The Accidental Siren

12.1 Happily Ever After

CHAPTER TWELVE

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

The carnival beast was dead.

The rides had been powered down, but their silhouettes still loomed above the horizon like a graveyard of petrified dragons. Main Street had turned septic with candy wrappers, discarded wristbands and spilled drinks. A traffic signal bobbed in the breeze, its usual rotation of red and green had ceased at eleven PM, now it warned outsiders with a monotonous yellow strobe.

(The musings of a traumatized twelve-year-old are normally unreliable, but I’ll never forget that prevailing thought as I stumbled through the fair: Mara Lynn was pure evil. My face, they told me, was slack and expressionless after Danny’s death. My mind, however, was alive and busy assembling the pieces to Mara’s plot. She didn’t need Carrie-like telekinesis or Jedi mind tricks to exact her revenge, only supreme, inescapable allure.)

I didn't see A.J.'s body as the paramedics pulled it from the Tilt-a-Whirl's base, only the chalk outline of legs climbing into that rusty seam. It was A.J.’s dying scream that we heard at the funhouse; ghastly shrieks and the gnashing of metal arms. Twelve riders had to be treated for whiplash after the attraction screeched to a halt. A.J. was killed instantly.

Nobody knew why he crawled through the broken panel. Witnesses could only attest to a look of determination as he weaseled his scrawny limbs through the seam.

(What did Mara whisper in A.J.’s ear that sent him dashing through the fair? Did she claim she left some exciting trinket in the gears beneath the Tilt-a-Whirl? Perhaps a fresh cassette with her singing voice in magnetic tape, maybe a lacy article marked with a scent unique to her. Or maybe she didn’t need to lie, but simply commanded the boy’s servitude. Maybe he obeyed. Whatever method she used, the message was clear, and I recalled Mara’s fondness for squishing flies as a warning to the other flies.)

Within minutes, the carnival bigwigs arrived with their lawyers. Behind them, a handful of representatives from The Lakeshore Celebration planning committee. 

The carnies looked like a Where's Waldo convention as they stood--arms crossed--among the midway games. Men with grim faces and colorful ties took turns lecturing the operators; one by one, they were plucked from the group and lead into a tent to give their official statements. By morning, six carnies would lose their jobs.

(Were the carnival employees collateral damage from Mara’s plot? Middle-aged men--hopeless targets with dull lives, slugging from city to city to push buttons for ungrateful kids--gladly surrendering their pinup penchants for a numbing glimpse of absolute beauty.)

My family and friends were reunited at a cluster of picnic tables at the front of the park. An ambulance was positioned between the tables for easy access. Inside, a trio of paramedics inspected us for physical and mental trauma as Mom and Dad paced outside the open doors.

“Can you tell me your name, tiger?” asked the male paramedic as he listened for my pulse.

“James Parker,” I replied.

“And how old are you, James?”

“Twelve.”

“Did you see anything that frightened you tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

I told him about Danny.

The paramedic held a light to my eye. “And how did you feel afterward?”

“I barfed two times on the street, then once in a trash can. My legs feel like Jello and my heart feels fluttery.” I didn’t tell him I saw Mara’s bloody gaze every time I closed my eyes. “Other than that, I feel fine.”