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“Figured that, too.” The man eyed Chance again, sizing him up once more, his expression openly doubtful. He arched his eyebrows. “You eighteen?”
“Just last month,” Chance lied. He would turn eighteen in October.
“Funny, I’d have guessed you to be younger than that.”
Chance squared his shoulders and stuck out his jaw. “Well, I’m not. And I’m a hard worker.”
“Your parents know you’re here? They know you’re wantin’ to run off and join the carnival?”
“I don’t have any parents.” Chance cocked up his chin. “I’ve been living with my aunt.”
The man cleared his throat, turned his head, spit out a wad of phlegm, then looked at Chance once more. “She know?”
“She doesn’t have to. I’m eighteen.”
“So you said.” Mr. Marvel shook his head. “What makes you think you can handle a job with my show? The boys here have been around. They play pretty rough.”
“So do I. I’ve been around.”
“Right.” He spit again, this time with flourish. “You Amish?” He pronounced the word with a short A.
“My aunt is. I’m not.”
“And I take it you don’t have any carnival experience?”
“No, sir.”
The man shook his head again. “Look, kid, I’ve seen a whole lotta shit during my years on the circuit. A whole lotta ugly shit. Been in the business as long as I can remember, my old man was a showman, his old man before him. I got this place from them. It’s in my blood. But if it wasn’t, I’d be outta here.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
He looked Chance in the eye. “There’re lots of other things a boy like you can do with your life. Go do one of ‘em. Go home. Go back to the farm. I don’t need any help.”
“I need a job.” Chance took a step toward the man, not too proud to beg. “I have to have one. I’ll work hard. You’ll see.”
“Everybody with my troupe works hard. Sorry, kid.” The man spit another wad of phlegm, this time directly into the pile of swept trash. “Maybe next year.”
He turned and walked away. Chance stared after him, stunned, disbelieving. Just like that, and he was screwed. Back to the farm with you, kid. Back to hell on earth.
“Wait!” Chance hurried after the man. “I’ll do anything, the dirtiest most low-down job you have. Just give me a chance.”
Abner Marvel’s ugly face actually seemed to soften. He shook his head. “Look, kid, I’ve got nothin’. No jobs. I’m sorry.”
“But…somebody might quit tonight,” he said, grasping at straws. “They might get fired. It’s good to have an extra person, just in case.”
“Can’t afford a ‘just in case.’” The momentary sympathy Chance had seen on the man’s face was replaced with annoyance. “Look, nobody quits midseason. Nobody in their right mind, anyway. We come all the way up here to God’s country from our winter quarters in Florida, and none of my boys wants to get caught without a way back. And the only thing that’ll get one of this crew fired is drinking, fighting and hittin’ on the local jailbait. None of my boys been doin’ that either, at least not that I’ve seen. They know better. Is that plain enough for you?”
He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on now. Get lost. I’ve got things to do.”
This time Chance did not follow Abner Marvel. The carnival’s owner had made it clear that he was not going to give Chance a job.
Unless one suddenly opened up. Unless a miracle happened.
A miracle.
Chance narrowed his eyes. There had to be a way. He wasn’t going to be like his mother and spend his life wishing for the things he didn’t have, the opportunities that had never come his way.
Sometimes in life, you had to make your own opportunities. Your own miracles.
His mother hadn’t understood that. He did.
Chance turned and headed back out to the midway. He wandered the wide aisle, aware of each minute ticking past. Tonight was the carnival’s last night in Lancaster County. Tomorrow would be too late.
From the shooting-gallery booth to his right, Chance became aware of arguing. He shifted his attention to the two carnies working it. One was taunting the other with a tale of a sexual exploit—with the girl the other wanted.
“You see this, asshole?” The uglier of the two boys held up a plastic sandwich bag he’d dug from his back pocket. “When Marlene gets a look at this, you won’t have another chance with her. So you better remember what she tasted like, ‘cause that’s the only taste you’re going to get.”
The second boy guffawed, “Yeah, right. Like one joint is really going to impress her.”
Several players stepped up to the booth, and the first boy tucked his bag behind the wooden ticket box. Chance watched the two as they helped the players, noting how, as each moved by the other in the booth, they delivered surreptitious blows, jabs and obscenities to the other.
Chance eyed the boys, an idea occurring to him. The two had been drinking; Chance was certain of it. Their tempers were short, their inhibitions dulled by drink. If the bag and joint disappeared, the first boy would blame the second and a fight was sure to break out.
Of course, if he got caught, they would beat the crap out of him and he would be tossed off the carnival lot. But if he didn’t…
This might be his only shot. He had to take it.
He watched. And waited. The opportunity presented itself—in the form of the fought-over Marlene. Personally, except for the pair of awesome hooters covered by a severely overextended tube top, Chance didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
While the two teenagers fell all over themselves, completely ignoring their crowded booth to compete for the girl’s attention, Chance reached over the partition and snatched the bag and joint. Heart thundering, he stuffed it into his right front pocket and moved as quickly as he could away from the booth.
But not too far away. He had to be around for the fireworks.
They weren’t long in coming. As soon as Marlene walked away, the two boys began bickering over who she liked best. Moments later, Chance heard a howl of rage and a shouted obscenity.
“Motherfuckin’ asshole! Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“My bag, you asswipe.” The outraged carny advanced on the other, fists clenched. “Give it back.”
“I don’t have your stupid little prize. I’m the one who doesn’t need it. Remember?” He smirked at his rival, then turned away. “Jerk.”
With a howl of fury, the first teenager leaped onto the back of the other. “Give it back or I’ll beat the shit out of you!”
“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” The kid threw his rider, turned and swung a fist. It connected, and the first boy stumbled backward, then righted himself and charged like a bull at the other boy. He caught him dead in the ribs and the two went careening backward into the booth’s shanty-style wall. It toppled. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. The two carnies rolled on the ground, tangled with each other in a death grip, shouting obscenities and delivering blows as best they could.
“That’s enough!”
The bellow came from Abner Marvel as he charged around the side of the booth directly across the midway, a baseball bat in hand. With him were two other men, as big and burly as Marvel, also wielding bats. How the old showman controlled his rowdy crew was obvious, and Chance took another step backward.
“Get up! Both of you.”
The boys immediately broke apart and scrambled to their feet. One’s nose was bloodied, the other’s eye had already started to purple and swell. From the way the teenagers cowered, Chance suspected that Abner Marvel wouldn’t hesitate to take a swing with that bat.
A trick he had probably learned from his father.
“He stole from me!” The first boy pointed accusingly at the second. “He deliberately stol—”
“I didn’t take nothin’! He’s just jealous ‘cause Marlene—”
“Shut up!” Abner Marvel bellowed, his face crimson with rage. “Both of you. Pack your things. I’ve taken all I’m going to from you two, you’re out of here!”
The two rowdies’ expressions went slack at the news, then in unison they began begging to keep their jobs. The old carny didn’t budge. “You’re out,” he said again, this time calmly. “You know the rules about fighting. Now get, before I decide I have to use this.” He slapped the wooden bat against his palm. “Stop by my trailer and collect your pay on your way off the lot.”
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.”
Chapter Six
Skye 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.
