Debrah Williamson

I had a bad feeling that hot July night. We had no business gadding off to the Fabulous Fortuno Brothers Traveling Carnival, and I did my level best to shoot down the idea. When objections based on uneasy gut feelings failed, I fell back on practical financial considerations.
 
My folks ignored both.

Once my father made up his mind to cut one of Mama’s bad moods off at the pass, vague misgivings didn’t stand a chance. Neither did plain truth and common sense. When Johnny Mahoney undertook to create a diversion, both hell and high water could not stop the fun.

If I had understood destiny and fateful decisions and things meant to be, I could have built a stronger case for staying home. Being a kid, I had not yet learned about such miracles. There was no way I could have known that before the night was over, our world would be turned upside down and changed forever.

Funny thing about that. Life doesn’t come with warning labels or flashing caution lights or men in safety vests waving flags to direct us out of harm’s way.

Maybe it should.

The carnies had set up shop down by the Arkansas River on the edge of town. The colored lights of the Ferris wheel and Crazy Snake roller coaster spangled the dark water like dime store jewelry spilled on black velvet. Carousel music rolled off the midway in big drowning waves and promised to make us forget our troubles for a while. Since I didn’t want to be there, the hollow magic did not work on me.

Mama named me after the movie star Paulette Goddard. Pop decided Paulette was too Frenchified for our part of town and cut it down to the bone. Pauly Mahoney was not an easy name to live with. Paulywog. Pauly want a cracker. Pauly Wolly Doodle All A-Day.

Since we hadn’t yet wasted any of the rent money, there was still a chance reason might prevail. Prevail, meaning to triumph through strength or superiority, was a stout book word that I seldom got to use in everyday conversation. Justice prevails, as does true love. At least in novels and movies.

Pop gunned the car twice around the grassy parking area, looking for a space where he would not have to back out. The 1939 Ford’s reverse gear had gone south in April, and no one had thought to get it fixed.

I raised my voice to be heard over the roar of the tee-totally shot muffler. “Maybe we need to think about this.”

“This isn’t a spelling bee, Pauly.” Pop steered with one hand and ashed a smoking Camel with the other. “This is a carnival. No thinking required tonight.”

“But, Pop, we can’t afford to blow money at the carnival.”

He cruised down the last row of cars again. “Let it go, girl. Just sit back and quit worrying so much.”

Easy for him to say. The role of official Mahoney family worrier had fallen on me because nobody else could handle the job. Worrying gave Mama sick headaches and sent Pop off to the pool hall. My little brother Buddy wasn’t qualified for anything complicated, so that left me, and I took my duties seriously. At the going rate, in next year’s junior high yearbook, I would be voted Girl Most Likely to Develop an Ulcer.

“But, Pop, rent’s due Friday, and we’re seven short.” Not the shortest we’d ever been, but short enough to work up a fret over. I kept track of our finances in a Big Chief tablet. When Pop cashed a paycheck, he gave me money to hide for the landlord, so he wouldn’t forget and spend it on unthrifty things like carnivals.     

Pop found a spot he liked, pulled in, and cut the engine. My aching eardrums thanked him. He peered at me in the rearview mirror, one dark brow crooked-up like a question mark. “What do you mean short?”

“Short, as in don’t have enough.”

“Oh, yeah?” Pop had a gift for acting surprised when history repeated itself. According to Nanny Tee, only geese and Johnny Mahoney woke up in a new world every day.

“And you know what Mr. Tuttle said last time.” Mr. Tuttle was not nearly as grumpy as some of our previous landlords, but having already been late with the rent twice, we were pushing our luck.

“I can handle that old gasbag.” Pop ducked responsibility as he always did. With a wink and a careless wave.

Mahoneys weren’t big on what’s called financial planning. Bills never got paid on time, and our old car wouldn’t start unless we pushed it or parked on a hill. We picked up pop bottles along the road and cashed them in for picture shows instead of groceries. We ate oatmeal for supper because oats were fulfilling and stuck to our ribs until morning. Which was fine and dandy, except on the days we had to eat oatmeal again for breakfast. Mama coveted the green glassware that came free in the box, but I was pretty sick of the rib-sticking stuff.
           
Mama’s Aunt Preet liked to say the Mahoneys didn’t have a pot to piss in, but she was wrong. A pot to piss in was just about all we ever did have.
           
I had learned some in-case-of-emergency tricks. What with his leg brace and all, Buddy was good at wrenching up and looking pitiful. Sometimes I parked him on a downtown sidewalk with a tin cup in his hand. When the office workers headed out to lunch, they filled the cup with nickels and dimes, which I added to the rent tally. We were careful to dodge the beat cop who would’ve run us off our corner, and I made sure Mama never found out what we were up to. She would have tanned my hide with a flyswatter and bought Buddy a Popsicle for all the trauma I put him through.

Begging was one way to look at our operation, but free enterprise sounded better. We provided a valuable community service by giving folks a chance to exercise their generosity. Everybody needed someone to think they were better than, and Buddy and I helped a lot of people that way.

Pop thought the current problem through and frowned at me over the backseat. “You sure the rent’s due Friday?”

I sighed. Did he think I made this stuff up? “On the first, same as every month.”

“Then I say we worry about it Friday.” He tried to look serious, but when he laughed and nudged Mama, I knew serious was not going to happen. Not tonight. He was trying to josh her into a good mood by pretending everything was hunky-dory. He thought if he worked extra hard at being cheerful, he could make her cheerful too. He tried to wink the frown off my face. “Lesson for life, Pauly. Money can’t buy happiness.” 

I plopped back against the seat and folded my arms. Maybe not. But last time I checked, money could buy something besides oatmeal down at Wurley’s Thrifty Mart.

Buddy perched on the seat beside me, grinning like a skunk in cabbage. That boy knew squat about finances. He could barely tie his shoes. When I was eight, I could spot a bill collector a mile away. I practiced in front of a mirror until I could say, “No sir, my parents are not home at the moment” with enough wide-eyed sincerity to make him leave. At just-turned thirteen, I knew better than to spend money we didn’t have on fun we couldn’t afford for reasons that didn’t make a lick of sense.

Defeat wasn’t something I liked to admit, so I threw my last ace on the table. “Where will we get the money next week? Huh?” Pop had been laid off at the luggage plant three days ago. Attaching handles to train cases had been his third job of the year.

“I’ll just sign up for unemployment.”
           
If that was his only plan, we were in deep dookey. I had accompanied him to the unemployment office on more than one occasion and was well acquainted with the stingy, steel-rimmed lady who worked there. She approved claims like she had to pay benefits out of her personal passbook savings account.

“That’s nothing for sure,” I pointed out as we spilled from the car. “Unemployment hardly counts as maybe.”

“Stop being such a wet rag, Pauly.” Mama slammed the car door with an irritated shove. “For God’s sake, when somebody’s trying to show you a good time, why can’t you just shut your mouth and enjoy yourself for once?”

Why couldn’ they do the right thing for once? I knew the score. No one was interested in my entertainment. We were there for one reason. Mama. If she didn’t shake the blues, and fast, there was a good chance she would make the rest of us miserable too. Pop sent me a pleading look. Don’t. Don’t press. Don’t push. Don’t argue. Don’t.

Knowing better than to talk back and risk being backhanded by Mama in public, I bit my tongue. Turning her back on me, she locked arms with Pop, and they leaned on each other as they floated away. Pop laughed, and Mama looked up at him as if to say, “Keep the fun coming. I might be persuaded.”

Without another glance in my direction, my parents struck out across the parking lot and zeroed in on the bright midway like a pair of light-starved moths.