Nightmare Carnival

“I know,” said Maybell, barely able to speak. She motioned for me to draw closer, and I leaned in. “Hibbler told me it was that face on the back of your head. They felt some kind of kinship for it.”

I wasn’t sure whether to thank her for that, but my other me did.

SWAN SONG AND THEN SOME by Dennis Danvers

Alexandra’s explaining her act to me. “It’s only when I know I’m going to die that I can sing that song, hear the changes, hit the notes, and hold them. I can’t explain it. Maybe there are certain emotions only set free at the time of death, some silenced anguish finally given voice. I don’t know. It just wells up inside me. Whatever it is, it’s not a trick, Orlando. I die. I can’t sing the song otherwise.”

Basically, she sings a few songs well enough for a beautiful woman in a seedy carnival, swinging back and forth on a line like a hypnotist’s watch, then she’s hoisted to the top of our tiny big top that sat mostly empty until Alexandra came along. Her final song begins as she ascends, the most incredible a cappella performance you’ve ever heard, sung in what may or may not be a language, like an aria from another planet, intricate and moving — you can’t help becoming lost in it even though you’ve been told she is going to drop to her death at the song’s end — when she hits a crystalline sustained note of such heartbreaking beauty the crowd gasps. I’ve never heard it fail. Every soul in that tent is riveted to her voice as sure as Jesus was nailed to the cross. She holds the note still as she plummets, until it’s cut short in full voice by the sound of her body smacking onto tarmac, sometimes concrete, sometimes earth. We take whatever parking lot we can. We can’t afford to be choosy. Just when everyone who hasn’t heard what happens next has jammed every 911 switchboard for miles around, she springs, well, staggers to her feet and finishes the note, not quite as crystalline, not quite as beautiful, then bows and lurches to her trailer where nobody better come near for a couple of hours or so. She emerges looking as she looks now, so beautiful you want to believe anything she says, but in my case, wanting to know the trick.

Singing isn’t something I’m interested in learning — though I’ll gladly listen — but resurrection, that’s another matter. Alexandra dies but comes back to life. I appear to be alive but died inside years ago. Alexandra woke me from my slumber, one of those deep slumbers you think you’ll never wake from, because what’s the point? She found me working on a clogged cotton candy machine and asked if I was Orlando, because that’s who she’d been told to talk to for a job, though technically that would be Sam, the owner, who’s always too high to trust his own judgment and defers to mine. When she asked, I wanted to say I’m whoever you want me to be, but I only managed, “You got him.” Been true ever since.

Alexandra probably thought my reaction meant I was just another guy who wanted to fuck her, which I suppose I was, am. Men dream about women like Alexandra. Who wouldn’t want to make love to her? Wilbur, who keeps the ancient rides running, vehemently claims he wouldn’t, even proselytizes on the subject. At the peak of the season, Alexandra dies and comes back to life seven days a week and twice on Sunday. Wilbur believes fucking a woman like that just might kill you, and he doesn’t want to find out.

He’s not the only one who feels that way, apparently, only the most vocal. I’ve seen more than one new hand set his sights on Alexandra, only to abruptly drop his pursuit after witnessing her act for the first time. Some quit the carnival outright, as if they’ve dodged a bullet and don’t want to tempt fate any further. Not that the braver or less squeamish have any more success. She’ll have nothing to do with any of us romantically.

Just as well. It’s hard enough watching her die as her friend. As her lover I’m sure I couldn’t bear it. We go for long walks together, manage to talk for hours without revealing too much of our pasts — books, movies, the morning sky — how we feel about anything that matters but without the usual stories to explain what landed us in the same lifeboat, adrift. Nobody ever dreamed of being part of Sam’s Carnival of Dreams, not even Sam. Alexandra and I picnic on the banks of whatever water presents itself — river, lake, park pond — and I ache with unspoken love for her. Once my love would’ve been something to offer, I suppose. Not anymore. It comes with too many fuckups and regrets, not to mention a few warrants for my arrest and even more lawsuits.

If I thought for a moment she was the least bit interested, I’d forget what a bad deal I am, but for now I just try to be her friend. She doesn’t want anyone to love her. I know exactly how that feels, but sometimes what you want and what you feel aren’t the same.