Joyland

girls—but tips were encouraged. And legal under North Carolina law. When she opened the box, I saw a sheaf of crumpled bills, mostly ones, something that looked suspiciously like a punch-board ( not legal under North Carolina law), and a single small envelope. Printed on the front was my name. She held it out. I hesitated, then took it.
    “You didn’t come to Joyland today just to ask me that,” she said.
    “Well . . .”
    She waved me off again. “You know exactly what you want. In the short term, at least. And since the short term is all any of us have, who is Fortuna—or Rozzie Gold, for that matter—to argue with you? Go now. Do what you came here to do. When it’s done, open that and read what I’ve written.” She smiled. “No charge to employees. Especially not good kids like you.”
    “I don’t—”
    She rose in a swirl of skirts and a rattle of jewelry. “Go, Jonesy. We’re finished here.”

    I left her tight little booth in a daze. Music from two dozen shys and rides seemed to hit me like conflicting winds, and the sun was a hammer. I went directly to the administration building (actually a doublewide trailer), gave a courtesy knock, went in, and said hello to Brenda Rafferty, who was going back and forth between an open account book and her faithful adding machine.
    “Hello, Devin,” she said. “Are you taking care of your Hollywood Girl?”
    “Yes, ma’am, we all watch out for her.”
    “Dana Elkhart, isn’t it?”
    “Erin Cook, ma’am.”
    “Erin, of course. Team Beagle. The redhead. What can I do for you?”
    “I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Easterbrook.”
    “He’s resting, and I hate to disturb him. He had an awful lot of phone calls to make earlier, and we still have to go over some numbers, much as I hate to bother him with them. He tires very easily these days.”
    “I wouldn’t be long.”
    She sighed. “I suppose I could see if he’s awake. Can you tell me what it’s about?”
    “A favor,” I said. “He’ll understand.”

    He did, and only asked me two questions. The first was if I was sure. I said I was. The second . . .
    “Have you told your parents yet, Jonesy?”
    “It’s just me and my dad, Mr. Easterbrook, and I’ll do that tonight.”
    “Very well, then. Put Brenda in the picture before you leave. She’ll have all the necessary paperwork, and you can fill it out . . .” Before he could finish, his mouth opened and he displayed his horsey teeth in a vast, gaping yawn. “Excuse me, son. It’s been a tiring day. A tiring summer.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Easterbrook.”
    He waved his hand. “Very welcome. I’m sure you’ll be a great addition, but if you do this without your father’s consent, I shall be disappointed in you. Close the door on your way out, please.”
    I tried not to see Brenda’s frown as she searched her file cabinets and hunted out the various forms Joyland, Inc. required for full-time employment. It didn’t matter, because I felt her disapproval anyway. I folded the paperwork, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, and left.
    Beyond the line of donnikers at the far end of the backyard was a little grove of blackgum trees. I went in there, sat down with my back against one, and opened the envelope Madame Fortuna had given me. The note was brief and to the point.
You’re going to Mr. Easterbrook to ask if you can stay on at the park after Labor Day. You know he will not refuse your request.
    She was right, I wanted to know if she was a fraud. Here was her answer. And yes, I had made up my mind about what came next in the life of Devin Jones. She had been right about that, too.
    But there was one more line.
You saved the little girl, but dear boy! You can’t save everyone.

    After I told my dad I wasn’t going back to UNH—that I needed a year off from college and planned to spend it at Joyland—there was a long silence at the southern Maine end of the line. I thought he might yell at me, but he didn’t. He only sounded tired. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
    I’d told him almost two months earlier that Wendy and I were “taking some time off,” but Dad saw right through that. Since then, he hadn’t spoken her name a single time in our weekly phone conversations. Now she was just that girl. After the first couple of times he said it I tried a joke, asking if he thought I’d been going out with Mario Thomas. He wasn’t amused. I didn’t try again.
    “Wendy’s part of it,” I admitted, “but not all of