Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  “Do you want to go for a run with me?” He leans against the car, his right palm taps on the roof, fingers splayed. He reminds me of a horse anxious to have the halter removed so he can bolt free to the other end of the paddock.

  “No. You go. I want to get back in there.” I tilt my head toward the garage.

  Vale’s gaze twitches in the direction my head is angled. “You can’t work all the time. Some fresh air will do you good.”

  I nod. He’s right.

  “Next time, okay?” I close the car door as gently as possible, afraid a loud slam will sound like an exclamation mark.

  He doesn’t say anything, just taps the top of the car one more time before turning to the house. I wait for the back door to slap shut, then count to ten before following. I can’t work in this dress, but I’d rather avoid another lecture about holing myself up in the studio.

  I step into the kitchen, careful to catch the old screen door before it bangs behind me. Vale is standing in front of the refrigerator, drinking from the bottle of orange juice.

  “Glasses are in the cabinet to your left.”

  He lifts one eyebrow but doesn’t stop drinking. When he’s downed half the container, he recaps it and puts it back on the top shelf, closes the fridge door, and leans against it, arms crossed, watching me. “You don’t even drink this orange juice.”

  “So?”

  “So, what’s the difference if I drink directly from the bottle? I’m saving having to wash a glass.”

  I shrug.

  The corners of his mouth twitch up into an amused grin.

  “What?” I match his stance although I’m not leaning against anything, which makes my attempt less causal. I’m also not grinning.

  “You’re sexy in that dress.”

  “No wonder my mom gave me such a dirty look.”

  “Don’t bring your mom up now. I’m trying to seduce you.” He arches his brows suggestively.

  Heat zips up my neck, and I fight the urge to turn and flee to the safety of my studio.

  Vale takes a few steps forward, his left hand open, ready for me to slip my hand into his. I imagine my feet superglued to the floor so I can’t bolt. My hands drop to my sides and I grab the fabric of my dress.

  “How about it, gorgeous?” He’s standing in front of me, his left hand tracing a slow path up my right arm. I shiver. His hand retraces the path down until he reaches my hand. Goose bumps race up my arm. His fingers lace through mine, forcing me to release the bunched fabric.

  “I can’t.” I pull my hand away.

  “Come on, Maya. It’s been too long.” I hear the catch in his voice. I can feel the tremor of effort on his part. Stay calm, don’t spook her. She’ll soften eventually.

  “I can’t.” I press back into the kitchen door then sidestep around him, careful not to make contact. Behind me, I hear the soft thud of an I’d-like-to-slam-the-hell-out-of-this-door. I hate hurting him. I hate the distance between us. I hate that he doesn’t understand.

  He’s been trying to bridge the physical chasm for six months. We’ve had sex once in that time. It was awful. One more failure to add to my guilt pile.

  “How much longer, Maya?”

  How do I answer that? It’s not that I’m not attracted to him. I am. It’s not that I don’t want to be intimate with him. I do. But I can’t. My body refuses to cooperate, and my mind refuses to forget.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I have this planned out.”

  “Well, fuck. Maybe it’s time you started planning. Because I’m done waiting.” He brushes past me.

  I stay rooted in the middle of the kitchen listening to the creaking of the floorboards as he moves around above me. The squeak of the dresser drawer. The thump of a shoe dropping. A few minutes later, he brushes past again, wearing his running clothes. He grabs the extra key from the bowl on the counter, adjusts his earbuds, and jogs down the back stairs.

  No good-bye.

  He disappears from view and I close my eyes, leaning into the counter for support. I picture him stretching against the car. One leg bent at the knee, fingers circling his ankle while he tips up on the ball of his other foot.

  My upper body instinctively leans forward and I tip up on the balls of my feet. I should have gone with him. We used to run together. Even though his long legs stretch him past the six-foot mark, he always adjusted his stride so I could keep pace. And we were always in step.

  Until …

  No. I’m not doing this. Not now.

  I change into a pair of old jeans, the ones with all the paint splotches and rips, and a tank top, then pull on Vale’s old Cal Berkeley sweatshirt, inhaling the mixture of his cologne and my paint. I burrow into the comfort, even if it’s only a temporary one.

  I step into the studio and exhale the tension. There’s no room for it in here. I walk to the table, flip on the electric kettle, and the music. Chris Botti welcomes me with his soul-touching trumpet. While an orange-chocolate tea bag steeps, I turn my attention to the mummified shape of a wooden carousel horse. He’s the last of the menagerie from the historical merry-go-round on the boardwalk. He’s also my favorite. He was our favorite. Mine and Grandma’s.

  The city stopped operating the carousel almost five years ago, not long before we moved back. Funds for its upkeep had dried up. The salt air and years of only moderate maintenance left the carousel in sad shape.

  When we moved back to town, my former boss at the museum in Kansas City pulled in a favor and secured me a freelancing job with a friend of his who owned a handful of antique stores. The work kept my hands busy and a trickle of money dripping into our bank account. But while I loved restoration work, those projects never captured my heart. None of the pieces that came through my studio had the history of the museum artifacts, and none of them held secrets that they wanted divulged. It was almost like they wanted to remain anonymous. Which is fine for them, boring for me.

  A few months after we moved to Kent, I’d joined Grandma for one of her morning walks to Carousel Beach as the locals called it, and we found ourselves in front of the old carousel pavilion. There we were, holding our paper cups of coffee, listening to the memories of a working merry-go-round, when Grandma turned with a look I hadn’t seen in her eyes for too many years.

  “You’re going to petition the city to restore our carousel.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t do that. I don’t know anything about restoring carousels.”

  “You’re an art restorer, Mims. This is art.”

  “Giant art. With moving parts.”

  “Vale can help connect you with people for the moving parts.” She’d waved dismissively. This was not an idea she was going to let go. “Think about it. This is perfect for you.”

  And I had thought about it. A lot. I was equally intrigued and terrified. The excitement won out, and five months later, I approached the city council with a proposal that included a fund-raiser, as well as several individual investors. It was one of the few times having wealthy, connected parents in the community paid off.

  My proposal had included pictures of myself as a little girl riding my favorite horse, with my grandma standing next to me. I’d also submitted pictures from the early days of the carousel and a picture of the carousel builder, a local boy who, according to what little information I could dig up, had left town several years after the merry-go-round was completed. Grandma was uncharacteristically evasive when it came to those early days of the carousel. She blamed it on old-lady brain. I kept asking, and she’d answer in spurts of excitement and sputters of don’t-remembers.

  The council had been swayed, though, and the carousel was mine to restore. The ugly chain-link fence surrounding it was replaced by a wood fence with strategically placed “windows” for passersby to see the progress. Signs were placed around the perimeter on how to contribute to the renovation.

  To my surprise, people donated. And left notes about what the carousel meant to them.

  I’m not sure why it surpr
ised me. Clearly, Grandma and I weren’t the only ones who loved the carousel. But to us, there was something magical to it, something personal. Whenever we’d go ride it, Grandma would get a just-between-us glint in her eye and whisper, “These animals know things, Mims. They’ll never betray a confidence.”

  And she was right. Which is probably why I find them easier to talk to some days. Especially lately. They have their secrets, and so do I. But while I unravel their secrets, they keep mine. And that suits me perfectly.

  I sip the tea, wincing as the liquid scalds a trail down my throat. I have just two months before the grand reopening on the Fourth of July. There’s always a big party on the boardwalk, and the city has already started promoting this one as extra exciting, with the return of the beloved merry-go-round. No pressure, Maya.

  Except for this one horse, the animals are done. The drum panels and ceiling panels are almost complete. The machinery and gears are in the final stages of installation. This handsome guy is the last holdout.

  I rest my hand on the large, wrapped form in the middle of my studio. He brings with him memories of summer fun.

  Memories of love and discovery.

  Memories of old friends and promised dreams.

  A sigh like a slowly leaking tire pushes the last thought away.

  “Let’s get you out of there.” With the loving tenderness of a mother unwrapping the blanket of a newborn, I peel the layers of packing off.

  Finally free, the carousel horse stands among the discarded packaging. He’s rough, worn, tired. Magical. I run my hands gently over the faded colors of his saddle and trace the once-vibrant pattern on the breastplate. I flex my fingers, letting them slip into the waves of his wooden mane, then rub his ears and run my hands down until they cover his eyes. I cup his muzzle, waiting for his warm breath.

  I step back to admire him. Dust particles, captured in the rays streaming from the skylight, dance around like tiny fairies casting spells. I ease up onto the worktable, crisscross my legs, and pull my notebook closer.

  Ding, right front hoof.

  Gash, base of left ear.

  Chip, flank just above tail.

  Seventy years of secrets to uncover and thirty years of memories to reminisce. And the clock is ticking.

  “How many times did I ride you?” I rewind my brain to those summers so long ago, when my only worries were getting to the carousel early enough to be the first on my favorite animal, and if I wanted a chocolate-vanilla swirl ice cream or a pretzel after the ride.

  It was always Grandma who took me. When I was very small, she’d stand next to me, a steadying hand on my leg as the carousel went round and round. When I was old enough to ride alone, she’d climb on the animal next to me, her head back, happy, carefree. She told me stories about the beach and watching the boardwalk transformed from a stretch of sand and shells into a thriving summer getaway. She’d get a faraway look in her eye and a nostalgic smile talking about the big excitement during the summer of 1943, when the carousel was installed.

  It must be true that some traits skip a generation. Grandma loved the carousel. My mom abhorred it. She claimed motion sickness just watching the wooden animals blur by in a nauseating mosaic of color. For me the carousel was magic. Still is. It’s one more thing that links me with Grandma and splits me from Mom.

  I glance at the diagram of the carousel. “Do you miss your ostrich friend?” I ask, my finger on a drawing of a horse on the outside row, an ostrich chasing behind him as the carousel picks up imaginary speed. “Don’t worry, you’ll be together soon.”

  The horse stands patiently. Even faded and weathered, he’s beautiful.

  The once-brilliant colors of his saddle and breastplate are rubbed to an almost unrecognizable color. The left ear hints of the reddish brown that made this horse stand out as the leader of the herd. His once-polished black hooves are now mostly gray. The raised tassels around his saddle pad are worn almost flush with his body, and their brilliant blue is now more muddy creek than sparkling ocean.

  Where other people might see old, I see mystery. Secrets. The good kind.

  Restoring the beauty of the past always intrigued me. While my friends were falling asleep in the back row of the darkened auditorium of the eight A.M. art history lecture, I was in the front row, leaning forward, wishing I could crawl straight through the vinyl screen on the stage. I wanted to enter the world that created such beauty, talk to the artists whose imaginations reached through the centuries to tickle mine.

  There’s always a story. The eighteenth-century stoneware from England with the letter C carved into the bottom. The artist’s initial? The third batch of jugs he created? A clue to where he lived? Or a thirteenth-century sword with a spiral inlay in the blade—the swordsmith’s signature? A promise to a fair maiden? A warning to an enemy?

  “And what stories do you have to tell, my friend?” My face relaxes into the faintest of smiles. “Remember the summer Simon kissed me for the first time?”

  That was the summer I turned fourteen. Simon was fifteen and so mature. His parents had just bought the house five streets down from Grandma and Grandpa’s. When he showed up on the beach, all the girls would tug at their swimsuits, making sure their assets were properly displayed. I didn’t have any assets to display back then. Still don’t.

  That was also the summer I fell in love for the first time. To the frustration of every girl on that beach, Simon had shown interest in me—the tomboy. We played beach volleyball and had corn dog eating contests. I had a mean spike and could inhale corn dogs with the best of the boys. These days, however, the smell of corn dogs gives me an odd mixture of nostalgia and nausea.

  Somewhere between corn dogs and beach volleyball and endless hours on the merry-go-round, I experienced why those girls on the beach primped and posed. I discovered the quivering stomach flutters of seeing someone walking toward you or turning and smiling at you.

  Simon, with his shaggy, dark-brown hair and shimmering green eyes. The smile that always started with the left corner of his mouth.

  A sigh breaks loose. Why did I indulge that skip down memory lane?

  I twirl a curl that refuses captivity. I tilt my head to get a better look at my old friend and blow a puff out of the corner of my mouth, the loose strand of hair taps my cheek and scatters the lingering images of a first love.

  “Enough. Let’s get busy.” I hop off the table and take a couple of steps toward the horse.

  First, I’ll make a drawing of him, diagraming every detail, from the large planes of the saddle and his body, to the intricate shades in his mane and tail, and the elaborate decorations of his bridle and breastplate. I walk around him, jotting notes, squiggling details, roughing out general shapes.

  I’ll take photographs, too. They’re invaluable for checking details and documenting the stages of the restoration. But graphite to paper is where I build the emotional connection.

  I pull a piece of paper from a giant sketchpad and sink to the floor by the horse’s legs. I like to start with the legs. You can tell the character of the animal by the way it stands. Perfectly square, he’s solid and steady. Hind legs slightly forward, he’s ready to leap away. Right front angled, he’s easy to ride. Left front snapped up in a perfectly parallel line, he’s your leader.

  The crisp bell of the trumpet teases the mournful violin, and together they envelop me in a world of highs and lows, joy and heartbreak. My hand moves across page after page of gleaming white sketch paper. I’ve redrawn his raised left front leg three times before I get the exact ninety-degree angle of the bent knee.

  A song ends, and I catch myself out of breath. The floor around me is covered with sketches, each page revealing another curve, a deeper angle, a sharper contrast. I stare at the drawing I’ve just finished. The hoof is detailed. The angle of the knee precise. But the intertwined hands resting on the bent knee of the horse as the carousel speeds up and the music gets louder are as soft as the memory. The tingle of that first touch with Simon
and the memory of us, huddled between the carousel animals, ripples up my spine.

  I crumple the drawing and toss it into the trash can, then glare at the horse. “Look at what you started.”

  I force my thoughts to fast forward, my left hand in Vale’s as he slips the diamond band onto my ring finger, his hand trembling with emotion. His hand splayed on my belly and the look of awe on his face with each ripple from the occupant inside.

  My stomach constricts, strangling the memory.

  I glance at the clock above the door. It’s almost eight P.M. Yet again, I’ve managed to spend almost eight hours without noticing time passing. My stomach grumbles. Okay, part of me has noticed time passing.

  I roll my head in a slow circle, hoping to loosen the knot lodged at the base of my neck. I pull my shoulder blades toward each other, relishing the momentary ache of sore muscles being forced out of their slouch zone.

  I close the studio for the evening, saying a reluctant good night to the horse, and walk to the back door of the house.

  There’s a light in the kitchen, and the smell of pasta welcomes me in.

  “Vale?” He’s not in the kitchen, and the house is quiet except for the thump-flop-thump of clothes tumbling in the dryer. I’ll have to thank him for doing the laundry. Again.

  “Vale?” I call once more, even though it’s obvious he’s not home.

  A sticky note on the microwave door calls for my attention. Couldn’t wait. I was hungry. Didn’t want to disturb you. There’s a plate in the microwave. Meeting Thomas for drinks. V.

  A whoosh of air escapes from my lungs—relief?