The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Losses will be borne. Death rising from below. Barrenness. Empty fields. There will be no children.”


The tent begins to hum as gooseflesh rises to meet air. The girls squirm in their seats. One shivers. A flurry of silk streaks across the table as Enola grabs one of the girl’s wrists.

“All around you those you love will wither. Mother, father, and down the line.” Her words spill and Doyle pops up from his chair, cracking like a spark as he latches on to Enola, shaking her. She continues, “Your name dies with you and will never pass another’s lips. For you it is as water cuts stone, you will wear until nothing is left.” Doyle squeezes her shoulder but she is gone.

As water cuts stone.

The dark-haired girl tugs her friend’s wrist from Enola’s grasp. A tic in the neck, sand leaking from a bag and Enola folds in, her face so white as to be clear. Enola again, but less. Her eyes flick to my hiding spot, our gazes lock, and it chokes.

“Wrong card,” she says. The accent is back. “Happens sometimes. Many spirits walk these grounds.” She pats her scarf, tucks in an escaped hair, and then glares at me. “Get out.”

I snap the drape closed, a deep pain sprouting in the middle of my skull.

Doyle sticks his head outside. Peering from the tent he looks like a mounted trophy. He laughs, nervous and conspiratorial. “Bro, you gotta give it some space, man.”

“Huh?”

“You’re showing up in the cards. You’re too close. Give her like—” He pauses. “Yeah, like, five minutes.”

“I’m good here.”

“No, dude,” he says with a slow twist of his head. “You are seriously not good here. I’ve got it covered.”

“I’m her brother. Let me—”

“That’s my point; you’re too close. You’re making stuff murky.” He scrunches his face up. “Let her ramp it down, okay?” His hand comes through the curtain. He pats me on the shoulder. “Go see Thom. We told him about you and he wants to talk to you. Seriously, go. Give us five, ten minutes. Okay? He’s in the big RV with the birds on the side.” His hand disappears and reemerges holding several crumpled dollars. He pushes the money into my palm and gives me a soft shove back. “Get food.”

As I hobble away he asks what happened to my foot. “Pothole,” I reply.

“Hey,” he calls. “If you swing your right arm wider it’ll help keep the weight off your ankle, yeah? Diagonals, man. Think diagonals.” I don’t want to, but as I walk toward the smell of fried dough I find that I’m swinging my arm wider.

Enola’s face was wrong when she looked at me. The way her head snapped back, there was no control, no lie, just that voice. Something’s very wrong. Drowning wrong. I need to talk to her, and maybe I do need to talk to Thom Rose.

*

The RV is, as Doyle said, past the rides on the back of the lot, huge and plastered with white silhouettes of ducks in flight. I lean against it, taking weight off my foot, and knock. A tiny bald man answers. He wears a checked shirt, shorts, and sandals. Deep wrinkles line his mouth. His eyes are framed by squint marks from a lifetime of driving into the sun. I don’t know what I expected a carnival owner to look like, but he looks like someone’s uncle.

“Are you Thom Rose?”

“Who wants to know?” His eyes narrow, and it looks as if I’m about to have a door slammed in my face. Then he grins suddenly and flings the door open. “You’re Simon Watson, aren’t you? Anybody ever tell you that you look just like your sister?”

The camper is filled with books and papers, what looks like piles of receipts and bills, an unmade bed, and a small kitchen that is surprisingly spotless. “Sit, sit,” he says, pointing to a chair by a table that folds out from a wall. “Enola says you’re looking for work.”

Am I looking for work? Library work, but work. “Yeah, I am.”

“She says you’re a swimmer.” He opens a can of soda, pours himself a glass and offers me one. “Talked you up a lot. Said you can hold your breath for ten minutes.”

“Give or take.”

He drinks his soda for a while, contemplating. A yellowed finger taps at the table as if searching for something, a pencil, a cigarette. “It’s been a while since we’ve had any good athletics, but a breath-holder, a swimmer, that’s a hard sell for a man. Not saying we can’t do it, but it’s always been a woman. Mermaids. Put a cute girl in a small bathing suit, lots of long hair, a little peek here and there.”

“I know.” My mother was a carnival striptease. “Enola thought you’d be interested, but I told her I didn’t think it would work out.”

“Oh, no. I am interested. It’ll just take me a minute to figure out. Your sister’s a good kid. If she’s happier having you around and it doesn’t cost me anything, I don’t see why not. It’s been a real long time since I’ve seen a swimmer. There are those Weeki Wachee girls down in Florida, but they’re not the same. You don’t need an air tube, do you?”