18
The Grand Re-Opening
Bronson sprang up from his floor bed when the screaming started. Cindy and an older woman stood almost nose-to-nose in the middle of a heated argument.
“Mom, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Cindy screamed, shrill and furious.
“Cynthia Preston McNeil,” her mother, Tess, said. “First they call me down to that school, then I come home and you have some strange boy sleeping on your floor? I’m as far away from kidding as I can get. What’s going on here? Who is this boy?”
“This is Bronson, Mom. My boyfriend? I’ve only mentioned him about a million times.”
“You aren’t helping your case, young lady. You. Boy. Come here.”
Bronson slunk across the room. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am. We had a break-in and I really needed a place to stay. Cindy was against it from the start. You should know that much.”
“I’ll make a note of it… Bronson was it?” Tess said.
“Yes, ma’am. Bronson Black.”
“I’ve got my eye on you, Bronson Black. Go on. Get your stuff. And this?” Tess gestured to the floor bed. “This never happens again. Period.”
“For sure. You got it,” he said then collected his things. Cindy led him out through the apartment then down the hallway until they arrived at the elevators.
“So we’ll meet up at Curleyworld, right?” Cindy said.
“Don’t you think you might be a little busy with her?” he said, pointing back to the apartment.
“My mom?” she said. “Aw, she’s just tired. She’ll forget all about it after she’s had some coffee. I’ll be there. Thanks for listening about my dad and all that crap last night.”
“Absolutely never a problem, Cindy,” Bronson said. “I like hearing things about you. Kinda makes you more real.”
She gave Bronson a hug, but when he went in for a kiss, she shoved him back. “Trust me. You don’t want any part of this morning breath. Get outta here. I’ll meet you right inside the gates.”
Bronson waved goodbye then stepped on the elevator. The doors closed and a moment later opened in the lobby. He nodded at the mustachioed security guard as he rushed out the front entrance. He pulled out his subway schedule, flipping it around until he found the listings for Saturday morning.
This one’s leaving in ten minutes, he thought. Pretty lucky. Bet I’ll be the first one there.
Bronson straightened his horn-rimmed glasses then stepped into a queue. He looked around the people in front of him to see if they were checking bags. Several people got waved through without being stopped. Lucky. He didn’t want any awkward questions about the costume in his backpack.
Ticket purchased, he sat on a bench outside Curley’s Candies and watched the smiling people stroll down the main street into Happy Town. He took out the fold-out map he’d received on the way in and examined it hoping to find a clue.
“Excuse me, buddy,” Cindy said as she approached him. “You know where I can find some guy named Bronson? He might be wearing a cape or something. He’s weird like that.”
“Very funny,” Bronson said, running into the crowd. “I think I know where we can start our search.”
“Look at you being proactive,” she said, falling in step beside him.
“Look right here in this Carnival Town area,” he said, pointing at the lower-right corner of the map. “It’s made up like a circus. Osbert needed a bunch of clown makeup and junk like that. I figure clowns must be pretty important to whatever he’s got planned.”
“I love the circus,” Cindy said. “See? It looks like we’re kind of getting that date after all.”
“To think all I had to do to get you to go out with me was bring back the Guild. And you fell for it.”
“My stars. Dogboy— a criminal mastermind,” Cindy said, falling back dramatically against a tree then collapsing in a ball of giggles.
“If it’s a date, shouldn’t you hold my hand or something?” he said. “Maybe we can even sneak on a ride or two while we look for Mr. Horum.”
Cindy took his hand as they turned past The Castle (a medieval-themed funhouse) into Carnival Town. They stopped by a poster: two evil eyes floating over a spooky roller coaster — TAKE THE DEMON’S DARE — WILL YOU SURVIVE THE NIGHTMARE? with an arrow pointing off to the left.
“That one looks pretty intense,” Bronson said.
“Have you ever gone on one before?” Cindy said.
“I’ve been on some fair rides and stuff,” he said. “Nothing like that though. We should probably work up to it.”
“Says the guy who can fly,” she said.
“Find the coin, win a prize,” shouted a clown from his booth. Stuffed animals of varying sizes filled the shelves behind him. “Who’s the next one now? Come in and fool the clown. Any prize if you find the little bell.” He held a tiny bell up next to his face, jingling it as he laughed. “You there. The boy with the glasses. Care to win your little girlfriend a prize?”
Cindy leaned closer to Bronson. “I hate stuffed animals. They’re creepy, right?”
“Thanks, I think we’ll pass,” Bronson said to the clown. They noticed a sweet, salty aroma in the air. Neither of them had eaten breakfast so they followed the scent to the cotton candy stand near the Calliope Crusher.
The vendor, a tall clown with a tiny crown cocked to one side, sat behind the counter watching the crowd. His scowl was accentuated by the black eyebrows painted halfway up his bald head.
“Doesn’t he seem familiar?” Bronson asked Cindy.
“Hmm… Maybe,” she said. “It’s hard to tell these clowns apart with all that makeup.”
A young girl ran up to the stand and asked for a bag of roasted peanuts. The clown stood up from behind the counter; this exposed the mallet hand he’d been hiding under the counter.
“Nuts. That’s Hot John,” Bronson said.
“So what? That dummy is never gonna recognize you with those glasses on.”
They walked up and surveyed the treats behind the counter: bright red candy apples, pink and blue cotton candy on cardboard cones, elephant ears with pasty powdered sugar on top, and other confectionery naughties of all varieties.
“Two bags of caramel corn please,” Bronson said, laying his money on the counter. Hot John looked at him for a moment. His eyes got big and mean for half a second then reset to a more docile gaze. It reminded Bronson of a clock with a bent second hand almost advancing but skipping back before it could.
“Sure thing, buddy,” Hot John said, scooping the popcorn from a metal kettle into paper lunch bags. He dropped them on the counter. “Here you go, folks. Have a Curley-riffic day at the place where dreams come true.”
“That was weird,” Cindy said as they walked away. “It’s like he’s a pod person or zombie or something.”
“Even his voice was different,” Bronson said, tossing a handful of caramel corn into his mouth.
“Get in here. I want to try something,” Cindy said, pulling Bronson into a photo booth.
“If you insist,” he said, unsure of what to expect.
She shut the curtain, but left it open a couple inches to see out. “Hot John,” she screamed through the gap. The clown didn’t notice, too busy trying to negotiate making a sundae one-handed.
“What’re you crazy?” Bronson said.
“Big jerk didn’t even flinch,” Cindy said. “Oh, hey. The nerdy one is talking to him.”
“Osbert?” Bronson asked.
“Look for yourself,” Cindy said, scooting back so Bronson could see. Osbert leaned on the counter, whispering to Hot John as he scanned the crowd.
“We’d better find some place to hide until he leaves,” Bronson said.
“Let’s go back to that funhouse. It’s right over there and the line is inside. He’d have to go in to spot us there,” Cindy said.
Bronson agreed, so they exited the booth through the curtain on his side. A large group in matching orange t-shirts exited the merry-go-round. The duo slipped behind them, matching their stride.
When the group passed the funhouse, they broke off and headed up the ramp to the main entrance. Large, irregular towers with pointed tops rose up around the entrance. Bronson opened the front door then led Cindy down into the dark depths of The Castle.
“Please remember to keep yer hands inside the cart, my liege,” he said. Bronson and Cindy climbed in. The attendant slapped the lap bar down across their legs then smiled. “Beware, young ones, and be wary as well. The ghosts of kingdoms past haunt this place.”
He nodded to the attendant behind the controls, who hit a button. A WHOOSH of air. The cart moved down the track then did a half-spin as it turned into the dark tunnel going off to the left. A haunting performance from a string quartet bounced between the walls, note tripping over note like an aural cascade.
“Kinda creepy, huh?” Bronson said as they chugged along in the dark. A strobe light flashed as thunder drowned out the music.
“I never really get spooked by this stuff,” Cindy said through a yawn. “Too over the top. Real people are way scarier than some haunted castle.”
Their car slammed through two large plywood doors into a medieval dining room. Weathered statues lined the walls: overweight cherubs with red glowing eyes and wispy lace nightgowns.
A long dining table sat under cool blue lights. The mechanical king sat at one end arguing with a servant in some mumbling nonsense language. The servant seemed frightened, the lines in his forehead cut deep into the wood he was carved from.
The metal serving tray and dinner plate flew up off the table, dancing around each other like leaves on the wind. A deep-throated cackle came over the loudspeakers as the lights faded on the scene. Their cart continued through another set of door into the next room.
“Do they have to make it slam into the doors every time?” Bronson asked as he slipped his hand over Cindy’s. “I mean, it’s obvious there’s some machine opening the doors, right?”
“They’re trying to keep us distracted so we don’t notice how cheap the gimmicks are. You could see the strings on those haunted dishes back there.”
The next room was filled with curved mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Long ones made them look short, short ones made them look long, and the other ones changed their reflections into squashed caricatures.
The cart turned sharply to the right, turning them around to face the largest mirror. A man in a bow tie and pink cardigan sweater appeared between them in the mirror. His eyes glowed red. Bronson turned his head and saw nobody in the seat besides Cindy.
“Huh. Must be some sort of trick mirror or something,” he said, waving his hand through the empty space. “I don’t think people dressed like Mr. Rogers in King Arthur’s time though.”
Cindy smiled at him. “You know these places are only excuses for people to make out, right? I wouldn’t expect a lot of attention to detail.”
“That’s what they do on these things? Seems like a big waste of electricity. You can do that anywhere.”
“Yeah, but it’s more romantic when it’s dark,” she said, then leaned in to give him a sweet, soft kiss that he returned in kind.
The cart moved on. Bronson cracked his eyes open to see where they were heading. Two men came up on either side of the cart: one with a sweater vest and the other a clown with a mallet hand.
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