kathleen watt

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Chapter 69

Good Humor at Home and Abroad 

 

WITH SUMMER CAME THE POP-UP 

Rockport Circus, tumbling into my sister Kristina’s backyard, almost fully formed from her imagination and the costume boxes in the attic. Her three daughters, their friends, and an assortment of neighbors served as both performers and audience.  Against a backdrop of Rockport Harbor were ad hoc jugglers, low altitude aerialists, a special outfit for the jealous teacup Yorkie, known far and wide as Teeny Tiny Prince Valiant. Evie and I were summarily enlisted. 

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Evie was game but reticent. I, however, carry an authentic strand of antic DNA. Once I might have prepared a ditzy duet with my sister—the “Stepsisters’ Lament” from Cinderella, perhaps. Maybe a sea shanty or a parlor ditty or the exquisitely poised comedy of a Mozart contretemps. 

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How I missed singing with my sister!

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To conceal my emotion, I volunteered my own “Feats of The Amazing Snorto” in which, by removing my prosthesis, I could propel milk, pudding, noodles, and small blueberries from my nose to the astonishment of all. These marvels and others, I confess, I discovered mostly by mortifying public accident. But why not make lemonade of these bitter lemons? Kristina, knowing her audience, counter-proposed a more palatable pirate routine, with genuine eyepatch and giant tin-foil hook. “We’ll have Evie walk the plank with Teeny!” 

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Thus did Evie and I watch nieces and nephews become young adults and young adults become parents. We showed up for county fairs, team sports, and talent shows, holidays, birthdays and graduations. Despite the cancer and recurring reconstructive surgeries, our lives were full, layered, and rich. Everyone said so. I had only to admit that I did regret my “acquired facial deformity”. Giving in to missing my old self in the mirror, and the path my old self had planned, would have been a relief. But I didn’t dare. To lift that veil would have taken more courage than I could muster. 

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Evie and I returned to Europe. In Milan, strolling among the bristling spires that ring the roof of the Duomo, we could rise above my inescapable medical morass. In the foothills of the Alps, we allowed ourselves to be cradled in the timeless tranquility of Lake Como until our anxieties ebbed, and finally we began to rediscover each other. Our photo albums demonstrate our motto of the time: “Have patch. Will travel.” 

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We were home by October for the scheduled revisions to my ill-conceived eye surgery. So we joined the annual Park Slope Halloween Parade. Showcasing the characters first introduced at the Rockport Circus, we made our debut as Peter Pan and a one-eyed Captain Hook, in what would become a sweet annual tradition for us. We did Groucho and Harpo, Magritte and Gaugin, Amish Man and his basket; one year, we won a prize as the Good Humor Man (Evie) and a giant Heath Bar Crunch ice cream pop (me). 

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In November, I landed a freelance plum in the layout department of the Wall Street Journal, headquartered in the World Financial Center—a long-term gig, beginning immediately, with a pre-approved break early in December to knock off another minor revision. 

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Finally! An ideal opportunity to rejoin the world. I might even meet Evie in the vicinity for an occasional mid-week lunch. 

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Alas, nothing “ideal” ever rolled out in an “ordinary” way in my never-ending saga. 

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