Mercury Books: Bones in the New Millennium and Other Stories by Mary Chandler: The Throwaways

The Throwaways

How many years has it been? One day melts into another, and I am back in the old warehouse again, with the carousel, with Gus.

I cling to the tousled gold-leaf mane of one of Illions' horses, a frisky jumper on a Coney Island carousel. In the darkness I think I am safe, unseen, but here he is, this giant, towering over me.

Gus bends his vast body down to get a closer look, his bushy eyebrows and large nose resting just inches from my face.

"You lost, Sonny?" he asks in his booming voice.

I scrunch my skinny ten-year-old body tightly against my horse. "Not likely, Mister."

Moments before, I waited for Gus to douse the lights and shut down the carousel. Now he pulls the hand clutch, cranks up the Wurlitzer band organ, and soon the tinkle of Sidewalks of New York breaks the stillness. My jumper begins to fly -- up, down, up, down, faster, faster, faster -- snorting, pawing, muscles taut, straining at his halter, lifting me into the wind. I close my eyes and bury my face in my horse's billowy mane.

The music stops. Sitting across from me on a proud dapple-gray prancer, Gus smiles shyly. Slowly, he reaches out and pats my hand.

"Think you'd like to head back home now?"

"What for?" My mouth quivers. Gus looks somewhere else. "I live at the Home. They don't need me there."

I shove my toes into the stirrup and swing my leg over the saddle and onto the slatted wooden platform. I thrust my hands into my pockets.

"I don't want to go back!"

Gus runs his fingers through his thick, graying hair and looks at me with his kindly brown eyes.

"Well," he drawls, "what if you had a friend who could use some help fixing up his carousel horses this summer? Would you go back then?"

"I just might."

"Then it's settled."

Early the next morning my old red-and-white American Flyer and I race for the boardwalk, past the knock-down milk bottles and the throw-a-dime, win-a-dish games; past the sweet smell of fluffy pink cotton candy and sizzling hotdogs and mustard; past plump bathers soaking up the sun. I round the corner to the carousel, screeching to a stop.

"Hey, Joey! Long time, no see," Gus shouts. "C'mon down to my shop. I've got a couple of beauties for us to work on today."

Thinking he means right now, I grab my handlebars, stomp on the pedal, and push off.

"Hold your horses," Gus chuckles as he mounts the resting carousel, "while I say good morning to my herd."

Stopping beside a spirited chestnut prancer, Gus stoops to slide his fingers back and forth along the horse's muscular flank.

"Good morning, Gertie. You're in fine form today. Must've been the workout you got yesterday."

I stand still -- watching, hopeful. Gus glances in my direction.

"What's that?" Gus continues, cupping his ear and leaning closer to Gertie's wide-open mouth. "Oh, I see. You want to meet my new friend."

I scramble up onto the carousel beside Gus. "Hi, Gertie." I smile and shake her hoof. "I'm Joey."

Gertie nods, then whinnies.

Moving from filly to mare to stallion, Gus continues his conversations.

"Yes, I know, Molly. I miss the old days, too," Gus says, tenderly rubbing her upturned nose. "But don't you worry. There's still a lot of life left in both of us." Gus looks at me, then back at Molly. "We'll take care of you. Won't we, Joey?"

"You bet," I reply, patting Molly's chest.

"What's that you said, Gabe?" Gus asks the ornate jet-black stallion beside Molly. "No, not a chance," Gus reassures him. "No fiberglass cast aluminum horse will ever take your place. I'll see to that."

I half expect Gus to dig down into his vast pockets and offer his horses a sugar cube. Instead, he finishes the introductions, tugs the clutch that starts up the carousel, and steps back up on the platform.

Mounting each horse in turn, I sink my feet into the clanky stirrups and straddle the thick, wide back, flipping the reins from side to side and cluck-clucking my tongue so that the horse will be sure to hear me and go faster.

"Attaboy, Joey," Gus says. "Before you pick a favorite, try 'em all. You and your special horse will find each other."

I settle on a saucy golden mare named Sunrise. In the shimmering jeweled mirrors I see that my reddish-blond hair blends with the bronze and gold flecks of the horse's flowing mane, catching the sunlight and dancing in the wind like a colt in a summer wheat field. I close my eyes, feeling the wind in my face as we circle again and again.

Gus lightly touches my knee, awakening me from my dream world.

"Joey, would you like to try for the brass ring?"

"If I catch it, do I get a free ride tonight?"

"What do you think?"

Gus loads the rings onto the chute. I move to Francesco, the strikingly mottled lead horse in the outside row.

"Get ready, Joey. Here they come!"

I stretch out my right arm as far as I can, but the two spring clips hold the rings tightly, just beyond my reach.

"Try again," bellows Gus.

This time around the coveted brass ring is mine.

Gus grins.

As Gus leads the way to the massive warehouse, I walk my bicycle beside him.

"In the old days," he tells me, "my dad carved horses for Marcus Illions."

"He did?"

"Actually, he was an apprentice carver. He worked on the legs and body. Illions, the master carver, always did the head and mane."

"Wow! Did you get to help him?"

"Sure did. When I was about your age, I sharpened tools or swept up shavings." Gus smiles. "Illions' shop used to be right over there." Gus points to an empty space on the beachfront.

"What happened to him, Gus?"

Gus reaches into his back overall pocket, takes out a large blue-checked handkerchief, and wipes his face.

"Cheap manufacturing. Swallowed up one carver after another."

"Where are their horses?"

"Buried, Joey. Buried under thirty or forty coats of heavy duty enamel."

Gus blows his nose and stuffs his handkerchief back into his pocket. He stops. Putting one arm around my shoulder, he almost whispers. "I've got a plan, Joey. It's a long shot, but maybe I can pull it off."

Inside the warehouse I smell musty old wood and fresh paint. Gus takes me to his makeshift living quarters at the far end.

"You allowed coffee?"

"I'm allowed," I fib.

Gus raises his eyebrows. "You Italian?"

"Do I look Italian?" I laugh.

"No, but you do look like you could stand a little meat on your bones," he says, tearing off two hunks of crusty Italian bread over which he sprinkles Bertolli olive oil, salt, and pepper. Then he removes a wedge of Romano cheese from his small refrigerator, grates that onto the bread, and hands it to me.

"You Italian?" I tease.

Gus grins. "We make a good team," he says, rumpling my hair. "Eat up, and let's get to work."

Scattered throughout the warehouse I see dozens of damaged carousel horses.

"Wow! Are all these horses yours?"

"Yep."

"Where did you get them?"

"I rescued most of 'em. They're throwaways -- neglected, broken throwaways."

Like me, I'm thinking.

"What are you doing to them?"

"Replacing parts and restoring 'em. Sometimes I think it'll take more time than I have left, Joey, but I won't give up. Just wait till you see what's underneath all the coats of paint."

Gus hands me a worn shop apron, a soft cloth, and a small can of paint stripper.

"You can strip this ugly green paint off Alfredo," Gus says, stopping beside a stander. "Watch. I'll show you how."

Gus wraps a corner of the cloth around his finger, turns the can upside-down, and dips the cloth into the stripper. Then he begins to gently rub Alfredo's saddle.

"Go slowly...and call me when the color changes." Gus shakes his head. "Chalk up the botched paint jobs to carnies only interested in making a buck. Slap on some enamel, get the horse rideable. Criminal, that's what it is, criminal," he mutters, his voice trailing off.

Gus puts on his shop glasses, blinks, and adjusts them. Retrieving his knife from his workbench, he begins to chip away the brittle paint on the lead mare next to Alfredo. Chip after chip flies under the pressure of his blade.

"Times was better in the old days," says Gus, periodically wiping his knife on his soiled apron.

I dip my cloth into the paint stripper. It stings my nose. I rub lightly. Again and again I dip, then rub. On Alfredo's saddle brilliant crimsons, bright pinks, and blazing reds begin to emerge.

"Gus, come here!"

Gus pockets his knife, smiles, and joins me.

"Look!"

Excited, we work together until, before long, intricately carved flower garlands blossom. Soon, gold tassels hang from the saddle rings. From the multi-colored blanket beneath the saddle, rainbow-colored inlaid jewels glimmer. My heart leaps, and Gus' eyes flash as brightly as Alfredo's shiny glass ones.

I love being with Gus in the warehouse day after day mending and reconditioning weary, dispirited horses, planning projects, dreaming dreams.

"Some day," I tell Gus, "I want to live in the country, with lots of horses to ride."

"Some day," Gus says, "I want to carve my own horse. First, though, I've got to fix up these and get 'em back on a carousel."

Gus sidles up to Beatrice and listens. "You're right. You do need a home. Even with me and Joey here to keep you company, I know you're afraid. You need the herd. Then you'll feel safe." Gus pats her rump and smooths her tail. "Try to be patient, my beauty. It's taking longer than I thought, but we're working on it."

"Tell you what, Gus. I'll be here every day."

I couldn't make that happy promise come true. Still, we had managed to stay in touch over the years, during 'Nam and afterward. I finally got my home in the country, but a growing family and school teacher wages left no money for a visit, or for horses, either, for that matter.

Horses, Gus... The magic of those summer days hangs warm and ripe in my memory.

After what seems like an eternity, Gus slowly rounds the corner of the foyer at the St. Francis Convalescent Home. I rush toward him, arms outstretched.

"Hey, Joey!" Gus greets me, straining to speak. "Long time, no see."

My arms engulf his slight frame. He is feeble and looks even older than his ninety years. He cups my face in his gnarled hands and lovingly studies it. I wonder if Gus still sees a young boy discovering a new world. I see a dear friend, grown old. The creative fire in his eyes has dimmed.

"Gus, what happened?"

"They've condemned my warehouse, Joey. Progress, you know." Gus struggles to continue. "Everything's got to go by the end of the week. The wreckers come on Monday."

Holding onto Gus' arm, I gently help him down the steps and into the car.

"So you got your place in the country," Gus says, "like you wanted."

"Yes."

"But no horses."

"Well, maybe that's just as well. They take time and special care. With my English classes to teach and my family, I don't know when I'd find time to ride. Maybe some day, though." I touch his hand. "How about you, Gus? Did you get what you wanted?"

Gus looks at me and nods. "I think so."

In a few minutes we are outside the ancient, now boarded-up warehouse. A "condemned" sign hangs conspicuously from the door. Slowly, Gus reaches into his pocket for his key, fits the key into the lock, and opens the door.

I catch my breath. Beneath the cobwebs and settled dust stands a miracle. The throwaways are back on a carousel -- Gus' carousel.

"They're happy now, Joey," he whispers, "since they're with the herd."

Gus stops to get two dust cloths and hands one to me. Cautiously shuffling over to his horses, he begins to bring them to life. I work beside him, amazed at the restored colors and detail carved so long ago by immigrant craftsmen. As we work, Gus pauses to introduce each horse by name. His tired, calloused hands trace the intricate carvings and caress the smooth wood of these majestic creations. He speaks the names of the carvers: Illions, Carmel, Mangels, Looff, Stein, Dentzel.

Finally we stop at the ring horse on the outside row. "This stallion is Pegasus," Gus proudly announces, "carved and signed by Gustavo Giuseppi Ruggeri."

In my mind's eye I can see Gus' hands deftly planing, scraping, shaving, and filing the resilient close-grained basswood. I watch him strike the heavy mallet again and again against the handle of the chisel, until flake after flake gives way to reveal this magnificent horse in motion.

Pegasus stands suspended, frozen in speed, his limbs sinewy, wrists bent, small hooves poised, as though he is already airborne. Gus takes my hand and runs my fingers over the horse's strong, powerful muscles. I notice the extended neck and elegant tilted head, ears turned up, listening.

"He's wild, Gus! See how his nostrils flare, while his mouth remains open, defiant. Look at his eyes!"

Gus nods. "Did you see these patches of crimson on his ears, eyes, nose, and upper and under lips?"

"Now I do." I see, too, an exaggerated, windswept gold mane that matches the flying gold-tipped tail. Pegasus even wears metal horseshoes.

"No wonder Pegasus looks alive, Gus. The master carver hasn't missed a thing. His detailing is perfect."

Gus beams. Then he calls my attention to the colorful garlands decked about the head, halter, and surrounding the saddle. Carved flowers of every hue dazzle the eye.

"I sent away for these," Gus says, pointing to the matching inlaid jewels that gleam from the centers of white stars on the horse's blanket.

Red tassels float and dance at the ends of that blanket. But it is the saddle that fascinates me most of all. Carved on the cantle is the figure of Perseus.

"Gus, where did you learn about Greek mythology?"

"Illions, back in the old days. I loved those stories. He knew 'em all."

Gus closes his eyes. When he finally speaks again, his voice is very soft. I stand close, attentive.

"Thanks for coming, Joey. I wanted you to meet all your horses." He pauses, waiting for me to understand. Then he takes a deep breath. "The city will pay for the move. You've got your house and land in the country. Think you can find a place there for your carousel before Monday?"

"I would be honored," I tell him, taking his hands in mine. "Just think, Gus, in fifty, or maybe even a hundred years from now, someone in my family will be riding old Pegasus here and saying, 'My great, great, grandfather was the carver's dearest friend.' Won't that be something?"

"It will. It will, indeed."

Gus looks into my eyes. "Before you take me back, let me ride the carousel one more time."

Lifting him gently, I help Gus mount his last, and finest, creation. I start up the Wurlitzer, pull the hand clutch, and take my place on Carlotta, the elegant horse next to Pegasus. Love Makes the World Go Round tinkles from the band organ. Magic jeweled lights shimmer and glisten. The horses stand, jump, sprint, trot, gallop -- up, down, up, down.

Very soon, Gus nuzzles his gray head as closely as he can to his horse's windswept mane and wraps his fragile arms around Pegasus' neck. The shiny white stallion flares his nostrils and emits a long, joyful whinny. His speed increases -- faster, faster, faster -- until the horse and his rider are one.

Gus won't need to catch the brass ring for a free ride. His fiery steed is taking him home.

~Mary Chandler

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