Castle by Preston Lang

The apron I wore said Cupcake Queen, but it wasn’t mine. All my claims to royalty were long past.

“The rice crispy treats aren’t selling,” Lila’s mom said.

I suggested we drop the price, but everyone dismissed the idea. Lila’s mom chuckled.

“No, that won’t work.”

She may have been right. The spring fair had raised over 2,000 dollars so far, a solid take for what we had to work with—a few tables, homemade brownies, a silent auction, cheap games. And one ride.

“Maybe they’ll finally get that third floor washroom taken care of,” someone said.

This was a bitter joke. Dr. West had promised a fix by November, but the principal clearly saw no reason to honor his word. He had higher priorities for the money. Parents were willing to express displeasure behind his back, but West was a powerful figure. He was forceful, and charming, and singularly adept at sliding out of conversations he didn’t want to have, leaving you feeling like you’d said something wrong.

Deepa’s dad approached the snack table.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” He texted as he spoke. “Work. Sorry. Can someone take over the bouncy castle?”

Everyone looked at me. They were all modern parents. Their sons played with dolls. Doctors, athletes, and judges were assumed to be female unless otherwise indicated. But somehow running a bouncy castle was work for a man.

I hesitated. It wasn’t work for this man.

“Go on,” Lila’s mom said impatiently.

I closed my eyes. Through the carnival, I’d kept my back to the castle and my eyes on pastries and the cash box. I didn’t listen for the sound of sock on rubber or the squeals of soaring children.

Finally, I took off the apron and tossed it a little carelessly to Lila’s mom. She seemed about to protest, but I caught her eye and she turned away. Deepa’s dad showed me to the castle.

“You have to look out for the—”

“Yeah, I know.”

He gave me a quick glance then left the carnival. I looked at the line of kids.

“Shoes go here.” I pointed clearly to the left side of the entrance. “You get five minutes in the palace.”

There wasn’t much to the speech. It wasn’t loud or overtly aggressive, but there was in it the authority of a man who can end problems before they begin. The children slipped out of their shoes.

A palace keeper is the vital heart of a carnival. He is its problem-solver, its confessor, its poet legislator. He has none of the oily deceit of the ring toss hawk, the paranoia of the carousel spinner, or the nihilism of the cotton candy man. He is wiry and alert. He’s not a bruiser, but you need to understand that he has a blade in his back pocket that will not come out but to sever bone from tendon. He is, in fact, all that stands between a day of leisure and total anarchy. 

His knowledge is profound; it’s in his blood. He knows your fears and secret vanities. And vomit. Castle keepers know the undigested truth of our nation’s youth. He’s seen it at its most extreme and he’s wiped it off polyvinyl chloride. You cannot tell a keeper anything he doesn’t know about the inside of a child: corndog, BeaverTail, marshmallow, nascent savagery, Pizza Pizza pizza. And, yes, he can sell you weed. That’s a simple fact. If he says he can’t, it’s because you’re not trustworthy. That’s on you, and you should probably give some thought to how you present to the world.

I’d run four sets of children through their 300 seconds before I took off my shirt. No one at school had seen my arms. I always kept on a button-down, but it was warm and it was time. The tattoo was a single tower on my shoulder, pointing straight up. Nothing gaudy, but those who kept the citadel would know what it meant. It meant that I could unload a filthy snarl of rubber off a rented truck then fill it with oxygen until it became something unspeakably beautiful, an object of enchantment. I could tether it to the earth and protect all who came inside.

I had traveled the rural north from Manitoba to Ontario then into Quebec where little girls would sing: c’est un jour de magie. Then on to the Maritimes where the air was different and inflation was uneven, but the children were wise with souls older than the tamarack trees. Wherever I went, there was a kid, usually a boy. He wasn’t well-liked but wasn’t bullied, either. He was left alone, which suited him up to a point. That boy would see wisdom. And the keeper would recognize him and gift him with knowledge.

That Sunday at the PTA spring fair, it was Tesfay, a classmate of my daughter Gina. I didn’t glamorize the job to the boy. He needed to hear about the ugliness first.

“I seen grudges settled in a castle. I seen concussions, retinas detached, collarbones snapped like peppermint sticks. I seen princesses dethroned by sturdy peasant stock and I seen the kind of cruelty that only an airborne tween is capable of.”

“How long does it take to inflate?” he asked.

A good question.

“By hand or by machine, I could raise this palace in seven minutes,” I said.

Tesfay was stunned.

“How?”

“Show up early if you want answers.”

If he’d shown up early that morning, he would’ve seen them take ninety minutes. Where was the nozzle? How did you turn on the inflator? It was still a bit flabby. Deepa’s dad was a good man, but he’d been in way over his head. It was only the Grace of God that allowed him to get through the morning without major incident. Any PTA or other civic organization can rent a bouncy castle. A soft, suburban stepfather can rent one and put it up in his backyard for a birthday party. They might as well let civilians rent a Bengal tiger, a vial of Ebola, a surface-to-air missile. The emergency rooms are filled with the casualties of improperly supervised palaces. Go to any cemetery and take note of those who never made it to age eleven. They may not list cause of death, but chances are it came aloft.

There were things I didn’t tell Tesfay—like the hell of winter. Gigs were scarce. If you were lucky you might get a night in a gymnasium or rec hall. But there were other options. Some years, I’d made my way south. Florida was where I met Lyuba. We were both off the books in the land where carnivals never ended.

While it is true that most castle keepers are men, there are women like Lyuba—cunning, sinuous women. But for all her wisdom and vigor, she’d succumbed to the malignancy of a mole no bigger than a dime. I was left with the infant and the promise I’d made to her mother. I’d find a different way of life—respectable and serene. Suits and offices, not undershirts and midways. It was a promise I’d kept...until now.

Dr. West showed up at two, shook a few hands, then took the megaphone.

“What a great day for a great school. Give yourselves a hand.”

He described what the money raised could do for us—teacher enrichment and exciting assembly speakers. Not one word about the third floor washroom. Parents exchanged disappointed glances, but his charisma and authority were turned up high that day. No one was up to challenge the great man. When he was done speaking, he gladhanded a bit before heading for the parking lot. Even those he’d just disappointed simpered and jostled to have him try their chocolate chip cookie or Nanaimo bar.

As he left the fair, I turned to Tesfay.

“Tes, you got to watch the palace for a couple minutes.”

I gave him one slap on the shoulder and he took the burden with gravity. He would protect the citadel.

I caught up with the principal just as he chirped the alarm on his car.

“Dr. West.”

“Mr …?”

Dr. West struggled to recall my name, but he did it in a way designed to make me feel like it was my fault for not being memorable.

“The third floor washroom.”

“I have an important meeting across town. Now, if you’d like to schedule a sit-down, please call the office on Monday.”

He flashed his inevitable smile.

“Oh, this won’t take long,” I said. “I’m bringing the money we raised today to a contractor I know who will start the job on the washroom tomorrow. He will probably need to work through Wednesday. If it costs more than what I’ve given him, you’ll cover that.”

“I don’t think you—"

“This is what’s happening. You can go to your meeting now.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m telling you how things are going to be. Do not get in the way of this.”

“I am the principal of this school. I have—”

The blade was a serrated steel pie server. Not the sharpest knife, but it sliced off Dr. West’s tie in one sooth motion. The tip grazed the flesh on his chest but did not draw blood.

“Please do not get in the way of what needs to be done.”

The suave educator got in his Lexus and drove off.

I found Gina at face-painting and watched her. She’d made two of her friends into kitty cats. This was my fault. I’d let this happen. The promise made to her mother as she lay rotting from the inside was not binding. I had to honor the woman who raised castles, who was unafraid of chaos, who’d once bound together an inflated slide to the main palace with only a red bandana and honest sweat.

We would stay until the washroom was repaired. Then we would hit the road. The girl needed to learn who she was.