The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“No, sir.” I could try it, maybe. Just for a little while, see what wandering feels like.

“Good. It’s better that way, cleaner lines. We could rework the dunk tank, maybe. That damned kid’s a pain in the ass anyway. Doesn’t matter if he’s a different kid, he’s always a pain in the ass.” He sucks on his teeth, then barrels on. “Best mermaid I ever saw was back when I was a kid. Gorgeous.” He sketches the outline of her with his hands. “A diver, too. You don’t dive, do you?”

I don’t know. Maybe, but no, at the moment I don’t dive. I tell him so.

“Shame. That’d be something,” he says. “She’d jump into this glass tank—no splash at all—and stay under so long you’d figure she’d either died or grown gills. White bathing suit, built like the prow of a ship.” He whistles. “My folks wouldn’t let me have pinups. Verona Bonn was better than a pinup.”

I hide my reaction. “I think I’ve heard of her. Any idea what happened to her?”

“Took up with a lion tamer, I think. Got pregnant. That’ll put a mermaid out of a job fast.”

Verona fell in love, had my mother, then drowned. Not so different from Mom, not so different from any of the other women. Each left a child behind, two in my mother’s case.

“This may sound strange, but Enola mentioned you let her see some of your log books? A little while back someone sent me a manuscript that I think belonged to a carnival. I’d love to have something to compare it to.”

Thom slides his chair back. His expression closes and he begins to play with an empty ashtray. “You don’t show that sort of thing to anyone who’s not family,” he says.

So, Enola is family. “Of course. I understand. No harm meant.” We resume a light conversation, discuss me taking on work until we can figure out an act. Ride jockeying, basic back breaking. I want to get back to Enola.

I am near the door when Thom says, “You aren’t by any chance Paulina Tennen’s kid, are you?”

I stop. “Why?”

“Ah, thought so. Your sister said her mom worked shows, but she wasn’t real specific. You and your sister, you look so much like her it’s uncanny. I ran across her a long time ago, back when my father was running things. I think she was working with a magician. She seemed real nice. Pretty, too. Hard to forget a face like that. You said somebody sent you a show book?”

I nod.

“That’s odd. Unless it’s got to do with your mom, one of her shows. Wasn’t Lareille, was it?” I shake my head. “Thought not. As far as I knew Michel was still chugging along.” He scratches his neck. “Any idea why they sent it to you?”

“He thought it might have belonged to a family member.”

He chews his lip, showing a tobacco-stained tooth. “Books stay with a show. If one’s just floating around out there loose, that most likely means a show went under.”

The water-stained pages lend his words an unintended accuracy. If the show fell victim to a flood it could explain the Koenigs’ disappearance as well. “It’s pretty old,” I say. “Filled with drawings. Lots of them of tarot cards.”

Thom Rose grins. “And let me guess. Your sister won’t tell you anything about ’em.”

I shove my hands deep into my pockets. “Exactly.”

He laughs drily. “Yeah, she’s tight-lipped. Sorry, but you’re shit out of luck with me. I don’t know much about cards except that your sister does ’em right. I like her. Keeping her happy keeps the Electric Boy happy, and that’s good for me. That kid’s a gold mine.” He opens the RV door and ushers me out. “Tell her I said I’ll figure out how to take you on.”

Limping back toward Enola I wonder what Thom would have said if I’d told him that Verona Bonn was my grandmother, that she and my mother both drowned. But tight-lipped runs in the family, among other things.

I’m about to go into Enola’s tent when the ponytail girls rush out. The crowd swallows them in a sea of patterned shirts and sunburns.

“What just happened?” I ask, lifting the tent flap.

Enola turns on me fast. “What the hell do you think you’re doing barging in on a reading? I don’t go to your work and fuck stuff up. Oh, wait. That’s right, you don’t have a job. And what happened to your leg?”

“Floor trouble.” I duck in. It’s sweltering, with a vague smell of clove cigarettes. Doyle is folded up lotus style on the ground by the table, a glowing lightbulb rolling around his hand. The only sign of his unease is a slight brow pinch, pulling the tentacle ends tight across his cheeks. Enola grabs a bag from under the table, shoves her hand in, and pulls out a zeppole, dripping with fat and sugar. She stuffs her mouth, chipmunking it.

Around half-chewed bites she asks, “I thought you weren’t coming. Why are you here?”

“You scared the hell out of those girls. And what’s with the accent?” I ask.