Sweet Mercy by Ann Tatlock Page A

with the hot dogs and drinks.
    Later, when we were walking through the midway, Marcus offered me his hand, and I took it. Our fingers easily entwined; his flesh felt warm and comfortable. But at the same time, we both looked shyly away and pretended to be intrigued by the games and distracted by the carnival barkers, as though our hands were their own persons and not a part of us at all.
    â€œWould you like me to try to win you a stuffed animal?” he asked, stopping at a shooting gallery. On display in the booth was a variety of prizes: stuffed animals of all sorts, spinning tops and yo-yos and plastic swords and costume jewelry.
    â€œSure,” I said.
    He pulled his hand from mine; I reluctantly let go.
    â€œYou know these games are all rigged,” Jimmy warned.
    Marcus shrugged. “Sometimes they let people win. They have to. They can’t cheat everyone and get away with it.” He turned to the carny in the booth and asked, “How much?”
    â€œA nickel for three shots,” the carny replied. He was a weathered man with leathery skin and a mouth full of broken teeth. His arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist, and three of his fingers were missing on his left hand. One glance at him sent a shiver down my spine.
    Marcus pulled a nickel from his pocket and dropped it into the carny’s outstretched hand, the one with the fingersintact. The carny handed him a rifle and stepped aside. Marcus lifted the rifle so that the butt nestled against his right shoulder. He held the barrel in his left hand while the index finger of his right hand curled around the trigger. He peered over the barrel, taking aim at the toy ducks lined up at the back of the booth. I held my breath and waited. He fired the first blank; the ducks remained unruffled. He fired the second. Nothing. Three times Marcus fired and three times not a single duck budged.
    â€œAw, too bad,” Marlene said.
    â€œI told you it was rigged,” Jimmy added.
    â€œNever mind,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”
    Before Marcus could hand the rifle over, a man came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
    When the man turned toward me I recognized him. “Link!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”
    He motioned us back with a wave of his arms. “Step aside. Don’t want anybody getting hurt.”
    â€œYou know this guy?” Marcus asked.
    â€œI met him once,” I said. Then, more quietly, “He’s just a bum who hangs around the lodge looking for food.”
    Link reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a nickel. How is it, I thought, that a bum has a nickel? And why is he wasting money on a silly carnival game when he could be using it for food?
    I reached for Marcus’s arm. “Come on,” I said. “I want to ride the carousel.”
    â€œAll right.”
    Link took a shot. One duck flew off the shelf. I tugged at Marcus’s elbow. “Come on,” I said again.
    Another shot, another flying duck.
    Link turned and looked at Marcus. For a moment they held each other’s gaze. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into the soft flesh of my palms.
    Link fired off his last shot. One more duck flew upward. Jimmy laughed and Marlene cheered. I glared at Link.
    â€œThe game’s rigged,” Marcus said.
    â€œMaybe,” Link said, “but I’m still a good shot.”
    â€œCome on, Marcus.” I pulled at his arm.
    Finally Marcus turned away. I offered Link a parting frown as we walked off toward the carousel, trailed by Jimmy and Marlene. I had half a mind not to give Link any food next time he came around with his empty stomach and hangdog look. Anyone with spare change in his pocket didn’t need to beg.
    Once we reached the carousel, I forgot all about the bum from the shantytown. I’d always loved the carousel, the calliope music, the up-and-down and