by Ann Tatlock
“We’re going to go where life is exciting!” Marlene waved one arm like a cheerleader. “Right, Jimmy?”
Another nod. “You got it, honey.”
Marcus sniffed at that and shook his head. Turning back to me, he said, “So, you say you moved from St. Paul? As in Minnesota?”
“That’s right.” We had exchanged small talk on the night we danced, but not much. We’d found it too difficult to hold any real conversation over the music and the hubbub of the crowd, and so we’d been content to slide silently together around the dance floor.
“I’ve never been to St. Paul,” Marcus said.
“Don’t bother to go.”
“Why not?”
“Too much crime. It’s where all the gangsters hole up when they want to get away from the law.”
The cheerleader arm flew up. “Jimmy, let’s go to St. Paul!”
Jimmy shrugged. “Whatever you want, baby.”
Marcus laughed. “You two are going to end up in trouble, if you’re not careful.”
“Well, somebody’s got to have fun, Marcus, and it’s probably not going to be you,” Marlene said. “Tell Eve what you’re going to be doing in the fall.”
Marcus and I looked at each other. He lifted one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “I’m going to college.”
“You are? You’ve been accepted?”
“Sure, I’ve been accepted.”
“He even got a scholarship,” Marlene said. “Tell her, Marcus.”
“Partial scholarship,” Marcus corrected.
“Academic?” I asked.
“No.” Marcus shook his head. “Athletic.”
“Oh.” I would have been much more impressed with an academic scholarship, but free tuition was free tuition.
Marlene said, “Eve told me she’s crazy about sports. Didn’t you, Eve?”
I’d said no such thing. But I was willing to pretend I was crazy about sports for a day. Or for the summer. Or for the rest of my life, if need be.
“Really?” Marcus was smiling now.
“Sure,” I answered.
“What’s your favorite?”
I thought a moment. “Oh, I like all sports equally,” I said, which was true, as I didn’t like any of them at all. “So you want to play a sport professionally?”
“No. I’m going to study civil engineering. I want to build things. Roads, bridges, dams. You know, things like that.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” I gushed, though even as I spoke, it dawned on me that Marcus would be leaving Mercy at the end of the summer. Nervously, I asked, “So where are you going to school?”
“The University of Cincinnati.” And then, as though he could read my thoughts, he added, “It’s close.”
I smiled. Up ahead, over the next rise, the carnival appeared. First the Ferris wheel, then the larger spread of rides and colorful canopies, the sounds of calliope music and barkers calling, the scent of popcorn and warm dust and grease. If the carnival workers had hoped for a profitable turnout, their wish had been granted. It looked like the population of several counties had converged on those few acres outside of Mercy. We took our place among them, and for the next several hours we strolled about the grounds, riding rides, playing games, drinking sodas, eating popcorn and candied apples.
From time to time I looked at Marcus, not quite believing I was with him. I longed for Cassandra to see me now. The girl she’d called the “luckless wench” had finally stumbled upon a bit of handsome luck! I had a date with Marcus Wiant and that meant, at least for the moment, I wasn’t alone. That was the amazing thing. The familiar sense of loneliness was missing as I walked through the hours with Marcus. Instead, I was surprised by a sense of satisfaction.
And that too brought me around to Cassandra. For the first time in my life, I stood with my eye to a peephole into my sister’s existence, and I understood that maybe this was why she had relentlessly run with the wrong crowd—to dance halls, to speakeasies, to parties. She’d yearned for this very feeling, this sense of connectedness, however fragile and brief, a blessed reprieve from solitude. It was lovely being outside of oneself, lovelier than I might have imagined.
While Marcus and Jimmy went for hot dogs and drinks, Marlene and I sat down at a picnic table to wait for them. She leaned forward on her elbows and winked. “I didn’t do too bad a job at matchmaking, did I? You like Marcus, don’t you?”
I nodded shyly. “He’s wonderful, Marlene.”
“Good. I’m glad you like him because he obviously likes you.”
“Do you really think so?”
She looked at me askance. “Really, Eve? Is the Pope Catholic?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “But,” I asked, “how come he doesn’t already have a girl? I mean, a guy like Marcus ought to have plenty of girls after him.”
Marlene adjusted her hat and applied fresh lipstick from a tube plucked out of her dainty handbag. “Listen,” she said, “there’s something you have to understand about Marcus. He’s a looker but he doesn’t have a clue. He’s way too shy. I mean, yeah, he’s had a girl or two, but nothing serious. I think it’s because his father’s the sheriff.”
I frowned at her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Oh, just that Sheriff Wiant thinks he’s the most important man in Warren County. Maybe even Ohio. He expects so much of Marcus, and Marcus never seems able to live up. There’s a couple of daughters in the family, but Marcus is the only son. It’s a tough break.”
“But I don’t get it. Marcus is going to college on an athletic scholarship! What else does his father want?”
“A full scholarship, I suppose, instead of a partial.”
“But some kids don’t get anything!”
Marlene shrugged. “Like I said, nothing’s ever good enough for Sheriff Wiant. I think he’s also disappointed Marcus has a mind of his own and wants to be something other than the next sheriff. I’m telling you, Eve, the man’s a real creep. He swaggers around with his guns on his hips like he’s Wild Bill Hickok or something. On top of that, he’s just plain mean. Like Jimmy’s dad, only Jimmy’s dad is even worse.”
“He is?” I hadn’t formally met Calvin Fludd myself, but he didn’t seem like such a bad fellow to me. I’d seen him at the lodge several times, leaning his greasy elbows on the front desk while talking with Uncle Cy. Their conversation was always punctuated by hearty laughter that could be heard as far away as the kitchen. I know, because Annie always appeared with a glass of iced tea for Mr. Fludd and another for Uncle Cy. Surely if my uncle and Annie Tweed approved of the man, he had to be a good guy.
“Let me put it this way, Eve,” Marlene said. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth grew small. “I hate Calvin Fludd and I hate that he’s going to be my father-in-law. But like I said, it’s not as though Jimmy and I are going to hang around Mercy once we’re married. No sir. Get me in front of the JP and then we’re gone for good.”
“Really? Do you—” I wanted to know more, but the boys showed up with the hot dogs and drinks.
Later, when we were walking through the midway, Marcus offered me his hand, and I took it. Our fingers easily entwined; his flesh felt warm and comfortable. But at the same time, we both looked shyly away and pretended to be intrigued by the games and distracted by the carnival barkers, as though our hands were their own persons and not a part of us at all.
“Would you like me to try to win you a stuffed animal?” he asked, stopping at a shooting gallery. On display in the booth was a variety of prizes: stuffed animals of all sorts, spinning tops and yo-yos and plastic swords and costume jewelry.
“Sure,” I said.
He pulled his hand from mine; I reluctantly let go.
“You know these games are all rigged,” Jimmy warned.
Marcus shrugged. “Sometimes they let people win. They have to. They can’t cheat everyone and get away with it.” He turned to the carny in the booth and asked, “How much?”
“A nickel for three shots,�
�� the carny replied. He was a weathered man with leathery skin and a mouth full of broken teeth. His arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist, and three of his fingers were missing on his left hand. One glance at him sent a shiver down my spine.
Marcus pulled a nickel from his pocket and dropped it into the carny’s outstretched hand, the one with the fingers intact. The carny handed him a rifle and stepped aside. Marcus lifted the rifle so that the butt nestled against his right shoulder. He held the barrel in his left hand while the index finger of his right hand curled around the trigger. He peered over the barrel, taking aim at the toy ducks lined up at the back of the booth. I held my breath and waited. He fired the first blank; the ducks remained unruffled. He fired the second. Nothing. Three times Marcus fired and three times not a single duck budged.
“Aw, too bad,” Marlene said.
“I told you it was rigged,” Jimmy added.
“Never mind,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Before Marcus could hand the rifle over, a man came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
When the man turned toward me I recognized him. “Link!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”
He motioned us back with a wave of his arms. “Step aside. Don’t want anybody getting hurt.”
“You know this guy?” Marcus asked.
“I met him once,” I said. Then, more quietly, “He’s just a bum who hangs around the lodge looking for food.”
Link reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a nickel. How is it, I thought, that a bum has a nickel? And why is he wasting money on a silly carnival game when he could be using it for food?
I reached for Marcus’s arm. “Come on,” I said. “I want to ride the carousel.”
“All right.”
Link took a shot. One duck flew off the shelf. I tugged at Marcus’s elbow. “Come on,” I said again.
Another shot, another flying duck.
Link turned and looked at Marcus. For a moment they held each other’s gaze. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into the soft flesh of my palms.
Link fired off his last shot. One more duck flew upward. Jimmy laughed and Marlene cheered. I glared at Link.
“The game’s rigged,” Marcus said.
“Maybe,” Link said, “but I’m still a good shot.”
“Come on, Marcus.” I pulled at his arm.
Finally Marcus turned away. I offered Link a parting frown as we walked off toward the carousel, trailed by Jimmy and Marlene. I had half a mind not to give Link any food next time he came around with his empty stomach and hangdog look. Anyone with spare change in his pocket didn’t need to beg.
Once we reached the carousel, I forgot all about the bum from the shantytown. I’d always loved the carousel, the calliope music, the up-and-down and round-and-round of the colorful horses. Who could ride a carousel and not be happy? And now, I was all the more so because Marcus was on the horse beside me.
Every time we made the loop, Marcus reached toward the ring dispenser. On our third time around, he captured one of the rings and held it up in triumph.
“It’s the brass!” he hollered, slipping it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll let you use it for a free ride.”
But he forgot. We both forgot, until we got back to the lodge in the early evening and he found it still in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it with chagrin. “I meant to let you use it,” he said. “How did I get so sidetracked?”
“As soon as the ride was over,” I said, “Marlene insisted she wanted a snow cone, and she wanted it right that minute, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” He laughed lightly.
“And then we forgot to go back,” I added.
“Well, here.” He gave me the ring. “You can have it as a souvenir.”
I smiled. “It was a wonderful day, Marcus. Thanks.”
He offered a shy grin and glanced around. The porch was crowded with guests relaxing, rocking, reading the newspaper, puffing on cigarettes. One little boy pushed a wooden truck around our feet. Marcus shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Well, good night, Eve,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“Good night, Marcus.”
With a quick nod, he hurried off the porch and around the lodge to the parking lot where Jimmy waited to take him home. In another moment I heard the horn of Jimmy’s Tin Lizzie cutting through the summer air to bid me one last good-night. Aarruga!
I clasped the carousel ring in both hands and held it to my heart. Then I stepped into the front hall and moved toward the stairs. Uncle Cy was behind the desk.
“Ah, Eve, how was the carnival?” he asked. “Did you have a good day?”
“It was the best day imaginable,” I said.
“Shall we start planning a wedding?”
“Not yet.”
Uncle Cy laughed. “Well, be sure to let me know so we can reserve the dining room for the reception.”
“I will.”
I walked up the stairs like one in a dream, my sails swelled by what I could only imagine was the breath of passion as I moved down the hall to my room.
My treasure box sat in solitary abandon on the dresser. I had ignored it lately, but now I had something to tuck inside. I picked it up and gazed momentarily at the floral pattern carved into the hinged lid. Mother and Daddy had given me this teakwood treasure box on September 21, 1923, my ninth birthday, though it would be nearly a year before I laid my first treasure inside. Now, I opened the lid, kissed the brass ring, and tenderly placed it on the velvet lining next to the only other item there.
My fingers touched the lid, but I hesitated. That other item . . . maybe it no longer belonged. Maybe I should put it somewhere else. Or give it away. Or drop it in the trash.
I picked it up and held it in the palm of my hand. Why had I kept this little ivory elephant all these years? Should I keep it now, as though it were something delightful, like the brass ring from Marcus? It had been given to me by a very bad man, an evil man. And yet, that was what had always puzzled me. I hadn’t known then who he was. I’d known only that he was a stranger who stopped to show kindness to a little girl one summer day in 1924. . . .
Chapter 13
I’d begged Daddy for weeks for a pair of roller skates and, though we never seemed to have much money for extras, he somehow scraped together enough to present me with a pair of skates on the first day of summer in 1924. He said they were a reward for earning all As in the fourth grade, in spite of our move from Detroit in the middle of the school year.
The skates were a brand-new pair of Winchesters, shiny silver with bright red wheels and red leather straps to go around my ankles. I sat right down and slid the toes of my Keds between the metal clasps, then buckled the straps. Daddy tightened the skates with the key, which Mother then put on a shoestring so I could wear it around my neck. I spent all afternoon skating up and down the sidewalk in front of our apartment building and never once fell down. I fancied myself a natural athlete, so much so that over the next few weeks I dreamed of being a famous ballroom roller dancer or maybe even a movie star who skated her way through musicals, singing and dancing flawlessly on wheels.
My skates and I became inseparable. I took them everywhere, even to my best friend Ariel’s party when she turned ten. She knew she’d be getting her own pair of Winchesters for her birthday, and she asked me to stay after the party so we could go skating together.
Ariel’s family lived in the upstairs portion of a duplex on Arundel Street, not far from the Commodore Hotel. Since its opening four years earlier, the hotel had attracted the rich and the famous, and was particularly well-known for the wild parties thrown there by F. Scott Fitzgerald and his eccentric flapper wife Zelda. That meant little to me, as I knew nothing about being either rich or famous and was certainly not acquainted with the people who were. I was just a kid with a pair of red-wheeled skates that summer day in 1924.
Once her new skates were attached to her shoes,
Ariel became timid and uncertain and so moved along the sidewalk at a cautionary pace. I, on the other hand, was a cannonball to her tumbleweed, which made me feel rather superior, since I was still nine years old to her ten.
We skated south on Arundel to Holly Avenue and turned left toward Western Avenue. That whole corner was occupied by the Commodore, a huge multistory redbrick fortress with a gated courtyard in front. By the time I’d turned onto Western, I was half a block ahead of Ariel and gleefully racing forward in a reckless blaze of glory. I was passing the wrought-iron gates that led into the courtyard when it happened. The wheels of my right skate met a buckled crack in the sidewalk, and before I even knew I was in trouble, I was airborne like a ballplayer stealing home plate. After a split-second freefall, I skidded onto the pavement, ripping the hem of my party dress and scraping the skin off both knees. I was stunned senseless. I heard Ariel calling my name—“Eve! Are you all right?”—but I couldn’t answer. It took me a few long moments to gather my wits and turn over. I sat with my legs sprawled in front of me, saw the torn flesh of my kneecaps and the blood oozing out of the wounds, and that’s when the pain set in, along with the humiliation. I started to cry, and through my tears I saw Ariel pawing her way clumsily toward me, pounding the sidewalk like someone smashing grapes instead of gliding on the wheels beneath her. I wanted to laugh at her but couldn’t. I’d been so smug about my skating, yet here I was, on the ground with tattered knees and—I finally noticed—palms furrowed with scratches and dusty white with concrete, which made me cry all the more.
I didn’t want anyone to see me like that, but, of all the rotten luck, the heavy wrought-iron gate of the Commodore squeaked open on its hinges, and three men stepped out of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk. One walked out in front while the other two shadowed him like wings. The one in front was a heavyset man smoking a newly lit cigar. He wore a white double-breasted suit, a white fedora, and black-and-white wingtip shoes. The only color on him was the black parts of his shoes and the rose-colored silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. When he saw me, he stopped and squatted down, his great weight balanced on the balls of his feet. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and tossed it aside. “Hey, kid, you all right?” he asked, his shaggy brows knit, his gray eyes tender with a kind of fatherly concern.