Joyland

Tooth Fairy. I’d 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 carny-from-carny, never that).
    Later, dressed in my own duds again, I met with Hallie and her parents in the Joyland Customer Service Center. Close-up, 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 didn’t 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 Mom’s back and said there-there. Dad didn’t 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 before—just 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 couldn’t take money for something that was just part of the job.
    You have to remember I was only twenty-one.

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 sign-up 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, barbecue-flavored potato chips, and coleslaw. For dessert we had s’mores that Erin cooked over the fire, using a grill she borrowed from Pirate Pete’s Ice Cream Waffle joint. It worked pretty well.
    We could see other fires—great leaping bonfires as well as cooking fires—all 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 twenty-first century; the powers that be have a way of outlawing many beautiful things made by ordinary people. I don’t know why that should be, I only know it is.
    While we ate, I told them about Madame Fortuna’s 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 didn’t 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 she’s 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 ninety-five,” said the Hot Shit Professor. “Fortune telling’s a con game, boys and girls. An Ikey Heyman, in the Talk. Take the hat thing. Joyland dogtops only come in three colors—red, blue, and yellow. Red’s by far the most popular. As for the doll, c’mon. How many little kids bring some sort of toy to the amusement park? It’s a strange place, and a favorite toy is a comfort thing. If she hadn’t choked on her hotdog right in front of you, if she’d 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.’ ”
    “You’re such a cynic,” Erin said, giving him an elbow. “Rozzie Gold would never try taking money from someone in the show.”
    “She didn’t 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 dark-haired girl was in my past, not my future, but that could have been no more than a guess based on percentages—or the look on my face when I asked.
    “Course not,” Tom said, helping himself to