Joyland(14)

"There's always the bus," I said, already knowing that wasn't going to work.

"I promised, honey. And we have tickets for Pippin, at the Imperial. Renee's dad got them for us, as a surprise." She paused.

"Be happy for me. You're going all the way to North Carolina, and I'm happy for you."

"Happy," I said. "Roger-wilco."

"That's better." Her voice dropped, became confidential.

"Next time we're together, I'll make it up to you. Promise."



Joy land





49


That was a promise she never kept but one she never had to break, either, because I never saw Wendy Keegan after that day in Professor Nako's "office." There wasn't even a final phone call filled with tears and accusations. That was on Tom Kennedy's advice (we'll get to him shortly), and it was probably a good thing. Wendy might have been expecting such a call, maybe even wished for it. If so, she was disappointed.

I hope she was. All these years later, with those old fevers and deliriums long in my past, I still hope she was.

Love leaves scars.

?

I never produced the books I dreamed of, those well-reviewed almost-bestsellers, but I do make a pretty good living as a writer, and I count my blessings; thousands are not so lucky. I've moved steadily up the income ladder to where I am now, working at Commercial Flight, a periodical you've probably never heard of.

A year after I took over as editor-in-chief, I found myself back on the U N H campus. I was there to attend a two-day symposium on the future of trade magazines in the twentyfirst century. During a break on the second day, I strolled over to Hamilton Smith Hall on a whim and peeked under the basement stairs. The themes, celebrity-studded seating charts, and Albanian artwork were gone. So were the chairs, the sofa, and the standing ashtrays. And yet someone remembered. Scotchtaped to the underside of the stairs, where there had once been a sign proclaiming that the smoking lamp was always lit, I saw a sheet of paper with a single typed line in print so small I had to lean close and stand on tiptoe in order to read it: Professor Nako now teaches at t.he Hogwa.rts School of Witchora.fl:. and Wizardry.





50


STEPHEN KING


Well, why not?

Why the f*ck not?

As for Wendy, your guess is as good as mine. I suppose I could use Coogle, that twentyfirst century Magic 8-Ball, to chase her down and find out if she ever realized her dream, the one of owning the exclusive little boutique, but to what purpose?

Gone is gone. Over is over. And after my stint in Joyland (just down the beach from a town called Heaven's Bay, let's not forget that), my broken heart seemed a lot less important. Mike and Annie Ross had a lot to do with that.

?

My dad and I ended up eating his famous chicken casserole with no third party in attendance, which was probably all right with Timothy Jones; although he tried to hide it out of respect for me, I knew his feelings about Wendy were about the same as mine about Wendy's friend Renee. At the time, I thought it was because he was a bit jealous of Wendy's place in my life.

Now I think he saw her more clearly than I could. I can't say for sure; we never talked about it. I'm not sure men know how to talk about women in any meaningful way.

After the meal was eaten and the dishes washed, we sat on the couch, drinking beer, eating popcorn, and watching a movie starring Gene Hackman as a tough cop with a foot fetish. I missed Wendy-probably at that moment listening to the Pippin company sing "Spread a Little Sunshine"-but there are advantages to the two-guy scenario, such as being able to belch and fart without trying to cover it up.

The next day-my last at home-we went for a walk along the disused railroad tracks that passed through the woods behind



Joy land

the house where I grew up. Mom's hard and fast rule had been that my friends and I had to stay away from those tracks. The last GS&WM freight had passed along them ten years before, and weeds were growing up between the rusty ties, but that made no difference to Mom. She was convinced that if we played there, one last train (call it the Kid-Eating Special) would go bulleting through and turn us all to paste. Only she was the one who got hit by an unscheduled train-metastatic breast cancer at the age of forty-seven. One mean f*cking express.

'Til miss having you around this summer," my dad said.

'Til miss you, too."

"Oh! Before I forget." He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a check. "Be sure to open an account and deposit it first thing. Ask them to speed the clearance, if they can."

I looked at the amount: not the five hundred I'd asked for, but a thousand. "Dad, can you afford this?"

"Yes. Mostly because you held onto your Commons job, and that saved me having to try and make up the difference. Think of it as a bonus."

I kissed his cheek, which was scratchy. He hadn't shaved that morning. "Thanks."

"Kid, you're more welcome than you know." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes matter-of-factly, without embarrassment. "Sorry about the waterworks. It's hard when your kids go away. Someday you'll find that out for yourself, but hopefully you'll have a good woman to keep you company after they're gone."

I thought of Mrs. Shoplaw saying Kids are such a risk. "Dad, are you going to be okay?"