Shoplaws, I wrote Wendy four long ones, even though I was run off my feet at Joyland and came dragassing into my secondfloor room each night with my head full of new information and new experiences, feeling like a kid dropped into a challenging college course (call it The Advanced Physics of Fun) halfway through the semester. What I got in return was a single postcard with Boston Common on the front and a very peculiar collaborative message on the back. At the top, written in a hand I didnt recognize, was this Wenny writes the card while Rennie drives the bus! Below in a hand I did recognize, Wendyor Wenny, if you like; I hated it, myselfhad written breezily Whee! We is salesgirls off on a venture to Cape Cod! Its a party! Hoopsie muzik! Dont worry I held the wheel while Ren wrote her part. Hope your good. W. Hoopsie muzik? Hope your good? No love, no do you miss me, just hope your good? And although, judging by the bumps and jags and inkblots, the card had been written while on the move in Renees car (Wendy didnt have one), they both sounded either stoned or drunk on their asses. The following week I sent four more letters, plus an Erinphoto of me wearing the fur. From Wendy, nothing in reply. You start to worry, then you start to get it, then you know. Maybe you dont want to, maybe you think that lovers as well as doctors misdiagnose shit all the time, but in your heart you know. Twice I tried calling her. The same grumpy girl answered both times. I imagined her wearing harlequin glasses, an anklelength granny dress, and no lipstick. Not there, she said the first time. Out with Ren. Not there and not likely to be there in the future, Grumpy Girl said the second time. Moved. Moved where? I asked, alarmed. This was in the parlor of Maison Shoplaw, where there was a longdistance honor sheet beside the phone. My fingers were holding the big oldfashioned receiver so tightly they had gone numb. Wendy was going to college on a patchwork magic carpet of scholarships, loans, and workstudy employment, the same as me. She couldnt afford a place on her own. Not without help, she couldnt. I dont know and dont care, Grumpy Girl said. I got tired of all the drinking and henparties at two in the morning. Some of us actually like to get a little sleep. Strange but true. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it pulsing in my temples. Did Renee go with her? No, they had a fight. Over that guy. The one who helped Wennie move out. She said Wennie with a kind of bright contempt that made me sick to my stomach. Surely it wasnt the guy part that made me feel that way; I was her guy. If some friend, someone shed met at work, had pitched in and helped her move her stuff, what was that to me? Of course she could have guy friends. I had made at least one girl friend, hadnt I? Is Renee there? Can I talk to her? No, she had a date. Some penny must have finally dropped, because all at once Grumpy Girl got interested in the conversation. Heyyy, is your name Devin? I hung up. It wasnt something I planned, just something I did. I told myself I hadnt heard Grumpy Girl all of a sudden change into Amused Grumpy Girl, as if there was some sort of joke going on and I was part of it. Maybe even the butt of it. As I believe I have said, the mind defends itself as long as it can. Three days later, I got the only letter I received from Wendy Keegan that summer. The last letter. It was written on her stationery, which was deckleedged and featured happy kittens playing with balls of yarn. It was the stationery of a fifthgrade girl, although that thought didnt occur to me until much later. There were three breathless pages, mostly saying how sorry she was, and how she had fought against the attraction but it was just hopeless, and she knew I would be hurt so I probably shouldnt call her or try to see her for a while, and she hoped we could be good friends after the initial shock wore off, and he was a nice guy, he went to Dartmouth, he played lacrosse, she knew Id like him, maybe she could introduce him to me when the fall semester started, etc. etc. fucking etc. That night I plopped myself down on the sand fifty yards or so from Mrs. Shoplaws Beachside Accommodations, planning to get drunk. At least, I thought, it wouldnt be expensive. In those days, a sixpack was all it took to get me pieeyed. At some point Tom and Erin joined me, and we watched the waves roll in together the three Joyland Musketeers. Whats wrong? Erin asked. I shrugged, the way you do when its small shit but annoying shit, all the same. Girlfriend broke up with me. Sent me a Dear John letter. Which in your case, Tom said, would be a Dear Dev letter. Show a little compassion, Erin told him. Hes sad and hurt and trying not to show it. Are you too much of a dumbass to see that? No, Tom said. He put his arm around my shoulders and briefly hugged me against him. Im sorry for your pain, pal. I feel it coming off you like a cold wind from Canada or maybe even the Arctic. Can I have one of your beers? Sure. We sat there for quite a while, and under Erins gentle questioning, I spilled some of it, but not all of it. I was sad. I was hurt. But there was a lot more, and I didnt want them to see it. This was partly because Id been raised by my parents to believe barfing your feelings on other people was the height of impoliteness, but mostly because I was dismayed by the depth and strength of my jealousy. I didnt want them to even guess at that lively worm (he was from Dartmouth, oh God yes, hed probably pledged the best frat and drove a Mustang his folks had given him as a high school graduation present). Nor was jealousy the worst of it. The worst was the horrifying realizationthat night it was just starting to sink inthat I had been really and truly rejected for the first time in my life. She was through with me, but I couldnt imagine being through with her. Erin also took a beer, and raised the can. Lets toast the next one to come along. I dont know who shell be, Dev, only that meeting you will be her lucky day. Hearhear! Tom said, raising his own can. And, because he was Tom, he felt compelled to add Wherewhere! and Therethere! I dont think either of them realized, then or all the rest of the summer, how fundamentally the ground under my feet had shifted. How lost I felt. I didnt want them to know. It was more than embarrassing; it seemed shameful. So I made myself smile, raised my own can of suds, and drank. At least with them to help me drink the six, I didnt have to wake up the next morning hungover as well as heartbroke. That was good, because when we got to Joyland that morning, I found out from Pop Allen that I was down to wear the fur that afternoon on Joyland Avenuethree fifteenminute shifts at three, four, and five. I bitched for forms sake (everybody was supposed to bitch about wearing the fur) but I was glad. I liked being mobbed by the kids, and for the next few weeks, playing Howie also had a bitter sort of amusement value. As I made my tailwagging way down Joyland Avenue, followed by crowds of laughing children, I thought it was no wonder Wendy had dumped me. Her new boyfriend went to Dartmouth and played lacrosse. Her old one was spending the summer in a thirdtier amusement park. Where he played a dog. Joyland summer. I ridejockeyed. I flashed the shys in the morningsmeaning I restocked them with prizesand ran some of them in the afternoons. I untangled Devil Wagons by the dozen, learned how to fry dough without burning my fingers off, and worked on my pitch for the Carolina Spin. I danced and sang with the other greenies on the WiggleWaggle Villages Story Stage. Several times Fred Dean sent me to scratch the midway, a true sign of trust because it meant picking up the noon or five PM take from the various concessions. I made runs to Heavens Bay or Wilmington when some piece of machinery broke down and stayed late on Wednesday nightsusually along with Tom, George Preston, and Ronnie Houstonto lube the Whirly Cups and a vicious, necksnapping ride called the Zipper. Both of those babies drank oil the way camels drink water when they get to the next oasis. And, of course, I wore the fur. In spite of all this, I wasnt sleeping for shit. Sometimes Id lie on my bed, clap my elderly, tapedup headphones over my ears, and listen to my Doors records. (I was particularly partial to such cheerful tunes as Cars Hiss By My Window, Riders on the Storm, andof courseThe End.) When Jim Morrisons voice and Ray Manzareks mystic, chiming organ werent enough to sedate me, Id creep down the outside staircase and walk on the beach. Once or twice I slept on the beach. At least there were no bad dreams when I did manage to get under for a little while. I dont remember dreaming that summer at all. I could see bags under my eyes when I shaved in the morning, and sometimes Id feel lightheaded after a particularly strenuous turn as Howie (birthday parties in the overheated bedlam of Howdy House were the worst), but that was normal; Mr. Easterbrook had told me so. A little rest in the boneyard always put me right again. On the whole, I thought I was representing, as they say nowadays. I learned different on the first Monday in July, two days before the Glorious Fourth. My teamBeaglereported to Pop Allens shy first thing, as always, and he gave us our assignments as he laid out the popguns. Usually our early chores involved toting boxes of prizes (MADE IN TAIWAN stamped on most of them) and flashing shys until Early Gate, which was what we called opening. That morning, however, Pop told me that Lane Hardy wanted me. This was a surprise; Lane rarely showed his face outside the boneyard until twenty minutes or so before Early Gate. I started that way, but Pop yelled at me. Nah, nah, hes at the simphoister. This was a derogatory term for the Ferris wheel he would have known better than to use if Lane had actually been there. Beat feet, Jonesy. Got a lot to do today. I beat feet, but saw no one at the Spin, which stood tall, still, and silent, waiting for the days first customers, Over here, a woman called. I turned to my left and saw Rozzie Gold standing outside her starstudded fortunetelling shy, all kitted out in one of her gauzy Madame Fortuna rigs. On her head was an electric blue scarf, the knotted tail of which fell almost to the small of her back. Lane was standing beside her in his usual rig faded straightleg jeans and a skintight strappy teeshirt perfect for showing off his fully loaded guns. His derby was tilted at the proper wiseguy angle. Looking at him, youd believe he didnt have a brain in his head, but he had plenty. Both dressed for show, and both wearing badnews faces. I ran quickly through the last few days, trying to think of anything Id done that might account for those faces. It crossed my mind that Lane might have orders to lay me off . . . or even fire me. But at the height of the summer? And wouldnt that be Fred Deans or Brenda Raffertys job? Also, why was Rozzie here? Who died, guys? I asked. Just as long as it isnt you, Rozzie said. She was getting into character for the day and sounded funny half Brooklyn and half Carpathian Mountains. Huh? Walk with us, Jonesy, Lane said, and immediately started down the midway, which was largely deserted ninety minutes before Early Gate no one around but a few members of the janitorial staffgazoonies, in the Talk, and probably not a green card among themsweeping up around the concessions work that should have been done the night before. Rozzie made room for me between them when I caught up. I felt like a crook being escorted to the pokey by a couple of cops. Whats this about? Youll see, RozzieFortuna said ominously and pretty soon I did. Next to Horror Housethe two connected, actuallywas Mysterios Mirror Mansion. Next to the agents booth was a regular mirror with a sign over it reading SO YOU WONT FORGET HOW YOU REALLY LOOK. Lane took me by one arm, Rozzie by the other. Now I really did feel like a perp being brought in for booking. They placed me in front of the mirror. What do you see? Lane asked. Me, I said, and then, because that didnt seem to be the answer they wanted Me needing a haircut. Look at your clothes, silly boy, Rozzie said, pronouncing the last two words seely poy. I looked. Above my yellow workboots I saw jeans (with the recommended brand of rawhide gloves sticking out of the back pocket), and above my jeans was a blue chain bray workshirt, faded but reasonably clean. On my head was an admirably battered Howie dogtop, the finishing touch that means so much. What about them? I said. I was starting to get a little mad. Kinda hangin on ya, arent they? Lane said. Didnt used to. How much weight you lost? Jesus, I dont know. Maybe we ought to go see Fat Wally. Fat Wally ran the guessyourweight joint. Is not funny, Fortuna said. You cant wear that damn dog costume half the day under the hot summer sun, then swallow two more salt pills and call it a meal. Mourn your lost love all you want, but eat while you do it. Eat, dammit! Whos been talking to you? Tom? No, it wouldnt have been him. Erin. She had no business No one has been talking to me, Rozzie said. She drew herself up impressively. I have the sight. I dont know about the sight, but youve got one hell of a nerve. All at once she reverted to Rozzie. Im not talking about psychic sight, kiddo, Im talking about ordinary womansight. You think I dont know a lovestruck Romeo when I see one? After all the years Ive been gigging palms and peeping the crystal? Hah! She stepped forward, her considerable breastworks leading the way. I dont care about your love life; I just dont want to see you taken to the hospital on July Fourthwhen its supposed to hit ninetyfive in the shade, by the waywith heat prostration or something worse. Lane took off his derby, peered into it, and reset it on his head cocked the other way. What she wont come right out and say because she has to protect her famous crusty reputation is we all like you, kid. You learn fast, you do whats asked of you, youre honest, you dont make no trouble, and the kids love you like mad when youre wearing the fur. But youd have to be blind not to see somethings wrong with you. Rozzie thinks girl trouble. Maybe shes right. Maybe she aint. Rozzie gave him a haughty dareyoudoubtme stare. Maybe your parents are getting a divorce. Mine did, and it damn near killed me. Maybe your big brother got arrested for selling dope My mothers dead and Im an only child, I said sulkily. I dont care what you are in the straight world, he said. This is Joyland. The show. And youre one of us. Which means we got a right to care about you, whether you like it or not. So get something to eat. Get a lot to eat, Rozzie said. Now, noon, all day. Every day. And try to eat something besides fried chicken where, I tell you what, theres a heart attack in every drumstick. Go in Rock Lobster and tell them you want a takeout of fish and salad. Tell them to make it a double. Get your weight up so you dont look like the Human Skeleton in a teninone. She turned her gaze on Lane. Its a girl, of course it is. Anybody can see that. Whatever it is, stop fucking pining, Lane said. Such language to use around a lady, Rozzie said. She was sounding like Fortuna again. Soon shed come out with Ziss is vat za spirits vant, or something equivalent. Ah, blow it out, Lane said, and walked back toward the Spin. When he was gone, I looked at Rozzie. She really wasnt much in the motherfigure department, but right then she was what I had. Roz, does everyone know? She shook her head. Nah. To most of the old guys, youre just another greenie jackofalltrades . . . although not as green as you were three weeks ago. But many people here like you, and they see something is wrong. Your friend Erin, for one. Your friend Tom for another. She said friend like it rhymed with rent. I am another friend, and as a friend I tell you that you cant fix your heart. Only time can do that, but you can fix your body. Eat! You sound like a Jewish mother joke, I said. I am a Jewish mother, and believe me, its no joke. Im the joke, I said. I think about her all the time. That you cant help, at least for now. But you must turn your back on the other thoughts that sometimes come to you. I think my mouth dropped open. Im not sure. I know I stared. People whove been in the business as long as Rozzie Gold had been back thenthey are called mitts in the Talk, for their palmistry skillshave their ways of picking your brains so that what they say sounds like the result of telepathy, but usually its just close observation. Not always, though. I dont understand. Give those morbid records a rest, do you understand that? She looked grimly into my face, then laughed at the surprise she saw there. Rozzie Gold may be just a Jewish mother and grandmother, but Madame Fortuna sees much. So did my landlady, and I found out laterafter seeing Rozzie and Mrs. Shoplaw having lunch together in Heavens Bay on one of Madame Fortunas rare days offthat they were close friends who had known each other for years. Mrs. Shoplaw dusted my room and vacuumed the floor once a week; she would have seen my records. As for the restthose famous suicidal ideations that sometimes came to memight not a woman who had spent most of her life observing human nature and watching for psychological clues (called tells both in the Talk and bigleague poker) guess that a sensitive young man, freshly dumped, might entertain thoughts of pills and ropes and riptide undertows? Ill eat, I promised. I had a thousand things to do before Early Gate, but mostly I was just anxious to be away from her before she said something totally outrageous like Her name is Vendy, and you still think of her ven you messturbate. Also, drink big glass of milk before you go to bed. She raised an admonitory finger. No coffee; milk. Vill help you sleep. Worth a try, I said. She went back to Roz again. The day we met, you asked if I saw a beautiful woman with dark hair in your future. Do you remember that? Yes. What did I say? That she was in my past. Rozzie gave a single nod, hard and imperious. So she is. And when you want to call her and beg for a second chanceyou will, you willshow a little spine. Have a little selfrespect. Also remember that the longdistance is expensive. Tell me something I dont know, I thought. Listen, I really have to get going, Roz. Lots to do. Yes, a busy day for all of us. But before you go, Jonesyhave you met the boy yet? The one with the dog? Or the girl who wears the red hat and carries the doll? I told you about them, too, when we met. Roz, Ive met a billion kids in the last You havent, then. Okay. You will. She stuck out her lower lip and blew, stirring the fringe of hair that stuck out from beneath her scarf. Then she seized my wrist. I see danger for you, Jonesy. Sorrow and danger. I thought for a moment she was going to whisper something like Beware the dark stranger! He rides a unicycle! Instead, she let go of me and pointed at Horror House. Which team turns that unpleasant hole? Not yours, is it? No, Team Doberman. The Dobies were also responsible for the adjacent attractions; Mysterios Mirror Mansion and the Wax Museum. Taken together, these three were Joylands halfhearted nod to the old carny spookshows. Good. Stay out of it. Its haunted, and a boy with bad thoughts needs to be visiting a haunted house like he needs arsenic in his mouthwash. Kapish? Yeah. I looked at my watch. She got the point and stepped back. Watch for those kids. And watch your step, boychick. Theres a shadow over you. Lane and Rozzie gave me a pretty good jolt, Ill admit it. I didnt stop listening to my Doors recordsnot immediately, at leastbut I made myself eat more, and started sucking down three milkshakes a day. I could feel fresh energy pouring into my body as if someone had turned on a tap, and I was very grateful for that on the afternoon of July Fourth. Joyland was tipsed and I was down to wear the fur ten times, an alltime record. Fred Dean himself came down to give me the schedule, and to hand me a note from old Mr. Easterbrook. If it becomes too much, stop at once and tell your team leader to find a sub. Ill be fine, I said. Maybe, but make sure Pop sees this memo. Okay. Brad likes you, Jonesy. Thats rare. He hardly ever notices the greenies unless he sees one of them screw up. I liked him, too, but didnt say so to Fred. I thought it would have sounded suckassy. All my July Fourth shifts were tenners, not bad even though most tenminute shifts actually turned out to be fifteenies, but the heat was crushing. Ninetyfive in the shade, Rozzie had said, but by noon that day it was a hundred and two by the thermometer that hung outside the Park Ops trailer. Luckily for me, Dottie Lassen had repaired the other XL Howie suit and I could swap between the two. While I was wearing one, Dottie would have the other turned as insideout as it would go and hung in front of three fans, drying the sweatsoaked interior. At least I could remove the fur by myself; by then Id discovered the secret. Howies right paw was actually a glove, and when you knew the trick, pulling down the zipper to the neck of the costume was a cinch. Once you had the head off, the rest was cake. This was good, because I could change by myself behind a pullcurtain. No more displaying my sweaty, semitransparent undershorts to the costume ladies. As the buntingdraped afternoon of July Fourth wore on, I was excused from all other duties. Id do my capering, then retreat to Joyland Under and collapse on the ratty old couch in the boneyard for a while, soaking up the air conditioning. When I felt revived, Id use the alleys to get to the costume shop and swap one fur for the other. Between shifts I guzzled pints of water and quarts of unsweetened iced tea. You wont believe I was having fun, but I was. Even the brats were loving me that day. So quarter to four in the afternoon. Im jiving down Joyland Avenueour midwaywhile the overhead speakers blast out Daddy Dewdrops ChickABoom, ChickABoom, Dontcha Just Love It. Im giving out hugs to the kiddies and Awesome August coupons to the adults, because Joylands business always dropped off as the summer wound down. Im posing for pictures (some taken by Hollywood Girls, most by hordes of sweatsoaked, sunburned Parent Paparazzi), and trailing adoring kids after me in cometary splendor. Im also looking for the nearest door to Joyland Under, because Im pretty well done up. I have just one more turn as Howie scheduled today, because Howie the Happy Hound never shows his blue eyes and cocked ears after sundown. I dont know why; it was just a show tradition. Did I notice the little girl in the red hat before she fell down on the baking pavement of Joyland Avenue, writhing and jerking? I think so but cant say for sure, because passing time adds false memories and modifies real ones. I surely wouldnt have noticed the PupALicious she was waving around, or her bright red Howie dogtop; a kid at an amusement park with a hotdog is hardly a unique sighting, and we must have sold a thousand red Howie hats that day. If I did notice her, it was because of the doll she held curled to her chest in the hand not holding her mustardsmeared Pup. It was a big old Raggedy Ann. Madame Fortuna had suggested I be on the lookout for a little girl with a doll only two days before, so maybe I did notice her. Or maybe I was only thinking of getting off the midway before I fell down in a faint. Anyway, her doll wasnt the problem. The PupALicious she was eatingthat was the problem. I only think I remember her running toward me (hey, they all did), but I know what happened next, and why it happened. She had a bite of her Pup in her mouth, and when she drew in breath to scream HOWWWIE, she pulled it down her throat. Hot dogs the perfect choking food. Luckily for her, just enough of Rozzie Golds Fortuna bullshit had stuck in my head for me to act quickly. When the little girls knees buckled, her expression of happy ecstasy turning first to surprise and then terror, I was already reaching behind me and grabbing the zipper with my pawglove. The Howiehead tumbled off and lolled to the side, revealing the red face and sweatsoaked, clumpy hair of Mr. Devin Jones. The little girl dropped her Raggedy Ann. Her hat fell off. She began clawing at her neck. Hallie? a woman cried. Hallie, whats wrong? Heres more Luck in Action I not only knew what was wrong, I knew what to do. Im not sure youll understand how fortunate that was. This is 1973 were talking about, remember, and Henry Heimlich would not publish the essay that would give the Heimlich Maneuver its name for another full year. Still, its always been the most commonsense way to deal with choking, and we had learned it during our first and only orientation session before beginning work in the UNH Commons. The teacher was a tough old veteran of the restaurant wars who had lost his Nashua coffee shop a year after a new McDonalds went up nearby. Just remember, it wont work if you dont do it hard, he told us. Dont worry about breaking a rib if you see someone dying in front of you. I saw the little girls face turning purple and didnt even think about her ribs. I seized her in a vast, furry embrace, with my tailpulling left paw jammed against the bony arch in her midsection where her ribs came together. I gave a single hard squeeze, and a yellowsmeared chunk of hotdog almost two inches long came popping out of her mouth like a cork from a champagne bottle. It flew nearly four feet. And no, I didnt break any of her ribs. Kids are flexible, God bless em. I wasnt aware that I and Hallie Stansfieldthat was her namewere hemmed in by a growing circle of adults. I certainly wasnt aware that we were being photographed dozens of times, including the shot by Erin Cook that wound up in the Heavens Bay Weekly and several bigger papers, including the Wilmington StarNews. Ive still got a framed copy of that photo in an attic box somewhere. It shows the little girl dangling in the arms of this weird mandog hybrid with one of its two heads lolling on its shoulder. The girl is holding out her arms to her mother, perfectly caught by Erins Speed Graphic just as Mom collapses to her knees in front of us. All of that is a blur to me, but I remember the mother sweeping the little girl up into her own arms and the father saying Kid, I think you saved her life. And I rememberthis is as clear as crystalthe girl looking at me with her big blue eyes and saying, Oh poor Howie, your head fell off. The alltime classic newspaper headline, as everyone knows, is MAN BITES DOG. The StarNews couldnt equal that, but the one over Erins picture gave it a run for its money DOG SAVES GIRL AT AMUSEMENT PARK. Want to know my first snarky urge? To clip the article and send it to Wendy Keegan. I might even have done it, had I not looked so much like a drowned muskrat in Erins photo. I did send it to my father, who called to say how proud of me he was. I could tell by the tremble in his voice that he was close to tears. God put you in the right place at the right time, Dev, he said. Maybe God. Maybe Rozzie Gold, aka Madame Fortuna. Maybe a little of both. The next day I was summoned to Mr. Easterbrooks office, a pinepaneled room raucous with old carny posters and photographs. I was particularly taken by a photo that showed a strawhatted agent with a dapper mustache standing next to a testyourstrength shy. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, and he was leaning on a sledgehammer like it was a cane a total dude. At the top of the dingpost, next to the bell, was a sign reading KISS HIM, LADY, HES A HEMAN! Is that guy you? I asked. It is indeed, although I only ran the dingshow for a season. It wasnt to my taste. Gaff jobs never have been. I like my games straight. Sit down, Jonesy. You want a Coke or anything? No, sir. Im fine. I was, in fact, sloshing with that mornings milkshake. Ill be perfectly blunt. You gave this show twenty thousand dollars worth of good publicity yesterday afternoon, and I still cant afford to give you a bonus. If you knew . . . but never mind. He leaned forward. What I can do is owe you a favor. If you need one, ask. Ill grant it if its in my power. Will that do? Sure. Good. And would you be willing to make one more appearanceas Howiewith the little girl? Her parents want to thank you in private, but a public appearance would be an excellent thing for Joyland. Entirely your call, of course. When? Saturday, after the noon parade. Wed put up a platform at the intersection of Joyland and Hound Dog Way. Invite the press. Happy to, I said. I liked the idea of being in the newspapers again, I will admit. It had been a tough summer on my ego and selfimage, and Id take all the turnaround I could get. He rose to his feet in his glassy, unsure way, and offered me his hand. Thank you again. On behalf of that little girl, but also on behalf of Joyland. The accountants who run my damn life will be very happy about this. When I stepped out of the office building, which was located with the other administrative buildings in what we called the backyard, my entire team was there. Even Pop Allen had come. Erin, dressed for success in Hollywood Girl green, stepped forward with a shiny metal crown of laurels made from Campbells Soup cans. She dropped to one knee. For you, my hero. I would have guessed I was too sunburned to flush, but that turned out not to be true. Oh Jesus, get up. Savior of little girls, Tom Kennedy said. Not to mention savior of our place of employment getting its ass sued off and possibly having to shut its doors. Erin bounced to her feet, stuck the ludicrous soupcan crown on my head, then gave me a big old smackaroonie. Everyone on Team Beagle cheered. Okay, Pop said when it died down. We can all agree that youre a knight in shining ahmah, Jonesy. You are also not the first guy to save a rube from popping off on the midway. Could we maybe all get back to work? I was good with that. Being famous was fun, but the dontgetaswelledhead message of the tin laurels wasnt lost on me. I was wearing the fur that Saturday, on the makeshift platform at the center of our midway. I was happy to take Hallie in my arms, and she was clearly happy to be there. Id guess there were roughly nine miles of film burned as she proclaimed her love for her favorite doggy and kissed him again and again for the cameras. Erin was in the front row with her camera for a while, but the news photogs were bigger and all male. Soon they shunted her away to a less favorable position, and what did they all want? What Erin had already gotten, a picture of me with my Howiehead off. That was one thing I wouldnt do, although Im sure none of Fred, Lane, or Mr. Easterbrook himself would have penalized me for it. I wouldnt do it because it would have flown in the face of park tradition Howie never took off the fur in public; to do so would have been like outing the Tooth Fairy. Id done it when Hallie Stansfield was choking, but that was the necessary exception. I would not deliberately break the rule. So I guess I was carny after all (although not carnyfromcarny, never that). Later, dressed in my own duds again, I met with Hallie and her parents in the Joyland Customer Service Center. Closeup, I could see that Mom was pregnant with number two, although she probably had three or four months of eating pickles and ice cream still ahead of her. She hugged me and wept some more. Hallie didnt seem overly concerned. She sat in one of the plastic chairs, swinging her feet and looking at old copies of Screen Time, speaking the names of the various celebrities in the declamatory voice of a court page announcing visiting royalty. I patted Moms back and said therethere. Dad didnt cry, but the tears were standing in his eyes as he approached me and held out a check in the amount of five hundred dollars, made out to me.


When I asked what he did for a living, he said he had started his own contracting firm the year beforejust now little, but gettin on our feet pretty good, he told me. I considered that, factored in one kid here plus another on the way, and tore up the check. I told him I couldnt take money for something that was just part of the job. You have to remember I was only twentyone. There were no weekends per se for Joyland summer help; we got a day and a half every nine, which meant they were never the same days. There was a signup sheet, so Tom, Erin, and I almost always managed to get the same downtime. That was why we were together on a Wednesday night in early August, sitting around a campfire on the beach and having the sort of meal that can only nourish the very young beer, burgers, barbecueflavored potato chips, and coleslaw. For dessert we had smores that Erin cooked over the fire, using a grill she borrowed from Pirate Petes Ice Cream Waffle joint. It worked pretty well. We could see other firesgreat leaping bonfires as well as cooking firesall the way down the beach to the twinkling metropolis of Joyland. They made a lovely chain of burning jewelry. Such fires are probably illegal in the twentyfirst century; the powers that be have a way of outlawing many beautiful things made by ordinary people. I dont know why that should be, I only know it is. While we ate, I told them about Madame Fortunas prediction that I would meet a boy with a dog and a little girl in a red hat who carried a doll. I finished by saying, One down and one to go. Wow, Erin said. Maybe she really is psychic. A lot of people have told me that, but I didnt really Like who? Tom demanded. Well . . . Dottie Lassen in the costume shop, for one. Tina Ackerley, for another. You know, the librarian Dev creeps down the hall to visit at night? I flipped her the bird. She giggled. Two is not a lot, Tom said, speaking in his Hot Shit Professor voice. Lane Hardy makes three, I said. He says shes told people stuff that rocked them back on their heels. In the interest of total disclosure, I felt compelled to add Of course he also said that ninety percent of her predictions are total crap. Probably closer to ninetyfive, said the Hot Shit Professor. Fortune tellings a con game, boys and girls. An Ikey Heyman, in the Talk. Take the hat thing. Joyland dogtops only come in three colorsred, blue, and yellow. Reds by far the most popular. As for the doll, cmon. How many little kids bring some sort of toy to the amusement park? Its a strange place, and a favorite toy is a comfort thing. If she hadnt choked on her hotdog right in front of you, if shed just given Howie a big old hug and passed on, you would have seen some other little girl wearing a red dogtop and carrying a doll and said, Aha! Madame Fortuna really can see the future, I must cross her palm with silver so she will tell me more.  Youre such a cynic, Erin said, giving him an elbow. Rozzie Gold would never try taking money from someone in the show. She didnt ask for money, I said, but I thought what Tom said made a lot of sense. It was true she had known (or seemed to know) that my darkhaired girl was in my past, not my future, but that could have been no more than a guess based on percentagesor the look on my face when I asked. Course not, Tom said, helping himself to another smore. She was just practicing on you. Staying sharp. I bet shes told a lot of other greenies stuff, too. Would you be one of them? I asked. Well . . . no. But that means nothing. I looked at Erin, who shook her head. She also thinks Horror House is haunted, I said. Ive heard that one, too, Erin said. By a girl who got murdered in there. Bullshit! Tom cried. Next youll be telling me it was the Hook, and he still lurks behind the Screaming Skull! There really was a murder, I said. A girl named Linda Gray. She was from Florence, South Carolina. There are pictures of her and the guy who killed her at the shooting gallery and standing in line at the Spin. No hook, but there was a tattoo of a bird on his hand. A hawk or an eagle. That silenced him, al least for the time being. Lane Hardy said that Roz only thinks Horror House is haunted, because she wont go inside and find out for sure. She wont even go near it, if she can help it. Lane thinks thats ironic, because he says it really is haunted. Erin made her eyes big and round and scooted a little closer to the firepartly for effect, mostly I think so that Tom would put his arm around her. Hes seen? I dont know. He said to ask Mrs. Shoplaw, and she gave me the whole story. I ran it down for them. It was a good story to tell at night, under the stars, with the surf rolling and a beachfire just starting to burn down to coals. Even Tom seemed fascinated. Does she claim to have seen Linda Gray? he asked when I finally ran down. La Shoplaw? I mentally replayed her story as told to me on the day I rented the room on the second floor. I dont think so. She would have said. He nodded, satisfied. A perfect lesson in how these things work. Everyone knows someone whos seen a UFO, and everyone knows someone whos seen a ghost. Hearsay evidence, inadmissible in court. Me, Im a Doubting Thomas. Geddit? Tom Kennedy, Doubting Thomas? Erin threw him a much sharper elbow. We get it. She looked thoughtfully into the fire. You know what? Summers twothirds gone, and Ive never been in the Joyland screamshy a single time, not even the baby part up front. Its a nophoto zone. Brenda Rafferty told us its because lots of couples go in there to make out. She peered at me. What are you grinning about? Nothing. I was thinking of La Shoplaws late husband going through the place after Late Gate and picking up castoff panties. Have either of you guys been in? We both shook our heads. HH is Dobie Teams job, Tom said. Lets do it tomorrow. All three of us in one car. Maybe well see her. Go to Joyland on our day off when we could spend it on the beach? Tom asked. Thats masochism at its very finest. This time in spite of giving him an elbow, she poked him in the ribs. I didnt know if they were sleeping together yet, but it seemed likely; the relationship had certainly become very physical. Poop on that! As employees we get in free, and what does the ride take? Five minutes? I think a little longer, I said. Nine or ten. Plus some time in the baby part. Say fifteen minutes, all told. Tom put his chin on her head and looked at me through the fine cloud of her hair. Poop on that, she says. You can tell that here is a young woman with a fine college education. Before she started hanging out with sorority girls, she would have said shitsky and left it at that. The day I start hanging out with that bunch of halfstarved mixnmatch sluts will be the day I crawl up my own ass and die! For some reason, this vulgarity pleased me to no end. Possibly because Wendy was a veteran mixnmatcher. You, Thomas Patrick Kennedy, are just afraid we will see her, and youll have to take back all those things you said about Madame Fortuna and ghosts and UFOs and Tom raised his hands. I give up. Well get in the line with the rest of the rubesthe conies, I meanand take the Horror House tour. I only insist it be in the afternoon. I need my beauty rest. You certainly do, I said. Coming from someone who looks like you, thats pretty funny. Give me a beer, Jonesy. I gave him a beer. Tell us how it went with the Stansfields, Erin said. Did they blubber all over you and call you their hero? That was pretty close, but I didnt want to say so. The parents were okay. The kid sat in the corner, reading Screen Time and saying she spied Dean Martin with her little eye. Forget the local color and cut to the chase, Tom said. Did you get any money out of it? I was preoccupied with thoughts of how the little girl announcing the celebrities with such reverence could have been in a flatline coma instead. Or in a casket. Thus distracted, I answered honestly. The guy offered me five hundred dollars, but I wouldnt take it. Tom goggled. Say what? I looked down at the remains of the smore I was holding. Marshmallow was drooling onto my fingers, so I tossed it into the fire. I was full, anyway. I was also embarrassed, and pissed off to be feeling that way. The mans trying to get a little business up and running, and based on the way he talked about it, its at the point where it could go either way. Hes also got a wife and a kid and another kid coming soon. I didnt think he could afford to be giving money away. He couldnt? What about you? I blinked. What about me? To this day I dont know if Tom was genuinely angry or faking it. I think he might have started out faking, then gathered steam as full understanding of what Id done struck him. I have no idea exactly what his home situation was, but I know he was living from paycheck to paycheck, and had no car. When he wanted to take Erin out, he borrowed mine . . . and was carefulpunctilious, I should sayabout paying for the gas he used. Money mattered to him. I never got the sense it completely owned him, but yes, it mattered to him a great deal. Youre going to school on a wing and a prayer, same as Erin and me, and working at Joyland isnt going to land any of us in a limousine. Whats wrong with you? Did you mother drop you on your head when you were a baby? Take it easy, Erin said. He paid no attention. Do you want to spend the fall semester next year getting up early so you can pull dirty breakfast dishes off a Commons conveyor belt? You must, because five hundred a semester is about what it pays at Rutgers. I know, because I checked before lucking into a tutoring gig. You know how I made it through freshman year? Writing papers for rich fratboys majoring in Advanced Beerology. If Id been caught, I could have been suspended for a semester or tossed completely. Ill tell you what your grand gesture amounted to giving away twenty hours a week you could have spent studying. He heard himself ranting, stopped, and raised a grin. Or chatting up lissome females. Ill give you lissome, Erin said, and pounced on him. They went rolling across the sand, Erin tickling and Tom yelling (with a notable lack of conviction) for her to get off. That was fine with me, because I did not care to pursue the issues Tom had raised. I had already made up my mind about some things, it seemed, and all that remained was for my conscious mind to get the news. The next day, at quarter past three, we were in line at Horror House. A kid named Brady Waterman was agenting the shy. I remember him because he was also good at playing Howie. (But not as good as I was, I feel compelled to add . . . strictly in the cause of honesty.) Although quite stout at the beginning of the summer, Brady was now slim and trim. As a diet program, wearing the fur had Weight Watchers beat six ways to Tulsa. What are you guys doing here? he asked. Isnt it your day off? We had to see Joylands one and only dark ride, Tom said, and Im already feeling a satisfying sense of dramatic unityBrad Waterman and Horror House. Its the perfect match. He scowled. Youre all gonna try to cram into one car, arentcha? We have to, Erin told him. Then she leaned close to one of Brads juggy ears and whispered, Its a Truth or Dare thing. As Brad considered this, he touched the tip of his tongue to the middle of his upper lip. I could see him calculating the possibilities. The guy behind us spoke up. Kids, could you move the line along? I understand theres air conditioning inside, and I could use some. Go on, Brad told us. Put an egg in your shoe and beat it. Coming from Brad, this was Rabelaisian wit. Any ghosts in there? I asked. Hundreds, and I hope they all fly right up your ass. We started with Mysterios Mirror Mansion, pausing briefly to regard ourselves drawn tall or smashed squat. With that minor giggle accomplished, we followed the tiny red dots on the bottoms of certain mirrors. These led us directly to the Wax Museum. Given this secret roadmap, we arrived well ahead of the rest of the current group, who wandered around, laughing and bumping into the various angled panes of glass. To Toms disappointment, there were no murderers in the Wax Museum, only pols and celebs. A smiling John F. Kennedy and a jumpsuited Elvis Presley flanked the doorway. Ignoring the PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign, Erin gave Elviss guitar a strum. Out of tu she began, then recoiled as Elvis jerked to life and began singing Cant Help Falling in Love with You. Gotcha! Tom said gleefully, and gave her a hug. Beyond the Wax Museum was a doorway leading to the Barrel and Bridge Room, which rumbled with machinery that sounded dangerous (it wasnt) and stuttered with strobe lights of conflicting colors. Erin crossed to the other side on the shaking, tilting Billy Goats Bridge while the macho men accompanying her dared the Barrel. I stumbled my way through, reeling like a drunk but only falling once. Tom stopped in the middle, stuck out his hands and feet so he looked like a paperdoll, and made a complete threesixty that way. Stop it, you goof, youll break your neck! Erin called. He wont even if he falls, I said. Its padded. Tom rejoined us, grinning and flushed to the roots of his hair. That woke up brain cells that have been asleep since I was three. Yeah, but what about all the ones it killed? Erin asked. Next came the Tilted Room and beyond that was an arcade filled with teenagers playing pinball and SkeeBall. Erin watched the SkeeBall for a while, with her arms folded beneath her breasts and a disapproving look on her face. Dont they know thats a complete butchers game? People come here to be butched, I said. Its part of the attraction. Erin sighed. And I thought Tom was a cynic. On the far side of the arcade, beneath a glowing green skull, was a sign reading HORROR HOUSE LIES BEYOND! BEWARE! PREGNANT WOMEN AND THOSE WITH SMALL CHILDREN MAY EXIT LEFT. We walked into an antechamber filled with echoing recorded cackles and screams. Pulsing red light illuminated a single steel track and a black tunnel entrance beyond. From deep within it came rumbles, flashing lights, and more screams. These were not recorded. From a distance, they didnt sound particularly happy, but probably they were. Some, at least. Eddie Parks, proprietor of Horror House and boss of Team Doberman, walked over to us. He was wearing rawhide gloves and a dogtop so old it was faded to no color at all (although it turned blood red each time the lights pulsed). He gave us a dismissive sniff. Must have been a damn boring day off. Just wanted to see how the other half lives, Tom said. Erin gave Eddie her most radiant smile. It was not returned. Three to a car, I guess. That what you want? Yes, I said. Fine with me. Just remember that the rules apply to you, same as anyone else. Keep your fuckin hands inside. Yessir, Tom said, and gave a little salute. Eddie looked at him the way a man might look at a new species of bug and walked back to his controls, which consisted of three shifterknobs sticking out of a waisthigh podium. There were also a few buttons illuminated by a Tensor lamp bent low to minimize its lessthanghostly white light. Charming guy, Tom muttered. Erin hooked an arm into Toms right elbow and my left, drawing us close. Does anyone like him? she murmured. No, Tom said. Not even his own team. Hes already fired two of them. The rest of our group started to catch up just as a train filled with laughing conies (plus a few crying kids whose parents probably should have heeded the warning and exited from the arcade) arrived. Erin asked one of the girls if it was scary. The scary part was trying to keep his hands where they belong, she said, then squealed happily as her boyfriend first kissed her neck and then pulled her toward the arcade. We climbed aboard. Three of us in a car designed for two made for an extremely tight fit, and I was very aware of Erins thigh pressing against mine, and the brush of her breast against my arm. I felt a sudden and far from unpleasant southward tingle. I would argue thatfantasies asidethe majority of men are monogamous from the chin up. Below the beltbuckle, however, theres a wahoo stampeder who just doesnt give a shit. Hands inside the caaa! Eddie Parks was yelling in a boredtodeath monotone that was the complete antithesis of a cheerful Lane Hardy pitch. Hands inside the caaa! You got a kid under three feet, put im in your lap or get out of the caaa! Hold still and watch for the baaa! The safety bars came down with a clank, and a few girls tuned up with preparatory screams. Clearing their vocal cords for darkride arias to come, you might say. There was a jerk, and we rode into Horror House. Nine minutes later we got out and exited through the arcade with the rest of the tip. Behind us, we could hear Eddie exhorting his next bunch to keep their hands inside the caaa and watch for the baaa. He never gave us a look. The dungeon part wasnt scary, because all the prisoners were Dobies, Erin said. The one in the pirate outfit was Billy Ruggerio. Her color was high, her hair was mussed from the blowers, and I thought she had never looked so pretty. But the Screaming Skull really got me, and the Torture Chamber . . . my God! Pretty gross, I agreed. Id seen a lot of horror movies during my high school years, and thought of myself as inured, but seeing an eyebulging head come rolling down an inclined trough from the guillotine had jumped the shit out of me. I mean, the mouth was still moving. Out on Joyland Avenue again, we spotted Cam Jorgensen from Team Foxhound selling lemonade. Who wants one? Erin asked. She was still bubbling over. Im buying! Sure, I said. Tom? He shrugged his assent. Erin gave him a quizzical look, then ran to get the drinks. I glanced at Tom, but he was watching the Rocket go around and around. Or maybe looking through it. Erin came back with three tall paper cups, half a lemon bobbing on top of each. We took them to the benches in Joyland Park, just down from the WiggleWaggle, and sat in the shade. Erin was talking about the bats at the end of the ride, how she knew they were just windup toys on wires, but bats had always scared the hell out of her and There she broke off. Tom, are you okay? You havent said a word. Not sick to your stomach from turning in the Barrel, are you? My stomachs fine. He took a sip of his lemonade, as if to prove it. What was she wearing, Dev? Do you know? Huh? The girl who got murdered. Laurie Gray. Linda Gray. Laurie, Larkin, Linda, whatever. What was she wearing? Was it a full skirta long one, down to her shinsand a sleeveless blouse? I looked at him closely. We both did, initially thinking it was just another Tom Kennedy goof. Only he didnt look like he was goofing. Now that I really examined him, what he looked like was scared half to death. Tom? Erin touched his shoulder. Did you see her? Dont joke, now. He put his hand over hers but didnt look at her. He was looking at me. Yeah, he said, long skirt and sleeveless blouse. You know, because La Shoplaw told you. What color? I asked. Hard to tell with the lights changing all the time, but I think blue. Blouse and skirt both. Then Erin got it. Holy shit, she said in a kind of sigh. The high color was leaving her cheeks in a hurry. There was something else. Something the police had held back for a long time, according to Mrs. Shoplaw. What about her hair, Tom? Ponytail, right? He shook his head. Took a small sip of his lemonade. Patted his mouth with the back of his hand. His hair hadnt gone gray, he wasnt all stareyeyed, his hands werent shaking, but he still didnt look like the same guy whod joked his way through the Mirror Mansion and the Barrel and Bridge Room. He looked like a guy whod just gotten a reality enema, one that had flushed all the junioryearsummerjob bullshit out of his system. Not a ponytail. Her hair long, all right, but she had a thing across the top of her head to keep it out of her face. Ive seen a billion of em, but I cant remember what girls call it. An Alice band, Erin said. Yeah. I think that was blue, too. She was holding out her hands. He held his out in the exact same way Emmalina Shoplaw had held hers out on the day she told me the story Like she was asking for help. You already know this stuff from Mrs. Shoplaw, I said. Isnt that right? Tell us, we wont be mad. Will we, Erin? No, uhuh. But Tom shook his head. Im just telling you what I saw. Neither of you saw her? We had not, and said so. Why me? Tom asked plaintively. Once we were inside, I wasnt even thinking of her. I was just having fun. So why me? Erin tried to get more details while I drove us back to Heavens Bay in my heap. Tom answered the first two or three of her questions, then said he didnt want to talk about it anymore in an abrupt tone Id never heard him use with Erin before. I dont think she had, either, because she was quiet as a mouse for the rest of the ride. Maybe they talked about it some more between themselves, but I can tell you that he never spoke of it again to me until about a month before he died, and then only briefly. It was near the end of a phone conversation that had been painful because of his halting, nasal voice and the way he sometimes got confused. At least . . . I know . . . theres something, he said. I saw . . . for myself . . . that summer. In the Hasty Hut. I didnt bother to correct him; I knew what he meant. Do you . . . remember? I remember, I said. But I dont know . . . the something . . . if its good . . . or bad. His dying voice filled with horror. The way she . . . Dev, the way she held out her hands . . . Yes. The way she held out her hands. The next time I had a full day off, it was nearly the middle of August, and the tide of conies was ebbing. I no longer had to jink and juke my way up Joyland Avenue to the Carolina Spin . . . and to Madame Fortunas shy, which stood in its revolving shadow. Lane and Fortunashe was all Fortuna today, in full gypsy kitwere talking together by the Spins control station. Lane saw me and tipped his derby widdershins, which was his way of acknowledging me. Look what the cat drug in, he said. How ya be, Jonesy? Fine, I said, although this wasnt strictly true. The sleepless nights had come back now that I was only wearing the fur four or five times a day. I lay in my bed waiting for the small hours to get bigger, window open so I could hear the incoming surf, thinking about Wendy and her new boyfriend. Also thinking about the girl Tom had seen standing beside the tracks in Horror House, in the fake brick tunnel between the Dungeon and the Chamber of Torture. I turned to Fortuna. Can I talk to you? She didnt ask why, just led me to her shy, swept aside the purple curtain that hung in the doorway, and ushered me in. There was a round table covered with a rosepink cloth. On it was Fortunas crystal, now draped. Two simple folding chairs were positioned so that seer and supplicant faced each other over the crystal (which, I happened to know, was underlit by a small bulb Madame Fortuna could operate with her foot). On the back wall was a giant silkscreened hand, fingers spread and palm out. On it, neatly labeled, were the Seven lifeline, heartline, headline, loveline (also known as the Girdle of Venus), sunline, fateline, healthline. Madame Fortuna gathered her skirts and seated herself. She motioned for me to do the same. She did not undrape her crystal, nor did she invite me to cross her palm with silver so that I might know the future. Ask what you came to ask, she said. I want to know if the little girl was just an informed guess or if you really knew something. Saw something. She looked at me, long and steadily. In Madame Fortunas place of business, there was a faint smell of incense instead of popcorn and fried dough. The walls were flimsy, but the music, the chatter of the conies, and the rumble of the rides all seemed very far away. I wanted to look down, but managed not to. Actually, you want to know if Im a fraud. Isnt that so? I . . . maam, I honestly dont know what I want. At that she smiled. It was a good oneas if I had passed some sort of test. Youre a sweet boy, Jonesy, but like so many sweet boys, youre a punk liar. I started to reply; she hushed me with a wave of her ringheavy right hand. She reached beneath her table and brought out her cashbox. Madame Fortunas readings were freeall part of your admission fee, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girlsbut tips were encouraged. And legal under North Carolina law. When she opened the box, I saw a sheaf of crumpled bills, mostly ones, something that looked suspiciously like a punchboard (not legal under North Carolina law), and a single small envelope. Printed on the front was my name. She held it out. I hesitated, then took it. You didnt come to Joyland today just to ask me that, she said. Well . . . She waved me off again. You know exactly what you want. In the short term, at least. And since the short term is all any of us have, who is Fortunaor Rozzie Gold, for that matterto argue with you? Go now. Do what you came here to do. When its done, open that and read what Ive written. She smiled. No charge to employees. Especially not good kids like you. I dont She rose in a swirl of skirts and a rattle of jewelry. Go, Jonesy. Were finished here. I left her tight little booth in a daze. Music from two dozen shys and rides seemed to hit me like conflicting winds, and the sun was a hammer. I went directly to the administration building (actually a doublewide trailer), gave a courtesy knock, went in, and said hello to Brenda Rafferty, who was going back and forth between an open account book and her faithful adding machine. Hello, Devin, she said. Are you taking care of your Hollywood Girl? Yes, maam, we all watch out for her. Dana Elkhart, isnt it? Erin Cook, maam. Erin, of course. Team Beagle. The redhead. What can I do for you? I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Easterbrook. Hes resting, and I hate to disturb him. He had an awful lot of phone calls to make earlier, and we still have to go over some numbers, much as I hate to bother him with them. He tires very easily these days. I wouldnt be long. She sighed. I suppose I could see if hes awake. Can you tell me what its about? A favor, I said. Hell understand. He did, and only asked me two questions. The first was if I was sure. I said I was. The second . . . Have you told your parents yet, Jonesy? Its just me and my dad, Mr. Easterbrook, and Ill do that tonight. Very well, then. Put Brenda in the picture before you leave. Shell have all the necessary paperwork, and you can fill it out . . . Before he could finish, his mouth opened and he displayed his horsey teeth in a vast, gaping yawn. Excuse me, son. Its been a tiring day. A tiring summer. Thank you, Mr. Easterbrook. He waved his hand. Very welcome. Im sure youll be a great addition, but if you do this without your fathers consent, I shall be disappointed in you. Close the door on your way out, please. I tried not to see Brendas frown as she searched her file cabinets and hunted out the various forms Joyland, Inc. required for fulltime employment. It didnt matter, because I felt her disapproval anyway. I folded the paperwork, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, and left. Beyond the line of donnikers at the far end of the backyard was a little grove of blackgum trees. I went in there, sat down with my back against one, and opened the envelope Madame Fortuna had given me. The note was brief and to the point. Youre going to Mr. Easterbrook to ask if you can stay on at the park after Labor Day. You know he will not refuse your request. She was right, I wanted to know if she was a fraud. Here was her answer. And yes, I had made up my mind about what came next in the life of Devin Jones. She had been right about that, too. But there was one more line. You saved the little girl, but dear boy! You cant save everyone. After I told my dad I wasnt going back to UNHthat I needed a year off from college and planned to spend it at Joylandthere was a long silence at the southern Maine end of the line. I thought he might yell at me, but he didnt. He only sounded tired. Its that girl, isnt it? Id told him almost two months earlier that Wendy and I were taking some time off, but Dad saw right through that. Since then, he hadnt spoken her name a single time in our weekly phone conversations. Now she was just that girl. After the first couple of times he said it I tried a joke, asking if he thought Id been going out with Mario Thomas. He wasnt amused. I didnt try again. Wendys part of it, I admitted, but not all of it. I just need some time off. A breather. And Ive gotten to like it here. He sighed. Maybe you do need a break. At least youll be working instead of hitchhiking around Europe, like Dewey Michauds girl. Fourteen months in youth hostels! Fourteen and counting! Ye gods! Shes apt to come back with ringworm and a bun in the oven. Well, I said, I think I can avoid both of those. If Im careful. Just make sure you avoid the hurricanes. Its supposed to be a bad season for them. Are you really all right with this, Dad? Why? Did you want me to argue? Try to talk you out of it? If thats what you want, Im willing to give it a shot, but I know what your mother would sayif hes old enough to buy a legal drink, hes old enough to start making decisions about his life. I smiled. Yeah. That sounds like her. As for me, I guess I dont want you going back to college if youre going to spend all your time mooning over that girl and letting your grades go to hell. If painting rides and fixing up concessions will help get her out of your system, probably thats a good thing. But what about your scholarship and loan package, if you want to go back in the fall of 74? It wont be a problem. Ive got a 3.2 cume, which is pretty persuasive. That girl, he said in tones of infinite disgust, and then we moved on to other topics. I was still sad and depressed about how things had ended with Wendy, he was right about that, but I had begun the difficult trip (the journey, as they say in the selfhelp groups these days) from denial to acceptance. Anything like true serenity was still over the horizon, but I no longer believedas I had in the long, painful days and nights of Junethat serenity was out of the question. Staying had to do with other things that I couldnt even begin to sort out, because they were piled helterskelter in an untidy stack and bound with the rough twine of intuition. Hallie Stansfield was there. So was Bradley Easterbrook, way back at the beginning of the summer, saying we sell fun. The sound of the ocean at night was there, and the way a strong onshore breeze would make a little song when it blew through the struts of the Carolina Spin. The cool tunnels under the park were there. So was the Talk, that secret language the other greenies would have forgotten by the time Christmas break rolled around. I didnt want to forget it; it was too rich. I felt that Joyland had something more to give me. I didnt know what, just . . . smore. But mostlythis is weird, I have examined and reexamined my memories of those days to make sure its a true memory, and it seems to beit was because it had been our Doubting Thomas to see the ghost of Linda Gray. It had changed him in small but fundamental ways. I dont think Tom wanted to changeI think he was happy just as he wasbut I did. I wanted to see her, too. During the second half of August, several of the oldtimersPop Allen for one, Dottie Lassen for anothertold me to pray for rain on Labor Day weekend. There was no rain, and by Saturday afternoon I understood what they meant. The conies came back in force for one final grand hurrah, and Joyland was tipsed to the gills. What made it worse was that half of the summer help was gone by then, headed back to their various schools. The ones who were left worked like dogs. Some of us didnt just work like dogs, but as dogsone dog in particular.


I saw most of that holiday weekend through the mesh eyes of Howie the Happy Hound. On Sunday I climbed into that damned fur suit a dozen times. After my secondtolast turn of the day, I was threequarters of the way down the Boulevard beneath Joyland Avenue when the world started to swim away from me in shades of gray. Shades of Linda Gray, I remember thinking. I was driving one of the little electric servicecarts with the fur pushed down to my waist so I could feel the air conditioning on my sweaty chest, and when I realized I was losing it, I had the good sense to pull over to the wall and take my foot off the rubber button that served as the accelerator. Fat Wally Schmidt, who ran the guessyourweight shy, happened to be taking a break in the boneyard at the time. He saw me parked askew and slumped over the carts steering bar. He got a pitcher of icewater out of the fridge, waddled down to me, and lifted my chin with one chubby hand. Hey greenie. You got another suit, or is that the only one that fits ya? Theresh another one, I said. I sounded drunk. Cossume shop. Exra large. Oh hey, thats good, he said, and dumped the pitcher over my head. My scream of surprise echoed up and down the Boulevard and brought several people running. What the fuck, Fat Wally? He grinned. Wakes ya up, dont it? Damn right it does. Labor Day weekend, greenie. That means ya labor. No sleepin on the job. Thank yer lucky stars n bars it aint a hunnert and ten out there. If it had been a hunnert and ten, I wouldnt be telling this story; I would have died of a baked brain halfway through a Happy Howie Dance on the WiggleWaggle Story Stage. But Labor Day itself was actually cloudy, and featured a nice seabreeze. I got through it somehow. Around four oclock that Monday, as I was climbing into the spare fur for my final show of the summer, Tom Kennedy strolled into the costume shop. His dogtop and filthy sneakers were gone. He was wearing crisply pressed chinos (wherever were you keeping them, I wondered), a neatly tuckedin Ivy League shirt, and Bass Weejuns. Rosycheeked son of a bitch had even gotten a haircut. He looked every inch the upandcoming college boy with his eye on the business world. You never would have guessed that hed been dressed in filthy Levis only two days before, displaying at least an inch of asscleavage as he crawled under the Zipper with an oilbucket and cursing Pop Allen, our fearless Team Beagle leader, every time he bumped his head on a strut. You on your way? I asked. Thats a big tenfour, good buddy. Im taking the train to Philly at eight tomorrow morning. Ive got a week at home, then its back to the grind. Good for you. Erins got some stuff to finish up, but then shes meeting me in Wilmington tonight. I booked us a room at a nice little bed and breakfast. I felt a dull throb of jealousy at that. Good deal. Shes the real thing, he said. I know. So are you, Dev. Well stay in touch. People say that and dont mean it, but I do. We will stay in touch. He held out his hand. I took it and shook it. Thats right, we will. Youre okay, Tom, and Erins the total package. You take care of her. No problem there. He grinned. Come spring semester, shes transferring to Rutgers. I already taught her the Scarlet Knights fight song. You know, Upstream, Redteam, Redteam, Upstream  Sounds complex, I said. He shook his finger at me. Sarcasm will get you nowhere in this world, boy. Unless youre angling for a writing job at Mad magazine, that is. Dottie Lassen called, Maybe you could shorten up the farewells and keep the tears to a minimum? Youve got a show to do, Jonesy. Tom turned to her and held out his arms. Dottie, how I love you! How Ill miss you! She slapped her bottom to show just how much this moved her and turned away to a costume in need of repair. Tom handed me a scrap of paper. My home address, school address, phone numbers for both. I expect you to use them. I will. Youre really going to give up a year you could spend drinking beer and getting laid to scrape paint here at Joyland? Yep. Are you crazy? I considered this. Probably. A little. But getting better. I was sweaty and his clothes were clean, but he gave me a brief hug just the same. Then he headed for the door, pausing to give Dottie a kiss on one wrinkled cheek. She couldnt cuss at himher mouth was full of pins at the timebut she shooed him away with a flap of her hand. At the door, he turned back to me. You want some advice, Dev? Stay away from . . . He finished with a headjerk, and I knew well enough what he meant Horror House. Then he was gone, probably thinking about his visit home, and Erin, the car he hoped to buy, and Erin, the upcoming school year, and Erin. Upstream, Redteam, Redteam, Upstream. Come spring semester, they could chant it together. Hell, they could chant it that very night, if they wanted to. In Wilmington. In bed. Together. There was no punchclock at the park; our comings and goings were supervised by our team leaders. After my final turn as Howie on that first Monday in September, Pop Allen told me to bring him my timecard. Ive got another hour, I said. Nah, someones waiting at the gate to walk you back. I knew who the someone had to be. It was hard to believe there was a soft spot in Pops shriveledup raisin of a heart for anyone, but there was, and that summer Miss Erin Cook owned it. You know the deal tomorrow? Seventhirty to six, I said. And no fur. What a blessing. Ill be running you for the first couple of weeks, then Im off to sunny Florida. After that, youre Lane Hardys responsibility. And Freddy Dean, I guess, if he happens to notice youre still around. Got it. Good. Ill sign your card and then youre tenfortytwo. Which meant the same thing in the Talk as it did on the CBs that were so popular then End of tour. And Jonesy? Tell that girl to send me a postcard once in a while. Ill miss her. He wasnt the only one. Erin had also begun making the transition back from Joyland Life to Real Life. Gone were the faded jeans and teeshirt with the sassy rolledtotheshoulder sleeves; ditto the green Hollywood Girl dress and Sherwood Forest hat. The girl standing in the scarlet shower of neon just outside the gate was wearing a silky blue sleeveless blouse tucked into a belted Aline skirt. Her hair was pinned back and she looked gorgeous. Walk me up the beach, she said. Ill just have time to catch the bus to Wilmington. Im meeting Tom. He told me. But never mind the bus. Ill drive you. Would you do that? Sure. We walked along the fine white sand. A halfmoon had risen in the sky, and it beat a track across the water. Halfway to Heavens Beachit was, in fact, not far from the big green Victorian that played such a part in my life that fallshe took my hand, and we walked that way. We didnt say much until we reached the steps leading up to the beach parking lot. There she turned to me. Youll get over her. Her eyes were on mine. She wasnt wearing makeup that night, and didnt need any. The moonlight was her makeup. Yes, I said. I knew it was true, and part of me was sorry. Its hard to let go. Even when what youre holding onto is full of thorns, its hard to let go. Maybe especially then. And for now this is the right place for you. I feel that. Does Tom feel it? No, but he never felt about Joyland the way you do . . . and the way I did this summer. And after what happened that day in the funhouse . . . what he saw. Do the two of you ever talk about that? I tried. Now I leave it alone. It doesnt fit into his philosophy of how the world works, so hes trying to make it gone. But I think he worries about you. Do you worry about me? About you and the ghost of Linda Gray, no. About you and the ghost of that Wendy, a little. I grinned. My father no longer speaks her name. Just calls her that girl. Erin, would you do me a favor when you get back to school? If you have time, that is? Sure. What is it? I told her. She asked if I would drop her at the Wilmington bus station instead of taking her directly to the BB Tom had booked. She said shed rather take a taxi there. I started to protest that it was a waste of money, then didnt. She looked flustered, a trifle embarrassed, and I guessed it had something to do with not wanting to climb out of my car just so she could drop her clothes and climb into the sack with Tom Kennedy two minutes later. When I pulled up opposite the taxi stand, she put her hands on the sides of my face and kissed my mouth. It was a long and thoroughly thorough kiss. If Tom hadnt been there, I would have made you forget that stupid girl, she said. But he was, I said. Yes. He was. Stay in touch, Dev. Remember what I asked you to do. If you get a chance, that is. Ill remember. Youre a sweet man. I dont know why, but that made me feel like crying. I smiled instead. Also, admit it, I made one hell of a Howie. That you did. Devin Jones, savior of little girls. For a moment I thought she was going to kiss me again, but she didnt. She slid out of my car and ran across the street to the taxis, skirt flying. I sat there until I saw her climb into the back of a Yellow and drive away. Then I drove away myself, back to Heavens Beach, and Mrs. Shoplaws, and my autumn at Joylandboth the best and worst autumn of my life. Were Annie and Mike Ross sitting at the end of the green Victorians boardwalk when I headed down the beach to the park on that Tuesday after Labor Day? I remember the warm croissants I ate as I walked, and the circling gulls, but of them I cant be completely sure. They became such an important part of the scenerysuch a landmarkthat its impossible to pinpoint the first time I actually noticed their presence. Nothing screws with memory like repetition. Ten years after the events Im telling you about, I was (for my sins, maybe) a staff writer on Cleveland magazine. I used to do most of my firstdraft writing on yellow legal pads in a coffee shop on West Third Street, near Lakefront Stadium, which was the Indians stomping grounds back then. Every day at ten, this young woman would come in and get four or five coffees, then take them back to the real estate office next door. I couldnt tell you the first time I saw her, either. All I know is that one day I saw her, and realized that she sometimes glanced at me as she went out. The day came when I returned that glance, and when she smiled, I did, too. Eight months later we were married. Annie and Mike were like that; one day they just became a real part of my world. I always waved, the kid in the wheelchair always waved back, and the dog sat watching me with his ears cocked and the wind ruffling his fur. The woman was blonde and beautifulhigh cheekbones, wideset blue eyes, and full lips, the kind that always look a little bruised. The boy in the wheelchair wore a White Sox cap that came down over his ears. He looked very sick. His smile was healthy enough, though. Whether I was going or coming, he always flashed it. Once or twice he even flashed me the peace sign, and I sent it right back. I had become part of his landscape, just as he had become part of mine. I think even Milo, the Jack Russell, came to recognize me as part of the landscape. Only Mom held herself apart. Often when I passed, she never even looked up from whatever book she was reading. When she did she didnt wave, and she certainly never flashed the peace sign. I had plenty to occupy my time at Joyland, and if the work wasnt as interesting and varied as it had been during the summer, it was steadier and less exhausting. I even got a chance to reprise my awardwinning role as Howie, and to sing a few more choruses of Happy Birthday to You in the WiggleWaggle Village, because Joyland was open to the public for the first three weekends in September. Attendance was way down, though, and I didnt jock a single tipsed ride. Not even the Carolina Spin, which was second only to the merrygoround as our most popular attraction. Up north in New England, most parks stay open weekends until Halloween, Fred Dean told me one day. We were sitting on a bench and eating a nourishing, vitaminrich lunch of chili burgers and pork rinds. Down south in Florida, they run yearround. Were in a kind of gray zone. Mr. Easterbrook tried pushing for a fall season back in the sixtiesspent a bundle on a big advertising blitzbut it didnt work very well. By the time the nights start getting nippy, people around here start thinking about county fairs and such. Also, a lot of our vets head south or out west for the winter. He looked down the empty expanse of Hound Dog Way and sighed. This place gets kind of lonely this time of year. I like it, I said, and I did. That was my year to embrace loneliness. I sometimes went to the movies in Lumberton or Myrtle Beach with Mrs. Shoplaw and Tina Ackerley, the librarian with the googoogoogly eyes, but I spent most evenings in my room, rereading The Lord of the Rings and writing letters to Erin, Tom, and my dad. I also wrote a fair amount of poetry, which I am now embarrassed even to think about. Thank God I burned it. I added a new and satisfyingly grim record to my small collectionThe Dark Side of the Moon. In the Book of Proverbs we are advised that as a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly. That autumn I returned to Dark Side again and again, only giving Floyd the occasional rest so I could listen to Jim Morrison once more intone, This is the end, beautiful friend. Such a really bad case of the twentyonesI know, I know. At least there was plenty at Joyland to occupy my days. The first couple of weeks, while the park was still running parttime, were devoted to fall cleaning. Fred Dean put me in charge of a small crew of gazoonies, and by the time the CLOSED FOR THE SEASON sign went up out front, we had raked and cut every lawn, prepared every flowerbed for winter, and scrubbed down every joint and shy. We slapped together a prefab corrugated metal shed in the backyard and stored the food carts (called grubrollers in the Talk) there for the winter, each popcorn wagon, SnoCone wagon, and PupaLicious wagon snugged under its own green tarp. When the gazoonies headed north to pick apples, I started the winterizing process with Lane Hardy and Eddie Parks, the illtempered vet who ran Horror House (and Team Doberman) during the season. We drained the fountain at the intersection of Joyland Avenue and Hound Dog Way, and had moved on to Captain Nemos Splash  Crasha much bigger jobwhen Bradley Easterbrook, dressed for traveling in his black suit, came by. Im off to Sarasota this evening, he told us. Brenda Rafferty will be with me, as usual. he smiled, showing those horse teeth of his. Im touring the park and saying my thankyous. To those who are left, that is. Have a wonderful winter, Mr. Easterbrook, Lane said. Eddie muttered something that sounded to me like eat a wooden ship, but was probably have a good trip. Thanks for everything, I said. He shook hands with the three of us, coming to me last. I hope to see you again next year, Jonesy. I think youre a young man with more than a little carny in his soul. But he didnt see me the following year, and nobody saw him. Mr. Easterbrook died on New Years Day, in a condo on John Ringling Boulevard, less than half a mile from where the famous circus winters. Crazy old bastid, Parks said, watching Easterbrook walk to his car, where Brenda was waiting to receive him and help him in. Lane gave him a long, steady look, then said Shut it, Eddie. Eddie did. Which was probably wise. One morning, as I walked to Joyland with my croissants, the Jack Russell finally trotted down the beach to investigate me. Milo, come back! the woman called. Milo turned to look at her, then looked back at me with his bright black eyes. On impulse, I tore a piece from one of my pastries, squatted, and held it out to him. Milo came like a shot. Dont you feed him! the woman called sharply. Aw, Mom, get over it, the boy said. Milo heard her and didnt take the shred of croissant . . . but he did sit up before me with his front paws held out. I gave him the bite. I wont do it again, I said, getting up, but I couldnt let a good trick go to waste. The woman snorted and went back to her book, which was thick and looked arduous. The boy called, We feed him all the time. He never puts on weight, just runs it off. Without looking up from her book, Mom said What do we know about talking to strangers, MikeO? Hes not exactly a stranger when we see him every day, the boy pointed out. Reasonably enough, at least from my point of view. Im Devin Jones, I said. From down the beach. I work at Joyland. Then you wont want to be late. Still not looking up. The boy shrugged at mewhattaya gonna do, it said. He was pale and as bentover as an old man, but I thought there was a lively sense of humor in that shrug and the look that went with it. I returned the shrug and walked on. The next morning I took care to finish my croissants before I got to the big green Victorian so Milo wouldnt be tempted, but I waved. The kid, Mike, waved back. The woman was in her usual place under the green umbrella, and she had no book, butas per usualshe didnt wave to me. Her lovely face was closed. There is nothing here for you, it said. Go on down to your trumpery amusement park and leave us alone. So that was what I did. But I continued to wave, and the kid waved back. Morning and night, the kid waved back. The Monday after Gary Pop Allen left for Floridabound for Alstons AllStar Carnival in Jacksonville, where he had a job waiting as shybossI arrived at Joyland and found Eddie Parks, my least favorite old timer, sitting in front of Horror House on an applebox. Smoking was verboten in the park, but with Mr. Easterbrook gone and Fred Dean nowhere in evidence, Eddie seemed to feel it safe to flout the rule. He was smoking with his gloves on, which would have struck me as strange if he ever took them off, but he never seemed to. There you are, kiddo, and only five minutes late. Everyone else called me either Dev or Jonesy, but to Eddie I was just kiddo, and always would be. Ive got seventhirty on the nose, I said, tapping my watch. Then youre slow. Why dont you drive from town, like everybody else? You could be here in five minutes. I like the beach. I dont give a tin shit what you like, kiddo, just get here on time. This isnt like one of your college classes, when you can duck in and out anytime you want to. This is a job, and now that the Head Beagle is gone, youre gonna work like its a job. I could have pointed out that Pop had told me Lane Hardy would be in charge of my schedule after he, Pop, was gone, but kept my lip zipped. No sense making a bad situation worse. As to why Eddie had taken a dislike to me, that was obvious. Eddie was an equalopportunity disliker. Id go to Lane if life with Eddie got too hard, but only as a last resort. My father had taught memostly by examplethat if a man wanted to be in charge of his life, he had to be in charge of his problems. What have you got for me, Mr. Parks? Plenty. I want you to get a tub of Turtle Wax from the supply shed to start with, and dont be lingerin down there to shoot the shit with any of your pals, either. Then I want you to go on in Horra and wax all them cars. Except, of course, he said it caaas. You know we wax em once the seasons over, dont you? Actually I didnt. Jesus Christ, you kids. He stomped on his cigarette butt, then lifted the applebox he was sitting on enough to toss it under. As if that would make it gone. You want to really put some elbowgrease into it, kiddo, or Ill send you back in to do it again. You got that? I got it. Good for you. He stuck another cigarette in his gob, then fumbled in his pants pocket for his lighter. With the gloves on, it took him awhile. He finally got it, flicked back the lid, then stopped. What are you looking at? Nothing, I said. Then get going. Flip on the house lights so you can see what the fuck youre doing. You know where the switches are, dont you? I didnt, but Id find them without his help. Sure. He eyed me sourly. Aint you the smart one. Smaaat. I found a metal box marked LTS on the wall between the Wax Museum and the Barrel and Bridge Room. I opened it and flipped up all the switches with the heel of my hand. Horror House should have lost all of its cheesysinister mystique with all the house lights on, but somehow didnt. There were still shadows in the corners, and I could hear the windquite strong that morningblowing outside the joints thin wooden walls and rattling a loose board somewhere. I made a mental note to track it down and fix it. I had a wire basket swinging from one hand. It was filled with clean rags and a giant economysize can of Turtle Wax. I carried it through the Tilted Roomnow frozen on a starboard slantand into the arcade. I looked at the SkeeBall machines and remembered Erins disapproval Dont they know thats a complete butchers game? I smiled at the memory, but my heart was beating hard. I knew what I was going to do when Id finished my chore, you see. The cars, twenty in all, were lined up at the loading point. Ahead, the tunnel leading into the bowels of Horror House was lit by a pair of bright white work lights instead of flashing strobes. It looked a lot more prosaic that way. I was pretty sure Eddie hadnt so much as swiped the little cars with a damp rag all summer long, and that meant I had to start by washing them down. Which also meant fetching soap powder from the supply shed and carrying buckets of water from the nearest working tap. By the time I had all twenty cars washed and rinsed off, it was breaktime, but I decided to work right through instead of going out to the backyard or down to the boneyard for coffee. I might meet Eddie at either place, and Id listened to enough of his grouchy bullshit for one morning. I set to work polishing instead, laying the Turtle Wax on thick and then buffing it off, moving from car to car, making them shine in the overhead lights until they looked new again. Not that the next crowd of thrillseekers would notice as they crowded in for their nineminute ride. My own gloves were ruined by the time I was finished. Id have to buy a new pair at the hardware store in town, and good ones didnt come cheap. I amused myself briefly by imagining how Eddie would react if I asked him to pay for them. I stashed my basket of dirty rags and Turtle Wax (the can now mostly empty) by the exit door in the arcade. It was ten past noon, but right then food wasnt what I was hungry for. I tried to stretch the ache out of my arms and legs, then went back to the loadingpoint. I paused to admire the cars gleaming mellowly beneath the lights, then walked slowly along the track and into Horror House proper. I had to duck my head when I passed beneath the Screaming Skull, even though it was now pulled up and locked in its home position. Beyond it was the Dungeon, where the live talent from Eddies Team Doberman had tried (and mostly succeeded) in scaring the crap out of children of all ages with their moans and howls. Here I could straighten up again, because it was a tall room. My footfalls echoed on a wooden floor painted to look like stone. I could hear my breathing. It sounded harsh and dry. I was scared, okay? Tom had told me to stay away from this place, but Tom didnt run my life any more than Eddie Parks did. I had the Doors, and I had Pink Floyd, but I wanted more. I wanted Linda Gray. Between the Dungeon and the Torture Chamber, the track descended and described a doubleS curve where the cars picked up speed and whipped the riders back and forth. Horror House was a dark ride, but when it was in operation, this stretch was the only completely dark part. It had to be where the girls killer had cut her throat and dumped her body. How quick he must have been, and how certain of exactly what he was going to do! Beyond the last curve, riders were dazzled by a mix of stuttering, multicolored strobes. Although Tom had never said it in so many words, I was positive it was where he had seen what hed seen. I walked slowly down the doubleS, thinking it would not be beyond Eddie to hear me and shut off the overhead worklights as a joke. To leave me in here to feel my way past the murder site with only the sound of the wind and that one slapping board to keep me company. And suppose . . . just suppose . . . a young girls hand reached out in that darkness and took mine, the way Erin had taken my hand that last night on the beach? The lights stayed on. No bloody shirt and gloves appeared beside the track, glowing spectrally. And when I came to what I felt sure was the right spot, just before the entrance to the Torture Chamber, there was no ghostgirl holding her hands out to me. Yet something was there. I knew it then and I know it now. The air was colder. Not cold enough to see my breath, but yes, definitely colder. My arms and legs and groin all prickled with gooseflesh, and the hair at the nape of my neck stiffened. Let me see you, I whispered, feeling foolish and terrified. Wanting it to happen, hoping it wouldnt. There was a sound. A long, slow sigh. Not a human sigh, not in the least. It was as if someone had opened an invisible steamvalve. Then it was gone. There was no more. Not that day. Took you long enough, Eddie said when I finally reappeared at quarter to one. He was seated on the same applebox, now with the remains of a BLT in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. I was filthy from the neck down. Eddie, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy. The cars were pretty dirty. I had to wash them before I could wax them. Eddie hawked back phlegm, twisted his head, and spat. If you want a medal, Im fresh out. Go find Hardy. He says its time to drain the irrygation system. That should keep a lagass like you busy until quittin time. If it dont, come see me and Ill find something else for you to do. I got a whole list, believe me. Okay. I started off, glad to be going. Kiddo! I turned back reluctantly. Did you see her in there? Huh? He grinned unpleasantly. Dont huh me. I know what you were doin. You werent the first, and you wont be the last. Did you see her? Have you ever seen her? Nope. He looked at me, sly little gimlet eyes peering out of a narrow sunburned face. How old was he? Thirty? Sixty? It was impossible to tell, just as it was impossible to tell if he was speaking the truth. I didnt care. I just wanted to be away from him. He gave me the creeps. Eddie raised his gloved hands. The guy who did it wore a pair of these. Did you know that? I nodded. Also an extra shirt. Thats right. His grin widened. To keep the blood off. And it worked, didnt it? They never caught him. Now get out of here. When I got to the Spin, only Lanes shadow was there to greet me. The man it belonged to was halfway up the wheel, climbing the struts. He tested each steel crosspiece before he put his weight on it. A leather toolkit hung on one hip, and every now and then he reached into it for a socket wrench. Joyland only had a single dark ride, but almost a dozen socalled high rides, including the Spin, the Zipper, the Thunderball, and the Delirium Shaker. There was a threeman maintenance crew that checked them each day before Early Gate during the season, and of course there were visits (both announced and unannounced) from the North Carolina State Inspector of Amusements, but Lane said a ridejock who didnt check his ride himself was both lazy and irresponsible. Which made me wonder when Eddie Parks had last ridden in one of his own caaas and safetychecked the baaas. Lane looked down, saw me, and shouted Did that ugly sonofabitch ever give you a lunch break? I worked through it, I called back. Lost track of time. But now I was hungry. Theres some tunaandmacaroni salad in my doghouse, if you want it. I made up way too much last night. I went into the little control shack, found a goodsized Tupperware container, and popped it open. By the time Lane was back on the ground, the tunaandmacaroni was in my stomach and I was tamping it down with a couple of leftover Fig Newtons. Thanks, Lane. That was tasty. Yeah, Ill make some guy a good wife someday. Gimme some of those Newtons before they all go down your throat. I handed over the box. Hows the ride? The Spin is tight and the Spin is right. Want to help me work on the engine for a while after youve digested a little? Sure. He took off his derby and spun it on his finger. His hair was pulled back in a tight little ponytail, and I noticed a few threads of white in the black. They hadnt been there at the start of the summerI was quite sure of it. Listen, Jonesy, Eddie Parks is carnyfromcarny, but that doesnt change the fact that hes one meanass sonofabitch. In his eyes, you got two strikes against you youre young and youve been educated beyond the eighth grade. When you get tired of taking his shit, tell me and Ill get him to back off. Thanks, but Im okay for now. I know you are. Ive been watching how you handle yourself, and Im impressed. But Eddies not your average bear. Hes a bully, I said. Yeah, but heres the good news like with most bullies, you scratch the surface and find pure chickenshit underneath. Usually not very far underneath, either. There are people on the show hes afraid of, and I happen to be one of them. Ive whacked his nose before and I dont mind whacking it again. All Im saying is that if the day comes when you want a little breathing room, Ill see that you get it. Can I ask you a question about him? Shoot. Why does he always wear those gloves? Lane laughed, stuck his derby on his head, and gave it the correct tilt. Psoriasis. His hands are scaly with it, or so he saysI cant tell you the last time I actually saw them. He says without the gloves, he scratches them until they bleed. Maybe thats what makes him so badtempered. I think its more likely the other way aroundthe bad temper made the bad skin. He tapped his temple. Head controls body, thats what I believe. Come on, Jonesy, lets get to work. We finished putting the Spin right for its long winters nap, then moved on to the irrigation system. By the time the pipes were blown out with compressed air and the drains had swallowed several gallons of antifreeze, the sun was lowering toward the trees west of the park and the shadows were lengthening. Thats enough for today, Lane said. More than enough. Bring me your card and Ill sign it. I tapped my watch, showing him it was only quarter past five. He shook his head, smiling. Ive got no problem writing six on the card. You did twelve hours worth today, kiddo. Twelve easy. Okay, I said, but dont call me kiddo. Thats what he calls me. I jerked my head toward Horror House. Ill make a note of it. Now bring me your card and buzz off. The wind had died a little during the afternoon, but it was still warm and breezy when I set off down the beach. On many of those walks back to town I liked to watch my long shadow on the waves, but that evening I mostly watched my feet. I was tired out. What I wanted was a ham and cheese sandwich from Bettys Bakery and a couple of beers from the 7Eleven next door. Id go back to my room, settle into my chair by the window, and read me some Tolkien as I ate. I was deep into The Two Towers. What made me look up was the boys voice. The breeze was in my favor, and I could hear him clearly. Faster; Mom! Youve almost g He was temporarily stopped by a coughing fit. Then Youve almost got it! Mikes mother was on the beach tonight instead of beneath her umbrella. She was running toward me but didnt see me, because she was looking at the kite she was holding over her head. The string ran back to the boy, seated in his wheelchair at the end of the boardwalk. Wrong direction, Mom, I thought. She released the kite. It rose a foot or two, wagged naughtily from side to side, then took a dive into the sand. The breeze kicked up and it went skittering. She had to chase it down. Once more! Mike called.