Carousel by April Ford

Author:April Ford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inanna Publications
Published: 2020-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

8. DECEMBER 3, 1979

BEGIN WITH TIE AROUND NECK. The left end (A) must be longer than the right end (B). Cross A over B then tuck A into hole between neck and tie. Fold b at widest part and hold sideways….

My thumbs and forefingers cramped. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, stuck on the same step I got stuck on every time. It was my umpteenth try, and failure was not an option. With mounting despair, I referred once more to my father’s issue of Esquire Fortnightly, spread over the sink. Maybe the diagram was missing a step? What if “A” was really “B”? My father frequently complained about typographical errors in the newspaper, so why wouldn’t Esquire be susceptible to the same problem? According to “How to Make Manliness Look Easy,” the magazine’s feature article extolling the virtues of approaching every task big and small in a methodical way, a man could achieve the perfect bowtie in just six steps and walk out of the house as put-together and important as Hugh Hefner. I didn’t know who Hugh Hefner was, but it was of highest priority that I achieve the perfect bowtie if I was to meet Les Nessman.

“Margot, dépêche-toi. We have to leave soon.”

I threw myself backward against the door when my mother jiggled the handle. If she found me fumbling to get ready, she would either moan like I had already ruined her evening, or she would fix me up with the skill of an Esquire man’s wife. I didn’t want her to do either. I was going to do it myself. I was eleven years old.

“Chérie,” she said, tapping her long nails on the door, “we’re going to be late for the concert. Aren’t you excited for the concert?”

I was not. I didn’t know any of The Who’s songs, and I thought the band’s name was dumb. I couldn’t form it into words, but I could sense the band’s failed attempt at cleverness. And even if the music turned out to be enjoyable, my enjoyment would be underscored by the dumb band name, the way a good book could be ruined by a bad title.

It was our annual family vacation. The tradition had started three years before, after my mother exiled me from Wellfleet to Saint-Télesphore to live with her parents while she worked things out with her husband. This time we were in Cincinnati, hardly a desirable place to “vacation” in December. We had spent the previous years in Honolulu, Charleston, and San Diego, all places my mother had begged my father for, but this year my father’s business overlapped with her pleasure. One of Wright & Ellis’s prominent shareholders lived in Cincinnati and had expressed interest in financing a retail outlet in the city. The people of Cincy played billiards, too, though they preferred to call it “pool,” and their working-class incomes couldn’t support the high-end models. Nonetheless, business was business, and Morgan Wright, albeit still virile and dashing, was fifty-four and didn’t want to work forever.

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