Chapter 6 The Girl in the Carnival Gown #3
Mr. Blackrose explains the show and my role in it. Then he walks toward the two closed doors at the back, opens the left one and flicks on a light to reveal a dressing room.
“You’ll find your gown in here,” he says.
“Gown?”
He smiles. “To match fair Annabelle, of course.”
I nod and step inside. The door clicks shut behind me.
I affix the lock and look around. A floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the interior wall.
Beside it hangs a dress that is the reverse image of Annabelle’s.
Instead of bright-colored stripes and white carousel beasts, this dress has black and gray and white stripes with a jeweled carousel along the bottom.
I finger the fabric. It looks nicer than it feels, starchy and cheap.
I take the dress down and hold it in front of me.
As I do, I catch a faint hiss. At first, I think it’s the rasp of my fingers on the rough material, but when I stop moving, the hissing continues.
I cock my head and listen. There’s a click.
Then another one. Clicks like the mandibles of some giant beetle, underscored by that steady, unnatural hiss.
I touch the fabric again and shiver. Then I hang the dress up and open the door.
Mr. Blackrose is adjusting his comb-over in a mirror. He puts on his top hat. Looks in the mirror. Takes off the hat and readjusts his hair, as if his work isn’t completely hidden by the hat, anyway.
When I clear my throat, he glances over. He’s prepared to gush, his features arranging for the appropriate expression, words ready to rush out as soon as he opens his mouth. He stops himself, and his lips purse in pique.
“I’m allergic to polyester fabrics,” I say. “I’m so sorry, sir. I really should have mentioned it, but I never imagined you’d let me wear one of your beautiful gowns, and now I feel awful. I completely understand if you don’t want me on stage like…”
I glance down at myself, as if I’m dressed in a canvas sack rather than a pretty new summer dress, one that I’m sure has polyester in it somewhere.
“That’s fine, my dear,” he says, finding his smile. “Your dress is lovely.”
“I’m sorry again. It was such a pretty gown, too.”
A pause. Then he snaps his fingers. “Why don’t you and Annabelle have a little dress-up party after the show?
She has so many outfits that I’m certain you’ll find something.
You can tell your parents we’ll have you home before midnight.
” He pauses. “Speaking of your parents, will they be here tonight?”
I shake my head. “They let me come by myself.”
“Your friends, then? I can make sure they get front-row seats for your performance.”
I shake my head. “They have a ten p.m. curfew. But the dress-up party sounds like fun. May I run to the pay phone and call my mom to let her know I’ll be late?”
He beams. “Absolutely.”
The magic show is… Well, it’s a magic show. When Reggie, Ray and I were little, we went to every magic show we could until we discovered it was all fake. Then we kept going until we figured out all the tricks. After that, curiosity sated, our interest had waned.
I hope Mr. Blackrose will have a trick or two I haven’t seen, one I can figure out, especially given my new vantage point on stage. Alas, he performs the same tired illusions I cracked years ago, and I must console myself with the fresh experience of being an assistant.
After the show, Mr. Blackrose and Annabelle sign autographs. The kids want mine, too, even though they see me practically every day. Tonight, I am special. Tonight, I am a star.
As we finish, the carnies usher the stragglers out and even help them carry their souvenirs to their cars, making sure no one lingers.
Once they’re gone, Mr. Blackrose says, “Now, Annabelle, take Esmerelda inside, and show her your dresses. She’d like to try them on. We’ll use the Polaroid and take photographs for our dear guest to remember her special night.”
Annabelle’s head snaps up. “Wh-what?”
Mr. Blackrose repeats it, annoyance edging into his words.
“N-no,” she says. “We can’t. There isn’t time. We have to break camp, and Ginny needs help packing and—”
“—and if I say there’s time, then there’s time. Take Esmerelda—”
“No.” Annabelle whirls on me. “Go. Just…go.”
She’s about to say more when Mr. Blackrose’s hand grips her shoulder hard enough for her to flinch.
“Please excuse my daughter, Miss Esmerelda. She’s overtired and being unspeakably rude. She can rest a moment to recover herself while you try on a dress. I think I know exactly the right one for you.”
He takes us inside where Charlie waits, and he passes Annabelle to the carnie.
The girl has slumped, not fighting or even looking my way.
Charlie propels her through the door on the right, the one beside the dressing room.
Mr. Blackrose follows them. Low murmurs sound, the two men speaking, Annabelle starting to say something only to be cut short.
Mr. Blackrose appears with a princess dress, high waisted and elegant. “This doesn’t seem to contain any polyester. Why don’t you try it on, and we’ll go back out to the stage for a photograph. Perhaps by then my daughter will feel more herself.”
I carry the gown into the dressing room. I’m examining the dress when someone raps hard on the trailer door. A carnie tells Mr. Blackrose that a guest is demanding to see the man in charge.
“Esmerelda?” Mr. Blackrose calls. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Don’t rush,” I call back. “It’ll take me a while to do up all these buttons.”
The carnie says, “The lady claims Charlie picked her pocket. She wants to see him, too.”
Mr. Blackrose’s sigh ripples through the trailer, but he gets Charlie. Once they’re gone, the trailer goes silent. Or so it seems until I pick up that hum again.
I ease open my door and creep to the one they took Annabelle through. It’s locked. I fix that and step into an office with a desk, a chair and a fax machine. There’s no sign of the girl.
I look around, keeping one ear tuned for the sound of the door. A window covers the interior wall, which is weird. Then I look closer. Through the “window” I see the dressing room. The dressing room mirror is one-way glass.
The whirring noise comes from in here, and I track it to a mounted video camera pointed at the one-way glass.
Beside it, a regular camera is hooked up to some kind of timer.
It clicks, that insect mandible sound I heard earlier, as it takes a picture of whoever is on the other side of the glass.
Videos and photos of me when I was supposed to be changing into the dress.
I eye the cameras, not quite sure what I’ve discovered.
I turn to the desk. Two of the drawers are locked. I break one open to find typed sheets with mailing addresses. The second drawer contains photographs and video cassette tapes. I pick up one of the photos, glance at the picture and drop it as if scorched.
I blink and give my head a sharp shake. Then I have to pick up the photo again. I don’t want to, but I need to be sure of what I’m seeing.
I was not mistaken. It’s a photo of Annabelle without her carnival gown. Without any gown at all. I take two sharp breaths and then force myself to sift through the photographs. Most are Annabelle. A few are other girls our age in their underwear as they pull on dresses.
I close the drawer and look around. Did Charlie take Annabelle with them? He must have.
I’m standing at the rear wall when I hear stifled crying. I move aside a wall hanging to reveal a narrow door. I snap the lock and open it.
A metallic clink comes from the darkness within. I squint until my eyes adjust to the windowless room. Then I see Annabelle. She’s sitting upright on a metal cot, and when she moves, a chain whirs against the metal. That chain binds her like a dog, and she’s gagged with a dirty cloth.
I hold up a finger and slip out. I’d seen a key in the drawer with the mailing list. Sure enough, it fits the lock securing Annabelle’s chains.
As I free Annabelle, voices sound out outside the tent, and she gives a stifled yelp.
“Stay in here,” I whisper. “Wait until I tell you it’s safe to go.” I take a wad of bills from my pocket and put them on the bed. “There’s a bus stop in town.”
I hurry out, closing doors as I go, and I barely get back into my dressing room before the door opens.
“You done yet, girl?” Charlie calls.
“I was unbuttoning the dress so I can get into it,” I say.
“Well, hurry it up.”
I give him time to take up his position on the other side of the mirror. He expects me to be undressing, so I pull my dress off. Then I drape it over the mirror and smile at his grunt of frustration as I back into the corner to change.
A few minutes later, he calls, “You done?”
I reach out as carefully as I can and yank the dress down while staying away from the mirror. Then I wait.
A minute passes.
“What the hell are you doing in there, girl?”
I thump against the wall and groan. Charlie’s chair scrapes the floor. His footsteps cross the trailer. I watch as my door opens.
“Are you—?” he begins.
He stops. He stares. A volley of profanity follows, ending with, “Who the hell let a dog in—?”
I leap. He falls back, hands rising. I hit him square in the chest, and he drops with me on him. He opens his mouth to shout, but the sound comes in a garbled cry as I rip out his throat.
As Charlie dies, lifeblood soaking the floor, I throw back my head and howl. Annabelle’s door creaks open. Her footsteps slide across the office. She looks out the next door and sees Charlie, still twitching in death. Then she spots me.
Annabelle starts backing into the office. Our eyes meet. She swallows, uncertain. I back up and wave my muzzle, grunting for her to go.
As she stumbles forward, the door flies open. Annabelle squeaks. Mr. Blackrose sees me. Sees Charlie. His mouth opens. I lunge and take him down. Behind him, a brown wolf tears into the tent. It’s Zeke.
When I rip out Mr. Blackrose’s throat, Zeke grunts, acknowledging I’m okay. He glances at Annabelle, frozen behind me. Then he steps back, muzzle-waving her out of the trailer. She hesitates and then totters forward, staggering around us before racing out.
When Annabelle’s gone, I snarl, telling Zeke he can leave, but he searches the trailer to be sure it’s empty.
The overprotective big brother, as always.
When he returns, I nod toward Charlie, telling Zeke he can feed on the carnie, but he snorts and takes off to find his own dinner.
I wait until he’s gone. Then I begin to eat.
When I go outside, I’m in human form. The others are mostly still wolves and still feeding.
A few have shifted back and are dismantling the carnival.
They come over to congratulate me, hug me, pat me on the back for a job well done.
I staked out the carnival and set everything in motion.
I had help, of course, like Reggie and Ray’s mom, who’d claimed Charlie picked her pocket to get them out of the trailer.
But my parents let me handle the prep work, and my success raises my status to a full adult member of our pack.
After tonight, it’ll be another year or two before we feed on humans again. The rest of the time, we make do with deer and rabbits. That only keeps our instincts at bay for so long, though, and eventually, we must do this, or we risk losing control and slaughtering innocents.
We have slaughtered some innocents tonight. My pack never sugarcoats that reality. But this is a choice we can live with. I can live with it even more than usual, thinking of the tapes and photographs stuffed in my bag for burning later.
Beyond the supermarket parking lot, the town is quiet and dark and still.
Someone would have heard a scream or two.
As efficient as we are, someone still screams. Yet tonight, the town keeps its curtains pulled and its ears plugged.
Our pack founded this place, generations ago, and we have a silent bargain with the humans who’ve settled here.
We keep them safe, and what happened here tonight means they are safe from us, too, from our instincts.
Speaking of safe, Annabelle is gone. My parents explained her situation to the pack, and they gave me money and assurances no wolf would touch her. I see no sign of her now as I walk behind the trailers.
Dixie is there, whining uneasily. I remove her too-tight collar. Rust sticks the clasp, but I snap that as easily as I did the locks inside. Then I bend to look her in the eye, and rub her neck, and tell her she’s free if that’s what she wants. She can also come with me, but the choice is hers.
When I stand, she falls in beside me, so close she brushes my thighs as I walk, as if she fears being left behind. I head to where I left my bike. Reggie and Ray are there waiting, Ray licking a last bit of blood from his cheek before he turns on his Walkman.
As we set out, we pass our dads, driving the trucks that pull the carnival trailers. They wave and tell us to go straight home, and we promise we will.
We ride so fast that Reggie nearly collides with a figure stepping from behind a tree. His bike stops with a squeak, which he echoes in a grunting growl.
“Annabelle,” I say.
“It’s Annie,” she says, her voice quavering. “It was always Annie.”
I nod. “You can go home now. You’re safe. A bus comes through every morning.”
We don’t warn her not to tell what she saw. Who’d believe her if she did?
When she doesn’t move, Reggie glances at me, eager to be going, and Dixie whines, wanting to get away from this place.
“What if I don’t want to go?” Annabelle—Annie—asks, barely above a whisper. “What if I want to stay?”
“Your family—”
“I ran away. That’s how he…” She trails off with a swallow.
Then she meets my gaze. “Take me with you. I won’t be any trouble.
I can do chores, work the fields, whatever you need.
Just take me and…” A harder swallow, and her voice comes firmer as she straightens.
“Show me how to do what you did. How to be what you are. I want that.”
Reggie looks at me. I nod, and he shifts forward on his banana seat, motioning for Annie to climb on. She does, and we continue home, taking our strays with us.