Carry Us All

By Jeffrey Matthews

Forgiveness comes in many forms, from many places, and for many reasons. But often the hardest forgiveness to accept is the forgiveness you sometimes need to give yourself.

Kevin Ahern is a lost and broken man. Faced with crushing guilt over something he could not have foreseen nor controlled, Kevin sets out to find his own redemption. He hopes to bring back to life one of the things his daughter loved mosta carousel. The restoration of an antique carousel and the resurrection of the dying carousel art form soon become his sole passion and quest in life.

Just finding this lost historical gem will prove difficult enough. True wooden carousels have not been built for decades. They have been replaced with pre-molded fiberglass animals displayed on uninspired, mass-produced machines. Great master carverslike Cernigliaro, Illions, Looff, Dentzel, Zalar, and the Muller brothersare long gone. Most of the old carousels have been destroyed by fire, neglect, or damaged beyond repair by severe handling. Oftentimes, a carousel is dismantled and the animals and artwork, which command huge prices with collectors, are individually auctioned off, negating the possibility that an authentic carousel can ever be completely restored to its once grand and magical perfection.

But none of this deters Kevin. Through his extensive research, he believes he may have finally located a surviving and intact but forgotten carousel.

His search will bring him to a small Midwest town, just a dot on a map, where a circle of new friends and an enigmatic stranger on an unusual quest of his own will slowly reveal to Kevin what he truly must restore: his own heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512780208

Jeffrey Matthews

Jeffrey Matthews is a native of the Sunshine State. He woke up one morning in his adopted home of New Ulm, Minnesota, remembering he was meant to be a storyteller. His debut novel, Carry Us All, was honored with inclusion in the National Carousel Association’s Archives.

Book preview

Prologue

A WHITE METAL fence encircled the whirling carnival ride, keeping at bay the hopeful and anxious riders. One after another the waiting children adopted the same posture – feet on the bottom rail of the fence, legs and arms straight, they leaned back from the top rail as though a rush of air from the spinning ride flung them backward. A clothesline of children. Parents tried their best to calm the smaller and less patient children, all the while juggling over-sized cups of warm soda and the sticky remains of half-eaten snacks.

At the center of the ride the attendant seemed hypnotized by his galloping charge as the lights, the garish colors, and the sounds of children laughing and yelling to one another swirled all about him. He kept one hand resting on the ride’s brake, the other he used to bring the stub of a cigarette to his mouth at uneven intervals.

The music stopped and the ride began to slow, catching the full attention of every child waiting in line. The older riders jumped boldly from the still moving platform while the younger ones tightly grasped the outer poles, waiting for the ride to completely stop. They gathered their courage at the edge of the platform before taking small awkward leaps to the ground, like fledglings leaving a nest.

The attendant studied the stub of his cigarette, took one more draw, then let it slip from his fingers to the ground, grinding it out with the toe of his boot before hopping aboard the ride’s platform. He strode across the deck checking for stragglers then took a final long stride to the ground. Without making eye contact with anyone, he walked to the gate, lifted the latch and stood aside. A frantic stream of children fanned out from the open gate to either side of the ride as they scouted out for the horse or animal they had chosen during their wait. Some simply boarded the ride, trying one mount, then another, staking their claim when the time was right.

One little girl pulled her father along by the hand. She walked purposefully, inspecting each horse as she passed, whether they already had a rider or not. Her father knew from experience she was looking for the biggest, the brightest, the grandest of all. The horse with attitude, he had often thought of it. There was always one horse which seemed somehow to be in charge of all the rest, and his daughter could pick it out every time.

He felt a slight tug on his hand and knew she had found the one. He lifted her onto the platform while glancing at the horse’s bowed head. The giant, white stallion seemed to be looking back over his shoulder at the tiny girl by his side. His mane appeared wild from the wind, his eyes dark and urgent, his nostrils flared as though he still panted from his last furious gallop.

The girl wedged her powder blue high-top sneaker into the stirrup and, with both arms, strained to pull herself up against the side of the great beast. Her stick thin legs were still too short to be thrown over the saddle by herself, so she hung there waiting for the added boost from her father’s hand. Once she was seated in the gaudy bejeweled saddle she rocked her bottom twice then sat up tall and straight. Looking out across the sparkling lights of the carnival, she was all anticipation. In that moment, she seemed to her father as though she could spur her shiny steed off the platform and gallop away into the crisp night air.

There’s mommy, she suddenly burst out, waving excitedly. Her sudden exclamation broke her father’s reverie as he followed his daughter’s eyes to his wife’s face. She was smiling and waving back to both of them as though they were leaving for a long trip.

The ride attendant walked slowly among the horses, checking the seating of the smallest riders, ignoring the parents. As he came closer the little girl felt her father’s hand press lightly at her back in reassurance.

No, daddy, she protested. You have to ride.

Are you sure? he asked. You’ll have to hold on all by yourself.

I’m sure, she sighed. You ride that one. She pointed to the smaller pony beside her, then wrapped both her hands around the brass pole in the horse’s back, as if to convince her father of her safety.

Well, okay, he gave in. But no waving. You hold on tight with both hands the whole time.

She gave him a slight frown, then turned her attention to the other children still boarding the ride and to the crowd waiting beyond the gate.

The father eyed the pony that only came up to his waist. He lifted his leg awkwardly over the plain unadorned saddle, his feet touching the ground on either side of the animal. His daughter looked down at him from her much higher perch, unhappily inspecting his form.

No, no, daddy, she scolded. You have to hold the reins like this and put your feet in there. She pointed to the stirrups that were at knee height to him.

He knew she’d be merciless until he complied so he stuck the barest edge of his shoe into the stirrups, pulled back on the reins and said with mock seriousness, Giddy-up! From the corner of his eye he stole a look at the smile of satisfaction she offered him.

A bell clanged twice. There was a soft mechanical clunk as the ride’s brake disengaged and with it, the faintest feeling of forward motion. The lights of the ride dimmed a moment, then brightened again as the motor strained to pitch the horses forward and around, up and down. The father started to check on his daughter, but instead he was drawn again to the horse she was riding. The stallion’s powerful neck muscles were taut and deeply etched. With the ride’s lurching movement its head now seemed tossed back to the other horses as if to command: ‘Follow me. I know the way.’

Over the beginning swells of the organ music he heard a tiny gasp as his daughter’s breath caught in her throat. Her posture was perfect. Her eyes straight forward. White spots appeared at the top of each tiny knuckle as she tightened her grip. Her horse came down slowly, then rose gracefully into the air until it towered above him. At its peak she looked down at him with such a smile that her face, at that very moment, was instantly carved into his heart.

Quickly the silent horses were in full stride. The wind blew through the hair of the riders until they nearly resembled the wild manes of their mounts. They had gone around twice before the little girl searched again for her mother among the waiting parents. After catching her mother’s smile and wave, the little girl then checked again on her father’s progress.

Daddy, she pleaded over the music. Hold the reins and put your feet up.

With fatherly resignation he once again stuck his shoes sideways into the small stirrups and drew his knees up even with the saddle. He gave the reins a sharp whip and looked at his daughter from the corner of his eye, but she had already returned to the magic of her horse’s circular flight.

No further words were exchanged between them. They rode on to the boldly churning music, exchanging only smiles every now and then. With every few rotations they looked for the mom’s face among the crowd and gave her a wave. And every time, the mom waved back, like it was the first time she was seeing them.

Another small clunk and the ride began to slow. The horses rose and fell for the last time, as if too tired to take another step. With the ride coming to a halt the wild manes, outstretched forelegs, and straining necks of the horses appeared almost courageous, as if the ponies could go on running if only they could free themselves from the poles that held them firmly to the deck.

Help me down, the little girl said to her father, but his hands were already there behind her.

The platform wobbled a bit with the uneven weight of the passengers getting off, and the little girl was unsteady as she stood on tiptoe to pat her horse’s neck. Thank you, horsy, she said merrily, then stepped to the edge of the deck and let her father swoop her to the ground. Hand in hand they took the short walk to the exit gate.

The father noticed his daughter still inspecting the exaggerated and gaudy animals as they passed each one. The coarse lights, fake jewels, and glossy paint reflected in her clear blue eyes. She was just five years old, but sometimes there was an air about her that made her seem an old soul. He knew he held the hand of a marvelous little being, one who could cause magic to happen for herself, or anyone caught too near her glamour.

He softly squeezed her hand to draw her eyes up to his. Did you like the merry-go-round? he asked.

Her face held a faint expression of surprise and frustration, but then forgiveness. Her tiny voice was measured and confident above the din of the amusement park. It’s not a merry-go-round, daddy, she said with a bored sigh. It’s a carousel.

She pulled loose from his hand and ran to her waiting mother, already talking about her ride before she had reached her.

As the father walked to catch up to them, he pushed his now empty hands into his pockets. He felt a small coin - a ride token - and pulled it out.

Hey, girls? he called out, holding up the coin. You know you have one more ride left.

Keep it for another day, his wife said over her shoulder, before returning her attention to the excited chatter of her daughter.

He looked at the plain gold coin in his hand. An image of a carousel horse was stamped on the one side, below it the words: Good for one ride. He flipped it over. The other side was plainly stamped with the words: No cash value.

No value, he said quietly, smiling to himself.

He put the coin in his pocket and joined his girls.

1

COLD RAIN ANGLED sharply from the sky. Mixed with the rain were small, icy droplets, angrily plinking against the windshield of the pickup truck. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness he saw and heard the rain, but mainly he was focused on the wet, gray asphalt sliding beneath the front bumper. Every so often he would glance in the rearview mirror to watch the roadway reappearing over his tailgate, the broken white lines winking into existence then blending into a solid ribbon of white far behind.

He looked straight ahead again, but only just past the top of the truck’s hood. Everything beyond that was a blurred sheet of rain. The sky ahead was the same gray as the road, only less complacent and somehow a bit meaner. There were no lightning flashes, but the occasional low rumble of thunder let it be known there was certainly lightning up there somewhere.

A partially folded road map lay across the dashboard. The lines marking highways and roads, the names of towns and cities, these were all reflected in the glass of the windshield in a ghostly reverse image. There was no point in looking at the map for now. He was on a small two-lane stretch of nothing, miles from nowhere. All he had to do was just keep following the paved road. Easy enough since any turnoffs in the last forty miles or so had been unpaved, so he knew if he hit gravel, he was off the main road he wanted to be on.

For the last five or six hours there had been only the monotony of the drive and the sizzle of rain, both attempting to lull him into a strange state of waking sleep, the kind that produced blank stares and empty thoughts. The landscape stretching out to either side was flat and featureless, except for cornfields and the occasional family farm. These he could just barely glimpse from the road he was on. He thought about how he could have flown part of the way, but he had always found air travel a bit disorienting and disquieting. Besides, there was no real hurry to his travel. No one was marking the time of his return behind him, and no one was waiting ahead for him to arrive.

A slight bump in the road jarred him to partial wakefulness, and his wandering thoughts evaporated. Only one thing came to mind - he needed to stop soon or risk nodding off completely. It would be dark soon as well, and he knew from experience that night driving on country roads, with only his own headlights, was nothing he enjoyed.

There had been a small town about thirty minutes back. The larger towns had been evenly spaced about an hour apart. Another was probably not much further ahead. He sat up straighter in the seat, stretching his arms and legs against the confines of the truck’s cabin to help him stay alert.

The top of a water tower sprouted over the cornfields. As it grew larger he could just barely see black letters painted across it. Hopefully, the name of a town. With the sky growing darker ahead he figured the time was probably getting much past late afternoon. He wore no watch to say exactly. Whenever he was on the road he lived mostly by only three demands: hunger, sleep, and the occasional bathroom stop. But right now, sleep was creeping up on him the fastest.

He passed a road sign that warned of a slower posted speed ahead, but he couldn’t quite read the town’s name on the unlit welcome sign. He took his foot off the gas and let the truck coast. A few pinpoints of light began to break on the horizon, a beacon of reassurance there was a tiny oasis of a town ahead.

The town began to materialize before him. At first just a gas station, a family restaurant, and a bar in a small, but sturdy-looking brick building. Further up the road he could see a few rows of houses just off the main road, and beyond them a block or two of larger buildings. A traffic light, swinging from a wire over the street, blinked from yellow to red. He stopped at the intersection, and the sound of rain grew louder against his truck.

Nothing moved in the town. There didn’t even seem to be anything for the wind to blow around except the falling rain and the dangling traffic signal. As the light turned green he began thinking he might have to drive further on, but as he rolled down the street a dimly lit sign caught his eye. Motel - was all it said, in pale blue letters.

He pulled the truck under the canopy of what seemed to be the office. The rest of the building - a low, concrete block structure - was just an unadorned L-shape with eight doors and twice as many windows. He braced himself for the cool damp air as he opened the truck door. His senses felt like they were unfolding from the drive, just like his long legs were doing from the driver’s seat. With solid ground beneath his feet, the smell of rain and wet asphalt in his nostrils, and the buzzing of neon lights in his ears, he felt a kind of re-entering into the world, slow and still, as it were, here in this undisturbed little town.

When he entered the motel office there was an unfamiliar smell, not unpleasant, but one suggesting a slowness and an unhurried pace. Before he could take in much of the interior, his attention was drawn to the doorway behind the front desk and the slight wisp of a figure moving in the shadows beyond. An old man appeared, stooped and bent, as though he were melting. He moved slowly, but deliberately. As he reached the counter he looked up, his eyes a faded brown, like dried-up grass. The old man seemed completely unsurprised to see another human being, as though he had seen the pickup truck with its lone occupant approaching from many miles away, knowing it would stop, right at this moment, right at this place.

Got a good, clean, comfortable room, mister. Fifty bucks for the night. There’s hot water, television. Phone, too. The old man’s voice was as soft and bland as his brown eyes. While he gave his practiced sales pitch, he fished out a registration card and a pencil from under the counter. He slowly pushed them across the top of the counter as though they weighed more than they appeared.

The old man cocked his head to one side and read the registration card aloud as his customer filled it out. Kevin, the old man said, then paused while the pencil scratched some more. Ahern, he pronounced slowly. He drew himself up a bit, softly clucking his tongue. Can’t say I’ve heard of any Aherns around here.

It sounded more like a question than a statement, but Kevin kept writing and didn’t look up. It’s just me, he said. And just for the one night.

The old man cocked his head to the other side and continued reading aloud from the registration card. Florida. Miami, he said, slow and distinct. He straightened himself up again. You’re a long way from home. Again, the old man’s comment had an odd questioning lilt to it.

Just a little, said Kevin. He set the pencil down and turned the card around to the old man. Is there some food nearby? he asked.

Well…, the old man’s pause was so long, it seemed as though he might have forgotten the question. There’s Rachel’s. That’s down the road. Edge of town. The old man didn’t look up while he spoke, but studied the registration card as if it had suddenly become a completely foreign thing to him. While he held the card in one hand, his other hand moved about under the counter, finally producing a room key attached to a diamond-shaped piece of colored plastic. The old man looked at the key tag a moment, then placed it on the counter between them. Putting you down on the end, he said, looking over Kevin’s shoulder and nodding toward the window behind him. It’ll be quieter for you down there. His eyes met Kevin’s for a brief moment.

Kevin felt the old man was offering a smile, even though his face hadn’t changed any appreciable amount. Thanks, he said, pulling some folded bills from his shirt pocket. He flipped through them for two twenties and a ten and laid them on the counter before taking up the key. He wanted to seem friendly, but couldn’t think of anything more to ask that might sound like he was the least bit interested. But then something popped into his mind. So, what town is this? he asked, then regretted. That makes me sound like a real stranger or like some kind of goofball, he thought to himself. Some guy who doesn’t know where he is or why, out aimlessly driving around in the rain and the dark.

The old man didn’t seem to notice any of that, but straightened himself some behind the counter before answering. Well…, he started, with another long pause. We’ve been calling it Shipley. He seemed to think for a moment, as though he were trying to imagine something. Doubt it’ll be on any map you’ve got. You can just figure you’re a day’s travel from anywhere important, he said, again with that slight smile that didn’t seem to actually be there.

Okay. Well, thanks again, Kevin said, holding up the key. He turned and could see out the glass door that the rain had become a trickle. Outside he found there was a small wedge of sunlight, low on the horizon - the sun valiantly trying to show through the clouds before setting entirely.

He moved the truck down to the end of the building and pulled a duffel bag from the backseat. Opening the door to his room he was met by that same smell he had noticed earlier in the motel office. Not unpleasant, just curiously different. The room was small, but had a comfortable enough looking bed - and for now, that was all he needed. He dropped onto the bed, his eyes closing before his back hit the mattress. He laid there a long while, unmoving, willing his mind to empty and to think of nothing.

It didn’t work.

He opened his eyes and took in the room, turning only his head. Everything seemed tidy and neat, as if glued in place. He sat up, facing the window and, without leaving the bed, bent forward to pull open the curtain. Outside another car was just pulling into the parking lot. The car had barely stopped rolling before the rear doors burst open and four children came tumbling out. They tore off across the rain slick pavement to a small swing-set at the edge of the motel property.

The father got out of the driver’s side with a slow stretch. The mom opened her door, but stayed seated, as though the cool air had frozen her in place. The father came around to the passenger side while looking out across the lot at his children. He then leaned into the car, one hand on the roof, the other swinging the door slightly back and forth while he talked to his wife. He finally straightened, closing the door, then walked to the motel office. The mom seemed to sag further into the car seat as she laid her head back on the headrest.

Kevin turned his gaze to the playground. The four children looked more like eight as they scurried over the aging playground equipment. He remembered something from his truck and stepped outside to retrieve it. Opening the door to his room he noticed how much quieter it had been inside. The sounds of children playing, the sound of water flowing from the motel’s gutters, these all came to his ears in a rush.

He went to his truck and from the back he pulled out a heavily worn wooden box. Bringing it inside his room he placed it on the small table near the window, turning on the nearby lamp. When he opened the lid of the box the light caught the gleam of smooth silver blades and bright wood gouges. He chose one of the smaller knives with a plain wooden handle. The half-moon blade had a piece of plastic tubing covering it, which he carefully pulled off.

Stepping back outside to his truck he took a plastic bag from the front seat and then sat down at one of the metal lawn chairs outside his room. He unwrapped the plastic and removed a block of wood, not much bigger than the palm of his hand. He turned the wood over and over in his hands, feeling its weight, imagining its sharp corners becoming smooth. He could almost see, with only his fingertips, the shape he wanted to free from inside the block of wood.

The father had returned now to the car. He and his wife began rummaging through the trunk, choosing what to bring in first. They wrestled various pieces of luggage to their room, the father giving the door a slight kick to open it. For awhile they were both inside, the door to their room standing open, but