You could breathe the taste, and Petey Garrick inhaled it. It was a once-a-year pleasure, the balmy, thick-butter scent of fried batter and the sugar smells that glistened on it like morning dew, powdered on the Oreos and funnel cakes, baked into the elephant ears and waffle cones. The whispers, too, might have had that same decadence if only ingestible. Two little kids in line ahead of Petey, waiting for corn dogs, murmured about some great thing. And these magnanimous rumors travelled on the candied atmosphere of the Morgan County Fair, walking like tightrope acrobats across this low, confectious fog to Petey’s ears with a single spell at their end: fortune-telling.

“Excuse me,” Petey ventured to the two children in front of him. One was a small boy, maybe just three feet from the ground, wearing thick black glasses that monopolized his face and blew up his brown irises like a cartoon. He had on an oversized gray t-shirt, screen printed with a giraffe. Beside him was a taller girl, presumably the boy’s sister. Her hair was done in pigtails with red bows that complimented the color of her gingham dress.

“Huh?” the small boy said, turning and gawking up at Petey.

“Did you say there’s a fortune teller here?” Petey asked.

“Yeah,” the girl said. “Tent’s that way.” She pointed to her left, Petey’s right.
      
“Wow, really?” Petey’s words shot from his mouth like tripwire. He felt sort of silly, bubbling with such uncured anticipation in front of younger kids, but it was too difficult to contain. “What’s he like?”

“We haven’t been there yet. We’re going to the carousel first.”

“I wanna do bumpy caws!” The boy pouted. He thrust his arms down and stomped a white sneaker into the dirt as if trying to pop from a cannon.

“Hey, kiddos! What can I do ya for?” A lanky teenager leaned out, far over the concession stand window, to greet his small customers. He had a lot of hair, black hair that drooped over his face and shaded one eye. There was a small patch of acne underneath the other. A silver nametag on his apron winked in the sunlight and pronounced him Ricky.

The little boy turned back around. “Two cawn dogs, mista!” he shouted, shoving a peace sign up toward the vendor.

“He means two corn dogs, sir, and please,” the girl corrected.

“And a lemonade!” the boy added.

Ricky laughed. “You got it, little man,” he said, running a hand through his falling curls. “Two cawn dogs comin’ up.” Then, the fry cook leaned further out the window. He brought the back of his right hand to the side of his mouth. “You know, little man, cawn dawgs is how most cowboys ‘round here say it anyway,” he whispered. “Don’t forget.” He made a gesture as if tipping a ten gallon hat, which made the boy laugh, then dropped back inside the booth to do up the order. Petey didn’t stick around to make his. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

***

The teller’s tent was large, striped teal and dusty white. Its entrance flap beat in a warm breeze. Floo-floo-floo. To Petey it was reminiscent, quite remarkably, of his father’s old dog, Arlo. Arlo was a mean Boxer that had died a few years back, but the animal had horrid jowls that quivered when he barked, which was an abrasive, scary sound in and of itself. Sometimes long, sticky globs of drool would splash off that muzzle, too. Petey shivered at the thought and unknowingly took a step back.

Then, he noticed the sign, tall and yellow near the side of the tent, jutting out from the midway’s soft earth. Red letters spelled out its attraction in a whimsical, big top font.

TAROT, THE CLAIRVOYANT
omniscient, improbable, fantastic

More tripwire, but Petey couldn’t resist. He forged ahead, ducking beneath the fluttering canvas, brought on by another strong breeze; this one, a degree cooler.

Petey blinked, adjusting to the change in light. It was dark inside the tent save for a faint ray of sunlight streaming through a hole in the roof’s center. Though soft, it was still enough to spotlight the circular stage directly below it. Petey watched as specks of dust, or gnats, lolled in it like some luminescent biodome.

“Come in, my dear boy! Come in!” Petey went cold. The beckon seemed to arrive from nowhere. But then…more images began to form, apart from the natural spotlight, and their contrasts deepened. There was someone near the back of the tent, holed up in a dark corner—a tall, thin figure, a man, emerging from a folding chair like a hermit crab molting. Was he wearing stilts? No, but he could have been. He was a towering presence, six feet, ten inches, and blue most of the way through, donning a blue lapel suit over a blue oxford shirt. The costume finished in pink, however, with a pink tie, unpatterned, and a pink pocket square with blue polka dots. He had silver hair that billowed out from under a blue top hat with pink carnations round its band. The man approached Petey with a wide, almost kneeless gait, and again, the idea of stilts seemed plausible—until he bent down to meet the newcomer.

“Are you Tarot, the Clairvoyant?” Petey asked.

“Ahh,” the man sighed and straightened back up. He locked his hands on his waist and laughed. “Common mistake. Common mistake, my dear boy,” his voice a thunder roll. He raised an index finger, turned on his heels, and paced. “Yes, quite the common folly. I should change that dastardly sign one day, shouldn’t I? But…” The man paused, overtaken by a thought, and spun back around. He shook his head and pointed his finger at Petey. “‘Tarot, the Clairvoyant’ it rolls right off the tongue, no? And you were intrigued, were you not? Yes, you must have been or else you would not have admitted yourself into our little enterprise, correct? No, I imagine you would not have and, therefore, I must keep that wondrous sign up for many carnivals to come.”

“Do you mean you’re not a fortune teller?”

“Correct, my good sir. That I am not. I’m a great many things. A lover, a showman, a child at heart, the humble proprietor of this tent, but teller I am not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Petey took a step back. He turned to leave, but the man seized the boy by his bicep. “Wait!” he shouted. This desperate play stunned Petey, and, at the barker’s forceful and somewhat hurtful grip, he could only gape. “I’m sorry,” the man continued, “I’ve overdone my welcome, haven’t I? Yes. Pity. I’ll work on it. Yes, I will, but you see I just get swept up in the magic.”

“Magic?” The word itself felt like a cool trick, its consonants bounding from Petey’s lips like a white rabbit into its tunnel-world.

“Yes, you see, while I am not the teller. He is in our midst, and his power is great. So great you can…well, here, close your eyes,” the man demanded, and Petey did. “Good, and stand still—arms at your sides, back straight, chin up.” Petey did all that, too. Meanwhile, the barker dug into his suit jacket and withdrew two ovular magnets from the pocket. He took one to either side of the boy’s nose and held them there, just a few centimeters from the skin.

“You feel that energy, do you not? You must.”

“I- I do!” Petey said and opened his eyes just as the man returned the magnets to his coat, then tugged on the lapels for good measure.

“That, my dear boy, is the magic of Tarot, the Clairvoyant, who is in our midst as I speak. Would you like to meet him?”

“Yes!”

“Good, then can you be patient? You can, I’m sure, for but a moment.”

“Sure.”

“Good lad, then you’ll shut your eyes, won’t you, and stand still—arms at your sides, back straight, and chin up?”

“Yes!”

“Wonderful. But a moment.”

Petey waited, eyes closed. His nose still tingled with the fallout from Tarot’s radioactive magic, or maybe it was a new energy entirely, that of anticipation. He listened as the barker strode away, the man’s suit pants whispering his steps in the late-summer stillness. A moment did pass before Petey heard new sounds, different sounds. Smacks, almost like thick leather being snapped against the ground, some scuffling, a few grunts from the barker, then quiet.

“Boy! You may now open your eyes and gaze upon the omniscient, the improbable, the fantastic Tarot, the Clairvoyant!” Petey did as instructed, and what he gazed upon was improbable. A sleek, brownish-black sea lion, suckered into a frilly pale-pink clown suit with blue polka dots and blue pom-pom buttons, had mounted the short stage. The animal whipped its neck a few times then blew a puff of hot air from its wet nose.

“He’s a…”

“A pinniped, a sea dog, a bull. Yes, yes, he is a seal, but you have admitted to feeling his magic, no?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? Then why such a lowly disposition, my dear boy? Do you not believe that my seal is a seer? Well, I am surprised. I thought you a boy of great understanding, a sharp boy. But yes, I suppose now that that is my great folly for I have avowed to you that I am no teller, and, therefore, should not have presumed your breadth of understanding, your intelligence, nor your comprehension of this matter. I can see now how it may be beyond you.”

“I understand!”

“Ah, good! Then you felt the magic, and so you believe in my seal? You believe in the power of Tarot?”

“Well…”

“Well, maybe you need a demonstration, is that it?”

“Okay.” Petey plunged a hand into his front jeans pocket and hustled out a single dull quarter.

“No, no, no,” the man said, waving his hands back and forth. “I will not ask you for any money. Not yet, of course. I must earn your trust, I see. And so, I implore you, my boy, to be so bold, to be so daring, and ask my seal a question. But please make it a close-ended question, a yes-or-no question only. He is magic, but he is not much of a talker. Are you, Tarot?”

Tarot barked.

“I am quite the opposite of omniscient, aren’t I? Well then, out with it boy. Ask my seal a question, free of charge. He will clap once for yes, and he will clap twice for no. Does that sound agreeable to you, my boy?”

“Okay.”

“Very good, then out with your question!”

“Am I a girl?” Petey asked. At first, the seal was unresponsive, giving no indication of even hearing the question. Petey felt his cheeks redden, hot embarrassment smoldering his face, even a smidge of anger for allowing this silly, blue-suited man to dupe him without quite so much pushback. Ridiculous. Gullible. But, of course, Tarot had heard the question. The sea lion muscled itself up, its weight back on its hind flippers, and clapped twice. No.

Dumbfounded, Petey found himself fishing in his pocket for change. He’d go broke, go into debt if it meant knowing the truth.

“Please, please no coins,” the barker insisted, waving his hands again. “Not yet. Test my Tarot, and, when you’ve gained his trust, only then will I take your coveted quarter and then each time after. But go on, test my animal, free of charge.”

“Is my name Charlie?”

The seal whipped its neck once, then pulled up. Two claps. No.

The boy gave the barker a look of pure astonishment and watched as a full-of-himself grin slid up the side of the man’s face. “So, you are not a Charlie,” he said.

Petey looked to the sea lion. “Is my name Petey?”

One confident clap. Yes.

Now, when Petey went for the coins, he pulled out several and the man did not balk. Instead, he nodded once and opened his hand, slowly turning it over and unfurling his fingers like flower petals in bloom.

“Is,” Petey started, “is my daddy a bad man?”

Tarot whipped his neck around, almost a shrug. The barker swiped a pool of sweat from his brow, seeing the animal’s reaction. “Tarot cannot draw conclusions about things like character,” he explained, his eyes still trained on the seal. Then, he glanced at Petey, “But son–”

Petey didn’t wait. He shoved a second quarter into the barker’s hand and spat out his next question. “Did my daddy do something…unlawful?” Tripwire! Real tripwire, and the boy was setting it off.

One clap. Yes.

“Son, maybe–”

“Did…did my daddy hurt someone?” Petey asked, forcing another quarter into the barker’s hand.

One clap. Yes.

“Son,” the barker said, raising his thunder voice. He dropped the coins and put a hand on Petey’s shoulder.

“No. Please!” Petey yelled, shirking the barker and backing away from him. Early tears began to form in his eyelids. “I have to know. I…have to. Did my daddy kill someone?”

One clap.

“Petey, stop!” The man was kneeling now. He had Petey by both shoulders, trying to shake him from this headstrong trance.

“Will he do it again?” Petey screamed over the barker’s shoulder. “Is my daddy going to kill again?” And though his view of Tarot was obstructed by the man, he could hear the sea lion’s response as clear as gunfire, as sharp as tripwire snapping, setting off an explosive.

One, leathery clap.

“Who? Please!” Petey fell to his knees, hitching, sobbing. “I have to know who!”

The seal bobbed his head around, rejecting the question.

“Pete. Petey!” The barker looked up. Petey turned toward the voice, too. Someone was calling him from outside the tent. “Hey, there you are, buddy.” A handsome, sharp-featured man bowed underneath the entrance flap—shorter, of course, than the barker but average height. His dark brown hair was thick and brushed back, his beard neatly trimmed around his jawline, accentuating it. His eyes, though, were sad-looking bulbs, a dim shade of blue and low.

 “Good lord, what happened?” Petey’s father asked.

“He…he…,” the barker stammered, withdrawing from the boy and fixing his eyes surreally on the child’s dad.

“It’s okay. He gets this way sometimes,” Petey’s father said, “overstimulated. Hey, Petey, listen to me. Are you okay, buddy? You had me worried there. You can’t wander off like that.” Petey rubbed at his wet eyes, while his father embraced him, pulling the boy into his chest where his son continued to hitch. “He’s alright. I’m sorry for any trouble. Thank you for keeping an eye on him,” the father said and extended his hand, the barker took it. “Do you happen to know where the lot is from here?” he asked, but the barker didn’t reply, just tightened his grip around the man’s hand. “Hey, what’s your problem, guy? Let me go, will ya?”

And from behind the barker, Tarot clapped twice.

– John Kuyat