Mischief and Mayhem

by L. E. Rico

  “Deep fried pickles on a stick,” I add.

  “Hot dish on a stick!” Hennessy chimes in.

  “Pork chops on a stick,” comes from Scott.

  “Jeez,” Bryan groans from the driver’s seat. “Why do I think I’m gonna need to pop some Tums before the night is through?”

  He no sooner asks the question than we take the turn-off into the fairgrounds, where two giant fiberglass cows stand on either side of the road as a welcome. We all start to cheer loudly, all except for Bryan, who’s looking like he’s been abducted by aliens.

  “Those are the fair mascots,” I explain. “They’re named Daisy and Ruby, and everybody loves them.”

  “Everybody loves two fiberglass cows that look as if they’ve been sucked up by a tornado and dropped back down again—repeatedly?” he asks.

  “I guess they have seen better days,” Scott agrees.

  We wend our way through the long line of parking vultures and hike our way back to the entrance, where Daisy and Ruby get the traditional “good luck” pat on the head.

  “Okay, where to first?” I ask, surveying our options. “Food? Rides? Livestock? Arts and crafts?”

  “Cheese curds.” That’s Scott, who’s already got Bryan by the elbow, pulling him in the direction of the food stands. “Time you face your fears. Meet your nemesis. Come face to face with the enemy.”

  “No, really, I’m good…” Bryan protests.

  “Wuss,” Walker mutters from behind us, and Henny and I burst out laughing.

  I hang back and give Walker’s arm a playful push. “I’m really glad you came with us.” She half-smiles and shrugs awkwardly, but I can tell she’s happy to be included.

  We wait an ungodly amount of time in line for the most popular food in the fair, and when we finally walk away with two red and white paper baskets, Scott leads us to a quiet spot off the midway. He hands the tray to Bryan, who examines its contents carefully. He picks up the battered, deep-fried nugget of cheese and turns it around, considering it from every angle.

  “Oh for God’s sake! Just eat the stupid thing already!” Walker complains loudly, reaching in and grabbing one from under his nose. She pops it in her mouth and makes an exaggeratedly happy face. “Mmmmm!” she says, rubbing her belly with one hand. “Yummy!”

  Finally, Bryan closes his eyes, sticks the morsel in his mouth, and starts to chew slowly. His brows go from a bunched-up position of concern to the high arch of pleasant surprise.

  “Hey! These are pretty good!” he exclaims as he chews. “Like cheese sticks…but shaped like…like…”

  “Curds?” Hennessy offers with a smirk.

  “Exactly! Now, did you say they put hotdish on a stick? Like hotdish hotdish? I mean, do you think they’ve got the chili Frito corn pie hotdish?” he asks, his eyes growing large with excitement. “I love that stuff!”

  “You are so adorable,” Hennessy murmurs as she plants a big kiss on his lips.

  …

  By the time we make it to the Magawa Midwestern Royalty tent, Bryan has sampled the cheese curds, the hotdish, the deep-fried Oreo, and a pork chop on a stick. And he’s starting to look a little green around the gills.

  “You okay there, buddy?” I ask him. He nods and gives me a “tough guy” smile.

  We walk around the enormous tent, which is air conditioned to the point of being frigid, despite the outside temperature in the eighties.

  “Where are we supposed to meet Win?” Henny asks as we stroll among the giant blocks of butter.

  “At the livestock tent. By the baby animal petting zoo,” I reply.

  Win and I agreed to “split” our time with Jackson at the fair—him taking the first shift then meeting so I can take over. I’m looking forward to seeing my baby take his first ride on the teeny-tiny teacup ride—even if projectile vomiting is a potential hazard.

  We follow the other fairgoers and wiggle our way forward until we come up against the velvet rope that separates the onlookers from the sculptor. The butter sculptor. He’s a tall, gangly man in a Hawaiian shirt with a hilariously unruly shock of white hair and tiny glasses.

  “Baillllley!” Bryan hoots loudly.

  My little sister is on her feet, posing for the sculptor. Her hair is piled high on her head in a nest of curls held firm by a sparkling tiara. She’s wearing a cornflower blue gown that matches her eyes perfectly. She’s given me her begrudging forgiveness over what we’ve come to call “The Harry Affair.” I still ask where she’s going and when she’ll be home at night—sometimes she tells me, sometimes she doesn’t. It’s a little bumpy as we both adjust to Bailey’s status as “grown-up”…and a princess. After all, royalty does have its own set of challenges.

  “Hi, guys!” she calls out to us with a wave and then settles back to her placid pose.

  Next to her, the artist alternates tiny scrapers, chisels, and brushes on a huge block of butter. He works with such speed and agility that it almost appears he’s coaxing a fully formed Bailey out from within the yellow block.

  “My God, he’s amazing,” Bryan marvels, pulling out his iPhone to shoot some video.

  “Hey, you can shoot video with that thing?” Scott asks, looking over his shoulder at the tiny screen now capturing the unfolding project in front of us.

  Several strangers turn and gawk at him while I just shake my head and chuckle. “Ahh, the magical iPhone unlocks yet another one of its secrets for you,” I tease. But he’s too busy watching how Bryan is capturing the images.

  “We’d better move along,” Walker says from behind us. “There’s a crowd lining up back here. We can come to see it later when he’s done. And we’ll see her in the parade tonight too.”

  “Bye, Bailey!” Henny calls out as she blows a kiss in our sister’s direction.

  She returns it, and I see the sculptor muttering something to her. As soon as he turns the other way, she rolls her eyes and mouths the words, “Oh, puh-leeeeze!”

  That’s our princess.

  Scott: “Hey, Siri, do you have a brother?”

  Siri: “I have you. That’s enough family for me.”

  Scott: “You might be onto something there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Scott

  “Ohhhh,” Walker moans appreciatively, pointing to the funnel cake stand. “I am all over this. Anyone want one?” she asks, looking back at us.

  “Nope,” Hennessy says.

  “Not me,” Bryan agrees.

  “Well, I think Jameson should have one now before Jackson joins us. I know you don’t like him within a five-mile radius of the funnel cakes,” I tease, poking the beautiful woman next to me. The one I kissed in the elevator. The one I’ve been wanting to get my lips on ever since. “In fact, we’d better just abandon this quadrant of the fairgrounds altogether—you know, in case there’s a freak custard accident.”

  “You do not still have that stupid funnel cake phobia, do you?” Walker demands impatiently. “Really, James? I thought we worked this out at the winter carnival. Nothing is going to happen to Jackson involving fried dough…”

  “Listen,” Jameson retorts. “You can all make fun of me when you have kids of your own. Until then, my child is sticking to the snow cones and mini-chocolate chip cookies. Which are both far, far away from the funnel cakes. So let’s go meet up with Win so I can start pumping my kid full of sugar.”

  “I’m gonna go check out the microbrew tent—Father Romance is a judge this year, and he’s freakin’ hilarious when he gets hammered,” Walker informs us, already chuckling at the prospect.

  “Yeah, and Bryan’s dying to see the bean and macaroni art exhibit,” Hennessy says, latching onto Bryan’s arm. “So we’ll meet up with you and Scott later.”

  “I am?” Bryan asks, looking confused by the entire notion of legume artwork. She gives him a withering “shut up and go with it!” stare. “Oh, right, right. Can’t wait,” he mutters as she drags him off.

  “Well, I guess it’s just us,” I note,
now that Jameson and I are suddenly sans sisters.

  “Looks like it,” she agrees, not appearing to be unhappy at the prospect. She glances at her watch. “We’d better get a move on, Win’s probably had about all he can stand by now.”

  “What? Of Jackson or the fair?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Both! Jax can be a real handful outside of the house. You’ve got to watch him like a hawk…and good Lord is he fast! Oh, yeah, I’m guessing Win’s ready to go visit the microbrew tent himself!”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s a decent father, at least,” I murmur as we start toward the livestock pens at a leisurely pace.

  “Have you decided?” she asks. “What you’re going to do about Win, I mean?”

  I know what she means.

  “I don’t know. On the one hand, he may not know he’s the one who was adopted and he has a right to. On the other, maybe he knew all along that I wasn’t adopted—which I had a right to know. I haven’t broached the subject with Dad—he’s just not up to it yet. So…I guess I’ll just wait until he is.”

  She nods next to me. “Will you…will you stay for a while, Scott?”

  “Funny, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself all last night and all today. Ever since…”

  “Ever since that kiss?” She fills in the blank.

  “That would be the moment,” I agree. “Why…should I be thinking about sticking around?”

  I hold my breath, waiting to see what my ex-sister-in-law says.

  “Well, I— Oh my God!” She stops dead in her tracks, the color draining from her face.

  I follow her gaze to a narrow space between the heifer tent and the building that houses the restrooms and first aid station, where Win is lip-locked with Princess Drew of Midwestern Brew, a girl by the name of Maddie Jenelecki. She’s in a very un-princess-like position, pressed up against the outer wall of the building, the skirt of her long dress hiked up. My brother’s got his hands on her waist as he kisses her neck.

  “It should’ve been you,” I hear him say as we approach him, unseen. “You should’ve been Princess Mary…”

  “Ahem!” I say way too loudly.

  The two of them fly apart, both looking guilty as they straighten their clothing and try to control all that heavy breathing.

  “Scott? What the hell!” my brother yells at me when he realizes who’s just busted him. Then his eyes move slightly to the right. To Jameson. “Oh, hey, James…”

  I look over his shoulder at Maddie, whose hair is dripping and drooping and falling out of its intricate hairstyle, causing her tiara to sit askew and sending a shower of hair glitter raining down on her dress and the ground.

  “How old are you?” I ask her.

  “Eighteen-and-a-half,” she informs me with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow cocked up defiantly. This one’s a real piece of work. Some princess.

  Win is still staring at his stunned ex-wife. “Jameson—”

  She holds up a palm to stop him, shaking her head. “No. Please, don’t. Just—just give me my son so I can get away from you…and her…”

  “Oh, hey, James, please don’t be like that… This is nothing—”

  “Excuuuuuse me!” Maddie interrupts from behind us. “Nothing? What happened to you taking me to Wisconsin Dells? I thought we had a thing here…”

  “Hey, Princess Jezebel, stay out of it,” I warn.

  Maddie unleashes a torrent of expletives on me, including several suggestions for entertaining myself that would make a seasoned sailor blush. She wraps it up by threatening to beat me to a pulp with her tiara and feed me to the sows two pens down.

  “Jackson, Win! Just give me Jackson…” Jameson is insisting, craning her neck to see around Win and his little friend. And, while the stroller is there, just behind them, there’s no sign of the toddler. “Win?” she begins slowly, softly. “Win, where’s Jackson?”

  My brother spins around and stares at the empty stroller. “Ummm, he was napping a few minutes ago…”

  I feel Jameson go very still next to me. When I look at her, she’s started to tremble, and her breath is coming in ragged gasps.

  “Where is Jackson?” she shrieks so loudly that everything around us stops.

  I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “He can’t be too far.”

  Can he? Probably. Crap.

  “James, you stay here in case he wanders back this way. Maddie—just—just go, please.” The teenager uses her right hand to shoot me the international single-digit sign for contempt before she bustles off in her pink gown and tiara. In the meantime, Win is just standing there staring at the empty stroller. I grab him by the arm and drag him along with me into the row of livestock tents.

  “Come on, Father of the Year.”

  …

  With the exception of Bryan, we all grew up on these fairgrounds, and we know it inside and out. Even I, after a ten-year absence, can recall every nook, every cranny, every hiding place and shortcut. The temperature has risen steadily throughout the day, and the fairgrounds are starting to simmer under the late afternoon sun. It’s nothing compared to the oppressively dry heat of southern Mexico in August, but it’s warm enough to have my clothing sticking to me as I move in and out of the various livestock pens.

  “He was right there!” Win is explaining behind me. “I swear to God, he was fast asleep…”

  I ignore him, upping my quick-paced jog to more of a frantic run, zigzagging in and around horses, cows, rabbits, and one very crotchety old mule. More than one redhead has me chasing them around the potbelly pig pen and the Shetland pony ring. I’m almost out of the tent—one foot in, one foot out—when I stop abruptly and turn to my left. I move inch by inch, afraid to be wrong about what I think I just saw in a brief flash as I passed by.

  Slowly, I move in the direction of the baby goat pen. A few of the creatures are balancing themselves on slanted ramps, and a few more are napping in the hay. Next to what can only be the “mama” goat, I see Jackson curled up into a ball, thumb in mouth and chubby little hand resting atop Mama Goat’s belly as she reclines in the hay.

  “Oh! Oh, thank you God!” I’m so relieved I could weep as I scoop the wayward toddler into my arms and hoist him up against my shoulder.

  “Holy crap, this kid!” Win mutters, stomping along behind me. We’re both of us too angry to speak to one another as we wend our way back to where Jameson is pacing frantically, swiping tears from her face. By now, Hennessy, Walker, and Bryan have joined her. When he spots us, he taps Jameson’s shoulder gently and points in our direction.

  “Give him to me,” Win says.

  “What?” He motions for me to hand the kid over. “Not a chance, buddy. This kid’s going straight to his mother.”

  That’s when he leans down, even as Jameson is running toward us, and whispers in my ear. “I knew all along. I knew why you left and what you thought, and I knew the truth. I just didn’t tell you.”

  “Oh! Oh my God, my baby!” Jameson is sobbing as she takes a groggy Jackson from my arms, pulls him to her chest, and sinks down to the grass, kissing his head and face.

  I spare a second to look at my brother, and I make the decision, in that moment.

  We. Are. Done.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jameson

  “Here, drink this,” Walker says, shoving another tiny bottle of vodka at me.

  I take it and tip it back, swallowing it in a single gulp before passing the empty bottle back to her and grabbing a second from her backpack. That, too, is gone in a flash.

  “Okay. Much better,” I murmur, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “James, are you sure you don’t want to just take Jax and go home?” Henny asks for the fifth time.

  I shake my head stubbornly. “Nope. I am not going to miss Bailey in the parade. Jackson is fine—I just needed a little something to take the edge off. But I’m good now,” I assure her.

  Jackson is, in fact, better than fine. He’s on the little airpl
ane ride, rising and falling in five-foot increments, sandwiched between Bryan and Scott. I can hear his squeals of delight every time their blue aircraft circles past the bench where we’re sitting.

  “I can’t believe he’d be with that trashy Maddie,” Henny says. “What’s Win thinking? She’s like twelve years younger than he is.”

  Walker isn’t so composed as the topic of Win and Maddie comes up. She clamps her lips together into a hard, straight line, and her eyes grow frighteningly stormy before they appear to narrow in murderous contemplation. “Mother. Trucker,” she mutters in a deadly tone.

  “Okay, okay, can we just take a breather here on the whole Win/Maddie/double homicide scenario, please? I need to get calmer, not more worked up.”

  Henny’s face lights up. “Oh! Oh, I know exactly what you need! Come on,” she coaxes, jumping up off the bench and pulling me to my feet. “Come, come, come!”

  “What? Where are we going?” I protest. “I don’t want to leave Jackson again…”

  “Not to worry,” Henny assures me, typing a text even as she leads us away from the kiddy rides and down another row of attractions. “I’m texting Bryan. He and Scott will take Jax to the teacups next. We’ll be done before they are.”

  “Done with what?” Walker asks, joining me in trying to keep up with our oldest sister.

  “You’ll see!” she calls back over her shoulder as we follow her past the funhouse, around the Matterhorn, and through the airbrush T-shirt stands. “Here!” she declares at last as we stand outside of a huge, gauzy tent.

  The butterfly house.

  …

  Before she died, our mother was a great believer in signs and omens. She’d pick up pennies off the sidewalk (pennies from heaven), take note of any feather she came across (evidence of the angels around us), and point to each and every cardinal (a sign of love from beyond the grave). But, by far, her favorite and—according to her—the most powerful portent of spiritual intervention was the butterfly.

  In her mind, every gossamer-winged creature from a simple moth to the brilliant monarch butterfly was a symbol of hope, faith, and transformation of the soul.