Tamara is the only one who comes to the evening circle, and she brings her bitch face with her. I am surprised to see her show up at all and more surprised still at the slam-bang way she lights the candles and sets the cut flowers on the altar. She bends a few dahlia stems and leaves their cheerful fat pink heads bowing downward. Who knew she was the passive-aggressive type? She’s usually so straightforward. Although, with a crowd of apparition seekers around us, there’s hardly space for us to talk.
Bobby has joined Hal and Moustache in Rose’s house to do childcare for the sweeping brood that showed up with the masses of local parents. Maybe Hal has told Bobby about Jaguar’s photographs of Lucky. Maybe he feels as shitty as I do after telling Rose the truth.
Rose patrols around the gazebo a few times. I practically hold my breath watching her, but she doesn’t come into the circle.
Leanne’s driving the final bus loop from Fort Erie. Dolores is at the hospital, working.
I don’t recognize most of the faces around me.
I’m alone, I say to Etta. And exhausted. Let’s take one night off.
You’re never alone. We’re a duo, and our audience awaits.
Tamara hatefully handles the Crystal Beach memorabilia. Instead of fanning the postcards out like a poker dealer she makes a protest of dropping them to randomly scatter across the floor, then walking on them as she takes a seat. Etta hisses her disapproval in my throat, a growl that hushes the crowd. The postcards float up and hang in the air—suspended long enough for the people in the inner circle to all witness—before they settle. Dr Jaguar Tongue pushes his way to the front with his camera. He slides his long, tan body into the tight spot beside Tamara, and her unbelievably bitchy face grows even more irked.
If Jaguar’s camera can indeed capture ghosts, the forthcoming photos will show Etta on my back. Not ghostly slight, but lead-loaded. Fierce as a Lake Erie derecho. She bears down and brings me to my knees. People scream. Will I ever get used to all this screaming? But not one of them comes to help me up. When I try to stand, Etta knocks me down again. The photos will show Etta pressing my face to the floor, working her fingers into my mouth. Her tongue in my left ear. She wants. Wants. Please, don’t be so rough, Etta!
“I want,” she makes me say. Her words kick and wind me. “I want.” Etta, whatever it is I’ll do it. Please, don’t hurt me.
Tamara apes my name. Maybe she comes to me. Maybe she’s holding me now. Yanking my arms.
“I want the locket. Who is carrying the locket?” I spit drool onto the altar. I’ve torn the dahlia bouquet into an eyesore of pink petals. The candles are nothing but smashed warm wax. “Bring it to me, now.”
The gathering unblocks a path for a stranger to come forward. I see Jaguar urge Tamara out of the way of his camera’s view. I see flashbulbs as the stranger hastily unbuttons the side pocket of his cargo pants and digs out a tarnished necklace. He wipes his hand on his pants afterward, as if he’s just passed me something dirty. The locket is cold. Unprompted, the brass chain swings in small circles like a pendulum. One side is painted in enameled flowers—daisies and daffodils. The other is cracked glass—a lock of black hair tied with a red ribbon pressed inside.
I’ve been looking for this.
Etta lets go of my voice, not my mind. “This locket has a lot of affection attached to it,” I say. Her elation is my elation. Her questions are my questions. “But this isn’t yours, is it? How did you get it?”
The stranger’s brow furrows. “No, it doesn’t belong to me.” He glances uncomfortably at the crowd, turns to slink away. And I want to let him disappear, this limp-gaited man. I want to watch the threadbare seat of his pants walk off without a ghostly brawl. He’s not interested in a monologue, not like the others. He’s not looking to transform his misery into a show. I place the locket on the altar and move on.
But Etta wants him to wait. She has me say, “You haven’t forgotten your story, have you? Come.” I lead the stranger to the funhouse mirror. Every night, Etta uses my voice and limbs, but she’s never made me touch another person before. She’s never pulled anyone but me to the mirror. The stranger’s back is cold sweat and seems to beg “mercy” from each of my five fingers. We stand before the swerved glass. Can he see Etta too? Her red-painted mouth drawn horror-show wide. Her mouth is my mouth. Her whims are my words.
“You were no more than a newborn in a buggy when you first visited Crystal Beach Park. Your pop and uncles all worked at the Opus Steel plant in Port Colborne. Union picnickers. The good old days. It was the plant’s annual picnic brought you to Crystal Beach.” The stranger tries to take a step back. Etta and I hold him in place.
“Remember how excited you got every year on that fateful evening when your pop came home with Park tickets? Like winning the children’s lottery. You could ride the swings or bumper cars all day while the adults played beach volleyball or sunbathed.
“As a young man, you got a job as a ride operator. The plant didn’t work out, did it? Hard labour, Opus Steel. Who wants that kind of hard living? The burn in your nostrils. The backache. The heat rash. The hearing loss. Not for you, no sir.” The stranger grows pallid. His cheeks puff out a few times like he might vomit. In the mirror, I see Etta’s arms around his waist. He flinches and trembles. Are you really touching him, Etta. Are you inside him? You said only me. You only touch me!
“At the end of the day, you ride operators made a game of scouring the ground and the lower tracks for things people had dropped. Coins, purses, wallets, jewellery, hats. You turned it all in to Lost and Found, of course. Right? Well, most of it.” This circle is different. We’re not a double act. She’s not talking to me, only through me. Etta, what’s so special about this locket? Talk to me.
“There was a sundog the afternoon you found the locket. The line of people waiting for the Cyclone all faced the sky, pointing up. You spotted something else. In one swift and unnoticed move, you jumped off the platform and scooped the locket into your pocket.
“You slept with it under your pillow and dreamt of a girl in a red floral dress dancing alone. Twirling so her dress flew up to reveal her stockings.
“The locket came to you on a Saturday. By Tuesday hand-made posters were tacked to telephone poles near the Park. The poster claimed the locket was priceless. Priceless, imagine that. How valuable a thing must be to be called priceless.” I clutch him with both hands. The flesh under his shirt grows hot. I don’t want to be twisting his skin like we are. Etta, we’re hurting him. “Twice you called the phone number listed, only to quickly hang up.”
Let go. He doesn’t want this. “She became a part of you. Her recurring appearances in your dreams grew more captivating and maddening each night. When she told you her name, she became your private testament that an inconceivable ‘more’ existed.”
“Etta,” the stranger says.
Etta. Someone else besides me can name her.
Her name calls her out. The entire crowd sees her. In what exact form, I don’t know, but however she appears to them, she sends them running. Mass nonsensical whooping movements. Many hurtle the gazebo railing. Many more waterfall over each other down the stairs. Some run on the spot, the worn wood floorboards slipping under their feet, like Hanna-Barbera cartoons, like Shaggy and Scooby fleeing a masked villain. Etta is delighted, buoyant. See me and run! Finally, I can stand up straight, her weight off my back. Even the locket feels lighter in my left hand. I see it with my own, unaltered eyes. Is this a lock of your hair, Etta?
This locket is what I was missing, Dollface. Something to prove I was here. Me. Not just the roller coaster and the dance hall. But Me. Me. Me. I was a part of it. Etta Zinn. Etta Zinn was here.
Jaguar is snapping photos and photos and photos. The clang and ache is clearing from my head, and I think, what would it be like to punch such a handsome square jawline?
Etta Zinn died here. And my name died with me. My name.
She becomes very angry again.