Elaine

"Hey, my mother died for that thing!" Rick reached out for his thermos, the safety tether keeping him from going too far. ####
Harry had already gone too far, swiping Rick's thermos with a length of rebar and letting it dangle over the skeletal skyscraper that dimished toward the ground below them. Harry laughed. "We're not even allowed to smoke up here, and you've got the frikkin' Marlboro logo splashed around like it's some kind of joke." He gave the rod a dangerous swing, letting the thermos handle twirl around it.####
Maybe Harry should be the one trying out for the circus. Rick clamped that thought as soon as it came. If any of his co-workers knew about his acrobatic ambitions, he'd be toast—in for a hazing much harsher than anything he'd seen yet.#####
"How does a woman die for a thermos bottle, Ricky-boy?"####
Rick drew back his hand. "They used to put these points in the cigarette packages—"####
"Hey, I remember that!" One of the other guys gave a yellowed grin. "You could save 'em up and order from a catalog, just like Betty Crocker. One time, I got a bomber jacket." He took a bite from his sandwich.####
"She smoked three packs a day." Rick swayed a little, then sat back onto the I-beam, sky beneath his feet, like when he reached for the next trapeeze. "Half the stuff we owned had that logo on it." Some of the guys chuckled, but Rick wasn't done yet. He pointed to the thermos. "That got delivered about a month after she died. Lung cancer."####
Clouds drifted, the only backdrop to their perch above the city skyline, as if angels might be coming over to see what was up. Was it worth it, Mom? Was a thermos jug worth dying for?####
Harry finally muttered, "Sorry, kid." He leaned out with the rod, but a gust of wind shivered the structure and the thermos skewed to the side, grazing Rick's fingers and rattling along the beam before it came to rest at the far end, rolling slightly, against the rebar that would become a balcony. "Crap. Sorry, kid."####
His mother's stupid legacy lay there, a little out of reach. He could unclip his tether and inch his way out—that was what he'd been training for, wasn't it? Fearless at heights, graceful on a narrow beam, death-defying feats of. . . construction.####
He was chicken. He wanted the circus: the ropes, the twirls, the gasp of the crowd. But could he risk failing at his dream? Nope—better to take the construction job, work himself so hard he couldn't make it to tonight's audition and pretend he'd never really cared that much.####
He stared at the thermos. If he went for it, a second gust might topple him, too. Every time he took a drink from it, he remembered how his mother died. She lay there, tapping out the ash of her days. If she had saved the money from the cigarettes, she could've bought her own horses. If she hadn't wasted her body, she might have kept on riding, training the pure white ponies the crowds adored. Maybe she would have waved up at him as he sailed overhead, sharing their love for the show.####
The i-beam twitched beneath him, the thermos rocking. She lived long enough to infect him with her circus dream and died never seeing him fly. He pictured her face in the drifting clouds. He wasn't smoking, sure. But he wasn't really living, either.####Wind stroked his skin and the thermos rolled gracefully down to bump against his thigh.####
The guys clapped and hollered as Rick grasped the handle. "I'll have to leave a little early tonight," he told them as he watched the clouds. "I've got places to go."