9/5/2017 King of the Fair By Mathea MoraisKing of the Fair I quit drinking and just like that everything changes. This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve been successful, but it is the first time I’ve made it this good. The stuff has barely aged a year and it’s already better than anything anyone can get around here. For all that California’s known for, it’s not known for making good liquor, other than wine of course. At least not till I came around. It’s a good thing I don’t drink any more. If folks around here are this hopped up over some hooch that hasn’t even begun to age, well I don’t want to think about what I’d been drinking those first years we were out here. It’s 1938 and Prohibition’s only been over with for five years. Already I got all the honky-tonks, saloons, dancehalls, whatever you want to call ‘em on the Peninsula buying from me. And after a car ride or two up North, now I’m selling whisky clear up to Santa Cruz. Seems the only thing me and the boy got to worry about now is how to make enough whisky and where the hell to put all the money. I solve the money problem by going out and buying a mattress. Cut a slit straight down the side and bit by bit pull out all that stuffing, fill it full of my money. You’ve got to be out of your mind to live through what we all just lived through in this country and still put your money in a bank. Not me, no sir, not after seeing what I saw - little girls with black gums, grown men hanging themselves from rafters in whorehouses because they’ve lost it all and can’t go home and face their families. Call me what you will, but my money’s not leaving my house. I pay my Uncle William back with interest he didn’t even ask for and now I got him sending me all types of letters and telegrams asking me if he can come over here. I put him off because I’m not interested in family any more. Know sure as anything once one of ‘em comes over here, the whole damn Ferguson clan will be pushing aside my barrels to sleep on my floor. Near the end of that summer, I think we are finally doing so well I can’t find a real problem to complain about and Lambert comes in with his head hanging down like he’s got the hardest of lives. I take a look at him, his is face all brown and his hair gone blonde from being outside so much. I know he’s got something he wants to ask that he don’t want to ask. “Cuddy, sir?” he says. I’m putting the seals on a case full of bottles that I’ve got to take over to Jim’s Liquors over in Salinas the next day. I nod. “Cuddy sir,” he says again. “I was wondering if I can go to school when summer’s over?” “How long till summer’s over,” I ask. “Another two weeks, I think,” he says. “How am I supposed to get all this whisky made and delivered if you’re off all day at school?” I ask him. “I’ll still help, Cuddy. I’ll come home at lunch and directly after school,” he says in that new funny way of talking he’s got now that he’s found his way into reading books. “What you got to go to school for?” I ask. “Seems like you’re doing just fine teaching yourself how to read and whatnot.” “It’s against the law,” he says. At that I have to laugh. “So’s brewing hooch in your kitchen. You think I’m worrying about them taking me in for keeping you out of school. Just keep out of sight until you turn sixteen. You’ll be fine.” “I don’t turn sixteen for another three years,” he says. “What are you talking about boy? You turn sixteen next summer.” “Cuddy, I’m only thirteen,” he says. I go back to sealing up the bottles and don’t answer him. I feel him all hopeful over there waiting on me to answer. I decide I better not to let it wait too long. I focus real hard on getting the seal on straight on a bottle and say, “Gonna have to wait another year. Maybe around Christmas if things slow down a little.” He turns and walks out of the room and out the back door. Sounds like once he gets outside, he gives that screen door an extra slam. I’ll be damned if that child isn’t lying to me. Could have sworn he had to be fifteen by now, but I can’t be sure of nothing seeing as how I don’t remember things these days. I thought time was supposed to speed up as you get older, but the world has taken on a right snail’s pace now that all I do all day is wait for grains to sprout. I listen to the radio at night since I can’t seem to sleep when it’s dark out. Guess I just about turned myself upside down with that drinking all night and sleeping all day I did for so long. Out my back window, the sun slips down behind those round Santa Cruz Mountains, the ones that if you look at them a certain way, look like a woman with just the right curves laying there on her side waiting for you. And just about when the sky turns those round golden hills deep indigo like it does, my mind just wakes right up. And when you’re not drinking, there’s not much you can do to pass the night by except listen to the radio programs until those go off. After that, all that’s left to do is wait until the dawn breaks. Soon as the sun comes up and that lady in the mountains rolls over, showing off her big wide hips and her long soft thighs, the sleep finally comes. That’s when I can just close my eyes and fall into her lap with thanks for sleep with no dreams in it. I’m deep inside one of those dreamless sleeps when the banging starts at the front door. It’s the kind of banging that makes you jump right up out of whatever you’re doing because it’s the banging that could only come from cops. I’m up from where I’d fallen the night before, wrapped up in a bunch of burlap barley sacks on top of my mattress that’s filled now from head to middle with money. The boy isn’t there and the sun is high enough that it’s got to be close to noontime. The whole damn operation’s so big that I can’t hide it now and up until that very moment I’d never even thought of how I would hide it if I could. I think about Tim Garrity and Johnny Moore down at the police station and try to remember the last time I’d hit them off with a bottle. Seems like it hasn’t been that long. Certainly not long enough for them to come knocking on the door like that. Whoever is out there bangs again, nearly bangs that screen door off its hinges. Tell you what; if I’d been drunk, that banging would have sobered me up quick. And damn it if I couldn’t use a drink at that moment, what with my nerves jumping and bouncing all around the place. I open the door slowly and where I expect to see a cop banging on the door of a bootlegger’s house there is a boy with sandy brown hair and beady little eyes. He’s got his left shoe in his hand. Seems he musta been using it to assist in making all that noise. He’s got a missing tooth in the front and I wonder if he lost it in a fight. If he did get into a fight, I feel sorry for the other guy. Though, as big and tough as he looks, he’s got a happy grin on his face and he’s wearing a bright orange shirt made of some kind of shiny satin or even silk. It’s torn on the elbow and he’s got dirt all over his dungarees. “Yes?” “We’re looking for Lambert. Have you seen him?” “Who?” I’m still trying to sort the whole thing out. “Lambert, Mr. Cuddy sir. Your son?” “Was that you banging on my door like that?” I ask. “I told you not to bang so loud!” says a voice from across the street behind the big sycamore in front of Mrs. Johnson’s place. The boy on my porch turns around and shouts back, “Well it got him out here didn’t it? He sure wasn’t coming out when I knocked all soft how you wanted me to.” He turns back to me. Smiles that missing tooth smile at me and says, “So, have you seen him?” “Seen who?” I ask still trying to figure out when the cops are going to show up. “Lambert,” he says again, and I think I hear a little sigh of frustration. “We’ve been waiting for him all morning. We’re supposed to go to the fair over in Marina Del Ray.” “Who is that behind the tree?” I ask. “That’s my brother Bobby Paul.” “Bobby Paul?” “Yes sir, and I’m John-John. John-John Duvernay. We live next door,” he says striking out a hefty boy hand at me. I shake his hand and look over at the tree again. “What’s he doing over there?” I ask. “He’s a little scared of you, I’m sorry to say. We wouldn’t have bothered you at all if it wasn’t for Lambert being so late and all.” “Where’s the cops?” I say. “Cops? There ain’t no cops here, Mr. Cuddy Sir.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and at that moment, I see myself through his eyes. I’m wearing my old robe open over an undershirt full of holes and some pajama pants that I’ve patched up so many times they look like some grandma’s quilt. I haven’t shaved in at least a week and I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t stink like one of May’s girls at the end of a good night. “There’s Lambert,” yells Bobby Paul, who pops out like a little chipmunk from behind the tree and starts running down the block towards the boy. Bobby Paul’s got on the exact same outfit as his brother. Holey elbows and dirty knees alike, but he’s a pretty one that boy is. Can see from all the way over here. When I see him, I know these really are the boys from next door. Know because that one over there behind the sycamore, Bobby Paul, looks just like his mama and you’d have to be blind, insane and drunk not to notice a broad like that living next door to you. I know she has boys and that them and Lambert is buddies that they’re out there playing together in the yard all the time but this is the first time I’ve ever got a real good look at em. Lambert is coming up the street with a big fat book in his hand, his index finger shoved deep into the pages to mark his spot and a look on his face I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. His eyes move from my face to John-John to Bobby Paul who’s no longer hiding behind the tree, but damn near on Lambert’s shoulders he’s so happy to see him. The look, it stops on the little one and smiles for a second, then goes back to me, to John-John on the porch and so on, all as he’s walking towards us, book in hand. It takes me a second to place that look. It’s not one of worry, or surprise, nor is it happy to see us all gathered there to greet him. It’s shame. It’s downright shame on that boy’s face when he sees me there in my old robe and my coarse face, standing close enough to his little buddy that he knows there’s no way that boy can’t smell my week old, maybe even two weeks old, stench. “Good afternoon Cuddy sir,” he says walking closer, but not so close as he can’t run if I decide to give him a good licking for looking at me all shameful like that. A boy like him should be grateful for the stench of my unwashed skin, because it’s that unwashed skin that’s carried these bones back and forth between still and bar and back to the mattress for him to go stick his face in between two sheets of paper like they was the legs of a high-priced whore. I know he can see it in my face. The licking he’s got coming. His eyes are locked in mine and I don’t see the shame there anymore. It’s hidden underneath the fear, but I know it’s there. Bobby Paul is still holding on to Lambert’s arm, he pulls on him and says, “Your papa was just talking to us about the fair. You didn’t forget about the fair did you Lambert?” Lambert looks away from me and down into the giant eyes of the boy. “No Bobby Paul, I didn’t forget about the fair. I just forgot what time it was is all,” he says and smiles. I don’t know if it’s that smile on his face, or the way Bobby Paul is looking up at him all admiring. Or if it’s the way that he called me Lambert’s “papa.” But something makes me smell my own stink, makes the whiskers on my face itch, the slime of my sweaty slippers stick between my toes. “You boys stay right there,” I say. “I’ll show you how to go to a fair.” “You all right Cuddy?” the boy asks. He’s not looking at me ashamed anymore, or scared. Now he looks down right stumped. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m all right. Going to go clean up a little, grab some money -- you need money for a fair, right?” “You sure do,” says John-John. For all his loud banging, he got quiet quick enough. The talk of money seemed to be just the thing he needs to get him going again. “We got enough to pay to get in and go on three rides a piece. Don’t got enough for food though, but that ain’t so tough. Maman fixed us some sandwiches and there’s that good stream over by the fairgrounds in Marina. Can’t ask for better drinking water than that stream.” Lambert and Bobby Paul nod along to what John-John is saying. Seems the three of them have had this whole thing planned out good for a while now. I hold up my hand to keep him from starting up again. “You boys wait right here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Takes damn longer than a minute or two to get myself together, but when I step out on that porch there’s not a thing in the world that the boy can be ashamed of. I’ve pressed my suit, washed and combed my hair, got a face damn near as smooth as you can bet the skin is behind them little boy’s mama’s knees. My shoes, well shined of course, don’t have nothing on the wad of money I roll up tight and put in my pocket. Even grab my hat off the top of the refrigerator, blow off the barley that’s got itself stuck in there. Come out there on that porch to those three looking like they’ve been waiting for a year never mind an hour. They all straighten up good when they see me stepping out. Especially the boy. Gets a big grin on his face, looks at one buddy, then the other. He meets my eyes for a second and looks away. Ashamed of himself now. Ashamed and proud all at once. I ruffle his hair a little, tweak him on the ear. “You boys want to ride in the back?” I ask, opening the front door of the Roadster and climbing in, pushing aside a few of the empty bottles that are on the seat. “We’re going to drive?” asks John-John. Bobby Paul stops short, lets his mouth fall open. Lambert stands on the sidewalk looking at all of us as if he can’t believe what’s about to happen, as if he doesn’t know if it should. He catches my eye and I wink at him. He gives me just a little nod of his head. “What’d you think, Cuddy was going to take the bus with us or something?” he says. “Good-O!” says Bobby Paul, climbing into the back with his brother right behind him. “C’mon, boy,” I yell, “or me, BP and Double J are leaving without you.” The boys smile at their new nicknames as they settle in on top of some scraps of old peat in the back. Damn if I’m not going to show them the time of their life. “Yeah, c’mon Lambert,” they say in unison. Lambert climbs in the back, catches my eye again through the rear window. I tip my hat to him as he sits down and let the tires burn out a little as we take off. The Marina Del Ray county fair is diesel fuel and hay; tinkling merry-go-round music and game-booth callers. It is corn on the cob covered in butter, giant hot dogs covered in ketchup. It is puffy pink swaths of cotton candy and that about does it for me. The boys can’t be stopped, though, and go for funnel cakes and ice cream cones, steak sandwiches and strawberry sodas. With every bite John-John wipes his mouth and says, “That hits the spot. Sure if that doesn’t hit the spot.” By the time they get the strawberry soda, Lambert says, “You keep on saying that.” “Well,” says John-John, “I got a lotta spots.” “He does,” Bobby Paul says to me. “I should know. I’m his brother.” I lose my hat on the Ferris wheel. Bobby Paul watches it fly out behind us and solemnly takes off the gold cardboard crown he won at the Dunk-the-Monkey booth and hands it to me. I put the crown on my head, cock-eyed so it’ll stay. “How does it look BP?” I ask. “Like the king that you are Cuddy, sir,” he says. After that, the boys get on some ride I can barely watch for all that they’re spinning around so fast. Spin so fast they stumble about like a bunch of drunks when they get off, holding their sides and laughing. Then John-John hurls his lunch across his shirt. We all look at him, silent. Lambert asks him which spot that hit and the laughter bursts out of all of us again till we’re all about to throw up. Deciding to take leave from the eating and spinning, we go into the exhibition tent. Every section of the county’s got their own booth showing off their best hens and eggs and strawberries and garlic. We walk slowly past the exhibits, and the girls from the 4-H club whisper and peek at the boys over their jams and needlepoint. Bobby Paul doesn’t notice, the older boys sure do. They look to be paying attention to the exhibit on advances in farm machinery technology three booths down, but John-John casts just one too many glances in the girls’ direction and sends them into a fit of giggles. I can see the red creep up the back of Lambert’s neck. A Kiddie’s Parade full of flying colors and little ones all dressed up brings us out of the tent and we stand on the sidelines just cheering and clapping. Bobby Paul grabs my hand and says, “Cuddy, I just heard them say over the loudspeaker that Lenis Lane is going to be on the Big Stage in fifteen minutes!” “Who?” I ask. “Lenis Lane,” he says, “Hollywood’s Famous Yodeling Lone Cowgirl.” “She comes on the radio sometimes, sings those crazy yoodle-ay-hee-hoo yuudle songs,” says John-John. “Bobby Paul’s nuts about her, he never misses her show.” There’s also some good horse racing about to jump off and I finger the wad of money in my pocket that’s still thick even after footing the bill for all that food and fun. I guess Bobby Paul just has a way of getting what he wants because I find myself sitting on my arse in the lawn in front of the stage listening to old Lenis yodeling away instead of looking to double my money at the ponies. When it starts to get dark we get up and go for Chinese from Goodall’s All American and Chinese Restaurant booth. The boys are smudged all over and the Duvernay boys’ orange silky shirts are a dirty muted brown. Lambert’s eyes look heavy and his hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. “You all want to head out?” I ask. “If you want to Cuddy, sir,” says John-John who gets a kick under the table from his little brother. I look from one of them to the next, waiting for the request. I feel Bobby Paul continuing to urge John-John with his foot under the table, but John-John refuses to meet his eyes and instead pretends to work on using his chopsticks. “What is it, Double J?” I ask. Both of them eye Lambert, silently electing him the spokesman. “Well, speak up, boy,” I say. “It’s just that,” he says pushing his chop suey around on his plate. “It’s just that, well, Jimmy Walsh and his twelve-piece band are going to be playing at nine o’clock.” “And there’s going to be dancing!” shouts out Bobby Paul - to which he gets a harsh shush and an even harder kick under the table. “You all want to dance?” I say. They all look at each other. “Well,” says John-John, “none of us have ever seen people really dance. I mean, we’ve seen them in movies and all, but never in real life.” “And Lambert wants to see the band,” Bobby Paul says. I look at the boy and he nods at me over the straw of what has got to be his fifth soda pop of the day. “Jimmy Walsh it is,” I say and they cheer, raising their pop bottles to me. It’s damn near midnight when we get home and Mrs. Duvernay comes tearing out of her house and onto her yard in a flowery flowing silk kimono. She is yelling something I can’t understand as she grabs both boys by their ears and tows them inside. I know she’s throwing back curses at me as she goes because I see her head turn my way, hear her even after the back door slams behind them. Lambert, who’s asleep wrapped in some swaths of peat, sleeps right through Mrs. Duvernay’s raving, but he wakes when I try to carry him inside. “I guess you’re just not little enough for carrying anymore,” I say. “I guess not,” he says. “Their mom, was she sore?” “Sure sounded that way,” I say. We walk inside and both of us fall down on our mattresses, but not before I put my crown on top of the fridge where my hat used to be and put back the remainder of my wad of cash that’s still pretty sizeable. I guess it doesn’t take as much money as I thought to become king of the fair. I’m down to the bone tired and it’s dark as the devil outside. I smile thinking I might have just licked this nocturnal affliction. “Cuddy,” the boy says, shocking me a little because I was sure he was already back in the land of Nod, “thank you.” “You’re welcome,” I say. I lay there for a second thinking I can’t remember the last time I felt so good. My stomach is sore from the laughing and the sodas and that damned chop suey but I’m tired and happy. Think maybe there’s not much wrong with being the kind of father who takes his kid and his buddies to the fair and spoils em rotten for the day. Think about the boys and their laughing and carrying on and the way they teased each other. Think they’re pretty good kids, the lot of them. And the boy, that Lambert, he might just be all right after all. “Boy,” I say. “You still up?” “Yes sir,” he says. “When’d you say school starts?” “Next Monday,” he says. “You’ll be needing some new clothes and a school bag and all that, won’t you?” He’s silent on his mattress and I wonder if he didn’t fall asleep, but I should’ve known better. “You saying I can go to school?” he says. “Yes, boy,” I say. “But you still got to come home and help with the whisky. Got to come home on your lunch breaks and right after school.” “Oh, I will, Cuddy,” he says. I can see him sitting up on an elbow looking through the darkness at me. Since I’m busy being a good father and all, I say, “And I’m not interested in you getting bad marks or hearing from any teachers about you acting up in class or anything like that. You get your work done and keep your behavior in line. You hear me?” “Yes Cuddy, sir,” he says and I can almost hear the smile on his face. “All right now. Go on to sleep.” “Yes Cuddy, sir,” he says again and lies back down. I wait until I hear his breath slow before I close my eyes. I’m tired. Dog-tired. So tired I don’t even get up to turn off the hallway light. ![]() Bio: Mathea Morais was raised in St. Louis and earned a degree in Literature from NYU. She began her career writing about hip hop culture and music for “The Source” magazine and “Trace Urban Magazine.” She has studied writing with Bret Anthony Johnston, Jessica Treadway and John Hough, Jr. In 2007, she wrote a children’s book called I’m Lucy: A Day in the Life of a Young Bonobo that was published by the Bonobo Conservation Initiative and features an afterword by renowned primatologist Jane Goodall. Mathea lives on Martha’s Vineyard where she teaches English and founded the High School Creative Writing Collaborative with Alexander Weinstein. She contributes regularly to the “Martha’s Vineyard Times” and “Martha’s Vineyard Magazine.” Her literary work has been published in “Arts & Ideas” magazine and is forthcoming in “The New Engagement” literary journal. Comments are closed.
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