The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel (4 page)

He was too surprised to answer immediately, and
when the summons came a second time, she blurted something about
meeting him there maybe and raced away, expertly dodging between
the legs of grown-ups too tall to notice her, vanishing just as he
regained his voice and said, “Sure.”

Sure?

What the hell are you doing, Casey, making a
date with a kid?

He didn’t know; he didn’t care; he found a stand
that sold ice cream and had them make him a cone that nearly
toppled from its height. He licked it, wiped ice cream from his
nose, and followed without meaning to a group of teenagers too busy
pushing and shoving one another to pay attention to the glares
their boisterous behavior provoked. He glared at them himself,
nearly threw his cone at them when they collided with an elderly
couple barely able to move along. The old man said something, but
the teens didn’t stop, only laughed, pushed and shoved, and broke
into a run.

As he passed the couple, Casey wanted to say
something, but he couldn’t think what and so left it alone.

Stopping at a tent whose face was painted with
fire, taunting demons in the flames, avenging angels above, a man
in clerical garb on a platform before it all, upraised Bible in one
hand, growling torch in the other, promising miracles of the
prophets for those who entered and believed;

stopping at a low square building with a painted
skull surrounding the entrance, ghosts in flight, a banshee, an
undersea creature, a man dressed like Frankenstein’s monster
telling all the men that this was the place to get the girls
hopping into their laps, thrills and excitement, a money-back
guarantee if you didn’t first die of fright;

stopping at a tent painted in warm browns and
tans and comforting gold, palm trees and a cactus and a beautiful
woman in a long-fringed bikini dancing to a flute played by a young
boy sitting cross-legged below her, the barker winking at the men,
suggesting the women move on and give their guys a break from the
old ball-and-chain, the women giggling, the men either blushing or
posing, the flute never pausing, as if the dancer were a cobra that
either swayed or struck;

stopping at a second intersection, under the
corner rope of another tent, finishing his cone and wiping his
hands on his jeans, the lights brighter, almost a glare that made
him look up to see that the sky had gone dark, the sun gone, though
the heat hadn’t left.

Idly he watched the crowds move like schools of
tropical fish. Dozens of them, then nothing, then dozens more and
nothing again. Playing in the coral, no sharks to fear and sharks
hiding all over. A pair of lovers kissing fervently while still
walking, his hand burrowed in her hip pocket, her hand tucked in
his waistband. A silently weeping child in a stroller, redfaced and
barely able to stay awake. A clown blowing a balloon for a little
boy in a sailor suit. A cowgirl showing a comically intent man how
to twirl a lasso.

The music.

The aromas.

The voices.

The noise.

Adults and kids with someplace to go.

Suddenly Casey closed his eyes and felt like
crying, didn’t understand why . . . unless it was because they had
someplace to go.

“Nonsense,” he snapped at himself, cleared his
throat, cleared it again, and not caring where he went followed the
sound of an old song he thought he knew, focusing on it, humming
it, turning a corner and seeing the fair open up into an oval of
several acres that held at least a dozen rides, from tiny clanging
fire engines on circular tracks to the Octopus, whose jointed steel
arms lifted spinning cabs into the dark beyond the reach of the
lights. Shrieks and wails and children pointing and parents
grinning and at the back, barely seen, the pointed circus top of a
carousel.

He stared at it, frowning, moving sideways
around the oval’s rim as if losing sight of it would vanish it
before he could reach the place where a line had formed.

It was black. Gleaming, faceted, strung with
hundreds of red and orange bulbs, the glow beneath its canopy
falling a mistlike green upon the animals and their riders, the
mirrors in the center housing rimmed with glittering gold, tall
rectangles that reflected a thousand worlds that lived in their
faces for less than an instant. Halfway there, he spotted Fran on
an ostrich, kicking her legs and leaning over, trying to grab the
tail of a fleeing giant rabbit. A half turn of the base and he
stopped, mouth agape, when Mayard Chase whirled past with a child
in his lap, atop a kangaroo and pointing a stern finger at another
child beside him, on a snarling hyena.

He hoped Yard hadn’t had too much more to drink,
or there’d be one hell of an embarrassed hardware man once the
carousel stopped spinning.

A little closer, and he noticed a cleared area
on the far side of the ride, off to his left. Well, I’ll be damned,
he thought. It was a dance floor twenty or thirty feet on a side,
with at least a dozen couples happily waltzing to the music the
carousel played. He recognized a few faces, puzzled over a handful
more, then waved blindly and quickly when Fran called his name.

Gone again.

Back again.

Gone, and his head began to feel tight from the
din, his stomach empty in spite of the ice cream. It was time to
go, there was nothing here for him, and once again the urge to weep
made him close his eyes as he turned to leave.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

He stepped back hastily, collided with someone
who pushed him away, collided with someone else who wanted to know
if he was drunk, and nearly fell over the waist-high iron rail that
separated the oval’s dirt track from the rides. A hand grabbed his
arm and tugged until he followed, through the crowd until he was
clear, in front of a stand that sold beer and soda from huge yellow
barrels.

“Sorry,” he said, taking a handkerchief from his
hip pocket and mopping his face.

“It’s okay, I just didn’t want to get
trampled.”

He looked, and felt soft heat begin to climb
toward his cheeks.

A woman stood next to him, strawberry blonde and
nearly as tall as he; her white shirt was open three buttons down,
the tails tied over her bare midriff, and her white shorts were
high enough to show him muscular tanned legs too smooth to be real.
She smiled, hooked one sandaled foot behind, the other and folded
her arms across her chest

“You’re not drunk, are you?”

He shook his head.

She nodded as the carousel wound down, the music
slowing, stopping, pausing only a few seconds before starting up
again to warn potential riders there wasn’t much time.

Casey looked away, afraid she would think he was
staring. Which he had been. And cursing himself for not having the
glib gift of gab. Standing here like an idiot would chase her away
soon enough; the right word, however, just might keep her around a
little longer.

The carousel.

Someone screaming delightedly, carried high on a
ride.

“Would you like to dance?”

He looked back, but she wasn’t laughing. Her
right hand pointed at the dance floor.

“Do you speak English?”

“I’m a postman,” he answered, and grimaced.
“That is, yes. I mean, I speak English, yes.”

Her nod forced the blush higher.

“And I guess so,” he added. “Dance, I mean. I
mean, I’m not very good at it, I haven’t danced in years, but
—”

“Good enough.”

She seized his hand and pulled him, forcing him
to follow lest he be yanked off his feet. As it was, he nearly fell
twice, tripped over a baby-carriage wheel once, and hopped for a
dozen clumsy yards before he regained his balance. By the time they
reached the dance floor she was laughing so hard there were tears
in the corners of her eyes, and he was ready to be furious,
humiliated, and exhilarated.

He had no time to choose.

As soon as their feet touched the wood, she was
in his arms and they were dancing. Awkwardly at first, until their
bodies adjusted; not perfectly, but smoothly, once they locked on
the music’s rhythm.

The weight of her left hand on his shoulder was
so light he could barely feel it, the warmth of her back through
the shirt moved his hand around as if he didn’t know how to hold
her. He didn’t look at her face; he didn’t dare, or he’d kick her,
or trip her, or step on her toes.

But she did look at him. He could feel it as he
watched the others gliding around them, some of them faster, some
of them slower, most of them smiling self-consciously or laughing
as if it wasn’t their idea, to dance in front of their friends, in
front of strangers.

Around, like the carousel, until the music
stopped.

She curtsied prettily, without mocking.

He bowed as gallantly as he knew how, and asked
if she’d like sit down for a while, until he caught his second
wind.

“I —”

“There.” He pointed at the saddled animals. “At
least I won’t black-and-blue your poor shins.”

She closed one eye in a frozen wink, giggled,
and nodded, and they jumped onto the platform just as it began to
move. The animals and a few sleighs were three deep, and she hopped
onto a stately giraffe, grabbed his shoulder when he tried to climb
onto the beast beside her.

“No, the other one,” she said, pointing to the
inside, a haughty llama with bared teeth.

Puzzled but afraid to argue, he did as he was
told, then asked why without speaking.

The carousel began to turn; he grabbed the brass
pole as the llama began to rise in a slight forward motion.

“It’s a contest,” she explained, not quite
shouting over the music. “You have to wait for the penny tune.”

“Huh?”

Oh, brilliant, Casey, just brilliant, you
jackass.

“That’s all right.” She tilted her head. “See,
you can’t ride the lion unless you hear the right tune.”

“Lion?”

She nodded.

He felt like a jerk for not noticing the
creature between them — a male lion. Gold, features suggested
rather than carved. It took him so long, he couldn’t help thinking
of the way he had teased Yard, back at the Brass Ring. But this
woman wasn’t he; she simply waited until he said, “Oh, I get it.
Kind of like musical chairs.”

“Right,” She laughed and applauded.

“You hear the tune, you get to the lion
first?”

“Right!” she said again, and leaned across the
lion’s saddle, patted his arm in congratulations. “Ride the lion,
win the prize.”

“What’s the tune? What’s the prize?”

A shrug. “It’s different every night. Both of
them.” She pulled away slowly. “So you keep trying, because
sometimes it’s worth a lot of money.”

“Damn, I never heard of it.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Who cares, if we
win.”

Faster, the carnival a blur, the lights a single
stream, making him dizzy, and he looked at the mirrors instead,
spotting a break in them midway along. An alcove, and in it a
quartet of mechanical bears playing drums, horn, chimes, a
two-tiered silver xylophone. They wore tuxedos and huge goofy
grins; and he soon grinned with them, looked at the woman and
wondered when it was he had died and had been carried secretly to
heaven, tried to see ahead and behind in hopes that Yard was still
around. Yet it didn’t matter when he couldn’t find his friend
because this was somehow something he didn’t think he could
share.

The carousel slowed, the music slowed with it,
and before it was done, she was out of her saddle and off the
platform, on the dirt. With a pat to the llama’s neck, he climbed
down and stood next to her, not sure what to do with his hands,
found at least one thing when Fran and her friends raced past him
to get back in line, and she waved. He waved back, blew her a
kiss.

“Yours?”

“Nope. Just a kid I know.” He sniffed, tugged at
an earlobe. “Do you work here?”

“Now what makes you think that?”

“I don’t recognize you. I mean, it’s not that I
know everyone in the Station, but —”

She grinned, scowled mockingly, grinned a second
time. “Most of the time I substitute at the midway games. You know
— a guy needs a break, I step in, stuff like that.” A glance and
grimace at her watch. “In fact, damnit, I’d better get going or I’m
gonna get killed.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

She shook her head, half-turned as if to run.
“Too long. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

He held up a hand. “Hey, wait, what’s your name?
I can’t thank you for the dance and ride if you don’t tell me your
name.”

“Sure you can,” she said, and skipped a few
steps backward before laughing, spinning, waving with both hands
over her head and slipping into the crowd.

He followed rapidly after her for several yards,
eventually trying to run and failing, telling himself he was too
damn old for this sort of thing, that she had to be at least
fifteen years younger than he, with a boyfriend who had muscles
growing out of his ears.

Nevertheless he grinned as he slowed, whistled
as he left the fair, clapped his hands and punched the air when he
heard the fireworks begin. Walking backward along Chancellor
Avenue, he watched a rocket explode into a white blossom, a green
star, a red shower of sparks. Facing forward was an effort, and he
took his time getting home, thinking every so often that she was
following him back there, ducking behind trees, crouching behind a
hedge, kneeling beside a parked car and stifling her giggles with
her hands.

Too old, he told himself, and didn’t believe a
word.

Swarthy men dressed in black, picking up papers
blown by the wind, stuffing them in sacks slung over their
shoulders; a second group feeding animals prowling in wheeled
cages, the sound of raw meat slapping the bars, hitting the floors;
a third group winding through the quiet rides, picking up coins and
wallets and pens and combs and stuffing them into sacks slung over
their shoulders.