Something happened, something weird and wild and wonderful. There were noises, sounds and smells that took him back to the cool, crisp autumn nights of his childhood: bells and whistles, the clank and clamor of rides; cotton candy and candied apples, funnel cakes, the smell of grease and the sizzle of grilled meat. Children’s laughter, excited shouts of carnival-goers drawn forth by the barking cries of a multitude of pitchmen hawking their wares. The carnival was in town, a very different kind of carnival this year, one he was looking forward to attending.
He pulled into his long and winding driveway, up the driveway until he was in front of the house. It was dark now, and he sat there with the headlights on and the engine running, waiting for Velma to draw back the curtains and peer out through the front window, something she always did when he came up the driveway. Something he figured she did every time a car pulled up to the house—every time one happened by on the road, as far as he knew.
Jack had a lovely wife, one who had stuck by him through thick and thin. Of course, with his lumber operation and a controlling interest in the bank, there hadn’t been a whole hell of a lot of thin to stick out. But money wasn’t everything, and even if it was, she’d put up with a lot from Jack—the drinking and gambling, the whoring. The rehab stays, years ago when cocaine wandered into his life, refusing to leave until it had damn near taken it away from him. But Velma had not stood quietly by while Jack went about the business of destroying their lives. She’d ranted and raved, fighting tooth and nail against the forces that were dragging her husband into a deep, dark pit from which he might never return. Even now, though Jack had told his young mistress he did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and went home whenever he pleased; it didn’t quite work out that way. Yes, he did what he wanted, but Velma did not just stand by quietly as he wandered off into the night. She ranted and raved, as she always had, sometimes throwing dishes or whatever else might be handy, doing anything and everything she thought might bring him to his senses—though nothing ever did.
She was pretty when Jack married her, a pretty woman still yet. But something was missing in their relationship, something very important. Velma had retained her beauty but not her youth, and at sixty-three years of age, with time slowly edging away from him, youth was a commodity Jack put a high value on. He didn’t want to be the rich old man in the stately mansion, wiling away his years with a pleasant-looking wife. He wanted to feel the fire in the belly that comes from fast cars and faster women, young women who stoke that fire with a look, a touch and a wink of an eye. He wanted it. He needed it, and Velma be damned he would have it whenever he felt like having it.
A curtain slightly parted. Part of a face appeared in a slice of light gleaming through the window and the curtain fluttered shut. Like clockwork, Jack thought as he slammed the car into Park. He killed the engine and the headlights faded slowly away, snatched his keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car, and then stood for a moment looking up at an ever-darkening sky, wondering if it was still up there, that thing—that cloud—whatever it was that had drawn him out to the curb this afternoon. Then he slammed the door shut and started up the inlaid stones that constituted his walkway… to the front porch steps, up the steps and across the porch, until he stood fumbling his door key into the lock.
Velma wasn’t around when he stepped through the doorway and eased the door shut. Of course she wasn’t. She never was—as if peeking out the window as regular as clockwork and then vanishing into another part of the house would hide the fact that she was trying to keep tabs on him. Like he couldn’t see her plain as day every single time he pulled up out front. In the kitchen with her pots and pans, or in the living room, sitting in a chair with her lovely snout in a magazine; that was where he would find her, pretending she hadn’t heard his car roaring up the driveway.
He found her in the kitchen, steam rising from the open mouth of the crock pot she was leaning over. “Jack!” she said, as if he had suddenly materialized out of nowhere.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Where’s Eliza?”
“Sent her home early. Wanted to do the cooking myself tonight.”
Remnants of whatever vegetables she’d utilized for their meal lay scattered on the kitchen counter: potato peels and onion skins, pieces of lettuce and bits of celery. There was a paring knife on the counter too, next to the flat block of wood she’d sliced and diced her vegetables on; a flour sifter and a soup ladle, a butcher knife and a measuring cup. She smiled when she turned and saw him, smiled and stirred the pot.
“Got your favorites,” she sang out, a pleasantly lilting tone coloring her voice. Then she clamped the glass lid down, sealing the steam inside. “Beef stew with plenty of fresh vegetables. Come on over and smell it.”
Jack stepped up behind her, as once again she uncovered the crock pot. He looped his arms around her slim waist, pulling her close and nuzzling the back of her neck. “I’d rather smell you,” he said, as the lid rattled against the tiled countertop, and his wife turned to face him.
“Jackie,” she said, smiling, looking up at him with those light blue eyes of hers. She had borne him children, a boy and a lovely little girl, raised them up right and sent them off to make their way in the world. She was a good woman, a strong woman who had worked hard to keep her figure; a good and fine companion, pleasant to be around, a willing and able participant in the bedroom. With her strawberry blonde hair, that small grouping of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the way those eyes twinkled when something pleased her, she really was pretty.
Too bad she was so damned old.
He kissed her on the cheek. “Damn, that does smell good, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling and releasing Velma, who, sighing, turned and grabbed the lid off the counter, and slid it back onto the pot.
“Go on and take a shower,” she said. “I’ll put some biscuits in the oven.”
Jack went down the hallway, upstairs to the master bedroom, where he kicked off his shoes and took off his socks, and emptied his pockets onto the dresser—his change and his car keys, a smattering of loose bills, his wallet and a comb. He walked into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind him and moved over to the shower stall. Opening the thick frosted-glass door, he leaned inside and turned the water on. Jack liked the heat; his bones liked it. So he manipulated the faucet until the temperature suited him—hot enough to loose the kink in his muscles, but not so much as to scald him. Then he turned and walked over to the sink, slipped out of his underwear and stood naked before the mirror.
Something happened today…
Jack, gripping the faucet, turned it, and a stream of water began flowing into the sink. He stood for a moment, splashing water onto his face—it felt great on his skin, warm and soothing. He took his razor out of the medicine cabinet, a can of shaving cream, and pushed the cabinet door shut. Steam billowed from the open shower door, spreading swirling twists of vapor slowly across the room. He stared into the mirror while water hissed from the showerhead, pattering against the tiled floor of the stall. The steam, rising and swelling throughout the bathroom, soon began to envelope him.
Something happened today…
He was standing there, staring into a swirling white mist, just as he had stood on the sidewalk this afternoon gazing into a hazy grey fog that seemed to have surrounded him. And just like this afternoon, there was music and laughter, the rollicking sounds of children running wild through Hannibal Cobb’s Kansas City Carnival. He could see the sign swaying gently in the breeze, beckoning him forward, the Ferris wheel spinning in the sky above him. Fun and games, music and laughter and Girls! Girls! Girls! It spoke to him, whatever was out there waiting in the night. ‘Come to me, Jackie,” it said. ‘I’m waiting for you. I’ve always been waiting. Come, Jackie, see what I can do!’
He could see it, just beyond the swirling twists of steam, the wide open arms of the carnival, which lay like a great and glorious beast before him: men and women strolling happily down the thoroughfare, children
skipping side by side with a host of sideshow performers: a juggler and a midget, a sandy-haired sword swallower dressed in a gold lamé outfit, who smiled and drew a saber from his throat as if pulling it from a leather sheath strapped to his side; painted women, scantily clad, some not clothed at all. There was a blonde, a perfect picture of the youth he so coveted. Long, flowing hair cascaded over her breasts, and those breasts were huge. He could feel them flattening against his chest as she embraced him. There was a scar on her cheek, a twinkle in her eye. A scar on her cheek, but he didn’t care. She was young and lithe, and his if he wanted her. He could see her face wavering in and out of the swirling veil of steam that lay before him. It was there and then it wasn’t, there and back again, and then gone, replaced by the leering face of a raven-haired beauty, dressed in a skimpy red outfit. Her eyes were green, her red lips heavily glossed. Her lips parted and she smiled. Then her mouth began to open, wider and wider… wider still, until before him in that swirling mist of steam was a garishly painted mouth as wide open as the maw of a roaring lion, and from that mouth a rush of gold coins began to fall. He could see them, sliding from her as if she were a human slot machine, tumbling end over end through the mist and clattering against his white porcelain sink. He stood there, watching a gleaming mound of yellow fill his bathroom sink as if it were a pirate’s chest.
Jack dropped the shaving cream to the floor—the razor quickly followed. He ran his hands into the sink, scooping up a heaping pile of coins and pouring them over his head, smiling as they dropped clattering against the tile. Behind him was the steady hiss of the spraying shower, the pitter-pat of water beating the floor. He scooped another pile, raised his hands and felt those emerald eyes seeking him out.
He looked into the mirror, and there she was, smiling, her green eyes sparkling as she said, “Come to me, Jackie. I’m waiting. I’ve always been waiting.”
Her face slowly faded from view, and Jack turned away from the mirror. Eyes glazed over, he walked to the door, twisted the handle and pulled the door open. He followed the steam out into the bedroom, to his closet, where he pulled out a white shirt, a pair of dark grey pants and a black Armani jacket. Out came a string tie, its ends looped through a sterling silver medallion. Jack’s initials were engraved upon that medallion, and once his clothes were on, his shirt and pants, socks and shoes, he slipped the tie over his upturned collar, and flattened the collar down. He stood for a moment fingering the medallion, before finally turning back to the bathroom. Those swirling twists of vapor— which moments ago had hung so heavy in the air around him—had now dissipated, leaving Jack an unfettered view into the room. No gold coins lay scattered about the tiled floor, just a razor and an overturned can of shaving cream.
But Jack barely noticed what did or did not lie on that floor.
He crossed the room and retrieved his belongings from the dresser, ran the comb through his hair, and then slid it into his inside jacket pocket. Then he was across the room and into the carpeted hallway, down the stairs and around the stairwell, heading into the dining room. The lights were off, supper was on the table. Two candles on opposite ends of the centerpiece provided the room with a soft, elegant glow.
Jack went into the kitchen.
Velma was standing by the fridge, holding a couple of long-stemmed wine glasses when Jack came through the entryway. She smiled when she saw him, but the smile quickly disappeared. “Where are you going?” she said, while her husband walked by her as if she wasn’t even there. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a beer and slammed the door shut, twisted the cap off his beer, turned back to Velma, and said, “Out.”
“Out?” she said. “Out where?” Those soft blue eyes, which a short while ago had been sparkling with anticipation, now had fiery embers sparking within them.
Jack took a drink, leaned back against the counter and set his beer on it. There was music in the air, chuckled laughter and whispered moans. They’re waiting, he thought, as Velma said, “Out, huh? I know what you’re going out to, you son of a bitch, and what’s wrong with your goddamn eyes? You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing, you and your whore—your little blonde whore! I’m not going through this shit again with you, YOU WORTHLESS FUCKING LOSER!”
She flung the glasses and Jack sidestepped them.
Fingers grasping and clawing, she lunged.
She scratched him and his hand came forward. There was a butcher knife in his fist, blood spurting across its handle. He didn’t remember picking the knife up, didn’t even remember seeing it. But there it was plunging deep into Velma, who sucked in a shocked breath as the knife ripped a wide gash up her abdomen.
“Jack,” she gasped, blood pumping from her wound as the knife twisted, and her husband stared down with eyes as cold and dead as a shark’s. She slipped sideways to the floor, her bloodied hands clutching desperately at his pants leg. Then she flopped over on her back, and lay there moaning, those soft blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, past the ceiling to God only knew where.
Jack stood for a moment, eyes fixed on the blood-stained knife in his hand. He dropped the knife and picked up his beer. Then he turned and walked away, leaving his wife gasping for breath in the middle of an ever-expanding pool of crimson.
There was blood on his hands, blood on his pants and shoes, on his crisp white shirt and his black Armani jacket. But Jack didn’t care.
Because something happened today, something weird and wild and wonderful.
And something better would be happening tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
She dropped Sheila McCrea by her house, and then went home herself. Tricia didn’t like being alone in the house because it reminded her of all the things Rick Reardon had put her through. The name calling, the knock down drag out fights; all those nights spent sitting around waiting for him to haul his sorry ass through the door. There’d been plenty of those, all right—too many of them. But as much as she disliked being there by herself, she could barely tolerate spending her nights with Mickey. She loved her son—of that there could be no doubt. But, sadly, and inevitably, the questions would come, questions she couldn’t answer. And along with those endless inquiries would be downtrodden, forlorn looks that she just couldn’t handle, followed by angry, accusatorial pronouncements she really didn’t care to hear. As far as Mickey was concerned, it was her fault his father had left home. She didn’t treat him right, had never treated him right. She didn’t understand him, didn’t know how to make him happy. Night after night this had gone on, until Tricia, unable to cope with her son’s unhappiness, soon found herself driven away from her own home, oddly enough, mimicking the very behavior which had so enraged her. The female equivalent of her husband, making her son’s life a living nightmare by doing everything within her power to stay away from him.
But as hurtful as her son’s comments had been, as despondent and morose as he may have seemed—which was what really was keeping her away from him: the sad and lonely face, the downcast eyes and down-turned mouth that threatened to rip the heart right out of her chest—Tricia thought she might just have to stay here with him tonight. Something happened this afternoon, something strange, and she didn’t think she wanted any part of it. Jack Everett and his male counterparts filing out into the street had been a curious sight—comical, even. But there wasn’t anything funny about that oddly-formed cloud. The way it hung stationary in the sky, while all around it an array of its fluffy white counterparts rolled slowly along the horizon. Almost as if it had been painted on the sky—sewn into it. Whatever it was, it had affected Jack and the rest of them in a very strange way.
Tricia had felt something herself, standing out on the sidewalk this afternoon. A bizarre arresting feeling, that old ‘you’ve done something wrong and now you’re gonna get it’ vibe she’d experienced from time to time throughout her years: the reprimanding note on her sixth grade report card; the time she was caught slipping back in through her bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning; the stro
bing bubble lights in the rearview mirror; the disheartening call in the middle of the night when Tricia’s father passed away. The slow, sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach when you know something just isn’t right. That was how she’d felt this afternoon.
And she wasn’t the only one. Sheila McCrea, Liz Fennel and Becka Turner, they’d felt it. Ziggy Bowers, too. They’d all felt that sinking sensation down in the pits of their stomachs, as the crowd began to dissipate but the cloud remained motionless in the sky above them. And later, inside the Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill, trying to hold a rational discussion with those few men who had wandered back into the place. The blank and uncomprehending looks given to Tricia and her friends as they gathered around, trying to glean a single solitary shred of information from those guys, yet getting nothing from them but cold blank stares.
Yep, Liz Fennel’s idea of going straight home and not coming out ‘til daybreak seemed to be quite the words of wisdom, and Tricia was keen to incorporate those words into her evening’s plans as well. So, after dropping off Sheila McCrea, that was exactly what she did. She went straight home, closed her door and locked it, and hoped like hell that cloud would be gone when she poked her head outside in the morning.
It wouldn’t be so bad. After all, Justin Henry was sleeping over tonight, and having Justin around would keep Mickey occupied. Keep his mind off his absentee father, at least for one night. They could play cards, Justin and Mickey—Monopoly or something, and maybe, just maybe, for one blessed evening, there would be peace and goodwill beneath the roof of Tricia Reardon’s house.
Sideshow Page 9
