Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [102]
“Come on.” I helped her stand and held on to her while the blood rushed to her head. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
We walked down Bob’s dirt trail to the airplane hangar. He rolled out the bike and I straddled it. It was an older Honda 250cc. He said, “You know how to ride these things?”
“I didn’t always paint.”
“Good. Third gear sticks, so pull hard.”
I cranked it, and gave it some gas. It backfired, spat white smoke out the muffler, then quieted and purred. He thumbed off the choke. “Give her a minute and she’ll warm up.” Abbie threw a leg over, pressed her chest to my back and leaned on me, wrapping her arms around my waist.
She whispered, “I’m wiiiiith yewww.”
The clock was ticking.
I patted her on the thigh, eased off the clutch and followed Bob’s taillight through the night. We swerved through soft sand down dirt roads, crossed a hard road and then down a wider dirt road that was lined with a ditch on either side. The lights of the Ferris wheel turned counterclockwise across the treetops in the distance. We came through a tall stand of old pines, probably thirty-plus years old and then turned right, into a grass lot where most of the grass had been replaced with mud. Four-wheel-drive trucks sitting on top of mud tires that were four feet tall, bookended by chest-high bumpers and capped with silver roll bars, dominated the parking lot. Most were circled by kids holding a cigarette in one hand and an aluminum can or spit cup in the other.
The carnival was closed but either nobody had bothered tell the kids or they didn’t really care. We rode around the trucks, through the gate and down a long row of booths vacant of people.
Trash, most of which had been heeled into the ground, was strewn from one end to the other. It reminded me of Templeton in Charlotte’s Web.
We rounded a corner, Bob stopped and leaned his bike against the side of a trailer. A short, squatty man with little beady eyes and a hat that covered most of his face walked out of the shadows next to the carousel. I heeled down the kickstand while Bob helped Abbie slide off the seat. Bob might be gruff, may even tend to push people away with his callous exterior, but there was a deep tenderness about him. Abbie felt it, too. She leaned on him while she caught her balance.
Bob spoke to the little man in Spanish. When he finished, the man looked around Bob, tilted his hat back and waved us closer. “You want to ride my carousel?” His Mexican accent was thick.
“Yes.”
He extended his hand. “Mi llamo es Gomez.”
“Doss. And my wife, Abbie.”
Behind him stood what looked like a very old carousel. He waved his hand across it. “Dentzel, 1927. My pride and joy. Two rows, forty horses.” He flicked a switch behind him and ten thousand lightbulbs lit half the county around us. He stood aside and waved at his horses, “Take your pick.”
Abbie looped her arm in mine and we shuffled like an old married couple toward the horses. Her steps were slower, shorter, more uncertain. Her heels dragged the ground. I helped her up the steps, and she walked between the horses. Each horse’s name had been painted across its saddle: Fancy, Dreamer, Spicy, Flame, Untouched, Wild Angel, El Camino. Abbie walked alongside each, stroking their wooden manes. She ran her hands along the windswept tails, the thick manes, then grasped the pole that connected their head to the ceiling and the feet to the floor. Finally, she chose Windswept.
The horse had no stirrup, so I formed one with my hand. Fortunately, Windswept had ended his last ride closer to the floor than the ceiling. Abbie swung her leg over and I lifted her into the saddle. She sat gently, one hand on the neck and mane, and one hand on me. I stood alongside and nodded to Gomez. He thumbed his cigarette, pushed a button and the music started. The he slowly palmed a lever forward and we began the slow circle.
Windswept slid up