Voodoo Heart (26 page)

“I thought he was fucked up, man,” Orlando said, blowing on a coin. “Before he started they had to wipe the drool from his face.”

“You know, I don’t believe people with trauma to the brain really act like that,” I said, watching Orlando rub the coin dry with a piece of velvet. “They can’t just snap out of it. They’re not so aware of everything.”

“I don’t like these thoughts, my friend,” Orlando said, and tossed the coin to me. On it was a picture of a woodpecker nesting in a tree. I slipped the coin into its case, which read: “An aggressive species, the pileated woodpecker is known to take over nests already inhabited by other, larger birds that it scares off by means of its hysterical laugh-like call.”

“You were doing so well, too, Miller,” said Orlando. “The last few weeks you didn’t even mention the singer or her, the woman.”

“Pearl.”

“Where is this coming from all of a sudden? From that old man?”

“Nowhere. I’m fine. All I’m saying is that if Dick is faking, people have a right to know. You paid what, ten dollars to see him play dumb?”

“Do you remember,” Orlando said, holding out the next coin, “how embarrassing it was for you the last time you acted on these thoughts, my friend? These same thoughts?”

I grabbed the coin from him. My first week in Florida had been very hard. The day I’d arrived I discovered that Pearl had moved in with Dick—that she was living with him in his family’s farmhouse outside of town. On top of this, I learned from Pearl’s sister, Pat, that she was likely seeing Dick, too—that she might actually be involved with him.

“She’s got a new man in her life, is how she put it,” said Pat. “Game over.”

Even so, I made a big effort to win Pearl back during those first few days. I tried calling the farmhouse where Dick and Pearl were living. I even drove out to the property. No one would talk to me, though. Which was ridiculous. The least I deserved was some sort of apology. Because what Pearl had done wasn’t fair. You don’t just leave someone like that. No discussion, not even a warning shot. It wasn’t right. But I was drinking a lot that week, too, so when the Doyle people called the police on me, I wasn’t able to properly explain myself.

“Right,” said Orlando, nodding. He stared me in the eye while he polished the next coin. “You remember. Your face in the gazette. Everyone making fun of you. Calling you a stalker. And so on.”

He handed me the coin, which showed a picture of a golden warbler. “Let me tell you something, my friend,” he said. “This man, Dick—he is not faking anything. You understand? He is a sick person. You are wrong in your thinking about this.”

“You’re entitled to your beliefs,” I said.

“Well, I don’t want violence near this store, understand? Not on my property. No way,” he said. “If I get into trouble with the police because of you, Miller, then you will have something to worry about.”

Orlando had lived in the States for only a couple of years and he retained a stark fear of run-ins with the police. He still had family in Argentina he hoped to bring over, a sister and her children. He’d told me about his situation one night a few weeks before when we’d gone drinking together and I’d confessed to having come to Florida to win back Pearl.

“My life,” he’d said, tapping his wallet, “right here.” Then he’d opened the wallet to let a chain of photos accordion out. He told me their names one by one: his sister, Lisette; her sons and daughters, William, Cee-Cee, Barbara, and Vaca. Each had his or her own photo and they were all posed in front of the same patchy dirt yard, so that when he dangled the pictures in one line, it gave the illusion that his relatives were dolls, figurines stacked one on top of the other, biggest to smallest, on a series of plain brown shelves.

“Orlando, I promise, I’m not going to do anything to Dick,” I said. “I was just talking about him. I’m over it.”

“Let me ask you one last thing, then, if you are so over it,” he said. “Why haven’t you gone to the fair down on Orange Blossom?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, it has to do with everything, my friend. Before the fair opened, again and again you said you wanted to take Joan there. But now the fair is about to close and you still have not gone. Why is that, Miller?”

“Maybe I don’t feel like it. Maybe I’ve been busy here this week, with it being Dumpster Tuesday and everything.”

“Maybe you haven’t gone to the fair because this singer, this Dick is there, and you would not be able to control yourself when you saw him.”

“I’ll go this weekend. I’ll take Joan on Saturday.”

“No, see. I’m saying you should
not
go. I’m saying you should stay away. My point is that you yourself know you are not over Dick, as you say. You should listen to yourself more, Miller. Really listen.”

“Orlando, look,” I said, but Orlando made a hissing sound that meant shut up because we had a customer.

“We’ll talk later,” he said, waving me away.

I glanced up and saw a woman standing at the front door. Orlando inspected her through the gate. She wore a tracksuit and was carrying a small plastic bag full of gold chains. As soon as he buzzed her in she hurried over to the counter.

“Look what I got,” she said, laying the bag on the glass. “Score.” Dark sweat circles showed beneath her arms. Her fingers all had Band-Aids around the tips.

I got out the glass cleaner and went over to the jewelry case. I already knew how this would turn out, and I wasn’t in the mood to watch. She would tell Orlando what her boyfriend or husband had told her the chains were worth when he gave them to her—back before he left her, which he would have just done, left her for someone else or simply disappeared—and Orlando would get out the nitric acid and the touchstone and test the chains; and of course they’d turn out to be worth hardly anything. They’d end up being gold-plated, not gold-filled, or 10 karat, or maybe not even gold at all.

I took my time cleaning the case, careful to stay at the far end, letting my eyes drift over the jewelry—the racks of gold chains, the tie clips and money clips, the watches. I glanced at the ring I’d given Pearl; it was resting near the back of the row, on a small black prop. I leaned in closer. Every movement I made ignited a wild circuitry of light in the stone. Pearl hadn’t picked it out with me. There had been no deliberation. I’d bought the ring on impulse one day while I was on my lunch hour. I just went into the store and chose it—a standard, three-stone setting, platinum band—in less than half an hour. I had just felt like it was the right time. All my friends at work were married or getting married soon.

“Hey, Miller, look at this,” said Orlando, at my side now. The woman was on her way to the door. Apparently her business with us was done. Orlando laid a nameplate pendant on the counter.
Angie.

“It’s funny,” said Orlando. “That woman, Angie. She comes in here all the time. I bought this last nameplate for five dollars more than it’s worth. I feel sorry for her, you know? Always making the same mistake?”

“I’m going to the fair and I’m bringing Joan,” I said.

He shook his head, then took the box containing all the nameplates from beneath the jewelry case. “Do what you want, but like I said, I would stay away if I were you.”

“No. I planned on going, and I’m going to go.”

“Hey, it’s your life,” said Orlando, tossing
Angie
in with all the other names.

The Kwimper County Fair was not an impressive spectacle. This was clear from the moment Joan and I walked through the fairground’s turnstile. The striped booths lining the thoroughfare were old and shabby—tented roofs sagging, duct tape patching holes in the walls. The rides were all falling apart too; the Ferris wheel creaked and groaned. The maze of mirrors was so smeared and dirty that finding your way out looked easier than getting lost. The only parts of the fair that appeared even the least bit impressive were the dance floor and the stage.

The dance floor was enormous and circular, painted a deep midnight blue, with a net of lanterns strung above it. The stage was simply a rectangular area level to the ground at the far end of the dance floor, but all around it rose a high scaffolding of lights and speakers. Stacks of hay bales stood at either end of the stage, and behind it loomed a tall, red stage-prop barn with a banner over its open doors that read
BARN DANCE
!!! in Western lettering. No one was performing yet—technicians were still climbing the scaffolding, testing the lights, the sound system—but people had already started to gather nearby for the first act. Just staring at the spot where Dick would soon be performing, I felt a prickle of agitation.

I looked away from the dance floor and out at the parking lot. Teenagers were sitting on top of their cars, drinking out of paper bags, smoking. Two were lying entwined on top of the Silver Coach. They were kissing with their mouths gaping open, like they were blowing life into each other.

I yelled at them to get down.

“Don’t bother. They’re just kids,” said Joan. She took my hand and we meandered toward the rides. “You know, I recognized that name on the bill tonight,” she said after a while. “I know that’s the guy you had the whole fight with.”

“I didn’t fight with him. I—”

Joan squeezed my hand. “I just want you to know that you don’t have to prove anything to me, that’s all.”

“I’m not. I’m fine,” I said. We passed a giant canister that spun so fast the people inside stuck to its walls. Screams came whirling up from the bottom.

I kissed the top of Joan’s head. “Why should I not get to take my girlfriend to the fair just because Dick Doyle is playing there? He’s in the past.”

Joan put her head on my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to suggest anything,” she said. “I just got nervous when I saw his name. I don’t want you to have to deal with anything that’s going to make you upset.”

“Well, he isn’t going to make me upset,” I said. “I’m not going to think about him at all.”

“Promise?” she said.

“Promise,” I said.

Joan and I spent the rest of the day exploring the fair together. We rode the carousel. We went on the bumper cars, ramming into each other, teaming up against other drivers; the conductor rods at the back of our vehicles trailed sparks across the ceiling. For a snack we had steaming popcorn balls covered in caramel. And to my surprise, as we did these things, I felt my promise to Joan becoming true: I did start to forget about Dick. I forgot about Pearl, too.

I won a stuffed dog for Orlando, for him to send to his nieces and nephews. Joan popped a balloon with a dart and won a small mirror with gold stars painted around the border. We rode the Ferris wheel as the sun was sinking; the peak afforded a view of the whole landscape, the housing developments and citrus groves, the streetlights just starting to ignite.

Joan and I had dinner in the food tent, just to the side of the dance floor, so that we could listen to the bands as we ate. The first group was a Western swing ensemble, playing two-steps and country waltzes. Couples danced around the dark blue floor, spinning and dipping, sometimes stepping along side by side with their arms locked. Most of the dancers were old, and it made me feel good to be moving with them. They were still happy and in love after all these years, and even though Joan and I were two of the few young people on the floor, there was something oddly comforting about our synchronicity. The night air was cool, but the lanterns created little islands of heat to travel between. Joan felt perfect in my arms, and each time we navigated the shining blue floor I felt more sure that things would work out, not just between us, but in general. When the dance finally ended, I dipped Joan and gave her a long kiss.

“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice.

I felt my stomach drop. I looked up and there she was, right in front of me.

“I thought that was you,” said Pearl. The lantern light was in her eyes, making them sparkle blue. “I wasn’t sure if I should come over. But, I don’t know, I just wanted to say something to you—to you both, I guess. If that’s okay.”

I studied her face, the face I’d woken up beside for the past three years: the curve of her mouth, the faint mole beneath her eye. She was dressed in the style of that woman who introduced Dick onstage. She wore pink cowboy boots, a denim skirt with sleigh bells hanging off the hem. Her T-shirt had a picture of Dick on it—a scanned photograph of his face, wrung up into the pained approximation of a smile. It was then that I noticed Dick himself, standing right next to her.