Last Call by Laura Pedersen Page B

store windows, and stop at every umbrella stand to watch the lightning-quick vendor deal hot dogs, ice creams, and sodas as if they’re playing cards. And every time he clanks open the aluminum hotbox the delicious aroma of hot pretzels saturates the air. But the second they turn the corner the wonderful smell is overwhelmed by the foul odor of a dozen cigarettes as a group of smokers stand huddled together outside an office building puffing away while nervously glancing at their watches.
    No one so much as looks at her nun’s habit. And it’s no wonder. Within five minutes Rosamond sees two men with shaved heads wearing saffron robes, several women in skimpy halter tops and short-shorts, and a seven-foot yellow and orange chicken passing out menus in front of a take-out restaurant called The Cluck Hut.
    Joey almost trips several times from peering up to the tops of tall buildings in search of his idols—Superman, Batman, and Spider-Man. Or else one of the bad guys, such as Cyborg II or Brainiac. New York was not only the model city for almost every important superhero’s home, it was also the place that monsters such as Godzilla always wanted to destroy. Joey was constantly pleading with Hayden to take him to the Empire State Building in order to imagine what those last moments were like for poor old King Kong.
    After a few more blocks Rosamond begins to adjust to the hustle and bustle of street life, settling into the pedestrian rhythms with the beats tapped out by “walk” and “don’t walk,” and loosens her grip on Hayden’s arm. Still, the city is so much more real with sights and scents and sounds than she had ever imagined. Her jewel box Manhattan always had a lovely soundtrack, usually by George Gershwin or Richard Rodgers, and smelled like the briny seacoast air of the small town in Maine where she was raised. And when the television was turned off the house was still except for the wind nudging a shutter or the cat scratching at the door to go out. Rosamond is simultaneously intrigued and unsettled by the chaos of the city in comparison to the well-ordered universe of the convent. As far as she can tell, there is no way to feel near God in such a hectic and untamed place as this, to find peace of the soul and the cleanliness and order that enables one to master the mind and all of its powers.
    The circus is held under a bulky blue tent behind Lincoln Center on the west side of Manhattan. The high-pitched voices of eager children can be heard rising from every bleacher like rows of trilling and chirping birds anticipating a windfall of seed or bread crumbs. Rosamond and Joey, also caught up in the excitement, share a green slush drink the color of a chemical spill and an overflowing tub of caramel-coated popcorn as the band strikes up, indicating that the show is about to start. Hayden relaxes amid the chaos and treats himself to the cold beer he smuggled in under his jacket. Looking around at all the poles and wires holding up the temporary structure he guesses as to how much insurance is involved in such a venture, especially after one factors in the coming and goings of several enormous elephants.
    The lights in the audience dim and the ringmaster suddenly appears from out of a cloud of pink smoke. He introduces red-nosed clowns in hobo suits and oversize floppy shoes, amazing acrobats on stilts, breathtaking jugglers of fire, tightrope walkers, and stunt riders atop low athletic-looking horses with long braided manes. A magician makes his swimsuit-clad assistant disappear into a wardrobe only to turn and find her standing behind him dressed in an elaborate ball gown.
    Rosamond is exhilarated by the sheer lavishness of the spectacle—the showy costumes, dazzling colors, and eight-person band above the center ring playing high-spirited music. It reminds her of when she was a girl and a traveling carnival would set up shop on the edge of her otherwise quiet coastal fishing village at the end of every