Life's Golden Ticket (10 page)

W
illy unstrapped the shield from my forearm. “You done with this, matey?”

I nodded with exhaustion.

“And this?” he said, grabbing the sword from my right hand.

“Yes.”

“Good. Henry's over at the merry-go-round. He wants you to meet him there.”

I shook Willy's hand and started down the hatch.

“'Ey, mate,” he called after me.

“Yeah,” I said, looking back at him.

“Don't worry. The dark waters will be blue soon enough.”

H
enry stood in a long line at the merry-go-round. When I joined him, he seemed not to notice me. He was staring thoughtfully, almost longingly, at the spinning ride. He closed his eyes and hummed along with the organ music that was playing in the background.

The ride came to a stop, and the operator unhooked the rope that held back expectant passengers. The line moved forward, and both children and adults hurried excitedly to find a horse. As we moved up in line, I could see that the horses were intricately carved and painted.

“They're gorgeous,” I said to Henry.

“Hand-painted,” he replied.

As we arrived at the front of the line, the operator stopped us and started the ride with the press of a button.

Henry turned to me. “You know, this is my favorite ride. It's so simple, so elegant, so beautiful. But most people overlook it. They're more attracted to the drama of the other rides. If you asked folks leaving an amusement park what their favorite ride was, most of them would say the adrenaline starters. The zippers and roller coasters and elevators that lift you up and drop you down. People remember the scary rides more than the pleasant ones. Sad, don't you think?”

“Yeah. I guess.” I was still thinking about the pirate ship. About Dad. And Mary. And myself.

“Hey,” Henry said, getting my attention. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied. My body felt as if it had been through a meat grinder, and my mind wasn't too much better.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you've been through a lot. And I have to tell you, you're handling it well. You know, I've been thinking hard about your story for a while, about your life, about what I've seen you go through here so far.”

He paused and looked at the merry-go-round.

“You remember the scenes you saw on the Ferris wheel?”

“Yeah.” A few of the images popped back in my mind: my dad hitting me with his belt, Grandpa's death, Mom at the principal's office, getting laid off, Mary leaving.

Henry cocked his head sideways and looked at me quizzically. “I'm guessing you're thinking about the first five scenes or so, am I right?”

“Yeah? So?”

“So . . . so I think that's kind of sad. You see, you're like most people. You're the type of person to remember all the scary rides and
forget all the pleasant ones. The simple ones. The beautiful ones. I think you've been living your life focused on those first five scenes and the dark themes they've represented. I think you've obsessed about the experiences in life that dropped you to the ground, and you've overlooked all those that slowly and gently lifted you higher.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you've been returning to the wrong rides all your life. Don't you remember the other scenes you saw on the Ferris wheel? The ones that floated above the lemon-colored background?”

“Yes, I remember them.”

“What did you see?”

I thought for a moment. “Well, I saw a scene with my mom. We were jumping on the trampoline in the backyard. I saw me and my grandmother petting one of her horses and laughing. I saw myself winning a race in high school. I saw my co-worker shaking my hand after a promotion. I saw myself signing my first mortgage. I saw Mary. . . . We were hugging after I proposed to her.”

“Those sound like good times.”

“They were.”

“Well, then, I have a quick question for you. Why didn't you let those good times influence you as much as you let the bad times?”

I stared ahead, unsure of what to say.

Henry smiled. “Let me help you with that. Remember how we talked about the themes in your life? We discovered that
some
of the themes that have woven through your life's story sounded like this: the world is a dark and dangerous place, other people are unfair and hurtful, and you yourself are inadequate. Remember that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, would you agree you've sort of lived your life under those themes? That for the most part you've lived your life pessimistically because of them, guardedly because of them, unsure of yourself because of them?”

I thought about what he said, and lowered my head. “Yeah, I would agree with that.”

“Then I say again, I think that's kind of sad. I think there have probably been a lot of wonderful moments in your life that you could have focused on. I think there have been a lot of powerfully positive moments you could have let influence you. Moments that could have made you stronger, wiser, smarter, more compassionate and courageous. But instead, you focused on the dark times in your life, and you let them overwhelm you.”

“Folks,” the ride operator called out, interrupting Henry's speech and my thoughts. “Your turn.”

The ride had come to a stop, and I hadn't even noticed.

“Go ahead,” he said and waved us on.

“C'mon!” Henry said, and gleefully skipped toward the ride.

I thought,
Old men skip?
I limped after him, my legs still stinging from the sword blows, and we both climbed up onto the platform. Henry chose a horse and motioned for me to take the one next to him.

“I think I'll just stand this one out, I'm a bit sore.”

“Nonsense!” he laughed. “This is going to be great! C'mon, you used to love horses. Jump on!”

T
he ride began, and Henry let out a loud “
Whoo-hooo!
” A dozen little kids echoed him. I would have joined in, but my legs and butt were screaming loud enough already—the hard wood of the horse's saddle was not pleasant against the welts and bruises.

The ride began, and the breeze felt wonderful on my face. The horses began to rise and sink on their brass poles. Henry hummed along with the organ music. The people standing around the merry-go-round waved at their loved ones on the ride.

For the first time since I entered the park, I felt at ease. The motion of the ride, the gently spinning platform, the horses rising and falling, everything was calming and soothing.

Henry let out another whoop and smiled broadly at me.

“Hey!” he said. “Look at me! No hands!” He lifted his arms in the air like an airplane and closed his eyes. “
Whoo-hoo!
Try it!”

I laughed at the sight of the old man. I lifted my hands in the air and spread my arms out wide. I laughed at myself and closed my eyes.

Whooosh.
A strong wind hit me, and a brilliant flash of white caused me to blink.

C
'mon, kiddo! Keep up!”

I opened my eyes and saw a woman galloping in front of me. The horse beneath me snorted, and I felt its powerful muscles flex to pick up the pace. A sea of open green field lay all around me.

“
C'mon
,
kiddo!
”

I shook my head so hard in disbelief that I nearly fell off the horse. Gripping the reins instinctively, I pulled them tight. The horse whinnied and slowed. As he stopped and I was pushed forward in the saddle by the momentum, I realized my legs didn't hurt anymore. I looked at my surroundings in surprise. The sun was about to set in front of me, and the sky was a purplish red. A range of mountains towered in the distance. The wild grass below me was thick, and the soil moist.

The woman riding in front of me turned around and galloped back toward me. I could see only her silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun.

“Hey ya, kiddo,” she said as she approached, “we're almost home. Plenty of time to rest after we get these guys into the barn.”

She pulled her horse up next to mine, and I gulped in air on seeing her face.

It was my grandmother.

“Well, you look as pale as a ghost! You feeling okay? Need some water?”

She reached into the satchel behind her and handed me a canteen.

I was staring at her so intently that I didn't even reach for the water.

“Take some,” she said and pushed the canteen closer toward me.

She looked young and vibrant, not at all like the last time I had seen her. She had died when I was nineteen, two years to the day after her daughter, my mother, was killed in the car accident.

“Let's get home. You look awful, sweetie! You must be hungry!”

She snatched the canteen, put it in the satchel, and gave a tight tug on the reins. Her horse wheeled around, and she told me to follow.

I
pulled up next to Grandma's horse at the watering trough outside the barn. Grandma was brushing him down. I dismounted and petted my horse's neck as he dipped his head into the trough. I glanced into the trough and saw a thirteen-year-old boy looking back up at me.

“C'mere, kiddo,” Grandma called.

I rounded the trough, and she pulled me into a wondrous hug. She squeezed me tight and kissed my forehead.

“You rode well today. Next time maybe I'll let you ride Thunder here instead of that old nag.” She let me go and gently held Thunder under his jaw. “Here,” she said, pulling his head toward me, “pet him on his cheek. He likes that.” I petted him, and she said, “So, Thunder, what do you think—you think he's ready to ride a speedster like you?”

Thunder snorted, blowing back the hair from my forehead. Grandma and I laughed with dreamlike abandon.

After the horses were brushed and watered, Grandma told me to put them back in the barn. She pulled the saddlebags off Thunder and threw them over her shoulder. Then she gave me a boost up into his saddle. Adjusting the stirrups a little higher, she looked up at me warmly, tears welling in her eyes.