Calamity Jayne Rides Again (27 page)

Bobo moved toward me. The crowd below had grown to include the dude on stilts who walks around the fair, the vampire boy from
the freak show with real honest-to-goodness fangs, Tattoo Teddy from the same freak show, little Johnny, a new T. Rex balloon
clutched in one chubby hand, and his two unforgiving parents.

Bobo took a couple more steps in my direction. He was only about five feet from me. I looked down the long slide, accurately
assessed that it constituted my only avenue of escape, sat down, and thrust myself forward. Of course, I'd completely neglected
to allow for the no-mat factor, or the fact that I was wearing short shorts. The slide seared the back of my thighs like a
hot iron as I whipped down it, slowing my speed and hurting like heck. I put my knees up so only my T-shirt and denim-clad
butt made contact with the slide and my speed increased. I flew the remainder of the way down.

I didn't need to turn to ascertain that Bobo was still giving chase. The reaction of the crowd and chants of "Bobo!" were
enough to convince me to pick myself up as fast as I could and keep on truckin'.

I got to my feet and ran toward the crowd, hoping to lose myself in it. As I flew through the people, my fanny pack caught
on the string of little Johnny's new dino balloon, ripping it out of his hand.

"My balloon! My balloon!" Little Johnny screamed, but I didn't take time to look back. (I do catch on eventually.) I cut through
the back of the midway rides, trying to head for the back side of the Emporium.

I bobbed and weaved and darted in and out of concessions and tents, but for the life of me (ho, ho, ho) I simply could not
lose Bobo the psycho. He stalked me more efficiently that I stalk the shoe-store shelves after getting my income tax refund.

I ran past the kiddie cars and the swings. Flew past the airplanes and octopus. I sprinted out of the midway and ended up
by the restrooms in back of the frontier town and Old West Show. Music was playing, and the last performance of the show was
in progress. I caught my breath for a second, thinking I'd finally lost Bobo, when I saw him step out from a row of cars parked
near the carnival trailers. I frowned. With his tracking skills, this guy should be with a government security agency.

"Look, Mommy! T. Rex!"

I stared at a little blond girl with two front teeth missing who had just come out of the restroom with her mother, and followed
the direction of her pointing finger. There, above my head, was little Johnny's dinosaur balloon bobbing and bouncing like
a blinkin' beacon for all the world—and any psycho clowns—to see—and follow. I pulled the string from the latch of my fanny
pack and handed it to the girl.

"Here," I said, patting her head. "You take it."

She looked up at her mother, who nodded and then took the balloon.

"Thank you," she said. And I smiled, praying the little girl and her mum didn't run into little Johnny and his folks before
they left the fairgrounds.

Bobo, meanwhile, had not given up. He picked up his pace now that the girl and her mother had moved away, and so I took off
again, deciding that the John wasn't a real safe place to hide. I ran toward the back of the stage, where the Wild West Show
performed a goofy version of a gunfight each year. I hadn't had the opportunity to take in this year's production yet.

Bobo was gaining on me, my last lengthy run having been prompted by the discovery of a dead guy some weeks back. The fair
foods I'd indulged in didn't help matters. I noticed a short set of stairs with a door at the top, and took them three at
a time. I yanked the door open and stepped onto the front porch of the Last Chance Saloon. Talk about prophetic.

"And I'm tellin' you, she's my woman!"

"She's mine! And I'll kill the varmint who says otherwise!"

I walked straight from a horror novel into a Wild West romantic triangle. Out on Main Street, a cowboy in white—presumably
the good guy—faced a mustachioed outlaw in black. The "she" they were presently fighting over was leaning on the rail outside
the jail. The woman was wearing a veil, and I suspected an interrupted-wedding plot. It was as overdone as the cowboy-and-the-baby
stories you see in romances. (All right, all right, I admit it. I'm still a sucker for those baby books. They just tug at
your heartstrings, don't they?)

"If that's what it takes," the guy in the white hat said.

"Whenever you're ready," the outlaw replied. "If you got the guts." Personally, I was rooting for the outlaw. He was the hotter
of the two.

The cowboys circled each other for a moment before the veiled lady suddenly ran by me and down off the stage, pausing briefly
as she swept by. She threw herself between the two cowboys.

"Please!" she begged the outlaw. "Please! I love him." She moved to the hero and put her head over his heart. "If you kill
him, you'll have to kill me, too."

Mesmerized by the play in spite of its over-the-top hokeyness, I failed to hear the creak of the back stairs until it was
almost too late. I shoved my back against the door and grabbed the knob so the clown couldn't gain access. I braced myself
against the door, my fanny pressed flat. He pushed. My butt and I resisted. He twisted the doorknob. I held firm.

It was only after several minutes passed that I realized the actors out front had stopped acting and, along with their audience,
were looking expectantly at the door.

Somebody on the other side pounded on the door.

"That's my cue! Let me in!" I heard.

I looked over at the hunky cowboy, and he nodded his head urgently at me.

I hesitated, then opened the door a slit, and it burst open. A hillbilly-type, shirtless, with bib overalls and a long beard,
with a hayseed stuck in his mouth, gave me a dirty look and bellowed, "She cain't marry either of you! 'Cause she's already
married to me!"

All three actors out front performed an exaggerated gasp, and the hillbilly moved down the stairs. I followed him to stand
at the top of the steps, wondering how this romantic coil was going to work out.

"Come along, Sadie. The carnival sideshow is fixin' to move to the next town."

"Carnival?" Sadie's two suitors replied as one.

The hillbilly nodded. "Sadie here is their biggest attraction. Aren't you, Sadie?"

The hillbilly husband reached out and yanked the veil from her head. "May I present my wife, Sagebrush Sadie!" he announced.

The cowboys acted stunned.

Sadie rushed to her hillbilly husband and into his arms. "Take me home, Harold," she said. "Home to our sideshow."

Music started to play and the four actors out front began to sing and square dance to the tune of "Sagebrush Sadie," the famous
bearded lady.

Before I knew what was happening, the outlaw actor grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs, twirling me around like
I was one of the actors. Good thing I know a little Texas two-step. I was whirled and twirled and passed between the hero
and the outlaw like a hot potato in a church picnic contest. Finally the music wound down and the finale was over. Or so I
thought. Just as the last of the music faded, the outlaw grabbed me and hauled me over his shoulder.

"This little filly's mine," he said, with a loud yee-haw and a firm swat on my behind.

"What the hell is this?" I asked him from my perch on his shoulder.

"Improvisation," he replied. "Improvisation."

I shook my head. Actors.

CHAPTER 23

I awoke around seven a.m., staring at a ceiling not all that far above me, and thought about the events of the night before.
I'd managed to make it back to the trailer unmolested, choosing to attach myself to a group of folks my parents' age who were
returning to the fairgrounds from the rock 'n' roll concert. I tried to visualize my folks giggling and crooning "My Boyfriend's
Back" to each other, but only got static and white snow.

After taking bows for my not-ready-for-primetime acting debut the previous night, I'd hung with the crowd until I was safely
at the State Patrol headquarters, where I spilled my guts, along with the contents of my fanny pack, to the officer on duty.

"I can't imagine what Bobo wanted," I'd told him.

The same sergeant who'd been unfortunate enough to process me the time before looked across the counter at me. "Cash, maybe?"

I snorted. "I've got eight dollars on me and it's not even mine," I said. "Besides, this guy lured me to the Olde Mill on
purpose. He wanted something only I have."

The sergeant seemed to give my less-than-bountiful chest a once-over and apparently decided that wasn't the source of Bobo's
interest.

"And you're sure it wasn't your cousin?" the officer asked again.

I nodded. "I've hit Frankie in the nose before and heard his grunt of pain. This was definitely not the same nose—or the same
grunt. Besides, from what I've heard they employ a passel of Bobos in order to fill three shifts of insult-hurling and episodic
dunking. So, who's to know how many Bobos are running around at one given time and who they all are?"

"I see you have a key ring. Is it possible that the individual was trying to get your keys?" He fingered the keys that were
clearly marked for the Emporium and the mini-freeze. "Perhaps to facilitate a break-in?"

"Wow!" I said. "You're good!"

The cop rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll file an attempted-assault report," he said, "but the best advice I can give you,
since it appears you are a target, is not to go anywhere by yourself. If you
must
work alone, have a phone handy to call for help. Be aware of your surroundings."

"I don't suppose you have any troopers who would hire out as off-duty security for the rest of the fair and agree to be paid
in ice cream bars and beef burgers?" I asked.

The sergeant looked at me over the top of his glasses.

"I didn't think so," I replied, and left.

I thought about the officer's advisory not to work alone if possible, and knew I was scheduled for the mini-freeze from opening
'til three today. Who could I count on to baby-sit me for those seven hours who wouldn't drive me so crazy I'd want to get
the Swiffer sweeper out and club them?

"Tressa, get up! Frank wants to know if you want a ride to the mini-freeze on his golf cart. He says to tell you he's taking
off in fifteen minutes, and if you don't want to get soaked, be ready."

I sat up and hit my head. "Soaked?"

"It's rainin' cats and dogs and earthworms," Gram stated. "I knew it was fixin' to rain last night. My knee joints gave me
fits. Thank goodness I brought my Gay Ben."

I chuckled. Apparently, the joint pain reliever was now officially Gay Ben. My family is so weird.

I slid to the floor below and stretched. "It had to rain sometime. It's held off so long, the midway was starting to make
an armpit smell good," I said.

I cleaned up, dressed, braided my hair quickly, and grabbed the camera off the charger and my keys from the counter and the
red fanny pack.

"Where on earth did you get that?" Gram asked, seeing me secure the pack to my waist. The waistpack had proven its worth to
me the night before, and we were now joined at the hip—in a manner of speaking. "Has Abby Winegardner been sneakin' around
up here without me knowin'?"

I shook my head. "I found it in the back of the closet," I told her. "Aren't you sorry you accused Mrs. Winegardner of taking
it?"

Gram looked at me and then walked over and bent down to look. "That's not my pack," she said. "Mine was a lighter red. More
of an apple red than a tomato," she said.

"What's the difference?" I asked. "And this is too your fanny pack, because I found your spearmint gum and mints in it. Plus
eight dollars and odd cents."

"I tell you that is not my fanny pack," she insisted. "I should know my own fanny pack when I see it."

I raised my eyebrows, reminding myself that someday my own granddaughter would have to deal with me.

"Okay, Gram. It's not yours. That's cool. I wouldn't want to take it if it was yours. Not to mention the eight bucks."

I could see the battle within her: admit it was her pack and pocket the bread, or continue blaming her enemy, Abigail Winegardner?

"Thank you, Tressa. I know I'm old, but I do recognize my own property." Old animosities won out, and I was the richer for
it.

I grabbed a poncho from the coat hook, headed next door to fill in Uncle Frank about Clown Chase Part Two from last night,
and told him I needed to make one more short stop before we headed down to the fair. Next I found myself rapping on Joe's
trailer, wondering if asking Townsend to come along was like asking Lester the Molester to baby-sit for your kindergartner.
I hoped it wasn't too early and the two men were dressed. Well, at least Joe. Townsend could be in dishabille and that would
work for me.

The door opened, and I about fell off the porch.

"Taylor?" My sis peered at me through sleepy eyes and swept her silky brown hair over one shoulder. She looked as if she'd
just gotten out of bed. "What are you doing here?" I asked, rain pouring down my poncho and into my leather sandals.

The door opened wider. "Tressa? Get in here. You're soaked." Rick Townsend, shirtless and also looking like he'd just woke
up, reached around my sister and opened the screen door.

I felt my insides twist and turn like the taffy makers outside the air-conditioned industry building.

"No thanks!" I hissed, adding as much
screw you and the horse you rode in on
to my voice as I could, and hoping it was enough for Taylor and Townsend to split evenly. "Is your granddad home?" I asked.

Townsend frowned. "What do you want with him?"

"That is none of your business," I snapped.

"He's
my
grandfather," Townsend replied, his jaw suddenly rigid. "That makes it my business."

"Well, howdy-do, Tressa!" Joe said, walking out of what I figured was the bathroom. "What brings you here today?"

"I was just asking her that same question myself, Pops," Townsend said, "and I'm still waiting for her answer."

I crossed my arms under my poncho, wanting instead to encircle his two-timing neck with them.

"Joe," I said, completely dismissing Townsend and my dear sister, who had moved across the room to sit in a chair, "I was
wondering if you'd care to earn a bit of money today."

"What the hell?" Townsend said.

"You see, we've really been doing some booming business at the mini-freeze, and I could use some extra help there," I told
him. "Just until three or so. And you can take breaks whenever you need them."

"Sold!" Joe said. "Hannah and I've been itching to help out, but no one has asked," he admitted. "We may not be in our prime,
but we've got lots to offer."

I made a face, realizing that very shortly I was going to reap what I'd sown with my big, fat mouth.

"Great!" I said, my smile as phony as Townsend's ethics. "Uncle Frank is going to run us down on his golf cart. We'll swing
by and pick you up. Don't forget your raincoat and umbrella." I turned to head down the slippery stairs.

"Tressa!" Townsend stuck his head out the door. "About Taylor—I can explain."

I looked at the water trickling down over his head and face. I shook my head. "You're all wet, Townsend," I said, and left.

* * *

"And then Victor was married to this blind gal—what was her name? And there was the deranged blonde who tried to kill him.
She left and came back again. Just when you think they're dead, they come back. I remember one soap star who died three times
and came back from the dead every time. Couldn't make it in films, I guess."

I had listened to my grandmother and Joe discuss everything from the best gas reducer on the market to how many plastic surgeries
a pop star had undergone to betting on when his nose would finally fall off. They were currently collaborating on how many
soap opera vasec-tomies hadn't taken. I was actually beginning to wish the clown would appear and put me out of my misery.

For the last several hours, I'd whipped up sundaes and splits and floats, and fumed about Taylor and Townsend. How dare they...
what? Have a relationship? They were both adults. Great-looking, smart, sexy adults. One just happened to be four years younger
than the other, who was old enough to know better. I looked over at Gram.

"What time did Taylor come to bed?" I asked her. "I was so tired, I didn't hear her come in."

Gram shrugged. "She was there one minute and gone the next. All I know is that when I was up at midnight to use the pot the
first time, she was gone. And she didn't come back."

Joe looked in my direction but couldn't meet my eyes.

"Joe?" I asked.

"I don't know nothing. Honest. I was out like a light by eleven."

"Where does your grandson sleep?" I asked. "With you?"

He shook his head. "Says I rub my legs together too much. Bothers his sleep. He uses the pull-out in the living room."

I nodded. "Do you have any other beds?" I asked.

Joe nodded. "We got the same setup as your folks. And one of the chairs in the living room converts to a small bed."

Dang. I should have stepped in to check out the chair.

"Was the chair pulled out when you got up this morning?" I asked.

"Why the big interest in Joe's sleeping arrangements?" Gram asked.

"She wants to know if my grandson and your granddaughter slept together last night," Joe said. "That's why all the interest."

"Wouldn't Tressa know if she'd slept with your grandson?" Gram asked. "Unless she was drunk. You didn't tie one on, did you?"
Gram asked me.

"Not yet," I answered, mentally penciling in a time and date to tie one on. And soon.

"Not this granddaughter, Hannah," Joe told her. "Your other granddaughter. Taylor."

Gram looked at me, and even she couldn't keep eye contact. "Oh," was all she said. "I remember on one soap opera, this girl
was slipped a mickey and ended up sleeping with the brother of her husband, and she never knew it until she got pregnant and
the DNA test came back."

I opened the ice cream spigot and let ice cream pour into a large cup, then ladled on a generous amount of hot fudge, followed
by a handful of nuts.

"Who's that for?" Joe asked.

I sat down and dug in.

"Oh," was all he said.

"You wouldn't let me explain, Tressa." Townsend paced the confines of the emporium near midnight. At first I'd had no intention
of accepting the ranger's help with the stakeout, but ultimately decided that the least he owed me was to make good on his
promise. And I was rarin' for a showdown with the Conservation Casanova.

I pretended I was busy cleaning the grill. (Actually, Uncle Frank had left it so clean you could see your reflection in it).

"There's really nothing to explain. You and Taylor are both adults beyond the age of consent." I stopped for a minute, as
if counting in my head. "Yeah, yeah, Taylor is definitely over the age of consent, despite the difference in your ages," I
went on.

Townsend shook his head. "You are the most exasperating person on the face of the planet," he said.

"You do say the nicest things, Townsend. I can see how Taylor was beguiled by that sweet-talking tongue of yours."

"Shit!" Townsend said, and dropped onto a stool at the counter.

"I hear you're signed up for the demolition derby again," he said out of the blue. I guessed my grammy had gabbed again. I've
been a competitor in the powder puff division—the female class of the demo derby— since I first got my driver's license. It's
one of the few places where crashing into other people's cars is not only acceptable, but applauded. Even bet on. Like, what
could be cooler?

Unfortunately, I also knew Townsend's opinion of the sport he called, "Rock 'em, sock 'em, real-life bumper cars."

"We don't have a car lined up yet, but Uncle Frank always comes up with a jalopy," I said. "It's tradition."

Townsend shook his head. "I thought after last year you'd hang up your helmet and goggles for good."

At last year's event I'd ticked off the Maluchi cousins, whose family ran several alcohol-free daiquiri stands. The cousins
had tag-teamed me, turning my car into a squeeze box. It took two hours and the jaws of life to extricate me.

"That was nothing," I said. "Besides, it's great PR for Uncle Frank." We always slapped a bunch of signs and ads all over
the derby car each year. "It's a total hoot and perfectly harmless," I added.

Townsend grimaced. "Fun or not, it's unnecessary risk-taking," he said.

I turned and folded my arms. "Like moose-hunting in Canada maybe?" I asked.

"Apples and oranges, T. J.," he said. "Apples and oranges."

I made a face. "Yeah, right," I said, then picked up a broom and started to sweep the spic and span floor. "Because it's you,
not me, that's why. You hunt. That's who you are. You keep a reptile ranch. That's who you are. And I do—well, I do what I
do—because maybe that's who I am. Why can't you accept that?"

Townsend looked at me for a long moment. "I don't know," he finally said. "I really don't know."

How convenient, I thought, and put the broom away and grabbed my sleeping bag, too crabby to do much of anything other than
call it a night.

"Where's your bag?" I asked.

He frowned at me. "You didn't tell me to bring a sleeping bag. And why would I have a sleeping bag when I sleep in an RV?"

"So, like, what are you gonna sleep on?" Even for a hardhead like Townsend, the floor would be uncomfortable.