The Human Fireball stood atop the upraised cannon with a microphone in his hand.
Eddie Pulaski looked nine feet tall in a white leather jumpsuit festooned with red and blue stars. He had shadowed eyes, flowing black hair combed back over his skull, and shoulders at least three feet wide! He gestured broadly to the crowd with wide sweeps of his arm, explaining that the cannon was charged with high explosives, enough to bring down a small skyscraper, enough to hurl him high over the midway into the far net.
The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed.
And if that wasn't enough, Eddie exclaimed, he would be doused with gasoline and burst into flame, hurling through the sky like a blazing fireball!
The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed again, but then Eddie raised his hands for silence. Only questions remained:
Would he land safely in the net, or would a stray breeze blow him off course?
Would the explosive charge be too much or too little?
Would he fly fast enough to snuff the blazing flames or would he burn alive in the far net?
There was only one way to find out!!!
Elvis pushed forward to get closer, shoving past men who cursed and boys who hit him.
Eddie tossed the microphone to an assistant, another assistant splashed him with a bucket of liquid, and Eddie hoisted himself into the cannon without another word.
The crowd fell silent.
Elvis Cole's heart pounded.
The assistant counted down through the microphone: ten!… nine!… eight!…
The crowd counted with him, their voices a thundering chant.
The second assistant lit a ring of flames around the mouth of the cannon.
… three!… two!… one!…
The Human Fireball thundered from the cannon in a whoosh of white smoke. He burst into flames as he passed through the ring of fire and arced into the night. Long flames trailed behind him, blowing out as he reached the peak of his flight, and then he landed safely in the net. Eddie Pulaski bounced to his feet as the crowd cheered. He raised his hands to the applause as if he were the King of the Universe, asked the crowd to tell their friends-Last show tomorrow night, friends!- then he gripped the edge of the net, swung down, and was gone.
His father was gone.
Elvis shouldered between milling bodies and slipped between the canvas banners into the darkness behind the midway, desperate to catch the man. His heart thundered and his ears hummed. He ran as hard as he could to catch up, and rounded a truck just as Eddie Pulaski climbed into a long blue trailer. The trailer door shut. Elvis told himself to keep moving, to pound on that door, to show Eddie Pulaski the picture of his mother, you remember her don't you, fourteen years ago? He had come so far and wanted it so much, but his feet did not move. Elvis ached deep in his center, an ache so sharp and terrible that he knew he could not stand to ache more.
Elvis stared at the closed door of the trailer, then turned and walked away.
Now that Elvis knew where Pulaski lived, he soaked up bits of the man's life: the white Ford pickup parked near the trailer; a small charcoal grill standing cold outside the trailer door; two empty beer cans standing upright in the grass. Elvis slipped past the truck to peek inside, seeing the ashtray overflowing with butts, a roll of duct tape on the bench seat, and a shrunken head dangling from the mirror. Elvis drank the details as if each was a missing piece to the puzzle of his life. He took out his mother's picture and held it up, showing her face to the truck and trailer and grill.
"This is where he lives. This is him."
Elvis paced the midway most of the night, anxious and sick. He returned to Eddie's trailer again and again, circling it like a dog afraid to go home. When he finally tried to sleep, he couldn't, and he let himself out of Tina's mobile home while she slept.
The midway was quiet that morning except for the kitchen crew and the carny who walked the three-eyed cow. Elvis returned to Pulaski's mobile home, but it was still quiet. He slipped between the tents and went to the cannon. It had been lowered and pushed beneath the banners. Elvis climbed onto the flatbed and ran his hand along the barrel. He peered into the muzzle.
"Get the hell down from there!"
The Human Fireball was glaring up at him, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand