Carousel
Feelings of home in a crumbling world.
1.
Sometimes, even an android’s back is turned, and among the dead there lies a child, half devoured. A flesh-picked hand holds a stuffed bear, and though the sight of the child frightens her, she’s never owned a toy. She glances at the android. It’s busy shepherding the lines, marching children across grass-busted asphalt and away from crumbled buildings. She scoops up the bear and names him Dietrich. The name speaks to her of home and love, even if she can’t remember why.
Carnival tents rise like crayon-colored mountains at the edge of town. Androids herd the line of children through the entrance where human workers adorn them with ribbons. A man kneels down beside her and pins a ribbon to her dress, a pink ribbon with letters. He says the letters spell “DEAR.” Missing teeth mar the worker's smile, like the frays at the edge of his denim jacket.
He holds one of her fingers between his, a quick gesture unnoticed by the androids, momentarily clutching her the way she clutches Dietrich.
2.
The calliope overwhelms the sounds of the kitchen. Honey sits at the table, Dad sneaks a peek at her over his paper, and Mom stands in the glow of the window. Beyond the window, Honey imagines a bluebird perched on a clothesline and thinks she could hear its song if the carousel would ever fall silent, which it never will.
Dad folds his paper and sets it on the table. He flashes Honey a smile of ancient wisdom. She loves his smile and dreams about it every night. It’s just as she remembers it from last year and the years before that.
The other children gather beneath the dancing lights, awaiting their time on the carousel. Honey’s turn comes to an end. The chair is empty.
Mom returns to the stove, and Dad raises his paper. Champ takes the empty seat, and Mom smiles, her hands clasped at her waist where the flowers on her apron make the accidental shape of a garish, little bear.
3.
Every time the carousel stops, the line moves forward, but Dear can't see over the children in front of her. She's never been to the carnival before, but she knows everything about the carousel and can picture every detail. Pressed tightly to her chest, Dietrich squirms.
When at last she stands at the front of the line, she sees yellow wallpaper dotted with little blue flowers and a counter checkered in white and blue tiles. Dad sits at the table. Mom fries eggs, and the kitchen spins round and round.
The worker has left his spot at the entrance and followed along beside her. He gestures to a cardboard box beside sheet-metal stairs. Inside, a doll's tea party has an empty chair. He points to a red sign with white letters which Dear can’t read.
She places Dietrich in the cardboard box.
Dietrich stares at the marten with a teapot. He stares at the elephant. The room above the cardboard box spins, and Dietrich wobbles in his chair.
Inside Dietrich's head, buried within the wheat-grain stuffing, creatures have laid their eggs. Their young pupate within the grain.
Mom sets a plate before the empty chair. Dear stands, immobile; little hands bunch into little balls. Tears dot the collar of her dress. She wants Dad to hold her in his lap and Mom to kiss her cheeks. She wants them to tuck her in at night and remind her she’s safe, loved, and where she’s meant to be. The calliope overwhelms her, consuming Mom's words with its melody.
In Dear’s imagination, she’s seen it all, exactly as it should be, and that’s all she wants. She can’t understand why it’s too much to ask, nor why all the wishing in the world won’t keep her turn from ending.
At the sheet-metal stairs, the man holds up Dietrich as an offering. Like a good mother, Dear pushes aside her sorrow and steps out of the kitchen and into the dirt, arms outstretched. The man glances at the inattentive android and walks away, bear in hand.
Dear follows.
Inside Dietrich’s stuffing, the creatures sense movement and warmth. They swarm, finding pleasure in his scent.
Dietrich’s fur presses against the worker’s hand. He ducks behind a tent. Dear follows.
She finds him on the ground, screaming. Dietrich squirms, as does the flesh of the worker’s hand.
An android steers her away. Over her shoulder, she watches Dietrich writhe.
4.
The other children cling to their ribbons and insist on being called by the random names assigned. Dear wonders if she’ll understand better next season when the carnival returns. Maybe a parent’s love is something you have to be older to understand. Champ draws pictures of Mom and keeps them by his bed. Honey has made her own wallpaper to match the kitchen.
Dear wads up a yellowed sock, dots it with eyes, and calls it Dietrich. When she settles into bed, her fingers wiggle beneath the cloth, making Dietrich writhe. His face wiggles close to hers, and she smiles, filled with all those unremembered feelings of home.
—Thaddeus Thomas
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Steampunk Cleopatra: From the title I was expecting swashbuckling adventures against a vaguely Egyptian backdrop, but instead I found a finely crafted and exhaustively researched work of historical fiction, full of mesmerizing detail. The book is studded with details that make the world seem richer and slightly more unfamiliar than you'd expect. These are embedded in a story of palace intrigue, scholarly curiosity and - most importantly - several very different kinds of love.
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Thaddeus, I love "Haints." It's a beautiful, terrible, tragic and wondrous story about the truths we don't tell ourselves, because of the terrible answers they offer. You had me absolutely rivited as I sped along to the surprising and heat-wrenching ending.