By a Charm and a Curse(30)

But in the meantime, I have this. I have sugar-scented air and wide-open skies. I have noises that blend together with the chatter of hundreds of people making a song like no other. I have the hand of a girl who fascinates me securely in my own. With Emma by my side, I can actually see the carnival for the thing of wonder that it is…

And it’s beautiful.

For one brief moment, I doubt my need to get out of here.

But I know Mrs. Potter must be missing her dog, so I guide Emma through the alleyways among tents and booths until we’re at Mrs. Potter’s blue-and-gold striped tent. Mrs. Potter is between shows, calling for Toffrey from the entrance to her tent. When we hand him over, I’m not sure who’s happier—Mrs. Potter for the return of her favorite dog or Toffrey for the stream of treats.

Mrs. Potter insists that we stay for the show, so we find a seat in the front row. I’ll just have to catch Marcel’s new act another time.

The bright chatter in the tent dies out as a white-hot spotlight illuminates the small ring. Mrs. Potter, her purple hair electric, wears a vintage silk gown in a teal color that soaks up the light. Her rat-tat-tat patter fills the tent.

“Guys and dolls, boys and girls, ladies and germs!” Silk swishes in vibrant flashes as Mrs. Potter sweeps her arms open in greeting. “Welcome! I hope you are ready for this evening’s delights!”

At the word “delights” Toffrey runs out from backstage, tent flaps whipping open as he passes through. He sprints up a ramp, snatches a treat from Mrs. Potter’s hand, and darts backstage once again. Delighted giggles erupt from the children and more than a few adults, but Mrs. Potter continues without pause.

“My dogs will perform feats of wonder!” Three tan-colored dachshunds run from beneath the seats to the left of the ring, their stumpy legs pumping furiously as they speed up the ramps leading to the platform behind Mrs. Potter. One dog allows the second to climb up her back, and then the third clambers on top of them both. The dogs balance there patiently, staying in position even after they get their treats.

“My dogs will perform heart-stopping stunts!” The giant standard poodle runs into the ring, her slim body flowing between the lit torches circling the perimeter of the stage, not even sending one swaying.

“And by the end of the night,” Mrs. Potter says, her lips curving into a sly smile, “you’ll have quite a story to tell at work on Monday.” The rest of the dogs scamper out, and for the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Potter’s dogs live up to every one of her promises.

Toffrey is clearly the star of the show, and there’s a recurring gag where Mrs. Potter pretends to not notice Toffrey stealing treats out of the pouch at her hip. I’ve seen this act a hundred times, but it still makes me smile.

For the finale, Mrs. Potter brings out a hoop perched atop a six-foot pole. After it’s placed in the gaps between ramps, Mrs. Potter flicks open her heavy silver Zippo and sets the hoop alight. Emma’s hand finds mine. She’s worried. But Mrs. Potter and her dogs have done this act nearly every night without so much as a singed whisker. So I grip her hard fingers tight, hoping she feels the comfort there.

Each of the dogs, from the poodle to the lethargic bulldog to the three dachshunds, leaps through the flaming hoop as Toffrey runs circles around the ring. When the last whippet gracefully lands on the other side, Mrs. Potter says, “Toffrey, baby, show the people how it’s done!”

Toffrey runs up the ramp and sails through the hoop. But he doesn’t stop there. The dog pivots at the end of the ramp and immediately does it again. His pink tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth, and I know it’s impossible, but I swear the little dog is eating up the applause.

He turns again for what I know is his last jump. But just as he hits the crest of the ramp, he lets out a yelp, paws skittering out from beneath him.

And then he falls.

The tent goes silent, and I’m on my feet before the thought to go help fully forms. But Emma is quicker.

She’s in the dirt kneeling beside Toffrey before even Mrs. Potter. Her pale hands flit about the small furry dog, and when she stands, something cold and solid lodges in my throat.

“That’s all, folks!” Emma says with hollow enthusiasm. “We thank you for coming out and hope you get home safe.”

She begins to usher those closest to the ring toward the exits, and one of the stagehands starts up some music. I carefully step around the other dogs, who sit at attention, small whines leaking from their strained mouths. Mrs. Potter hovers over the still dog on the ground.

Get up, I think. You always get up.

But he doesn’t.

It’s not until Mrs. Potter scoops the small body off the ground and I see his furry little head flop sickeningly to the side that I accept it.

Toffrey is dead.





Chapter Twelve


Emma


The following morning, the yard is quiet and still. All the hustle and bustle has completely disappeared. The workers aren’t working. The cooks in the cook shack shuffle about with as few movements as necessary. Even the wind has died, leaving the tall grasses surrounding the backyard motionless.

Only one sound permeates the yard—the high, mournful keening of Mrs. Potter’s surviving dogs.

I ache to join them. To stand by Benjamin, to tell Mrs. Potter I’m sorry, to do something. But a rock sits in the pit of my stomach, anchoring me in place. So I hang back, sticking to the edges of the crowd drifting toward Mrs. Potter’s trailer.