Chapter 10 - Where The Ride Stops
By five o'clock that evening, the Gentry Park Carousel Pavilion was deserted.
The maintenance crew had swept away the gold balloon remnants and hauled the unopened boxes of cake down to the park office. The sun was dipping below the tree line, casting long, golden fingers of light across the lawn and setting the mirrored panels of the carousel ablaze with warm amber fire.
I stood on the circular wooden deck alone.
At the side booth, the old ride operator was wiping down the controls with a shop rag. He looked up, tipping his cap toward me. "Closing up in ten minutes, ma'am. You want one last spin before I shut down the generator?"
"I think I do," I said.
I climbed up the two steps and walked past the painted horses until I found the rose-colored mare with the arched neck—the exact horse I had ridden sixty years ago with my mother standing by the rail, clutching her worn coin purse.
I slipped my hand into my blazer pocket and pulled out my key ring. The small brass ring caught the evening light, its edges worn butter-smooth by sixty-two years of pocket friction and worry. With a firm twist, I unhooked it from the steel split-ring and held it in the palm of my hand.
The carousel bell chimed twice, a cheerful, metallic ring that echoed across the empty park. The vintage gears groaned, catching beneath the floorboards, and the great wooden wheel began to turn, slowly at first, then picking up speed until the autumn trees blurred into ribbons of green and gold.
The calliope organ wheezed to life, filling the air with that familiar, jaunty waltz that smelled of popcorn, motor oil, and childhood summers.
My horse began to rise and fall on its polished brass pole. As we swept past the outer arm, the mechanical ring dispenser clicked forward, its brass finger poised over the track.
I didn't reach for a new ring.
Instead, as the horse rose to its highest point, I leaned out over the wooden stirrup and dropped my old brass ring cleanly back into the collection chute. It made a sharp, satisfying clink as it tumbled down the metal track, returning to where it had started sixty years ago.
The ride didn't owe me anything anymore. And I didn't owe the ride.
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When the music finally slowed and the carousel coasted to a gentle, rocking halt, I stepped down from the platform with light, steady feet. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, crisp with the coming October frost.
I walked down the gravel path toward my old Buick parked beneath the maples. For the first time since Orin died, my shoulders didn't ache under the weight of an invisible ceiling. For the first time in thirty-six years, the house of my life was standing on its own foundation—square, solid, and completely free of debt.
