Nostalgia (Part 1 of 2)

 
by David Michael
 
1
 
Udo reached down and pulled open the flaps of the box on the floor beside his chair, exposing the faces of children. Shy smiles and bored looks and gaptooth grins and oh-so-serious pouts shone out at him from yellowing Polaroids and fading inkjet prints. Udo closed his eyes, touched his left hand to his heart, and took a deep breath. He let the breath out slow and took another.
 
Through the thin, metal walls of the antique Bowlus Road Chief trailer, he could hear the other carnies and ride operators and fair officials calling out to each other in the already-warm, pre-dawn gray, getting ready for the day. He felt the trailer shift as Johan leaned against the only door, keeping guard while Udo performed his morning ritual.
 
When he was younger, when he had first "inherited"–through years of service and a bank note–both the Bowlus trailer and the reproduction Dentzel carousel from his retiring mentor, Pytr, Udo had thought the little trailer the perfect size. A small, portable house for a small, portable life. Thirty-five years later, though, and more than thirty-five pounds heavier, he had begun wishing for something newer and bigger than his vintage 1936 trailer. Something designed for one of the newer, bigger Americans of the 21st century that he had become. Maybe it was time to follow his mentor's example and sell out to Johan.
 
Maybe. But not yet.
 
Eyes still closed, Udo reached deep down into the box with his left hand, pushing through the layers of photographs until his fingers brushed the cardboard bottom of the box. Gripping as many of the photos as he could, he pulled his hand back out–slowly, so as not to scatter photos all over the narrow floor of the trailer. He placed the stack on the table in front of him and opened his eyes.
 
Udo spread the pile flat with his hands. Rheumatoid arthritis no long let him spread the fingers of his left hand, and he felt clumsy as he flipped the white-bordered images so they were all face down. In spite of the pain and the clumsiness, though, he could still feel the stirrings in his heart and the tingling under his fingertips as he opened himself to the Fates the way that Pytr had taught him–the way he, Udo, had begun to teach Johan.
 
He pushed the photos around on the table in overlapping circles using both hands, then he brought the images together into a tall, awkwardly leaning deck. He straightened the deck with his palms.
 
Still using his left hand, he dealt the top photo face up onto the table before him. A girl of about ten smiled out at him. She was cheek to cheek with a man of about thirty, also smiling, the girl's skinny arm around the man's neck. They were obviously father and daughter, with the same happy crinkles around their eyes, the same cheekbones, and the same little hooks on the bridges of their noses.
 
Udo smiled and dealt the next photo, putting it beside the first.
 
He sat up straight, his smile gone. He leaned over to get a closer look at the picture. There was no doubt. It was the same girl. About a year, maybe two, older than in the first picture, her expression now one of guarded wariness, her eyes dark behind the hair that hung over her face, but very definitely the same girl. On her shoulder rested a man's hand, the man's shirt visible behind her head, but as much of the man as possible had been cut out of the shot. Because it wasn't the same man as before. In this second picture, only the little girl mattered.
 
2
 
Sharon held it together through finding a place to park. She didn't even complain about paying $10 just to park. She thought Finn should have noticed that and realized it was a sign that not all was well. That maybe he had picked the wrong 30th birthday gift. But he only smiled at her and said, "Surprise."
 
She managed a weak smile in return, and climbed out of the car without saying anything.
 
As they walked to the main gate of the fairgrounds, the setting sun throwing their shadows long and jumpy over the black asphalt and parked cars, she held herself together, arms crossed across her chest, head down so that her chin was almost touching her collarbone, fighting a chill that couldn't possibly come from the hot, humid air of the Oklahoma summer.
 
This wasn't the birthday present she had expected. Not at all.
 
"Are you OK?" Finn asked. Finally.
 
Sharon shook her head, then nodded. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Finn had his hand out so they could hold hands. He could be insensitive and thick, but he was also trying very hard to be sweet. She forced herself to uncoil, to stand up straight, and to reach down with her left hand and take Finn's right. His hand was warm and dry. She hoped her hand wasn't too clammy and tried not to squeeze too hard. "I'm fine," she said.
 
Sharon was surprised how fast she had been walking. Now she slowed down.
 
"Was this a bad idea?" Finn asked. He came to a stop and pulled her to a stop too by not letting go of her hand.
 
Around them, other couples and families were threading their separate ways across the massive parking lot and through the neat lines of sedans, pickups and RV's.
 
Sharon risked a quick look at Finn's face. He still had his sunglasses on so she couldn't see his eyes. She could hear the concern in his voice, though, and a hint of disappointment. She had left her own sunglasses in the car, in the cupholder between the two front seats. Now she wanted them back, so she could hide her eyes.
 
"I'm fine," she repeated, lying a second time. She looked away. She tugged on his hand and they started walking again.
 
"I thought you would like coming," Finn said.
 
"I was just," she started. Then paused, looking for a word that wasn't as negative as underwhelmed-irritated-panicked. "Surprised. I was just surprised. I haven't been to the fair since … for a long time."
 
"You've always talked about how you went to the fair as a kid," Finn said.
 
Sharon nodded. "Almost every year," she said, impressed at how she could sound so calm.
 
"And today is your thirtieth birthday. You're not a kid anymore."
 
"Says you, old man."
 
Finn laughed, but it was a weak laugh. "After today, anyway. So I thought … I thought it would be a good, you know, one last hurrah of childhood. Ride the rides. Eat greasy food. The works."
 
He sounded so sweet, Sharon found herself smiling. She tilted her head and looked at him to show him the smile, share it with him. Because he didn't know. She had never told him. Hinted at, talked around, sometimes even almost mentioned. But she had never told him. Her childhood had ended much earlier than he supposed. She gave his hand a squeeze. "Thanks," she said.
 
And she meant it. She would like more than anything to give her childhood one last, final good-bye. Maybe coming to the fair would do that. Clinging to that thought–and now clinging to Finn's hand–had been how she didn't break down in the car as soon as she understood what Finn's "Birthday Surprise" was. And gave her the strength to keep walking to the gate. When what she wanted was to run the other way and find a dark, cozy closet to hide in. Or a bed to hide under.
 
They reached the gate and joined the line to pay.
 
Finn, still holding her hand, pulled her to him. He let go of her hand and hugged her close. Closer than she was comfortable with in public, his legs against her legs, her breasts against his chest, standing in line with so many people, but she didn't stop him.
 
"We can still go," Finn said, his mouth right next to her ear. "Just say the word, and we'll take off and go somewhere you actually want to be."
 
Sharon felt herself love him even more than she already did and hugged him tight, no longer concerned with who might be watching and/or scandalized. Someone behind them might've cleared their throat. She didn't care. "It's OK," she said. "I want to be … with you." She pulled back so she could kiss him on the lips.
 
"So," Finn said once they had entered the fairgrounds, "where to? What do you want to do first?"
 
Sharon held onto his arm, holding herself up. She hadn't been prepared for the memories that washed over her as she stepped through the turnstile.
 
Randal, Mom's new boyfriend–or maybe it Tod, or Steve, or Mackie; they had ceased to be individuals long ago, blurred together beyond separation–holding her right hand tight in his left, looking down at her, his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses, his forced smile making his bushy mustache fan out. "Here we are, Shari. Your mom said you liked to come to the fair. What do you want to do first?"
 
"Sherrie! You made it!"
 
Startled, past overlaying present in her head and before her eyes, Sharon jerked her head around. She saw a thin blond girl, maybe twelve, in white shorts and a matching mini-tee, throw herself at another girl the same age and similarly attired, hugging her tight, her head bouncing like a bobblehead doll.
 
Sharon realized she had been holding her breath and let it out. Her heart pounded in her chest and she tried to will it to slow back down. No one had called her Shari since college. She hadn't answered to the name in years. For longer than she had known Finn.
 
As if on cue, Finn pulled her close to him again, his hands on her waist, his face close to hers. "It's still not too late," he said. "We can go."
 
"But you already paid."
 
Finn only shrugged.
 
"No," she said. "I just thought … she was calling to me."
 
Finn smiled. "No one calls you Shari. Not any more."
 
She forced herself to smile back at him. "No. Not any more." Not even Mom. She reached up and took off his sunglasses, and put them in her handbag. Now she could see his eyes.
 
"So where do you want to go first?" Finn asked. "Do you want a rubber duck? That sign over there promises everyone who pays a dollar wins a rubber duck."
 
Sharon laughed, surprised that she didn't have to force it. She felt herself relaxing. "Maybe later we can get a rubber duck," she said. "For now, let's just walk."
 
3
 
"So, is this what you did when you were kid?" Finn asked. "Walk around?"
 
"It depended," Sharon said. On which of Mom's boyfriends brought me, she didn't add.
 
Finn had been a good sport so far, even though she had refused to get on any ride.


How about the Tilt-a-Whirl? How about the Starship 2000? How about the Power Surge?
 
He couldn't hear the echoes his questions created in her head.
 
She tried to stay relaxed, to enjoy the bright lights and the laughing-happy-screams of children on the spinning rides and the banter of the various callers. And especially to enjoy Finn walking with her and holding her hand and smiling at her and the fair as it swirled around them. She wanted to be relaxed and happy for Finn. It was her birthday, and this was her birthday present. It wasn't Finn's fault he was repeating a script, walking in the footsteps of Bad Birthdays Past.
 
"Your Mom said you used to love the fair," Finn said as they walked past a pool full of miniature speed boats, their little engines racing, pushing them in tight little circles as a crowd of boys looked on, cheering and jeering.
 
"Yeah," Sharon said, her voice noncommittal. "She says that a lot." Poor Finn. He must have asked Mom what would be a good special, 30th-birthday gift for Sharon. Or maybe Finn hadn't asked at all. Maybe Mom had just told him. Mom didn't always need to be asked to give advice. Especially about her little Sharon.
 
"Shari loves the fair," Mom said. "Don't you honey?" Then, ignoring Shari's shaking head, speaking to Randal–or Mackie–or Steve–or whoever, Mom said, "She used to go every year with her Daddy, before he died, the poor thing. You'll take her, won't you Randy-Stevie-Tod-Mackie-dear? It'll help the two of you become close. I want us all to be close. Like a family."
 
They had come to the end of a double row of games of chance, a sort of limbo land of crisscrossing power cables and hoses before the next cluster of rides.
 
"Did you come with your friends?" Finn asked.
 
"No," Sharon said. Mom's boyfriends or husbands had never been her friends. She saw Finn's head turn to look at her and she realized how flat and cold her response had been. She added, "I mean, yes, I sometimes ran into my friends here." She didn't think she was lying. It must have happened once or twice, seeing other kids from school. Even if all it amounted to were awkward waves and the occasional brief greeting as the men in Mom's life pulled her from Crazy Wave to Kamikaze to Orbiter, trying to bond with–and sometimes trying to cop a feel on–the reticent, standoff-ish daughter of their widow girlfriend. The bonding always failed–and she wished she could say about the other. But Mom wouldn't listen to little Shari about the groping hands and lude comments any more than she would listen about anything else.
 
"Shari loves the midway rides," Mom said. Not because Shari told her that, but because that's what she wanted to believe. "Especially the roller coasters. She used to love the merry-go-round too, but she grew out of it. You know how girls are, once they hit ten or eleven. Wearing makeup, piercing their ears, getting all grown up."
 
"How about the carousel?" Finn asked.
 
Sharon realized the calliope music had been playing, threading through the other sounds, getting stronger, for the past few minutes. She hadn't noticed. Or she had been blocking it, not wanting to hear it. Now, though, she heard it. She couldn't not hear it. The music seemed to wrap around her and squeeze, making it hard to breath. And when she looked up, she saw the polished wooden stallions and mustangs and thoroughbreds rearing and leaping through the night under golden lights.
 
"So … is it time for the horses?" Daddy asked, smiling down at her, his big hand with his long fingers wrapped around her hand. The two of them had been at the fair for hours, since before the sun went down, riding damp logs, throwing lopsided rings, gnawing on overcooked turkey legs, doing everything possible in his-turn-her-turn order, walking in ever tightening circles around night's Main Event: the Shari Rides the Horses Extravaganza.


Shari had known he was about to ask, but still she felt herself smiling in happy surprise. "Yes!" she shouted.


"Then let's not keep your horses waiting!"
 
Sharon tried to keep the sob in her chest, and failed. The music and the memory forced it out of her. She had been defending herself against bad memories. She had no defense against the good. Against the memory of the last time she had Ridden the Horses with Daddy. She let go of Finn's hand–threw it away from her–and spun and tried to walk away from him and the fair and the friendly, happy music of the carousel. She pushed her way through indulgent parents and excited children and happy couples. She resented them all. And she resented Finn for making her have to see them.
 
She seemed to burst out of the crowd and into a small pool of darkness, a triangular cranny formed by two booths not quite back to back, empty except for an overflowing trashcan. She put her face against the back of a booth, blocking out as much as she could.
 
"Sharon." She felt Finn's hand on her shoulder.
 
"I didn't want to come here," she said, keeping her face turned away from him. Just like she had told one man after another. Then, though, she had been able to say it without crying, without hiding her face. She had been stronger then, angrier.
 
"I'm sorry." After a long minute, Finn added, "I thought you liked coming to the fair–"
 
"With my father," she said. Now she turned to face him. The words came in a rush. "I liked coming to the fair with Daddy–" She stopped to take a breath, to reassert some kind of control. "I came with–with my father." She rubbed at her eyes, trying to push the pain away along with the tears. "It was our special day. Just the two of us."
 
"I'm sorry. I didn't know–"
 
"I didn't tell you." She sniffed. "So stop saying you're sorry. It's not your fault. You're just trying to be sweet and be a good boyfriend. And I'm babbling." Sharon paused and took a deep breath. She ignored Finn's extended arms. "It's not your fault," she repeated. "It's … it was Mom. She never understood. I wanted to go to the fair with Daddy. Not … not … with some guy she was dating or married to. But she wouldn't listen. Every year, until I was sixteen, she would send me …"
 
"It's OK," Finn said.
 
He extended his arms again and this time Sharon moved to accept his embrace. She didn't put her arms around him, though. She kept her arms folded in front of her, her clenched fists just under her chin. She didn't look up at his face either. She turned her face to the side, looking at the nothing where the two booths came together.
 
"Every year," she said, "on my birthday, I had to go to the fair with the last man on earth I'd ever want to be there with."
 
"I'm sorry."
 
She twisted to face him now. She would have pushed out of his arms, but he held her. And she didn't push that hard.
 
"But you liked coming with your father," Finn said. "Before."
 
She could see he was trying to understand. He was hearing her. Unlike Mom. Sharon let herself relax, some, and rested her forehead against his shoulder. She could smell his soap and his anti-perspirant. And, under all of that, him. "Of course. It was our Special Day."

"And they ruined it." He shifted his arms, so his right hand stroked the back of her neck and his left hand pressed against the small of her back.
 
"Yes, they ruined it. Tod and Mackie and … damn it, I don't want to start crying again."
 
"It's OK."
 
"No, it's not. I'm ruining my makeup, and ruining your birthday present–"
 
"I think I messed up your birthday all by myself–"
 
"No. No. It's not you. You've been … you've been wonderful." She looked up at him and kissed him. "You can do what I always do," she added, trying to smile, "and blame my mother."
 
He gave her a supportive chuckle, and she unwound her arms and put them around him, pulling him close.
 
"I miss Daddy," she said after a few seconds.
 
"I know."
 
"No, you don't," she said. But she tried to say it kindly. "And on my birthday, I miss him most." This time Finn didn't say anything, and she squeezed him just a bit tighter to show her appreciation.
 
After a few minutes, Finn asked, whispering in her ear, "Should we go?"
 
Sharon surprised herself when she said, "No. Not yet. I want to see my horses. I mean, I want to see the carousel. And then I might want to get a turkey leg."
 
TO BE CONTINUED

Part 2 of "Nostalgia" will be available next Monday (27 September).
 
 







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