What do we do with it?” Rose gestures at the cash spread across her kitchen table, along with unopened fan mail and every kind of keepsake from the amusement park imaginable. “Hire Starla a body guard?” Keychains and stuffed animals. Multi-coloured midway lighting fixtures. A scuffed red glitter bowling ball from the mini-bowling lane.
Bobby, who is re-counting twenties, belly laughs at the absurd abundance of it all. Leanne does too; she scoops the bowling ball up over her head and bellows like she’s Godzilla about to throw a rock at King Kong. Lucky squeals, presumably delighting in the delirium alone.
“Four thousand, nine hundred and forty,” announces Bobby. “Can you say that, Lucky, four thousand, nine hundred and forty? Four. Nine. Another four. And some zeros.” He’s been speaking fewer words lately, reverting to squeals, giggles, and shrieks.
“How many circles have we held?” asks Rose. “When was the first one? How long you figure people will keep coming?” Rose squints at The Golden Girls calendar beside the refrigerator, but she can’t seem to make sense of the days and weeks. And no wonder; she’s still got her calendar on June. It’s July.
I brood over a Dell 320 laptop. The next big thing—a computer you can carry around. It’s ingenious and only $1,099. I would totally write a book if I had that laptop.
“Ricky wanted fruit trees,” Rose says, finally changing the month on the calendar. “He said we should grow our own food to prepare for the apocalypse.” And just like that the funny money turns sad, a reminder of what could have been.
“He was a good kid,” Hal tells her. “Handy. Mended the rabbit pens for me.”
“He taught Lucky how to forage for puffball mushrooms. He still knows a puffball to see one, don’t you Lucky?” Bobby says. “Can you say puffball mushroom?”
Ricky plus mushrooms plus money swamps my already soggy mind. I’m the only one who’s read Ricky’s journal, his many excerpts listing poisonous mushrooms and berries, followed by page upon page of suicidal ideation. Sometimes I almost hear these grisly excerpts read aloud from his journals, like I hear Etta. It’s a voice that’s almost mine and at the same time alien.
Lately, thoughts and feelings rapidly flood in, swell my already swollen skin. Each visitor brings their secrets, and each of the secrets Etta divulges chips away at the separation between me and others. I am now made of too many people. I hold knowledge that isn’t mine. I’ve been given tender hopes and pivotal memories—and actually, these stories weren’t even given to me. No, really. It’s more like story just enters my body. Weights me. Waterlogged self. That’s how I feel when I hear Hal mentally reciting the Serenity Prayer or Step Number 2 of the 12 Steps: I believe a Power Greater Than Myself will restore me to sanity. I can hear the same looping hold-on music that Bobby hears when she calls the Federal Identity Program office. I hear Lucky asking “why” all the time. His vocalization may be toddler babble, but his inner thoughts are all “whys.” Why are there so many people here? and Why is it so noisy/busy/scary?
This very moment, I know that Leanne is thinking about where she’s going to live next. She left her husband—a move prompted by the angel—and has been crashing in Dolores’s Winnebago for the last week. Her presence is marked by the arrival of a Panasonic RX 6400—the mother of all boom boxes—and an ongoing soundtrack of Canadian rock. “Rise Up” by the Parachute Club and Jeff Healey’s “Angel Eyes” on repeat. Music soothes. She wants to move to The Point permanently. I recognize her attachment to this place. It’s getting harder and harder for her to drive the bus. It stings to head in the opposite direction from Etta—a sting I share.
Right now, I have boxes and luggage stored under the cabin’s cot, a few more piled in Rose’s laundry room. I tell myself it’s temporary, while Tamara and I find a place. Truth is that I can’t leave Etta. Now I get a headache if I travel any farther than Derby Road. I haven’t called to inquire about any of the rentals listed in the local paper. Nor have I told Tamara that I moved my belongings here.
I hand Leanne the Auto Trader as she heads out to work in her customary bus driving uniform—a rock T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. I’ve circled single-occupancy trailers in red pen. I remind myself I’m searching for Leanne, but, admittedly, I’d like to get a trailer too. I could park it right beside the gazebo. “Check out the single wide with a roll-out Florida room. Looks comfy.”
“I suppose I should buy now while the economy’s shit and the snowbirds are selling. I could always resell in a year or two when things are better.” Leanne squints, holds the paper close to her nose. Mother Mary, please say the town bus driver isn’t developing a vision problem.
“Were you thinking about giving money to Leanne?” asks Hal. “For a down payment?” The money becomes less funny again.
Bobby backs her chair away from the table as if touching the bills alone is stressful. “We should start a whatchamacallit for Lucky,” she says.
“A trust fund,” I say.
“Yes, A trust fund.”
I think “Laptop computer or New York City?” then, “I could bring my new laptop to New York City.” I want to stuff the money in my bra and run. If I ran now, I could eat a late dinner of frisee aux lardons and a poached egg at The Odeon in Tribeca while making eyes across the restaurant at some up-and-coming indie filmmaker. I could smoke clove cigarettes outside of CGCBs waiting for a Gorilla Biscuit concert or some other hardcore mess. By one a.m., I’d be fucking a thrasher bitch in the filthy, graffiti-ravaged bathroom.
“We oughta pay Rose back for the salvaged boat wood. That was a lot of cash to put up front,” says Hal. Rose raises her hand to stop him, her face pained. It’s too late, he’s unwittingly dragged her into the money debate.
“Lucky is the closest thing Rose will have to a grandkid, right, Rose? Who else are you going to give your money to?” Bobby says.
“Fuckin’ hell, Bobby,” snaps Hal. “A minute ago we was talking ’bout her dead son. Show some respect.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Bobby,” Lucky parrots.
Bobby starts in on Hal with her customary hosing. “How many times have I told you not to swear? I’m trying to give our kid a better life here, and you can’t even clean up your language.” Lucky scoots into Rose’s lap, yowling his three-year-old tearless cries. Leanne sneaks out the door and across the lawn to her bus. My gaze trails her. Already crowds wander the grounds. Some carry bouquets and others carry cameras. Some have reserved campsites and others look like they just came from church.
Rose’s phone rings, and Bobby flies to answer it. She spits a few last insults at Hal before switching to her telephone voice. “Hello. Roberta Varin speaking.”
Our money argument completely halts, all of us knowing that the “fucking government” said they’d get back to Bobby “any day now.” She grunts out a series of uh-huhs before holding the receiver in my direction. “You wanna talk to a nut job calls himself Dr Jaguar Tongue?”
“How do these people get my number?” Rose complains as I take the call.
“Are you excellent?” Dr Jaguar Tongue asks in place of a greeting. What is his question exactly? Do I perceive myself to be excellent overall, like, am I a high-quality human being? Or is this his own peculiar way of asking, “How are you?”
“Beautiful land you’ve got here,” he continues.
Bobby returns to the money, stacking the bills Queen’s heads facing up. Rose puts a second Moka Pot on the stove. Lucky slinks off to the living room and turns on late-morning cartoons. I glance around the corner to see He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, then turn away from the television before I get sucked into its fantastically easy good-versus-evil entertainment. Hal shuffles out the door looking hunched like the old man he is, and then bounds back in again frantically wielding The Fort Erie Times in the air.
Dr Jaguar Tongue goes on, “I’m sure I’m close. So much energy—”
The front page of the newspaper reads, “Angel Craze in Crystal Beach.”
“Mister, uh, Jaguar,” I interrupt, overwhelmed. “Tell me what you want.”
“Ah. Wow. The gift of a direct question,” says Dr Jaguar Tongue. “We got lost trying to find you. Can’t ask the path to be straight. We’re calling from a payphone outside a country music bar. The Roadhouse—do you know it? Any directions you can give me would be cool.”
“Who knows driving directions from Netherby Road?” I turn the phone over to Hal, who seems grateful to be called away from Bobby’s continued death stare.
“This money is nothing worth fighting over,” I say to her. “We got people calling from lord only knows where. You want money, Bobby? I’ll get us money. Starting today, we make anyone who comes to the circle pay a mandatory entrance fee.” I swish the back of my hand across a neatly stacked pile of bills as if it’s nothing.
“The angel’s love can’t be monetized,” Hal says, not even bothering to cup his hand over the receiver. Again, I’m thrown off by simultaneous conversations. I wonder what I’m not hearing through all the noise. Like Hal—is he sad? He looks sad, like one of those shrunken apple dolls. I should find a moment to check in with him.
“Where’d you learn the word ‘monetized,’ Hal?” asks Bobby. “I didn’t figure you for putting three syllables together.”
Rose bangs the fresh coffee on the table. Her movements are drawn out, languid. It’s not just me—we’re all losing sleep, losing weight, losing words, losing context, and losing time. “The angel says we’re to stick together. You can stay here and fight if you want, but I’m going out there with Starla,” she says.
On cue, the gathering of people cheer as Rose and I make our way to the shrine. The crush of their voices practically shoves me forward. Howie Foster thrusts a cassette recorder in my face, asking for a quote. One visitor sweeps a camcorder in a wide circle, taking a panorama shot. Bobby runs after us, the wooden donation box rattling in her hands.
Smile. Show them your pearly whites, Etta instructs me. My gate stiffens as I spot Tamara and her mother waiting on the shrine’s steps.
“I couldn’t keep her away,” Tamara grabs my arm. “I hope today’s not freaky. She’s got pretty bad nerves. Can you not be freaky, Star?” Tamara’s mother waves a timid wave, her elbow hugged close to her body, wrist barely moving. Barbara would never wave modestly like that, I think. If Barbara were here, she’d probably be loudly telling the crowd something to embarrass me, like at what age I got my period. It certainly would not be the first time she publically pronounced me a “late bloomer.” But Barbara would never take a day off work for me. Not even if I’m performing goddamn miracles. Literally. She’d never lose a day’s pay.
“Welcome,” I say, clearing my thoughts, smiling as Etta advised. “We are strong in numbers today. I’m going to ask that each of you support this gathering, this blessed gathering, with a donation.”
You sound a lot like me, back when I used to hustle the fellas, says Etta. Donation is what I called my fee too. Etta ups the ante by stirring a tiny cyclone in the centre of the shrine. Her invisible hand tosses the flowers and Park memorabilia set on the altar—flyers and ride tickets—flying. The crowd grows stone cold. She grounds the collection and people quietly open their pocketbooks.
“Who is here for the first time? Don’t be shy. We only want to welcome you.” At least fifty hands float up, many I recognize from riding the bus or grocery shopping in town. Etta overloads me with their stories. He’s holding unsigned divorce papers. She is adopted and looking for her birth parents. She is waiting for the results of an HIV test. He’s a widower—
I can’t do this, I tell her.
You already are doing it, Etta reminds me.
“And who has been to one of our circles before? I know who you are. But raise your hands up and let the newcomers see you.” I look for Tamara, Rose, Bobby, Hal, and Lucky. I want to know exactly where they are in the crowd. Another two dozen hands also float up. Can that be right? This many regulars? Becky McPhee and Dolores’s co-workers from the hospital, Marge and Dolly I know well. But the other faces. Some of them are my age. Old high school classmates? Why don’t I recognize them? Etta, I’m losing it.
Whatever you’ve lost, I’ll find for ya later. Go on.
“I’m going to ask each of you to choose an object from the altar,” I say, adopting my deep, drawling otherworldly intonation. The gathering hesitates as I gesture encouragingly to the now flightless items amassed on the altar. “Don’t be afraid. These things have power, yes, but you may also find them wonderfully familiar.”
There’s my girl. Get the Park in their hands. Power them up.
“It’s all stuff from Crystal Beach,” Howie says, picking an old postcard from the pile.
“Hey, check out this blank payroll cheque. God, I miss getting these cheerful orange cheques every other week,” says the woman next to Tamara’s mom. She has frosted blonde feathered hair, like Angela Bower from Who’s the Boss. Wisps of this woman’s bangs sway with her bobbing head. “I worked at the Floss Stand next to the Magic Carpet ride for eight seasons. My grandmother was a secretary in the Hall’s main office. My grandpa, too. He started as a garbage picker, then when he turned sixteen, he got to work rides. He told the same stories about the Park for years. A real broken record. Most of my family earned a living at the Park at one time or another.”
A round of “Me toos” echoes through the crowd.
“When the Park died—does that sound dumb?—it was like watching my grandpa die all over again. The Park was dying right before our eyes and there was nothing we could do about it. I didn’t realize how depressed it got me. Here we are, the first summer without it and I feel like I’ve already forgotten so much, like these silly orange paycheques. There used to be thousands of people here. Everybody loved us. If you were from the Beach, everybody was your friend. Now you walk along the shore, and it’s like the Park was never there. Nothing but an empty lot.”
Another round of “Yes” and “It’s true.”
“It’s nice to be around people. I haven’t been in a crowd since the park closed. You get used to being a big deal. Now, I guess I’m pretty lonely.”
Vanessa Wilson is her name, Etta tells me. Several Wilsons worked the Park, all right. See if her grandpa’s name was Cecil.
She shepherds me toward the funhouse mirror. I jerk, like I might shake her unseen elbow off me. Don’t push. I know the way. The crowd gasps as I move into place in the wheelhouse. They know it’s show time. A chilling thought occurs to me: What if they don’t grow tired of this? What if more come, and more, and all of them want the funhouse mirror? What if I’m trapped in this warped, continual shock for infinity? What if I watch myself grow old in front of this funhouse mirror?
My vision blurs and swells as Etta pushes her way inside, but still my eyes are clear enough to spot the strange couple circling the shrine. Are they part of my vision? The man is dressed like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western—a Navajo poncho and straw cowboy hat. The woman prances through the lawn in what looks to be an embroidered Mexican dress and bare feet. A large cassette recorder is strapped over the woman’s shoulder; she points a microphone in my direction. The man holds a type of large, boxy camera I’ve never seen before. They must be the ones who called this morning. The “excellent” ones who got lost.
You gonna let me in? Etta complains. Audience is waiting. Vanessa Wilson, remember her?
“Grandpa’s hands were old leather spun with blue veins. Your grandfather worked outside all his life,” Etta and I synchronically moan. “If he’d been a more ambitious man, he might have been a singer in a country quartet. But he hated people looking at him. Shy Guy Cecil Gunn, he earned his nickname. He could barely stand up at his own wedding. Only a handful of people ever heard that beautiful voice. You were one of the lucky few, Vanessa. You were the apple of his eye. When you were little, he used to take you on the sky ride. The blue gondola was your favourite. And on a windy day, high above the lake, he’d sing. He’s sing just for you.” Etta is cruelest when she makes me sing. When she swings my limbs around or pushes, she feels like compressed air. Forceful, but still just air. As she tangles into my voice, I asphyxiate.
Vanessa begins to cry, and soon others are weeping too. Some clap their hands. I see that strange camera near my face. Flash bulb. Flash bulb. The microphone juts closer. By now I’ve gotten to know the distinct screams of the regular circle visitors. Tamara is who I hear before I smash into the floor.