Katherine Dunn - Nightmare Carnival

Beasley and the Gallows brothers carefully explained my duties, which were negligible, considering the amount of dough they parted with to secure my participation. They assured me that all aspects of the ritual had been assiduously researched and rehearsed. As long as I followed my cues, events would unfold smoothly. In some respects this seemed similar to the slavish preparations of hardcore Civil War reenactors. Except for the actual pile of human heads and assorted parts in the back forty.

“I’ll be out in the field tonight, just in case.” Beasley had squeezed into a cream-colored number, slicked his hair down, the whole bit.

“In case of what?”

“Uh, in case you run into a rabid coyote.”

“Or a rabid elk,” I said. “Mary and Lila seem to think—”

“Those broads are eccentric,” Beasley said.

“This is a carnival. What else would they be?”

“Yeah, well, even for a carnival.” He offered his arm.

The séance cum last supper, or whatever you’d care to name the ritual, occurred in the big top. The roadies had broken out a massive mahogany table inlaid with granite and matching chairs. They left a flap open in the ceiling. No moon yet, but plenty of stars sprinkled against the black. Jazz piped in soft and slow.

Our fateful supper included a honey-braised roast, wild rice, pineapple and grapes, sorbet, and plenty of red wine. I may have proved slightly unladylike in my enthusiasm for the various dishes. Free meals this swanky were rare.

I had nothing better to do than stuff my face, anyhow.

The girls wore dresses, although none as nice as mine, and the boys were in suits.

“Yowch!” I said as Beasley pulled out my chair. “Did I tell you how hot you look?”

His melancholy expression merely flickered.

“Do me a favor and don’t argue,” he whispered. He slipped the crucifix from his truck around my neck.

I would’ve given him grief except for the fact that bit of adornment drew the attention of every man at the table who hadn’t already surreptitiously ogled my bosom since I’d strolled in.

Though I was supposed to be the centerpiece of the evening, it seemed as if the entire company had secretly agreed to exclude me from the conversation. Fine, the silly bastards could stare at my tits and leave me out of it.

Ephandra, the lovely, long-in-the-tooth contortionist and apparent paramour of Benson Gallows, eyed my vampy dress, silver choker, purple eye shadow, and hair piled high. She smirked with voluptuous malice, pulled on a pair of ermine gloves, and lit a cigarette. She smoked it in a holder, Greta Garbo style, or somebody like that.

“Tell me more about the séance,” she said to Benson Gallows.

“You’re a little séance virgin?” His white eyebrows lifted.

“Oh, I did a séance in spectacular fashion. And you ?” She stared at him now, like a cat at a bird.

“There was this one time. Me and a couple of my cousins spooked each other on an overnight camping trip. I was in middle school.”

“Did you make contact with the beyond?” Ephandra said.

“I made contact with my cousin’s boob for a second or two,” Benson Gallows said.

Victor the Fortune-teller frowned at this exchange.

“Perhaps this is not the occasion for jocularity.” He’d gone the extra mile and decked himself out in a fabulously extravagant black silk cape and a red turban studded with gemstones.

“ Nice , Ben,” Ephandra said, dismissing Victor with an eye roll. “Weren’t we supposed to hit a séance gig together once?”

“No. Wait, yes — we were on a break. You called, but I had a date with, what’s her name? Crazy blonde who dragged me to the pool hall every other night.”

“Ginny the psych student? Her dad had a place in Coeur d’Alene. Slut. Whore. Bitch.”

“Yes, you met, apparently. I never got past first base, then you snatched me off the market.”

“Sorry, honey.” She stretched to stroke his arm, digging with her shiny white nails.

“What was the deal, anyhow?” he said.

Ephandra shrugged.

“The medium slaughtered a cat. Slit its throat.”

“Ahem! Now that we’re all in the proper mood — thank you, Ephandra — I propose a toast,” Robert Gallows said.

I reached for the wine and Poindexter deftly snatched the bottle.

“Vinette did not touch a drop the evening of her, er. demise. Here, try the cider.”

“Sorry, dear.” Benson Gallows poured a glass of cider from a ceramic jug and set it near my left hand. “Absolutely no blood of the vine for you. We must not risk spoiling the ritual, hey?”

I gritted my teeth. Ten thousand dollars bought this cuckoo crowd a tiny bit of forbearance. I tasted the cider and nailed Beasley with my most reproachful glare. He wilted, then raised a glass of cider in a gesture of solidarity.

“Did you folks know that Sheriff Holcomb’s mom is a gorgon?” I said.

Victor sighed.

“ The Gorgon. There’s only one. Von’s a liar.”

“Most definitely a liar,” Ephandra said. “The only creature that let his bloated sack of lard father touch her was a hick sheepherder maid from Butte. Probably not twice, either.”

Perkins the carpenter killed the electric lamps and the music. The chamber fell into shadow, illuminated by a candelabrum and the edge of the moon now shining through the screen in the roof of the tent. The moon burned with a ruddy light.

Robert Gallows tapped his glass with a spoon.

“I propose a toast — to the memory of those poor souls taken before their time, and to a reversal of our own prolonged misfortune. Thank you, Jessica Mace, for making this restoration possible.”

Everyone drank. Beasley rose, gave a courtly bow, and exited the tent. My mouth dried and I instinctively touched the crucifix before I realized what I’d done. Stupid, inane, social programming at its worst.

“Shall we begin?” Robert Gallows said. “Jessica, be so good as to stand over there — perfect. Victor, I cede the floor.”

Victor waited for complete silence.

“Join hands.” He inhaled deeply and blew out the candles.

Took a few moments for the moonlight to kick in.

“Milo,” Victor intoned. “Milo, are you with us, you scurrilous fuck? We’ve brought you an offering. Come among us and claim your prize, if you’ve the balls.”

Well. I am not too proud to admit this spiel caught me flatfooted.

Chairs creaked. A staccato thumping emanated from the table; it and the chair creaking grew louder, becoming violent. Knuckles, rings, and bracelets clacked against wood as the shadowy company trembled and twitched, caught in a mass seizure. Their spasms ceased and the enclosure fell silent.

Was this a con job? Or had they taken a psychotropic drug and were frying together? Damned weirdoes. The lovely vision of ten grand in a bag steadied me, although I was tempted to step forward and shake Ephandra, see if she was playing possum.

“Girl, that’s your cue,” Perkins said, inches from my elbow. He didn’t seem quite himself in the near darkness.

“Gah!” I thought about having a heart attack.

A dozen chairs squeaked as the company unfolded to their feet in a unified motion. All of them stood stock still and regarded me in eerie silence. Their eyes blazed white with captured fire from the moon.

Hell of a cue. I got going.

Outside, a cold breeze sliced through my barely there ensemble. I called upon my reserves of hardcore Alaskaness and merely shivered.

Stars flared and died. The moon burned a hole through the black and into my mind. I decided to heist a truck and haul ass for town, or anywhere directly away from the remnants of the carnival. Keys were in everything around here. I didn’t heist a truck. I decided to fetch my loot from under Beasley’s bed and ride shank’s mare in a straight line until I hit something like civilization. Didn’t do that either.