Carousel Sun (28 page)
Authors: Sharon Lee
Artie blew air noisily, like a horse kept waiting too long.
“Somethin’ come in—a long time ago, okay, Kate?—and I’m sayin’
it come in
, just . . . it wasn’t what your gran wanted it to be.” He waggled the papers he still held, and shook his head.
“Packet a lot like this. No passport, not them days, nor Social Security, neither. Birth record, that was there. And so was the death certificate. Your gran, she was mad, and considering how it happened, I couldn’t blame her. She blamed me, though. Said I’d done it a’purpose, when it wasn’t, and it never is—which she knew, but she chose to forget.”
That rang true—rang like a bell, from the land and up all the bones in my body.
I extended my hand and took the little packet of papers.
“I’ll take them up to Mother,” I said, gently. “Thanks for bringing them right away, Artie.”
He swallowed, and nodded.
“No problem. And, listen, you wanna lose that rooster . . .”
“I’m having a horse carved,” I told him, still keeping my voice soft. “Why don’t I give you a call when that’s delivered and you can come down and collect the rooster?”
“Sure. Sure, I can do that.” He grinned. “Give you a refund, too. Half.”
“Half?”
“Well, you had use.”
“I made improvements.”
“Well . . . I’ll tell you what. You get that new horse all delivered and set up, and we’ll dicker serious when I come down to get the rooster. Deal?”
“Deal,” I acknowledged, feeling the rough vinyl of the passport’s cover against my fingertips. Artie stood there like he didn’t know quite what to do, so I gave him a hint.
“I gotta finish closing up, here,” I said. “Then I’ll walk this up to my mother.”
“Right,” he said, and pulled the brim of his hat down a bit. “Right. See you ’round, Kate.”
“See you around, Artie,” I answered, and watched as he crossed to the door, paused, then stepped through muttering, “Thanks.”
Half a second later, Borgan stepped through the door, using his chin to point at what I guessed was Artie’s retreating back.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said, slipping my mother’s paperwork into the back pocket of my jeans. “He came down to deliver something for Mother. Thought he’d upset Gran, if he went to the Wood, himself.”
“Good thinking,” Borgan said.
“In fact, it was. But it did set me back a little on shutting down. You mind waiting—and then walking up Heath Hill with me?”
“Pretty night for a walk,” he said. “Lots of stars. Anything I can do?”
“Wait right there,” I said. “Won’t be a sec.”
“Wouldn’t know anything about a big magical light show earlier in the day, would you?” Borgan asked, as we strolled, hand-in-hand, down West Grand toward Heath Hill.
“Now that you mention it, I was the cause of a fairly impressive explosion this afternoon, down Goosefare Brook,” I admitted, and looked up at the side of his face, glowing in the starlight. “I didn’t break anything, did I?”
“Nothing I know about. Was bright, though. And noisy. Mind telling me about it?”
I obliged him as we walked, and by the time we were going up the side of the hill, he was in possession of all the pertinent facts.
“It more or less worked like I thought it would,” I said, as we gained the top of the hill. “But I underestimated the amount of energy that would be released.”
Borgan cleared his throat.
“You could’ve asked me for help, if Ozali Belignatious was busy,” he said mildly.
“I would’ve asked Mr. Ignat’, if it turned out I couldn’t handle it,” I assured him. “But I thought I should try it myself, first, since protecting the land is pretty much my job.”
I heard a small intake of breath, as if Borgan was about to say something—and then nothing, as if he’d thought better of it.
We were under the edge of the Wood now. I stopped, Borgan right beside me. Uphill, Joe Nemeier’s overgrown “cottage” had every window aglow. The man must be throwing a party.
I turned my face to the Wood, Borgan’s hand warm in mine, and spoke, quietly. “Mother?”
A small breeze disturbed the branches directly overhead, and I thought I heard my voice, repeating against the leaves.
“Just bear in mind,” Borgan said softly, “there’s those you can ask for help. Sometimes, it’s . . . prudent to call in help
before
you try it yourself.”
I thought about that; remembered the broken and glassed-over rock.
“How much of a disaster did I make today?”
“Today,” Borgan said seriously, “you were lucky.”
I was still digesting that when the shadows between the tree trunks parted, and Mother was with us. She was wearing the sleeveless green shift, her legs and feet bare; light brown curls were tangled on her shoulders and her eyes seemed heavy.
“Katie—Borgan! How nice of you to visit.” She sounded genuinely pleased, if slightly sleepy.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said, reaching around to my back pocket. “Artie said this had just come in. He was eager for you to have it quick.”
She took the folder and attendant papers from me, and stood holding them in her hand.
“I’m told there’s a Social Security card, driver’s license, birth certificate and passport in there,” I said. “Nothing else. Artie was extremely clear on the point.”
I saw her shoulders lose some tension and she breathed a laugh.
“Poor Artie. As if it was his fault.”
“Told me he’d delivered a death certificate with the packet once,” I said. “What happened?”
“Mostly that,” Mother said. “The certificate had a date on it and a cause—
Act of God
. We all—Mother, Aunt Alba, and I—we thought it was a joke. She was young, and healthy, after all. There was no reason she and her tree couldn’t stand for another hundred—two hundred—years.”
“What happened?” I asked again, when she didn’t go on.
“What happened?” Mother shook her head. “There was a storm. Her tree was hit by lightning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Thursday, June 22
High Tide 9:21
P.M.
Sunset 8:26
P.M.
EDT
Five tables had been pushed together in the middle of Bob’s main room. Two coffeepots, cream, sugar, and two plates of muffins were set out. Each attendee was nursing a mug; a couple had heard the siren song of the blueberry muffins and were happily indulging.
The Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve Fun Country subcommittee meeting had ten members in attendance: Henry and Bob, and eight Fun Country folk. The rest, Jess said, had other commitments.
“Except Doris Vannerhoff, who says that we’re all cracked in the head if we expect Management to go against its own interest, and if any of us had an ounce of gumption, we’d go down Florida in the winter, like she does, and do some work for a change.”
Jess frowned down at the paper lying on the table in front of her, possibly reading over a note, nodded, and looked ’round at us.
“That’s it. I made her say it out slow for me, so I could take it down and be sure to get it right.”
Millie laughed.
Brand shook his head dolefully. “One thing about Doris,” he said, “she’s got such a retirin’ nature, you can never be sure where she stands.”
That
made the whole table laugh.
“Scrambler’s Dunlap says he’s in,” Jess continued, after the general merriment had died down. “Says keep ’im posted and tell ’im what to do when. Broken ankle’s slowing ’im down, ’swhy he’s not here tonight.”
She looked around the table again.
“Why we’re here, is to figure out how to get Management on board with a longer Season. One thing I thought we should point out right up front is Ka-Pow!’s serious about staying open through the end of October. If Fun Country closes Labor Day night, any money that comes rolling down Archer Avenue after that will go right into the arcade.”
“Management’ll just say that a hundred percent of nothin’s still nothin’,” Millie said.
“The Super Early Season gives us leverage,” said Sylvia Laliberte, the fortune-teller.
“Well,
we
think that,” Brand said. “No telling what Management will think. Or say.”
“Knowing Marilyn,” said Donnie Atkins, owner-operator of the Galaxi, “what she’s most likely to say is that the Chamber arranged for the Super Early Season, and that it was a one-off, because they won that contest.” He took half a muffin in a bite, raised his coffee mug and looked around at us.
Apparently he was not reassured by what he saw, because he had a swallow of coffee and expanded.
“Chamber’s official, see? We’re just . . . carnies. Got no standing.”
“Speaking to that point,” Henry said, “I have, as instructed by our chairwoman during Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve’s first meeting, spoken with Mr. Poirier of the Chamber concerning the committee’s existence and what it hopes to accomplish. Mr. Poirier believes that the Super Early Season has given us evidence that the Season can begin weeks earlier, with profit to all concerned. He’s very interested in gathering similar evidence for the end of the Season. While he stopped short of promising our committee Chamber resources, I think that he could very easily be persuaded to lend his support”—a nod to Donnie—“and standing to the committee in talks with Fun Country management.”
“So,” Jess said, “we start talking with Marilyn, and if she stalls, like Millie thinks she will—well, like we all think she will—then we’ll ask Mr. Poirier to step ’round and have a word?”
“Depending on
how
Marilyn stalls,” I said, “Dan Poirier’s in a much stronger place to pick up the phone and put a call through to the New Jersey office.”
“Oh!” Jess blinked, then smiled. “All right. Thank you, Henry. Good work.”
“My pleasure,” Henry said gallantly.
“So, number one talking point is the Super Early Season,” Jess said, and made a tick mark on her pad.
She looked up. “How many weeks longer should we go this year?”
“Six,” Brand said decisively.
“Six full weeks?” Donnie shook his head. “They won’t go there.”
“One full week and five Late Season weeks,” said Anna, who was sitting next to Tony at the far end of the tables. “To match the five weeks of Early Season plus the Super Early Season.”
“That seems fair,” Millie said.
“Symmetrical,” I said, because Jess looked at me like she expected pearls to fall from my lips.
Jess smiled. “That’s good. And it plays into Mr. Poirier’s evidence gathering. The only way it’s a fair test is if we try it for the same amount of time.”
She made a note on her pad, nodding slightly.
“Last question. I think.” She smiled around the table. “How do we approach Marilyn? If we all go into her office together, that’s gonna look threatening. And if we just pick somebody to be spokesperson, then how does Marilyn know it’s not just one of us gone off our head and sayin’ stuff?”
“We take a letter around to everybody, and ask them to sign it,” Sylvia Laliberte said. She glanced up and down the table. “
If
there’s more than eight of us who agree that extending the Season has to be tried.”
“I talked to everybody,” Jess said, turning toward her. “Why we’re so thin here tonight is because it’s full Season and folks don’t have time or patience to come to a meeting after working all day. Everybody I talked to was interested in trying for a longer Season. Well. Except Doris.”
“There’s something,” Brand said. “Doris goes south the second the park closes for the Season. She’s not going to want to stay up here six weeks longer for weekend pay.”
“Flume’s not a Name Ride,” Donnie pointed out.
“I don’t like that,” Millie objected. “If the park’s open, then it ought to be with everybody up and running. Doris is the only one of the operators goes away; the rest of us are local. Might be able to get somebody else to keep the flume open.”
“
You
try to get Doris to agree to that, and let me know how it works out,” Donnie said sourly.
“Now, you can never tell about September,” Brand commented. “Sometimes, it’s chilly. The flume don’t draw much, cold days.”
“There’s that,” Millie said thoughtfully, and shrugged, looking over to Jess. “Just let Doris shut it down, then, I guess. But most of us ought to be open.”
“That’s where the letter does double duty,” said Sylvia. “We take turns hand-carrying it to folks, and explaining what the committee is and what we’re trying to accomplish, and reminding them of the Super Early Season.” She looked around the table, a little militantly, I thought.
“If we can’t sell
ourselves
on this idea,” she said, “how are we going to sell it to Marilyn?”
I was starting to be pretty impressed with Sylvia Laliberte. I’d known who she was, in the general way that people who work in the same place, but whose paths rarely cross, know each other. It was good to find out that she had a hard edge of practicality to her.
Jess, however, was looking troubled. “That leads to another question,” she said, apologetically. “Who’s gonna write this letter?”
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table. I saw Henry’s eyebrow twitch, but he didn’t say anything. He was probably waiting for Jess to think of him herself, which she wouldn’t, not being much used to the ways of lawyers.
I cleared my throat.
“As the group’s attorney,” I said, “Henry could draft a letter and run it past you.” I paused, then thought,
what the hell
. “I’d be glad to look a letter over, too, if you think that would be useful.”
Jess’ face cleared. “That would be great.”
“Then it will be done,” Henry said. “I’ll bring a draft around on Monday, if that will do?”
“Fast,” Jess said, giving him another smile.
“We have to act fast,” said Sylvia Laliberte, “if we want to get
this
Season extended.”
“That’s right,” Donnie said, wolfing down another muffin. “Gotta move while Marilyn still remembers how much money the park made during the Super Early Season.”
Jess sat up straight, and looked around the table, meeting everybody’s eyes.
“Thank you all for coming, so late an’ after a full day. Bob—thank you for giving us a place to meet—and snacks, too! I’ll be back in touch, once Henry and Kate have the letter ironed out. For tonight, though . . .” She grinned, wryly.
“For tonight, I think we oughta call this meetin’ over, and go home to get some rest.”
“Second!” Brand called, getting to his feet with a clatter of the chair.
Henry and I stayed to put the tables back where they belonged, while Bob washed up, then let ourselves out onto Grand Avenue after calling our good-nights.
“Don’t know how we became coauthors on the letter,” I said, looking up at Henry, as I settled the handles of the canvas bag over my shoulder. “You know where to find me, if you need me.”
“I do, and I will welcome your input first, if you’ll indulge me, Kate. You’ve been around the world a little more than Jess has.”
“And seen lots of business letters, too,” I acknowledged with a grin. “Sure I’ll look at it first.”
“Excellent.” He smiled. “Good-night, Kate.”
“’Night, Henry,” I answered, and watched him cross Grand before I turned and walked up Dube Street, across the dunes, to the beach.
Last night, after the visit to Heath Hill, I’d taken Borgan to Daddy’s Dance Club.
“Hi, Daddy!” I said, as we slithered up to the bar. Tiny as it was, the place was packed with more gyrating bodies than I would’ve thought possible. The band was playing classic rock, because that’s what bands play in Archers Beach.
Daddy finished with the rum and coke he was putting together, skated it downbar to the man wearing a white silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, and caught the bill the guy tossed to him.
“Keep the change,” the guy said, and melted away into the crowd standing against the wall.
Daddy snorted, and finally looked my way.
“Hey, doll,” he said, with a half-smile to maybe show that he remembered me. His gaze moved past me, then, and up.
“Brought a friend, I see.”
“Told you I would,” I said. “Borgan this is Daddy; Daddy—Borgan.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Daddy said. “Something to drink?”
“Got Sea Dog?” asked Borgan.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Daddy asked.
So we got our ales, and drank them, tucked close together in the marked area, while we watched the dancing. When the ales were gone, we indulged in some dancing ourselves, until we slipped out into the cool night, and walked, hand-in-hand, down to the beach, to watch the stars.
When the breeze made star-watching too chilly, we walked up the beach to Dube Street, content with each other, and thoroughly in tune.
Or so I thought.
“G’night, Kate,” he said, when we got to my front door. He bent and kissed my forehead. “Sleep deep.”
That quick, he was gone, down the steps and over the dunes, bound, as I supposed, for
Gray Lady
.
So, maybe we hadn’t been as much in tune as I’d . . .
“Good evenin’, missus,” a high voice spoke at my knee, rousing me from my memory.
The Pier was now far behind me, and Googin Rock, too. I was approaching the notch at the base of Heath Hill.
It was . . . somewhat unusual to find heeterskyte here, though in theory you could find them anywhere at water’s edge. In reality, they tended to prefer the beach up toward Nerazi’s rock, which was less crowded with humans. I hoped nothing had gone wrong with the nests.
“Good evening to you, Heeterskyte,” I said, politely. “Please forgive my inattention. I have much to think on.”
“That’s all right,” said the heeterskyte. “Just a friendly word, deah: There’s some business goin’ on up north tonight, and us who’ve come down thisaway for a spell, so’s to give it a miss.”
I stared down into the bright beady eyes.
“What kind of business?”
“Man Business,” the heeterskyte returned, unconcerned. “Nothin’ to do with us or ours, ’ceptin’ to crowd the beach. Best you stay clear of it, too.”
“I thank you, Heeterskyte, for your care,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“That’s all right,” the heeterskyte said again, and darted away toward the notch.
I stood where I was and posed a question to the land.
At once there came before my mind’s eye Nerazi’s rock, the boundary marker between Archers Beach and Surfside. I saw three men at the stone, all wearing dark clothing. One had a gun in his hand, muzzle pointing at the sand; another was fiddling with his ear, fingertips following what must’ve been a wire down into his collar.
All three had the unmistakeable bearing of policemen—efficient and apparently happy in their work. My assumption was that they were observers, and backup, and that the real action was further upcoast, beyond the boundary, where I had no eyes or ears.
Thoughtfully, I moved on, ’round the base of Heath Hill, to the harbor.
The dock was empty. I could see
Gray Lady
at her mooring, deck light on, and felt a flash of disappointment—which immediately turned to self-mockery.
I’d said I’d stop by tonight after my meeting, but I hadn’t set a time, having no clue how long that meeting would run. And had I had the wit to call the man when the meeting was done and I was on my way? Not Kate Archer.
