On a cool August evening in 1946, on the banks of Leatherwood Creek near Cambridge, Ohio, Birdie Palmer walked beside her mother and father through the county fair. Calliope music filled her ears while the cool air blowing off the water and through the trees sent shivers of exhilaration up her spine. In the cloudless sky, a full moon hung over the landscape and shone a pearl light upon her little spot in the world. The excited ramble of a happy crowd droned, while carnival barkers howled advertisements of their particular vice.
She heard a train whistle blow in the distance as the engine rumbled over the old Leatherwood Trestle. She couldn’t remember when her senses were so overwhelmed by so many fantastic sights and loud noises. The night impressed upon her soul the notion that any passion concealed within her heart could be attained.
She had long, flowing blonde hair, greenish/blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. Most boys did a double take when she walked by them. But she wasn’t interested in boys. Not currently. No, her interest revolved around finding a key to unlock the door of lonely misery locked in her soul. She didn’t think she’d find the key at the Cambridge Fair, but then again, one never knew where things could show up.
A few feet away, she heard a bell ring after a man, using an oversized mallet, hit the plunger on the Test Your Strength Strong Man Game hard enough to send the lead marker to the top. She recognized the man as Raymond Webster, the local mechanic. “Hot diggity dog!” Mr. Webster yelled. Birdie clapped for the man’s feat along with a gaggle of others.
Her father, Henry Palmer, a chemist by trade, who worked at the town’s pharmacy, tapped her on the shoulder, and when she looked around at him, he shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t encourage the riff-raft, Birdie. That fellow hasn’t been to church in over three years.”
“He has issues,” her mother, Effie, added.
Looking away from them, her smile turning to a grimace, she said, “What a bunch of drips,” low enough to prevent either of them from hearing.
Her father was probably just jealous. That’s what she figured, anyway. She doubted he could hit the lead marker to the halfway point of the Test Your Strength Game.
Nearby, another man she recognized, but whose name escaped her, was dinging duck-shaped targets, back-to-back-to-back, on an old west-themed shooting game. The woman standing beside him wore the proudest look on her face. The look said: Oh yes, this is my man.
Once the sharp-shooter finished, the carny directed their attention to a wall of prizes. While he allowed them to pick out a prize, the carny took the gun and placed it under the counter. Figuring it was the only good gun he had, Birdie guessed no one else would use it for the rest of the night. Maybe he used it a couple of times per night to get people interested in the game so they’d fork over their hard-earned cash to play. Once its job was done, he made sure the rest of his marks used the guns with crooked sights. Being a bit conniving herself, she seemed to inherently know these things.
The sharp-shooter’s lady pointed at something on the prize-wall. This prompted the carney to remove a large stuffed gorilla from the wall and give it to her. The woman hugged her man, and they walked off, hand in hand. Regardless of the nefarious practices of the dishonest carney, this sight pleased Birdie. Usually, the gushy and mushy sight wouldn’t be the type of thing she’d smile at. Yet, on a night so pleasant, she loved it.
“Can I shoot the targets?” She asked her parents.
“Oh, Birdie,” her mother fretted, “I don’t want you to play with guns. It sounds too dangerous.”
Rolling her eyes, she removed a stick of gum from her pocket, unwrapped it—throwing the wrapping on the ground—and tossed the gum in her mouth.
On her right, someone called, “Hurr-ray, hurr-ray, hurr-ray, come one, come all, fore inside this tent you can have your futures read.” She looked over and saw a man with a pencil-thin mustache and a top hat standing in front of a small tent. A sign next to him read: The Great Esmerelda, Seer of the Past, Prophet of the Future. This printed text was form-fitted inside a crystal ball. A painted picture in the upper corner of this sign portrayed a mysterious woman’s face emerging from a cloud of purple smoke, and looking into the crystal ball. “Only twenty-five cents, folks,” the man continued, “put your quarter in my palm, and you will know what Esmerelda knows. So hurr-ray, hurr-ray, hurr-ray.”
“Can I try that, pops?” she asked.
Her father, a stoned-faced man, clenched his broad jaw and said, “That’s the play of the devil, young Birdie. Also, don’t call me pops. It’s a sign of disrespect. I’ve told you that.”
Yes, he told her that—about half-a-billion-and-one times—and that’s precisely why she continued to call him that. In response to his objection, Birdie rolled her eyes again and sighed.
Her father said to his better half, “I knew we shouldn’t have brought her here, Effie. There’re too many wicked diversions.”
“Don’t flip your wig tonight, Henry. This is what she wanted to do for her sixteenth birthday. Let her have some fun.”
“Fun,” he huffed as if going to the fair could never—not in a million-and-one years—be considered fun, “What fun? I feel like I’m whistling dixie.”
Listening to her parent’s conversation reminded her of how much she disliked them. At times she imagined grabbing her father by the throat and squeezing until his eyes popped out of his blessed head. And if her mother mouthed one word of protest, she’d take care of her, too. Every now and then, she’d have these violent visions. Where they came from, she didn’t know.
But she never came close to acting on them. Neither had she ever told anyone about these homicidal thoughts. She reckoned if she told, she’d end up in an asylum or, worse… in a confessional.
Continuing to walk the midway, Birdie hoped to find something her parents would let her play or ride. The whole town—it seemed—showed up for the fair; Birdie recognized many kids her age from church, Clairmont Hill Baptist. The church where her father met her mother. Also, her father preached there from time to time. They were as strait-laced as they came.
“Birdie,” a girl yelled, coming from her left. She looked around to see Nancy—a friend from bible study—wave.
She and another friend, Beverly, came racing toward her.
“Hey guys,” Birdie greeted.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Nancy said.
Birdie, known for having a strict father, understood her comment. “My parents brought me for my birthday,” Birdie said. Then turning to her parents but still speaking to her friends, she said, “You remember my mom and dad.”
“Yes,” Beverly said.
“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Palmer,” Nancy said.
“Girls,” Effie responded with a nod in their direction.
“You wanna come with us, Birdie?” Beverly asked, “We’re going over to the dance tent to laugh at all the old geezers trying to cut a rug.”
“Yeah,” Nancy agreed, “Last night, when we were there, I about cracked up! There aren’t no jive bombers to be had, not a one!”
Birdie’s father cleared his throat, being intentionally loud, indicating he didn’t appreciate their choice of words.
Noticing this, Nancy said, “Oh, maybe geezer is the wrong term, sir. But they’re much older than you, anyway.” Then to Birdie, she asked, “You wanna come? It’ll be a real gas.”
“I don’t think we’re going to stick around much longer, girls,” Henry answered for his daughter.
Birdie’s shoulders slumped, and a few cross words went through her head, but she kept her mouth shut. No need to make the situation worse in front of her friends.
“Oh,” Nancy said, disappointed, “That’s too bad.”
“Well,” Beverly said, “I guess we’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, see ya,” Birdie said, dejected. She watched her friends run off. They passed a cotton candy vendor as they went.
“I think I’ll get some cotton candy,” Birdie said, trying a new tactic on her father: not asking but telling him what she wanted.
Her mother opened her mouth to approve, but before she could, her father said, “That stuff’ll rot your teeth, Birdie. Sorry.”
“A little candy won’t hurt, Henry,” Effie said.
“Effie, we can’t afford a dentist visit with the cost of everything going up. You didn’t marry Rockefeller.”
“You got that right,” Birdie whispered.
As the last rumble of train cars rolling over the trestle drifted off into the world of dreams and memories, Birdie walked on with her parents while a lonely song echoed in her heart.
How I wish I were on that train, she thought.
While Birdie boiled and moaned inside, her mother came across the World of Tomorrow exhibit. She stopped the family, enthralled by the predictions. Predictions which estimated people would be taking flying cars to work by 1980, and there’d be colonies on Mars by 2000. This display interested Birdie about as much as a symposium discussing the finer points of airplane propellers.
When she saw a lighted Plinko stand a short jaunt away, she saw an opportunity to get away from the boring exhibit. She asked, “Can I have five cents for the Plinko game?”
Shaking his head, her father said, “That sounds a little too much like gambling, Birdie.”
Teenagers can only take so much of their parent’s square attitude before breaking. Therefore, standing in front of a large picture portraying a diagram for the kitchen of tomorrow, she yelled, “So what can I do for God’s sake? I’m sixteen years old, dammit! Your control over me isn’t going to last much longer!”
“Birdie!” Her mother gasped, looking around at all the prying eyes. Keeping her voice low—more out of embarrassment than anything else—she continued, “Don’t cause a scene. Your father is well-respected in this community. Don’t sass him.”
“Jesus Christ, mom,” she spewed.
Henry Palmer raised his hand to strike his daughter, but she turned and ran away from him before he could deliver the blow.
“Birdie, you get back here, you hear! Mind me, now!”
But she didn’t mind him. She sassed him—sassed him good—and ran as if her life depended on it. Maybe after her outburst, it did. An irrational thought: perhaps I could catch up to that train, circled her mind. She knew that wasn’t going to happen, but she didn’t let that slow her down.
As her father watched, wanting to take off after her; wanting, in fact, to tan her hind-end right and good, Birdie disappeared into the crowd.
About a minute later, on the other side of the fair, near the Farris wheel and carousel, Birdie stopped running. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she walked, proud of herself for standing up to her father, but at the same time, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, feeling ashamed, as well.
Watching the little kids go around and around, over and over again, on the carousel, she looked at the scary, painted faces of the wooden horses and came up with a theory that may explain her shame. The horse faces could be so innocent and happy when you were feeling innocent and happy, like the kids currently on the ride. But when you were pissed off and angry at the world, those horses looked sinister and evil. Same with the calliope music coming from the ride. It could be the sweetest music; a perfect soundtrack for a fond memory on a sunny summer afternoon. Or, under the wrong circumstances, it could be menacing; an ideal background melody for a murderous rampage. She figured movie directors like Hitchcock and Tourneur knew this well.
“Ring toss,” a lackadaisical voice said from behind her, “Five tosses for a nickel. Eleven for a dime.”
Birdie turned and saw a scruffy-looking young man standing behind the counter of the Ring Toss game. At first glance, the guy looked ugly and unkept. But, after taking a moment to really look at him, an odd charm presented itself. Birdie figured he could be a handsome young man with a shave and haircut.
The Ring Toss game sat at the base of the engaged Ferris wheel. As that ride rotated around, and around, it cast shadows down upon the Ring Toss stand at regular intervals. Seeing this man, first in the dull moonlight, then in shadow, then in the dull light, then in shadow, over and over again, put her new theory to the test. Seeing the young guy in the light, he looked normal; like any other carney running a game. Yet, in the shadows, he looked foreboding.
“How about it, pretty lady,” he said to her, “Five tosses for a nickel.”
“I,” Birdie started, wanting to play but knowing she couldn’t, “I don’t have any money.”
The young guy laid a ring on the counter. “For a lady as pretty as you, I’ll let you toss one for free.”
Smiling wide, Birdie walked toward the game and picked up the ring.
She’d been called pretty before, but always by someone she knew, like a family member or a friend. This was the first time a stranger—a male stranger, at that—called her pretty. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for letting me toss for free?”
The guy sarcastically looked to his left, then to his right, and said in a dead tone, “I’m sure.”
Flirtatiously, she nodded her head and tossed the ring. It made contact with the top of one of the bottles, creating a loud clinking sound, before bouncing about three feet to the left of the bottles and landing on the ground. She giggled, “I suppose I’m not very good at this.”
He didn’t say a word. Instead, he placed another ring on the table.
She picked it up with a cunning smile and tossed it. This ring missed the bottles entirely. She laughed, “Boy, I’m glad I didn’t have to pay for that.”
The man remained expressionless. He bent down, picked the ring up, and sat it around the neck of one of the bottles. “Look, you won.”
Birdie lit up like a bulb. Suddenly, the calliope music sounded oh so sweet. She said, “Oh, that’s so nice of you, but I should win fair and square.”
The guy, shaking his head, let out a dismissive chuckle, “Nobody wins fair and square. Not at the carnival.” He walked over to some junk lying at the end of the counter. “You want one of these?” he asked, picking up an eraser in the shape of one of the dwarfs from Snow White.
Birdie, still smiling wide, took it. If he didn’t mind, neither did she. Again, the guy wasn’t much to look at, but he had a splendid amount of charm, even with the deadpan routine. This reminded her of something her grandfather once said: You can’t learn charisma. You either got it or you don’t. A person with more life experience might call this charm a dangerous lure.
“You can trade that crummy thing in for something better if you want.”
“But I didn’t win this legitimately. How can I trade it in for something better?”
“Cause in this life, honey, the carnie life, I make my own rules.”
Curiosity got the better of her. Plus, she thought she knew what he was doing. She asked, “Trade it in for what?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said, “You have to tell me whether or not you want to trade to find out.”
“Okay, I’ll trade.”
He reached a hand out for the eraser, which she handed over with eagerness, ready to receive her surprise.
The young guy reached into his pocket and pulled up a closed fist, which he began to open slowly. A glint of something shiny caught Birdie’s eyes as he opened his hand all the way, allowing a gold locket to spill forth. Birdie watched as it dropped quickly, stopping at the end of the chain; its momentum caused it to spin in midair. The heart-shaped locket hung open, revealing two small, empty spaces where pictures could be inserted.
When it didn’t look as if her face could light up anymore, it did when she saw the piece of jewelry.
“It’s precious!” she said, taking it into her hand, “But why are you giving me this?”
“Cause you’re a dish if I’ve ever seen one.”
A lovely smile crossed Birdie’s lips. She grinned so hard her face began to hurt, but she couldn’t stop.
What the stranger failed to tell the young sixteen-year-old—a girl whom he hoped to screw later—was he took the locket from a prostitute he screwed a few days prior. Before the prostitute found out what kind of scoundrel he was, she told him the locket belonged to her grandmother, and it was the only heirloom she had to remember her family by. When she protested after watching him take it off the hotel’s nightstand, he slapped her across the face—hard enough to knock her out on the bed—and left the scuzzy room, never to see the whore again.
“Thank you so much,” she said, seeing it shine in the carnival lights.
“Maybe later you can trade it in for something better?” the man said.
Birdie didn’t understand what this meant and had no time to think about it because she heard her father yell, “There she is, Effie!"
Gasping, she turned and saw him marching toward her. Behind him, her mother ran, calling after her husband, “Keep your cool, Henry.”
Birdie turned to the young guy and said, “I have to go,” she laid the locket on the countertop, “Here. I can’t keep it.” With that, she ran off.
The young Ring Toss kid grabbed the locket, hopped over the counter, and chased after her. “Hey, wait up!”