The Ferris wheel comes to a halt with a lurch and I am at the absolute top, the chair swaying from the sudden stop. The kids in the other chairs are laughing and pointing around and I am above them, above everything else. I look down at the people strolling below. A blue balloon breaks free, slipping from a child’s hand, coming up, passing by almost as if I could reach out and grab it—wouldn’t that be nice, rescuing a balloon for a child crying down below?
I look toward the street and spot a brown van parked near the entrance. The van sparks a dim memory I can’t pin down. A man stands outside the van with a portable telephone at his ear. I have seen that van before. I have seen it, but where? The knowledge explodes in my mind. On the street next to Eric’s aunt’s house, the van that the reporter back in Wickburg had pointed out to me, a surveillance van. They’re keeping tabs on him. I see clearly now what is happening. They have set a trap for Eric.
“Let me down,” I call to the operator, leaning precariously out of the chair as it swings, but my voice is lost in all the noise.
I yell louder and louder, but my voice doesn’t carry over the crazy tinny music and the happy cries and laughter of the children. The guy with the popcorn two chairs below sees me and laughs, probably thinking that the height has panicked me, and he is very amused. I call down again and this time my voice is loud, in a sudden silence between the ending of the song and the beginning of a new one.
“Let me down. It’s important. Please.”
I hear my voice and the urgency in it and so does the operator, but he looks up and smiles as if he’s enjoying my predicament.
Four men are emerging from the van. They are dressed in ordinary work clothes but I am sure they are cops. One of them is an old man, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he hurries to keep up with the others.
“Please,” I cry desperately, looking down again, and the operator frowns, uncertain now. The children begin yelling and I stand up, losing my balance, struggle to regain it.
“Don’t do anything crazy,” the guy with the popcorn yells.
A hush falls over the Ferris wheel as if everyone has taken a deep breath. I cling to one of the wires supporting the chair. In the silence, the voice of the popcorn guy breaks through:
“Let her down, for Christ’s sake.”
Bowing his head, the operator starts the Ferris wheel moving again. I see the men from the van entering the park.
Eric and the Señorita stood in a clearing in the woods, away from the heat and the tumult of the carnival, the Señoritas hand in his hand, her hip brushing his hip. He’d offered to carry the picnic basket but she’d demurred. “A woman carries the food,” she said, a throwback, he supposed, to her upbringing. Which pleased him: a girl, a woman, who knew her place in the world.
She asked, “Why is your hand so cold.…?”
Eric was caught by surprise, not aware that his hand was either hot or cold, dry or sweating.
“Well, not cold exactly but not warm, either,” she amended, smiling, the white teeth contrasted with the dusky skin, her black hair swirling, her voice intimate.
No apology necessary, he thought, smiling back at her, the shy wistful smile, sweetness pumping through his body like the first taste of chocolate when he was a little kid. Seeing her up close now, he realized that she was older than she’d looked from across the cafeteria at the facility, and her makeup heavy.
“This is a nice quiet place,” she said, looking around. Grass at their feet, thick bushes and undergrowth surrounding the spot.
“No picnic table, but we can eat later,” she said, placing the basket on the grass and stretching her arms, reaching up to the sky but looking at him with those dark eyes.
The carnival music dim in the distance, the spot where they stood was hushed in silence, shadowed by tall trees.
He looked at her, tenderness in his glance, and the excitement began to grow inside him. He had waited so long for this moment, the Señorita and himself alone at last, his heart beginning to accelerate and juices gathering in his mouth, making it difficult for him to swallow. She dropped to the ground, gracefully, like a flower petal, head resting against the picnic basket, her face raised to his, a hint of pink tongue between her lips.
His fingers twitched beyond his control. He went toward her, discarding all thought, all risks, all caution, plunging into the intimacy of the moment and all it promised.
“Eric!”
He heard his name like an echo in his brain, distant, a small irritation he shook off, not wanting to spoil this moment. He bent to the Señorita, open for him now, arms and face upraised.
“Eric!”
Again that voice, the intrusion, no longer distant as if from a dream but closer now, urgent, fracturing the intimacy. He heard the crackle of tree branches and the rustle of bushes being pushed aside. Then:
“Don’t!”
The word like a blunt instrument striking him, causing him to halt, as if caught in midair.
Instantly he stilled, went from heat to cold, heart stopped, legs rigid.
“Don’t touch her.”
The girl’s voice was close by now, and in a moment she burst out of the woods into clear view, hair wild, gasping:
“It’s a trap, Eric. The cops … they’re here … everywhere.…”
A moan escaped from him, and he looked down to see Maria Valdez grabbing the picnic basket, holding it in front of her like a shield as she scuttled away, lips tight and thin over her teeth, no longer the Señorita, all allure gone, all attraction vanished.
Before he could move and get out of this place, old Lieutenant Proctor, pushing aside branches, breathing heavily, stepped into the clearing, followed by three men who were obviously cops. One cop spoke with hushed voice into a portable telephone. The old lieutenant regarded Eric balefully, lips curled in distaste.
Eric’s blood pulsed in his temples, his cheeks flooding with warmth. She betrayed me. He looked around wildly, felt trapped. Had never been trapped before. Had always been in control. Facing the lieutenant now, he tried to fix the old smile on his face, The Charm, but his lips were stiff, like plastic. He tried to wet his lips with his tongue but his mouth was dry.
“Still the monster, aren’t you, Eric?” the old cop said, his voice heavy with contempt.
Eric swallowed hard, had to say something, had to gain control.
“Sticks and stones,” he finally replied, relieved that he could speak, could find words to answer the old cop. “Names mean nothing to me, Lieutenant.” But wanted to say, I’m not a monster. Monsters come out of the woods at night, lurk in cemeteries, prowl the dark for victims. I’m Eric Poole. My, isn’t he a sweet little boy, Mrs. Poole?
“He didn’t do anything,” the girl said, stepping toward the old cop defiantly, still out of breath, hair disheveled, but defiant.
The lieutenant directed his attention at her. “Obstructing justice, miss,” he said. “You could be in a lot of trouble. Underage and a runaway.”
“She didn’t do anything, either,” Eric offered, confidence returning as the girl looked gratefully at him.
Ignoring him, the old cop told her, “We can turn you over to the DYS, they deal with kids. For your own protection.” Nodding to Eric, meaning: protection from him. His voice more kindly, he said, “Or we can arrange to have you go home. Where you belong …”
Without warning, the girl bolted, moving suddenly, as if fired from a rocket, crashing recklessly through the bushes, falling to one knee, regaining balance, bounding out of sight.
“Get her,” the lieutenant snapped, and two of the cops set out in pursuit.
The lieutenant turned away from Eric, lit a cigarette, holding the match with cupped fingers. The carnival music grew loud in the gathering dusk, as if someone had turned up the volume.
“I’m free to go, right, Lieutenant?” Eric said, unable to hide the taunting in his voice.
“You can go, Eric. But you’re not free. You’ll never be free.…”
Shaking
his head, Eric said, “You never give up, do you? You’ve got me all wrong. I haven’t touched that girl. I’ve been taking care of her. I’m going to take her home.…”
The two cops returned, flushed and out of breath. “Couldn’t find her anywhere, Lieutenant,” the telephone cop said. “She could be hiding in a thousand places in these woods.…”
“Better see that she stays safe, Eric,” the old cop warned. “Anything happens to her and that’s the end. Even if her body doesn’t turn up.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Eric said.
The old lieutenant looked older than ever now, if that was possible, his face like a death mask Eric had seen once in a horror movie.
He surprised himself by almost feeling sorry for the old cop, then remembered what the lieutenant had called him.
I’m not that, Eric thought.
Turning away, he said nothing, not even goodbye.
The big white hat was perched precariously on her head, and she held it in place with her hand as the wind gusted, rocking the canoe a bit, the waves lapping at the edges. She exulted in the tossing of the wind, the movement of the canoe, the rippling waves, smiling, giggling at times.
“Isn’t this beautiful?” she said. Like a little girl at a party.
Eric smiled, enjoying the sight of her. He was still in the glow of his escape from Lieutenant Proctor and his team of cops, recalling the frustration and disappointment on the old cop’s face, and the dismay and disgust of the others, the resentment in their eyes as they turned away from him. Eric’s triumph, of course, was tainted—the glorious moment with the traitor he’d called the Señorita spoiled and gone forever.
The girl had finally turned up hours later as he sat waiting in the van. He knew she’d show up eventually, figured that she’d hidden in the woods until the coast was clear. Long after the carnival had ceased operating, the lingering crowds dispersed, the amusement rides still and silent, she had crept out of the woods, weary and rumpled, face smudged, hair limp and moist. “I’m a mess,” she declared, crawling into the van.
“Thank you,” Eric said, the words almost sticking in his throat. He had never spoken those particular words to anyone in a meaningful way. No one had ever done anything to deserve them. “You were—fine,” he said, the compliment startling him even as he spoke. Yet he knew the truth of the word. Without the girl’s intervention, he would have been caught in the act, under arrest somewhere, not in a youth facility this time but in a prison.
They had not gone to a motel last night but found a deserted area off the highway, near a meandering brook. The girl spent the night in the sleeping bag while he lay a short distance away, wrapping himself in a blanket as the night air grew cold. He didn’t really sleep, the ground hard beneath him, his senses alert, his body tense. He listened to the night sounds, the occasional throb of a car from the highway, small scurryings in the woods, the noise of insects that he couldn’t identify.
A new sound reached him, and he looked up to see the girl approaching, dragging the sleeping bag behind her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I thought this would be fun, but it’s spooky out here.”
She was beautiful in the moonlight, her hair silver, her face like a pale cameo his mother had worn Sundays. But she was not dark like Maria Valdez and the others. She evoked gentleness in him, a desire to protect her even from the noises of the night. He wondered, Is there something wrong with me?
“Sleep next to me,” he said.
She slipped into the sleeping bag and he curled up beside her and heard her soft sleeping noises after a while.
Early this afternoon she had spotted a sign proclaiming MIRROR LAKE—SWIMMING, BOATING, PICNIC TABLES. A FAMILY PLACE.
“Let’s stop,” she said. “Please, please …”
He did not resist her pleas. He needed a place to pause, to make his plans. And he owed her a few minutes of pleasure.
She frolicked on the beach, dashing into the water now and then, having rolled her shorts impossibly high on her thighs. After a while a young girl joined her, splashing her legs and running away, then coming back again. She was like a child herself, chasing the little girl, whooping, while the girl’s family smiled their approval. Other families were spread out on blankets.
He watched the girl absently, his thoughts moving toward the future. The future as near as tomorrow. He had to plan his next move. He knew that Lieutenant Proctor was smarter and more subtle than he had given him credit for, and wondered whether the old cop had more tricks up his sleeve, more traps to be sprung.
He had to start over. Get rid of the van. Send the girl home. Had to get out of New England and go as far away as possible. Grow a beard, shave his head—do something to disguise himself.
The girl stood before him, gesturing toward the lake where an old man and a child passed by in a canoe.
“Take me for a canoe ride,” she said.
“No, it’s getting late. You can’t swim.”
“They rent life jackets along with the canoe. Please, Eric. Why did you buy me that hat if you didn’t want to take me out on the water?”
“I didn’t buy you a canoe—I bought you a hat.”
Thinking that sounded clever. Surprised he’d suddenly made a kind of joke.
“It’ll be romantic,” she said. “Like the movies …”
They rented a canoe and a life jacket for her.
He had been instructed in canoeing during a week at summer camp when he was twelve or thirteen and had no trouble remembering the routine. The girl settled down at the far end in her white hat, her hand trailing in the water, like the girl they’d watched two days ago.
The afternoon turned into evening as they cruised the lake, near the shore at first. Then venturing further out. The effort of paddling reminded him that he had not exercised at all since leaving the facility. He had to get in shape again, begin a routine of working out, jogging. His arm muscles ached. He rested, letting the canoe drift. The girl stared dreamily at the water.
I love the breeze on my face, the smell of the air and the water, never realized that water actually has a smell to it, clean and fresh, and Eric is handsome as he paddles the canoe, shifting the paddle from one side to another, and I half-close my eyes, squinting at him, and he looks at me with an expression on his face that I can’t really pin down—I search for a word and come up with an old-fashioned one that nobody uses anymore but you read it in stories. Fondly. He looks at me fondly. I know that the look doesn’t have love in it. Or even lust. I still wonder about love or sex or lust. I saw lust in his eyes when he looked at that girl on the sidewalk. That same lust when he spoke about Maria Valdez. I love him, anyway. I love him because he’s kind to me and he doesn’t want my body, doesn’t want to feel me or touch me, like all the others—old Mr. Stuyvesant and the guy at Aud-Vid Land and Dexter and even Gary—and maybe after a while he might look at me with more than fondness, will kiss me sweetly, tenderly.
I feel so free here in the canoe. I want to shout it to the world. I want to get rid of this life jacket, too tight across my top, digging into my shoulder blades, want to stand up and yell, Look at me. I’m Lori Cranston.…
As he gazed absently at the girl, thinking how little it took to make her happy—a few new clothes at a store, a canoe ride—she began to take off her life jacket.
“What are you doing?” he asked, amazed at her capacity to catch him by surprise.
“It’s too tight,” she said. “I want to feel free.” Slipping out of the jacket, letting it drop to the floor of the canoe. “There, that’s better.…” Stretching, luxuriating, raising her face to the sky, the white hat perched precariously on her head.
She got to her feet, flinging her arms outward, calling to the wind, the sky, the water. “I’m Lori Cranston, queen of the sea. The happiest girl in the world …”
The canoe rocked dangerously beneath them.
“Sit down,” h
e ordered, alarm in his voice. “Please sit down.” As she was about to reply, she lost her balance, her arms flailing the air, her hat taken by the wind and flung away like a huge white bird that had forgotten how to fly. As she swiveled around, trying to regain control, she was swooped away as if by invisible hands and plopped into the water, arms grappling at air, panic flashing in her eyes, as she disappeared from view. The canoe wobbled, almost overturned.
Instinctively, without thought, he dived into the water, shocked by the sudden cold, knifing below the surface, trying to focus, saw her struggling frantically. He reached for her but she began to sink, as if in slow motion, her mouth agape, eyes wild with fright. He dipped, grabbed at her, clutched her fiercely. She kicked against him, then grabbed at him, her hands finding his shoulders, then his throat. He felt himself strangling, fought to break loose but needing to keep her in his grasp. She held on, frenzied, and they both sank lower. Needing air, he pushed for the surface, and she suddenly lost all resistance, ceasing to struggle, rising, rising with him.
They broke through the surface, and he gasped for breath, sweet air rushing into his lungs. She coughed, sputtered, eyes wild, still clutching him. He reached for the canoe for support, found it had overturned, flung one arm around it, holding the girl with the other.…
God, I was drowning, Eric, terrified, dying, you saved me.… I love you … love me, Eric …