Gin screams. As the blade slips free, another gush of blood pours out of the opening, hot over my fingers, before I can press the fabric of my shirt to the wound. I help her to the ground, where she brings her knees to her chest, curling up around her pain.
I press on the wound and gently prod the back of her shoulder. A roll of nausea hits me when I find the exit wound. I wrap some of the shirt to the cut back there and try to position myself behind her, so that I can elevate her up onto my knees. Does it even matter trying to get the wound higher than her heart when it’s so close to her heart to begin with?
Everything is slick and salty and there’s a metallic bite to the air. There is so, so much blood. It creeps up the fibers of my shirt, making the blue a purple so dark it seems black, and the red a deep, rich crimson.
“I can’t move my arm, Benjamin.” There’s a tremor in Gin’s voice I’ve never heard before. “I can’t move my arm and—” Her eyes roll back in her head and her body goes limp.
“Gin?” Marcel asks, tapping at her cheek. “Gin!”
Happy barrels into the tent, in full greasepaint and oversize shoes. The world narrows down to him and me and Gin in our circle of white-hot light. Up this close I can see that his clown makeup looks like he’s just caked on tonight’s face over last night’s. Between his hard glare and the lights and the layers of paint he looks like a monster, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to trust my friend to his care.
“She fainted,” I say, the words tumbling out of me before I can register what I’m saying. “I didn’t know what to do, but I had to get her down.”
Happy’s only response is a primitive grunt. He peels back my balled-up shirt carefully to look at the gash marring Gin’s shoulder. The way the silver beads on her costume are stark, bright glints of light against the blood-soaked satin.
Without stopping his work or looking away from the wound, Happy says, “Call an ambulance. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emma
The entire carnival has gathered at the dining area surrounding the food booths, waiting for news of Gin. The tumblers lit a fire in one of the trash cans and they stand around it, warming their hands even though it can’t be that cold out. I’m barely twitching, so it really feels like this is a show on their part to let Leslie know how put out they are by this kind of, sort of family meeting.
Even though Ben has cleaned up and has on a new thick flannel shirt to replace the bloodied one, he can’t stop staring at his fingers. I think he’s checking for blood, but as I helped him wash his hands, I made sure to get every fleck out of each crease and joint of his fingers. His eyes are vacant, reliving the accident over and over. That’s when I notice the small spot of dried blood high on the lens of his glasses.
I slip his glasses off and rub the lens between layers of my jacket. That seems to be the only thing that gets his attention. “You had a smudge,” I tell him. He hates smudges, and he seems to buy it.
The wood of the picnic table we’re seated on creaks as Lars sits down beside us.
“Did Leslie give you an update?” I ask. The carnival had been cleared out with remarkable speed. Admissions were refunded and free souvenirs and trinkets were given out to those who had witnessed the worst. Thankfully for the carnival, we were getting close to the end of the evening when the incident occurred.
Lars grunts a noncommittal response. “He okay?”
Ben runs his fingers over the backs of his hands over and over. “I’m fine,” he says quietly.
Another grunt. “Well, Leslie should be back soon.” He glances at all of those assembled around us in quiet, shuffling ranks. “She wouldn’t have asked us to gather if she weren’t.”
As if on cue, a pair of headlights swoops over the grounds. Leslie clambers out of the truck, quickly followed by a dejected Marcel. Gin’s family has, of course, stayed with her at the hospital. Marcel drops down into the sliver of space next to Ben on the bench and folds up on himself like a bellows with all the air let out of it.
Leslie climbs up onto the picnic table in front of us in two fluid steps. The sight of their leader, still decked out in her gray velvet ringmaster’s coat and in her heavy stage makeup, makes every bit of chatter die out almost immediately.
She doesn’t speak until the only sound in the night is the breeze rushing through nearby trees. “By now, most of you have heard some version of what happened to Gin earlier tonight.” Leslie’s voice is cool water, clear and powerful. “For those of you who do not and for those of you foolish enough to have let the story get out of hand, here are the simple facts of it. Gin was helping Marcel with his act. His aim was off, and a knife hit her shoulder instead of its mark.”
Chatter sweeps over the grounds, like dead leaves over concrete. It’s a well-known fact that Marcel and his family are some of the best at what they do. His error is a fluke, as rare as a blue moon, and no one here will accept the word “accident” as an answer.
Leslie lets out a piercing whistle, and the crowd goes silent. However, this time, there’s anger and fear, disbelief and shock on their faces. I see Audrey hovering at the edge of the crowd, her eyes locked on her son. And I see the three tumblers behind Leslie, every last one of them staring at me, as though I’m to blame.
“That is the truth of what happened tonight.” Leslie looks as fierce as a general before her troops, standing in the mix of gold lights and flickering flames behind her. “There is, however, something I’ve been keeping from you.”
I look to Ben, my hand hunting for his. Is Leslie about to out us and our plans?
“Everyone knows we are held together by a charm and a curse. It’s a part of our lives. Recently, someone brought to my attention that the charm might be wearing off, and that’s why we are having so many accidents. Whiskey’s fall. All the car trouble. Gin’s accident.”
Marcel gives another small shudder at that, at the way Leslie has phrased things to make it seem like he’s off the hook.
“Regardless,” Leslie says, “it’s become too much to ignore.” She gazes over all of us huddled and hoping for answers. “I think it’s true.”
Yelling breaks the silence of the night as half a hundred different opinions and arguments are offered up. In the storm of voices, I catch flashes of my name like lightning. Leslie lets them talk, lets them think they’re getting their opinions out, and waits until something close to silence settles again. It doesn’t last long.