by T E. D Klein
Another lurch; the car began its descent, the great wheel fell away, and they seemed to be settling downward without apparent support, slipping toward the sound and lights and the dark walls rising up to block the view.
They went around a second time. Once more the boardwalk, beach, and ocean dropped into view, Carol wondering what lands lay beyond the dark horizon. She felt a sudden tickle on her hand and looked down to see a tiny six-spotted ladybug crawling dili-gently over her thumb, like a shiny little red plastic toy from the amusement park below. 'HeUo, bug,' she said, 'are you coming for a ride with us?' She held her hand out to Rosie, who smiled wanly.
'When this is over,' he said, 'we'U take a walk along the sand, how'U that be?'
'That will be fine,' she said, looking back toward the beach.
As the wheel turned, the car on the inner track ahead of them rolled clatteringly toward their own. Carol gave a little gasp of alarm but felt foolish when, to a chorus of screams within it, the other car swung away just before it hit them. Rosie smiled, and Carol looked down to find the bug was gone. Scared off, she supposed.
On the next ascent, Carol felt the same excitement as the car rose to the top of the wheel and the scenery lay spread out below, and the same inevitable disappointment as the car moved onward, back toward the ground. The view had become precious to her because of its very transience, a glimpse from a moving platform. Sometimes her own life, too, seemed as fleeting.
'I wonder if we'll get another time around,' she said.
'Hmm? Oh, no, I imagine this will be the last,' said Rosie. He seemed preoccupied; he'd been staring with rigid fascination at the light bulb that glowed just beyond the window of the car. She peered at it just in time to see a small red dot with black legs mashed burning against the heated glass of the bulb, but then the car scraped noisily along the exit track and an attendant was hauling open the metal doors and urging people out. She followed Rosie toward the passageway, feeling disturbed but unable to express it. Her head had begun to ache again.
'Come,' he was saying. 'Let's see what it's like down by the water.'
They walked up a nearby ramp to the boardwalk, continuing on it past a line of food stands, tattoo parlors, and fortune-telling booths. From the space below their feet came the sound of soul music and salsa; dimly she heard voices. Ahead of them another ramp led out onto the sand, which stretched away toward the shifting black line of surf.
The beach looked mysterious in the moonlight, dotted here and there with shapes that could have been dreamers or driftwood or corpses. She followed Rosie out onto the sand, feeling it give beneath her shoes, making walking difficult. She took the shoes off and held them in her hand, walking barefoot, the sand deliriously cold between her toes.
Rosie turned and watched what she was doing. 'Be careful,' he said, with a hint of disapproval, 'there's a lot of broken glass around here.'
Behind them, in the darkness beneath the boardwalk, she could make out the shapes of teenagers smoking, listening to radios, or embracing in the sand. She turned away, the sound of the music receding as she moved slowly toward the water. To her right a black couple stood and kissed in the middle of an empty stretch of beach, like a tree standing alone on an arid plain. Beyond them she saw the lights of a steel pier extending into the water; past that, much farther past, she could see the lights of ships. On either side of her, jetties of huge boulders thrust deep into the surf.
As she and Rosie drew closer to the water's edge, the sound of radios, the music of the carousels and games, was lost behind the steady roar of waves.
'Follow me,' said Rosie, a touch of urgency in his voice. 'Let's get far away from everybody else.' He began walking along the edge of the water, away from the lights. Beside them the waves seemed to make an angrier noise, though in the darkness their height was difficult to judge. Once again Carol heard the distant roll of thunder and wondered how long it would be before the rain came.
They walked along the water, saying nothing. Gradually they came to a stretch of beach where the garbage seemed less plentiful and where Carol could find no other people, unless there were couples crouched unseen in the sand making love. The only shapes on that stretch of beach were the seagulls, scattered over the sand like ghostly white statues. The birds made no sound at all, nor did they take to the air when the two of them walked past; they simply turned and watched the pair, as if waiting.
Abruptly Rosie stopped and looked down at the water. 'I think we've gone far enough,' he said. 'Let's go back now.' He walked a little way, then stopped. 'Funny,' he said suddenly. 'Come over here right now and I'll show you a trick.'
He was pointing to a certain spot at his feet where the ocean had just gone out. Nearby, up from the water's edge, lay a curving line of clam shells, like ashtrays half filled with sand; they reminded her somehow of the dead animal they'd passed on the highway. 'If you stand right here with me,' he said, 'and hold my hand real tight, I guarantee you won't get wet.'
Carol moved next to him. 'You'd better take your shoes off like I did,' she said. 'The next wave's going to soak your feet up to the ankles.'
But he was putting his finger to his lips. 'Sssshhh,' he whispered, 'you have to know the trick. Just close your eyes and try not to move.'
She did as she was told, and heard the hiss of the oncoming wave. She shut her eyes tightly, expecting to feel the chill of water sweeping by, but felt instead old Rosie throw his arms around her, and heard the sudden raucous cries of seagulls screaming up and down the beach. She was so surprised that she opened her eyes; Rosie was gazing fiercely up at the moon, and just in front of them the wave was parting, sweeping past them without so much as touching…
She shut her eyes again and felt the old man relax his hold. 'Sorry if I scared you,' he was saying gently, his voice soft, almost intimate.
'You can open your eyes now.*
She looked down. 'Rosie, that was wonderful!' she said. 'How did you do it?'
He was already ambling away. 'Just a question of finding the right spot,' he said over his shoulder. 'It's a game we old-timers know. Nothing to it, really.'
He began to whistle. Above him in the blackness the half-moon floated over the beach like an alien presence, holding something unnatural in its geometries. She trudged after him through the sand, her feet as dry as if she'd stayed indoors.
The music and the screams were louder now. They were passing through a line of arcades below the boardwalk, ignoring the enticements of the vendors. Shoot the Rapids! Shoot the Hoops! proclaimed the billboards. They passed the peeling facade of the World in Wax Musee but didn't stop to go inside.
Rosie, in fact, seemed to be rushing her. He had actually taken her hand as they'd walked up from the beach, mumbling something about 'rain coming soon, time enough for one more ride,' and he'd persuaded her, shamed her, into going on the one thing she'd vowed she'd never do. They were heading toward the roller coaster.
Next to it loomed the entranceway of the Hell Hole, a giant red Satan in front holding a pitchfork obscenely from his crotch. All Ye Who Enter Here, Abandon Hope, a signboard read. Satan seemed to leer as they passed.
'I think he's trying to warn us to go home,' said Carol, nervousness constricting her chest.
'What? Who?' Rosie seemed distracted again; he had been looking up at the stars.
'Satan,' said Carol. 'I think he knows where we're going.'
Rosie let out a sputter of laughter. 'Satan? Who's he?' She felt his grip tighten on her hand; he was leading her toward the ticket booth. 'Come on,' he said, 'the line's moving now, I think we'll make this run.'
The open red cars were filling up quickly. Carol was about to slip into one of those in the middle, but Rosie steered her toward one in the rear. 'It's better here,' he said. 'I mean, you won't find it so frightening, your first time. Trust me.' The hand tightened on hers once more.
'Okay,' said Carol, swallowing. She felt a chill sea breeze on her neck and, sitting beside him, removed a light blue kerch
ief from her purse and tied it around her throat; it was going to get colder when the ride started. Rosie was looking up again, but then he turned to * her arid frowned.
'What's the matter?' asked Carol.
'That kerchief,' said Rosie. He was reaching for it. 'It's much too nice. I really don't think you ought to wear it here. It might blow away, and then you'll go blaming poor old me! Here.' He unfastened it and handed her a clean white handkerchief from his jacket pocket. 'Put yours away and wear this. If you lose it, it won't be any loss. Come on, now, Carol, the ride will be starting in a moment.'
She fastened the handkerchief around her chin and huddled down beside him. Her heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear it above the thunder of the other cars and the screams of the riders. Or perhaps it was the thunder she was hearing… A burly attendant came down the line at last to fasten them into their seats with leather waist straps.
'Don't worry so,' said a small voice close to her ear. Rosie was smiling at her, eyes merry. 'Just repeat that angel song I taught you and you'll feel better. Come on, now, you remember. Sing with me.' He began chanting the tuneless little rhyme he'd had her repeat that evening in her room. 'Ghe'el, ghavoola, ghae'teine…" She knew the words were in the Old Language, but their meaning had long ago been lost to her, and her mouth refused to shape the syllables.
'You're not trying,' he said. 'Believe me, Carol, it's an excellent way of calming down. Come on, now, let's try again. Riya migdl'eth, riyamoghu… '
He sang the words, and she sang them back to him. With a grating of metal and a chorus of excited screams from the passengers in front, the car began to slide forward on the track.
'Sing,' Rosie commanded. 'Don't think about where you are. Sing!'
Carol closed her eyes and sang the words. 'Migghe'el ghae'teine moghuvoola… ' They did help, somehow, just like Rosie said they would – they helped even though she didn't know what she was singing. Or was that what made them so powerful? She tried not to think about the vibration of the car, the steep climb that threw her back against the seat as they ascended the first rise. She gripped
Rosie's hand and shut her eyes and sang the song to herself.
She opened her eyes when the car seemed to be slowing down, and gasped, for ahead of her the other cars seemed to be spilling into an abyss – and then they too were hurtling downward, faster than they'd have fallen, faster than she ever thought she could go, and screams were in her ear and her eyes were shut tight again and she felt Rosie's hand on hers and once again she sang the words as if they were a prayer.
It was not so bad with her eyes closed. She even managed to open them before the final run, for she thought she'd felt a raindrop on her cheek. They had just reached the top of the last peak, the highest one; the car climbed slower and slower and almost stopped, until for a moment it seemed poised, balanced between the two worlds, ready to slide forward but equally ready to slide back. And just as they were teetering on the edge, with the whole park spread below them -the ferris wheel, the beach, the dark ocean – she thought she saw a wisp of fog along the ramp ahead of them. For a moment she thought it might be smoke from a burning bulb, or some trick of the moonlight… and then in the next instant they were hurtling downward, ahead of them people were screaming, she was holding onto Rosie with all her might, and they were dropping with such speed she thought the straps would break and she'd be thrown right out of the car, into the darkness. 'Sing, Carol!' he commanded, and she sang, together they sang, raising their voices above the roaring and the screams. And suddenly, like a vision, there was a huge white bird before them, hanging angelically in the air, and Rosie was reaching up – protecting her, she knew – and batting at it with something in his hand, something that gleamed in the light, his hand moving so fast she couldn't see, and he must have broken its neck, because the next moment she felt its body smash against her, then fall away behind, and it left a bloody stain all over the front of her new white dress.
Later, as they stumbled from the park, Rosie comforting her and dabbing ineffectually at her dress, she felt, almost in sympathy, a trickle of her own blood at the juncture of her legs. By the time they reached the car, the sky had opened up and it began to rain.
On rainy evenings, after Bert Steegler had locked up the Cooperative and bolted the huge sliding doors of the barn that served them as a feed and grain warehouse, and after his wife, Amelia, had closed the books for the night, having carefully recorded the day's entries for parsnips and soybeans and peas, the two of them would hurry across the street to their house by the schoolyard, share supper with their eldest daughter and her family, and then don their old raincoats and go back outside. They would take the long way around the square, avoiding the mud near the school and continuing past the cemetery to the home of Jacob and Elsi van Meer.
When the weather was warm, a few of the old-timers would already be gathered on the van Meers' front porch sipping mint tea with chunks of ice in it from the freezer at the Go-op, the men with their pipes, the women crocheting or knitting. They would sit and watch the rain come down, talking of crops and the Scriptures. When a vehicle went by on the road that wound past their front yard, an event that occurred only rarely, they would speculate on who was inside and where he was bound. When the iced tea ran out and the women were yawning and the men had smoked their last pipeful of tobacco, they would stretch, get slowly to their feet, exchange goodbyes, and head for home.
They didn't always feel the need to talk; sometimes they just sat together in silence, listening to whatever sounds the night made. They craved no entertainment. They were content.
Or most of them were. Adam Verdock, who'd just arrived from his dairy down the road, recalled a relative of his up in Lebanon who'd yielded to his wife – not one of their sect – and had had his home wired for electricity. ' 'Twas hard to stop, after that. First he bought the woman an electric steam iron, then he bought one of them things with blue lights that kill the bugs, and finally he went and bought himself a television set, just like young Jonas Flinders.'
There was a general sighing among those assembled, and a rueful shaking of heads. They knew what was coming; most of them had heard the tale before.
'Well, he had that thing put in, right in his living room where he could watch it all the time, and at first he thought it was something really special. But then his little ones took to it, and I hear it turned their heads right around. They got to scanting their dinner and their chores so they could sneak in and watch, they'd be asking for every frippery they saw, and his oldest boy near got himself thrown out of school for the way he was acting 'round the girls. That was enough for him; he took that contraption and buried it out behind his hog wallow. Now he does penance for two hours every night, staring at a blank spot of wall right where that thing used to sit. He says it's to remind him of his sin.'
More headshaking, sounds of assent, another round of tea. Bethuel Reid got up and walked noisily to the bathroom; Jacob van Meer continued rocking in his favorite chair; Adam Verdock filled his latest corncob pipe.
Finally van Meer cleared his throat. 'Wouldn't be surprised if that nephew of yours decided to buy one of those things, just to please that woman of his.'
Verdock let that sit a while, puffing ruminatively. 'No,' he said at last, 'that ain't what she wants. What she wants is company. She's from a big family, you know, one of them New Church clans up in Sidon, and she's used to havin' lots of folks around. I think she won't be happy till she's got herself some little ones – and that ain't up to her, it's up to Sarr. Right now he ain't ready to raise a child, and he knows even less about raisin' crops.' He paused. 'Ain't that right, Lise?'
His wife didn't look up from her knitting. She was a Poroth and, consequently, inclined to be more sympathetic. 'Seems to me Sarr's doin' all he can with that place,' she said, 'and I think he's doin' right by his woman. At least he's agreed to take in a boarder.'
'Yes, I saw the fellow at the store,' said her husband. 'You remember, Bert
, 'twas last Sunday. Fat fellow, kinda soft lookin', but he seemed likely enough. Got a little insolent with Rupert.'
Steegler nodded. 'Struck me that way too. Young Sarr seems to speak well of him, though. Brother Rupert, now, he's got little good to say for a fellow who doesn't earn his keep.' He paused. 'Of course, Rupert would talk that way, wouldn't he?'
'Now don't be unchristian,' said Amelia. 'We're goin' to be guests at Brother Rupert's house tomorrow morning, don't forget.'
There were nods all around. Worship that week was going to be held at the Lindts'. The following Sunday would see it at Ham Stoudemire's, and then would come the Poroths' turn.
Elsi van Meer looked up. 'You suppose Lotte Sturtevant will be there? She's gettin' awful close to her time, from the look of her.'
'She's got a few weeks yet,' said Amelia. 'But I'll grant she's sure swelled up. Never seen the like. It will be a son, I'll wager – and a mighty big one.'
'She ain't due till the end of the month,' said Lise Verdock. 'It may well take till August.'
Van Meer paused in his rocking. 'Let's hope so,' he said. 'Let's hope it goes past Lammas Eve.'
'Amen,' they all said hurriedly, and nodded. 'Amen,' said Bethuel Reid, who had just come back out to the porch. He shuffled across to the old wicker couch and sat heavily beside his wife.
Van Meer resumed his rocking. His wife shooed a bug from the pitcher of iced tea. Lise stared meditatively at the rain falling in thick cascades from the eaves of the porch. In the distance came the sound of thunder.
'Really comin' down,' she said. 'Funny how nobody predicted it. 'Twasn't the sort of day for rain.' She paused.' 'Bout time we had some, though. Corn's been needin' it.'
The others turned to stare out at the night. Once again they heard the rumble of thunder. Past the farther side of the house, beyond the line of trees, they could hear the rain beating against the tombstones in the cemetery.