by Sharon Lee
“Oh.” Anna considered the fragment for another long moment, then smiled crookedly and slipped it over her head. “I guess you’re right; it could’ve been lots worse.”
“Absolutely,” I said forcefully, and looked over my shoulder. A crowd of six tourists was headed our way. I gathered up coffee, creamers, and egg roll, and gave Anna a smile.
“I’ll just let the paying customers through,” I said. “Thanks, Anna!”
“For dinner, we have dumplings,” she called, and I heard Nancy groan beside me as we headed back toward the carousel.
“I’m going to weigh double, if I keep working here,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. Chinese food isn’t fattening.”
* * *
It got progressively warmer as the day and the work went forth. Nancy and I both stripped to T-shirts—hers showed a leather-clad teddy bear astride a Harley, and bore the fading legend “2002 Toy Run”—and a little while later, I left off painting to push open the ocean-side wall and let the breeze through.
This turned out to be a mistake. More than one—hell, more than a dozen—early tourists poked their heads and sometimes their whole selves inside the storm doors, exclaiming over the fact of a merry-go-round. Nancy and I took turns telling them that we weren’t open yet, a hint that most took. One guy stood watching us for twenty minutes, drawing on a pipe that looked dead cold to me, then pocketed the thing and left the way he had come.
“I love work,” Nancy muttered. “I could watch it all day.”
“Now, now. Paying customers.”
“Not yet they aren’t.”
“Point.”
We worked on, the air spicy with the mingled scents of turpentine, brass cleaner, and ocean. I finished painting the seal and stood, stretching the kinks out of my back while I looked around and took note of what still needed to be done. Wednesday evening, huh? Might be we could make it.
A shadow moved at the door to the midway. I sighed and called out, “Sorry, we’re closed! Come back Wednesday after six!”
“Actually . . .” The shadow moved, and Marilyn Michaud hove into sight, looking, if you’d like to believe it, just a tiny bit abashed.
“Actually, Kate,” she said, “that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”
I eyed her, wondering if this meant that the Wednesday opening was a wash, the supposed prize a mirage—latest in a long line of mirages and mistakes for Archers Beach.
“We’re not having a Super Early Season after all?” I tried to keep my voice mild, but either I didn’t succeed or Marilyn had a guilty conscience. She started, then raised her hands.
“No, no, of course we are! The thing is, the company wants to know if you could open . . . earlier.”
I took a careful breath. “How much earlier?”
“Monday?” she said in a small voice.
“Monday! We’re already busting our humps getting this ride ready for Wednesday, and now you want us to open tomorrow?” I threw my hands out, showing her the state of not-readiness. “Does this ride look like it’s ready to open to you?”
“Kate—”
“Dammit, Marilyn!” I overrode her. “We’re already pulling a rabbit out of a hat here, and now you’ve got the goddamn nerve to ask for a kangaroo?”
“Kate, I know it’s an inconvenience. The company regrets—”
“Screw the company,” I said succinctly, and supposing that she didn’t already.
Marilyn took a hard breath. “The company—and the Chamber—did miscalculate. I admit that. We didn’t think we’d start seeing the advance wave until Tuesday afternoon. But they’ve been coming in since Friday evening, and now we’ve got a couple hundred people here, three days ahead of the advertised opening. If we don’t do something to make them welcome, we’ll lose their trust—”
Meaning, they’d go away without leaving any cash in Archers Beach. Okay, I wasn’t so pissed off that I couldn’t see that was a no-win situation. But have the ride ready by tomorrow night? No way, no how, no sir.
“Marilyn, look,” I said, trying to moderate my tone. “I’m sorry if I sounded harsh. I appreciate that we’ve got people here, and I know it’s in our best interests to make them feel at home. But we’re not ready, and I’m not seeing how—”
“We can do it,” a firm voice interrupted. I blinked and turned to stare at Nancy Vois, but she looked the same as always, with nothing overt to show that she’d suddenly snapped.
“You think?” I asked her, waving a hand to include the sum of our unfinished business.
Nancy nodded. “Sure. Brass is almost done. Painting’s almost done. We string the lights, polish the mirrors—tourists won’t know we haven’t done the final wax or touched up the rounding boards. It’ll glitter, the animals’ll look sharp, the organ’ll be loud, they’ll see their reflections havin’ fun in the glass—that’s what they want. They’ll see what’s supposed to be here. All we got to do is give ’em a little help.”
So said the woman whose secondary shape was a calico cat. And, I admitted to myself, she was right, too. People would see what they wanted to see, just like they always did—and they’d see the carousel in all its glory, if we hit the proper grace notes and didn’t let on that there was anything more to want.
“Well, if you’ve got it figured . . .” I gave Marilyn another glare, just to show that I still wasn’t thrilled with this.
“We’ll give it our best shot,” I told her.
She forced a smile, and gave Nancy a grateful nod. “That’s all we can ask.”
* * *
We went into overdrive as soon as Marilyn left. I painted like a madwoman while Nancy hurried the brass along, then got busy with the lights, the two of us working in easy silence, until there came a rustle at the hatch, and Tony Lee called out, “Anna said to tell you it’s five o’clock and there’s dumplings with your names on it in the kitchen!”
“Dim sum!” Nancy said. “I’ll be right over!”
“Five?” I blinked, then jumped to my feet, pausing only to thrust my brushes into turpentine and smack the lids down on the paints.
“Tony, I’m sorry—gotta see somebody.”
“Stop over after,” he said as I jumped off the carousel and grabbed my hoodie. “Otherwise, Anna will be angry.”
I paused with the hoodie half up my arms, and stared at him, round-eyed.
“I’m trying to picture this,” I told him earnestly.
He laughed.
“Come by when you can,” he said, and headed for the hatch.
TWENTY-THREE
Sunday, April 23
High Tide 8:15 p.m.
Sunset 7:34 p.m. EDT
Baxter Avenue was a zoo. There were tourists going and tourists coming and tourists standing around in big, sloppy groups, talking and laughing. Two teenagers in black T-shirts and black jeans were getting the lobster pitch set up, and lights were on around the fortune-teller’s store front. From somewhere to the right I heard the hiss of an air tank, which meant that the dart game was getting ready for customers.
I threaded my way through the noise and bustle, grumbling to myself. Crowds are no fun when you’re on the short side of average. Gran would just glide through a mob like this; people would look up, see her coming and automatically step out of the way. Me, they didn’t see at all, unless I banged an elbow into a knee as I tunneled by.
Eventually I made it to the service alley, where I paused in the shadow of a police call box to catch my breath and wait for a break in the steady flow of happy pedestrians.
To the right of my position was Katahdin Street, which was even more crowded than Baxter. The stage where local bands sometimes played during the Season had been opened, and a couple guys in Fun Country Maintenance uniforms were tinkering with the mike and the lights. The speakers crackled, spat, and a guy’s voice boomed across the park, asking, “Is it on now, Morris?”
Strung over the plaza, low enough that Borgan would have had to duck to get under it
, was a brand new white banner, red letters shouting out: ARCHERS BEACH WELCOMES SENIOR FUN LOVERS!
Well, at least now I knew which group was giving the prize, I thought, and spied the hoped-for break in the crowd. I darted across the alley, ducking to the inside of the walk, close by the log flume, and proceeded at a reasonably good pace, hugging the Plexiglas splash guard.
I slipped ’round the corner, relieved to find the side street almost deserted.
To the left, back against the beach, the red and gold lights were on at Keltic Knot. Nearer to hand, the Scrambler was running, slightly squeaky at half-speed. A black haired girl with multiple piercings stood behind the controls, her attention on a guy who might’ve been her father, who was studying the movement of the cars. He raised a hand and brought it down, and the girl obediently pushed the stick. The guy was walking into the center of the pattern before the cars had completely stopped, a can of WD-40 in his hand.
I jogged down to the Knot, and looked over the fence.
All of the cars were on the track and the track itself had been greased until it shone like true silver. Up on the platform, a purple boom box that had seen better centuries was precariously wedged between the stick and the control box, something Big Band-ish blaring tinnily from its dented speaker.
The owner-operator, however, was not immediately in evidence.
“Mr. Ignat’?” I called. “It’s Kate.”
When I had counted to fifty and still hadn’t gotten an answer to my hail, I swung over the fence.
There were numerous signs of busyness around the ride and its enclosure, but the author of these projects was nowhere to be seen. I stood in the middle of the track, spinning bemusedly on a heel.
You should’ve remembered to get his cell number, Kate, I told myself wryly.
Inside my head, the land bounced once, and images began to appear behind my eyes. This time, the geography was easier to figure; either the land was getting better at presentation or I was getting better at deciphering. But—
“What the hell’s he doing at the Boundary Stone?” I asked the lead dragon. She, of course, maintained an inscrutable silence; overhead, a gull shrieked an obscenity.
Well, I certainly wasn’t going to go walking all the way down to the other end of town, only to find when I got there that Mr. Ignat’ had moved on, which the smart money said he would’ve done. And I was getting tired of playing hide ’n’ seek.
Irritated, I turned and marched back to the tool shed.
The clipboard was hanging on its hook just inside the door, exactly where it had always been, the stub of a yellow pencil dangling from a string held to the back with a strip of duct tape.
I hauled it down and wrote a short note, including my cell number and the phone number at the house, which he should have by heart, but with Mr. Ignat’ it’s better to err on the side of multiple repetitions.
Message composed, I pulled the sheet out from under the clip, hung the board back where it belonged and stepped outside. Mr. Ignat’ hadn’t reappeared; the land, when queried, replayed the footage featuring the Boundary Stone. Great.
I carried the note up to the platform and anchored it under the purple boom box. If Mr. Ignat’ didn’t see the paper flapping when he got back, he’d definitely see it when he went up to turn the music off for the night. That was the best I could do.
My temper no better for having done it, I swung over the rail and headed for Tony Lee’s.
* * *
I hit gridlock at the service alley—a solid wall of bodies there was no getting through or around. The two burly guys directly in front of me were wearing shorts and T-shirts, in outright defiance of the weather. The group of three elder ladies coming in from the left were bundled up in fleece jackets, brightly colored scarves tied over white hair. A couple of gray-haired guys came up on my right, one in a polo shirt and khakis, his buddy sporting a denim shirt and jeans.
Should’ve gone around by the beach, I scolded myself. In fact, I thought, as another bunch filled in behind me, I’d better go back the way I’d come now, before I became an inextricable part of the problem.
I’d just turned ’round when the guy in denim raised his arm and swung half a step back, bumping me hard. I staggered, felt the land scramble, and, simultaneously, big hands around my waist, lifting me effortlessly.
“ ’Evening, Kate,” Borgan said. “You’re looking good. Much better than a couple days ago. Land hereabouts must agree with you.”
I looked down into his face, a novel perspective, noting the glint of mischief in the night-black eyes, and the quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It was tempting—’way too tempting—to bend my head and kiss that quirking corner. I sucked air in a not-entirely-successful attempt to put such foolishness at a distance, and gave him a neighborly nod.
“Borgan,” I said calmly. “Put me down, please.”
“Sure,” he said, matching my tone with wicked accuracy. He spun and set me gently on my feet atop a sawhorse that had been shoved in front of the ticket stand. Not the most stable perch in the world, though it had the benefit of putting me on a higher level than my rescuer—another novelty. I put a hand on his shoulder to keep from tottering over backward, and tried some more deep breathing, though to tell the truth, the ocean air wasn’t helping me out as much as I had hoped.
“Thought you’d be interested to know that I had a word with Nerazi,” Borgan said, turning slightly so that his other shoulder nestled against my hip, bracing me where I stood. “She’s fine. Never came in to the mainland at all last night, as it happened; there was some business on the Islands that kept her.”
“Good,” I said, sounding slightly breathless in my own ears. “That’s good.”
With his shoulder for support, I could move the hand I was using as a brace, I thought, and did just that.
His braid was heavy and warm against my fingers, the beads smooth and cool; the whole thing ’way too pleasing.
Borgan raised his head and smiled up at me, slow and unexpectedly sweet.
“That’s nice,” he murmured.
“Yes,” I managed to say calmly, “it is.” I moved my hand with an effort and tucked it into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. “But it’s only glamor.”
“What if it’s not?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“Then I’ll be very surprised,” I told him tartly.
He laughed.
“Good evening!” A hugely amplified voice broke over the crowd, and the voices around us quieted. “I’m Dan Poirier, the president of the local Chamber of Commerce, and I want to say, on behalf of the residents and the businesses of Archers Beach—WELCOME! We’ve heard that you’re a fun loving bunch—”
Hoots and shouts and loud applause from the crowd. Dan Poirier yelled “Yes!” into the mic, which loosed another round of cheering. Borgan leaned in a little closer, thereby placing my peace of mind in mortal peril.
“Cut it out,” I whispered in his near ear, and felt the laugh rumble through him.
“It’s not nice?” he whispered back.
“Turn the glamor off and we’ll see how nice it is,” I said sternly, and he laughed again.
“Is off,” he said, while the crowd indulged in a third round of cheering. “Never been on.”
I turned my head to stare at him, lips parted to say who knew what. Happily, Dan Poirier chose that moment to get back to speechifying.
“Yessir, we’ve heard all about you folks! And we have got some SERIOUS fun lined up for you!”
More cheering, then Dan’s voice again.
“Tonight, we’re going to kick things off with an old-fashioned street party, finishing up with fireworks on the beach! And tomorrow—” He paused until the hoots of delight settled down.
“Tomorrow at NOON Fun Country’s famous Name Rides and the most challenging games of skill and chance on the eastern seaboard will be open non-stop ’til TEN P.M.! But that’s not all! The WORLD FAMOUS Archers Beach PIER will open tomorrow at el
even A.M.! Neptune’s Retreat will be serving your favorite beverages and local Maine microbrews—”
Cheers and hoots.
“AND! Tomorrow night at eight—ESPECIALLY FOR YOU—Portland’s own Ms. Lori Kennet will be LIVE at the Sea Change Casino and Lounge, bringing you Maine’s best blues. NOW DOES THAT SOUND LIKE SERIOUS FUN OR WHAT?”
The crowd roared. On top of the sawhorse, I tottered and was secretly glad for Borgan’s continued support.
“ALL RIGHT THEN!” Dan Poirier screamed into the mic. “LET’S BOOGIE!”
There was half a minute of dead air before the sound system delivered “Twist and Shout” at a volume that was likely heard on Wood Isle.
“Time for me to get the hell outta here,” I yelled into Borgan’s ear.
He nodded. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, and stepped back. I felt a pang at his withdrawal, though I was damned if I was going to let him know that. He smiled as if he knew anyway, and held his hands out to me. Sighing, I took the offered assist and dropped lightly to the ground.
“Lead on,” he said, slightly louder. I shook my head.
“You lead on!” I yelled. “Tall’s good for something, isn’t it?”
He might have laughed; it seemed so. Then he took my hand and moved to the left, drawing me after him.
As I had suspected, once people got an eyeful of large Indian heading in their direction, they melted out of the way. There was still some tacking and backtracking involved, imposed by the sheer number of happy dancers, but we were making good progress toward the beach side of the park. In fact, we were under the Galaxi, Borgan tacking left against the current, when “Twist and Shout” ended, and “Hokie Pokie” began.
It’s a fact well-known among the organizers of street parties, class reunions, and pre-school birthday parties that everyone will dance the Hokie Pokie. Worse, they’ll expect you to dance the Hokie Pokie, too, even if you happen to be one of the seventeen people on the face of the earth who are utterly immune to the charms of the thing.
A woman in a purple exercise suit and a red hat decorated with numerous scarves and flowers, grabbed Borgan’s free hand. A man wearing a toupee and a plain white shirt tucked into neat khakis grabbed my hand. It was either join the circle or get seriously ugly—and damn if Borgan didn’t already have his left foot in.
