Borealis Carnival
The drive took forever. The only way to get from the highway to the fairgrounds was a painfully bumpy dirt road. Each year the carnival came back, everyone vowed they’d make them set up their tents closer to the city. And every year, they always stopped in the same field about 30 miles out of town. It was far enough away to be inconvenient, but no less inconvenient than the children who demanded to go to the carnival. Their city was by no means small, but it wasn’t exactly big. It was one of those little suburbs where the better-offs could buy houses and raise their children away from the ugliness of the big city. When they got old enough, the children could escape to those big-city delights their parents tried to keep them from for hours at a time, but until then, the kids were at the mercy of the small cul-de-sacs filled with two-story track houses. A child can only play so much street hockey and street football and street basketball and street tag and street freeze tag until they begged for something new and exciting.
Nothing was more exciting than the carnival. Every year, right after the warm breath of spring started to chase away the bitter bite of winter, the fliers would start to pop up all over town. They were on streetlights, telephone poles, grocery store tack boards, and most importantly and inexplicably in school cafeterias. The red lettering on white paper would announce the impending arrival of The Northern Lights Carnival, appearing for three nights only at Everett’s fairgrounds, only 30 sparse miles outside of town. No one ever saw who brought the little pieces of paper, who taped and tacked them up, apparently in the wee hours of the night. The carnival had been coming to town as far back as even the oldest resident could remember, and no one ever bothered to ask the how, who, and when of the red and white fliers, because the why overshadowed all of them and brooked no questioning.
Jeremy had been to the carnival before, but he was too young to remember it. Mom had taken him when he was four, but then she married Ted. Ted never had time for anything, and thought Jeremy didn’t either. When his friends were out playing basketball in the summer, he was inside reading. When they were building snowmen in the winter, he was reading. Every year since he could remember, when the carnival would come to town, he’d beg to go. He never begged Ted, because he never listened. Ted always asked Jeremy if he’d been keeping his grades up, and Jeremy always replied with a simple “Yes sir.” He couldn’t even beg his mother out loud. Every year, he’d come home with a flier in his hand, and he’d beg his mother with his eyes. She’d smile, pat him on the head, talk to Ted for five minutes, a conversation which usually ended with “Absolutely not,” and then Jeremy would go back to his room, and open another book.
Right when he turned 12, Ted left. Jeremy felt a little guilty, because he’d been asking God for that as a birthday present. He felt bad that his prayers made his mother cry so much, but ultimately, when Ted left the day before Jeremy turned 12, he was much happier, although he didn’t show it. The next day at school, his classmates politely sang happy birthday, although not too many were overly concerned. Jenny McKenzie gave him some chocolate and said happy birthday, too, but probably just because she felt sorry for him. When the children discovered the red and white fliers in the lunchroom, Jeremy’s birthday was completely forgotten.
“The Carnival! The Carnival!” they all cheered. It was all anyone talked about. Even the older kids, those on the cusp of high school, who pretended no to be interested in such childhood nonsense, did nothing but plan their mischief for the upcoming weekend. At first, Jeremy was sad. The Carnival usually came around his birthday, so he was used to being forgotten by his classmates yet again. He was usually sad about not being able to go. But, he remembered, Ted was gone. The rest of the school day flew by. Jeremy missed a math problem, something that caused his teacher great distress, and he asked Jeremy to stay after class. To a 12 year old boy with an aching question to ask his mother about a carnival, there could be no crueler torture.
“Now Jeremy,” his teacher said, “I know it’s your birthday, but that’s no excuse to let your attention lapse.”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Uh huh.”
“Jeremy!”
“Uh, sorry Mr. Grimes. I won’t let it happen again.”
The teacher’s disapproving scowl softened as he looked at the bespectacled adolescent in front of him. He smiled wisely, and knelt down so he’d be eye level with the boy. “It’s ok Jeremy. I know you’re going through some tough times at home. The principal told me. There’s people you can talk to, my boy, if you need to, right here at school.”
“I know. Thanks Mr. Grimes. Can I go now?” The little, pale boy was practically shaking with anxiety. The teacher was reminded of his own youth, and he softened a little more.
“Yes yes, Jeremy. I’m an old fool for keeping such a young lad after school on his birthday. And with the Carnival coming to town and all—.” The teacher caught himself and immediately stopped. Everyone knew Jeremy didn’t go to the Carnival, and everyone knew why.
But the quiet little boy smiled, something the teacher had never genuinely seen him do, and practically broke down the door in his hurry to get home. He ran all the way, not caring for the quizzical looks from classmates and passersby. When he rounded the corner of his cul-de-sac and pounded up the porch steps to the front door, he was a bright shade of red and wheezing like a leaky balloon. Jeremy didn’t get a lot of exercise.
His mother nearly had a heart attack when he loudly burst through the door. Her son was usually so quiet. “Jeremy! What’s wrong?” she demanded. The boy had to catch his breath before he could answer, and even then, his answer came out choppy and wheezy, but no less excited:
“Mom…the Carnival…my birthday…no Ted…can we?” he reached into his pocket and handed his mother the crumpled red and white flier.
Now Jeremy’s mother had been working extra hours at the grocery store in order to pay the bills. She didn’t miss Ted, not even a little bit, but she did miss his paycheck. Her boss had been very nice about it, and let her work extra shifts on the weekends. The thought of telling her son they couldn’t go because she had to work Saturday night was almost unthinkable. One look at the boy’s bright blue eyes put that thought right out of her head.
“Of course Jeremy. We’ll go this Saturday.” Her mind was racing. She didn’t know how she’d get out of work, but they could fire her for all she cared.
“Thanks Mom.” The simple two-word reply could not do justice to the happiness in the boy’s heart. He felt like he could run a million more miles and then some. Instead, he hugged his mother, harder than he ever had before. A little tear rolled out of his 12-year old eye, and he wiped it on Mom’s shoulder.
All this happened on a Monday. Poetic justice would say the week flew by, but it did not. It dragged on painfully for Jeremy, who missed more math problems and even misspelled a word in English class. He had a few more talks with other teachers, but their words fell on ears deafened by anticipation. Friday night, he could barely sleep, no matter how hard he tried. He closed his eyes so tight they hurt, but behind them danced the twinkling lights and joyous sounds of the carnivals he’d read so much about. Shocking wonders of strange and amazing origin, steel structures that promised endless childhood delights, and raucous rides that promised both fear and fun in the same breath. Needless to say, Jeremy did not sleep a wink that night.
Saturday morning, he was the archetype of childhood obedience. He was quiet at breakfast, and answered shortly but succinctly to his mother’s questions about school. She always asked, never accused like Ted. As he ate and conversed, the only thing that betrayed his excitement was his right foot that absolutely refused to stay still. His mother smiled.
“We
ll Jeremy, what do you want for dinner tonight? I feel like staying home and making a casserole, what do you say to that?” she tried to be serious, but her eyes couldn’t contain the mischievous intent.
The boy nearly dropped his fork as a cold chill hit his stomach. He hated casserole. It was Ted’s favorite. He looked up and saw his mother smiling, and he laughed. She laughed too. The old house welcomed the laughter, the walls seeming to soak it in, encouraging greater heights of giggling. It had been far too long since there had been real, genuine laughter in the house.
“Go ahead and get changed, goofball. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready, and we’ll stay as long as you want.”
Jeremy didn’t even respond. He raced to his room, found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and threw them on. He didn’t waste time finding matching socks, just the two that were easiest to reach. He stomped back downstairs, and was about to fly out the front door when his mother’s laughter stopped him.
“I don’t think they’ll let you in with your shirt on backwards and your pants inside out.” She couldn’t help herself, and laughed some more.
Jeremy was young, but not too young to be embarrassed by such a childish mistake. With as much dignity as he could