The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel Read Online Free PDF

and he
stopped, mouth agape, when Mayard Chase whirled past with a child
in his lap, atop a kangaroo and pointing a stern finger at another
child beside him, on a snarling hyena.
    He hoped Yard hadn’t had too much more to drink,
or there’d be one hell of an embarrassed hardware man once the
carousel stopped spinning.
    A little closer, and he noticed a cleared area
on the far side of the ride, off to his left. Well, I’ll be damned,
he thought. It was a dance floor twenty or thirty feet on a side,
with at least a dozen couples happily waltzing to the music the
carousel played. He recognized a few faces, puzzled over a handful
more, then waved blindly and quickly when Fran called his name.
    Gone again.
    Back again.
    Gone, and his head began to feel tight from the
din, his stomach empty in spite of the ice cream. It was time to
go, there was nothing here for him, and once again the urge to weep
made him close his eyes as he turned to leave.
    “Hey, watch where you’re going!”
    He stepped back hastily, collided with someone
who pushed him away, collided with someone else who wanted to know
if he was drunk, and nearly fell over the waist-high iron rail that
separated the oval’s dirt track from the rides. A hand grabbed his
arm and tugged until he followed, through the crowd until he was
clear, in front of a stand that sold beer and soda from huge yellow
barrels.
    “Sorry,” he said, taking a handkerchief from his
hip pocket and mopping his face.
    “It’s okay, I just didn’t want to get
trampled.”
    He looked, and felt soft heat begin to climb
toward his cheeks.
    A woman stood next to him, strawberry blonde and
nearly as tall as he; her white shirt was open three buttons down,
the tails tied over her bare midriff, and her white shorts were
high enough to show him muscular tanned legs too smooth to be real.
She smiled, hooked one sandaled foot behind, the other and folded
her arms across her chest
    “You’re not drunk, are you?”
    He shook his head.
    She nodded as the carousel wound down, the music
slowing, stopping, pausing only a few seconds before starting up
again to warn potential riders there wasn’t much time.
    Casey looked away, afraid she would think he was
staring. Which he had been. And cursing himself for not having the
glib gift of gab. Standing here like an idiot would chase her away
soon enough; the right word, however, just might keep her around a
little longer.
    The carousel.
    Someone screaming delightedly, carried high on a
ride.
    “Would you like to dance?”
    He looked back, but she wasn’t laughing. Her
right hand pointed at the dance floor.
    “Do you speak English?”
    “I’m a postman,” he answered, and grimaced.
“That is, yes. I mean, I speak English, yes.”
    Her nod forced the blush higher.
    “And I guess so,” he added. “Dance, I mean. I
mean, I’m not very good at it, I haven’t danced in years, but
—”
    “Good enough.”
    She seized his hand and pulled him, forcing him
to follow lest he be yanked off his feet. As it was, he nearly fell
twice, tripped over a baby-carriage wheel once, and hopped for a
dozen clumsy yards before he regained his balance. By the time they
reached the dance floor she was laughing so hard there were tears
in the corners of her eyes, and he was ready to be furious,
humiliated, and exhilarated.
    He had no time to choose.
    As soon as their feet touched the wood, she was
in his arms and they were dancing. Awkwardly at first, until their
bodies adjusted; not perfectly, but smoothly, once they locked on
the music’s rhythm.
    The weight of her left hand on his shoulder was
so light he could barely feel it, the warmth of her back through
the shirt moved his hand around as if he didn’t know how to hold
her. He didn’t look at her face; he didn’t dare, or he’d kick her,
or trip her, or step on her toes.
    But she did look at him. He could feel it as he
watched the others gliding around them, some of them faster, some
of them slower, most of