The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel

by Charles L. Grant

  “She was on the porch, for god’s sake, in the middle of a storm, and all you gave her is a glass of milk. You didn’t even dry her off. She’s lucky she isn’t in a hospital.”

  “Good lord, the doctor said it’s only a cold. She’s had colds before. Dozens of them. It isn’t going to kill her.”

  “I hate this place. God, I hate this place.”

  “Now you’re being silly.”

  “Me? Silly? Who’s the one who said construction in a place like this was going to make us rich? Who gave up a perfectly good partnership and threw in with people he didn’t even know?”

  “Lanette —”

  “Have you looked around lately, Neal? Have you seen how many new houses are going up? I didn’t see a goddamn one! Even the houses that aren’t a hundred years old look it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Oh, right, like I kidnapped you, huh? Like I dragged you and the kid to the middle of nowhere, kicking and screaming.”

  “Well it is nowhere, Neal. And it’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Jesus Christ, all this for just a goddamn cold? What the hell are you going to be like when she breaks a leg or something?”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

  Fever dream.

  Hands.

  Ostrich taking her away, a boy effortlessly racing beside her.

  “Who’s Chip?”

  “I don’t know. One of those kids, I guess. I don’t remember.”

  “Sounds like a boy.”

  “So what? She knows boys, you know, Neal. It’s not like she’s never seen one before.”

  “Why didn’t she tell us about him?”

  “Hush, she’s sleeping.”

  “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t have a boyfriend already, Neal. Lord. You sound just like a father.”

  “I’m just curious. She talks about that Kitt girl and those other kids — I just wonder why she never told us about this Chip.”

  “Maybe it’s because you never give her a chance. You’ve got her working like a slave around here.”

  “Jesus, not that again.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “I just want to know about this boy, that’s all. What are you trying to do, hang me for asking?”

  “Well, why don’t you just shake it out of her, huh? Big man. Ask her if she’s sleeping with him, why not.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “See? Big man. Just leave us alone, Neal. Go back to your goddamn grass and your goddamn bushes and goddamn leave us alone.”

  Fever dream.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning Fran marched into the kitchen and told her father that if she didn’t go someplace else besides the front porch or the backyard right away she was going to throw a tantrum, hold her breath until her face turned blue, scream until her head fell off, break every piece of furniture in the house, have a heart attack and die.

  He picked her up and they glared at each other. She could feel his arms trembling with her weight.

  “Bored, huh?”

  “I’m dying!”

  “You look pretty good to me.”

  “I’m dying, Daddy.”

  “You’ve been sick.”

  “That was days ago!”

  Nose touched nose, and she felt her eyes want to cross, her lips want to smile.

  “How about a walk?”

  “More than just around the block.”

  “The carnival?”

  “It’s not open during the day. Kitt told me.”

  “Okay, the park?”

  She nodded.

  He put her down, aimed an open hand at her head which she ducked and ran out of the kitchen, grinning, catching her mother by the arm as Lanette walked out of the living room, telling her they were going over the wall, not to alert the warden or the bulls will shoot them down in cold blood and burn their bodies with the trash.

  “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  Fran shrugged. “TV, I guess.” She took her mother’s hand and tugged it, gently. “C’mon, we’re going to the park.”

  “We?”

  “All of us,” Neal agreed, joining them in the foyer, rubbing his palms together. “Cabin fever is my diagnosis. Best cure in the world is some ice cream, junk food, and a walk under the trees.”

  Lanette shook her head. “I don’t think so. It must be a hundred out there.”

  “Eighty-eight,” Fran told her. A shrug at her expression. “I heard it on the radio.” She tugged again. “C’mon, Mom, please? It’s not that hot.” Nothing; only a glance at her father. “I promise I won’t run around, okay? I’ll sit. I’ll lie down.” She let her lower lip tremble. “Mom, c’mon,”

  It was like the storm again before it struck — electricity she could feel, thunder she could hear like the rush of blood in her ear. Daddy called it cabin fever; she called it wanting to get out before somebody killed somebody. All that silence made her nervous.

  The knock on the screen door, then, made her jump, made her mother slip back into the living room, as if sliding into a closet.

  It was Kitt, and someone else. “Hi,” Fran said, too loudly.

  Kitt grinned. “Wanna go to the park? This is Drake Saxton.

  He lives in my neighborhood, next door, really.” The smile slipped to a curled lip of disdain. “He’s gonna baby-sit us. Mom’s paying him,”

  He was tall, thin, had ten times as much hair as her father, and Fran couldn’t believe they actually needed a baby-sitter in the middle of the day practically.

  “Hey,” Drake said.

  Fran didn’t think he was all that thrilled either.

  Neal introduced himself, and Fran slipped onto the porch to stand beside Kitt while Drake told Fran’s father that he was playing ball with his buddies today and had promised Mrs. Weatherall he’d look after Kitt. Fran could tell he hated it, even if he was getting money for it; she could tell her father didn’t care that Drake hated it when he said after a glance over his shoulder, “Maybe I’ll stay home, then, work in the garden. You sure you don’t mind, son?”

  Of course he does, Fran answered with a disgusted look, but Drake only shrugged a makes no never mind to me one way or the other.

  “You be good,” Neal cautioned.

  Fran rolled her eyes. Kitt giggled, grabbed her hand, and they ran down the steps.

  “Hey!”

  They stopped.

  “Fran, home by supper.”

  She nodded, waved, waved to her mother standing at the window, and they ran again, not caring whether Drake caught up with them or not, not slowing until they reached High Street and turned east where the heat at last reached them, and the sweat broke free on their backs and brows. Kitt said they should have brought their bathing suits, some of the others probably had, but Fran didn’t answer with more than a grunt. She was free, that’s what mattered; she was out of the house, away from the looks and the snide remarks and the way her parents avoided each other and didn’t think she noticed. Ever since the storm. Ever since Daddy had said something at dinner about all the work he couldn’t find, times were tough, it wasn’t his fault. She would have gone out naked if that’s the way it had to be.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “He doesn’t like you or what?” she said.

  Kitt, chewing on the end of a pigtail, waved a hand. “He’s too good for us. Big man. Just like my brother.”

  “Oh.” Another glance. He was a block behind, catching up without running, staring at his sneakers. “I thought you said you didn’t have a brother?”

  “He’s not my real brother. The Martians brought him one night when I wasn’t looking. Drake came with him, in the garbage bag.”

  Fran laughed.

  Kin punched her arm lightly.

  “They’re in high school, huh, your brother and him?”

  Kin made a face. “No. Junior
’s in college. Ricky — he’s my Martian brother — he wants to be an actor, can you believe it? Make movies and plays and stuff. Big deal. At least he thinks he is.” She covered her mouth and laughed. “I saw him kissing a girl last night. God, it was gross.”

  “I’ll bet,” Fran agreed. Lips touching lips. Mom and Daddy. “Ugh. So where are we going?”

  “The pond. Elly says it’s time you got a friend around here.”

  Fran stared. “Aren’t you my friend?”

  “Well, yeah, but this is different.” “What do you mean?”

  Kin pushed her playfully. “You’ll see. It’s a secret.”

  “I hate secrets.”

  “Me too.” She laughed again.

  By the time they reached Centre Street, the shops and offices dosed, no one on the sidewalks, Drake was right behind them, baseball bat over one shoulder, baseball cap pulled down and sullen over his eyes.

  “You don’t have to follow us, you know,” Kitt told him without turning around. “You’re not a shadow, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Don’t be a pain, Kitt,” he answered glumly. “And I’m not gonna follow you, okay? I got better things to do.”

  “Just see that you don’t.”

  Fran said nothing. She didn’t know if this was the way you were supposed to talk to friends of big brothers, so she let Kitt do it all. And she did. All the way to the park. Telling him not to spoil her fun, stay a hundred miles away and leave her friends alone or she’d tell his mother what she saw him doing in his car the week before. A giggle. Fran hated that sound. Kitt made it like she couldn’t breathe right and had to gargle when she did. It was ugly.

  They passed the tobacco shop, piles of Sunday papers stacked by the door, and the delicatessen where Kitt wondered aloud why Drake wasn’t behind the counter helping her father if he really wanted to make some money, and the hardware store locked up and dark in spite of the sun. Across Park Street, then, and Fran looked at the high iron fencing that fronted the park, at the open iron gates through which people strolled now, pushing carriages, carrying baseball gloves and picnic baskets, kids running despite the weather; into the shade made by trees so close together, so high, so thick around, she thought she had fallen back into her dream, fever dream, and she had to shake her head to clear it, and trot to catch up with Kitt, who had swerved to the right and was making her way along a worn path between shrubs that had big shiny leaves but no flowers.

  Jungle.

  Like the backyard.

  Until they reached the other side and she stopped, gaping.

  “Wow,” she said quietly.

  A huge expanse of grass right in front of her, tall evergreens on the far side; to the left a ballfield, and beyond it a large white bandstand at the foot of a hill that sloped gently upward to more trees on top. It was like the country in the middle of a city, she thought; riding past it in the car had given her no idea that it looked like this.

  “Neat, huh?” Kitt said, grinning.

  She nodded.

  Drake leaned over, bat in both hands, and looked at Kitt.

  “You going to the pond?”

  “The moon.”

  “Suits me,” he said. “Just don’t leave without me, okay? You do, I’ll pound you.”

  “Oh boy, I’m — so scared.”

  He looked at Fran, and suddenly smiled so broadly she couldn’t help but smile back. “When you’re ready to go home, lady, I’ll be right here, all right? Don’t let her talk you into anything stupid.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Sure,” Kitt echoed sarcastically, and bolted across the grass. “C’mon, Lumbaird, leave the creep to the creeps!”

  Fran ran.

  Around people on sheets and blankets sunning themselves, burning themselves, playing catch and slow tag and just walking without having any real place to go; looking over once to see Drake joining his friends, pushing and shoving and threatening with the bat; looking to the right to the spear-tips of the fence that rose above the shrubs and between the trees, but not being able to see the village on the other side; breaking through the evergreens behind Kitt, And stopping again.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  The pond was a bloated L shape, its high banks covered with pine needles, the water a darker blue than the sky. Darker, almost black. A small rowboat anchored in the center, two people in it beneath a large umbrella. Another world again, a world within a world, and she wondered how many more surprises this place had.

  She followed Kitt along the lip of the bank until they reached the far end. She knew Chancellor Avenue was out there, but the greenery cut it off, smothered the traffic’s noise, and smothered the heat as well, making her shiver as she ducked under the branch of a multi-trunk elm and found herself in a small glade whose grass had long since been trained to grow in ragged patches amid patches of dark earth where violets grew low. High, crisscrossed branches masked most of the sky, sliced the sun into fragments that barely lit the ground. Not quite twilight, not quite an autumn afternoon.

  Elly was there, sitting primly on a folded tartan blanket, and Susan with her dimples, and two others she didn’t recognize. Kitt introduced them, but Fran couldn’t hold onto their names right away, and maybe didn’t want to the way they looked at her. Sideways, not straight on, checking her out, measuring her. Not really friendly. City kid. She found a place to sit-behind and to the right of Elly, on a root like the one where she’d cried on the day she’d arrived.

  There were no boys.

  Elly crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt with both hands, brushed her bangs carefully away from her eyes. “All right,” she said, and the others quickly formed a ragged half circle in front of her. One of them — Maddy? she couldn’t remember glared at Fran until she deliberately looked away. She wasn’t about to play this game until she knew the rules. All of them. And being like some kind of servant to some kind of queen wasn’t what Daddy would call her style.

  Elly didn’t seem to mind.

  The faint crack of bat and ball.

  A duck calling to another, was answered, and calling again. A bumblebee checking the flowers, Fran watching it uneasily, praying it wouldn’t come near though she could hear it buzzing loud and soft, loud and soft, swaying side to side in the air and moving on, and buzzing.

  Then Kitt said, “Fran hasn’t got a friend.”

  Maddy — was it Maddy? Maggie? who cared, she was fat and had frizzy hair — looked at her sorrowfully, and Fran felt her temper tug a scowl into place. What was going on here? She had a friend. Kitt was one. Maybe Elly, maybe Susan. That was three. She had lots of friends back in Cambridge. Tons of them. What was going on?

  Elly nodded, and brushed at her skirt. “She’s been here long enough, but does she want one?”

  Kitt chewed on the end of a pigtail, lifted one shoulder.

  “Hey,” Fran said.

  They all looked at her. Except Elly.

  “I’m here, you know,” she said, pointing at her chest “It’s not like I’m a ghost or anything. Why don’t you just ask me?”

  Elly swiveled around, smoothed her skirt, brushed at her bangs. Smiled sweetly. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Want a friend.”

  “I’ve got them.”

  Maddy laughed, and cut herself off.

  “What is this, some kind of club?” Fran shook her head, not liking the way they were so serious. “Yon guys some kind of club?” She looked at Kitt. “What?”

  Kitt pulled the end of her pigtail out of her mouth and plucked at the grass beside her. It wasn’t a club, she said, not exactly. It was kind of like some of the kids hung out, that’s all, and when one of them got in trouble, the others kind of helped out, stuff like that. Homework, teachers, brothers, stuff like that. Finding things that got lost, chipping in when you couldn’t afford a new necklace or headband or wristband, stuff like that. Sometimes, when you needed a friend, they kind of helped out there too, checking the guy out, making su
re he was all right, wasn’t a creep, a dork, a scuzzbag, stuff like that. Sometimes you couldn’t tell. Sometimes they smiled at you, said things to you, you think maybe he likes you, but he really doesn’t, he just wants to pretend like he’s something else, not just a kid with zits and glop.

  “A boyfriend?” Fran said, not believing what she’d heard.

  “You,” She laughed, but not aloud.

  New kids didn’t know about the kids who already lived here, Kitt went on. New kids sometimes got hurt when they didn’t have to be hurt, didn’t have to cry themselves to sleep every night, didn’t have to make a jackass of herself over some jerk who couldn’t even remember her stupid telephone number. The old kids helped the new kids. Stuff like that.

  Fran didn’t know whether to laugh, get mad, tell them they were nuts, tell them without knowing why she wanted to that her parents had started to fight every night when they thought she was asleep, could they help her with that with their stupid little club? But she didn’t say anything. Because the expressions they had weren’t hostile any longer, or uncaring, or suspicious; they were patient. As if they had read her thoughts, or had had them before themselves, and were just waiting for her to make up her mind that things were really okay, there wasn’t anything she had to worry about. Not here.

  It almost made her cry.

  “There’s this kid who came around once,” she said at last, and shook her head. “Twice. I saw him at the carnival too.”

  They waited.

  “Chip. He said his name is Chip.”

  “Chip Clelland?” Elly said as if she hadn’t heard the name correctly.

  Fran nodded.

  “You want him for a friend?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s nice, I guess. Not a boyfriend. He doesn’t have to be a boyfriend, does he?”

  “Hell, no,” said Maddy as she unwrapped a chocolate bar, her offer to share untaken, “Besides, boys are dumb shits anyway.”

  Kitt and Susan giggled.

  “Language,” Elly said softly.

  Maddy stuck out her tongue.

  “Mine,” a voice said then. Frail. Quiet; so quiet it screamed.

  Fran looked around, wondering who else had joined them, and saw the fifth girl staring at her. Pale, scrawny, her T-shirt baggy though it couldn’t get much smaller; her legs were crossed, the flesh stretched so tightly across her knees, the white of the bone showed through. Her elbows were the same.