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“You don’t look familiar.”
“I knew Boyd. Your husband. I drove with him a couple of times. In Baton Rouge.”
She waited for him to offer his sympathies. Instead, he grinned. “I’m glad I run into you. I owed Boyd some money. Eighty dollars, to be exact. My name is Randy Armstrong. When I was driving, they called me the Bogalusa Flash.”
“That’s where you’re from?”
He seemed not to hear her. He took out his wallet. “Sorry about what happened. It’s part of the reason I gave up stock car driving. I’ve got thirty dollars here. I’ll have the rest tomorrow.”
“That’s very nice of you.” She took the money from his hand, her fingers touching his palm.
The next morning she went about her chores, feeding animals, serving food under the tent where the roustabouts and the operators of the rides ate. In two days they would be loading the animals onto a train and the carnival rides on trucks and heading for Grand Junction. Randy and his two friends were at one of the tables. He winked at her. “Payday today,” he said. “I ain’t forgot.”
She shared a small round-cornered aluminum trailer with an Indian woman named Greta who sold jewelry and T-shirts and smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and drank half a bottle of cough syrup every night before going to sleep. That evening Bailey served the tables under the tent, then sat down and ate by herself and watched the sun set on the cliffs and the green river and the cottonwoods, the air filled with the music from the carousel and the shouts of teenagers on the rides, the evening sky turquoise and printed with the lights of the Ferris wheel and the Kamikaze.
She saw no sign of Randy and his friends. Not until late the next night, when the lights were clicking off on the rides and the game booths, and the roustabouts were starting to take down
the Kamikaze. Randy tapped on her trailer door and removed his hat when she opened it. He handed her a fifty-dollar bill. “I didn’t get my check cashed till today. Let’s get a taco before they give it to the hogs. I ain’t kidding. A pig farmer buys all this slop they been feeding people at five dollars a plate.”
“If it’s slop, why do you eat it?” she said.
“It’s finger-licking-good slop.”
She went with him to the taco stand, and he got two plates free from the concession operator, and they sat on a wood bench and ate the tacos.
“Ever been to Grand Junction?” he said.
“No,” she replied.
“I know the hot spots. Dancing and all.” He grinned with innocent self-satisfaction. “Eat up. I got to check on them two boys I live with. Then we’ll take a walk up in them cliffs, catch the last of the sunset.”
They went to his trailer, a big one that had curtains on the windows and an air cooler on top. His friends were sitting in folding chairs outside, enjoying the breeze.
“I got to get something,” Randy said.
“What?” she said.
“An ice-cold root beer.” He stepped inside, then motioned her in as though wanting to share a secret. He closed the door behind her. “I got some chocolate cake in here that’ll break your heart, if them two out there ain’t ate it all.”
“We’d better be going if we’re going to see the sun set,” she said.
He took the cake out of the refrigerator. The shelves were almost empty except for a bottle of bulk wine. The cake was small and had not been cut. He sliced it in half and pared off a thick chunk and put it on a paper plate with a plastic fork and handed the plate to her. “Give it a try. They got twelve-step programs for people that take just one bite. I got to wash my hands.” He held them up as though that proved what he planned to do.
She put a small piece on the fork and eased it onto her tongue. It was good. Minutes later, she heard the toilet flush and the faucet squeaking. He came out of the bathroom wiping his hands on a paper towel. “I’m ready for a chunk of that my own self. But first—” He opened the refrigerator again and lifted out the bottle of bulk wine. “I have one glass a night. Just one. To prove I control it, that it don’t control me.”
“You had a problem with it?” she said.
“Not no more. I’m my own man, not like them sobriety people always whining about it, know what I mean?”
“Not quite,” she said.
He looked at her empty plate. “You munched it down. Want some more?”
“No, thank you. Could I use your bathroom?”
“You betcha. I just douched it with a little air freshener.”
“Pardon?”
