A Tale of Two Carnies

1 - Jason's Misfortune

Seven years ago, at the age of fourteen, I buried a barbecue fork into the eye of my mother's abusive boyfriend.

Since then, I've lived not only with the guilt of taking another human being's life, but also with the guilt over my mother taking the blame for my crime. Years later, my best friend, Cozbi, faced the same situation. She was blamed for a murder I felt positive she had nothing to do with. After what happened to my mom, I couldn't allow another injustice to happen again. I gave up everything and dedicated myself to defending her.

I was born and grew up in St. Michaels, Maryland, a small tourist town located on the Chesapeake Bay. I enjoyed a relatively happy childhood. My fondest memories were of days spent along the waterfront, Mom helping me to fly my kite, Dad playing catch and teaching me how to cook steaks on the grill.

I loved the grill and became quite an accomplished young chef.

If things could've stayed that way, I often wondered how different a man I would be today. Would I have been able to more easily see the darkness burning within Cozbi?

My father died suddenly from a pulmonary embolism when I was ten. Mom struggled as any widow with a child would, having lost her means of support. The emotional trauma crippled us both, and I cultivated an unhealthy fear that I might also lose my mother.

I remember waking up three and four times a night to sneak into Mom's bedroom to make sure she was still there. I'd be afraid to go to school in the mornings. What if I came home to find her dead on the floor, like we had found Dad?

In time, Mom was forced to stop grieving because the bills were piling up. St. Michaels was an expensive town to live in, but it had a thriving hospitality industry being in a tourist area. She had no trouble finding work waiting tables, but the pay was lousy. Eventually, she had to take a second job working nightclubs and wouldn't get home until two or three in the morning.

Mom made me promise to go to bed no later than ten during the nights she worked, and she lectured me about keeping up with my homework and getting good grades so I would do better than her as an adult. She didn't want me following her example of having to take low paying jobs.

I took it to heart about doing well in school, but no way could I go to bed at ten. Separation anxiety kept me wide awake. I passed the time by tinkering with things around the house and figuring out how they functioned.

It started with an old toaster that quit working. One evening I took it apart and found a broken wire, an easy fix. I disassembled and reassembled all kinds of things, Mom's alarm clock, an old record player, an electric can opener. One day, I took the back off the washing machine and studied how the hoses attached to a solenoid controlled by the timer. Mechanical things made sense to me, and I suppose I took comfort in their logic. In my chaotic world, machines represented order and stability.

My aptitude for fixing things stuck with me. I was really good at it. Still am.

On my fourteenth birthday Mom baked me a cake. While we enjoyed eating it, she looked at me and chewed her lower lip, a tell that she was worried. "What's wrong, Mom?"

She cleared her throat. "Jace, your father has been gone now for four years. I don't want you to think I don't miss him anymore. I'll always miss him. I'll always love him."

I understood her sentiment. I felt the same way.

She went on. "I've noticed you're starting to become interested in girls, the way you look at them, and the way you talk about them."

My face flushed with embarrassment. Ah, jeez, she was going to give me "the talk" about safe sex.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said. "It's natural, and someday you're going to fall in love. It's a need built into all of us."