Joyland

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. 'Til 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."

'Til 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.

20

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.