Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (11 page)

At least he shoots straight,
I thought,
and it might be good to take Tyrone somewhere to get his mind off his grandmother.

“We’ve already eaten supper, so we’ll pass on the corndog, but when Tyrone comes out of the shower, I’ll ask him if he’d like to ride out for a short time. I’ll call you back and let you know. Will that be okay?”

“Perfect! And if you’ve already had dinner, we can have a little dessert. You know—like elephant ears, candied apples, cotton candy, deep fried candy bars, chocolate covered bacon—or anything you think you’d enjoy.”

Just then Tyrone came out of the bathroom, so I told Patel to hold on and called to Tyrone, “J. T. Patel, a friend of mine, has invited us to meet him at the fair. We wouldn’t be able to stay long, but do you want to go?”

Tyrone’s sad face said “no,” as he pulled his pockets inside-out, showing me that he had no money.

“You won’t need money.” My words brightened his face into a smile. I didn’t know if Patel would treat for everything, but I had enough in my purse to buy something to eat. I turned back to the telephone. “We’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

“Come to the front gate. I’ll meet you there.”

I postponed my shower but did change clothes. Who wants to go to the fair wearing a black dress and heels? Jeans and a red sweater should be comfortable, and a little extra inflation in my bra put a bounce in my step as well as my bosom. The rain had cooled off the night air, so I grabbed a jacket in case I needed it over the sweater.

8

“Sorry to hear about your grandmother,” was the first thing Patel said to Tyrone as he shook hands when I introduced them. “We may not have time to do everything you want, but we’ll try. What do you want to do first? Eat, play games, or go on rides?”

Tyrone beamed. “You really mean it?”

“Your choice unless Callie here has an objection.” Patel laughed and nodded toward me. “There aren’t any girly shows here, so we should be safe letting him choose anything he’d like to do.”

“Then let’s go through the barns and look at all the farm animals,” I teased. “After that, we can visit the exhibit buildings and check out all the prize-winning cakes and pies or jams and jellies.”

“She’s kidding,” Patel assured Tyrone. “Of course, we could go see all the quilts and paintings and stuff like that, but I think we should let this young man tell us what he wants to do.”

“Play games,” Tyrone said.

“It figures. Young men your age want to play games or ride the tallest, most dangerous rides.” He turned onto a sawdust covered walkway. “Come this way.”

I’ve loved carnivals, fairs, and circuses as long as I can remember. When I step through the gates to the fairground, my heart pounds with excitement. Sometimes it beats so hard and fast that I’m afraid I’ll pass out before I get to enjoy all the sights and sounds. I like the smells of foods we don’t eat anywhere but there. I’m not talking about cotton candy or popcorn. Not even those skinny French fries with vinegar or cheese sauce. Those are available lots of places these days, and corndogs, which used to be special, can be bought frozen at the grocery store and microwaved before swabbing mustard up and down them.

My favorite foods are the Polish sausages with peppers and onions like Jane had, and candied apples are good, but apples dipped in caramel and nuts are even better, and
nobody
does fried mushrooms like the folks at the fair.

The noise at fairs consists of happy sounds—music from the rides and voices calling, “Come on in.” Of course, that “come on in” is an invitation to spend money, but it’s fun. When I was a little girl, Daddy took me to the fair every year and told me, “Everything costs too much. You can’t win the games. The rides and food will give you a belly ache, but it’s so much fun that it’s worth the price. We’re paying for you to have a good time, so just enjoy it, and when we get low on funds, I’ll buy you a hat with your name embroidered on it before we go home.” Then, at the end, when we’d ridden and eaten all we could handle or afford, we’d argue whether to have the person with the sewing machine and that fancy thread that was yellow and blue and pink right after each other on the same spool embroider “Callie” or “Calamine” on my hat that year. I still have some of those hats in a drawer at Daddy’s house.

I’d want to stay a little longer and go into one of those “Amazing Freaks of Nature” tents, and Daddy would say, “Aw, Calamine, those are all fakes. The babies in jars are made out of rubber, but there are some people in real life who are different. When you do meet someone like that, remember to be kind.” I heard him tell my brother one night after I’d gone to bed that he didn’t want me to ever see those distorted babies in jars because it might make me have deformed babies when I grew up. My daddy looks like a redneck, but sometimes he thinks like a throw-back to some old, superstitious woman.

By the time I was old enough to go without Daddy, the fair that came to Jade County didn’t have freak shows anymore. The whole idea of anomalies fascinated me, but instead of seeing different people at the fair, I saw them on television’s
The Learning Channel,
and when I did see or meet people different from me, I treated them just like everyone else, which is a very good way for teachers to be. Jane says the success of our friendship since she moved back to St. Mary from the School for the Blind when we were in our early teens has been because I don’t treat her different because she’s not able to see
.

When I lived in Columbia, I’d gone to the South Carolina State Fair. Different attractions had different areas—kiddy rides like Merry Go Rounds in a designated spot, adult rides like the old Round-Up in another. The games had all been set up in a line between the kiddy rides and the side shows. The Jade County Fair was laid out the same way this year. Patel led us to a row of games.

At the booth with “Bushel Basket Balls” over it, the man wearing a pocketed apron motioned toward Tyrone from behind the counter.

“You can win this one. Come on in, and be a winner.

“That carny wants me to throw balls into the baskets,” Tyrone said and started toward the stand.

“Game agents,” Patel told him. “There’s nothing wrong with the word ‘carny,’ but they prefer to be called game agents. Come over here a minute.”

I stepped to the side with him and Tyrone. The game agent continued looking at Tyrone and promising that he could win this one easily and that if he didn’t, he could get all his money back and choose any one of the prizes hanging around the booth. I could see why Tyrone was interested in this game. The usual giant stuffed animals were mixed in with iPads and electric guitars.

“The Bushel Basket game,” Patel said, “works just like the Tubs of Fun we just passed. He’ll tell you that all you have to do is throw two balls into the basket and have them stay and not bounce out. Don’t aim at the center of the basket. Throw toward the back rim of the basket.”

“Yes, sir,” Tyrone looked happier than I’d seen him since Maum’s fall.

We stepped back to the game booth. Patel handed the game agent something—I couldn’t tell—was it rolled up money or a coupon? The man stuffed it into the pocket on his apron.

“All you have to do is get two balls to stay in the basket,” the agent told us. Tyrone aimed carefully and hit the back rim of the basket. The ball went in and stayed. He threw the next ball the same way, and it did the same thing.

“Good job,” the agent said, and handed Tyrone a tiny stuffed bear about four inches tall from beneath the counter.

“I thought I was gonna win one of those,” Tyrone complained and pointed toward the large prizes.

“You can trade this in for a bigger one when you win again,” the agent said and held his open palm out to Tyrone. Patel once again put something in the man’s hand.

Again, Tyrone landed both balls in the basket and they stayed. This time he received a stuffed dog about twelve inches high. “I thought you said I could win a big prize.”

“You get one of each level, and then you trade them in for your choice of anything we got. Ready to win again?”

“Why not?” Tyrone asked. I thought,
Why not, indeed? It’s not your money.

While Tyrone warmed up his throwing arm with some impressive exercises, Patel whispered to me, “The agent’s ‘throwing stock to the mark.’ Giving away little things called ‘slum prizes’ to keep the player interested. That’s called the ‘tiered prize system,’ where the payer keeps trading up hoping to get something really big. We’ll let this play out. Watch what happens.”

Sure enough, Tyrone kept winning, and he kept trading in smaller prizes for bigger ones. The game agent had begun shout-outs to the by-passers, telling them to come watch this winner, and a large crowd gathered.

After what seemed like forever and Tyrone trading in one prize after another, the agent made this big announcement to everyone that “This boy is going to play now for his choice of anything here!” People crowded around cheering Tyrone with shouts of, “Win it!”

Tyrone threw exactly the way he’d done every time from the same place as before. Both balls landed in the basket and stayed causing the game agent to tell Tyrone, “Sorry, Dude, rim shots don’t count.”

“What? I threw just like I did the other times.”

“Yeah, but you leaned over the foul line.”

“What foul line?” Patel interrupted.

“Come on, Mr. Patel. Don’t start anything. You know how this works.”

“I sure do, and I don’t appreciate your trying it with me standing here.” Both Patel’s tone and expression showed he meant business.

Patel and the game agent had a whispered conversation, which ended with Tyrone walking away with an iPad. As we continued around the game circuit, I asked him, “Why did you want another iPad? Don’t you have one from the school? You told Rizzie it was in your locker.”

“I didn’t want to tell her that I don’t have it anymore.” He looked at Patel. “Can I do that game?” and pointed toward an open tent with “SHOOT OUT THE RED STAR” on a large sign.

“Sure. Let me talk to you about it first.”

“Can we get something to eat while we talk and then play the game?” Tyrone asked.

“Don’t see why not. Follow me.” Patel led us to a Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden, but not the one where I’d found the body.

“Since you’ve had dinner, let me recommend something that’s a cross between a meal and a dessert. Why don’t you have an Elvis Burger?”

“What’s that?” Tyrone asked before I had a chance.

“It’s a hamburger made on Krispy Kreme doughnuts instead of a bun. On that it has a burger and all the trimmings, including bacon and cheese.” He breathed in deeply and said the next words like a big announcement. “Plus peanut butter and fried bananas.”

Immediately my mind went to Jane. Given the chance, she’d eat that.

“No, thanks,” was my reply. Not for me.

“I don’t know.” Tyrone’s expression clouded. “I’m not sure I’d want lettuce and tomato and onions on it. Could I get it without the vegetables but with peanut butter and bananas?”

“No problem,” Patel assured him, and then called the server over and requested the special order Elvis Burger and root beer for Tyrone. I asked for fried mushrooms and a Diet Coke while Patel wanted coffee.

Our server had barely walked away when three teenaged boys came in. Tyrone glanced at them and then made a point of looking at Patel and me.

A different female server asked the teenagers, “What would you like?”

“Three draft beers,” one of them declared like a king making a proclamation.

“Sorry, we can’t serve alcohol to minors.”

“I’ve got ID.” The same boy copped an attitude with a smirk.

The server pointed toward our table. “See that man. He’s Mr. Patel, the owner. Go show your identification to him and if he accepts it, he’ll serve you. I’m not about to give you three any alcohol, ID or not. I can look at you and see you’re underage.”

“What the f-word are you supposed to drink in a beer garden?” Substitution of “f-word” is mine; he said the word. I just can’t get used to even hearing people say that word out loud in public.

“Take it up with Mr. Patel,” the young lady said politely.

“I don’t have to. Just get me my beer, bitch.”

Patel stood. I knew he was tall, but he looked even bigger now, and the expression on his face would have frightened a bear. He pointed at the boys. “Out!” he said as he walked toward them.

The sassy one opened his mouth, but his buddies tugged on him and urged him to get out of there.

When they were gone, Patel returned to our table and apologized for the interruption. I’d noticed Tyrone’s intentionally turning his back to them. “Tyrone, did you know those boys?” I asked.

“Not really. They don’t go to my school.” He seemed relieved when the server placed the gigantic creation he’d ordered in front of him. He chowed down on doughnuts, meat, cheese, bananas, and peanut butter—keeping his eyes on his food and avoiding eye contact with Patel or me.

“Now, about the Red Star Shooting Game.” Patel took a sip of his black coffee. “The goal is to shoot out the star completely so that no red is still there. They’ll give you a BB gun and one hundred BBs to do it.”