The lights outlining the Ferris wheel burn white in the twilight, twilight that paints the carnival scarlet against the lengthening shadows. I've been dreaming about the last time I was here with my father.
         We'd taken a holiday with Mom, fishing every day off a rented pontoon boat in the middle of the lake, eating baloney and pickle sandwiches, drinking Cokes from red cans that darkened in brightness. In the evenings, my father would drive me to the carnival where we would park our Buick at the end of a long line of Chevys and Fords and walk across the August grass to the rides.
         That last night, I insisted on riding the Ferris wheel even though I knew he was afraid of heights. High above the cooling earth, I waited for that time when our cradle would be at its highest point, looking over the rippling lake and the white clapboard cabins arranged around the shore. My father's hands had tightened on the crossbar turning his knuckles white. His gaze never met mine as we rode home to the vodka over ice he demanded on our arrival.
         I didn't tell him why I wanted to ride the Ferris wheel and he didn't ask. I was thirteen that year, in the third year of what he called my education.
         Rolling down the car window, I breathe in the sultry air that pours into the car. I've never told anyone except Mom about what my father did to me. Instead, I've always changed the subject when I've been thinking about him, sometimes talking about how the climate is warming, how strange it would be to have Palm trees in Chicago. My father did the same on the Ferris wheel when we were high above the maples and poplars; he talked about the night sky, the globular star cluster in Hercules and Orion's belt. That restraint I always felt when I was with him had eased that night, expanding like the nebulas, releasing me to float away.
         A silhouette of a man appears against the sunset. When he stoops, one of the sideshow hawkers appears framed by the window. Why had I imagined it might be my father's face? He died of a heart attack almost a year ago.
         "Something wrong, lady?"
         "Nothing. It's nothing." I floor the gas pedal, spewing a wave of dry grass in my wake.
         The gravel road from the fairgrounds turns smooth before I come to the end, easing into the "u" I make onto the road that embraces the lake. In the rear view mirror, the pink sweater that Tom gave me for my birthday is hanging on the hook above the door, and I can still see the bright arc of the Ferris wheel above the shadows of the trees.
         Dumpy cottages with multi-paned windows and bungalows with decks blink by, tiki torches lighting the decks where the now-popular martini parties are in full swing. I wish I was with them, walking around the tanned women in strapless dresses, men in their crisp shirts.
         When I left Chicago a week ago, I told Tom my husband that I needed some time alone. Driving across Illinois into Iowa, I thought about turning back, wondering if he was seeing someone else. I even pulled off the highway once, intending to circle back around to the north-bound ramp, until I thought about how pointless it would be to ask him, to try and start again.
         He asked me if I was happy before I left. We'd been at a faculty party when he'd started discussing some new computer technology that I didn't understand. I'd drifted away, circulating among the crowd, stopping to chat when people's eyes met mine. I might have talked too long to the new professor or Tom might still be wondering why I don't want to use the money that my father left me. I never answered him when he asked me why I didn't want to pay off the mortgage, didn't want to have a baby.
         A Camry pulls out in front of me, and I slow in the growing darkness. The profiles in the car turn to and fro as if they're holding some animated conversation. Their movements are smooth; sometimes, one head dips gently toward the other as if in confidence. The conversation won't be about love or children's morals. Tomatoes. People here always seem to be talking about the huge sweet tomatoes that you can buy at the Iowa roadside stands.

* * *

         The night is impenetrable, except for the broken light reflecting off the lake; invisible wildlife sings beyond the porch screens as it did the last night I saw my father alive. Instead of keeping silent that night, my anger had poured out. I hadn't listened to Mom's apologies.
         Five years ago when I took her home from the hospital to die, she wanted to talk about my father, how he hadn't meant to hurt me, and I felt that old anger again. I couldn't stop thinking about the expression on her face when I'd first told her how he'd touched me.
         The book I'm reading is hers, one that I pulled from a box I didn't open until two weeks ago. When I touch the yellowed paper, I feel her warm hand holding mine the first day I went to school, feel her cool hand just before she died. The sleuth has just been threatened and the second murder committed when I drink the last of my chardonnay and go back inside.

* * *

         The morning is fresh after last night's rain. The fishermen have returned and the children are anxious to go into the water, throwing stones at the waves, when I decide to walk west to town.
         Small shops with shingled roofs stretch out over the sidewalk, line the street. Rafts shaped like sharks and dolphins, candy-colored blow-up balls, and those long foam sticks in apple green and hot pink fill the windows. The toys are dazzling compared to the red lifesaver my mother bought me the first year we came to Clear Lake.
         Couples stroll around me, licking twirled ice cream cones, while their children dart in and out of the stores. Across the street, a small totem pole stands outside a shop, the same shop that my father loved so much.
         Inside, rubber knives and tomahawks fill plastic bins and feathers sprout from headbands and headdresses hanging from the walls. Farther back, the beaded leather goods that I collected when I was small hang in rows on long silver arms. A herringbone pattern that reminds me of a belt my father bought on one of our vacations catches my eye. He wore it until the beads started to come off long ago, long before my parents divorced, long before I buried him next to Mom outside of Ames. I finger the smooth beads, shining drops of turquoise and red.
         A whining woman and her son are going through the other belts.
         "What about this one?" The woman holds up a belt with "Clear Lake" lettered in crimson.
         "Mom, I told you. I'm not going to wear it. It's too dumb."
         "What about the one she's holding?" his mother asks as she smiles at me. "Do you know what that pattern means?"
         "I always thought they were arrowheads when my father had one." I offer the belt to the boy.
         "See, Mom? Old people wear these." He shuffles past, his body swinging side to side.
         After selecting a change purse with red ideograms that look like flowers, I go to the counter and discover that the belt is still hanging over my arm.
         My father didn't seem that old when we went to his funeral. I'd focused as long as I could on a brass handle of the casket before my eyes drifted up to his body. Hard planes marked his face even in death. When tears came to my eyes, Tom seemed to think I missed him, regretted staying away for so long.
         The smell of grilled beef draws me out of the shop. Two doors down, there's a sidewalk café with white metal tables topped by red and white umbrellas. Most of the seats are filled; none of the people look familiar. When I choose an empty table off to the side, I hear someone asking if the tomatoes are Big Boys or another variety. Ha! That makes thirteen times I've heard a tomato comment.
         At a table in the far corner, girls in black t-shirts with Dracula written across the front are clustered around an older man. They must be part of the company from the play I saw last weekend with the Peterson's, the family in the rented cabin next to mine.
         When I bite into my burger, it's so juicy that a thin stream runs down my chin. I don't think I've ever tasted anything so good.
         "Do I know you?"
         I chew my hamburger slowly and swallow. The man from the Dracula group is standing by my table. I wipe my chin with a small napkin before I answer, "I don't think so."
         "I noticed you were looking at us. Thought I might know you from the university."
         "I'm not from Iowa." I want to take another bite, taste the tomato.
         "No?"
         "I thought that the girls might have been in the play last weekend." The smell of my burger curls up, wrapping itself around me, burning wood and sweet onion. I remember Tom standing by the grill, flipping burgers with a long-handled spatula, his teaching assistant's long red hair brushing his bare arm when she whispered in his ear.
         The man laughs. "Go ahead, take another bite," he says and pulls out a chair. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
         The burger has cooled when I bite into it again.
         "Dracula. It's been a big hit with the kids. Are you here alone?" His brown eyes seem friendly enough, not asking too much.
         I don't answer; my mouth is still full.
         "I noticed your rings." His eyes twinkle, flashes of life crossing the warm darkness.
         I just nod and chew.
         "Well, it was nice to meet you," he says as he rises from his chair.
         As I finish my burger, the man returns. "Did you know this is where Buddy Holly died? I can show you where his plane crashed outside of town," he says. "It wouldn't take long; it's just a couple of miles away."
         "Sure, why not," I reply, thinking of the red-haired girl.

* * *

         Heaps of swollen white clouds have filled the blue landscape, changing the sky into a mountain range that blocks the August sun. I wonder if it's cooler now outside the air-conditioned jeep, or if the clouds will make the day even hotter.
         Will, that's his name, drones on about his classes at the university wondering how they might be different from the undergraduate classes I teach in art history.
         When we pull over, I see the path by the fence that holds back a crowd of corn, dark green tongues lapping over tall rods. Humid air surrounds the stalks of corn, hot like Daddy's body; I think I hear Daddy's voice calling my name from the rustling leaves.
         Up ahead, the stainless steel guitar of the shrine shines darkly against a low wall of plants. Beside the cut-out guitar held up by pipes, "Peggy Sue," "Donna," and "Chantilly Lace" are etched onto three discs.
         "It's not much, I know." Will leans forward to look at the plastic-covered pictures of the dead musicians.
         "These weren't here when I came before." Daddy, he's standing by the barbwire fence decorated with bouquets of flowers. "There were four trees, one for each person who died and there were flowers." The dying or dead flowers in the hot sun surround Daddy, gladiolas on long stems are stuck into mayonnaise jars, plastic bouquets of white carnations and dusty red roses are tied to the barb wire.
         "Some people say they feel something weird here. I've never felt anything." Will takes a baseball cap from his back pocket and eases it over his curls. "Why didn't you tell me you've been here before?"
         Dark planes seem to mark Will's face. I ask him if we can go.
         When Will asks where I'm staying, I tell him and he says that he'll pick me up at ten after the play. My body nods as I let go of that last thread - a hope that I can be like everyone else. He waves as he drives away without saying goodbye, says he'll see me later.
         My cabin, shaded now from the afternoon sun by the tall oak trees, looks out of place in this new world I've chosen. The kids outside are yelling and splashing in the water, not knowing who I am.
         I settle back into the naked wicker chair on the porch with a glass of wine, picking up Mom's book again. The wine bottle is almost empty when I read the last page. The light fades as children play cards on the other porches and the woods wait for the darkness. When a soft mist turns to a heavy rain, I go inside to lie on the unmade bed.
         I sit upright, remembering Mom - how I blamed her - how I watched in silence as she wasted away. I see her face, sunken eyes that are still bright blue. Tears run down into the half moons under eyes. They spill down her swollen cheeks when she tells me she loves me. In the dim light, I try to slow my pulse, listening to the rain dripping off the eaves. The dog at the cabin next door is yapping at something in the woods. Mrs. Peterson shushes him and speaks softly.
         What is Tom doing in Chicago? Will his arm be slung across the back of the sofa, imagining that I'm there? I haven't called him as I promised.
         "You were supposed to call at six." His voice sounds fuzzy on my cell phone.
         "Is it too late?"
         "I waited over two hours for your call." His voice is still blurred. He's become sleep deprived, waking each night when I jerk awake beside him from my dreams. I hear someone in the background and the noise is muffled as I imagine him covering the phone with his hand.
         "I'm sorry," I tell him. That's what I always say.
         "Is that all?"
         The words won't come.
         The line crackles and goes dead.
         The bare hangers rattle in the closet when I pull my clothes free. Amber light from the lamp sends small echoes of fire up the cedar paneling as I pack. The twilight outside wraps itself around the cabin like one of Mom's cottage quilts.
         After I clean out the refrigerator, I dress in my blue linen outfit, the one Tom likes best. I don't leave when I'm ready to go. I sit at the white table suddenly tired. The numbers on the kitchen clock only read nine o'clock. The second hand ticks off the seconds, another round makes the minute hand edge forward; thirty turns of the second hand will only move the minute hand to six. I turn off the lights.
         The Ferris wheel is dark when I arrive at the fairgrounds. The fair is closed on Mondays. I wonder if carnival people are sitting around their TVs, sipping beers, commenting on the rubes that buy yellow tickets for the rides. Looking out across the empty parking lot, the only hint that they're around is the light coming from the RVs parked near the rides. I cradle the pink sweater before I stuff it in the tailpipe.
         I'm so tired, I can barely turn the key. The sun is setting behind the Ferris wheel, orange turning to scarlet. The car hums a strange song under its breath and I feel my father's hand on my knee. He whispers in my ear. I close my eyes and will him away. Tom is sitting next to me now, raising his eyebrows, putting his hand on my shoulder; singing "Michelle" along with a Beatles' CD; kissing me on our first date as we waited for a red light to turn green in the busy streets of Chicago.