The Circus in Winter (22 page)

The pinball machines were unreliable and acted cranky every so often; the rental company had promised to send out a serviceman who'd never showed. "There you are," Earl said, handing over a quarter from his stack. "What's your name, son?"

"Macho," the boy said, smiling a smile without many teeth.

Earl laughed. "What's his name?" he asked, pointing to another boy standing nearby.

"Fuzz. My sister is Peaches." The boy closed his hand around the quarter. "Thank you, Boss Man," he said and ran back into the game room.

His father grunted. "Who the hell would name a boy Fuzz."

Earl shrugged. "They keep their real names secret, for protection." Earl's father grunted again.

Thirty seconds later, Earl found himself surrounded by ten children, all of whom said the machines had taken their quarters. "Trust me for a quarter," a little girl said. "My daddy beat me if I ask for another."

Shit,
Earl thought. "Joey!" he yelled, "Get in here!" The children stood with their hands out, palms up, their eyes enormously brown. "No more free games," Earl said, trying to sound stern and in charge.

"But you gave him a free game," a pudgy girl said, "and he lies. I no lie, Boss Man."

Joey stepped into the camp store, his eyes small slits, his face red. "Whaddaya mean, you don't lie. I saw you in there playing just a second ago, and it was working fine."

A teenage boy in a blue T-shirt stepped up. "My sister is no liar."

Peggy hung up the phone and stood beside Earl. "If you want to play the games, you have to take the risk."

"Yeah," Joey said, looking right at the gypsy boy.

Earl raised his hands. "Okay, Joey, why don't you go on out and get the garbage. Pop," Earl said, "would you check the pool for me?" The children gave up asking for quarters and ran back into the game room. Looking out the window, Earl watched the blue-shirted gypsy boy peel out of the driveway on his quad runner. Joey followed, humming along at a fast clip in the golf cart.

Earl wanted to make sure Joey wasn't getting himself into any trouble, but his father called to him from outside. "Earl, you'd better come take a look at this." Walking around the A-frame, Earl saw the problem. The pool was packed with bobbing gypsies. A man pulled himself out of the water, his clothes shining wet and clinging to his dark skin. He yelled and did a cannonball that sent a spray of water all over the cement. The water level was down a couple of inches already. "Guess I need to put more water in the pool," Earl said.

Earl's father shook his head. "Why don't they wear bathing suits for godssake."

"Something about it being against their religion. Unclean. That's why they don't touch us, either."

"They're sure making the pool unclean, damn dirty wops."

"Dad, they aren't Italian. They're from India. By way of Europe." Earl knew he'd only corrected half of what was wrong with his father's statement, but he'd given up trying to correct the other part. Earl counted himself lucky that at least he'd gotten his father to stop saying "nigger" around Joey. He said "negro" instead.

"What's the word for somebody from India, then?"

Earl sighed. "Indian, I guess."

"If I was you, I'd tell them to hit the road. We're missing two buckets of pancake batter." In the distance, they heard a crashing sound and the whine of a motor revving too fast. "The golf cart," Earl said, already running toward the Frisbee golf course. Behind him, Earl heard the keys and change in his father's pockets jangling as he tried to keep up. When Earl trotted up to the first hole, Joey was climbing out of a ditch. Down below, the mangled golf cart sat smoking.

"Are you okay," Earl asked, bending over, breathing hard.

"Goddammit," Joey said, "he ran me right into the woods!" A cut over Joey's eye dripped blood down his face and onto his T-shirt. Earl handed him a handkerchief from his back pocket. "The big mouth from the store. On the quad runner. He ran me into the ditch." Then Joey looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Dad. I think I totaled the cart, but it wasn't my fault."

"Don't give me that shit, Joey. You were racing him."

Earl's father arrived, pale and breathing hard. "It wasn't his fault," he said. "The gypsy kid didn't have to get so rough."

"He still shouldn't have been fooling around," Earl said. "Get on up to the house and have your mother look at that cut. We'll talk about this later." Holding the handkerchief to his head, Joey dragged his feet in the gravel. Earl walked to the edge of the ditch where his father now stood. "Probably should just leave it down there for the time being. Don't know how to fix it even if I do get it out of there."

Earl's father threw a rock into the ditch. "How much one of them things run?"

"I don't know, but I'll bet they're not cheap."

"You should make them gypsies pay for part of it at least."

In silence, Earl and his father turned and walked toward the A-frame, past the gypsy section. The campers were arranged in rings, facing into the campfires. Clotheslines, strung from every tree, sagged with wet towels and clothes. The smell of cooked meat hung in the air. The king got up from his lawn chair. "What happen, Boss Man?" the king called out.

Earl kicked the gravel. "My son ran our cart into a ditch."

"One of yours ran him into the ditch," his father said, "if the truth be told."

The king shook his head. "Oh, no. I know this boy. He good boy."

"Like hell," Earl's father said. "That golf cart was an important piece of equipment. I think you owe my son for the damage. It's only fair."

"I don't think so, Boss Man."

Earl's father stepped forward, his chest inches from the king. "I
do
think so, or do we have to call the police to come out here and have a look-see?" He spoke right into the king's face. "Understand, Cochise?"

The king lit a cigarette and reached into his back pocket. He looked at Earl's father, then at Earl. "Okay, Boss Man. You right. We pay." He peeled two hundreds from the roll and held them out.

Earl knew his earlobes were red. "Thanks," he said, taking the bills and walking away. They felt damp in his hand, and he stuffed them in his back pocket. Earl felt queasy and sluggish, as if something inside was squeezing his stomach and heart.

His dad followed. "That gypsy kid deserves a good ass whupping, if you ask me. Joey wouldn't be getting in so much trouble if you tanned his hide once in a while." Earl remembered well how handy his father had been with a yardstick and belt. His father stopped walking and touched his arm. "Son, these people are no good. This is probably one of the only places that'll take them, and you're being more than fair just by letting them stay here. But hell, they're taking everything they can off you."

"Don't you think I know that, Dad?" Earl tried to keep his voice level. "But we're making more money this week than we would have in a whole month. We need that money, or we're going to have to move." Earl pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Twenty years of smoking, and he still didn't like to do it in front of his father, but he needed one bad. "Just let me handle things the way I think's best." Earl knew his tone sounded disrespectful and ungrateful, but he couldn't help it.

"Maybe your mom and I should go on home."

"Maybe you should," Earl said.

"Fine. You're the boss," his father said, turning his back and walking away. A few minutes later, Earl heard his parents' Oldsmobile hustling down the driveway, rocks pinging, spraying gravel from the tires.

 

THE NEXT MORNING
, Peggy and Earl got up at daybreak to clean the game room. Earl found a cigarette burn on the green felt of the pool table. A june bug buzzed around the fluorescent lights. Joey was filling the pool and dumping gallons of chlorine into the water. He walked in to tell them that the levels were way off. "It's probably not safe to swim. Should we close the pool?" he asked.

"If we did, they'd probably swim anyway," Peggy said, dropping beer bottles into the garbage with a clank. "Just make sure it's filled up and keep dumping in chlorine."

A cloud of gravel dust hung over the driveway; the gypsies came and went day and night, but through the haze, Earl saw his parents' Oldsmobile coming toward them, even though he'd expected his dad to stay home and pout all day. His mom got out with an armful of the baskets she wove in her art and crafts class. "It's going to be a hot one today," she said, walking into the store. "These people will buy anything just to be buying. Thought I'd bring out my baskets and make me a little mad money." She covered a card table with a red and white gingham tablecloth. Off the edge of the table, she hung a sign, H
ANDMADE
B
ASKETS
, $20
EACH.

"Don't you think that's a little pricey, Mom?" Earl asked.

His mom winked. "We'll see." And sure enough, when the store opened, the gypsy women hovered over her table. They tried haggling, but Earl's mom stood firm by her price. In an hour, she'd sold every one.

Later that morning, the king came into the office and asked how much Earl wanted for the Skamper. Earl's knees popped as he stood up from his crouch behind the Coke dispenser. "It's not for sale," he said.

"The sign say it for sale." The king pointed toward the Skamper parked in Earl's backyard. From a distance, he could make out the orange and black
FOR SALE
sign.

"It's a mistake," Earl said.

"I give you good money for it."

Peggy walked in with a large box, ignoring Earl's glare.

"I'm sorry," Earl said, his voice rising. "I'm not selling the camper." The king shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the store.

Peggy set the box on the candy counter and began tearing off bits of masking tape. The box was marked
FOR GARAGE SALE
. Peggy kept it in their closet.

"Don't you think this has gone far enough?" Earl asked.

"Some of those boys running around are the same size as Joey."

"When did you buy the sign? That's what I'd like to know." Earl could no longer keep his voice from rising.

Peggy kept tearing tape. "Your mom had such good luck with those baskets, Earl."

"I'm going to get the garbage," Earl said. He'd risen early enough to need a jacket that morning, so he took off his C&O windbreaker and laid it over the box. "I'm coming back for that. Don't sell it while I'm gone."

Peggy finally looked Earl in the eye. "Yes, Boss Man." He pushed the front door open with a hard shove that sent the bells ringing and shook the glass in the panes.

Earl collected garbage in the lone golf cart, slamming the lids down on the trash cans. At the gypsies' camp, he saw two animal carcasses skewered on spits, turning over an open fire. The gypsy men sat in lawn chairs gathered around a small color TV placed on a picnic table. A Cubs game. Earl recognized Harry Carey's voice. The king walked up to Earl carrying an aluminum roasting pan full of steaming meat. "Boss Man, you take this. We always give to Boss Man for let us stay. Not so many are nice as you." The king gave a small bow. "You good man. You take."

"Thank you," Earl said, taking the pan from his hands. He drove slowly back to the store, trying not to spill the meat threatening to avalanche all over the inside of the golf cart. Earl set the pan on the counter. "What the hell is that?" Earl's father asked.

"Meat," Earl said. "A gift from the king."

"I wonder what they put in it?" his mom asked. Earl looked at her. "For flavor," she added.

 

ON FRIDAY MORNING
at eleven thirty, Earl told the king, "You know checkout's noon, right?"

"We be gone by noon. Yes."

Earl looked around. Boys on quad runners raced around the field. Women hung laundry on the lines, and men lounged in lawn chairs, smoking and drinking beer. "But you haven't started packing up yet. Breaking camp takes a long time. I know," Earl said.

The king laughed. "When we go, we go like that," the king said, waving his hands with a magician's flourish.

Earl remembered how quickly they'd set up camp and figured the king was telling the truth. "I'll give you until one. We've got a lot of people coming in this afternoon who already booked these sites."

The king nodded. "Okay, Boss Man. We be gone by one."

At one thirty, Earl walked back to the gypsies' camp. The king said, "We fixing trucks. Have problems."

Earl noticed that the hoods of the trucks weren't open, and the gypsy women were serving lunch. "I don't see anybody working on trucks."

"My nephew go to town for parts. Can't go until he get back. Then we fix trucks."

From inside one of the campers, Earl heard a man laugh and speak a word. More laughter. Lighting a cigarette, he thought about calling the police. He knew a few guys on the force, knew they'd come out quick if he called, knew they'd laugh at him, too. He looked at the king. "Well, in any case, I guess you owe me some money."

"I was to bring you this when we go, but we not go yet." The king handed Earl a roll of bills, wrapped by a rubber band. He weighed it in his hand, thick and heavier than the first payment.

Earl said, "I've been good to you, right?"

"This Boss Man best one we have."

Earl ground out his cigarette. "You know, I know something about you people. How you've been treated and such. You might even say I'm a bit sympathetic." Earl thought the king might appreciate this, but he didn't see any reaction on the man's face. "But enough is enough. I don't want to call the police."

"Oh, you not do that. You good man, I know. How much you want for us stay longer?"

"I don't want anything else from you people. I just want you to stick by our agreement and be on your way." Earl looked the king straight in the eye. After a few seconds, an urge to look away came over him, but he fought it and kept on staring. Finally, the king nodded his head, turned, and whistled. The gypsies left as swiftly as they'd come. In ten minutes, the campers filed down the driveway, the king's Silverado in the lead. And then they were gone.

Earl walked to the A-frame. Ringing another one and three zeroes into the cash register, he took the bills from his back pocket. "I'll be goddamned," he said, fanning out the bills.