Joyland(44)

"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 says-I can't tell you the last time I actually saw them. He says without the gloves, he scratches them until they bleed."

"Maybe that's what makes him so bad-temp?red."

"I think it's more likely the other way around-the bad temper made the bad skin." He tapped his temple. "Head controls body, that's what I believe. Come on, Jonesy, let's get to work."

?



STEPHEN K I N G

We finished putting the Spin right for its long winter's 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.

"That's enough for today," Lane said. "More than enough.

Bring me your card and I'll sign it."

I tapped my watch, showing him it was only quarter past five.

He shook his head, smiling. "''ve got no problem writing six on the card. You did twelve hours' worth today, kiddo. Twelve easy."

"Okay," I said, "but don't call me kiddo. That's what he calls me." I jerked my head toward Horror House.

''I'll 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 Betty's Bakery and a couple of beers from the 7-Eleven next door. I'd 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 boy's voice. The breeze was in my favor, and I could hear him clearly. "Faster, Mom! You've almost g-" He was temporarily stopped by a coughing fit.

Then: "You've almost got it!"

Mike's mother was on the beach tonight instead of beneath Joyland





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her umbrella. She was running toward me but didn't 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. "That time-" Cough-cough-cough, harsh and bronchial. "That time you alnwst had it!"

"No, I didn't." She sounded tired and pissed off. "Goddamned thing hates me. Let's go in and get some sup-"

Milo was sitting beside Mike's wheelchair, watching the evening's activities with bright eyes. When he saw me, he was off like a shot, barking. As I watched him come, I remembered Madame Fortuna's pronouncement on the day I first met her: In your future is a little girl and a little boy. The boy has a dog.

"Milo, come back! " Mom shouted. Her hair had probably started that evening tied up, but after several experiments in aviation, it hung around her face in strings. She pushed it away wearily with the backs of her hands.

Milo paid no attention. He skidded to a stop in front of me with his front paws spraying sand, and did his sitting-up thing. I laughed and patted his head. "That's all you get, pal-no croissants tonight."

He barked at me once, then trotted back to Mom, who was standing ankle-deep in the sand, breathing hard and eyeing me with mistrust. The captured kite hung down by her leg.

" See?" she said. "That's why I didn't want you to feed him.





STEPHEN K I N G

He's a terrible beggar, and he thinks anybody who gives him a scrap is his friend."

"Well, I'm a friendly sort of guy."

"Good to know," she said. "Just don't feed our dog anymore."

She was wearing pedal pushers and an old blue tee-shirt with faded printing on the front. Judging from the sweat-stains on it, she had been trying to get the kite airborne for quite some time. Trying hard, and why not? If I had a kid stuck in a wheelchair, I'd probably want to give him something that would fly, too.

"You're going the wrong way with that thing," I said. "And you don't need to run with it, anyway. I don't know why everybody thinks that."

"''m sure you're quite the expert," she said, "but it's late and I have to get Mike his supper."

"Mom, let him try," Mike said. "Please?"

She stood for a few more seconds with her head lowered and escaped locks of her hair-also sweaty-clumped against her neck. Then she sighed and held the kite out to me. Now I could read the printing on her shirt: CAMP PERRY MATCH COMPETI

TION (PRONE) 1959. The front of the kite was a lot better, and I had to laugh. It was the face of Jesus.

"Private joke," she said. "Don't ask."

"Okay."

"You get one try, Mr. Joyland, and then I'm taking him in for his supper. He can't get chilled. He was sick last year, and he still hasn't gotten over it. He thinks he has, but he hasn't."