Playing with Fire
It was supposed to be the best day of their lives.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as she sat next to him, their backs against the tire of the old truck. It had been a warm night, the sky was vast and streaked with red, and the distant lights of Kansas City were twinkling like lights on a birthday cake. It should have been beautiful to watch the sun rise with her like this, alone and so far away from all that they had known, but in fact, he had never felt worse in all his life. He had made yet another mess of things, taken everything in her life and turned it upside down into chaos. He had finally and irrevocably crossed 'the line' and their lives would never, ever be the same. And to top it all off, he had ruined her birthday. She had turned eighteen tonight, and he had ruined it for everyone, most especially her.
He hated himself for it.
And yet, she was here, sitting next to him, their backs against the muddy rubber of the tire. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, dark hair rising and falling on the faint breeze. There was a bruise on her left cheekbone, dark and swelling and purple. It made him fell sick to know he had been the cause of it. He had set the forces in motion that had brought them to this place. It was all his fault, his and his alone.
He wondered if she could read his thoughts. She knew what he was thinking, she had to, for she caught his look, returned it and he felt his chest tighten inside him.
He swallowed. "I'm sorry."
She held his gaze for a moment before smiling. "Did you honestly think it could have gone any other way?"
She was a year younger than him but very wise.
"I did," he said honestly. "I did. I thought that maybe, once they knew, everything would be okay. That maybe your dad would be okay, you know, with us...with me…I thought…"
"Did you think, Paddy?" she asked calmly. "Or did you just do?"
He looked away now, at the grass by his shoes. Brown shoes. He had found them at a Thrift Store in Little Rock, liked the old-school retro look of them. They were crusted with mud.
He didn't need to say anything. She could read him like a book.
"You shouldn't have jumped him like that."
"And he shouldn't have hit you like that." His eyes flashed with anger. She looked away as if he had just struck her with words rather than fists.
Immediately he felt worse. As if he could.
"I'm sorry, Ange." He sighed, rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry for ruining your birthday. I'm just, I'm sorry for everything."
She leaned her cheek on his shoulder, the cheek that was now tender. He sighed again. It broke his heart that she still wanted him.
"Your dad was something, though…" She smiled at the sunrise, remembering.
"Yeh," and he let her smile slip onto his face now. A sad smile, but still. "A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma…"
She looked up at him curiously, the smile lighting her face better than the setting sun.
"Churchill," he shrugged. "But he wasn't talking about fathers."
"Hmm."
His throat tightened again, and he looked back at the lights of the city, the clouds streaking red across the sky, the mud on his shoes, anything but her.
It was supposed to have been a good day. It had started out great. In fact, it was supposed to be the best day of their lives.
. . .
This was going to be the best day of his life.
He rolled the old truck past the crowded parking lot, towards the traveling trailer park that had been his home for as long as he could remember. From town to town, state to state, these trailers were his neighbourhood, these fringe people his family. No fond memories of tree-lined streets or backyard playforts, no favourite corner stores or soda shops or parks. For him, childhood was defined by tents and trailers, cards and clowns, freaks and marks.
He didn't care. He would be leaving it all in the morning.
Ronnie waved him in, past the crane, past the elephant, and he pulled up beside the beige and brown beast he called home. It had rained last night and the grass was muddy, creating ruts in the ground under the tires. He slipped the keys in his pocket and pushed the door open with his foot. He could hear the sounds of the carnival rides and the music from the games-of-chance booths. He could smell the oil and the elephant and the kettlecorn and cigarettes, but he pushed them all out of his mind as he slid out of the truck, his arms weighed down with books.
"Hey Paddy! Yer old man's lookin' fer ya! You got line-ups round the park!"
"Pete, get the door, willya?"
"Boy, you in a world of trouble…" But the big man obliged, shaking his head and holding the trailer's swinging door open wide as Patrick Jane hauled his stash up the few steps and into the trailer proper. "You at the library again?"
"Yep. Boonslick Regional."
"How many books you stolen over the years? And from how many libraries?"
"How many states are there again?" Jane grinned as he laid the armful on the metal fold-down table in the tiny kitchen. "And they're not stolen, Pete. They're borrowed. On extended loan."
"Uh huh. Ever paid any late fees?"
"Nope."
"Going to?"
"Nope."
"And how does that qualify as a loan, exactly?"
Jane held up one of the books. "Look at this – 'Hypnotize your Way to Fame and Fortune.'" And another. "'Hypnosis – Separating Fact from Fiction.'" And another. "The Mind's Eye Revealed: A Study in Hypnosis, The Power of Suggestion and Psychology.' This is amazing. I could so do this."
Still standing at the door, Pete put his meaty hands on his hips. "Uh huh. And you better be startin' with your dad. You missed two shows this morning and one this afternoon. There's another one scheduled in fifteen minutes. If you don't make it, he's gonna skin you."
Jane flashed him a wicked smile. "You wait, Pete. The show we've got now is for kids. I'm going to take it to the next level. I'm going to make a show that's going to knock your socks off." His blue eyes flicked down. "Or in your case, stockings…"
"Shut it, Boy Wonder," Pete grinned. "Tonight's Angie's party."
Jane turned back to his books, dragged several cardboard boxes out onto the table. "Yep."
"A big night for her."
"Yep."
"You gonna do anything?"
The young man said nothing.
The big man sighed. "Paddy, just…just be careful. Promise me you'll be careful."
"Oh, I'm always careful, Pete." He turned his back to his friend. "Close the door, will you? I need to finish something."
"Your dad's gonna skin you…"
"I know. Thanks Pete."
And the door to the trailer closed on stolen library books, cardboard boxes and a young Patrick Jane.
. . .
Pete had been right. Alexander Jane had been livid.
He'd had to cancel four sold out shows, refund four tents-full of tickets, make promise upon promise of one evening show that would beat all the others, and hope to hell his son showed up for any of it. Carl Ruskin would be wanting his head next if his boy didn't show.
He'd strolled in just before opening, in long pants and some sort of vest, probably picked up at some thrift store somewhere. There were three buttons to four buttonholes but his son didn't seem to mind. The kid had no style, and was rebellious as all get out. Whupping him was getting more and more difficult now. There seemed no holding him back.
Alexander Jane had ground his teeth, steeled his eyes and held his tongue, but the moment the lights came up, he was all smiles and show. Patrick Jane, Psychic Boy Wonder, Marvel of the Universe, Read Your Mind, Tell Your Fortune, Channel the Dead. The boy had begun 'calling spirits' only these last few months, speaking to dead friends and relatives of the suckers in the audience, and that kept them coming from miles around. They paid good money to see his boy in action, to just be in the same room with a Crystal Child, as some were calling him. It was a new thing, this spirit dance of Patrick's, but hell, it paid well and had seemed to keep him quiet for the last few months. But truth be told, his son was beginning to scare him.
He was more a bystander now as Patrick took complete ownership of the show. People in the audience would bring him things, objects from loved ones, rings, watches, pens, journals and Paddy would do his usual schtick, telling them what they were holding and why it was significant. He had ditched the blindfold now, as the folks gathered seemed to trust him completely, again a new thing. No dad required. And then they would pass him the item and from there, who knew where it would go. It always ended in tears, though. Tears meant big money, and Alex had to admit that in that department, his son had no equal. He always got 'em crying like babies and they emptied their wallets with no restraint.
There was a girl now, a quiet sad one, early twenties, sitting on a stool beside him, and she was passing him a necklace, a silver locket hanging on a chain. He watched as his son took it in both hands, closed his eyes and breathed deep, once, twice, three times. The audience was spellbound, and the room was packed. There were even people standing along the sides and back, and Alex had charged double for the privilege.
Eyes still closed, Patrick smiled.
"A woman, a beautiful woman…" he said.
"Yes," the girl whispered.
"A relative…" Silence. "No, no… a friend…"
"Yes."
"A dear friend, a best friend…"
"Yes…"
"Not a woman, a girl, a beautiful girl…" Alex could see Patrick's fingers running along the surface of the locket, gleaning a lifetime out of a few simple etchings. "Red hair, green eyes…Audrey…Adrienne…"
"Adrianna," said the girl, and the audience gasped in wonder.
Alex ground his teeth again. Boy Wonder. Boy Wonder was gonna get his ass whupped tonight. Been a long time coming too.
"She's passed," said Patrick and the girl nodded. His eyes were still closed so he couldn't see. Easy stuff, thought Alex. Any carnie worth his salt to do it. His son just did it so very well.
Suddenly, Patrick frowned, reached out a hand and took the girl's wrist in a firm grip. The audience gasped. His breathing changed. "She was murdered, wasn't she? In a park in Gladstone. Strangled with a man's red silk tie …"
The girl gasped now and began to weep.
"She ran away, but she didn't mean it. She didn't want to go. She knows that now. She knew it then. But she always trusted too easily…"
"Yes…" said the girl.
"It was that man, the one who said he would take care of her, they went to the park and he killed her and covered her body with leaves. She always loved that park…"
Patrick released his breath with a shudder, opened his eyes slowly, frowning and blinking as if in confusion.
"Is that true?" he asked and she nodded, the tears spilling down her cheeks. He swallowed, passed the locket back to the girl. "I'm sorry," was all he said.
The audience burst out in wild applause and Patrick threw a wide-eyed glance at his father. Alexander Jane just shook his head.
Yes, his son was beginning to scare him.
. . .
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
His father grabbed his arm and spun him around. It was late, he could see the crowd gathered at the Ruskin trailer, hear the laughter as she opened presents under the carnival lights. The beer, vodka and whiskey were flowing freely, and he could hear Danny's drunken giggles from this far away. While the legal drinking age was 21, Missouri was one of the few states that allowed parents the right to give their children liquor at any age. It was a law that both he and Danny heartily approved of. They had lost count of the nights spent drinking under the canopies of big metal.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, son…" It was a growl, so he obeyed, turning his face away from the lights toward the scowling face of his father. He opened his mouth to say something but his dad cut him off. "What the hell are you thinking, son? You missed four shows today, the trailer is packed to the gills with boxes and you go all Jekyll and Hyde on me tonight in the show."
The younger Jane yanked his arm away. "She paid, didn't she? You got your poker money—"
"That's not what I'm talking about…" His dad took a step back, put one hand on his hip, ran the other through his dark head of hair.
Patrick stole a glance at the party, felt his fingers curl over the long envelope he had in his hand. He turned back to his father. "Then what, dad? What are you talking about, exactly?"
"I'm worried about you, son. What was that with the necklace and the dead girl? How did you know that stuff?"
"I don't know…"
"You took a real chance, there. If you were wrong, even in the slightest, those folks would have demanded their money back and today we would have been in the red."
In the red. How his dad hated being in the red. Any other colour but red.
"Well, I wasn't wrong, was I?"
"But how are you doing that?"
He shook his head, blue eyes honest for a change. "I don't know, dad. It just comes to me. It's like people are practically screaming it at me, I just need to know how to read it, that's all."
"But that stuff about the man and the dead girl and her body in the park—"
"I don't know, okay? I don't know…" He glanced around anxiously. "Look, it's Angie's party. I promised her I'd go…"
"Sure…" and the tall man sighed, shoulders sagging, and his son paused, looking at him as if for the first time. He was leaving in the morning. He and Angela, and they hadn't told a soul. He had bought the tickets this morning. He might never see his dad again. The thought had never bothered him before. Suddenly, for some strange reason, it did.
"I'm sorry, dad. I have to go."
"Just be careful, son. With Carl…"
Patrick smiled, the smile that dazzled the crowds and emptied wallets like a charm. "Oh, I'm always careful, dad. Carl loves me, you know that. He just doesn't know it yet." And with that, he turned and sprinted off towards the lights and laughter of Angela Ruskin's 18th birthday celebration.
Alex sighed, shook his head and headed back to the trailer.
. . .
Carl Ruskin smiled. Just two more presents, the cake and then lights out, and no sign of that damned kid. Maybe, if he were lucky, he wouldn't show at all. It would break his daughter's heart, sure, but that was better than the alternative. No daughter of his was marrying a boy like that, and if he got her pregnant, then he'd be family. Best to stomp it out now before it bloomed into something worse.
He watched her as she tore open the wrapping from a box, pulled out a bolt of fabric in a riot of colours. He puffed his cigar as she threw the fabric over her shoulders, turned to her friend Sam and hugged her tightly in thanks.
"It's from Peru," Sam was saying. "Liola's mom imports them."
"I love it!" Angie laughed and Carl watched her some more. She'd had a beer tonight. She wasn't much of a drinker, not like her brother or that Jane boy. Bad influences, both of them. She was a good girl, his princess, his treasure. Too good for carnie life. They had no money for college, although she would have done well. He could think of no way out for her.
He glanced at his wife, standing next to him, holding cheap white wine in a plastic cup. Good woman, small, quiet, soft, a rabbit to his bear, but she was strong like his daughter. Too good for him, but she had loved him since she was fifteen, married him at nineteen, raised his two children, losing one in between, and had never been unfaithful. Too bad he couldn't say the same.
The last present, a romance novel from Bette, the bearded woman. Private joke, he assumed. While Bette was most definitely bearded, no one really knew if she was, in fact, a woman.
And suddenly, there in the crowd of well-wishers and partiers, a familiar blond head, laughing, smiling, watching with quick eyes from the perimeter. He was waiting his turn, Carl knew, would upstage the whole night. That was his plan. The kid was desperate that way. He needed attention like no one else. He felt his wife tense at his side, tossed a look down at her. She liked the boy, he knew this as well, but felt him too intense for their Angie, too undisciplined for such a tender soul.
He tossed his cigar to the ground, crunched it under his boot, and made his way to intercept the trouble before his daughter could see.
"Party's over, boy," he grumbled as he pressed his bulk in between Patrick Jane and the others. "Go home."
The boy glanced up and Ruskin could see the wheels spinning behind those eyes. All the various ways he could get what he wanted, all the ways he could turn this mountain into a molehill. Always scheming, that kid. Just like his old man.
"Hey Carl, I was going to ask you about those tattoos—"
"I said go home."
He was fast, Ruskin had to give him that. No one faster. The boy deked left, darted right, dodged the swing of his hand and was suddenly at her side and he watched his daughter light up like a candle. He bristled with fury. She used to light up for him.
"I got you something," the boy was saying as he passed an envelope into her hands. "You need to read it tonight. But not now. Later. In private."
Ruskin shook his head. No wonder she'd fallen for him. Those eyes, that smile. He could charm the skin off a rattlesnake. He was good for business. Wherever they went, people came from all over every state just to watch him, see what he could do. It was as if the fair was playing second fiddle, merely support staff to the golden marvel who drew them in from far and wide.
Best to stomp it out fast.
"Alright folks," he boomed over the crowd. "It's late and we're taking the cake inside. Thanks for coming out."
"But dad…" Angie this time, turning her large eyes toward her father.
"Sorry, baby. It's family time ."
There was a collective groan from the party, but Carl Ruskin was their leader, the boss, and no one ever bucked Carl. They began to disperse, heading out in twos and threes toward their respective trailers, Bette and her live-in beau, the Incredible Collapsing Man. Vanessa the snake charmer and her two sons, Cobra and Viper. Midge the Seven-Foot Woman and her husband, Roy the Living Garden Gnome. Roadies and freaks and shysters, the lot of them. They were his people. He loved them like family.
And then there was the kid.
His wife and son had already disappeared into the trailer. Danny was likely too drunk to stay awake for cake anyway. He needed to be put to bed. Angie was hanging outside with Patrick. He was whispering to her, their fingers entwined, foreheads almost touching. It burned in his gut like a coal fire.
"Angie, inside. Now."
"Can Paddy come in?" Her eyes were pleading. "Please?"
"Yes, Carl, please?" echoed Patrick. He was smiling wickedly, eyes gleaming. It was a game to him, a game he wanted to win.
"I said family." Ruskin stared at the boy, his own eyes hard as steel. "He's not family."
"But daddy—"
"I said in!"
He took her arm, spun her around and shoved her up the steps and into the trailer, taking a moment to throw a smug look at the Boy Wonder left standing outside in the dark.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Patrick called up. "A bastard and a bully."
Ruskin just smiled and closed the door behind him.
. . .
A birthday party should be a happy thing. It should be filled with anticipation and joy, celebration and sharing. It is very hard to sing Happy Birthday when the singers are tense and nervous, even harder when the birthday girl is weeping.
But on Carl Ruskin's urging, they did that very thing. They cut up the cake, had begun passing the pieces around on paper plates when the lights in the trailer went out, plunging them completely in the dark.
In fact, through the tiny windows, it seemed that the lights had gone out in the entire fairground.
"Damn," growled Ruskin. "I'll kill him."
There was a rap at the door.
Carl pushed it open. Patrick Jane was smiling up at him.
"Oh, hi. It seems we've lost power, yeh? So I guess you can bring the cake back outside."
"You little bastard…"
"We can light the candles again. Everyone can sing. Just like it should be. Just like family."
Ruskin took a menacing step down. "What the hell did you do?"
"Me?" He shrugged innocently. "The whole county's out. Can't even see the lights of Sedalia."
The big man glanced over the tops of the trailers. Sedalia, home of the Missouri State Fair, which had been their home for two weeks now, was as black as the carnival, the only light being the moon, a sliver smiling at them from the night sky.
"Maybe a transformer blew. Must be a storm coming." And he smiled like the sun. "Can I talk to Ange?"
Something tripped in Carl Ruskin, something dark and ugly that had been brewing for a very long time, and he marched down the metal steps, pushed the young man so hard that he staggered backwards, slipping slightly on the muddy ground.
"Get outta here," he snarled. "You and your old man, pack your boat and get outta my show."
"I just want to talk to your daughter, Carl."
"Get outta here!"
"It's just lights, Carl."
"I said get outta here!" And he pushed the young Jane again and again and again, until the soles of the ugly brown shoes couldn't take it anymore and they gave way, sending their owner backwards into the mud.
There was a blur between them.
"Daddy no!" Angela Ruskin, now eighteen, stood between two men she loved, one hand raised out to stop the one, another reaching out to help the other.
People were spilling out now from their trailers, alerted to sounds of trouble, the kind of trouble they had been expecting for months now, if not years. Ruskin's wife and son were there too, standing nervously at the door, not sure which way this thing should fall, but somehow knowing that, after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.
Angela turned to Patrick. "Paddy, just go home. We'll talk in the morning…"
"Talk?" he stared up at her from the ground. "Talk? Ange, you promised. You said after your eighteenth birthday…"
"What?" growled Ruskin. "You got plans to go somewhere, baby?" Slowly, he slid an envelope from his pocket, held it up in the moonlight. "You haven't told us 'bout no plans…"
Jane scrambled to his feet. "Those aren't yours, Carl."
"Daddy…"
"What is it, Carl?" asked his wife. She was holding a blanket around her shoulders, looking very small.
He slid two tickets from the envelope, all the while staring at his daughter. "Bus tickets for two. From Sedalia to Reno, Nevada. Leaving tomorrow morning at eight. You going to Reno, baby?"
"Daddy…"
"You leaving the show? With him?" He spat the last word out like a lemon.
"Angie?" It was her mother. "Is this true?"
"You can't go, Angie." Her brother now, looking younger than his fifteen years. "No, Angie, no. You can't go…"
"They're not going anywhere, Danny. Unless they plan to walk…" And very slowly, he began to rip the tickets into very small pieces, let them float away on the night air.
"Oh, we're going," said young Jane. "Far, far away from this place. And you'll never be able to find us. None of you."
"Angie?" her mom sobbed.
"I'm sorry, momma." Angie was sobbing now. "I love him."
"You love him?" With dead eyes, Carl stared at his daughter, his princess, his treasure. "Are you sleeping with him, Angela?"
"Don't answer him, Ange." It was Patrick, tight as a wire behind her, looking as if he might bolt at any minute. "He doesn't deserve an answer."
"You've been sleeping with him for months, haven't you?" His baby, his treasure.
"Daddy, no. I haven't—"
"You little whore!" and his hand flew out of it's own accord, striking his princess, his treasure, on the cheek, sending her now reeling and down into the mud.
Patrick was on him like a shot, the very force of him taking them both backwards against the trailer. But the boy was no match for the man, twice his age but twice his weight and experience, and Ruskin threw all his weight into his fists, once, twice, three times into the younger man's belly, knocking the air out of him like a punctured balloon. He could hear shouting, the screams of his wife, his daughter, the carnies that were his life, but his own pulse was louder, roaring in his head like a drumbeat. His hands found the boy's throat and they clamped tightly around it, lifting him off his feet, shoes scraping against the metal side of the trailer. It was mere seconds before that face, the face that drew people from every state, the face that could charm the skin off a rattlesnake, the face that made his daughter light up instead of him, her daddy, began to turn first red, then blue.
He would wipe the smile of that face once and for all.
Suddenly, another pair of hands, strong ones, grown ones, were on him now. One very strong arm slipped around his own throat, another under one shoulder, holding in a grip that would not let go for anything. He found his own face turning red, then blue, and within moments, he was forced to let go. Patrick Jane sagged against the trailer, Angela immediately at his side.
"Go!" shouted a voice in his ear. "Paddy, take your girl and get the hell outta here!"
"Dad?" Patrick gasped, trying to catch his breath and blinking in the darkness as his father held the much larger man in a stranglehold.
"The truck is packed, keys in the ignition. Go now. Call me when you get to Reno."
"Dad, I'm sorry-"
"GO!"
Patrick took one step back, then another. He glanced at Angela Ruskin, tried to say something. For once in his young life, he couldn't find the words. She grabbed his hand and began to drag him away toward the old truck, away from everything they had always known, away from their family, their jobs, their life.
The tires spun in the mud for only a moment before the old truck roared out of the trailer park under the smiling sliver of the moon.
. . .
It was supposed to have been the best day of their lives.
And so they sat, their backs against the muddy tires of the old truck, on a hill outside Kansas City. The dawn was red. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. Except he wasn't a sailor. He was a loser, a con man, a faker. He had dragged a beautiful girl from her home with promises of riches, of romance, of a better life. Hell, he didn't even have the money to buy her a coffee. He had left it all back in the trailer with his dad.
His eyes were stinging and he wiped at them with his hand.
She was watching him now.
He'd never cried in front of her, was careful never let her see that. Maybe once, when she had asked about his mother and he had lied about her taking a job as an English professor at Harvard. She'd known he was lying, but there were some things that he still couldn't talk about to anyone. She had left it alone. She was good that way for him. He could trust her with anything.
And so he let the tears spill down his cheeks, just a few, as he kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. Finally, he turned to her, smiled a weary smile.
"Happy Birthday," he said softly.
She smiled up at him but said nothing.
"You didn't even get to take your presents."
There was a look in her eye, something he had never seen before. It scared him, just a little.
"It's okay. I'll get you a really nice present when we get to Reno. We'll find an apartment. I'll get a job at one of the casinos. Maybe you could teach piano…"
She was still staring at him, head cocked, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.
"Does that sound alright? I know it doesn't make up for anything but still…"
When she didn't respond, he sighed and looked off at the sky once again. For some reason, he missed his dad.
"There is one thing," she said after a long while. "That you could give me for my birthday…"
He laughed, but it sounded sad, lost. "I don't have a nickel to my name, Ange. What can I possibly give you that you would want?"
Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, to his red and bruised throat, to his chest, barely visible under the layers of shirt and vest, and his heart suddenly thudded as he realized what she was thinking. His breathing changed.
"I…ah, I thought you wanted to wait…you know," he swallowed. "'til, 'til we were married…?"
She moved in very close, kissed the spot where her father's hands had been. "I do."
Her mouth moved along his neck, his throat, his jaw and she shifted so that she sat in his lap, straddling him. He was dizzy with the feel of her.
"I, Angela Charlotte Ruskin, take you, Patrick Alexander Jane…" She kissed his chin, his cheek, his forehead. "To be my lawfully wedded husband…"
She slid her hands into his hair, arched her back like a cat. "Do you, Patrick Alexander Jane, take me, Angela Charlotte Ruskin, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
He had no words. Her hands were moving to the three buttons on his vest, her hair spilling across his face. He was drowning in her. He couldn't breathe, his chest was going to burst. He simply had no words.
She smiled at him. "Say 'I do', silly."
He smiled at her. "I do."
And she pushed him down into the wet grass.
The End
