Consumption

by Heather Herrman

  Erma laughed. “Good advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, the woman digging in her bag and pulling out a plastic Ziploc full of what looked to be Cheerios. She handed it to the little girl, who’d begun drumming her feet against the back of the bench. “Here, Tara. Quit your squirming and eat these while Mommy rests.”

  “I want that!” the little girl pouted, pointing again to the dancing corncob.

  “Later,” said the woman, and shoved the bag into the girl’s hands. Tara opened it and began to search through the cereal, a frown on her face, picking up one piece after another and then dropping them back into the bag as if she might find a corncob in there if she only kept looking.

  “Sorry,” said the woman, extending her hand. “I didn’t introduce myself. My name’s Sandy.”

  “Erma,” said Erma, extending her own hand. They shook, the woman’s hand sweaty but firm. She was pretty in a milkmaid sort of way, Erma thought. Sandy’s hair was golden and done into a single braid, though chunks of it were coming loose and sticking to her skin.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Sandy said. “I’m usually pretty good with faces, and I thought I knew just about everyone here in Cavus, least to say hi.”

  “I’m just passing through,” Erma said. “We’re headed out to the coast for my husband’s job.”

  “Well, you picked a good time to see Cavus,” said Sandy. “The rest of the year it’s as dead as roadkill around here.”

  Erma studied Sandy’s swollen belly, wondering how much hotter she must feel because of it. “How far along are you?”

  “Eight months,” said the woman. “And I feel every day of it. I might just give birth right here on this park bench.”

  “Please don’t,” said Erma. “I’d hate to have your little girl miss out on her corncob.”

  There was a squeal from the other side of Sandy, and Erma looked over to see a black squirrel perched on the edge of the park bench and nibbling on a single Cheerio, which he had apparently stolen directly from the little girl’s hand.

  “Mommy!” Tara breathed, her voice no more than a whisper. “Oh, Mommy, look!” The little girl reached out her hand as if to pet the thing. The squirrel looked up, gave a chirrup of annoyance, then turned tail to scramble off the bench and to the trunk of the tree, which it climbed with quick ease.

  “Wow,” Erma said. “I guess half of me didn’t believe those things were real.”

  “They’re real all right,” said Sandy, taking the bag of Cheerios off her daughter’s lap and returning it to her diaper bag. “Not as many of them around here as there used to be because they’ve bred with some of the red squirrels, but there’s still a few. For whatever reason, they always seem to come out during the Festival.”

  “Maybe they know it’s named after them,” said Erma.

  “I think the food’s the more likely culprit,” Sandy said, smiling. She pulled a pack of baby wipes from the bag and gently took Tara’s hands in her own, wiping first them and then the little girl’s mouth.

  Erma heard chattering above her, and she looked up to see the squirrel perched on a tree branch directly over her head. It watched Erma, cocking its head to one side. Almost, it looked like a cat or a skunk, the black fur refusing to settle in Erma’s mind into a squirrel shape. The creature began to chatter again, not in a screeching, get-out-of-here manner like squirrels sometimes did when Maxie was around, but in a pleasant, conversational tone. Erma laughed. “He’s pretty darn adorable.”

  “I think he knows it, too,” said Sandy.

  “So what’s the deal with these guys? Why name the Festival after them?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “No.”

  “The rumor is that they were the only survivors from the mine after the big fire that happened here.”

  “Fire?” She remembered seeing a black-and-white photo of burnt buildings in the Lions’ tent, though she’d left before Tilly came to it or any mention of the squirrels.

  “Mom!” Tara interrupted the conversation, hitting her mother’s leg. “Mom, look! I want one, Mom. Please.”

  “Shh, Tara. Hush.”

  “PLEASE!” The little girl bounced on the bench, and Erma saw what was causing all the excitement. A few feet to their left, a man in clown paint and a torn black suit with tails had appeared. He had a crowd of children around him and was making balloon animals. The man stretched a long, pink piece of rubber, blew into it, and then twisted it into the shape of a dog, handing it to a little boy in front of him. The boy clutched the balloon lovingly to his chest.

  “I want one!” Tara screeched again, and then, before her mother could stop her, bounded from the bench and away.

  Beside Erma, Sandy sighed, and began the slow process of hoisting herself from the bench. “Duty calls,” she said, offering Erma a wry smile. “I hate to think what will happen when whatever balloon creature we come away with succumbs to what is sure to be a quick and accidental popping.”

  “Good luck,” Erma said, standing to hand the diaper bag to her.

  “Thanks,” said Sandy. “It was nice meeting you.” She waded through the crowd to join her daughter, her large belly doing the work of clearing a path through the people.

  Erma watched her go. She sat for a minute, enjoying the coolness of the shade, then decided to get up and find Riley after all. Before she could, she felt a light tapping on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned to see the little girl standing behind her. Tara held up a black balloon, in the shape of a squirrel.

  “It’s for you.”

  “For me?” asked Erma, feeling unexpectedly delighted. “Why, thank you. That’s very nice of you, Tara.”

  Tara nodded. “I know.”

  Erma took the creature from the girl’s hand, its rubbery texture squeaking against her skin. “You’d better find your mommy, honey. She’ll be worried about you.”

  The little girl stood on tiptoes and made a motion with her hand for Erma to lean over. She did, and the little girl cupped her hand against Erma’s ear, sending a pleasant tickle up her spine.

  “They burned, you know,” said the little girl.

  “What did you say?”

  “They burned.” The little girl stood perfectly still, her head cocked to the side and a wide smile across her face. “They all burned. Just like your baby. He burned, too, didn’t he?”

  Erma couldn’t speak, she felt all the spit in her mouth dry up, as if someone had stuck a big, cotton rag inside of it.

  “Don’t worry,” said the little girl. “You’ll burn, too. You all will.”

  With that, the girl spun on her heels and was gone, weaving her way through the crowd.

  Erma sat on the bench, letting seconds tick by before lifting herself shakily to her feet. Riley emerged from Jezebell’s across the way, and they made eye contact. Riley waved, and Erma lifted an arm to do the same.

  As she did, she saw that she was holding something. A black thing that looked like nothing in that moment so much as a burnt and twisted piece of flesh. Small flesh.

  It was the balloon squirrel. Erma quickly dropped it to the ground, and rubbed her hands against her leg, as if wiping away some kind of dirt.

  That woman, Sandy, must have been some kind of Bible freak and the daughter had picked up some of it. It was the only explanation for Tara’s behavior. Sandy’d seemed nice, but…well, you never could tell, could you? Erma’d met all kinds of crazies at her job in Portland. There was nothing to do but forget about it and move on with her day.

  It was a good day. She and John were together, and their new life was beginning. That was what was important to remember. Whatever was in the past was best left there. Today she was going to enjoy the Festival. Erma steeled a smile on her face and waded across the crowded street to join the sheriff.

  3

  Stepping inside the beer tent was like stepping into another world. John and Bunny were a few minutes ea
rly, but he didn’t think Erma would mind if he beat her to a beer. After two and a half hours of Festival fun, he’d had enough of squirrel quilts and homemade jam stands to last him a lifetime. As soon as he parted the beer tent’s flaps, John heaved a sigh of relief. He felt the temperature drop a solid twenty degrees from the heat outside. It was a good place to take a break from the sun, and the inside of the tent thrived with bodies. John’s first thought was that it felt like what being inside a beehive must feel like, everybody pressed together, depositing their honey in the correct receptacles.

  Because people here were, most assuredly, depositing their honey. In fact, that seemed to be what the entire event consisted of. Women, the very same prim ones he’d seen outside, sat on top of men’s laps, tugging at their ties (many of the men, too, were exceptionally dressed) or, in stranger pairings, women in their sundresses sat on the laps of men in overalls and moved around to the music, a live polka band up front. The band wore matching lederhosen and green hats with red feathers.

  These people were not at all what he would have expected for such a small town.

  On the dance floor, bodies bounced together to the rhythm. Beer mugs were raised, toasts were made, and everywhere people imbibed…in life, in lust, in, he’d guess, love. It was a busy little hive.

  “Where’s the beer?” asked John.

  Bunny seemed to loosen up as soon as the tent flaps closed behind them. “Come on,” she said, grabbing John’s hand playfully. “Let’s cut a rug.”

  John allowed himself to be dragged through the crowd, realizing, as he did so, that the tent was actually a very big place, much bigger than what he’d taken it for at first. In the far corner, opposite the band, the beer station was set up. Two women dressed in circus garb of leotards and small pink tutus, like tightrope walkers, handed out the pints; their spangly spandex suits glittered silver and hugged every curve of their bodies. They also wore partial, brightly colored masks with feathers poking from the corners. Bunny bought two pints and handed him one, and John immediately took a swig of it. He grunted in surprise. “Good,” he said. “Real good!”

  “I told you.” Bunny tilted her head back and John watched in amazement as she downed the entire pint, stopping only once to primly burp behind her hand. When she was finished, she slammed the cup down on top of a nearby speaker.

  “People really get into this, don’t they?” said John. He watched Bunny execute a perfect pirouette on the dance floor, where she’d managed to clear them a spot.

  “Everybody here knows how to have a good time,” said Bunny. “Yes, that’s true. It’s because they had to work so hard to get here. Most of the rest of the year they’re stuck slaving away to boring lives and boring spouses. None of this comes without cost, Johnny, dear.”

  Johnny. He cringed at the title. No one had called him that since his mother. Back when he was fat. Back when she was shoving plate after plate of guilt down his throat.

  “Johnny, Mommy made an extra chicken for you and Daddy. Come have a bite.” Except Daddy wasn’t there. Was never there. “Johnny, have another piece of cake. Don’t hurt Mommy’s feelings. She made it special.”

  “Johnny,” Bunny said. She grinned at him, and he saw that she had a smudge of lipstick across her teeth. He opened his mouth to tell her about it but stopped. Bunny closed her lips and when she opened them again, the lipstick was gone. “You’re a good dancer,” she said.

  He hadn’t even realized he’d been dancing. The music, a beautiful polka (could polkas be beautiful? He hadn’t thought so, but this one was—breathtakingly so, really), wove its way through the crowd, filling the few empty spaces between dancers and drinkers.

  The pace of the music sped up, and their dancing sped up with it.

  “It’s been such a long time since I danced,” said Bunny, pulling John closer. The music swirled around his head, and John began to feel the beating of a headache.

  “You all right, dear?” asked Bunny, and as she did so, John felt her hand slip from the top of his back to the small of it. The woman grinned at him as he looked up in surprise. This was weird. Very fucking weird. Was she coming on to him?

  They spun faster across the dance floor. To the left, John saw four women gyrating together in front of a large, seated man. The man was dressed in jeans and a shirt without sleeves, while the women all wore formfitting circus outfits. The man looked stunned but completely pleased by all the attention.

  At the next table, John saw what he would have assumed was the norm at the Festival: an overweight and disheveled woman in a tube top and tennis shoes. A man in a suit and tie was leaning down to talk to the tube-top woman, nearly falling on her. The man was handsome, young, and apparently well-to-do (and certainly not someone who should be found in small-town Montana), but far from seeming to enjoy the attention, the woman looked downright nervous. When she looked away from him for a second, she caught John’s eye, and he could have sworn that he saw pleading in them, but then he and Bunny were spinning, moving away from the table.

  His headache grew worse, and now thoughts—dark, unwelcome thoughts—accompanied it. The hospital. The slick of blood across Erma’s gown.

  Bunny’s hand slipped onto his butt, and John pushed her away, stumbling. It felt like there wasn’t any oxygen in here, like the entire tent was closing in on him. The women gyrating around the fat man in overalls were now, somehow, once again in front of him, and all turned to stare.

  “Johnny? Something the matter?” Bunny asked.

  “I can’t.” John stumbled, the bad thoughts pushing against his brain. “I need a break.” He said, his mind fumbling for an excuse to leave. “I need to go check on Maxie.”

  “But what about Patrick and Erma? They’re meeting us here any minute.”

  “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” John mumbled, already stumbling toward the door. Finally, he was at the entrance, and he pushed the flaps open, sucking in the air.

  “Meet us at the church!” Bunny called out after him. “Service starts in an hour. Don’t be late!”

  Chapter 13

  1

  Outside, the fresh air acted immediately to sober him. John inhaled, the air hitting his lungs like a punch, exploding them, opening them up. He took a shaky step forward.

  Around him, the Festival was still in progress, though wrapping up. A boy with a toy pistol and wearing a squirrel mask ran by him, pointing the gun at John as he did so.

  “Bang, bang!” the kid said, and ran away. John took another deep breath and walked through the crowds and across the street. All the white tents had flags on top of them, each flag varying in color from those around it, and many of the workers in the tents, men and women serving up crafts and eats, were dressed in squirrel masks or circus uniforms. What had struck John as celebratory before now struck him as morbid. On their way to the beer tent, Bunny’d filled him in on the Festival’s origin, on how a traveling circus in 1937 had accidentally set fire to the town, killing most of its residents.

  How could the town celebrate those people, that circus, when the people of Cavus had been destroyed so gruesomely? Burned alive, some lost in the dark underground of the mines. Bunny’d said that Cavus had the Festival to keep the memory of the dead alive, and to promise to take care of the squirrels, who were considered good luck. Other than a single young girl, the performing circus squirrels had been the fire’s only survivors and now flourished, undomesticated, in and around Cavus.

  John walked past a tent selling plastic squirrel masks, and he saw the man behind that counter wore a large top hat and fake mustache like a ringmaster. His face was painted white. He looked up at John, and as he did so, John saw for an instant not a man, but a ghost. It was the ghost of the ringmaster, in the stolen flesh of this man. John shook his head and the image was gone.

  He emerged on the other side of the last row of tents. Here were just houses and a few stragglers sucking on ice-cream cones, teens looking for a place to cuddle, a line of forgotten porta-potties. Bunn
y’s house should be on the street just past this. The sun shone brightly, and the midsummer’s heat beat down upon his shoulders. He walked hurriedly on, leaving the last of the people behind, the stale taste of beer still in his mouth.

  He could see Bunny’s house now, on the street up ahead, just about a football field’s length away. There was a man, a woman, and a little girl near the house, walking toward him. The man and woman walked behind, holding hands, and the little girl sprinted ahead, sometimes skipping, sometimes just running. She must be about three or four, and she was cute as the devil, John saw as the people got closer.

  The little girl, her hair all blond curls, was about twenty feet away from him, her parents still a ways behind her, when she looked up at him. Their eyes met, and John was struck with the beauty of her and his throat clenched. He offered the girl a smile.

  At the same time, she began to run at him, her hands outstretched, and John saw the branch lying in the middle of the sidewalk.

  It wasn’t a big branch, just a stick really, shed from some tree or another, but it was enough to change the surface of the sidewalk. Enough to trip a little girl. John ran toward her, but it was too late. The girl’s foot came down upon the branch and she went sprawling into the center of the sidewalk, her hands flailing wildly in an unsuccessful attempt to stop herself.

  Behind her, the man and woman began to run, but John was closer and reached her first. She was crying when he picked her up.

  “There, there. You poor thing. It’s all right. Let me see.” The girl raised a palm to him, and John saw a small scratch across it, a burn from the pavement. Other than that, there was only a little cut at the end of her finger. A tiny drop of blood spilled from the cut, and, seeing it, the girl began to cry harder.

  “It’s all right. Here, I’ll fix it.” Trembling, the girl held it toward him.

  “Oww,” she said.

  Gently, John took the finger in between his own hands, and the girl watched him with her big, serious eyes. Taking the tail end of his shirt, he wrapped the girl’s finger in it, dabbing the blood away, then pulled the finger out again to show her. “There you go. All better.” He held the finger up to the light.