Winter Loon(42)

I jotted down my name and address on a gum wrapper, exchanged it for the matches, and shook her hand.

“Listen, though, Wes, right? You may not quite get it, but sometimes people don’t want to be found. Trust me. I seen a lot of what gets dished out. Folks go and they’re gone and it’s better that way. Life’s not for everyone.” The way she said it left it up for question whether she meant the carnival or something bigger. Was she saying it was okay, preferable even, to step out of your own spotlight or drop from the side of a building or let go of something solid, even if that solid thing was only a sheet of ice? Metal parachutes soared over Nicky’s shoulder. Kathryn’s hair bounced over the seat back as the ride arced upward. In its descent, I could see her better, slumped between consoling friends. I understood what it was to use a person but not love them, to walk away because something better came along. I didn’t know then about leaving because something worse was coming, about leaving out of kindness.

“Here. You two take these,” Nicky said, handing us a wad of tickets from yet another pocket. “Live it up.”



I LEFT TOPEKA ON THE matchbook in my pocket and went on rides with Jolene—pants shitters like the Zipper, then gentle ups and downs on the carousel, Jolene gripped on the pole, swaying forward and arcing backward over the painted pony, teasing me until I thought I’d explode. I grabbed her off the horse as the ride slowed, and we jumped off it laughing, holding hands.

We spent the rest of that night huddled together in a trough of hay bales by the fairgrounds gate. I tried to kiss her in that darkness, but she pushed me off, telling me I had to wait, for what I didn’t know. So we talked and talked, back and forth, trading stories with the rocking motion of a carnival ride. Her story about hitchhiking with Trudy led to mine about having a battery stolen right out of the car we were sleeping in at the time. Jolene learned how to roll joints and I watched my mother buy and sell them when she worked at the bowling alley. There were stories we’d heard whispered or yelled but were too young to remember, like when my mother came home one night to find me home alone, strapped into my crib with a belt. That was a story that came up again and again, one that my mother held over my father’s head any time he accused her of neglect. “Least I took him with me,” she’d say. “Least I didn’t belt him into a crib.” Jolene recalled coming home from school to a group of strangers—“white biker types, men and women”—sitting in the living room of her apartment, drinking beers, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. They told her that her mother was gone, didn’t want her anymore. Jolene turned to leave because she believed them, because it wasn’t far-fetched, because it had happened before. They stopped her from going, laughing that no, Trudy would be back, that they would wait with her until then. “I spent the night on my mom’s mattress on the bedroom floor, listening to them party.” In the morning, Trudy was there, passed out in the hallway outside the locked door.

Jolene didn’t smile much, not with her mouth at least. Her face would soften instead, she’d raise her eyebrows, which would draw up just one wry corner of her mouth. It was the prettiest thing to see, especially when she touched that scar, which she was doing while she talked. I couldn’t know how long that one gesture would haunt me.

“You mind me asking about that?”

Her face darkened and she glanced away. “I got cut. Whiskey bottle.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

She fidgeted, then moved across from me so we were face-to-face. “She had a boyfriend, when we were up in South Dakota. Everyone called him Freeman. I don’t even know if it was his first or last name. Just Freeman. Fat pig. I hated him. He was on something, crank maybe. He had her pinned on the floor. And he was right up in her face, screaming at her and calling her names—whore, slut, you name it. But this close.” She put her hand up to her face. “He spit on her, big wads. I yelled at him to stop. He pointed at me and when he let go, my mom punched him in the throat. He rolled off her and grabbed a broken bottle.”

“Stop,” I said. “You don’t need to. It’s okay.” With my thumb, I touched the arc of her scar, felt the ridges. “It’s beautiful.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled it down. “It’s not. It’s ugly. He made her watch while he cut me. Then he said, ‘You or her?’ He dropped me but not the bottle. I ran. I left her there with him.”

Without my permission, my imagination followed Freeman and Trudy into some dreadful bedroom, where I stood with my back to the wall until I couldn’t stomach the worst of what I could figure happened there, picturing it was Jolene in there taking the abuse. “It’s not your fault.”

“She stayed with him. Even after that.”

“Sorry” was all I could say.

“You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m telling you so you know. I’m never taking that kind of shit off anyone.”

“Is that what Mona and Troy think, that I might turn out like Freeman? Because I won’t.” I summoned all the conviction I could, but the truth was I didn’t know what kind of man I would become. How do you convey you’re someone to be trusted when you aren’t sure whether you can trust yourself?

“What you are doesn’t matter. I’m telling you what I am. I’m talking about me,” she said, her hand on her chest swearing allegiance to herself.