Mikon smoothed on the creamy white paint. It was cool to the touch, and felt like powder on his cheeks when it dried. Giving a smile in the mirror, he squirted red paint onto his palette. Ever so carefully he picked up his brush and began to paint a thin line around his mouth, nose and eyes. Gently he pulled a yellow lipstick out of his pocket and smoothed it onto his lips. He picked up a red wig, a jacket with a large star on the back and a pair of blue shoes, that squeaked when you stepped on the toe. There came a purr from behind him. He turned to face the direction from which the noise came. There on the floor, his tail swishing like a flag on a March day, was Kipper, Mikon’s better half. Kipper was an Asian leopard. He was called that because he was born and raised in captivity in Asia, and then sent to a zoo in New York. Kipper had been part of Mikon’s act for three years now. At the zoo they were going to put him down because he had a highly contagious virus that seemed fatal, but Mikon saved him. He bought him off. Yeah, he was still making payments on him, but he was worth it. Mikon was able to train him and make him part of the act in New York, and he’d been a shadow ever since. Mikon squatted down and fondled his ears. He gave a “thank-you” purr and jumped onto his front paws to do a headstand. Mikon clapped and whispered in his ear, “Now do the trick just like we rehearsed it; don’t ad lib, ‘K?” There on the floor, his tail swishing like a flag on a March day, was Kipper Kipper understood. He turned, squatted and pounced toward the wall. Standing up for the whole world to behold his skill, Kipper displayed a mouse he had just caught, and prowled out the big orange curtain separating Mikon’s dressing room from the big top. “Blech!” Mikon gagged. “That’ll definitely have them rolling in the aisles.” Opening day at a circus was never easy. New town, new faces, new funny bones to tickle. Every one was different. You get used to one town, then you’re leaving to go and get used to another one. The circus was a never-ending cycle. To Mikon, the only thing he enjoyed more than rehearsing a routine with Kipper was performing a routine with Kipper, making children laugh. To make children laugh was his lot in life. Mikon snapped out of his daydream and slipped a flower into his coat lapel. Slipping out of the orange curtain he signaled the ringleader that he was ready. He waved to Kipper on the other side of the ring. He pawed at the ground to gesture a reply. Mikon heard over the loudspeaker, “And now the amazing Zonko the Clown, and his confoundingly cute, hairball of a partner, Kipper the Asian Leopard.” At the sound of this the crowd’s laughter immediately died down and the roar and applause increased tenfold. He felt invigoratingly happy, and proud to be a clown. Mikon made a mad dash for his juggling rings. It was time to start the show. The sound of the crowd increased another tenfold as Mikon rolled out on his little unicycle, and began juggling his gray pins. He watched the other door intently, any moment now Kipper would roll out. He was right, because out he rolled. The crowd whooped and hollered. Kipper was coming closer. At that moment, something dreadfully horrible happened. The ball that Kipper was rolling on popped, sending him soaring into the air. He collided with the gate of the tiger’s cage. The lock ruptured open and the tigers began to escape. The crowd screamed and began to flood out all of the exits. Five minutes later they were pillaging hot-dog vendors and looting the ice-cream stand. Mikon spotted a group of them hemming Kipper in. They were surrounding him. Mikon grabbed a hefty club, belonging to the strong man, and began to beat the tigers away from Kipper. One of the tigers came around back of Mikon and brought his claws down on Mikon’s shoulder. Mikon gave a yelp of pain, which equally matched the ones coming from Kipper’s direction. It was too late. The screams coming from inside the circle of tigers were horrific. Yowling probably could have been heard all over the town. In the end, Kipper’s lifeless body lay limp on the floor of the big top. Mikon was crushed. Literally. His broken body and spirit were ordered bedridden by the circus doctor. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t sleep, could- n’t eat. He was hopeless. The circus manager, Ronan, had to do something about it. He was losing money, and losing it fast. Without Zonko, the whole show was a laughing stock. Ronan figured it was time to give Zonko a break. “But Ronan, I can get better, I’ve just gone through a rough patch, I’ll get better,” he repeated the second time. “I know, Micki,” he called him this, often, “but the circus is really suffering with you not on stage. It’ll be better if you go home to the farm and relax.” “Relax?” Mikon questioned amiably, trying to keep his composure, “On a farm??” “Look Micki, it’s almost Christmas and . . .” Ronan paused, thinking of a sweet way to seal the deal, “. . . if you want I’ll keep your space hot, until you get better.” Keeping a space hot meant that if and when Mikon felt better and wanted to come back, his old billing and stage name would be waiting. “But . . .” “No buts, kid; now go and get your stuff ready. Hank’ll help you pack. Have a holly, jolly Christmas or whatever.” Ronan turned around and went to sit at his desk and began to mumble to himself. “Oh yeah,
Family
The Island
She stood on the dock, squinting into the early morning sun. The wooden planks creaked softly as she ran over it. A dog trotted behind her, a small scruffy brown dog. They stopped near the end of the dock, leaped off the edge and into a small boat. “The ferry’s not here yet,” she said to the dog, who didn’t respond, merely scrambled onto one of the seats and put his paws on the edge of the boat for a better view. She started the motor. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea. The dog uttered a soft growl, and then was quiet. The girl looked over her shoulder at the island. It was small, the island, made up of small cottages for the year-round villagers (population 200) and the summer homes that tourists built. Since it was six miles out from the Massachusetts shore, the only way to go anywhere from the island was by ferry; and so the houses were built in a cluster around the harbor. But beyond that, there were several miles of beach, where the island children had explored and wandered for their whole lives. There were sandy dunes, driftwood with which to build forts. And of course, there was the sea. Island life revolved around the sea. The sea, and tourists, but mostly the sea. The girl loved the sea. She loved to swim and splash in the waves, to glide through it in her boat. She loved sea glass and sea shells, and everything about the sea. When she was angry, the water was fierce, and when she was happy the waves were gentle. Sometimes, she thought that she and the ocean were one. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea The island was called Evening Star Isle, and the girl was Eve. Tourists had given her that name. Her real name was Margaret. Margaret Ann. She hated that name. She liked to be called Eve. Eve, which was the name of the Isle. She was the island. That’s what people were always telling her and she knew it was true. She had dark brown hair with streaks in it. Red, gold, and white-blond, all jumbled together, and her eyes were dark brown, almost black. When people looked at her, they saw the island. Tourists snapped her picture while she was sitting on the beach, and once an art student had drawn her. They were far out now. She cut the motor. Eve let the boat drift aimlessly, let herself be carried with the gentle current, savoring these last moments. In the distance, the ferry emerged from the fog. Eve looked up. When she saw the ferry, she swayed slightly in the boat, clutching the side. “Time to go back,” she whispered. “Time for me to leave, Tro.” The dog whimpered softly. “It’s OK for you,” Eve told him. “They’re not kicking you out, you know, so be grateful for that.” Reluctantly, she started the motor and headed back to shore. Her father was waiting for her on the dock, having just arrived back in his fishing boat. He helped her out of the boat, and Tro hopped after her. Silently, they unloaded buckets of fish and carried them to Charlie’s shed, where they would be sorted and sent to the mainland. They trudged back to the cottage. “You understand, don’t you?” asked her father quietly. She wanted to say no. She wanted to yell and scream and tell them that she wasn’t going, would never go, because she was the island and the island was her, and she wasn’t leaving, not ever. They couldn’t make her. She refused. But she couldn’t say that, and so she simply nodded. The cottage was a ways back from the little village, closer to the sprawling dunes and the wide, open sea. Father and daughter walked silently, entered the house without a word. Inside, Eve’s grandmother (who had been living with them since Gramps had died) was making breakfast, potatoes and eggs. Eve’s sister, Angela, was perched on the edge of her chair, her golden hair rippling over her shoulders and down her back. At ten, she was three years younger than Eve, and the princess of the family. Their mother was sitting listlessly, staring out the window. Eve went to kiss her cheek, but she didn’t respond. “Margaret! Come help with the eggs.” Eve went over and stirred the eggs around in the pan while Granny fussed over Angela. “Sweetheart, you understand, it’s only for a little while, till your ma gets back on her feet. Only a month, Angie-pie. You won’t be away from your island more than a month.” Angela said, “It’s Eve’s island.” Eve smiled to herself. “Who?” asked Granny. “Whose island? Daniel, what in heaven’s name is the child saying?” He cleared his throat. “She means Margaret.” Granny glared at Eve. “Don’t be putting fool notions into this child’s head. Eve’s island, it ain’t no one’s island but for those who love it.” “Eve loves the island,” said Angela. “Not more’n you do, and you being more deservin’, Angel,” Granny cooed. “I do declare, Daniel, that child is the most spoiled thing I ever saw. Callin’ the island hers, influencing her sister. And with the baby . . .” At that, everyone froze, save for Mama, who tilted her head and continued to look out the window mutely. Eve dropped the spatula, and a cold ice wrapped around her heart. Baby . . . Her father turned to his mother with a hard face. “Mother, that’s enough.” “Don’t you turn this on me. It’s her fault, ’twasn’t mine.” “I said enough!” Dad shouted. Granny smiled triumphantly, knowing she had hit a nerve. The ferry docked. Eve could see it out the window. She ate quickly. “Don’t shove food into your mouth,” Granny snapped. “Eat like a lady. Watch Angela.” Angela smiled her foolish smile at her grandmother. “What
The Island
She stood on the dock, squinting into the early morning sun. The wooden planks creaked softly as she ran over it. A dog trotted behind her, a small scruffy brown dog. They stopped near the end of the dock, leaped off the edge and into a small boat. “The ferry’s not here yet,” she said to the dog, who didn’t respond, merely scrambled onto one of the seats and put his paws on the edge of the boat for a better view. She started the motor. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea. The dog uttered a soft growl, and then was quiet. The girl looked over her shoulder at the island. It was small, the island, made up of small cottages for the year-round villagers (population 200) and the summer homes that tourists built. Since it was six miles out from the Massachusetts shore, the only way to go anywhere from the island was by ferry; and so the houses were built in a cluster around the harbor. But beyond that, there were several miles of beach, where the island children had explored and wandered for their whole lives. There were sandy dunes, driftwood with which to build forts. And of course, there was the sea. Island life revolved around the sea. The sea, and tourists, but mostly the sea. The girl loved the sea. She loved to swim and splash in the waves, to glide through it in her boat. She loved sea glass and sea shells, and everything about the sea. When she was angry, the water was fierce, and when she was happy the waves were gentle. Sometimes, she thought that she and the ocean were one. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea The island was called Evening Star Isle, and the girl was Eve. Tourists had given her that name. Her real name was Margaret. Margaret Ann. She hated that name. She liked to be called Eve. Eve, which was the name of the Isle. She was the island. That’s what people were always telling her and she knew it was true. She had dark brown hair with streaks in it. Red, gold, and white-blond, all jumbled together, and her eyes were dark brown, almost black. When people looked at her, they saw the island. Tourists snapped her picture while she was sitting on the beach, and once an art student had drawn her. They were far out now. She cut the motor. Eve let the boat drift aimlessly, let herself be carried with the gentle current, savoring these last moments. In the distance, the ferry emerged from the fog. Eve looked up. When she saw the ferry, she swayed slightly in the boat, clutching the side. “Time to go back,” she whispered. “Time for me to leave, Tro.” The dog whimpered softly. “It’s OK for you,” Eve told him. “They’re not kicking you out, you know, so be grateful for that.” Reluctantly, she started the motor and headed back to shore. Her father was waiting for her on the dock, having just arrived back in his fishing boat. He helped her out of the boat, and Tro hopped after her. Silently, they unloaded buckets of fish and carried them to Charlie’s shed, where they would be sorted and sent to the mainland. They trudged back to the cottage. “You understand, don’t you?” asked her father quietly. She wanted to say no. She wanted to yell and scream and tell them that she wasn’t going, would never go, because she was the island and the island was her, and she wasn’t leaving, not ever. They couldn’t make her. She refused. But she couldn’t say that, and so she simply nodded. The cottage was a ways back from the little village, closer to the sprawling dunes and the wide, open sea. Father and daughter walked silently, entered the house without a word. Inside, Eve’s grandmother (who had been living with them since Gramps had died) was making breakfast, potatoes and eggs. Eve’s sister, Angela, was perched on the edge of her chair, her golden hair rippling over her shoulders and down her back. At ten, she was three years younger than Eve, and the princess of the family. Their mother was sitting listlessly, staring out the window. Eve went to kiss her cheek, but she didn’t respond. “Margaret! Come help with the eggs.” Eve went over and stirred the eggs around in the pan while Granny fussed over Angela. “Sweetheart, you understand, it’s only for a little while, till your ma gets back on her feet. Only a month, Angie-pie. You won’t be away from your island more than a month.” Angela said, “It’s Eve’s island.” Eve smiled to herself. “Who?” asked Granny. “Whose island? Daniel, what in heaven’s name is the child saying?” He cleared his throat. “She means Margaret.” Granny glared at Eve. “Don’t be putting fool notions into this child’s head. Eve’s island, it ain’t no one’s island but for those who love it.” “Eve loves the island,” said Angela. “Not more’n you do, and you being more deservin’, Angel,” Granny cooed. “I do declare, Daniel, that child is the most spoiled thing I ever saw. Callin’ the island hers, influencing her sister. And with the baby . . .” At that, everyone froze, save for Mama, who tilted her head and continued to look out the window mutely. Eve dropped the spatula, and a cold ice wrapped around her heart. Baby . . . Her father turned to his mother with a hard face. “Mother, that’s enough.” “Don’t you turn this on me. It’s her fault, ’twasn’t mine.” “I said enough!” Dad shouted. Granny smiled triumphantly, knowing she had hit a nerve. The ferry docked. Eve could see it out the window. She ate quickly. “Don’t shove food into your mouth,” Granny snapped. “Eat like a lady. Watch Angela.” Angela smiled her foolish smile at her grandmother. “What
