We missed him as we were turning away from the display of patchwork quilts. We probably stretched his patience beyond its limits, for there was little there to interest an eight-year-old boy. But Grandma had wanted to see if her old neighbor on the farm had won a prize, and it took quite a bit of searching to locate the familiar ocean wave pattern with its multi-colored triangular patches marching across a muslin background. We stood there a bit, gazing around the Fine Arts Building, expecting to see him come running back to join us. A tow-headed boy, sticky-faced from a wad of cotton candy, dashed by, but it was not Peter.
When he didn’t appear, we wandered out of the building and over toward the food stands. John calculated that Peter probably had a little money left of what he had been given to spend at the fair, so it seemed logical to look for him near the hot dog stand as he was usually hungry. But only adults leaned on the mustard-stained counter. Charles, our eleven-year-old, thought that Peter might have gone back to the pony rides. This, too, seemed plausible, for both Peter and Judy had clung to the reins and begged for another ride when they had been on the ponies earlier. I expected Judy, aged five, to coax for another pony ride, but she stood silently by as the paunchy ticket seller only shook his head when asked if he had sold a ticket to a small boy in bright red shorts and a red and white striped tee shirt.
We scanned the merry-go-round with no result except the dizziness that came from following the jerky movements of the horses as they pitched their squealing riders forward and upward. We stretched and peered over shoulders where spectators watched a man win a giant stuffed black and white panda by tossing nickels into a small, flat plate.
Grandma’s face began to look gray and drawn. We settled her on a bench, silenced Judy with an ice cream cone, and left the two of them there to wait while Charles, John, and I speeded up our search.
John remembered Peter’s elation over the lights on the sprays in the dancing waters display. Was it possible that he would spend some of his money for a repeat performance of that? The surly barker ignored John’s inquiries so he decided to buy a ticket and go inside for a look. Charles reminded us that he could get in for half price and he should be the one to go in. I waited for him to come out while John retraced our steps along the midway. Maybe Peter was soaring in the loop-o-plane or lurching up the inside of the ferris wheel and taking the stomach-churning ride over the top and then the downward plunge toward the little ticket house.
We met on the midway with nothing to report but failure. John thought the three of us should go separate ways in our search. I wanted to call the police, for it was easy to visualize Peter in the clutches of a swarthy stranger or trampled by the crowd at the race track. We agreed to meet again in l5 minutes and make a decision about notifying the authorities. Charles, fast and silent in his sneakers, quickly covered the 4H building and the horse barn. I went to check on Judy and Grandma. Judy was sure she could find Peter if I would just take her with me. After giving Grandma a reassuring pat, I took Judy’s hand and we loped off toward the pig shed. The tightness in my throat and the stench in the building made a quick search there imperative. We hurried through rows of farm implements, dashed past a display of golden corn arranged in the shape of the state capitol with its sky-scraping peak and the statue of the sower atop it, and elbowed through a crowd watching an expert shape a rose out of cake frosting.
On and on we raced, past hook-necked squash, gleaming red and gold apples, great clusters of zinnias and chrysanthemums, and blue-ribboned pickles looking fat and succulent in their jars, stopping only for a quick drink at the fountain near the Cub Scout booth. Just before we spotted Peter, petting a lamb in the sheep pavilion, Judy tugged at my skirt and said hopefully, “Mommy. if we don’t find him can I have his room for a den?”