More Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse (13 page)

The last rays of the sun spread over the
carnival. Tentacles of gold. Clara turned back to the sky blue
trailer just in time to see Mr. Green's orange blazer follow an
elderly couple past the painted clouds. Why oh why do they falling
for that spiel? Green came outside and walked quickly back to the
midway. Clara watched his eyes through the telephoto lens and noted
the moment his eyes locked onto someone. Yes, there he goes.

Another elderly couple. Showing them his
clipboard. The woman shook her head. Good for you! But her husband
- no! Clara could imagine what he was saying.
"Let's just go see
what he has to say, dear. We don't have to actually buy
anything."

The sucker's motto.

And there they go, Frank Green with his arm
around the man's shoulders like a python, the wife frowning,
following close behind.
Surely this must be illegal
.
Disappearing into the trailer between the Rastafarian Ring Toss and
the Easy Winnin's Basketball Throw.

"Comin' through, comin' through!"

His voice rose over the din. He rushed past
the elderly couple and Mr. Green. They jumped back against the ring
toss. Clara followed the cart man with her camera. Zoomed in on the
bags. With the sun all but gone, they were cloaked in shadow, save
for the multi-colored flashes of light thrown on them by the midway
rides.

The light sparkling on the black bags made
them appear to shift within the cart. Made them -

What was that?

She followed the swift motion of the cart as
best as she could, focusing on a bag in the corner of the cart, and
there was - there was –

A face pressed against the plastic, the
mouth open in a frozen scream, the bag sculpting tightly to the
lips trying to fill the mouth.

No, that couldn't -

The cart stopped moving. Stopped before
disappearing between the booths on the other side. Clara lowered
her camera. The man who'd been pushing the cart stood there now,
looking up at the Ferris wheel.

Clara lifted the camera to her eye and
zoomed in on him. Her heart clawed its way up her throat.

He's looking at me.

Looking right at me. Smiling. He's –

He pointed at her.

His smile widened. He turned his hand over,
palm up, and curled his index finger in. Straightened it. Curled it
in again.
Come here
.

Clara let the camera drop to her chest. She
pushed herself back to the opposite side of the gondola. The car
swung. She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow.

I didn't see that. I did not see that.

She slowly slid back to the other side and
forced herself to look. The cart man was no longer there. She
looked beyond the booths. More trailers.

There. Outside of one of the trailers sat an
empty cart. The trailer's shell was painted black. Bright orange
and red flames surrounded the door. The trailer shook violently on
its footings.

Clara's hands squeezed the gondola's edges
so tight that it was hard to pull them away. She had to get
off.

She looked down at Cowboy.

And he looked back at her. He talked into a
cell phone, his eyes locked on her.

Clara sat back. Stared absently at the bench
opposite her.

What's gotten into you? It's just a trick of
the lights.

But the cart guy -

So? Probably just fooling around. Thought
it'd be fun to give an old lady a heart attack.
And maybe
Cowboy is concerned is all. Maybe he's on the phone right now with
his superiors telling them an old lady is trapped up top.

That's all. That's all he's doing.

But she had to look. Just look. Once
more.

She forced herself to look back down. Cowboy
was back at the control box. She looked at the black trailer with
the flames encircling the door. It sat still and quiet. She scanned
the midway for the man with the cart. He was nowhere to be
found.

And then she saw Clifford shuffling slowly
down the length of the midway.

Clara leaned out of the gondola, waved and
yelled. "Clifford, up here!"

But he was too far away to hear her over the
racket of midway rides, rock and roll, and the patter of
carnies.

Damn it, can't they fix this thing?

She peered down at the group of teenagers.
They passed a cigarette back and forth between them. An empty vodka
bottle lay at their feet. She turned her attention back to the
midway and tried to relocate Clifford in the crowd.

She spotted him. A man in an orange blazer
had his arm around his shoulders, a clipboard held in front of him.
Frank Green.

Clara watched. Brought the camera up to her
face. Zoomed in.

Tell him you're not interested. Tell him you
don't have time for this. Tell him you're looking for your wife.
Clifford. Clifford?

Clifford nodded at the brochure.

No, Cliff!

He had that look in his eyes, the same look
he had when he signed them up for a timeshare in Miami. How many
times had they gone?

Once. In twelve years. The most expensive
week they'd ever spent.

Just say no, Clifford. Please say no.

They started walking toward the booths,
Frank Green leading her husband like he was helping a lost boy find
his mother.

She called out once more, her hands cupped
around her mouth. "Clifford Dwight Bailey!"

It was no use. Clifford walked with Mr.
Green to the sky blue trailer. Green ushered her husband inside.
The trailer door shut behind them.

Clara shook her head.
Please don't sign
anything
. But she knew her husband. Once he bought into the
initial come-on, he was a goner. Green probably had him at ‘It'll
only take a moment.’

What was he selling? What dreams? What
lies?

Shades were pulled over the trailer's
windows. The glow behind them intensified briefly, dimmed, and
intensified again, as if electricity surged through the many cables
snaking along the ground.

The shades went dark.

She saw the cart behind the trailer. A door
opened in the back. Two full black garbage bags were tossed into
it. The door closed. The cart man pushed the cart away from the
trailer, gaining speed as he hit the midway.

From the top of the Ferris wheel, over the
shrieks of laughter, the music blaring crazily over dozens of
loudspeakers, she heard the cart man shout, "Comin' through. Comin'
through."

And she swore she could see in the glare of
the multi-colored light bulbs flashing in syncopated rhythms,
reflecting off the dense black bags - she swore she could see the
flash of a face pressed up against the black plastic.

Clifford?

She lifted the camera and zoomed in on the
bags as close as she could.

Clifford's face. Pressed against the bags.
His mouth open in a scream, his lips moving slowly, and my God, my
God,
Clifford
-

With a violent lurch, the Ferris wheel
moved. Clara barely felt it as it rotated once again, the giant
axis screaming with effort. She barely registered the brief stops
as passengers got off below her. Barely registered a thing until
the door of the gondola opened with a crack, and there was Cowboy
grinning at her, his face red and sweaty under the bright carnival
lights. But instead of letting her out, he climbed in with her and
shut the door. He motioned toward the control box. Someone else had
stepped in for him. The wheel began to turn.

He leaned forward. "Ma'am," he said, shaking
his head, adjusting his cowboy hat. "Believe me, it's not what you
think. You're not seeing the
whole picture
."

Clara stared, her face as blank as
chalk.

"So you saw a few things you weren't
supposed to. Things that might just give you the wrong idea about
us. I saw that camera of yours, the telephoto lens - I could see
your mind turning, putting two and two together, and believe me,
ma'am - it don't equal four."

"Please. Let me off this thing. I'm getting
sick."

"Hell, this is the first time the Ferris
wheel's broken down since I've been here, and I've been here a long
damn time. A part broke is all. But we replaced it. Simple as that.
Replace the parts that need replacing, and I guarantee, this'll run
another three, four years with no problem."

Clara felt helpless. Weak. Old.

"All I want is an understanding between us.
I want to hear you tell me you don't know exactly what it is you
saw. And better yet, that you don't care about what you saw. I want
that assurance. You follow me, ma'am? I need that assurance."

Clara watched the carnival grounds rise and
fall as the Ferris wheel continued to turn. She blinked, her
eyelids sore and heavy. She looked wearily up at Cowboy.

"I don't know what I saw," she said. She
took a weak breath. "I don't care about what I saw." She had to say
it. If she didn't, she figured the ride might keep on turning until
she was too old to stand, too old to speak.

Cowboy studied her face. He nodded. Looked
up at the sky. Whistled. "It sure is a beautiful night."

He gave a wave to the man at the controls,
and the wheel soon ground to a squeaky stop. "Ma'am," he said. He
helped Clara to her feet and escorted her off the ride.

She wandered aimlessly down the midway, the
screams of people, of gears turning, the smell of horse manure all
mixing together, assaulting her mind with sensations. When she
reached the center of the midway she stopped. Looked to her left
and right.

This was where he crossed. Right here. If
he wants to cross again, he's going to have to run me down, because
I'm not moving a goddamn inch
.

She closed her eyes. Stood resolutely. The
carneys’ chatter, the laughter and shrieks of children, the squeak
of metal, the electrical sizzle of bumper cars. She could hear it
all, smell it all. Taste and feel it all. Right here. Right at this
spot. It was as if she stood on a giant heart pumping the carnival
out in all directions. She felt all the memories she'd had as a
child fly out of her head, could almost see each thought catapult
away and stick to the booths, the rides, the carnies, as if the
carnival consumed her, fed off the remnants of her childhood. She
waited there, at the carnival's equator, the carnival's soul, where
the man –

–
"Comin' through. Comin'
through."

–
hurried back and forth with his cart
full of - of -

Clifford?

My God, there he was. Standing not more than
thirty feet away, rubbing the back of his neck, looking a bit
bewildered at all the lights and commotion.

Clara ran to her husband, the man with the
cart missing her by mere inches. She threw her arms around him and
let her tears flow warmly onto his cheek.

"Oh God, Clifford . I thought - "

She felt something rough below his chin. She
ran her fingers over it. She felt Clifford tense.

Stitches ran in a rough circle around his
neck, dots of blood seeping through the thick thread. She felt more
stitches running along his shoulder blades and across his back.

"Clifford."

"It's all right, Clara. They guaranteed me
five more years.
At least
five more years. We'll have so
much fun together. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Clara's grip loosened on her husband. She
felt something else. Something hidden beneath the fabric of his
shirt. Her hand trembled as she reached between two of his
buttons.

Clifford stepped back.

"What are those for?" Clara asked.

Clifford's eyes sparkled with a newfound
vigor. "With your health and all, they can guarantee you at least
another
ten
years."

She watched the midway lights shine and
dance on the black plastic exposed between Clifford's buttons, the
rest of which was hidden behind his shirt, held against his
chest.

"I promise it won't hurt," Clifford said.
"The important thing is crossing the heart of the midway. Just one
trip across is all."

Clara stood staring at the man who was once
her husband, the black bags folded against him aching to be filled
with her.

"Ten years at least," he said. "Guaranteed.
Won't it be nice to know? Won't it be nice to
know?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

Dale adjusted his glasses and concentrated
on the road, or at least what he saw of it. The snow didn’t fall so
much as slam dance on the windshield. It blew up, down, sideways
and in circles creating disorienting, hypnotic patterns. It was
hard to focus. Hard not to stare at the big, thick flakes, his eyes
having a hard time seeing beyond their white lunacy.

“
Can’t you step on it a bit?” Linda
asked.

The posted speed limit was sixty-five mph,
but he’d be damned if he took it over forty. Not in these
conditions. “Do
you
want to drive in this crap?” Dale
replied.

“
Do you
want
me to
drive?”

“
Ha,” Dale said. “No.” It was a
four-lane divided highway. That helped a little bit.

Linda sighed. “Tshh,” she said. Her usual
off-putting response.

The taillights of a van materialized a short
distance ahead through the swirling wall of snow. It crept along
much slower than Dale. He tightened his grip on the wheel,
signaled, and eased into the left lane. The wheels skidded for a
heart-stopping second or two, but then regained the road. Dale
squinted, forcing his focus through the snow and finally passed the
van in what felt like two eternities. Only after putting the van
some distance behind them, did he let out his breath and loosen his
grip. But only slightly.

“
This is the longest ride of my life,”
Linda said.