Part 11 (1/2)
”Have my father home tonight.”
”Don't do it, Mickey.”
”That's easy for you to say,” Reardon said. ”Your dad's sitting right at home.”
”He doesn't know where your dad is. He can't bring him home. He's just trying to trick you.”
”Oh, I know just where your dad is, and I'll bring him right home to you.”
”Mick-”
”Shut up, Justin.”
”Just say it.”
”I wish I may oh wish I might,” Reardon said. ”Have my father home tonight.”
”And so you shall,” Cobb told him.
And then it was over, whatever it was.
Justin didn't know what he should have expected- Rick Reardon riding a lightning bolt down from the roof of the tent, landing right at his son's feet? The fabric of s.p.a.ce and time suddenly tearing like something straight out of one of his comics, so Mickey's deadbeat dad could come prancing through some wormhole with his guitar slung over his shoulder? He expected nothing and he got nothing, other than an offer of a wish of his own from Hannibal Cobb, which was summarily rejected.
Mickey, who had apparently been expecting some momentous event, himself, said, ”Is that it? Is that all there is? Where is he?”
”Oh ye of little faith,” said Hannibal Cobb.
He clapped his hands and the lights went out. Clapped again and they were back, as was the crowd Justin had wondered about, back in front of The Hands Of Wonder, who had so many multicolored b.a.l.l.s going now, Justin didn't think they could ever be counted.
They stood there, watching the crowd as the juggler juggled and the Alligator Man thrashed about his cage, the pickled punk floated and The Rubber Woman plied her trade. They turned to Cobb, but he was gone, no where to be seen as they looked around the tent, causing Justin to say, ”Did any of this really happen?”
”Who knows?” Reardon said, and they both laughed.
”You had enough?” Justin said, then, ”I know I have.”
”Yeah, I reckon.”
They stepped forward and walked down the line, past Sword Swallowing Sammy and The Rubber Woman, who winked when they went by her. They merged with the crowd, who stood mesmerized by the sailor-suited Hands Of Wonder, who kept those b.a.l.l.s spinning through the air with the greatest of ease.
There was one cage left, one final performer they hadn't seen. So they exited the astonished and delighted group and walked over to that final enclosure. They had seen him before, earlier today from their spot in the tree line. They had seen him before and they knew what to expect. But knowing what to expect made it no less shocking when they stepped up to that creature. He had no arms, he had no legs, just s.h.i.+ny stumps where his arms and legs should have been. He wore a dirty t-s.h.i.+rt, stained with dry brown spatters. Something that looked like a diaper had been knotted around his waist. He sat on a pile of straw, staring out through the bars. His hair was blonde, his eyes a deep shade of blue. And he was the saddest-looking thing Justin had ever seen.
”Now I know I've had enough,” Justin said, and Reardon said, ”Me, too.”
They turned away from the sorriest spectacle Justin had ever laid eyes on and started toward the exit. Justin kept looking around for Hannibal Cobb, but he didn't see him anywhere. They left the tent, and the crowd, who had just moved on to The Fabulous Half Man-the most ineptly-named Sideshow performer in the history of the world, if you asked Justin, because he sure as heck didn't see anything fabulous about him, just a miserable piece of humanity whose story Justin did not want to know.
They were outside, standing in front of the tent in the cool October breeze, when Reardon said, ”Look at that!”
It was a phrase Justin wasn't sure he ever wanted to hear again, and when he looked up at the tent, that p.r.i.c.kly sensation scurrying up his spine came rus.h.i.+ng back. Reardon wasn't pointing up at the tent, nor was he nodding his head, but Justin saw it- ”That looks like Ears!” Reardon said.
-those ears as wide as the open doors of a Volkswagen Beetle hanging off the head of the Pickled Punk, who floated face-down in his dark, murky, fluid-filled bottle.
”We'll have to bring him back tomorrow and show him,” Reardon said. ”He'll get a kick outa that!”
”No kidding,” Justin said, wondering what they would find floating in that bottle if they ventured back inside the tent tonight.
Reardon turned away from the tent and so did Justin. They stood for a moment, looking up the midway, which was filled with the same people Justin had seen earlier in the evening: old men and young men, smiling couples with children; some children all on their own. Not just a bunch of people like the ones he had seen earlier, but the exact same people who'd been running up and down the midway when they'd first arrived at the carnival. The same two kids, he noticed, were sitting at the squirt gun booth, watching their rocket s.h.i.+ps race each other up that rainbow-colored sheet of wood.
And there came Cindi (with an I) Stewart and her cla.s.smates, walking by them on the right. They were laughing and giggling, just like they were when Justin had first seen them tonight. She turned her head toward him and held up a hand, smiling and winking, giving her delicate fingers a wiggle as she and her friends continued up the thoroughfare.
”She must really like this place, huh?” Reardon said.
”I reckon,” said Justin.
”Wonder what time it is.”
Justin, who like his friend, wore no watch, said, ”I don't know... eight, eight-thirty, maybe?”
”Time to go,” Reardon said, Justin nodding as they turned up the midway, crossing the field on their way to the exit, where Jo-Jo or Bozo or whatever that clown called himself, was still standing beneath the Hannibal Cobb sign, smiling and waving the carnival-goers inside.
They found their bikes where they'd left them, leaning against a pole at the edge of the clearing. They turned and mounted them, and then took one last look at Hannibal Cobb's Kansas City Carnival and all of its surroundings, at the Ferris wheel that spun high above the tree tops.
Justin didn't remember a single instance since they had been there that it hadn't been spinning.
Chapter Twenty-One.
They pushed off their bikes and started the long journey home, past the carnival's entrance and up through the clearing, pa.s.sing the same cars and trucks and old beat-up jalopies they'd seen on their way into the place.
Down the old dirt road they went, the wind in their hair, the cool flow of it across their bare arms as they peddled their way back toward town. The moon, still high and full in its patchwork field of s.h.i.+mmering stars, shone down upon them.
It had been a long day of odd occurrences, a strange day and an even stranger night.
Capped off by what? Justin wondered, because he had a feeling this night was far from over. Something was coming, he just didn't know what or when. Or maybe nothing was coming at all. Maybe, just like his mother seemed to enjoy telling him, he was getting all worked up over nothing, a goofy byproduct of all the comics and DVDs he and Mickey spent most of their free time with.
They were on the asphalt road heading into Pottsboro, when Reardon said, ”You think I'll get my wish?”
”h.e.l.l no,” Justin said.
”Me neither,” Reardon said, then, ”What'd you mean, back in the Sideshow tent?”
”What?”
”You know, when you said he was tricking me.”
”Oh,” Justin said. ”That.”
”Yeah, that.”