Fortune (6 page)

Chance didn't even wait until the two ousted boys skulked off, to jump forward. “Mr. Marvel! Wait.”

Abner Marvel stopped and turned, his face fixed into a fierce scowl.

“I couldn't help hearing what happened,” Chance said quickly, all too aware of Marvel's beefy fist curled around the baseball bat. “It looks like you might need…I mean, it looks like a position has suddenly…opened up.”

“That it does.” Marvel narrowed his eyes. “You have a point?”

“Yeah.” Chance held the man's intent gaze, never wavering or breaking eye contact. “I'm your man.”

Marvel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off one end, spit it out, then lit up. Through a cloud of noxious smoke, he studied Chance.

“In the carnival,” the showman said after several moments, “you're either with-it or you're a towner. A rube. A sucker. There's a term in the trade, called the First of May. You have any idea what it means?”

Chance scrambled to come up with a reasonable guess. “The beginning of the carnival season?”

“It means rookie. Outsider. Rank beginner. It means you have to prove yourself before you're accepted. You won't be with-it until you do. Initiation can be…rough.”

Chance squared his shoulders. “I've had to prove myself before. I can handle it.”

“And I won't be able to protect you,” Abner continued, puffing on the cigar. “These boys will eat you alive.”

“You can't scare me off.” Chance took a step toward him. “I need this job. I need it bad. If you give it to me, I'll work my ass off for you. I'll do the job of both those losers. You'll see.”

Marvel laughed, the sound deep and rusty. “I'll be damned. You're one cocky piece of work, aren't you?” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “The job of two, you say? I'd like to see that, I really would.”

“Give me the job and you'll see it.”

“If you get caught drinking, you're out. If I catch you fighting or fucking with paying customers, you're out. Leave the local jailbait alone. No second chances.”

“I won't need one.”

“You have to bunk in a trailer with five other roustabouts. If you can't hack it, it's not my problem, you're out.”

“I can hack it.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Chance McCord.”

“I'll tell you this, Chance McCord, you've got guts.” Marvel gave him one final, measured glance, then a smile touched his mouth. “What're you standing around for? There's work to be done. You can start by cleaning up this mess.”

S
kye sat cross-legged on her mother's bed, her sketch pad laid over her knees. She moved her charcoal pencil across the page, enjoying the feel of the pencil in her hand and the soft, scratchy sound it made as the tip rubbed against the paper.

She smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet, this moment alone with her art. Their camper trailer didn't afford many moments alone. Though luxurious compared to the ones the majority of the other troupers occupied, the trailer had exactly two interior doors—the one to the tiny lavatory and the one to this bedroom, located at the back of the camper. In the open area up front was the kitchenette, a booth-style dinette and a couch that folded out to make a bed.

Usually Skye took the couch. But not always. Sometimes they shared the bed, other times her mother offered to sleep on the couch.

Skye missed having her own space. Not that she was accustomed to a palace, or anything. But they had never lived in quarters this tight before; they had never had to travel this light before. Storage inside the camper was limited to two narrow wardrobes, one built-in chest of drawers and several cubbyhole-type compartments.

This summer, her big box of art supplies was a luxury.

Skye cocked her head, studying the image taking shape before her—a monarch butterfly. Skye moved the pencil again, this time automatically, quickly and with certainty, as if her hand possessed a will of its own. The image grew, changed. Within moments she had transformed one of the butterfly's wings into an ornate, curvy letter.

The letter “M.”

Skye stared at the image, the letter, heart thundering against the wall of her chest, beating frantically, like the wings of a butterfly against the sides of a glass jar. Skye recognized the “M”; she had drawn it hundreds of times before, the first time three years ago. She recalled the day vividly. She had been in art class; her teacher had commented on it. Skye remembered feeling breathless and sort of stunned. She remembered staring at the “M” and thinking it both beautiful and ugly, remembered feeling both drawn and repelled.

The way she felt now.

Skye sucked in a deep, shaky breath. She had been drawing the image ever since, sometimes repeating it over and over, until she had filled the entire page of her sketch pad.

Why? What did it mean?

“Skye? Honey…are you all right?”

At her mother's voice and the rap on the bedroom door, Skye looked up, startled. “Mom?”

Her mother opened the door and stuck her head inside. “I've been calling you for five minutes. It's almost time for lunch.”

“Sorry. I didn't hear you.” Skye returned her gaze to the image. “I'm almost done. I'll be there in a second.”

Instead of returning to the kitchen, her mother crossed to stand beside her. She gazed silently down at the tablet, at the ornate butterfly, and Skye stiffened. She didn't have to glance up to know that her mother's expression was frozen with fear, stiff with apprehension.

It always was when Skye drew the “M.”

Skye swallowed hard, fighting the fluttery, panicky sensation that settled in the pit of her gut, fighting the beginnings of the headache pressing at her temple.

Skye moved her pencil over the page, starting on the other wing. Within moments, the drawing was complete.

Still her mother stood staring; still she said nothing.

Her mother's silence gnawed at her. It hurt. Skye had asked her about the “M” about a million times. Her mother always answered the same way—she said she had no idea why Skye drew it.

Skye brought her left hand to her temple.
If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?

Her mother touched Skye's hair, lightly stroking. “What's wrong, honey?”

She tipped her head back and met her mother's eyes.

“I keep trying to remember where I saw this ‘M.' There has to be a reason I'm always drawing it. There has to be.”

“I can't imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It's just one of those things.”

“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn't make sense.”

“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”

“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.

Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.

But how?

She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding.
Why couldn't she remember? Why?

“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn't matter. It doesn't. Let it go.”

But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn't find herself drawing that letter again and again.

“I can't,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can't”

Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I'm so sorry. So very sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother's shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I'm…I'm the way I am?”

Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I'm more proud of you than you can imagine.”

But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother's gaze. Her mother wished she didn't like art so much, that she wasn't so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.

Why?

Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.

“It's one of your headaches, isn't it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I'll get your medicine.”

A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn't, the pain could become nearly unbearable.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye's head. “Why don't you lie down for a minute. I'll finish making lunch, then come see how you're feeling.”

Skye caught her mother's hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”

“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”

Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother's hand, Skye's pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.

“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.

“A little. Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“My dad didn't want me, did he?”

Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”

“You don't have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn't even know who my father was.”

“That's not true! Of course I know who—”

“Then why aren't there any pictures of him!” Skye caught her mother's hand, desperate, the pain blinding. “And why won't you talk about him?” She tightened her fingers. “Please. Just tell me, Mom. I won't cry. I'm not a baby anymore.”

For long moments her mother said nothing, just gazed at the floor, her expression troubled. Finally, she met Skye's eyes once more. “He wanted you, Skye. I promise you that. But we can talk about this later. You need to rest—”

“No! Mom, I want to talk about it now. Please.” Skye squeezed her mother's fingers. “If he really wanted me, where is he? What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” her mother repeated, her voice sounding high and tight. She freed her hand, stood and took a step backward, toward the door. “I told you before. He's dead.”

“Yes, but…how? What happened?”

“It was an accident.” Her mother reached the door. “I've told you that before, too.”

“What kind of accident was it? A car crash? A fire?” Skye lifted herself to an elbow and gazed pleadingly at her mother. She saw her mother's hesitation, her wavering, and pressed her further. “Where did it happen? Was I there? Were you?”

For a moment her mother said nothing, then she cleared her throat. “It was very ugly. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe someday.”

Her mother was lying to her, hiding something. But what? And why? A lump in her throat, Skye shifted her gaze to her sketch tablet and the curvy “M.”

Why wouldn't her mother trust her with the truth? What could be so ugly that her mother…

“Did someone kill him?” she asked, eyes widening. “Is that it? Was he…
murdered?
”

Her mother made a sound, squeaky and high. She shifted her gaze, as with guilt, and Skye's heart began to pound. “Was it the mob? Is the mob after us, too?”

“Don't be silly.” Claire smiled stiffly. “It was an accident and nothing—”

“That's why we're always moving, isn't it?” Excited, Skye sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Just like in the movies, we're on the run from the mob!”

“That's enough, Skye!” her mother's voice rose. “I don't want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. Do you hear me? No more.”

Tears flooded Skye's eyes, and she flopped back to the mattress, rolling onto her side and turning her back to her mother. “Forget it. Just go away. After all,
I need my rest.
”

Claire sighed. “Your father wasn't a nice man, honey. And his family…” Her words faltered, and she drew what sounded to Skye like a careful breath. “I'll only say that I'm glad they're out of our lives forever. That's why I don't like to talk about them.”

Heart pounding, Skye turned and looked at her mother. “What do you mean, he wasn't…nice? Did he, you know…did he hit you?”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the pressure in her head almost unbearable. “Did he…hit me?”

“No. But—” She bent and cupped Skye's face in her palms. “When we were with him, I was afraid for you.”

Skye swallowed hard. “Is that why you won't even tell me where I was born?”

“Yes. I—” Claire sighed again and bent her forehead to Skye's. “Trust me, sweetheart. When you're older, I'll tell you more.”

“Promise?”

She nodded, then smiled. “Our soup's probably boiled over by now. I'd better check it.”

Skye caught her mother's hand. “Mom? Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to have…you know, a real family? To live in one place and not…”

Her words trailed off at the sadness in her mother's eyes.

“Yes,” Claire answered softly. “Sometimes I wish that with all my heart. This isn't the life I wanted for you. It's not the way I wanted you to grow up.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn't have—”

Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “I didn't have that growing up and I always thought how nice it would be.”

Her mother had been an orphan. Skye couldn't imagine that. She couldn't imagine not having her mother. She would die without her. Feeling guilty for having brought up the subject, she hugged her. “I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry I bugged you about…you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Her mother stroked her hair again. “Sometimes the truth hurts, baby. Sometimes it's better not to know the truth.”

Skye tipped her head back and met her mother's eyes. Something in them, something dark and terrifying, made her tremble. “What is it, Mom? What do you see?”

Her mother pressed her lips to her forehead. “It's only the past. And the past can't hurt us as long as we make it stay there. Will you help me?”

Skye nodded, suddenly afraid. Of being alone. Of the past and the future. She clutched her mother. “Don't ever leave me. I don't know what I'd—”

“Shh.” Claire kissed her again. “Silly baby. I would never leave you. You're my whole life. Didn't you know that?”

Skye relaxed and smiled, remembering a game they had played when she was little—when she had still believed in monsters and bogeymen and things that breathed heavily in the dark.

Every night before bed, she had asked her mother the same thing:
Would you fight the monsters for me?
And every night her mother had searched out and destroyed the evil things for her. Only then had Skye been able to sleep. Only then had her nightmares retreated.