By a Charm and a Curse(56)
We go to see Mrs. Potter, and I show Emma the steady stream of treats going from her hands to a little black Scottie, because that dog won’t stay still for anything. Mrs. Potter only keeps him around because he’s her new favorite lap dog, and the spoiled thing knows it.
Gin and a freshly cleared-for-performance Whiskey have a show every hour. There are no secrets here, just the sheer wonder of the girls and their out-and-out enthusiasm for what they do. For a while it’s hard to not flinch; the memory of what happened to Whiskey is still too raw. But all too soon we’re under their spell.
They do a series of tricks where they stand in the middle of their circle, watching the horses as they’re led through their paces. Gin runs up a small ramp and leaps onto the back of her spotted palomino. From there, the show plays out like some kind of Who’s on First act. Whiskey jumps onto the moving horse at the same moment that Gin jumps off. While she’s running across the yard and up the ramp onto the other horse, Whiskey follows suit, only to jump back onto the spotted horse. They do this back and forth until they wind up on the same horse again, but this time they’re balanced on just one foot.
When the applause dies down, I am already thinking about where to take Emma next, but I’m stopped by gasps from the crowd. When I look back to the ring, I see that Whiskey is doing a handstand on the back of her horse. I think I’ve stopped breathing. The horse loops around the yard once, twice, and on the third lap, Whiskey lifts one hand from the horse. Her toes, stained with dirt from the ring, point elegantly over her back toward her horse’s head. Her tiny body sways, absorbing the shock of the horse’s hooves on the hard, packed earth. It is so much worse than riding on a carousel horse.
Emma grips onto my hand so hard I’m afraid her rock-hard fingers will crush mine, but I need it, to feel grounded, that someone else understands the utter gravity of the situation. As Whiskey laps the yard again, she bends her elbow and pushes off against the horse, landing neatly on the ground.
My breath comes back to me and fills my burning lungs about the same time that noise returns to the world. The crowd has gone wild. I glance at Emma and find myself making this weird noise that’s part relieved laugh, part sigh of relief.
Both girls take a bow and begin to weave through the crowd for tips. Gin’s smile is strained, and before she can pass by, I grab her free hand.
“She wasn’t supposed to do that, was she?” I ask.
Through gritted teeth, Gin answers, “She wasn’t, but she’s been trying to prove that she’s fine. You can bet your ass she won’t do it again anytime soon.” At that she’s off to the next person, trying to grab as much as she can in tips before her crowd forgets the wonder that she and her sister just acted out and move on to the next shiny thing.
Emma and I let the crowd push us back toward the midway. Lights pulse yellow and orange around us. I want to take Emma to see Marcel, as he promises he and Gin have been tweaking their act. Gin only joins him for his last show of the evening, so Emma and I cruise the midway to kill some time. As we pass a booth with ridiculously huge stuffed animals, I get it in my head I should do the stereotypical thing and win one for Emma.
While it’s true that most of the people working the midway would just give me a stuffed animal if I asked, that’s not the same. So when we stop in front of a booth where you have to knock wooden milk bottles off a pillar that has giant stuffed cats as its prize, I stop. One, I know that these are the nicest prizes the carnival has to offer. Two, I helped build this setup, and I know how it’s rigged.
Every rube who comes through here tries to hit the bottles. But I’ve balanced these things so that the pyramid is sturdy, and a glancing blow isn’t going to make them tumble. Instead, you have to hit the pillar, and do it so that it looks like you’ve hit the lowest row of bottles, so no one can accuse you of cheating.
I give Gabe my five dollars, and he rolls his eyes and gives me a bucket of softballs. I push my glasses up my nose, take a ball from the bucket, and step back. The night is alive with happy people and the alarm on the strongman game going off. A breeze whips down the alleyway. But I push all of that away, take aim, and let go.
I knock over the bottles on the first try. Again, Gabe rolls his eyes. I kind of want to roll my eyes at myself, but I’m too damn happy at the moment. Emma picks out a cat—a fluffy orange thing that she immediately names Monroe—and we head over to Marcel’s tent.
Gin and Marcel greet us at the entrance to his tent, a brightly striped pink and orange canvas monstrosity. Marcel has been very secretive about his revamped act with Gin, and I have to admit that I’m excited to see it.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he says. “I’ve got two seats saved for you at the front.”
“How did you know I’d need two seats?” I ask.
“Because I’m not stupid, moron.” He parts the flaps and holds it open for the two of us.
The tent is one of the largest we have. A dirt circle marked off by cinder blocks painted in shades of blue and yellow sits in the center, and three rows of bright-red folding chairs ring it. True to his word, there are two seats in the front row with hastily scrawled “reserved” signs on them, in perfect view of his throwing boards.
The place is packed and soon after we’re seated, the lights shining over the chairs are dimmed, making the orangey glow of the center ring all the brighter.