The Last Day of the Fair
by Swapna Kishore
Previously published at www.writecraftweb.com earlier, as it won the First Prize in their Spring 2004 Short Story Contest.
"Thought about your next job?" asks Lawson, rubbing his cloth duster rhythmically over the faded paint and exposed wood of Stargazer's flanks. Lawson's eyes are smiling as they always do; his face, though wrinkled, is younger than many of the worldly-wise kids we give rides to.
I am cleaning the rounding board of the portable carousel where a griffin with its eagle-like wings spread wide is in battle with a fire-snorting dragon. "Not yet."
I think of Ma standing in the kitchen, wearing her always-stained apron, hands on hips, reminding me that this 'helping out' Lawson and the pittance it gets me is not a proper job. Now that I've finished with school, I should take up a job. "You need to become responsible now."
"Mom wants me to work at some store," I tell Lawson. My mind crowds with pesky youngsters and grumpy ladies queuing up to pile cookies and breads and cold cuts and cartons of juice in front of me as I tot up the dollars and cents and mutter polite inanities.
"That should be a sight!" Lawson chuckles.
"She says I'm heading out to be a loser." Like your Dad, she adds every time. Dad left his steady well-paying job and us to work as a freelance photographer and has been roaming ever since. The house needs repairs; we barely manage on what Ma earns as a seamstress. I know that I should also contribute.
"What about you?" I ask Lawson.
Lawson is quiet for some time.
It's a warm afternoon with a hint of a breeze. Kids pouring in the fairground pause at the entrance, shade their eyes from the sun and look at the dizzy heights of the bright red and yellow giant wheel. They follow the contortions of the roller coaster, and stare at the squealing occupants with a smug expression that shows that *they* will be braver.
Lawson and I watch as kids totter out of the rides with pale faces, laugh hysterically and queue up for the next high-thrill ride.
No one has come our way yet; merry-go-rounds seem very staid by comparison. It's only by late evening that we expect enough stragglers to come this way.
Lawson sighs. "I guess carousels are outdated. I think I'll start tossing pizzas at some takeaway instead," he says. He stretches himself like a cat, then looks down ruefully his torn shirt and patched jeans.
Lawson moves to the center pole and starts polishing it while I wipe the chariot and its painted panels of dragons. Small dirty brown pieces of padding peep from under the torn covering of the seat; I try to push them back. Over to the brass poles of a horse, my hand strays over the tangled lock of hair sculpted over its forehead, on to the nostril, the half-open jaw. I marvel at the richness of the imagery and the detail of the carving.
Carousel carving, Lawson keeps telling me, is an art that is fading out. As a child, he would sit on an upturned pail, holding his face in both hands, and watch his grandfather working. "Grampa liked them flamboyant, their golden manes flying in the air. He always carved them with two legs up in the air, like they are prancing."
When Lawson talks, the weary horses in front of me throw off their fatigue and transform into fiery beasts painted in rich colors, bedecked with jewels and mirrors, racing across the skies. I lose myself in their magical world; I throw myself astride and join the battle.
One silver-haired man stops nearby, a young girl, barely five, clutching his hand. He tells her, "We had one like that coming every year" but the girl is busy pulling his arm and pointing to the candy-floss and popcorn stands. They walk away.
Lawson looks at me and shrugs. That's why, his look tells me, that's why I'll soon be pulling pizzas out of the oven.
I think of Lawson with his salt and pepper hair lit by the artificial lights of a diner, wearing a cheerful apron, but I can only see him in the sun, the breeze buffeting out his cotton shirt.
The carousel cleaned, we sit on a patch of dried grass in front of it, waiting. I soak in the fresh air; a week from now I expect that my days will be spent cooped up in some store, smiling at customers and earning my contribution to the house. Maybe, on some days I will get to feel the weight of the cold metal of my tools, clean and oil them, saw a board, make a shelf, peer into the innards of a stubborn gadget and coax it to work - while the air ruffles my hair and the sun shines on my back.
"Excuse me," comes a soft voice. Lawson and I look up.
The lady is about thirty, thin and tired with dark circles overwhelming her face. With her is a small girl who shares her sharp features and blue eyes. She's dressed in a pink frilly dress and looks pale, like she has not been out in the sun a long time. But the sparkle in her eyes as she looks at the carousel beats Lawson's.
"Can Ann have a closer look?" asks the lady.
Lawson nods, picks Ann up and takes her to the carousel. His left arm is hooked like a seat and she sits on it, cradling her right arm around his neck. His right hand grips her shoulder to keep her straight, and her face is so close to his that his whiskers may be tickling her.
If he had a granddaughter, that's how he would hold her.
Lawson walks around the carousel with her, pausing at each horse, talking to her. I cannot hear him but I know that he is explaining that Stargazer, the most magnificent of the horses and right behind the chariot, is the lead horse. He is telling her the story of the battle that is taking place, explaining how the horses are riding high in the sky and good creatures are fighting the evil ones. He is telling her how his grandfather, a gentle old man who loved little girls like Ann, carved the carousel so that Ann and others like her can take part.
Ann tentatively reaches out to the horses and strokes their heads gently.
Standing at some distance, her mother is watching them with great intensity, as if she is recording each moment straight into her heart. She holds her hand over her head to shade her eyes; they seem over-bright.
"First time here? " I ask.
"Yes," she says softly.
Lawson has gone round the full carousel; back to Stargazer, he places Ann on his saddle, makes her clasp the rod tightly and gently moves the carousel.
It is a very small movement at first, then Lawson moves away and starts the music. As the magical sounds fill the air, Lawson switches on the carousel and all we can see is a smudge of pink and the dark hair flying as peals of delighted laughter mingle with the symphony of instruments. After a while the carousel slows to a halt and now I can see Ann more clearly again; her eyes are shining and round with wonder, her dark curly hair waving in the wind. Then she closes her eyes.
She's the princess and her royal stead, glowing with gold, is galloping away with her to a charmed land, its golden mane tossing in the wind.
I turn to look at the mother; a small drop is rolling down her cheek. I feel restless.
"A beautiful child, your daughter," I tell her. I mean it. It's not just the innocence of her face, but also the joy that shines so openly on it.
The mother looks at me. There is no sign of any tear - did I imagine it? She smiles back and the world is sunnier for that.
Lawson is bringing Ann back; she is talking in an animated way to him, her hands gesticulating wildly.
As they come near us, the mother thanks Lawson. "That was very kind of you."
Lawson's voice is gruff as he tells her that thanks are not needed and there is no charge, no Ma'am, the pleasure was all mine, thank you.
The mother stands still for a few moments, then turns reluctantly. "Well, Ann looks tired now. Must go."
I accompany them to the car. "How was the ride, Princess?" I ask Ann softly.
Ann's face is a mix of fatigue and excitement. "Did you see me? I went over the clouds and trees right to where God is. It is very sunny there."
"We've been here three weeks; today is the last day," I tell the mother. I wish she had come earlier.
She looks at me. "Ann was in the hospital till yesterday. But today they said it's pointless, we should take her home. Let her enjoy whatever she..." Her voice trails away.
I lower Ann in the seat of the car, fasten the seat belt. The mother keeps the folded wheelchair at the back. I wait as the car starts, wave to her as they drive away, not trusting myself to speak. I watch till the car is out of sight and the dust settles.
Back at the carousel, Lawson is sitting on the grass, chewing a blade and looking at the horizon. I sit near him, the richness of what we have just shared suspended between us like motes in the air.
Lawson finally speaks up. "You're pretty good with your hands. Want to help me repair and paint those horses?"
"Yeah, sure."
Gushing to my mind come broken mowers and kids tricycles with springs hanging out, shelves waiting to be nailed, naked windows crying for panes, tiles woebegone and waiting to be fixed, doors begging for a scrape and paint. I look down at my hands and smile.
Swapna Kishore, a software consultant, lives in Bangalore, India. She has written technical books and training material for my years, and is now also writing short stories and essays. Contact Swapna.
