Practicing to Walk Like a Heron

The Death of the Queen of the Air

96 The Death of the Queen of the Air That night, the roustabouts, stacked four beds high in their semi, slept, and the lions rolled over in their cages. She died in her sleep—not a fall from high above the center ring, not an overdose. After her bow, she went back to her silver Airstream, lay on her purple sheets, and fell asleep. She had always flown. Even as a child she’d swung high above us all. Twice a day she smiled down on her audience, took a breath, timed her leap, the bar always feeling as if it knew her callused and chalky hands, her catcher waiting rhythmic for her grasp. At the end of her act, she defied death with “The Triple,” whirling in the still air through three somersaults before grabbing the wrists of her steady catcher. She dazzled dangling from his faithful grip. After one more full swing, she’d spin a half-turn back to her bar. The time she nearly missed, her left hand slipped, the chalk falling like stardust through the lights. She never forgot glancing down, seeing her body twisted on the sawdust in the center of the ring. Death was her rigger, tightening the guy wires, checking the play in the ropes, 97 securing each clamp, bolt, and stake. And Death was a roustabout, waiting, watching her sparkling sequins, her gold tiara catching the spotlight, her dark and silken hair flowing out behind her as she’d swing. She wore red for the matinee. Silver for the evening show. And always the gold tiara as twice a day she flew through the empty and indifferent air. ...