Free Nightingale by Susan May Warren Page A

half-court line after making a basket. I mentioned to you my wretched dancing, and unfortunately, she can attest to the truth of it. I asked her to the junior prom then proceeded to park us both at a corner table, drown her in punch, and bring her home early, mortified. We moved away before I had an opportunity to redeem myself.
    But what about you? Have you ever had a great love? Or perhaps just a sweet folly of youth? I know you dream of being a superintendent—why that, and not a home or family, may I ask? I can imagine it must be in your nature to attend to the needs of others, becauseyour letters are a drink of fresh water on a parched day. Thank you for your kindness in writing.
    Fondly,
    Peter

    The patter of the rain woke her. Yet, in the earthy, almost moldy smell of the straw bed, Esther recognized the dream—or perhaps the memory, something from her childhood. No, not awake, even as she opened her eyes, the prickly straw upon her hands, the odor of ammonia and animal waste telling her she’d dreamed herself into the swine barn, again.
    More accurately—yes, she recognized it now—their assigned stall at the Iowa State Fair. Indeed, scattered hay, woodchips, and straw littered the dirt floor, pockets of pungent moisture where hoofs had punctured the mud then collected the debris. A cool mist hung in the air, and she stumbled out of the stall to see water running off the door-post, down the pipe to piddle into a rain barrel.
    Then it came to her—the silence. No cows lowing, no dogs barking, no children crying from the pressing, grainy heat of the past five days. She turned back to the stall. Empty, except for the straw mattress where she’d awoken, only her crumbled cotton blanket evidence that anyone, let alone she and Hedy and their parents—had spent a week showing—and selling—their prize hogs at the fair.
    â€œHello?” The immensity of the swine pavilion sucked her feeble voice. She pulled her canvas jacket around her, shuffled down the rows of empty, smelly stalls. “Hedy?”
    When had they left? She stood at the open doors of the pavilion, staring out onto the littered fairground. Ice-cream cups and wooden spoons, corn dog sticks, and the paper tubes for cotton candy, and popcorn—so much popcorn, it embedded the dirt like the pox. She watched a dog, its accordion bones protruding through its skin, dig at a kernel then abandon it for a morsel of hotdog bun marinating in a puddle.
    The sky stopped weeping and Esther pulled up her jacket, ventured out of the barn. “Mama?”
    Behind the concession stands she spied a row of Ferris wheels, giant tractor wheels churning the gray sky, their tinny music twining through the murky air. Beyond that she knew were the campgrounds—she remembered lying in the back of the flatbed Ford, watching the twinkling lights, wondering if Hedy might be riding on one of the metal buggies with a handsome carny. She’d promised to shake Esther awake when she climbed in next to her, to whisper the stories of her night on the midway.
    Someday, Esther might be just as beautiful as Hedy, with her hair—not as golden blond as Hedy’s, no, but a color Hedy said reminded her of wheat in September, pinned into waves, and boys turning to admire her as she walked by, giggling with Marge Parker.
    Maybe, someday too, Mama would let
her
ride the Ferris wheel.
    Esther took off in a run, past the ice-cream stands, the abandoned mini-donut machines, the sale pavilion where daddy had sold Nancy, their prize hog. She cut through the park, where she’d watched a vaudeville show and real live Indians wearing shaggy headdresses. Hunger pressed into her spine and she slowed, her breath sour in her lungs. How she longed for some of her mother’s honey—on display in the horticulture building, or maybe some of the applesauce that had won ablue ribbon. But Mama would be waiting at camp with some cheese and maybe honey