Stephen King - Joyland

Tom handed me a scrap of paper. “My home address, school address, phone numbers for both. I expect you to use them.”

“I will.”

“You’re 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 couldn’t cuss at him—her mouth was full of pins at the time—but 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 head-jerk, 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 punch-clock 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 time-card.

“I’ve got another hour,” I said.

“Nah, someone’s 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 Pop’s shriveled-up raisin of a heart for anyone, but there was, and that summer Miss Erin Cook owned it.

“You know the deal tomorrow?”

“Seven-thirty to six,” I said. And no fur. What a blessing.

“I’ll be running you for the first couple of weeks, then I’m off to sunny Florida. After that, you’re Lane Hardy’s responsibility. And Freddy Dean, I guess, if he happens to notice you’re still around.”

“Got it.”

“Good. I’ll sign your card and then you’re ten-forty-two.” 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. I’ll miss her.”

He wasn’t the only one.

Erin had also begun making the transition back from Joyland Life to Real Life. Gone were the faded jeans and tee-shirt with the sassy rolled-to-the-shoulder 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 A-line skirt. Her hair was pinned back and she looked gorgeous.

“Walk me up the beach,” she said. “I’ll just have time to catch the bus to Wilmington. I’m meeting Tom.”

“He told me. But never mind the bus. I’ll drive you.”

“Would you do that?”

“Sure.”

We walked along the fine white sand. A half-moon had risen in the sky, and it beat a track across the water. Halfway to Heaven’s Beach—it was, in fact, not far from the big green Victorian that played such a part in my life that fall—she took my hand, and we walked that way. We didn’t say much until we reached the steps leading up to the beach parking lot. There she turned to me.

“You’ll get over her.” Her eyes were on mine. She wasn’t wearing makeup that night, and didn’t need any. The moonlight was her makeup.

“Yes,” I said. I knew it was true, and part of me was sorry. It’s hard to let go. Even when what you’re holding onto is full of thorns, it’s 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 doesn’t fit into his philosophy of how the world works, so he’s 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 B&B Tom had booked. She said she’d rather take a taxi there. I started to protest that it was a waste of money, then didn’t. 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 hadn’t 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.”

“I’ll remember. You’re a sweet man.”

I don’t 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 didn’t. 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 Heaven’s Beach, and Mrs. Shoplaw’s, and my autumn at Joyland—both the best and worst autumn of my life.

Were Annie and Mike Ross sitting at the end of the green Victorian’s 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 can’t be completely sure. They became such an important part of the scenery—such a landmark—that it’s impossible to pinpoint the first time I actually noticed their presence. Nothing screws with memory like repetition.

Ten years after the events I’m telling you about, I was (for my sins, maybe) a staff writer on Cleveland magazine. I used to do most of my first-draft 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 couldn’t 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 beautiful—high cheekbones, wide-set 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 didn’t wave, and she certainly never flashed the peace sign.