On one of those long bridges, an older truck throws one of the bolts keeping the starter in place. The engine of the Gran Torino ticks as it cools while we wait for word on how we’ll proceed. None of us say anything. Marcel hasn’t said a word since the accident; guilt has swept away all his charm and audacity, leaving him unsure and quiet. And Emma simply stares out the window, her fingers clumsily laced with mine on the seat between us, unable or unwilling to find anything to talk about. After a few moments, Lars bangs on the window.
“Leslie insists that we press on and send a tow for our stranded truck,” he says. “Get ready to move out.” I start the car and it rumbles to life immediately. Emma opens her mouth as though to say something, but closes it before a word can slip through. But I feel as though I know what she wants to say. Another downed vehicle. Another “accident.” The stranded truck sits in my rearview as we drive away, a bleak reminder of how time is running out.
We have to make camp at a rest stop while we secure permits and a location. Everyone mills about, aimless with no tents to pitch or acts to practice. While some people seemed to be supportive after Emma’s talk last night, things are different in the light of day. I don’t know if people have had time to let things sink in or if the Moretti brothers have been running their mouths, but it feels like there are more suspicious glances thrown our way, more barely audible mutterings.
If Emma notices, she doesn’t let it show that it bothers her. She simply gives me a peck on the cheek—a ghost of a touch—before perching on the steps of her wagon with one of Mrs. Potter’s true-crime paperbacks. I run off to tend to a few things—getting Marcel back to his trailer, checking in with Sidney to see if Mom is at least talking to him (she’s not). When I’m done, I find Emma still sitting on the steps, paperback abandoned, her eyes closed and chin tipped up to let the breeze skip over her face. It’s hard to ignore the enormity of what we’re doing, and I take a moment to watch her.
I don’t know what this muggy, damp air feels like to her. For me, the night air clings to me heavily, like a wet towel draped across my shoulders. It wants me to know it’s there, to acknowledge it. But I know that whatever I’m feeling, she’s only feeling a fraction of it. The thought spurs me on.
“Ready?” I ask.
She opens her eyes slowly, languidly. “Ready.”
“The first sign that we’re getting too far away, we’ll turn back, okay?” If there is one thing I hope to never again see in my life, it’s Emma paralyzed by the curse.
She doesn’t seem to share my fear. “Let’s go.”
According to the map we have, the twins’ grandmother lives just down the road, barely more than a quarter of a mile away. Considering the carnival sometimes spreads out over an area that big, we should be okay. I’m still leery.
I’ve opened the passenger door for her—the handle sticks and it has to be done just so—and am about to get in on the driver’s side when Pia and Duncan clamber into the backseat. “Let’s go break this curse!” Duncan yells.
I freeze. The twins weren’t supposed to know that we mean to break the curse. And while I don’t think they’d try to stop us, I still don’t know how anyone feels about losing the protection of the carnival. So as I sit behind the wheel, I turn to face them. “Um, I guess one of you had a vision about us?”
Pia raises her hand. Her smile is part guilty, part gleeful, as though she can’t believe she had the vision herself.
“This going to be a problem?” Emma asks.
“Come on,” Duncan says with a magnificent specimen of eye roll. “Do you really think we’d be here if we weren’t okay with your plan? Besides. If you pull this off we’ll have time with Grandmama to learn the family business. So I’m coming with.”
“Me, too,” Pia says. Her round cheeks are flushed and her eyes glimmer from beneath her perfect brows.
I glance at Emma, who just smiles a small smile and shrugs.
“I hope Grandmama baked sandies,” Duncan says.
“I would eat gum scraped off the underside of the picnic tables for one of her sandies,” Pia says. In the rearview, her eyes have closed and a soft, dreamy smile spreads her lips.
“I’d muck Spots McGee’s stall for a month,” Duncan says.
“I’d clean the fat traps.”
“I’d kiss a Moretti.”
“Gross,” Pia says. “You win.”
“You two are insane!” Emma says. The wind from the open windows makes her hair flutter around her face like a dark halo, and laughter lights up her eyes. She’s stunning, and I have to force my eyes back to the road.
As we get closer, Duncan leans in between the front seats to direct me. A quick turn off the main road nearly hidden by overgrown brush, and there the house sits at the end of a one-lane road, a white beacon shining between columns of massive oaks dripping with Spanish moss. All the windows glow golden on the first floor and are black fathomless holes on the second. The house is intimidating, but as soon as the car stops, the twins are pushing my seat forward to clamber out of the car.
Emma and I follow a few paces behind. Without even knocking, Duncan opens the door and yells into the house. “Grandmama, we’re here!” He disappears into the first room off the entryway, Pia right behind him. The entryway alone is amazing. It’s open to the second floor and a polished staircase swoops off to the side right in front of us. A chandelier with more than a few cobwebs draped among the glistening crystals gives the room a dusky glow. Oil paintings of soft, round-cheeked women who bear more than a passing resemblance to Pia sit in gilt frames that catch the light. The kitchen must be nearby, because the scents of cloves and apples are heavy. There’s a mirror off to the side, and I see Emma and myself standing around awkwardly, like children waiting to be reprimanded by a teacher. I tug Emma into the room the twins entered and find them talking the ear off an older lady who must be their grandmother.
I can’t quite tell her age. She wears a slip, yoga pants, and an old maroon smoking jacket. A collection of beaded necklaces in jet and jade and a deep yellow stone hang from her thin neck. I’m not sure if her crazy clothing choices make her seem slightly mad or very charming. Her hair is white and wispy, like strands of colorless cotton candy, and it floats long and loose down her back. Her light brown skin seems papery but is unlined except for a few creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her eyes are the palest shade of gray I’ve ever seen.
“How are things, darlings? Was the carnival able to find grounds?” she asks, ignoring us again in favor of her grandchildren.
“No,” Pia says, delivering the bad news in a cheerful voice. I’m hoping that the happiness is just because she’s there with her grandmother and not because of the poor luck we’re having. “We had to park in some camping grounds down the road. Leslie is pissed.”
The old woman pushes Pia’s curls out of her eyes in a sweetly doting kind of way.