A Carnival
Once we got over the shock of our secret fort being not-secret, there was nothing to do but get over it. Why? Because we were hungry, and there was all that food.
“Unless—unless it’s poisoned,” I said. Boy those chocolate bars looked good. “Or there could be razor blades in those apples,” I added.
Winky raised his magnifier and studied everything that was in the cooler. Then he picked up one of the apples and bravely took a bite.
“Nope,” he said. “Good apple.”
That was all I needed to hear. “Well, this is my kind of mystery,” I said. I was right about the chocolate.
We ate till we were stuffed, and we didn’t even get to the bottom of the cooler. Everything was nice and peaceful. We went back to digging. Then Winky had to go and ruin it.
“What about a dunk tank?” said Winky.
“What about a dunk tank?”
“You know, to make money and pay the mortgage.”
Oh yeah, the mortgage. It had been so nice, forgetting all about the one hundred and three dollars and eighty-seven cents for two whole seconds. But Winky was right.
Days left to get the money: ten.
Ideas for getting the money: zero.
“It’s too chilly for a dunk tank,” I said. I found an old Popsicle stick from way last summer in my sweatshirt pocket, and I stuck it in the ground beside the other little twigs in a ring around the tiny sprout. Maybe a big tree would grow.
“Maybe we’ll find buried treasure, right here,” Winky said. “That really would be unexpected.”
“Also, it would be stealing,” I said.
“Yeah. I guess.” Winky dragged his stick around and made an X in the dirt. “Hey, what about people pay us to put on their little kids’ birthday parties?” he said.
“We’d have to wait for somebody’s birthday. We need something we can do right now.”
“What about a carnival?”
A carnival was a great idea. I could just about feel the money in my pocket already. “Wicked.”
It wasn’t a carnival, so much as a single game. It turns out a carnival is really hard work for two people. We spent most of Saturday planning, and all we came up with was a ball-toss.
Sunday morning was mild and sunny, more than half-decent for March. I set a bunch of empty cut-off milk cartons all in a row in the parking lot of the House of Harmony Church and waited for Winky to come out the big doors. Grandpa never took me to church. He said Grandma used to drag him to Sunday service, and when she went to heaven, he never had to go to church anymore, and that was the one good thing about her passing. When he said this, he sounded wicked crabby. A get-out-of-church-free pass was a very poor prize, considering. Anyway, we planned on snaring the after-service, pre-coffee business of generous church-type folk.
Each contestant stood at a chalk line, and tossed a baseball, trying to land a ball in a carton. At first it was too easy and we had to give out a prize right off the bat. (We’d bought a bag of balloons, and when some little Sunday school kid got a ball in, Winky blew up a balloon and tied a length of string to it and handed it to her. She walked away dragging the balloon behind her bump… bump… bump and I have to say it looked pretty sad.)
After that we drew the line a lot farther away.
“What are you kids raising money for?” asked Reverend Smith. I did not want to talk about me paying the mortgage. Everybody knows it’s inappropriate to discuss family finances in public. Also, here came Mrs. Blyth-Barrow across the parking lot. After that weird meeting we’d had, I didn’t want her to pay me too much attention. Even though I had been washing my face every night hard enough to scrub all the freckles off, and even though I’d been trying to work out the knots in my hair, she still might “take steps.”
“Charity-college.” Winky and I spoke as one, but different words.
We looked at each other.
“Church,” I said, and Winky said, “Children.” I elbowed him.
“Blind children,” he said, putting on just the right pathetic touch, I thought.
Everything was going well, and we hadn’t had to give out any more sad balloons, when the game drew what I think they call in the carnival business, first blood.
Bubba Davis was at the line, and instead of tossing the baseball underhand, all reasonable, he let loose a slurve. Maybe it was a two-seamed fastball. Some kind of fast, hard throw, anyway, right when Becky Schenck happened to cross behind the cartons sing-songing at me, “He-ey, Bril—”
Whack!
Becky’s hands flew to her face and she started screaming.
Mrs. B-B thundered up. “Violence,” she said, shooting a look at me, “is never the answer.”
“She walked in front of the ball!” I said.
Mrs. B-B tut-tutted and tossed her head. Her yellow hair crested like a wave on a rough day at Pickerel Pond.
“Gaaha,” Becky groaned.
Mrs. B-B’s hair ebbed. “Becckkhkky,” she gargled, “let’s get you inside the parish hall at once and see to”—she curled her lip at the gooey blood beneath Becky’s nostrils and circled her hand before her face—“that business.”
Becky Schenck moaned again.
Winky stuck his face a little too close to Becky’s in order to eyeball the injury. Becky hissed “Tsssgitawayyy,” flapped her bloodied hands, and drew back her neck like a Canada goose.
Mrs. B-B put an arm around Becky Schenck’s shoulders and started to walk her away. “There, there, Becky,” she said, nice and soothing. “Your nose will never be the same. I once worked as a scout for a modeling agency, so I should know. Head up and away, dear,” she added, “this sweater is angora-blend. And you, Josephine Bloom!” She shot back over her shoulder, “I’ll be calling a meeting, you can count on that!” before turning back to Becky. “Angora-blend, Becky. Gahh! Angora-blend!”
After that, Winky and I packed up the game and counted our money. Seven dollars, minus the balloons, and we’d probably have to give it to Mrs. Blyth-Barrow to pay for her dry cleaning.