The Traveling Man

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  I trailed back to my apartment and called my best friend Mirelle.

  “Chica!” she screamed down the phone. “I told you and told you that Gregg-with-two-g’s was a douche.”

  Mirelle made me smile. I’d always thought it was kind of ridiculous that he spelled his name with two g’s.

  “Now we can celebrate his assholishness,” she crowed. “I’ll be over with margaritas, and then we’re hitting the bars and gonna get you laid good!”

  I laughed sadly.

  “The margaritas sound great, but can we save the barhopping for another day? I really just want to wallow right now.”

  She clucked her tongue. “I tell you, girl, you’ve been wallowing for four long, sexually-frustrated years. You gotta ring in the changes!”

  At one time I’d regretted telling her that my sex life with Gregg left a lot to be desired, but now her teasing was definitely helping.

  An hour later, we were curled up on my sofa, knocking back margaritas like they’d ration them tomorrow and dissing men in general, which was always fun.

  “So what are you going to do now?” she asked, her dark eyes sympathetic. “You’re totally welcome to come visit with my folks.”

  Mirelle’s family was huge. She had cousins and aunts and uncles all over Puerto Rico, as well as four brothers and one sister who lived in San Juan. I’d met some of them when they were visiting her in New Hampshire.

  We both taught at Walker Elementary School in Concord, and I thought I was so lucky that Gregg had managed to get a job at the same school. Now I was thinking it was a huge mistake—in more ways than one.

  Mirelle never liked him, although I hadn’t really understood why. She just said he was too tidy. I didn’t know what that meant. I liked that he was tidy and always well dressed.

  “No, chica,” she said, shaking her head, “you thought he was safe.”

  I hung my head and picked at the frosted pink nail polish I was wearing. She was right. So right.

  “Come to San Juan! We’ll party till we drop! You gotta learn to loosen up!”

  “I can’t afford it…” I began, but Mirelle grabbed my arm and shook me.

  “Yes, you freakin’ can! You’ve been working and saving your ass off. Live a little. You’ve got a lifetime to pay off your student loans.”

  I cringed at her answer, wondering if I should remind her that the government wanted the loan repaid. Yes, they offered a lengthy repayment plan, but I certainly didn’t get to pick when I would have to start repaying. Plus, being a teacher in New Hampshire, I knew that I’d need to have a Master’s degree eventually. Mirelle and money weren’t the best of friends—I could see why, but the girl definitely knew how to have a good time.

  “Fine, I’ll come. But I should see Mom, and I promised Jennifer that I’d visit with her and Dylan. I love spending time with him.”

  “Hell, he’s a kid! You spend every day with kids. Anyway, that’s what summer camp was invented for!” Mirelle bitched.

  I knew she was trying to get a rise out of me. But the truth was, Mirelle spent most of her vacations looking after her nieces and nephews and assorted neighborhood kids, and she loved it.

  Visiting Mom was a duty visit, and neither of us got much pleasure from it, but I loved seeing my sister. She married Brian when they graduated from college, and Dylan came along right away. I liked Brian, but the marriage hadn’t lasted, mostly because of the long hours he worked as a property developer.

  Despite the fact I lived halfway across the country, Jennifer and I had stayed close with phone calls two or three times a week and long, chatty emails.

  “Okay, girl, but I’ll be expecting you no later than the first week of August, or I’ll come and kick your ass all the way to Puerto Rico. You hear me?”

  I smiled for the first time that day. “It’s a date.”

  The air conditioning on the plane was blasting fetid vapors across my face, but not enough to distil the overpowering stench coming from my neighbor.

  I was sandwiched between Mr. I’ve-never-used-deodorant and a guy who looked like he could have played NFL about 20 years ago. There was no escape.

  I shifted uncomfortably, trying to relieve the ache in my right buttock where I was wedged into the coach seat.

  I resented paying my hard earned cash to an airline who put me through so much torture.

  My gut tightened as the red and brown patchwork fields of the Twin Cities swept into view. It reminded me of a time and place that hurt to remember, one that I never wanted to go back to. But here I was, all the old emotions churning through me. Damn them.

  Jennifer wrinkled her nose when she picked me up at the arrivals hall.

  “Wow, you need to change your deodorant, Aimee. Just saying!”

  I growled at her. “You’d stink if you sat next to the swamp monster I’ve been wedged against for the last three hours.”

  She grimaced sympathetically. “Oh God, I know that feeling! I smelled of spit-up for nearly two years.”

  “How is my favorite nephew?”

  “Excited to see his favorite aunt.”

  I smiled, genuinely happy at the thought of seeing the little guy.

  Jennifer directed the car out of the parking lot and we headed northwest along the I-94. It helped my messy emotions that she lived in Saint Cloud, a two hour drive from Fairmont and our mother.

  We were nearly at Jennifer’s home when I threw my hands in the air.

  “Come on, spit it out. Whatever is bugging you, just say it.”

  “What?” she huffed, trying to sound indignant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Jen, you’re so uptight, you’ve been practically levitating. Whatever it is, the suspense is driving me bat shit, and you know that I always get crazy coming back here—you’re going to wind up with a nut job on your hands.”

  “Okay, fine. But before you take my head off, I really didn’t know it would work out like this.”

  “Jen!”

  “Alright, alright! I promised Dylan that we could go see the State Fair.”

  “Yes, so? That’s not until the week before Labor Day?” I said, puzzled.

  “I know, right! But it turns out that he didn’t mean the State Fair—some of the other kids he plays with were going on about this awesome traveling fair that’s playing in the city next week.”

  I started to feel nauseous.

  “Jen, you know I hate fairs…”

  “I know, honey, I do. But I promised Dylan that we’d go. I didn’t know it would be while you were visiting.”

  “Well, no problem,” I said lightly. “I’ll visit Mom that day. You guys go have fun and I’ll see you later.”

  The car was silent. Jennifer was staring straight ahead and biting her lip.

  “Something else you’re not telling me?” I asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Possibly,” she said, her voice reluctant.

  “Come on, get it over with.”

  “It’s only because Dylan got upset…”

  “And?”

  “Itoldhimyoudcomewithus.”

  “What?!”

  Jennifer’s expression was guilty. “I’m sorry, Aimee, but he was crying, so I told him you’d come with us. I know I shouldn’t have, but come on! He’s just a little kid, and what with the divorce and everything, he’s been through a lot. I couldn’t say no.”

  “You’re totally guilt-tripping me and you know it!” I snapped.

  “Is it working?”

  I sighed. “Fine. Yes, it’s working. But you’re paying for all the rides and the candy and hotdogs. And I plan to eat a lot. And then there’ll be alcohol when we get home. Possibly for the whole week.”

  “You are the best sister!” she grinned at me.

  “Well, you suck.”

  But she didn’t stop smiling.

  We collected Dylan from his friend’s house, and it was so wonderful to see him again. I loved teaching third grade, but I couldn’t help wondering if kinder
garteners were where my passion really lay. Their minds were so fresh and open, everything was an adventure. I loved that about them.

  “Wow! You got so big!” I laughed as Dylan hurtled toward me. “Has your mom been watering you?”

  He wrapped his arms around my legs and stared up at me, puzzled. “You’re supposed to water plants, Aunty Aimee, not people.”

  “Oh, silly me. Guess I got mixed up. Did you miss me?”

  He shook his head shyly.

  “Not even a little bit?” I teased, tugging on his t-shirt.

  He held his thumb and finger an inch apart.

  “Gee, as much as that! I must be the luckiest aunt in the whole world.”

  His giggles were the best sound, and helped calm the uneasy stutter in my heart as I thought about taking him to the fair.

  I told myself I was being dumb and pathetic, but it didn’t help. I’d avoided anything like that since … well, since the summer I turned 17.

  When we were at Jennifer’s house and Dylan was in bed, I told her the whole sordid story of Gregg-with-two-g’s and the unfortunately named Lulu.

  “You’re better off without him,” she said, opening a second bottle of wine and handing me a glass.

  “I know, but I feel so stupid. All the signs were there and I just ignored them.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “You trusted him, honey. You’re supposed to be able to do that in relationships. There’s nothing wrong with you. He’s the asshole.”

  I raised my glass and we clinked them together. “He’s the asshole.”

  Jennifer had to work for the next two days, so I was in charge of Mission Entertain Dylan. We went to the Soft Play Center in town and then swimming in the lake at Shroeder Park. It was my favorite place to take Dylan because the beach was huge and the water wasn’t full of weed. It also had a fun playground that Dylan loved, grills and picnic tables, and large clean restrooms. Anyone who’s ever been on a day out with kids knows that good restrooms can make or break a trip.

  He fell asleep tired and happy. I’d have felt the same, if it wasn’t for the twinge in my gut. I’d be glad when the trip to the fair was over and done with.

  We packed up the car the next day as Jennifer talked loudly, covering her guilt for making me do this. Dylan was in high spirits because all his friends had already been to see the fair, and he was the only one who hadn’t. According to the other five-year olds he knew, it would be “awesome” because the cotton candy came in 15 different colors.

  Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.

  Dylan chattered the whole way, which was good, because Jennifer kept throwing me worried looks that were seriously pissing me off. I would have told her so if it wasn’t for the cute kid strapped into his child seat.

  But after all the anxiety, once we got there I started to enjoy myself.

  I breathed in the scent of frying onions and hotdogs, the sweet air around the cotton candy stall, watching the excited faces of children and the restrained excitement of adults as they moved down the midway. The scents and sounds took me back to a magical part of my childhood. I’ve missed this, I thought. The carnival had been such an important part of my life, and I’d cut it off ruthlessly—even if it was to protect my heart from further damage.

  Dylan tugged on my hand, almost overwhelmed with the choices surrounding him.

  First stop was the Monkey Maze which Dylan adored and went a long way to running off some of his nonstop energy. Then we headed down the midway, playing all the dumb games and trying to win stuffed elephants and toys that no one in their right mind would ever want. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The fair wasn’t about being sensible, it was about having as much fun as was legal.

  I had a little pang when we went on the Ferris wheel, but it was so different being there with Dylan that I didn’t really mind.

  I couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing hadn’t helped me grow up a little. After all, it had been eight years. I was nearly 25—definitely time to get over it. Over him. He-who-must-not-be named. But breaking up with Gregg had left me feeling surprisingly emotional—and add that to being back in Minnesota.

  In the afternoon, Dylan decided he wanted to go see the show playing at the back end of the fair. There was some motorcycle stunt rider that he wanted to see.

  I wasn’t very keen. I’d seen things like that on TV—those guys were nuts.

  We could hear the roar of engines set against the backdrop of some heavy rock music, presumably to ramp up the drama. Jennifer winced at the volume and I raised my eyebrows.

  With resigned shrugs, we paid our 15 bucks each and went inside.

  We’d missed the first few minutes and had to squeeze into the middle of a row of seats, much to the annoyance of the other patrons. I didn’t think we’d missed much because all I could see through a cloud of dust and fumes, was some guy in red and black leathers, using his poor motorcycle to screech around, leaving a pattern of tight circles in the dirt. Dylan told me these were called ‘donuts’. Good to know.

  I could see it took timing and precision, but I found it deadly dull to watch. But that was just the warm-up.

  The donuts were followed by a display of wheelies: along the ground, up ramps and onto seesaws. I liked the innovation of a digital display on a large wall-mounted screen that showed the rider’s hair-raising point of view. If I squinted, I could see the camera mounted on his helmet.

  Then he picked some poor woman from the audience who practically threw herself at him, and he practiced screeching around her, and skidding to a halt inches from her open legs. Ugh. She had her eyes closed the whole time, not that I blamed her for that, and I think half the audience were hoping that he’d run her over, but he didn’t.

  He followed that with some wheelies standing on the seat, first on the back wheel and then on the front wheel, which was pretty cool, even doing it with no hands, which made me wonder how he controlled the bike.

  So far it was technically stunning, but not that exciting. But things were only just getting started. Next up were the jumps, and that had me gripping my seat. Two ramps, about sixty feet apart were set up. He raced up one, flying through the air. I gasped as his feet left the footrests and he seemed to be doing a handstand on the handlebars. I was sure I was going to see a horrible crash, and watched through my fingers as he landed.

  Dylan was whooping and cheering, but Jennifer looked a little queasy.

  “I want to do that, Mommy!” shouted Dylan.

  Jennifer threw me a horrified look, and I shrugged as if to say, You wanted to come here.

  But then the stunt guy topped that by doing a full somersault in the air. I squeaked with nerves as he seemed to mis-time his landing, but I guess that was all part of the act.

  Jennifer tugged my elbow. “Bathroom break,” she mouthed.

  Yeah, right. No coincidence on the timing, although, to be fair, she did look a little green.

  Then two more riders entered the arena and they all jumped the ramp one after another, the guy in red and black freakin’ lying on his bike, hands in the air.

  Insane. They were all insane.

  And I thought that before two of the riders screamed up opposite ramps, seeming sure to hit each other midair, but missing by mere inches.

  I’d never seen anything like it and was relieved when it was over.

  Dylan was so excited he sounded as if he’d been sniffing helium. His squeaky high-pitched yells broke through my trance.

  “Aunty Aimee, they’re signing programs! Can we go, can we?” And he waved the program in my face that we’d been given along with our tickets.

  “Sure thing, buddy.”

  I was happy to do anything now it was all over.

  We made our way down to the arena where the three guys were chatting to the crowds. Unsurprisingly, the most popular was the guy in red and black leather.

  Apparently, he was some sort of world record holder, jumping his bike more than 180 feet by Sydney Harbor Bridge, Australia, or so the program sa
id. I couldn’t say I’d ever heard of Hawkins’ Daredevils—with or without the apostrophe that was missing from their program.

  He had his back to us and I could hear his deep laugh as a bunch of kids asked him questions. He was really patient with them, which I appreciated, and seemed genuinely interested as he chatted with them.

  Finally, he turned to us, and my breath rushed out of my lungs. I was staring up into silver-gray eyes that still haunted my dreams.

  “Kes!”

  He looked equally shocked, but recovered so quickly, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

  “Yeah?”

  “It … it’s Aimee … Aimee Andersen.”

  He stared at me, his expression giving away nothing.

  “Yeah, I remember you,” he said at last, his voice grudging.

  Then he leaned down to sign Dylan’s program.

  “What’s your name, dude?” Kes asked, his voice gruff and deep.

  “Dylan,” he replied shyly, holding my hand tightly, half hiding behind me.

  “Cool name,” said Kes, his trademark smirk evident as he scrawled his signature across the program with a Sharpie.

  I stood there stiffly, desperately trying to think of something to say. Speak to him! My head screamed, but the words were thick and gluey in my mouth.

  “Can … can we talk?” I choked out.

  His eyes darkened to a stormy gray. “I’m kinda busy.”

  “Please?” I whispered.

  Dylan looked up at me, a small frown on his face.

  Kes’s expression softened slightly.

  “Twenty minutes,” he said. “Out back.”

  I nodded jerkily as he gunned the engine and rode away.

  “Is he a friend of yours, Aunty Aimee?” Dylan asked, “Because that would be cool.”

  “Um, I used to know him,” I answered honestly, “but I haven’t seen him for a long time. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

  The lie lay heavily in my chest, but Dylan accepted it easily.

  At that moment, Jennifer found us.

  “Hey, buddy! Did you get his autograph?”

  “Yes, Mommy. And he’s Aunty Aimee’s friend!”

  Jennifer smiled at his enthusiasm, but it faltered when she saw my face.