Carnival Child
By Russell Bradbury-Carlin
His mother’s smooth pinkish skin pulls taunt then loosens as she talks. Five year old Stamp watches the muscles along the side of her neck pull like thin ropes each time she opens and closes her mouth. Stamp finds this calming.
"I'll be leaving soon, Kren,” his mother said, “I need to prep for the show. Don't forget to cook the grilled cheese until it’s just blackened -- he won't eat it otherwise.”
"Don’t worry.” Kren’s face is stilted and immobile. The muscles move vertically like a ventriloquist’s dummy’s jaw. Stamp can tell he isn’t going to like this baby-sitter.
Stamp looks at Kren. He looks at his mother. He closes and uncloses his fists. His jaw tightens. No one notices.
The sound of a truck engine floats through the screen door. It is a familiar sound: an old creaky truck that halts near the front of the house, then the weak wheeze of the horn, blown once. The truck belongs to the carnival. Each night: different house or apartment, different baby-sitter. And each night, his mother leaves in the truck and Stamp tries to catch sight of the person who drives her. He usually sees the flash of a beat-up hat or a pair of gloved hands on the steering wheel. The person never gets out of the truck, never comes to the door.
“I can’t find my dress,” his mother calls out from the bedroom.
“Let me help,” Kren offers and goes down the hall.
Stamp needs to get a look at the driver’s face, needs to see if his mother is truly safe each night.
Stamp sneaks out the screened door into the dark. He creeps up to the truck then moves carefully along the driver’s side. He inches his head further and further, looking into the side window for the brim of the hat or the edge of a nose. Nothing. The cab is empty.
The sound of grinding gravel comes from behind. He turns and sees the stranger towering over him. The dim glow of the streetlight reveals the man’s face to be the greenish color of a dark sea; his skin, a series of slightly raised ridges like scales that move in subtle undulations as if a pool of water lay beneath. His eyes are ice blue, surrounded by fierce white.
“You came to look at me, huh?” the man asks. Stamp has difficulty reading his face. It is too foreign, too mobile.
“Do I scare you?”
Stamp didn’t know.
“I see you stare into the truck each night.” His voice is deep and rumbling. The ridges of his skin rise and sway as he talks. “Go ahead and stare--I have nothing to reveal.”
The reptile-man watches Stamp, seems to probe the boy’s face. The young boy, in turn, scans the man’s face for some sign of intention. The reptile-man leans forward. Stamp steps back. He lifts his gloved hand, draws it toward the boy. Stamp doesn’t move. The reptile-man brings his hand to the side of the young boy’s face and brushes his cheek with his fingers. The man’s face seems to contract a bit. He draws his hand back quickly.
Suddenly Kren is beside the boy. “Stamp, what are you doing out here?” He looks up at his baby-sitter.
Stamp’s mother walks around the Reptile-Man’s truck. “I need to go to work, Stamp.”
The boy walks with Kren into the yard. He watches his mother get into the passenger’s seat of the truck. The reptile-man is back in the driver’s side. He glances over his mother’s shoulder at the boy. His face is a calm pool of water.
The truck drives off. Stamp feels like his neck is a bit of string and his head is floating listlessly from side-to-side.
“Let’s go in and eat.” Kren says. Stamp decides he will hate the grilled cheese sandwich, just as he will hate Kren. And tomorrow, he will hide in the back of the truck.
- - -
RUSSELL BRADBURY-CARLIN is a part-time writer living in Western MA. His stories and poetry have appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Rattle, Pindeldyboz, and MonkeyBicycle amongst others.
By Russell Bradbury-Carlin
His mother’s smooth pinkish skin pulls taunt then loosens as she talks. Five year old Stamp watches the muscles along the side of her neck pull like thin ropes each time she opens and closes her mouth. Stamp finds this calming.
"I'll be leaving soon, Kren,” his mother said, “I need to prep for the show. Don't forget to cook the grilled cheese until it’s just blackened -- he won't eat it otherwise.”
"Don’t worry.” Kren’s face is stilted and immobile. The muscles move vertically like a ventriloquist’s dummy’s jaw. Stamp can tell he isn’t going to like this baby-sitter.
Stamp looks at Kren. He looks at his mother. He closes and uncloses his fists. His jaw tightens. No one notices.
The sound of a truck engine floats through the screen door. It is a familiar sound: an old creaky truck that halts near the front of the house, then the weak wheeze of the horn, blown once. The truck belongs to the carnival. Each night: different house or apartment, different baby-sitter. And each night, his mother leaves in the truck and Stamp tries to catch sight of the person who drives her. He usually sees the flash of a beat-up hat or a pair of gloved hands on the steering wheel. The person never gets out of the truck, never comes to the door.
“I can’t find my dress,” his mother calls out from the bedroom.
“Let me help,” Kren offers and goes down the hall.
Stamp needs to get a look at the driver’s face, needs to see if his mother is truly safe each night.
Stamp sneaks out the screened door into the dark. He creeps up to the truck then moves carefully along the driver’s side. He inches his head further and further, looking into the side window for the brim of the hat or the edge of a nose. Nothing. The cab is empty.
The sound of grinding gravel comes from behind. He turns and sees the stranger towering over him. The dim glow of the streetlight reveals the man’s face to be the greenish color of a dark sea; his skin, a series of slightly raised ridges like scales that move in subtle undulations as if a pool of water lay beneath. His eyes are ice blue, surrounded by fierce white.
“You came to look at me, huh?” the man asks. Stamp has difficulty reading his face. It is too foreign, too mobile.
“Do I scare you?”
Stamp didn’t know.
“I see you stare into the truck each night.” His voice is deep and rumbling. The ridges of his skin rise and sway as he talks. “Go ahead and stare--I have nothing to reveal.”
The reptile-man watches Stamp, seems to probe the boy’s face. The young boy, in turn, scans the man’s face for some sign of intention. The reptile-man leans forward. Stamp steps back. He lifts his gloved hand, draws it toward the boy. Stamp doesn’t move. The reptile-man brings his hand to the side of the young boy’s face and brushes his cheek with his fingers. The man’s face seems to contract a bit. He draws his hand back quickly.
Suddenly Kren is beside the boy. “Stamp, what are you doing out here?” He looks up at his baby-sitter.
Stamp’s mother walks around the Reptile-Man’s truck. “I need to go to work, Stamp.”
The boy walks with Kren into the yard. He watches his mother get into the passenger’s seat of the truck. The reptile-man is back in the driver’s side. He glances over his mother’s shoulder at the boy. His face is a calm pool of water.
The truck drives off. Stamp feels like his neck is a bit of string and his head is floating listlessly from side-to-side.
“Let’s go in and eat.” Kren says. Stamp decides he will hate the grilled cheese sandwich, just as he will hate Kren. And tomorrow, he will hide in the back of the truck.
- - -
RUSSELL BRADBURY-CARLIN is a part-time writer living in Western MA. His stories and poetry have appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Rattle, Pindeldyboz, and MonkeyBicycle amongst others.
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