Balance Page 4

  It’s a warm Sunday in Sarasota in early spring. Warm weather usually means more work. But it has been months since Mom and Dad have performed. Instead, they’ve been washing windows for my grandfather’s company. They don’t complain. They simply do it.

  I practice all afternoon and well into the evening. After dinner, I’m exhausted and go to bed early. But sleep doesn’t come. I hear the phone ring in the den.

  “Pick it up, Terry,” says Mom, who’s in the kitchen, “maybe it’s the agent.”

  An agent means work.

  I crack open my door so I can hear my father’s conversation.

  “No,” is all I hear him saying. “I won’t do it. It’s out of the question. I don’t care how much money is involved. The answer is no!”

  He slams down the phone.

  “He wants us to play a carnival?” asks Mom.

  “An entire carnival circuit,” says Dad. “Six months of work—but the wrong kind of work.”

  I hear my mother sigh. “You did the right thing by saying no.”

  “Of course I did, Delilah. It’s never going to happen.”

  In the coming years, I learn why. My parents say that the carnival is a shady operation. Con men are often in charge. The criminal element is strong. Drugs are everywhere, liquor is plentiful, and there’s no way in the world they’ll allow their children into that world.

  “I’d rather starve,” I hear my mother say.

  Which makes me wonder—will I?

  I wonder how much of my energy as a boy—and even as a man—is based on that psychological phenomenon that has me turning fear to energy.

  I’m throwing three paper routes at once.

  I’m mowing lawns like my life depends upon it.

  I’m knocking on the doors of neighbors to see if they want me to trim their hedges and pull their weeds.

  I’m doing all possible manual labor to earn extra change. I’m saving money with the idea that, if our funds are completely depleted, I can help my folks buy groceries.

  These chores are accomplished without the slightest hint of resentment or regret. They’re done with joy. I simply love to work. I can’t work enough. I only wish that my parents could find work of their own. While my mother expresses hope, my dad’s default position is despair.

  “The money situation keeps getting worse,” he tells Mom, thinking I’m out of earshot.

  “It’ll get better,” she says.

  “When?” he asks.

  She doesn’t answer.

  Months pass without work.

  I go to the Christian school attached to our church—the Tabernacle—where I’m an eager student. I like math and science. I’m fascinated by history. But it’s the sacred studies I love most. The Bible stories come alive. I want to know how Moses will survive. How will Jacob ever get out of his jam? Even as a young boy, I understand that even those who love God struggle with survival. None of the Old Testament characters I like most have an easy time of it. Everyone has trouble. Everyone needs God. Everyone is on a great adventure. Reading the Bible, I can see these adventures on the movie screen of my mind. I’m amazed to see how some of the characters, like my father, fall into despair. Some, like Job, argue with God. Some, like Thomas, doubt Him. Others, like David, never stop loving Him.

  At the Tabernacle Church, the Bible is taught as truth. My parents say the same thing. This is God’s Word. I love that idea—that God is not only the all-mighty creator to whom we pray but also the author of stories that explain how He works in everyone’s life.

  In our life, when my parents finally find work, they are quick to thank God. With great joy and anticipation we pack our gear and hit the road.

  When times are good, we can stay on the road for eight or nine months at a time. Mom becomes our homeschool teacher. She’s stricter than our regular teacher, but Lijana and I don’t mind. We’re happy to be out there traveling the country and putting on shows.

  Family unity is extreme. On the road we live, eat, sleep, drink, and stay together 24/7. We live in a thirty-one-foot trailer where there is no privacy. We have no choice but to be a high-functioning unit.

  Essentially I grow up in an Airstream that my parents bought from Karl Wallenda in the midseventies. I love knowing that I am riding along in a vehicle owned by the man who visits my dreams. My parents tell me that most of the fairs and amusement parks where we appear are venues where Karl appeared as well.

  Because there is no money for motels or hotels, the Airstream is our home. A couch opens up into a bed for Mom and Dad, and in the back Lijana and I each have a small bed of our own. Nothing fancy, but who needs fancy? When we’re working, the energy is always up.

  A box truck packed solid with all our gear pulls the Airstream up and down the highways of America. With Dad behind the wheel, Mom by his side, me and Lijana in the back, and our six Cairn terriers barking up a storm—jumping on my lap, licking my nose—we clock a thousand and one miles on a thousand and one days of my busy childhood.

  The routine is rough on Dad. He has no assistant or hired hand.

  We’ve taken three days to drive across the country—stopping only for bare necessities—when we finally arrive late in the afternoon at the fairgrounds in Sacramento, California. It’s cold and rainy. Dad hasn’t gotten much sleep because the truck broke down along the way. He was able to repair the engine himself, but the delay cost him four hours. The first show is tonight.

  The second we arrive, I’m helping Dad unload gear. The show is outdoors—there’s no tent—so with rain pouring down we find the area where Mom and Dad will be performing. I’m a strong nine-year-old but there’s only so much I can carry. Dad has to haul the heavy platforms and two tall poles from which the cable will be strung. He has a twenty-pound sledgehammer to drive the iron stakes into the ground. I have my junior-size nine-pound sledgehammer and work right alongside him. We put the poles in place. We stretch and string the wire, making sure the tension is just right. Usually Mom and Dad rehearse before the show, but now there’s no time.

  I go on first. I’ve already changed into a red-and-white costume that Mom has made for me. She not only sews our costumes but hand-stitches our shoes. The crowd’s already seated in the stands surrounding the high-wire platforms. Wearing my bright red rubber nose, I run out, carrying a picnic basket with one hand and pulling a little red wagon with another. One of the terriers, Apollonia, is in the basket while the others—Pepper, Zoobie, Toolie, Winston, and Shatzie—obediently sit in the wagon.

  I spread a red-checkered tablecloth on the ground to prepare a picnic. As I bend over, though, Zoobie jumps out of the basket and hits me in the butt. I fall on my face. The crowd roars. When I get up to see what has happened, Zoobie has scurried back into the basket. I gesture to the audience as if to ask, “Who did it?” They point to the basket. But on my way to the basket the other five terriers leap out of the wagon and block my path. Winston is holding a rope in his mouth and drops it at my feet. I pick it up and do a highly coordinated jump-rope routine with the dogs that I’ve practiced for months. First it’s me and Winston jumping together, then me and Winston and Pepper, until all the dogs join me. We’re doing great, and the crowd is eating it up, when Zoobie jumps out of the basket again and gets under my feet. I’m back on my butt, entangled in the rope. The crowd is howling, the dogs forming a circle and racing around me. When I get up, all the terriers break into a precise military maneuver, dashing in and out between my legs. When I try to move away from them, they follow me, never breaking the pattern of their running course. Every once in a while—just for laughs—I get tripped up again, but the dogs never do. The dogs are the stars. I’m the clown, trying to keep up with animals a lot smarter than me.

  Other animals are not only smart but dangerous. We all respect the fierceness of the tigers and lions and learn to keep our distance. But it’s my mom and dad who teach me that the chimpanzees, thought to be so adorable, can be deadly to little kids. In fact, when we work in circus venues,
my clown act often follows the chimps. My protective parents never allow me to wait in the wings as the chimps leave the arena. They don’t want the chimps to see me, so they hide me in a basket until the troupe of monkeys has passed through. They don’t trust their volatility. They’ve warned me never to look a chimp in the eye—that can set them off—and I’ve promised not to do so. There have been times when the chimps have attacked a small child for no apparent reason. I obey my parents’ orders yet can’t help poking my head out of the basket to sneak a peek as the squealing chimps run from the arena.

  I’m also warned about elephants. My father tells me a story that confirms the power of their memory. A trainer who drank heavily abused them. He was fired. But on a certain day, a different man with alcohol on his breath got too close to the elephants. Remembering the smell of liquor, the elephants associated it with pain. One of the elephants grabbed the man with his trunk, dragged him into the cage, and, putting the great weight of its head on the man’s chest, crushed him to death. It’s a story I’ve never forgotten.

  On our endless treks around the country I plead with my parents to tell me more stories. Fantastic tales of circus life—whether tragic or triumphant—always excite me. The tales also serve to break the boredom. The road is long and the box truck—stifling hot in summer and freezing in winter—is confining.

  Mom makes sure that her kids never fail to do their homework. It’s English grammar, mathematics, and science. Bible reading is mandatory. Dad tests us on our knowledge of Scripture and asks us to challenge him. No matter what passage I read from the Old or New Testament, he gives an exact citation.

  “Other books are useful,” he says. “Other books contain great beauty and wisdom. But this is the book where we see God’s own story. This is the one where we feel His beating heart.”

  My heart is beating fast because on a busy interstate in Virginia, the truck has broken down again. An hour ago, Dad knew something was wrong, so he left the Airstream at a campsite where he and Mom had one of their hush-hush discussions. I knew it was about money. I knew that, once again, we were down to our last dollar.

  Now Dad is trying to goose the engine.

  “It’s the fuel pump,” he says. “The fuel pump is about to go.”

  Five minutes later, as we approach an imposing hill, the fuel pump goes.

  “What now?” asks Mom.

  “You gals get out,” says Dad. “Nik and I are pushing.”

  I look at the road ahead. The steep incline is no laughing matter.

  “Ready?” Dad asks.

  “Ready,” I confirm.

  The two of us—with Dad doing a good 90 percent of the work—slowly, steadily, tenaciously stay at it until we push that thing to the top of the hill. At the bottom we see a gas station. I remember the hymn that says, “God will take care of you.”

  God takes care of my family throughout my childhood. God stays strong in my heart. God sings a song that I can hear deep in my soul, even—and especially—when my father voices discouragement.

  “You see the glass half empty,” Mom is always telling him.

  “No, Delilah,” he says, “I see the glass accurately. I don’t pretend there is more water than exists. I deal in reality.”

  Dad’s reality continues to be despair. Yet in the face of despair, he demonstrates fortitude. He sees his world dwindling, but he’s not about to call it quits. I receive a mixed message: The future is seen through a prism of fear, yet the future must be faced with steely-eyed determination.

  The Bible is always there. Mom is pointing out passages. Many of them sink in and stay for life:

  Matthew 19:26: “Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.’ ”

  And 1 Corinthians 15:57: “Thanks be to God, who gives victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Whatever the circumstances, I feel blessed as a young boy. I feel blessed to have Vati Karl—Papa Karl, my beloved great-grandfather—march in and out of my dreams. When I finally hear about his death, I feel blessed that the story does not fill me with fear. It fills me with purpose. One day I will return to Puerto Rico and walk the wire where he fell. I believe my dad when he says it was not Karl’s fault, but the fault of the rigger.

  I feel blessed at Benson’s Animal Farm in New Hampshire to befriend Boo-Boo the Bear. Boo-Boo is my pal. The cub and I go into the mountains where I pick blueberries for his lunch. Sometimes, in a playful mood, he knocks me over. He thinks I’m his brother. I think about the wondrous creatures created by God.

  I see the most wondrous creature of all: a female.

  I’m still a boy but I want to be a man. She’s still a girl but she has the beauty of a woman. Her name is Erendira. She’s part of the Vazquez family, a circus trapeze troupe. She, her sisters, and her parents are great performers. She does somersaults and handstands with an easy and gentle grace. I love her eyes, I love her smile. I want to speak with her, but, when it comes to girls, I’m shy. I want her to see my clown act—and I believe she does—but being a clown is hardly a way to attract a girl.

  When I’m not in a clown’s costume, I’m assisting my folks in their act. My outfit, hand-sewn by Mom, consists of little red shorts, a red-and-white striped shirt, and high white socks. I feel like a nerd. I am a nerd—a circus nerd.

  Does Erendira even notice me?

  When she smiles, I’m convinced that she’s smiling in my direction, but I can’t be sure.

  “Just go over and talk to her,” says a voice in my head.

  “Don’t be silly,” says another voice. “You’re not even a teenager. You have no business looking for a girlfriend. Stick to what you know. Put on your red rubber nose. Be a clown.”

  From time to time, at various venues from Florida to California, the Wallendas run into the Vazquez troupe. Like us, they’re a multigenerational circus family with a long and rich history. My parents are friends with Erendira’s folks. They often converse with one another at length. I want to speak to Erendira at length.

  “They’re having an even harder time than we are,” Dad tells Mom. “Business is something awful. They’re broke.”

  “Who isn’t?” asks Mom.

  I devise a plan—I will work extra hard, mowing grass and trimming hedges back in Sarasota, so I can save up money to help Erendira and her family. That will help me get her attention. That will get her to notice me and like me.

  My sister Lijana sees that I’m smitten. “Just go over and start talking to her,” she urges.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I don’t move. I stay silent. Normally the most overactive boy anywhere, I find myself immobile and tongue-tied.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say.

  “I do,” says Lijana.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s puppy love.”

  The words hit me hard. The words hit me as the absolute truth. I can’t deny it. I can’t help but think that, given my love-struck situation, I require a plan. I have none. But I do have a thought: If I’m going to attract a girl, this clown business has to stop—and soon.

  6

  “Next Generation Wallenda Walks Wire for the First Time”

  The newspaper, dated July 28, 1995, is from Old Forge, New York. The article says that at fifteen I’m making my debut at the Enchanted Forest/Water Safari. The article is not entirely accurate. I’ve been walking the high wire since I turned thirteen but, given the tradition of circus hyperbole, my folks make sure that I have several debuts in several cities. Early on I learn the importance of promotion.

  The writer describes the event:

  “During the family’s performance Delilah Wallenda walked the wire and stood on her husband’s shoulders as he stood on the wire, smiling at all times.

  “She kept smiling as her daughter walked the wire and as her husband rode a bike back and forth on the wire.

  “Nik walked up an incl
ined rope leading to the high wire. He did so without the aid of a balancing pole…. On the way up to the high wire, 20 to 25 feet above the ring, Nik lost his balance for a second or two and used his arms to steady himself. The eyes of 1,000 or more people were on him.

  “My eyes were on his mother. She lost her smile when he lost his balance and got it back as quickly as he recovered.

  “After the show, I asked Delilah how she rated her son’s first ever performance.

  “ ‘Very good,’ she said. She was smiling even wider than before. ‘I give him an A.’

  “His father said, ‘He’s very talented and has courage and determination.’ ”

  Then the writer quotes the promoter, who says, “Nik’s a cocky kid. A typical teenager.”

  The promoter isn’t entirely off base.

  I am a little cocky. I know I have a natural ability and I’m eager to show it off. I’m not sure, though, how typical I am.

  For example, that stumble described by the reporter is intentional. It’s my way of involving the audience and adding drama—a way for them to root for me. If I appear more vulnerable, the emotional stakes are higher.

  The black-and-white photo that accompanies the article shows a clear-eyed fresh-faced kid who has a passing resemblance to Howdy Doody, a comparison that does not thrill me. I want to be cool. The striking costume that Mom has made for me—with brightly beaded thunderbolts exploding on my matching vest and pants—is certainly cool. Yet there’s no hiding my All-American innocence. I’m the redheaded kid next door, the paper boy, the eager beaver who bags your groceries at the supermarket and carries your bags to your car in the hopes of a fifty-cent tip.

  My transition from boy to teen is a happy one. For all my love of clowning, I can’t wait to retire the red rubber nose. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the artistry of clowning. It’s simply that the girls aren’t going for Bozo. And more and more, girls are on my mind—especially one in particular.

  I’m at the end of my clown period when I see her again. We’re playing a music festival in Milwaukee when I notice that the Vazquez family is on the same bill. My heart skips a beat. I don’t say anything to anyone—not even my sister. I don’t want to admit how excited I am at the prospect of seeing Erendira again. I don’t want to appear too eager, but I can’t help walking the grounds in the hope of running into her.