie would have nosed at the kerosene filled peanut butter jar to let him know she was ready, get all in his face with her hot, stinky breath until he did what she wanted. It wasn’t the worst job in the world. He’d also scratch her favorite spots under her armpits and rub up under her ears. If a man didn’t have a dog, he’d do well to have himself a big old bear. Least a bear d
id
n’t have
barkin’
fits and chase its tail like the other mutts around this place. And Gracie could bite you all day, leavin’ just a purple smudge and some spit.

“Slim?
”

But Slim didn’t want to answer. No, he was just going to stand there in the middle of this goddamn road for a while. He’d already had his share of hurt. Hell, he’d had enough shares of hurt for two people and then some.

“I don’t need no more hurt,
”
Slim said, but nobody could hear him as the ambulance slowly passed the group of people surrounding the dead bear. Slim tilted his weathered face to the sky, eyes closed
. A
half-smile crossed his sharp features as he could almost feel Gracie’s rough tongue giving him slobbering thank you kisses for the belly rubs.

The ambulance rolled by the tall, skinny man in the middle of the road. If Slim’s eyes had been open, he might have seen a butterfly flitting high overhead, nudged here and there by the salty
sea
breeze.