by Gina Linko
It was about all we had to go on at this point. And I was impressed with Digger’s logic. He took my pencil and put a check next to Arnie’s name on our list.
Soon after, we sat in the trailer Arnie shared with Hames, watching him polish a long silver sword with a brown leather grip. When I asked Arnie to tell us what he knew of my mama and her sister, he quirked his eyebrow at me. A man of few words (and many, many mermaid tattoos), Arnie fixed me with a stare.
“What are you getting at, Tally Jo?” Arnie asked.
“They never came back here after their last year of high school, did they? Never together, right?”
“You think they had some kind of falling out, like all soap-opera dramatic?”
“I reckon they did. Do you know what it was about?”
He dipped a rag into a gray, putty-like substance and worked at a scuff on the curlicue engraving covering the sword’s blade. He tilted his head like he was considering. Digger picked up another knife, a small one—maybe a dagger—on the low coffee table, and he dragged his finger lightly across the blade. “These could slice somebody’s fingers off. You keep them shiny for the shows?”
Once in a while, usually over July 4th weekend, Pa Charlie would make concessions toward fireworks, and then we’d put on a whole special circusy kind of sideshow. Molly-Mae would pretend to tell fortunes, Hames would swallow fire and create balloon animals. And Arnie here would swallow enormous swords right down his gullet.
Arnie gave Digger a funny look. “It doesn’t matter to me if the swords are shiny, but I do want them to be clean, Digger Swanson. When they’re going down my very own throat, I don’t need a boatload of germs.” Arnie glared at Digger like he wasn’t quite thinking right.
“You don’t worry about slicing your neck open, but you worry about germs?”
“Of course,” Arnie answered. “I’m not stupid.”
Digger went to respond but thought better of it.
Arnie turned to me, “Why don’t you ask Fat Sam or your pa about this, Tally? I don’t think I can tell you much, even if I wanted to. The whole thing was before my tenure here. I’ve only known your mama and Grania separately.”
“Have they ever asked you about tattoos?”
“Can’t say that they did.”
I looked at Arnie with narrowed eyes. Was he telling me the truth? I didn’t have any choice but to think he was.
After I dragged Digger away from the swords, we tracked down Fat Sam, who was busy doing a test run of the newly renovated Iron Witch. The famous Tilt-a-Whirl was an attraction that a lot of carnival-goers loved. Little did they know that it was the most hated ride on the whole midway, at least from the workers’ perspective, because it weighed an absolute ton, so repairing it, tearing it down, setting it up, all of it was serious work. And dangerous.
I saw a greenie get his left arm crushed under the weight of one of those pieces when I was about seven years old, and I still think about that when I see a mess of raw hamburger. It was not a pretty thing.
“You remember last time my Aunt Grania was here with my mama?” I asked Fat Sam.
“Oh, sure. Their last summer together was about the time we gave up the reptile show.”
I didn’t like that phrase. Their last summer.
“Peachtree had a reptile show?” Digger asked.
“Yes indeed. It was your mother’s idea,” Fat Sam told Digger. “She had a friend with a baby alligator.” He waved his hand in the air, like, What are you gonna do?
“And, well, your mom and I took that little bugger in, raised him. Godzilla, of course, was his name. He grew right large, quickly thereafter.” Fat Sam wrenched the lever of the Iron Witch forward, tilting his head like he was listening to something, maybe the chug and hum of the motor.
“A baby alligator?” Digger asked. “Why didn’t I inherit him?”
“Got much too big. We had to donate him to an outfit in Tallahassee. Alligator wrestling and such.”
The Iron Witch clinked and clanked its rhythm now, turning in circles, going faster and faster. Fat Sam studied its motion, his brow furrowing.
“You think the Iron Witch has another summer in her?” I asked.
“That is the question, Miss Tally,” Fat Sam said, his eyes flitting to Digger, who was strangely quiet.
Digger’s eyes had glazed over. He was remembering things. A different time, when he had both his parents together, maybe?
Or dreaming of having a mammoth reptile as a brother. You never knew with Digger.
“Your mom and I were just talking about that summer on the phone,” Fat Sam said to Digger.
“You talked to Mom on the phone?”
“Sure,” Fat Sam said.
Digger turned and waggled his eyebrows at me like this was the greatest news on earth. Probably he was dreaming of their reconciliation, but I didn’t have time for Digger’s family drama. I needed information.
“So what can you tell us about Grania?” I asked.
Fat Sam smiled. “Well, I’ve been working here since I was a kid. Your mother and Grania and I used to get into our fair share of scrapes and trouble.” He laughed, sounding just like Digger.
“What was Aunt Grania like?” I asked.
He pulled the lever into the stop mode for the Iron Witch and tapped at his bottom lip. “Well, Grania was very daring. Always putting me up to something. And fun. Like your mother, but louder. Your mother always had her nose in a book, but Grania liked other people’s business better.” He smiled, but then it was like he caught himself. Suddenly, his smile was gone. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you about this.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Pa Charlie’s orders.”
Digger’s wide eyes met mine.
Now we were really on to something. So it wasn’t my imagination that there were secrets at work here. Big secrets.
“Please. I gotta know, Fat Sam.”
“Look, I don’t have the real nitty-gritty details, Miss Tally, but I—”
Digger interrupted, “It’s her family, Dad. You need to help her out.”
“Can’t you give me hint or even—”
Fat Sam held up his hand. “Hold your horses, kids. Tell you what, you two do me a favor, and I will think about it. I might have some information for you. I could tell you at least the snippets I know.”
“Really?” I asked.
“That sound like a deal?”
I caught Digger’s eye. We both said it at once: “Deal.”
10
That’s how Digger and I found ourselves cleaning out the catch-all on a sweltering June day, sweating half to death and grumbling under our breath. The catch-all was what everybody at Peachtree called this old, ratty, rusted-out box trailer that Molly-Mae towed behind her truck for no apparent reason, aside from the fact that everybody threw anything extra into it. If something was of no apparent use, but maybe would be someday, for this or that, it went in. If we were being honest, everybody knew it was mostly trash.
But, oh, why don’t we just throw it in the catch-all anyway, so Tally can clean it out in ninety-seven degree weather?
For example, did you need a papier-mâché strawberry the size of Digger’s head that used to hang from the Candy Wagon menu board?
How about a grown-up-sized kangaroo costume, complete with stuffed-animal joey in the pouch?
Or stacks of old, washed-out Peachtree banners, flyers, and road signs?
What about six pink plastic flamingos?
“When did Peachtree have clowns?” I asked, reaching into a tattered cardboard box that used to hold a Christmas tree. I pulled out a pair of oversized red shoes, rainbow-striped overalls, and several crayon-bright wigs. I tried on a pair of round spectacles with lenses the size of dinner plates.
I looked over toward the old oak tree, the lenses of the glasses making everything look sort of wavy. I could see Licorice under the tree, curled up on Pa Charlie’s old blue-and-green quilt.
Digger stuck
on a red clown nose. “I don’t know why we ever got rid of clowns, but we should have them again immediately.” He discovered a brass horn and squeaked it right in my ear.
“Digger Samuel Swanson!” I cried. I looked around us, and I blew the hair off my forehead. We had emptied the entire contents of the catch-all onto the patchy grass of the midway next to it. “We’re supposed to be cleaning.”
“We’re organizing.” He had the clown shoes on now, and his feet hit the ground with a delicious slapping sound with each step. “There are different stages of organizing. This first stage is called perusing. We’re perusing the goods.” He walked around the contents of the catch-all like a penguin and donned a powder-blue tuxedo jacket with more ruffles than I could count. I tried not to laugh. I pulled on a neon pink wig and dug into the box for more props.
“Holy kudzu,” I said when my hands brushed something promising. It took me a few pulls, but I eventually got it out from the heap of clown clothes.
“What is it?”
“Meet my new best friend.”
“A unicycle?” Digger laughed.
It was kind of rusty and looked like it needed air in the tire. The seat was cracked and ancient, but it was a beauty. “Oh yeah,” I said, and I hopped on top of it. It took me a few tries to get my balance right and begin to pedal. But on the third try, I thought I had it. I pedaled a few feet across the gravel midway, but then I wiped out, flying forward, landing on my knees.
“It’s so easy though!” Digger teased, laughing.
“Shut it, Swanson.” But I was laughing too.
“Let me have a try.”
I handed it over, and of course Digger was off like a shot, giant clown shoes and all. “Like riding a bike,” he called.
“Of course. Very funny.”
“Tally Jo?” I heard Pa Charlie call out. He was coming down the midway, walking toward us with Fat Sam. They made a funny silhouette against the horizon, Fat Sam as thin as a rail, Pa Charlie as round as Santa Claus.
“Yes sir?” I answered, walking to meet them.
“Nice work, Digger,” Pa Charlie called, as Digger was flying all over on that unicycle. Darn him and his athletic abilities.
But I saw that Pa Charlie’s brow was pinched, and his eyes scanned the mess we’d made in front of the catch-all.
“Oh, I promise we’re cleaning up before the carnival opens tonight. I was going to—”
“That’s fine. I know you will.” He rubbed at his beard then. “Heard you been asking everyone about what happened between your mother and your aunt?”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t like the disapproving look in Pa Charlie’s eyes. I answered honestly, “Yes sir.”
Digger had come up at my side then, balancing on the unicycle, and I watched his eyes snap to Fat Sam. “Don’t look at me like that, son,” Fat Sam said. “I just thought that Miss Tally should hear things from her Pa, and, well …” Fat Sam looked abashed.
I almost would’ve felt sorry for him, if I wasn’t so darn aggravated.
Pa Charlie walked over to the nearest picnic table, his steps heavy and slow. Pa Charlie didn’t often seem serious, even less often did he seem downtrodden. Right now, he seemed both.
“Come on over and let’s have ourselves a little talk, Tally.”
I watched Digger and Fat Sam exchange a look. Fat Sam motioned for Digger to move along with him. Digger lollygagged for a few seconds, but then he and Fat Sam left Pa and me to argue by our own selves.
I sat down across from him. I swallowed hard and worried my knuckles over my chin, staring at my pa.
He was nodding to himself like he was considering something.
He was going to tell me. Here it was.
I did feel a pinch of guilt for upsetting him. I did. But I was really going to learn what had happened with my aunt and my mother. I felt hot all over. I would finally know, so I could somehow stop it from coming between my sister and me. I could get my Tempest back.
“Where’s your sister?” Pa asked.
“Apparently, working on her booth.” I tried hard not to roll my eyes. I didn’t completely succeed.
“Oh, right,” Pa Charlie said. “Well, Tally, I’ve got something here for you.” He set it on the picnic table and pushed it toward me. It was a photograph of Mama and Aunt Grania, back when they were kids. They looked a little older than us, probably high school age. They stood on opposite sides of a small stage, each holding one end of a long, beautiful silhouette garland. I stared at it for a moment.
We’d seen pictures of them before. Not many. But we had.
It was easy to tell Mama from Aunt Grania. Mama was Mama, and Aunt Grania was almost Mama, but not quite. Aunt Grania had sharper edges, a more furrowed brow. Staring at the photo, it made me miss Mama and Daddy.
Pa Charlie broke into my thoughts, “This was their act.”
“Okay.”
“Your mother and Grania used to take suggestions from the audience, kids usually, and then they would make a silhouette of whatever they were asked to—porcupines kissing, race cars rounding a corner, anything at all.”
“They did this together?”
“Yes. It was something. They would fold up the paper together, and then they would both just start snipping away, each with a pair of scissors in their hand. They wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t plan.”
“Wait, they did one garland together, at the same time?”
“Yes.”
“They didn’t draw the pattern onto the paper or anything?”
“Nope. Just started snipping away.”
“That seems near impossible. I always thought Mama did this alone. I mean, how would they know where one should stop cutting and the other should start, if they were working at the same time, on the same piece of paper?”
Pa Charlie shrugged. “That is the question. Your granny used to say they were talking in their minds. That always left me a bit bumfuzzled.”
My mind raced. Mama and Aunt Grania had something between them too. I bet they couldn’t play hide-and-go-seek either. I bet they were like Tempest and me. Of course they were.
You’d think Mama would’ve said a lot of stuff like that growing up, comparing us to her and her sister. But, no. She didn’t. It was weird, now that I stopped to consider it.
And all of a sudden I had a memory, out of nowhere, staring at the photograph of Mama and Aunt Grania. “Me and Tempest did something like that,” I told Pa Charlie. “A long time ago.”
“Did you now?”
“Tempest and I, I mean,” I said, correcting my grammar, as Mama surely would want me to. “We could sit at the computer and type emails to our friends, me using the right hand side of the keyboard, Tempest the left. We would just somehow know what word we were supposed to be typing, what came next. Honestly, we’d never miss a beat.”
“Yes, that does sound quite near impossible, Tally.”
“We didn’t talk, just went ahead and typed,” I said to Pa Charlie. “We just worked that typing like we were one brain, one person.”
“Well,” Pa Charlie said, and he made a move to get up from the picnic table, like we had settled something, like this conversation was over. “I need to go see what’s got the Iron Witch going so plinkety-plunkety.” He turned to leave.
“Hey, wait!” I told him, grabbing his hand. “You have to tell me about them, Pa. Why aren’t they friends still?”
“Friends? They’re friends.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not really, and you darn well know it. We’ve never even met her. What did they fight about? What came between them?” I felt a stab of pain in my chest when I thought of the words my mama had scribbled on the back of that silhouette garland: you and me, forever. Whatever she’d been writing about, the words had a desperate ring to them.
“Please, Pa Charlie,” I begged. “Just tell me.”
Pa Charlie ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at his whiskers, and he let out a monster of a sigh. “Your mama will be here in a couple weeks. S
he’s the one to answer all of these questions, Tally. No one else.” There was a gruff edge to Pa Charlie’s usually honey-smooth voice, and I knew it was there to dissuade me.
But I didn’t let it.
“Well, I’ll just call Mama right now then.” I stuck my chin out in a defiant way, and held my hand out to him, palm up. “Could I please use your phone?”
“Fine,” he said, digging in his pocket and producing his cell phone. “But she’s going to tell you the same thing I’m about to say. And I want you to listen. I want you to really hear me, young lady.” That gruff edge in his voice had turned fully serious now, so I pushed aside my righteous anger for a second, and I looked him in the eye. I tried to really listen.
But it was hard, because his eyes surprised me. There wasn’t anger there, and he wasn’t annoyed like I expected. No, Pa Charlie’s eyes looked sad. They were tender and raw, not the dancing eyes I was so used to. That sadness sapped some of my frustration.
I steeled myself. “Go on then, sir. What is it you want to tell me?”
He put a meaty paw over my hand on the table. His voice was low and rumbly. “Enjoy your summer, Tally Jo. Enjoy this time with your sister. With your aunt, with the rest of us here at Peachtree.”
There was nothing sinister in that advice, nothing at all. But then why did it somehow feel like a threat?
Why is it so important that I enjoy this time? I wanted to scream. Are we running out of time?
But Pa looked so old right then. With his age-spotted bald head and the deep creases in his jowls, he looked like he always looked—like, normal old. But today, there was more to it, just something in his movements. They were weighed down with memories, and his eyes were full of some kind of secret anguish.
So I bit my tongue. I handed him back his cell phone.
I would wait for my mother to get here.
This wasn’t like me. I wanted to shake something, or someone. I wanted to scream and yell and whine about things not being fair. But I was realizing something: when I had been looking at the photo of my mama and aunt, Pa Charlie hadn’t looked at all. He’d purposefully looked away, studying the piles of garbage we’d made from the catch-all.
