Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (48 page)

He crinkled the paper into a tight little ball and threw it over the porch edge and off into the darkness. He heard it land with a dull
plop
somewhere in the mud slick that passed for his driveway this time of year.

"You say somethin', honey?" Sally, his wife of three years, called from the kitchen. She had the window open to let in the fresh, spring breeze.

Dennis twisted around to look at her through the window. She was wearing that same damned baggy gray sweater she had worn all winter, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she stood at the kitchen sink, washing the supper dishes. She was half turned around, and he could see the watermelon-sized swelling of her belly. Her thin, mousy brown hair dangled down over her pasty, pimply forehead. The dim light made her look much older than her twenty-two years.

"Ahh, nope. Didn't say
shit
."

Dennis scowled as he took another swig of beer. After draining the can, he crumpled it up and dropped it to the floor with the other empties before taking a fourth can. He had popped the top and was leaning back for a long pull when he heard ... music.

Jesus H. Christ!
he thought, turning again to glance into the kitchen.

Has she got that friggin' rock 'n roll station from
Auburn on again?

Before she knows it, she'll wake up Dennis Jr., and it will be another night of the baby howling and her complaining how she's so big now she can hardly move. And who will get puked and peed on?

Why, me, of course.

"Yeah, good ole' Dennis," he whispered before spitting viciously into the darkness. "Christ on a cross! I might's well be up all friggin' night, now that I ain't got no goddamned
job
to go to!"

But as he listened, the music grew steadily louder, and before long Dennis realized that it wasn't coming from inside the house; it was coming from Moulton's Field, across the river. Dennis leaned forward in his lawn chair and peered out over the porch railing, smiling as the music drifted to his ears out of the darkness.

"What the hell? Why, that's friggin'
calliope
music!"

Through the line of trees along the river's edge, he could make out a line of headlights, winking and bobbing as the caravan of trucks and trailers spread out across the wide, flat field. Taillights flashed, mixing with the glow of headlights to stain the nearby river with bloody red and goldenrod-yellow smears. The calliope music didn't sound like the real thing. It sounded more like a tinny recording, blaring from a speaker system mounted on one of the trucks.

"Well I'll be dipped in shit," Dennis said, smiling broadly for the first time since this afternoon. Turning toward the open window, he called out, "Hey, Sal! The friggin' carnival's in town! Come on out here 'n catch a load of this!"

"Don't yell! You'll wake the baby," Sally said as she snapped on the porch light and came to the screen door. She was drying her hands on a greasy dish towel. The feeble yellow light made her face look like dead meat.

"Look over there!" Dennis said, pointing off into the darkness. "The damned carnival! Looks like they're settin' up 'crost the river in Moulton's. You hear anythin' 'bout it?"

"I dunno—I might've seen a flyer at the grocery store," Sally said. Her voice was edged with frustration as she eased the door open and poked her head out just long enough to catch a snatch of the music; then she ducked back inside.

It’s kinda exciting,” Dennis said.

"Well, whoop-dee-frickin’-doo. Is that all you've got to say? You lose your goddamned job, and all you can do is get excited that the damned carnival's in town!"

The screen door snapped shut behind her when she went back inside, cutting off her words with a sharp bang.

"Well, whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo to you, too—bitch!" Dennis muttered before taking another pull on his beer.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he groaned as he stood up and stretched his arms over his head. He heard something crack in his neck, but it felt good. The music was drifting across the river, rising and falling in volume. Without a word to Sally, Dennis went down the steps and started across the back lawn, lured by the eerie, wavering sound. For a few seconds, he felt like a little boy again—ten years old and free, without a care in the world . . . not the twenty-two-year-old, "downsized" mill-working husband and new father and father-to-be that he really was.

He didn't notice the slight chill in the night air as he crossed the yard and headed into the fringe of woods that lined the river. He moved upstream until he found a good place to stop, then leaned against a thick-boled tree and drank the rest of his beer and watched as the carnival trailers and trucks circled around into position and parked. Dozens of people—dark silhouettes shifting against the lights—got out and began to unload. Dust rose from the ground like smoke, and over the warbling strains of the calliope music, a chorus of voices shouting orders and directions filled the night with excitement and noise. Even the heavy smell of diesel exhaust wafting across the river thrilled Dennis as he crouched in the darkness and watched.

The trailer parked farthest back, closest to the river, had a huge sign spanning from one end to the other. On it was painted a sensuous-looking dark-skinned woman, obviously naked except for the huge snake that wrapped around her, strategically covering her breasts and crotch.

LaBELLE—THE VOODOO QUEEN
, the sign read.

As Dennis focused on this particular trailer, its windows curiously darkened and devoid of any activity inside, his mind began to race through several fantasies he would indulge in if only the woman inside that trailer was half as beautiful as the one pictured on the sign.

After watching for a while longer, as the roustabouts quickly and skillfully began setting up the carnival tents and booths, Dennis—whose gaze was continually drawn back to the darkened windows of LaBelle the Voodoo Queen's trailer—shivered and pushed himself away from the tree. He threw his empty can into the river and then urinated against a tree before starting back home to his pregnant wife and two-year-old son.

Tomorrow, he promised himself, if only for a little while, he would forget all about being out of a job, and go to the carnival with or, preferably, without Sally and Dennis Jr.

"Oh, God! This is
horrible!
" Sally said, wrinkling her nose and pulling Dennis Jr.'s Red Sox hat down so it shielded his eyes.

She was pushing the umbrella stroller and walking alongside Dennis as they moved slowly past the lineup inside the FREAK SHOW tent. Each ... well, "specimen" was the only word she could think of to describe them; "human being" certainly didn't fit—was increasingly disgusting. From TABOO—THE TATTOOED MAN and VINNY—THE PIG BOY they worked their way past TOM, DICK, AND HARRY—THE THREE-HEADED MAN and MATILDA—THE FAT LADY to LUCAN— THE WOLF BOY and TONY—THE SPIDER MAN, a pathetic individual with
sin
—"
COUNT 'EM, BOYS 'N GIRLS—SIX
"—vestigial arms dangling uselessly from his sides.

"I think I'm gonna puke if I don't get out of here," Sally said. Her voice had that high-pitched, nasal whine she used whenever she wanted to get her way. She was vigorously rubbing the bulge of her stomach as though fearful that exposure to such horrors could somehow mark her unborn child.

"Aww, com'on," Dennis said, frowning with disgust. "We paid our friggin' money, so we might's well see the rest of what they got."

"But this is ... This is
sick!
These things should be ... be put out of their misery, not paraded around in public like this." Sally covered her mouth with her hand, muffling her voice. "We certainly don't have to stand here and gawk at them!"

"What the hell did you expect? It's called a
freak
show for a reason," Dennis said, his voice edged with frustration. "You had your chance to say no outside." He was trying to keep his voice low as he eyed the people around them to make sure no one could overhear their argument.

"I … I didn't know they were going to be real
people
," Sally said, whining. "I thought it'd be like—you know, two-headed cows and albino frogs and stuff in bottles of formaldehyde or something. And I don't think Denny Junior should have to see these things, either. God, it'll give him nightmares. It's gonna give
me
nightmares!"

Dennis waved his hand at her in casual dismissal. "Look, babe—you don't like it? Then drag your sorry ass out of here. There's no reason you should ruin the fun for me."

"
Fun?
You call this
fun?"

Dennis stared coldly at his wife; then, unable to stop the words, he poked at her belly and added, "Maybe you saw a little too much of yourself in Matilda the Fat Woman. Is that it?"

Sally's eyes were brimming with tears.

"That's not fair," she said, sputtering. Then, sniffing loudly, she spun the baby stroller around, not even bothering to apologize to the people she bumped into as she made her way back out the front door.

"Good riddance," Dennis muttered.

Before moving on to the next exhibit, though, he quickly checked his watch. It was a quarter to one—fifteen minutes to go until they started selling tickets for the first show of
LaBELLE—THE VOODOO QUEEN
. He hurried through the rest of the FREAK SHOW, barely noticing the rest of the wonders as his mind filled with anticipation for La-Belle's the Voodoo Queen’s dance.

In the darkened tent, the music started out low with a slow, sensuous beat. The air was close, heavy with the smell of sweating men, sour beer, damp canvas, and moldy sawdust chips. Fifteen rows of low, wooden benches were crammed full of men, most of them wearing faded jeans and sweat-stained flannel work shirts. Only at the back of the tent did Dennis spot three or four women—probably college girls from
Farmington, there to watch the show on a dare from their boyfriends, no doubt. The rest of the audience, many of whom Dennis worked with at the mill—
had
worked with, that is—were watching the small stage as the tinny, pseudo-Egyptian music grew steadily louder. A man wearing a frayed tuxedo and battered top hat, and spinning a white-tipped cane in his right hand, strolled out onto center stage.

"And now, gentlemen ...
di-rect
from the burning sands of Egypt, to entertain you here today, I present to you— the bea-
ut
-iful... the ex-o-tic .. . the e-
rot
-ic ...
LaBelle
, the Voodoo Queen!"

The audience exploded with wild applause, catcalls, and wolf whistles. No one, apparently, was bothered by the tenuous connection between "Voodoo" and "
Egypt" when they saw a long, slender black arm reach out from behind the side curtain and begin to weave up and down in time with the music, like an entranced cobra. The music rose louder as a shoulder and then a sleek, well-muscled back slithered into view.

Sitting dead center in the front row, Dennis sat gape-mouthed and staring as LaBelle slinked onto the stage. He had mentally prepared himself for disappointment, but for once, the carnival sign hadn't lied. If anything, it had underplayed the beauty and heated eroticism of this woman, LaBelle. Dennis shifted uneasily in his seat as he felt himself stiffen.

When she first came out, LaBelle danced with her back to the audience. The smooth muscles of her arms, legs, and back glided in sinuous curves beneath her oiled, ebony skin. Her ample hips shifted and pumped suggestively to the strains of the music. Over a thin bikini top and bottom made of shimmering purple silk, she wore a flimsy white veil that drifted like smoky mist in time with her swaying body. She moved like a river at night—lazy, curling ripples that flowed and eddied. The whole effect pulled Dennis into a silent, mind-numbed daze.

The audience, meanwhile, was going wild, filling the tent with shrill whistles and hoots. Overweight, unshaven men, who probably had been drinking since early morning, whooped and hollered and whistled.

"Come on! Turn around!"

"Take it off, baby! Take it
all
off!"

"Com'on! Let’s see some
titties!
"

Their shouts all but drowned out the music, no matter how loud it was turned up to compensate for the noise.

Ignoring their requests, LaBelle continued her slow dance with her back to the audience, her hips thrusting and gyrating in seductive, sensuous circles as her arms coiled and twined like writhing snakes.

As he watched, his hard-on almost painful now, Dennis found himself wondering what it would be like to feel those arms wrapped around him, to ride those wide hips, and to feel that body twisting and turning beneath his own thrusting pelvis. His mouth went desert dry when LaBelle reached up behind her back and teasingly pulled off the veil, letting it drift in shimmering slow-motion to the floor.

The audience shouted all the louder, yelling and whistling with delight, but Dennis sat there, silent … transfixed. He felt a stirring of disappointment when he began to wonder if this was how it would be for the entire show. LaBelle would maintain her air of sexual mystery by doing her entire dance without ever once turning to face her audience. He could see the heavy swell of her breasts swaying from side to side as she moved in time with the music, seemingly
creating
the music with every twist and grind of her body.