he passed through the gate he turned and came running toward them. “Can I do it again, Dad?”
“Who was that in the car with you?” Simon said.
Davey glanced back. “I don’t know, some man.”
“Did he touch you?”
“Touch me?”
“It looked like he was touching you,” Amy said, coming up behind them.
“It’s the Teacups, Mom. You can’t help touching people.”
“Did he say anything?”
“I don’t know, he was yelling like me. Everybody was yelling. Can’t I ride again, Mom?”
“We’re going home,” she said, taking Davey’s hand.
He yanked it away. “What are you doing?”
“It’s time to go,” Simon said, giving their son a little shove.
He leans against the back of the sausage truck, inhaling the smell of cooked meats as he watches the front gate. He doesn’t need to hide. Paul Chambers doesn’t really exist, and no one would recognize him as Paul Walker even if they had been in the same class or lived on the same street. His face has filled out like the rest of him, and his hair receded. He doesn’t wear glasses anymore. He does have a thin mustache and one slightly drooping eyelid, as if he has recovered only partially from an early-age stroke. Altogether unrecognizable, he’s sure. And unexpected. It wouldn’t occur to anyone to ask, What do you think Paul Walker is up to these days? No one would wonder if he were in Red Paint. No one would care.
An hour passes as it does when one is waiting, agonizingly slowly. That’s how it was waiting for Jean at this same spot the summer after junior year. He was sure that she wouldn’t come, sure that he had misinterpreted her mumbled assent to meet him at seven at the carnival. And then there she was, fifteen minutes late, in a sleeveless dress that billowed out from her legs at the slightest breeze. He wanted to stroll arm in arm with her down the midway, but she said she felt out of place with all the other girls in shorts. He steered her to the dimly lit outer path, the back side of the amusements, wondering if she just didn’t want to be seen with him. He had money and offered her ice cream or a lobster sandwich or soda. She said no thanks to everything. She did agree to a ride and chose the Ferris wheel. Their car stopped at the very top, and from there they gazed over the lights of Red Paint, trying to pick out their own houses. As she looked over the side he put his hand on her knee, just below the hem of her dress. He moved his fingers a little, then the wheel moved again.
He feels foolish waiting now. Perhaps they arrived early and were already wandering the grounds. They could be coming on one of the other two nights of the carnival. Just as he pushes himself away from the truck he spots Simon walking through the gate, his wife by his side. A minute or two later and he would have missed them. Is this how finely God plans things, everything happening just in time?
They’re holding hands, an intimate act. Palms pressed against each other. Fingers intertwined. We belong to each other. That’s what holding hands announces to the world. We have each other to go home with and hold and kiss. Who do you have?
“Come on, Davey,” Simon calls over his shoulder, and the boy runs the few yards to catch up, an obedient son. Davey.
Paul bends over as if to wipe something off his shoe as they pass him by. Then he follows them down the midway a few steps behind, plenty of people in between.
He has always loved the Hall of Mirrors, the feeling that one could dissolve into them, linger there and watch, then reappear at will. Or not reappear at all. He stares into the mirror now, hands on his hips, and it stares back, blank. Perhaps just a faint outline of where a body should be, the hint of presence, the impression of a form just passing through. He hears footsteps, stands still, waits. Then a voice making a kind of whacking sound. In a moment the boy turns the corner, his eyes closed, punching ahead of himself. His small fist lands in Paul’s belly, and his eyes flash open. “Sorry mister, I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“It’s okay,” Paul says, letting his hand fall reassuringly on the boy’s shoulder. “I used to do this with my eyes closed, too, when