It had been a long day and I had been impatient to get away from the ancient abandoned man who called himself my father. I left shortly afterward, thinking: he’d always had a way with words, hadn’t he? And what had it gotten him in the end? A wife whose early death had given him an excuse to drown himself in bottle after bottle, while his son, whose birth was the cause of that death, was shunted from uncle to aunt to cousin. Yet, he had tried hard to be a father, in his way, always showing up on holidays, bundled with gifts and stories of great adventures in the cities he visited on his sales routes.
Now, Holly and I drove along soft-shaded Spruce Street and I was relieved that a trip to the cemetery was not on the agenda that day. Holly chatted gaily. She told me about the neighborhood carnival she and her friends had staged and how their names had appeared in the newspaper because they’d donated the proceeds to charity. She described the shopping trips for school clothes, because September loomed ahead. She brought me up to date on all the things that make up the life and times of a ten-year-old girl, and I barely listened, taking pleasure in her presence alone. She wore pigtails, and she was dark, unlike Alison, who was blond, and this secretly delighted me. Holly prattled on: there was a fabulous new ride at Wonder World, “The Rocket Trip to the Moon,” that all the kids were crazy about, and could we go on it, Dad, could we, huh, please?
“Why not?” I asked. All the “why nots” I had tossed her on Thursdays, like bouquets of love. I agreed so quickly because I knew she would change her mind at the last moment. Holly was shy, timid, and she usually avoided the more adventurous and perilous rides. Ordinarily, she was content to stroll through the park at my side while we made up stories about people passing by. She liked the merry-go-round and the distorted mirrors in the fun house and she was reluctant to attempt such daring exploits as the roller coaster or the loop-the-loop. For which I was grateful. Particularly on days such as this when my head pounded and my stomach revolted at the slightest movement.
“How’s your mother?” I asked, the question ritual.
Usually, the answer was ritual, too. “Fine” or “swell.” As if Holly’d received instructions. But today, she hesitated, sighed, and said: “Tired.”
“Tired?” I was searching for a parking place in the busy Wonder World lot.
“Oh, she’s been on a committee to get blood donors—”
That was Alison. Conscientious and community-minded and always willing to help. She had a desire for service to others and she dearly loved Monument and had no wish to venture to other places. Which was part of our trouble, or at least the beginning of it all. I had always regarded Monument as a starting point, not a destination. Alison and I had met the summer I’d been planning to leave, ready to knock on a thousand doors in New York City, seeking a job, something, anything—just to get away. But Alison had been so beautiful and I had loved her so incredibly that I’d remained in Monument, writing obituaries and other equally dismal stories for the town newspaper. However, I was always aware of the world outside of Monument and I had wanted to see it, to know a million people, visit a million places, all of which was ridiculous, of course, and eminently impractical. Sometimes, my frustration would burst out. “Alison,” I’d plead, “let’s try, let’s pack up and take our chances. I don’t mean go to the other side of the world. But somewhere. The world’s so big and Monument’s so small, our lives are so small—”
Alison had held up little Holly, who smiled at me in her infant innocence. “Is she so small, too, that you can’t be a father to her?”
Defeated, I remained in Monument but spent more and more time away from that confining claustrophobic apartment. In a bar or cocktail lounge, there were kind shadows and when you’d consumed just the right amount of beer or rye or whatever, all the sharp edges blurred and Monument itself receded. Inevitably, if you go often enough to a bar, a girl walks in. And, finally, Sally arrived. She was a member of a television unit dispatched to Monument by a Boston station to capture, on tape, the one-hundred-fifth birthday of Harrison Shanks, the oldest man in the county. Sally and I had a drink or two; she confessed that she was only a secretary for the film crew, an errand girl, really. Laughing, she reversed the cliché and wondered what a fellow like me was doing in a place like that. Meaning Monument, of course. She leaned against me warmly, a frankness about her body. Alison hid herself in tailored suits or loose, comfortable sweaters while Sally wore clothes that made me constantly aware that she was a woman. Sitting beside her on that first night, before I had said two dozen words to her, I felt as though I had known her body before, probably in a thousand adolescent dreams.
The television people were in Monument only two days. I served as their unofficial guide, arranging the interview with Harrison Shanks, who sat bewildered in a wicker chair on the porch of his ancient house, croaking monosyllabic answers to the inane questions placed by the interviewer. “How does it feel to be one hundred five years old?” The old man, confused by time and place, kept muttering about the banks closing and Herbert Hoover, which caused a few laughs and quips off camera, and I felt myself tightening inside. Someone pressed my arm.
“You’re a sensitive one, aren’t you?” Sally asked.
“He’s an old man. I’ve known him all my life.”
“Poor boy,” she said, touching the tip of my nose with a delicate finger. “You need a little tender loving care.”
The interview with Harrison Shanks used up only ninety-three seconds of a special show dealing with the problems of the aged but my alliance with Sally lasted much longer than that. But not long enough. That was the terrible part: leaving Alison and Holly for Sally and all the bright promises of Boston, to dislocate our lives and make Holly that pitiable object—the child of a broken home—to do all that and then to end up alone, after all. Sally found other sensitive men upon whom to bestow her tender loving care. Her care wasn’t really loving, I had learned, and I drifted from one job to another, sideways, not upward. To go upward demanded more than talent. It demanded ruthlessness and cunning, the necessity for sitting up nights plotting the next day’s maneuver, the next day’s presentation. But I found more allure in a drink or two, which became three or four, and then, what the hell, let’s have a party, let’s have some fun. And then it wasn’t fun anymore.
“Daddy, you look kooky,” Holly said now, giggling uncontrollably.
“You’re not exactly Cinderella at the ball,” I retorted.
We were regarding ourselves in the fun-house mirrors: Holly suddenly short and fat as if invisible hands had clapped her head down into her body, and I ludicrously tall and thin, pencil-like, my head a soiled eraser. Then we moved and exchanged grotesqueries, laughing some more at our reversed roles. At one point, I picked her up and whirled her around, basking in the gaiety of her laughter, despite the pain that stabbed my head. Dizziness overtook me and I set her down. “Let’s rest awhile, baby.” But she was carried on the momentum of her excitement and pulled me on. “The Rocket Ride, Dad, the Rocket Ride.”
I let myself be led through the sun-dazzled park, telling myself to hold out for a little while. There was a small bar across the street and maybe I could duck in there for a cool one while Holly went on the rocket. On those Thursdays with Holly, I had seldom cheated that way, had devoted all my time to her, perhaps to show Alison that I wasn’t completely without a conscience. When I had first called her after finding my loneliness intolerable, she’d been skeptical.
“We’ve been doing nicely, thanks,” she said, cool and crisp. “Don’t upset things, Howie. We haven’t seen you for—how long? Three years?—and we’ve arranged our lives. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“You mean, you don’t need me,” I said.
When she didn’t answer, I took the plunge. “But I need you.”
Her laughter infuriated me. I wanted to hurt her. “All right, maybe not you. But Holly. I need her. She’s mine, too. My blood runs—”
“I know. Your blood runs in her veins. But nothing else,
I hope.”
I was startled by her bitterness but, upon reflection, I saw that she was justified. When the divorce had become final, I hadn’t made any particular demands about Holly. Alison had been generous enough to leave the terms open: I could see the child whenever and however I wished. Terms that I did not take her up on, because I was too intoxicated with my freedom and Sally and later the others. Until that day I called, alone and desperate in that hotel room, abandoned by everyone, needing somebody. And so we decided, over the telephone, that Holly would be mine on Thursdays. Thursday afternoon to be precise. Those first few weeks, I clutched at those hours with Holly as if they were gulps of oxygen in an airless world. We made the rounds, stiff and awkward at first, but finally Holly began to laugh at my jokes and eventually she accepted me. Alison remained distant, however, and never ventured out of the house. I was not invited inside, of course.
One day she addressed me through the screen door as I met Holly at the porch. She told Holly to go to the car.
“You know what you’re doing?” she asked. But it wasn’t a question: more an accusation.
“What?”
“Disrupting her life, her routine. Cruising in here every week like a year-round Santa Claus.”
“Are you jealous? Or don’t you think a kid needs a little fun now and then?”
She recoiled as if I’d slapped her or had stumbled upon the truth, and I felt a twist of triumph.
“Here we are, Dad,” Holly said.
“My God,” I cried, confronted by the huge and elaborate piece of machinery rising from the ground in front of us. Ordinarily, the rides in amusement parks all resemble one another, but the Rocket Ride seemed to be an exception, a roaring and revolving device that emitted billows of smoke and showers of sparks. Circular in design, the machinery contained small, simulated rockets with room for two or three people in each rocket. As the entire device moved in circular motion, the individual rockets swung up and down and occasionally poised daringly fifty feet above the ground before descending in a roar of smoke and flame. As we watched, the ride was apparently completing its circuit. I realized, finally, that the smoke was simulated and that the flames were actually paper streamers cunningly devised to resemble the real thing.
“Isn’t it cool, Dad?” Holly asked.
I chuckled at my shy little girl, who had yet to find the courage for a trip on the roller coaster.
“You’re not going on this, are you?” Although the ride was not as awesome as it had seemed at first glance, there was still that fifty-foot swoop.
“All the kids have,” Holly said, eyes blazing with challenge. “If I don’t, they’ll think I’m”—she groped for the alien word—“chicken.”
My poor sweet. So small and worried, risking an encounter with the monster to prove to her friends that she was not afraid. The ride came to a stop with screams and shouts and bellows and a muffled explosion. The pain between my eyes increased, my stomach rose.
“Please, Daddy?”
“Tickets,” called the attendant.
“Boy, oh, boy,” exulted a fellow coming off the ramp, his arm around a small blond girl who was flushed and excited, her body ripe and full. Somehow, our eyes met. She was young, but her eyes held the old message, the ancient code I had deciphered a thousand times.
“Can I, Daddy?” Holly’s voice was poised on the edge of victory, interpreting my sudden preoccupation as acquiescence.
I watched the blond and her boyfriend as they made their way to a nearby refreshment stand. As a test. Sure enough, her eyes found their way to mine.
Holly had been leading me to the ticket booth, and I found myself with wallet in hand.
“You really want to go on this thing?” I asked, thinking that perhaps she had started to grow up, beginning to leave childhood behind. And yet I doubted her endurance. She was still only a baby.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said impatiently, the woman emerging from the girl, a hint of the future.
I thought of a tall cool one in the bar across the street. Or maybe an approach to the blond. Handing a dollar to the cashier, I said: “One.”
“Child or adult?”
“Child,” I answered. Adult? What sane adult would risk a ride on that terrible parody of a rocket shot?
“Aren’t you coming with me?” Holly asked.
“Look, Holly, your daddy’s getting old for these kinds of capers. Rocket ships are for the young.” Leading her toward the entrance, I urged: “Better hurry. You won’t get a seat.”
“Do you think I should go on the ride alone?” she asked, doubts gathering, almost visible in her eyes.
I squinted at the mechanism, conjuring up the vision of myself, complete with pounding head and queasy stomach, being tossed and turned and lifted and dashed down. Ridiculous. It was impossible for me to accompany her. I was not equipped for Rocket Rides, with or without a hangover. Blond or no blond.
The crowd jostled us, pushing forward, carrying us to the entrance. Placing the ticket in Holly’s hand, I waved her on. She was swept along in the crowd and then emerged on the ramp leading to the platform where customers entered the individual capsules. The attendant on the platform took her ticket. I hoped he would realize how young she was and guide her to a rocket where other people would be near her. He led her to a small rocket, a capsule with enough room for only one person, installed no doubt for those who preferred to ride alone. She hesitated for a moment and then entered the compartment. She seemed small and wan and abandoned. She snapped a thin bar in place—her only protection from falling out. But, of course, nobody ever fell out of those things. Did they? I told myself to stop being melodramatic; it was only a lousy ride in an amusement park and she wasn’t a child any longer.
Damn it. I walked over to the cashier’s booth, drawing my wallet. But I was halted in my tracks by the attendant’s cry: “All aboard. We’re off to the moon.”
“You can just make it, mister,” the cashier offered.
But I’d look foolish scurrying up the ramp. And, besides, all the rockets were probably filled.
A belch of smoke escaped the rocket, the roar of an engine filled the air and the entire mechanism seemed to come alive. I ran back near the entrance, eager to see Holly before the ride began. She was sitting erect in her seat, as if she were a dutiful fifth-grader being obedient for her teacher. Her hands were folded in her lap. Our eyes met and I garlanded my face with a smile, assuring her that she was going to have fun. She nodded back, sighed a little, and with a roar and swish and boom, the trip started.
It all resembled a merry-go-round gone mad, the rockets whirling madly and individually, rising and falling and twisting, often at crazy impossible angles. I was grateful for my restraint, for having refused to go with Holly; I’d have been sick as a dog already. I glanced toward the refreshment stand; the blond was gone. Like so many others.
When I turned back to the ride again, it was in full swing. People screamed, those peculiar screams of terror and delight. The machinery whooshed and I sought Holly. At first, I couldn’t find her in the nightmare of motion and color and sound. And then the small rocket swung into view and I spotted her. Her eyes were wide with surprise, her body tense, her hands clinging to the bar. Then she was gone, whisked away out of sight. The other people passed like blurs before my eyes. On the next turn, Holly’s eyes were closed and her face resembled melted wax, as if a mad sculptor had molded her flesh into a mask of fright. As she began to rise, far up, I wondered whether there was an element of danger, after all. Suppose she lost her grip on the bar. I walked toward the attendant who stood at bored attention near the entrance, but I finally decided not to bother him. Stop dramatizing, I told myself. Then Holly swept by, her eyes wild with horror, terrible eyes, agonized. I hurried to the attendant and asked him how long the ride went on.
“What?” he shouted above the din.
“How long’s the ride?”
“Five minutes. They get their money’s worth,” he yelled.
Stalking to my vantage point, I cursed myself. A moment later, she came into view, her eyes closed once more, her body crouched and tense, pitifully small and vulnerable. I remembered that as a child of three or so she’d been subject to nightmares. And she’d been afraid of thunder and lightning. I thought of all the thunderstorms she had endured and how I hadn’t been there to comfort her.
Now, the rocket swept around again and began the long ascent. Her eyes were open, in a gaze of desperation. She looked downward and saw me. Her lips were pressed tight, her cheeks taut. In that precious moment, I tried to hold her in my view. I smiled, more than smiled: I attempted to inject courage and love and protection into my smile. And our eyes met for a long moment—and then she was gone. Up and away. Around and around. And I closed my own eyes.
The ride finally ended and I rushed to the exit to greet her, arms ready to welcome her, happy to have her safe at last. I watched as she carefully let herself out of the rocket. She walked, one foot after the other, across the ramp, a little unsteady, perhaps, but determined. I held out my arms as she approached.
“Holly!” I cried.
She looked up thoughtfully, startled, as if she were surprised to find me there.
“Say, that was quite a trip, wasn’t it?” I inquired. “Holy mackerel, I was ready to rip off my clothes, show my Superman outfit and leap to the rescue.”
She smiled distantly. But not at my words. She was smiling at something else. It was a terrible smile. Private. The kind of smile that didn’t belong on the face of a child.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I’m sorry you were alone. Too bad you couldn’t have gotten into a rocket with somebody else. I was afraid you might fall out.”
“I’m safe and sound,” she said.
But she wasn’t looking at me.
“Well,” I said, “what’s next on the schedule?” Trying to induce enthusiasm into my voice.
“I think I’d like to go home, please,” she replied, in her best polite-little-girl manner.