“Yeah,” Duncan says, grabbing Pia’s hand, which still holds mine. “Like, this older woman. Is she hot? Does she have a silver-fox brother or son or whatnot for me to ogle? More info, Pia!”
Pia drops my hand like it’s a slimy fish and pivots on her heel to face her brother. “The portents tell me what they tell me. They’re not your otherworldly dating service. Oh! But they did tell me to give you this.” She reaches into her jeans pocket, and when she pulls her hand out, her middle finger is extended.
“Jerk,” Duncan says, rolling his eyes.
“Tramp!” Pia counters.
“Prude!”
“Oh, I’ll prude you!” Pia jumps up, hooking her arm around Duncan’s neck and putting him in a headlock. But Duncan digs his fingers into her side, tickling her until she dissolves into a fit of giggles.
“Um, hello?” A man holding a dripping ice cream cone enters the tent, glancing around as if he’s not sure he should be here. “Are you open?”
The twins straighten and immediately go serious. “Of course,” Pia says, her voice about two octaves lower than normal. “Please take a seat.”
I have to stifle a laugh at Pia’s faux-serious voice before I ruin her chances of making any money, and take Emma’s hand as we duck out of the tent. I lead Emma through the neat rows of the carnival. We see Leslie in her ringmaster’s garb, looking like a completely different person when covered in sequins and makeup. Her blond curls glow in the spotlight, and heeled boots add a couple of inches to her diminutive frame. The tumblers—Fabrizio with a small square of bright white gauze taped to his cheek—form a pillar three people high, beckoning onlookers into their tent for the next show. A circle of patrons gathers around one of the fire-eaters, who sends plumes of flame into the black sky.
Emma is entranced, her gaze darting this way and that. She asks questions about everything, wanting any detail I can give her, no matter how big or small.
“It must have been so much fun growing up here,” she says.
I shrug. “Well, I wasn’t always here. Mom and I lived in Virginia for a while. Before Dad died.”
Emma’s cool fingers tighten around mine. “I’m sorry you lost your dad so early. Do you remember him?”
My gaze tracks upward, past the crowds and the rides until I find a patch of clear sky. I do remember my dad, but… “Sort of,” I say finally. “I remember how loud his laugh was and how he liked to tell corny jokes. We had a little house at the end of a cul-de-sac, and the moment he got home from work, he filled the place up until it seemed twice as big. And Mom was always so much more…content when he was around. So I miss him, but I miss more than just him, you know?”
At some point as we’ve been walking along, Emma’s pressed herself as close to me as possible, our arms touching from shoulder to wrist. And even though the cold from her skin seeps into mine, raising goose bumps, it’s nice. Comforting.
“Oh, I think I know a little about missing someone.”
Immediately I feel like an ass. “Shit! I’m so sorry, Emma, I—”
“No!” she says, laughing a little. “I mean, yes, I do miss my family. But I was only in Claremore because my mom is on a research trip, and she left my brothers and me with our dad. And I love them, but my mom was the one who understood me, who talked to me in what felt like our own language. She took me to museums and let me use her employee ID card at the library on campus to check out their books on art history. I want that back. I want her back.”
I can hear the longing when she talks about her mom, the way knowing their separation isn’t permanent doesn’t make it hurt less.
And I get it.
Because it’s about missing the person but also how that person made you feel. And I think I’m so desperate to leave the carnival so I can find a place to make my own, to make a home that feels like our little house did when my dad was there.
But in the meantime, I have this. I have sugar-scented air and wide-open skies. I have noises that blend together with the chatter of hundreds of people making a song like no other. I have the hand of a girl who fascinates me securely in my own. With Emma by my side, I can actually see the carnival for the thing of wonder that it is…
And it’s beautiful.
For one brief moment, I doubt my need to get out of here.
But I know Mrs. Potter must be missing her dog, so I guide Emma through the alleyways among tents and booths until we’re at Mrs. Potter’s blue-and-gold striped tent. Mrs. Potter is between shows, calling for Toffrey from the entrance to her tent. When we hand him over, I’m not sure who’s happier—Mrs. Potter for the return of her favorite dog or Toffrey for the stream of treats.
Mrs. Potter insists that we stay for the show, so we find a seat in the front row. I’ll just have to catch Marcel’s new act another time.
The bright chatter in the tent dies out as a white-hot spotlight illuminates the small ring. Mrs. Potter, her purple hair electric, wears a vintage silk gown in a teal color that soaks up the light. Her rat-tat-tat patter fills the tent.
“Guys and dolls, boys and girls, ladies and germs!” Silk swishes in vibrant flashes as Mrs. Potter sweeps her arms open in greeting. “Welcome! I hope you are ready for this evening’s delights!”
At the word “delights” Toffrey runs out from backstage, tent flaps whipping open as he passes through. He sprints up a ramp, snatches a treat from Mrs. Potter’s hand, and darts backstage once again. Delighted giggles erupt from the children and more than a few adults, but Mrs. Potter continues without pause.
“My dogs will perform feats of wonder!” Three tan-colored dachshunds run from beneath the seats to the left of the ring, their stumpy legs pumping furiously as they speed up the ramps leading to the platform behind Mrs. Potter. One dog allows the second to climb up her back, and then the third clambers on top of them both. The dogs balance there patiently, staying in position even after they get their treats.
“My dogs will perform heart-stopping stunts!” The giant standard poodle runs into the ring, her slim body flowing between the lit torches circling the perimeter of the stage, not even sending one swaying.
“And by the end of the night,” Mrs. Potter says, her lips curving into a sly smile, “you’ll have quite a story to tell at work on Monday.” The rest of the dogs scamper out, and for the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Potter’s dogs live up to every one of her promises.
Toffrey is clearly the star of the show, and there’s a recurring gag where Mrs. Potter pretends to not notice Toffrey stealing treats out of the pouch at her hip. I’ve seen this act a hundred times, but it still makes me smile.