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Every couple of years, George Ware sneaks off for three or four weeks. “Business trip,” he tells his family. “Family obligations” he tells his employer and his secretary. “You’re strong. You’ll survive,” he tells the cats. The cats are not convinced, but, then, they never are . . . And then George Ware boards a plane bound for Prague. He carries only a small suitcase; all his necessary clothes and other items are waiting for him. There is a mysterious smile on George Ware’s face during the flight. It is as if he listens to distant music, or reviews a distant memory in his mind. Far away. Floating away over the clouds that pass by outside the window . . . And in Prague, he takes a taxi to a hostel in the traditionally Jewish part of town, there to retrieve his costume, his change of clothes, and the Czech Republic money he has secreted in a sock. A nod to the hostel owner and then he’s off, through the crooked, narrow streets, until he reaches an expanse of green dominated by a large multi-colored tent, worn and tattered, surrounded by trucks and cars. He has reached the winter quarters of the Svankmejer Circus. He breaks into a run as he sees old comrades, old friends, and as they meet hugs them fiercely. For the next month, he will travel with them through Eastern Europe as their knife-thrower, juggler extraordinaire, and, as the situation demands it, barker and clown. It’s true it all started as a business trip and a drunken tour of bars in Prague a decade before. A chance meeting. A ringmaster. The words, “I have a proposal,” which George Ware had heard so many times before, but not in this context. And now: a month of living on the move, with the slightest inflection of danger and intrigue, conversations until three in the morning about all manner of subjects, sojourns to half-forgotten towns in sleepy valleys or near the tops of mountains. Sometimes George Ware is not sure which of his two lives is the secret life. He is not sure he should examine the question too closely.

THE SECRET LIFE OF
    RICHARD MAYFIELD
    Richard Mayfield is a teacher and book collector who lives in Kentucky. He has a Maine Coon Cat named Ash who lives under the sink during the day. (Richard thinks that Ash tolerates no other cats, but everything depends on context and self-knowledge.) When Richard comes back from teaching—always taking time to admire his book collection when he comes in the door—Ash comes out from under the sink, shakes herself, meows, and gives Richard the look of “Where’s my food?” Except, one day in the near future, Ash will come out from under the sink, shake herself, meow, give Richard the look of “Where’s my food?”, and say, “You’ve got to get that leak fixed, Richard. I can’t stand one more day of having my head soaked.” To which Richard will reply with a deafening silence, relieved only by the sound of the bag of groceries he is holding sliding out of his hands and crashing onto the floor . . . Ash gives Richard yet another look. “Try to get a grip. Now, the sink can wait, but the rest of it can’t. Put your shoes back on—we’re going back outside.” “Okay,” Richard says. “Okay, Ash,” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say. He reviews his memory of the past week, the past month, the past year, because this all seems so normal that it must have happened before. But he can’t think when it might have happened before . . . Outside, he follows Ash into the backyard and then through the woods to a clearing. Was there a forest here before? Was there a clearing? Richard is more than a little muddled in his thinking. He can’t remember if this is the first time he’s seen all of this or if it’s always been there. “C’mon, Richard,” Ash says, looking over her shoulder at her owner. “You can move faster than that. We’re going to be late.” “Late for . . . for what?” Richard manages to ask. Ash gives him a cat grin, wrinkles