The Funhouse

twenty-five years ago.
        If Conrad intended to kill Ellen's children when (and if) he found them, Zena wanted no part of that. She didn't want to be an accomplice to murder.
        Yet she continued to assist him in his search. She helped him only because she didn't believe he would ever find what he was looking for. Helping him seemed harmless, she was merely humoring him. That was all. Nothing more than humoring him. His quest was hopeless. He would never find Ellen's kids, even if they did exist.
        Conrad looked away from her, turned his gaze on the raven.
        The bird fixed him with one of its oily black eyes, and as their gazes locked, the raven froze.
        Outside, on the midway, there was calliope music. The hundred thousand sounds of the closing-night crowd blended into a rhythmic susurration like the breathing of an enormous beast.
        In the distance the giant, mechanical funhouse clown laughed and laughed.

----

    3
        
        When Amy stepped into the house at a quarter till twelve, she heard muffled voices in the kitchen. She thought her father was still awake, though he usually went to bed early Saturday night in order to get up in time for the first Mass on Sunday, thus freeing the rest of the day for his hobby-building miniature sets for model train layouts. When Amy got to the kitchen, she found only her mother. The voices were on the radio, it was tuned to a telephone talk show on a Chicago station, and the volume was turned low.
        The room smelled vaguely of garlic, onions, and tomato paste.
        There wasn't much light. A bulb burned above the sink, and the hood light was on over the stove. The radio dial cast a soft green glow.
        Ellen Harper was sitting at the kitchen table. Actually, she was slumped over it, arms folded on the tabletop, head resting on her arms, her face turned away from the doorway where Amy stopped. A tall glass, half-full of yellow liquid, was within Ellen's reach. Amy didn't have to sample the drink to know what it was, her mother always drank the same thing-vodka and orange juice-and too much of it.
        She's asleep, Amy thought, relieved.
        She turned away from her mother, intending to sneak out of the room and upstairs to bed, but Ellen said, “You.”
        Amy sighed and looked back at her.
        Ellen's eyes were blurry, bloodshot, the lids drooped. She blinked in surprise. “What're you doing home?” she asked groggily. “You're more than an hour early.”
        “Jerry got sick,” Amy lied. “He had to go home.”
        “But you're more than an hour early,” her mother said again, looking up at her in puzzlement, still blinking stupidly, struggling to penetrate the alcohol haze that softened the outlines of her thoughts.
        “Jerry got sick, Mama. Something he ate at the prom.”
        “It was a dance , wasn't it?”
        “Sure. But they had food. Hors d'oeuvres, cookies, cakes, punch, all kinds of stuff. Something he ate didn't agree with him.”
        “Who?”
        “Jerry,” Amy said patiently.
        Her mother frowned. “You're sure that's all that happened?”
        “What do you mean?”
        “Seems… funny to me,” Ellen said thickly, reaching for her unfinished drink. “Suspicious.”
        “What could possibly be suspicious about Jerry getting sick?” Amy asked.
        Ellen sipped the vodka and orange juice. She studied Amy over the rim of the glass, and her stare was sharper than it had been a minute ago.
        Exasperated, Amy spoke before her mother had a chance to make any accusations. “Mama, I didn't come home late. I came home early . I don't think I deserve to be subjected to the usual third degree.”
        “Don't you get smart with me,” her mother said.
        Amy looked down at the floor, shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
        “Don't you remember what Our Lord said?” Ellen asked. a Honor thy father and thy mother.” That's what He said. After all these years of church services and Bible readings, hasn't anything sunk into your head?”
        Amy didn't respond. From experience she knew that respectful silence was the best way to deal with her mother at times like this.
        Ellen finished her drink and got up. Her chair barked against the tile floor as she scooted it backwards. She came around the table, weaving slightly, and stopped in front of Amy. Her breath was sour. “I've tried hard, so very hard,