Carter Beats the Devil

by Glen David Gold

  They rode by the train tracks for miles, and then Carter pulled up to Idora’s northern entrance, admiring its great sign carved from panels of oak, each letter a different color of the rainbow: “Idora Park,” then, “Amusements for the Family,” and, in very small letters below, “Borax Smith, Proprietor.”

  Carter held his arms out to help Phoebe balance as she dismounted, a careful task for a blind woman. He looked about, and saw no line at the box office, which simultaneously pleased and distressed him. He and Phoebe would have little company, but here was yet another failed investment by Borax.

  He purchased their tickets (thirty-five cents for two people, he wrote in his journal), and walked her inside the park. A series of trails was flanked by shrubs and tall trees on which signs were nailed that pointed the way to the concession stands, the wooden opera house, the huge swimming tanks, the zoo, or the orchards where families could pick their own apples and peaches.

  They passed the largest skating rink in the west. As today was Tuesday, the theme was Jardin de Danse, and all ladies were given handmade silk flowers scented with real French perfume. It sounded grand, but in large block letters was the necessary addendum: “No rough skating, shoving of ladies, or vile attentions.”

  It was still a sunny day, a little humid and breezy, and Phoebe walked with her head tilted slightly upward, as if to catch both the sun and every scent. She had lost her rose somewhere on the motorcycle ride. Carter closed his eyes, too. He heard calliope music and shouts from distant rides, and he smelled popcorn and burned sugar.

  “There’s something . . .” she said, and her voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “At the Home, we get to know people by feeling their faces. It’s a queer thing to do, I know, but will you . . .”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps we could stand off the main path, then?” They walked into the shade of an elm, where there was a wide bench, and they sat. She tugged off her gloves, one finger at a time, and tucked them into the pocket of her work trousers. “It’s just a way of saying hello. Sometimes we say hello instead by saluting each other with pistols, but they frown on that indoors.”

  She began at his crown, and if he’d expected a featherlight reading, the way she’d traced the rose’s veins, he was surprised that it felt more like being sculpted. “Your hair is very thick.”

  “It’s a toupee.”

  “You have to be quiet. Jan told me you’re handsome, and I have to see whether she was trying to make me feel better.” Her fingertips went over his forehead, lightly now, repeatedly, like rainwater trailing down a window pane. Over his eyebrows, his cheekbones, behind his ears, then both hands meeting at his nose, brushing over his upper lip, his lower lip, his chin, and his neck. Then the whole process in reverse, this time forcing him to close his eyes so she could feel his eyelashes.

  She cupped his cheeks in her palms and didn’t move them. He could smell dust on her hands, and lanolin, and her vanilla and almonds. Her right thumb was stroking an inch-long scar on his lower lip. He looked directly into her face, and read a deep concentration that he’d seen mind readers imitate. Though she had porcelain skin, she was in no way delicate. Nothing was ever quite still on her—her lips bowing, or her eyebrows darting above her glasses for a moment, as if she were powered by a hidden turbine. Under the black hair, kinky and knotted by the wind, and behind the glasses, he sensed a keen mind analyzing intimacies his face had blatantly shown.

  He was suddenly uncomfortable.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Jan and I will remain on speaking terms,” she allowed. “Are you famished?”

  “Yes.”

  They walked to a grab stand a few steps away. After she finished her hot dog in about three seconds, she asked Carter to read her the list of attractions that were open. They had missed the balloon ascension and the diving horses, but the daytime fireworks were scheduled for three-thirty. In a way, nothing had changed since Carter’s first visit to a midway, in that only a handful of the promised attractions were actually available. The Helter-Skelter was closed, as was the Electric Studio, but the Haunted Swing, the Circle Wave, the Merry-Go-Round and, best of all, the Thunderbolt were open.

  Phoebe said, “The Thunderbolt, definitely, we shall go there first, and second, and third.” As they walked, she said that even though Idora was but a mile away from the Home, she rarely got to make the trip, as it was frowned upon as a distraction. “Everything we do needs to be spiritually uplifting,” she said. “You’d think the Home was populated by smugglers and second-story men.”

  “How did you end up there?”

  “I went blind. I can hear the Thunderbolt. Can you?”

  Of course he could—it was a gigantic roller coaster, with two-story drops, and it was currently making grown men scream.

  The Thunderbolt was the only attraction in the park that had a line. They stood in the shade of the roller coaster’s great wooden frame while they waited.

  “You know, at some point, I’ll ask you a question about yourself that you might accidentally answer,” he said.

  She reined in a grin, and, lips parting, also fought back a quick response. Eventually, she said, “How did you get that scar on your lip?”

  “Well, I was being held captive by pirates in Indonesia—”

  Phoebe covered a theatrical yawn. “I’m sorry,” she said, “is this going to be one of those long stories?”

  “As I was saying, a pirate had taken over the steamer I was on. And, after slapping me, and threatening to sell my mind reader into slavery, he forced me to do my magic act.” Carter continued with many details, though skipping the part in which he lost all hope.

  “Was it the slap in the face that left the scar?”

  “Oh, no,” he replied. “About an hour later, the Captain offered to show me how to throw a boomerang. I did it extremely well the first time, but the second, I was arrogant, and caught it on my lower lip.”

  “So you could have said ‘I hit myself in the face with a boomerang.’”

  “Yes, but then where would we be? In the time I took to tell that story, we’ve moved up an extra ten places in the line.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry, that whole story you told me about the pirate had absolutely nothing to do with your scar.”

  “It added color?”

  “It added color. I’m going to find a boomerang and hit you with it and that should add all kinds of color. You were overreaching and trying to impress me.”

  “It rather comes with the conjuring business. I’m simply going to boast until you tell me about yourself.”

  He and Phoebe were now at the head of the line, and he sensed a million nimble calculations being made before she spoke again. “I don’t trust you.”

  He’d been expecting more banter, not that serious stare, that flat voice. Not being able to take direction from a woman’s eyes was a serious handicap. “I am trustworthy, though. Ploddingly.”

  She shook her head. The toboggan clattered to a stop just beyond them, and four young people, giggling and wobbly as if leaving a petting party, launched out of the car. An attendant helped Phoebe into her seat, and Carter joined her as the safety bar held them in place.

  They had to wait for the couple behind them to be secured. Carter felt awkward, as if he and Phoebe had just argued. She worked her mouth around a phrase, finally saying, “What I mean is, when you told me about that adventure with Tulang, I didn’t believe it.”

  “But it happened,” and he began to understand what this might be about. “Are you concerned about people lying to you?”

  “No. I believe the events you described happened,” she said carefully. “I just think there was more to them.”

  The attendant hit the safety pedal, and pulled down the long ratchet that sent them on their way onto the tracks. Phoebe made a startled noise and grabbed Carter’s hands. The toboggan creaked and shook as it found the chain taking them up the first incline.

&
nbsp; “Oh, dear,” Phoebe cried. “This is good.”

  Up and up they went, and Carter closed his eyes to know what the ride was like without seeing the ground fall away. Why didn’t she trust him? He wanted more than anything else to be trusted. The wind increased as they climbed, and, unmistakably, the sounds of the orchestra that played in the skating rink echoed differently, as if the players were left behind in a distant alpine meadow.

  When he opened his eyes, they were at the end of the chain and suspended, for one blood-curdling moment, at the precipice. They were so high he could see the bay. There were sailboats, and they looked so calm out there on the water. The pause before the fall was always the most terrifying for him. He looked at Phoebe, who was grinning, teeth showing, holding her breath.

  “Wait. I didn’t tell you the pirate’s name,” Carter had enough time to say, and then they fell.

  . . .

  Soon after, they were helped off the ride, and Phoebe hung on his arm. She was laughing. “I feel like a big, overcooked macaroni!”

  They went down the metal stairs to the ground level, where they stood again in the shadow of the great roller coaster.

  “Shall we do that again?”

  “You’d heard that story before,” he said.

  Her face, which had been supporting one of those wonderful smiles, fell in. “Are you sure you didn’t tell me his name?”

  “I don’t say his name much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not?” He really had no idea, except that he always skipped over it. Tulang, filed away along with other parts of the story that didn’t sound so sporty or amusing. “Where did you hear the story?”

  “My sad mahatma,” she whispered. “Is there a more secluded place?” He took her arm to lead her to another bench, this one near a seedy attraction called Europe by Auto. “It’s hard to have fun and be serious at the same time, isn’t it?” she sighed.

  When they’d been sitting for a moment, Carter said, “How did you know his name?”

  “You’re like a terrier,” she replied. “Charles?”

  “Yes.” Though he liked how she said his name, he also expected that something awful was about to happen.

  “Here’s what I see. Tell me if I’m wrong. I see a big, rusty old tramp steamer. And there’s pirates, and captives, and way off on the edge of the boat, there’s you, with your legs dangling over the edge. And you’re broken and wracked with guilt. I see that.” She reached for his face, perhaps to touch his scar, but Carter grabbed her hand.

  “What’s the gag,” he asked sharply.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry.” He relaxed his grip. “I’ve never told anyone that part.” His mind raced through the passenger manifest. “Were you friends with Aurora?”

  Phoebe shook her head. She seemed very small, as if he were seeing her from atop the roller coaster. “You’re the one I know.”

  The winds shifted, picking up, and a wispy cloud drifted across the sun. He dropped her hand and folded his fists across his chest.

  “You’re breathing like you just put armor on,” she said, rubbing her thumbs together. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “What’s next? Can you put me in touch with my dead wife for a small fee?”

  “I think you should take me home.”

  “Blind girl sees all, knows all, tells all. Quite the con.”

  “Stop it.” Her jaw set. “It’s not like that.”

  “You know, I did fire my psychic, you could—”

  “Stop punishing me for knowing you.” This came out quietly. It was like throwing a net around Carter and bringing him down from a dead run. Leaning forward, she whispered, “I can’t help knowing that you’ve been hurt. Don’t hurt me back. Please.”

  Behind them, the Europe by Auto ride now had paying customers, a family of four, the children just toddlers. They settled into the Durant touring car, which was on rollers, and it rocked gently to simulate the continental roadways, as a painted backdrop on a continuous loop began to scroll past. Here was a castle, then a cathedral, then London Bridge, then the Parthenon, all of them cracked and worn.

  “You know the booth with the milk bottles?” Phoebe asked. “You get three baseballs for a nickel?”

  “Yes,” he said, clipped.

  “Well, about three months ago,” she continued, “I went to that booth, and paid my nickel, and I don’t know what they thought, but I could tell the man behind the counter was very curious how I thought I’d win the stuffed bear. So you know what I did? I threw wherever the heck I felt like.” She ran her fingers up under her glasses, wiping below her eyes. “I threw right down the midway, and where the man was standing, and then I put fifty cents down and asked for thirty more balls. He wouldn’t take my money, he immediately gave me the teddy bear I wanted.”

  Carter nodded. It was a story both funny and painful. He could imagine her doing just that.

  She said, “I was hoping we’d have something good today, not me being roasted here on a bench.”

  “In my profession, there are many scams, many spiritualists. They prey on hope, Phoebe. I don’t like that.”

  “Oh. You said my name.” She grinned. “That was nice.”

  “I have an orderly mind when it comes to this sort of thing. I need to know . . . Do I know you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did someone else tell you that story?”

  Again, she shook her head. “Are we going to miss the fireworks?”

  “No, we have some time.” He continued down a checklist he’d half-prepared long ago in case he ever ran into something like this. “Do you feel you have a gift that—”

  “It’s certainly not a gift. If I try to touch you are you going to stop me again? I didn’t like that.”

  He took her hands. He was going to say something—he had many more items on that checklist—but found instead that his fingers were moving on their own, exploring palms that were as tough and complicated as his had become. Then her hands were back on his jawline, light as smoke.

  “You used to be open to the possibility of real magic,” she declared. “But that was a long time ago.”

  He stiffened. “That’s exactly what palm readers say, they make these statements that are just broad enough—”

  “Oh, be quiet.”

  Her hands continued across his face, brushing on his beard like she was testing him for resilience. “You even pursued girls named Sarah because you were so open. And then you found the right one.”

  Above them, the sound of metal wheels screeching across wood. The Thunderbolt toboggan swooped down low, and passed, children inside screaming, then pulled away into the sky that was now clotted with clouds.

  “Who are you?” Chills, like someone was applying a cube of ice to the back of his neck. “Are you . . .” He spoke so slowly he no longer knew how to finish that question.

  “I just know things about you.”

  “Are you . . .”

  “I didn’t mean for you to think I was anything. That was an accident. I know—you have an orderly mind, but you also love a mystery. Can you let me be a mystery?”

  When he found his voice, he was saying, “You are so beautiful.”

  “What?”

  He reached for her glasses and made it as far as having a hand on each earpiece before she stopped him.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m thirty-one years old.”

  “All right,” he said, pulling away.

  “I’d rather tell you that embarrassing fact than have you see me without my glasses.”

  “I see.” He knitted his hands into hers, again. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No. I’ve . . .”

  He was getting better at reading these pauses. “Love ’em and leave ’em?”

  “Well, I’ve always been good at the leaving part.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “I’m very worried about missing th
e fireworks.”

  “Have you always been blind?”

  “No.” She brought her hands in front of her glasses, and made sweeping gestures. “I ran through burning poison oak.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. When did . . .” He felt now the fine balance between order and mystery. He stopped his pursuit. “I think the best place to see the fireworks is the Ferris wheel.”

  She grinned. He felt a flicker, a disconcerting shadow, like the ghost dodging between headstones that you see out of the corner of your eye: hope.

  She linked her arms around his elbow, and they walked a deserted path toward the Ferris wheel, which had once been surrounded by palms, long ago dead. Now it stood by itself, at the edge of the park, a white elephant five stories high. Though the ride itself was fine, there was so much space around it, the approach through scrub was desolate. So Carter and Phoebe had the wheel to themselves. As they boarded, the ticket taker checked his pocket watch.

  “I’ll leave you folks at the top at the stroke of half-past three,” he said.

  They thanked him. Seated, there was the gentle but persuasive lift, the separation from the ground, and then the wide vista, which Carter didn’t know what to make of. Idora, in all its tatters and attempted cheer, and then Oakland—much the same—and the world, much the same again.

  “Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you said I was beautiful, you meant it?”

  “Of course. You’re very beautiful.”

  “I haven’t heard that for a long time. In the Home, no one tells you you’re beautiful except the nurses, and that’s usually just after I’ve been a good girl or made a broom.”

  They had made a complete circuit, and were on their way up again. When they reached the top, they stuttered to a stop. It was half-past three.

  “This is going to be great,” she said, and put her hands around the metal bar that crossed their seat.

  There was a chill in the air. Carter gave up his jacket to her. She threaded her arms into it and waited.

  Daytime fireworks were peculiar to Oakland. Everyone, hearing of such a thing, wanted to see them, once. But rarely more than that, for they were just crackles and dim sparks that left behind them shredded, burning newsprint and colored smoke.