Loonies (24 page)

“This is unbelievable,” Brian said to Darcie, as a man led a cow by a rope to the center of the field.

“Never would have experienced this back in the city.” Darcie laughed.

“No argument there,” he said.

The man in the field removed the rope from the cow’s neck and walked away. At first the cow didn’t move. It bent its head, bit off a clump of grass, and began chewing, still not moving. This went on for about fifteen minutes.

“Not quite as exciting as I thought it’d be,” Brian said, looking at Darcie.

She smiled back. She seemed happy, and he liked that. Everything lately had been dragging her down, and he hadn’t been much help. Her pregnancy should be a time of bliss, but somehow that had changed when they opened that damned trunk.

“Oh, look,” she exclaimed, pointing to the field.

He had been about to kiss her, but now looked where she indicated. The cow was on the move. Well, he guessed one could call it moving. The animal took about three steps in one direction and then stopped, head lowered to grab another bite of grass. Brian looked down at the numbered slip he had paid five dollars for, thinking he had made a bad investment. What the heck, he thought, it was all for a good cause.

People along the rope began calling and shouting at the cow, trying to get the beast to move toward their squares. Some even yelled out the name Bessie, though Brian wasn’t sure if that was really the cow’s name.

“Is that fair?” Brian asked no one. “Can they do that?” It seemed like cheating to try to coerce the cow to a specific spot.

“Of course it is,” Rolfe said, before yelling at the cow. The old man put his fingers in his mouth and let rip a piercing whistle that almost silenced the crowd.

“Go ahead,” Darcie said, poking him in the side. “Call it this way.”

Brian looked at his wife. Even though she was smiling, he knew she was serious. He looked at the cow. People on all sides of the grid were hollering and whistling, like the cow was a pet they were trying to attract. He was about to call himself and had even partially opened his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, he felt ridiculous. He didn’t want to embarrass himself. The whole thing seemed silly.

“I can’t believe all these grown adults are cheering for a cow to take a shit,” he said.

“Oh, loosen up,” Darcie said, laughing. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

Before he could respond, there was a roar from the crowd and he looked over. The cow was now in a trot, toward the northwest corner of the grid.

“Hey!” Brian yelled. “Not that way.” It was moving farther from square number 42. “Back this way.” He began waving his arm.

The cow stopped, and Brian believed it heard him. But the animal didn’t turn around. It stood still, raised its tail, and out of its ass came three small round brown objects, dropping to the ground.

The crowd roared. It was a combination of cheers and jeers as the man who led the cow out into the field ran to the spot. When he got there, he looked down, examining carefully before calling, “Number seventeen!”

Someone yelled, and, as the crowd parted, a grinning Linley Droth buzzed over in his wheelchair. He came to a stop at the ticket counter and raised his right hand, a ticket stub clutched in his three fingers.

“How nice he won,” Darcie said, linking her arm in Brian’s.

“Yeah, sure,” Brian said, crumpling up his numbered ticket and putting it in his front pocket. “Oh crap!”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” she said, beaming at him and squeezing his arm.

“No, it’s not that. I got so caught up in the event, I didn’t even think to take any pictures for the paper. Damn.” He was mad at himself. How stupid could he be? He forgot his place. He was here as a reporter, not just a patron. He had a job to do. Plus, how many chances would he get to take pictures of a cow-pie roulette? After thinking about that, he realized that he could do it next year, and the year after, and the year after that. It kind of depressed him, but that was what his career had come to. He should be thankful for the ongoing murder case while it was happening. Before long, it would be over, and this is what he’d be left covering.

“Don’t fret,” Darcie said. “There’s still plenty of stuff left you can shoot.”

He looked around as the crowd began drifting away from the roped-off grid. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Tell you what,” his wife said. “I’m going to go look at some of the craft booths, and I know you can’t stand that kind of stuff, so why don’t you go do your thing.”

“Okay,” he agreed, almost dejected that his wife was shooing him away. It felt good to be spending the day with her. There had been so little of that lately. It was ironic that one of the reasons she wanted him to take this job was that the hours wouldn’t be as demanding and they could spend more time together as they prepared to become a real family. But now, he had less time with her, and here she was ditching him. But she was right. He didn’t want to look at a bunch of crafts, and she didn’t want to watch him take pictures and interview people.

As she started to walk off, it struck him again that they didn’t share a lot of interests. As he watched her stop at a booth with hand-carved bird houses, he wondered if her teacher friend would have shared her interest in that as well. But he tried to put that thought out of his mind and decided to head toward the hot air balloon.

Wading through the crowd, he spotted the chimney sweep handing out fliers. The man smiled as he handed his fliers to passersby. Some brushed past the man; others took the papers, only to discard them a few feet further on.

Those were picked up by Sherman Thurk, who strolled around with a burlap garbage bag slung over one shoulder and carrying a stick with a nail at the end. He poked the trash on the ground and deposited it in his bag.

Brian approached the chimney sweep and accepted a flier.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at the paper. It had the same darkened image of a chimney sweep in coat and tails and top hat, holding a broom, that Brian had seen on the side of the man’s van. The words advertised: “Corwin Dudle, Chimney Sweep.” Below that it read “Heating and air conditioning vents and ductwork cleaned as well.” A phone number was printed at the bottom.

“I’ve been meaning to get your number,” Brian said, looking from the paper to the man. “I’d like to get my chimney taken care of.”

“I’d be happy to. I have lots of openings this time of year. Where is your house?”

“I’m on Ash Street,” Brian said. “Number 10. I will be in touch.”

“Very well.” The two men shook hands.

“Mr. Dudle!” The voice was familiar, and Brian turned to see Eldon Winch approach. “You did not pay a vendor fee for a booth,” he said in his official Board of Selectmen chairman voice. “That means you don’t get to go around soliciting. I spoke to you about this before.”

“I’m just handing out fliers,” Dudle said sheepishly. His eyes dropped and Brian felt sorry for the man.

“There’s no harm in that, is there?” Brian said to Winch in defense of the chimney sweep.

“It wouldn’t be fair to the other vendors,” he said, looking at Brian. “They all paid a fee to promote their products and services. How would that look if they see someone handing out advertisements for free?” He turned to the chimney sweep. “Mr. Dudle knows the rules of the festival. Besides, his fliers are littering the grounds.” He swept his hand in an arc around the area where, indeed, fliers were scattered.

“Fine,” Dudle said. “I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” Winch said and walked off.

“Sorry,” Brian said to Dudle, though he wasn’t sure exactly why.

“At least it wasn’t a total loss,” Dudle said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

“Definitely.” He folded the flier and tucked it into his back pocket.

Brian sauntered over to the hot air balloon ride. That would make a good photo, especially with its bright red, white, and blue pattern. People were lined up to take the brief ride. The balloon was descending, a young couple in the basket. The balloonist was a thick-bearded man with a riding cap. Brian raised his camera and took some long-range shots before zooming in to get a closer look at the young couple.

The balloon landed, and the giggling couple climbed out of the basket. Brian approached them, introducing himself, and asked to get a few comments for the paper. He jotted down some random quotes about the balloon ride and the festival, and then got their names and ages. He thanked them as they walked off hand in hand.

Brian looked at the balloon as the next passenger got in—the balding man with the dark-rimmed, round glasses who worked at Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate. He was in the basket with the balloonist, who released a jet of flame as the balloon rose. Brian watched, snapping several pictures, though this passenger wasn’t as photogenic as the cute young couple. Romance made for a much better image than some lonely, middle-aged guy, but Brian took the shots anyway.

Before the balloon reached half the height of its previous trip, the passenger began yelling.

At first Brian couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but as the balloonist began a premature descent, he could make out a few words.

“Let me down,” the man yelled in a panic. “Let me down now. Please!” He gripped the edge of the basket, looking toward the ground.

Don’t look down, Brian thought, if you’re afraid. But the man stared straight down, his eyes wide in terror. Brian half-thought the man was going to jump out of the basket before it had a chance to reach the ground.

When the balloon landed, the man clambered over the edge of the basket, legs shaking as they touched the ground. He turned to the balloonist, apologizing profusely. The balloonist didn’t seem sympathetic and more likely glad to be rid of his unruly passenger.

The man in glasses slunk away, his face pale. He bowed his head as he passed the crowd waiting for their turns for rides.  Brian approached the man, who almost bumped into him before looking up.

“Excuse me,” Brian said, introducing himself. He had already determined he wouldn’t use the shots of the man, given the circumstances, but he was curious.

The man introduced himself as Nyle Potash.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened up there?”

The man looked wary, almost taking a step back. “You’re not going to put this in the paper are you?”

“Oh no,” Brian said. “I was just curious.”

The man looked at the balloon as it ascended with a young family. “I have a fear of heights,” he said, turning to Brian.

“Then why on earth did you go up in it?”

“I thought I could handle it,” he answered. “Face my fear.” He rose up on his toes, throwing his shoulders back in an attempt to seem taller.

“That’s pretty brave,” Brian said.

“I’ve made some progress,” Potash said. “I got some treatment, but I guess I’m not quite there yet.” He smiled.

Brian thanked the man for his time, watching him walk away, thinking something the man said sounded familiar.

The next stop was the carousel, and on his way he spotted Darcie in the distance talking to a woman with long streaks of gray in her hair. He recognized her as their waitress from dinner the other night. Brian waved, but Darcie was too involved in her conversation and didn’t notice him.

Nearby, he saw Eldon Winch talking with Leo Wibbels at the fruit booth. The two seemed to be in a heated argument, and Brian was compelled to find out if it was anything that might interest him. Maybe there was some problem at the festival. That was Brian’s natural curiosity, but when he saw Winch walk off, he kept his trajectory for the carousel.

The calliope music drowned out all other sounds at the festival. This attraction had the largest crowd, eagerly waiting their turn. A waist-high metal fence surrounded the ride, and Brian approached it and raised his camera. He snapped a series of shots as the ride spun around and around. Young and old alike rode the wooden horses, smiles and laughter on their cheery faces. The breeze generated by the ride blew their hair back and no doubt cooled the sweat off their faces. That in and of itself was probably reason enough for people to take a spin. Brian felt his own shirt sopping with sweat underneath his arms and down the middle of his back.

The music wound down as the ride slowed. Brian took more pictures, figuring the shots would be better now that it was spinning more slowly. He zeroed in on the children, whose gleeful laughter captured his attention. He would be a father soon, and one day he’d take his child here and ride with him, or her, on the carousel. If not next year, definitely the year after. Watching the parents with their children made him look forward to it. It would be a new experience. He hadn’t really thought about being a parent. He had been nervous before, wondering how he’d hold up to the task. But seeing these kids on the ride gave him a feeling of comfort and anticipation. He couldn’t wait for his chance.

The ride slowed to a stop and the passengers disembarked. Brian sought out a young family and approached them, asking questions about the ride and the festival. He jotted their names and comments in his pad and thanked them. He looked around for someone else to get comments from as other people stepped onto the carousel, each selecting a wooden horse.

Most needed new paint. The brightly colored horses were dotted with white spots where the paint had chipped or peeled away. It probably wouldn’t take much to touch them up, but it made the wooden animals look old and worn.

He spied a young mother and daughter who had just gotten off the ride and headed toward them. Before he got to them, he heard a man wailing. He stopped and looked toward the carousel where the sound came from.

Jonas Fitchen, who owned the taxidermist shop, had stepped onto the carousel and stood before a black horse.

“I’ve missed you so much.”

The people climbing onto other horses had stopped and looked at the man, wariness on their faces.

“It’s been too long,” Fitchen said, draping his arms around the horse’s neck. He laid his cheek against the horse’s face. “Why have you stayed away so long?”

Brian forgot about the mother and daughter and moved closer to the carousel. The people nearest Fitchen and the black horse dismounted and moved away, selecting horses further from the taxidermist.