CHAPTER FIVE
ADELE
Adele took the promenade on South Bay Front, the route she took every morning to get to work at the Fun Zone, a small amusement park just across the bay. Most days she’d look out at the yachts—the same sleek, majestic types that she used to be invited on years ago. She’d pass the fishermen at the end of the public dock and watch the sailboats glide by. But not today. Today she strode head down, faster than usual, if that was possible. She always moved quickly—it was in her nature to get where she was going at a clip—but today she had her arms bent, elbows tucked in tight to her body as she sped along the pathway toward the ferry.
It seemed odd that this Milly Kincaid lady, who’d only recently moved into the neighborhood, had passed by her house again in the early hours of the morning. For a brief moment it looked like she might stop and talk, but Adele put a stop to that, looking away abruptly, not engaging with the woman. Even so, it made her uneasy, as if she were walking that route on purpose to get another look at her.
Adele approached the ferry and stood in line behind a cyclist as the ferry docked. The water was flat except for the gentle wake rolling in after a man driving a small motorboat went by with a dog at his side in the cabin. The ferry operator lifted the metal bar and allowed the two cars it had carried across the bay to disembark.
“Bonjour, Adele,” the morning ferry operator said as he did every single weekday morning.
“Good morning, Joseph,” Adele replied as she took a seat on one of the wooden benches at the front of the ferry. She tried not to speak French out loud, but it sometimes slipped out, especially if she was feeling anxious or upset.
For the past five years she’d been working as an assistant to Hal Peterson, a big shot in the amusement side of town, who owned the Balboa Fun Zone. The name was ironic to Adele, since she didn’t much like the place—a carnival across the bay on the peninsula, complete with a Ferris wheel, a carousel, bumper cars, a penny arcade, and far too many opportunities for children to consume their weight in sugar. In front of the Fun Zone was a beach with all sorts of sailboats and canoes available for rent, which meant the whole place would soon be overrun with those high school and college kids coming to town for Bal Week, followed by an onslaught of tourists and unruly children for a few months that summer.
Fortunately, Adele kept to herself in Hal’s office on the second floor of the Balboa Pavilion overlooking the Fun Zone, where she helped keep the books, ordered supplies, and scheduled and managed the local boys Hal hired to operate the rides. But occasionally, when someone wasn’t available to work their shift, like today, Adele had to step in and help out. It was her least favorite part of the job. In fact, she despised it.
She unlocked the door to a five-by-three-foot shed next to the Ferris wheel. Inside was a rusty stool, an empty metal cashbox, a crate with an oil dispenser, a can of gasoline for the motor, and some rags. She took out her thermos of coffee—strong and black—and a slice of homemade almond cake, and placed them on the narrow bench, something to look forward to that afternoon.
She arranged the schedules for the boys’ shifts for the upcoming weeks and pinned them to the back of the door. She couldn’t quite believe that these teenagers were allowed to operate the big wheel. It might look easy, but it actually required a fair amount of skill and some on-the-flymath computation. If two people were to ride on seat 1, she’d have to mentally estimate their combined weight, then she’d have to hold off on operating the Ferris wheel until someone else came along who was approximately the same weight and put them in seat 9, directly opposite seat 1, to balance the ride. Operating the clutch and brake was no easy feat either: It required focus to slow and stop the ride in the correct position and to get the passengers to dismount without dumping them forward or backward, especially if they were overly excitable or overweight.
As the hours dragged on, she hoped it would be a slow and uneventful Tuesday afternoon, but when she saw a small child running full speed toward her screaming, “Famous wheel, famous wheel!” she knew she’d have no such luck.
“Arrête! Arrête!” Adele said, holding her hands out in front of her body, fearing the boy would plow right into her.
“We want to ride on the famous wheel,” he said, with a clump of cotton candy clenched in his little fist.
“It’s not thefamouswheel, it’s theFerriswheel.” A girl a few years older caught up with him and grabbed him by the hand. “And you can’t run off like that; Mother will make us go home.” The boy jumped up and down unable to contain himself.
“I don’t want to go home, I want to go on the famous wheel.”
Adele involuntarily curled the top of her lip in disgust—the sticky hands, the tantrums. She had no patience for those kinds of things.
“We’re closed,” she said.
“What?” The girl looked up at her.
“We are,” Adele said. “I’m sorry.”
“Nooooooooo,” the boy cried, falling in a heap to the ground. “Noooooooo.”
Adele looked around to see if her boss was in the vicinity watching the commotion, then rolled her eyes when she saw a woman running up to join them. It was Milly Kincaid, again. Unbelievable!
“What’s going on?” she asked breathlessly.
“It’s closed,” the boy cried. “The mean old lady said it’s closed.”
“That can’t be,” Milly said, looking at Adele and realizing who she was. She gave her head a little shake in apparent confusion. “First of all,” Milly said to the boy, “That’s very rude. She’s not a mean old lady, she’s our neighbor. Apologize right this minute.”
“No!” He curled his hands into fists and punched the ground, which just made him more miserable.
“Then we’re going home,” Milly said.
“Sorry,” the boy whispered.
“We can’t hear you, Jack,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he shouted this time.
