Nightmare Carnival

Her chatter’s girlish, as if age is a mask that can be stripped away.

“It’s not vanity. It’s feeling out of step with the world that bothers me.” Betty talks without pause. “I don’t understand young people. They’re so ambitious but they don’t seem to enjoy life. Do you have children?”

“Pardon?” Her sudden question wrong foots him.

“Children?”

“A daughter. She’s thirty.”

“Does that help you to understand them?”

“No,” he laughs, then realizes how he’s been sidetracked. “Thanks for finally agreeing to see me.”

“I don’t like journalists.” She takes off her sunglasses. She doesn’t even look at his birthmark. There was a time when that would’ve thrilled him.

“I’m not a journalist. I’m a historian.”

“Historian?” She slips the glasses back on.

“I was a lecturer. I retired last year. I sent you the book I wrote, The Firebrand.”

“Oh, that. I didn’t read it. And I told you years ago, on the phone, what I know about Rebecca.”

Betty’s dog has been sniffing at him. It’s a broad-chested boxer with an air of stubborn loyalty. Satisfied, it sits at Betty’s feet. Henry can see his own reflection in her dark lenses.

“The official version of events is wrong.”

“It was an accident.” The girlishness has gone.

“Rebecca took revenge for Christos’s murder.”

He leaves her with that incendiary while he takes a sip of lemonade. It’s too sharp for his taste.

“Good luck with that idea.” She leans over and pats his hand in a way that offends him. “See yourself out.”

She gets up and goes in.

The dog escorts Henry to the gate. On a sudden impulse Henry says, “Sam.”

The dog’s tail thumps the concrete slabs and then it gets up and trots on the spot, excited at this sudden familiarity.

Rebecca named it after a dog she had as a kid. She said every dog she’d had since was named after it.

Henry goes back up to the house and stands on the porch, blinded for a moment by stepping from light to dark. Sam goes ahead through the open door, claws clipping on the wooden floor.

Henry listens. There’s the whirl of a fan and a radio. He goes inside.

“Rebecca?”

Betty’s there. Waiting.

“Nobody’s called me that in a long time.”

Two walnut cases. One their mother’s and the other their father’s, each containing a pair of guns. They are the Saunderis legacy and they make Leo queasy with horrid fascination. He’s never more afraid than when one’s in his hand.

These guns fed and clothed us when we first came to this country. Never sell them. You’ll always have a living.

“It’s not too late. I can do a single-bullet catch.”

Christos is pale and excited, on the cusp of imagined glory that will somehow make him whole.

“No. We’re doing this.”

“I think we should make it an even more special night. Announce that you and Rollo are going to be partners afterward. What do you think?”

“I can’t wait. You should’ve seen his face when I was coming in on the business.”

“You told him?”

“Just about me. I was teasing him. Can you imagine how happy he’ll be when he realizes it’s the three of us?”

“You shouldn’t joke with Rollo like that. He’s touchy. I wonder why he never said anything. And why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry. I was preoccupied with this. Don’t worry. It’ll make it a bigger surprise for him.”

They are at the side of the stage. Rollo’s out front, warming up the audience.

“You both look wonderful,” Rebecca says as she joins them. They’re wearing tailcoats and starched shirts. Then to Christos, “I love you. I won’t love you any less if you call it off.”

Christos silences her with a full-mouthed kiss.

Then Rebecca puts a hand on Leo’s chest, over his heart.

“Promise you’ll look after him.”

“I promise.” A life of promises to women, Leo thinks.

It’s time. Brothers stand side by side.

“Remember you’re not aiming for my head,” Christos jokes.

There’s a roar as they run on. The spotlights fly about and then settle on them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome!” Leo’s voice booms through the tent that’s been arranged with a stage at one end. Care’s been taken about the positioning of the benches. Nothing puts off punters like a stray bullet into the crowd. Even a painted wax bullet can kill a man.

Leo lowers his voice to draw the audience in.

“What you’re about to see has only been done four times. The last performance was by myself and my mother,” he pauses to give her back her proper name, “the famous Lilia Saunderis.”

It’s Christos’s turn.

“People have died doing bullet catches. My brother and I will perform a double-bullet catch for one night only. You’re going to witness history, a feat performed twice by one family!”

Leo steps up.

“We’re trained professionals. Don’t repeat this at home. If you’re of a nervous disposition we advise that you leave now.”

Rebecca brings out a single case. She’s dressed as the Firebrand. Her costume glints in the light. Leo’s chosen his mother’s guns.