By a Charm and a Curse(40)
It’s clear she doesn’t believe me, but I wouldn’t believe me, either, if I were her. The heavy wrongness of the situation smothers us all.
After a while, Happy opens the door to the trailer and beckons Gin inside, and, as Pia has just shown up with the girls’ worried parents, them, too. Once the door closes behind them, Happy turns his attention to us.
“Nasty cut. Did what I could, but it’ll probably scar. Definite concussion.” He still holds the rag he’d been drying his hands on. Traces of Whiskey’s blood speckle it. “She should be fine, though.”
Happy gives permission for short visits, and by then more people have arrived. I can’t bring myself to see her just yet, and I let the others go in ahead of me. They filter in and out of the avocado-colored trailer in pairs—Leslie and Lars, Pia and Duncan, Mrs. Potter and one of her terriers—and I watch them go. The only constant is Emma.
She stands by my side as the parade of well-wishers continues. The back of her hand brushes against the back of mine. I find myself slumping against her, though I hadn’t intended to, and she holds me up.
I get ready to go in and see Whiskey, but as Mrs. Potter is leaving, Happy decides Whiskey is done with visitors for the day. I want to protest, but I can’t seem to find my voice.
“Sir?” Emma says, firm but polite. But no one here has ever been called “sir,” so she has to try again. “Happy? Ben needs to see her.”
Happy looks at me like I haven’t been standing there the whole time, but he doesn’t waver. Yesterday’s greasepaint is still caked into the fine lines of his face. “Girl needs to rest.”
I’m prepared to let that go, though tension balls up even tighter inside me. I didn’t realize how much I needed to see that she’s okay. It’s like I won’t know it’s the truth until I can see her with my own eyes. The blood may as well still be gushing from her head.
“That’s her blood on his hands, Happy,” Emma says. “Let him have a second; let him see that she’s all right.”
I can practically hear his teeth grind, but he holds the door open for me. “Wash your hands first, kid.”
Emma holds back. But she deserves to make sure that Whiskey is all right just as much as I do. That, and we need answers about what happened, about the charm. Answers I’m hoping Whiskey can give me. So I grip tightly onto Emma’s hand and lead her into the trailer.
The interior is dark with all the little curtains closed. A light is on at one end of the trailer, but not over the couch where Whiskey rests. Everything is drab, the complete antithesis of the way Happy presents himself out in the carnival. The air is stale, like no one besides him is ever in here.
Whiskey is propped up on the narrow couch that runs along the back end of the trailer. A crochet blanket that’s more hole than blanket drapes over her knees, and a huge swath of gauze is wrapped around her head. Her father, a tall man who gave Gin his lean muscles and pale hair, and mother, like Whiskey in looks and temperament, are crammed into the area around her.
“Okay, now pay attention,” Whiskey tells me as I wash up in the tiny sink. “I’ve got this down to a science. Yes, I fell. No, I don’t know why. Yes, feel free to fawn all over me and possibly even consider bringing me fudge because I love fudge. Fawning may commence whenever you’re ready.”
“But—”
She cuts me off. “I fell, Benjamin. The end.” She turns to her parents. “You know what I would love right about now? My own pillow. One that doesn’t smell of cigarettes and sardines. Could you please, please, please ask Haps when I can go home?”
Mr. and Mrs. Connolly exchange a quick glance, but it’s clear to see that Mrs. Connolly wants to get Whiskey home, too. So they edge past Emma and me to go talk to Happy. The second the door slams shut, Whiskey is off and running.
“What the hell, you guys?” A slim thread of panic runs through her voice. Her pupils are inky-black spots floating in the whites of her eyes. “I don’t fall. I have never fallen. Never. So something must have happened. Did either of you see?”
“Whiskey,” Emma starts, “I don’t think—”
“No,” Whiskey says fiercely. Her eyes are so wide that the whites ring all around the brown irises. “No. I don’t fall.”
“She’s right,” I say, and they both turn to face me. Whiskey looks at me like I’m the only voice of reason for miles around. “Something’s wrong with the charm, and we’re going to figure out what.”
Chapter Seventeen
Emma
Benjamin is on a warpath. Seeing Whiskey laid up seemed to ignite something in him, and as soon as we leave Happy’s trailer, he takes off.
The fortune-tellers’ tent is closed, but Ben pushes past the flaps anyway. Candles glow within red-glass lanterns, and the lights pulse against canvas walls moving gently in the wind. It’s like being inside a ruby heart. Duncan and Pia sit at the small round table, heads in hands. A bowl of dark liquid stands in the middle of the table. When they both look up at the same time, it’s more than a little unnerving.
“You guys okay?” Duncan asks.
“We’ll be fine,” Ben says. “What’s this?” He gestures toward the bowl. Lines of salt trace complicated patterns on the table around it.