Carnival of Life by HEATHER ŠTEFANEC
Such hope still circled around me like a carousel, a particular favorite of mine. Oh, I remember that bright white horse and its prancing figure. Its faux jewel saddle with mirrors to collect the light, round, and round as instrumental flutes and trumpets chimed. Music that would have been played during 12th-century games and training between horsemen and knights. Carosella, the training device. Little battle, the meaning. I remember my mother, with darker wide eyes, yelling:
“Rhianne, you get over here this instant! You know there are terrible people in the world who can take you! Stay with me!” I recall wondering if she was ever a little girl at the carnival.
I remember the day Anna was taken. It was right up the road from my aunt’s farmhouse. The train tracks across the way an escape to nowhere but more dirty villages, surrounded by grassy valley hills I felt like I would never see the other side of. I guess Anna saw the other side of them because she never came back.
As a girl, I knew to fear men. It had to be a man who took her, I thought to myself. Men like our little dresses and pigtails, and my Barbie lived to serve her Ken. One morning before school, Anna’s picture came rolling across my TV screen, a 13-button knob, and an antenna we could never erase the white static lines with. It was the era for 6-year-olds to walk to school independently, and that morning, I ran.
At lunch, the paper-thin carton of lukewarm milk tasted like acidic fiber, and the scent of old grease assaulted me. My friends and I gagged it down, eager to rid ourselves of the sour taste. And there she was, staring at us from a black and white photo, her wavy brown hair and bright smile. There she was, full of hope. On a 10-cent milk carton.
Three decades later, I sit before a carousel that seems frozen in the '90s. I wish I could hop on the white stallion. Instead, I sit with some fried dough and its powdery sweetness, tearing bits and trying not to touch my pearly lace dress with sticky fingers. If there is any occasion to wear a dress, it is always an occasion for me. With my western boots and suede bolo around my neck, I sure feel ready to be swept up by my knight, ready to gallop far past those old valley hills.
My date should have been here by now. Meeting in public was best, after all. These new-aged apps with their hunters and prey, you never know when the birthday flame dreams might become tinder for a killer. And his account wasn’t verified. My phone startled me as it vibrated through my bag. A text from an unknown number read:
“Are you enjoying your treat over there?”
I didn’t know if I should answer. So many numbers that should have been left swipes. I had indeed met more adversaries than knights, but that feathery hope still circled. As do vultures. My phone buzzed again:
“I will enjoy my treat, too.”
Cue the panic. My stomach churned like a child overdosed on cotton candy. Was this my date playing some sick joke? I gathered my things, ready to get to my car and call it a night. BUZZ! “Are you ready for me to dirty that dress?”
Who could this be? I thought, half tempted to text back. They say curiosity kills. I always wonder who they are. They say now, that Anna was abducted by a man as she rode her bike home from the carnival. Only a half a mile from her house. He confessed to kidnapping and murdering her while in custody for another heinous crime against a different child. Her body never found. They say she loved poetry and dance, that her father was a pastor.
I say, when we describe anything important, we describe it as coming from our guts. Our insides, our internal workings, that which keeps us living. I say, we should probably listen to those guts. I say, there was no time to be curious. My guts told me to have a staff member walk me to my vehicle. There was only time to wonder whose headlights were behind mine. To wonder if I should even pull into my driveway tonight. So, I drove to the police station instead. The car behind me decelerated; the dark figure waved, then proceeded on. I told the Anna in me that it wasn’t her fault. That there are terrible people in the world. And to stay with me. And together, we experienced such the grand thing of living.
This page has paths:
- CREATIVE WORKS: FICTION & PROSE University of Alaska Anchorage Department of English