Joyland

control.
    Another time,’ I said, and handed him the reel of twine. “I love your Christ-kite. Your dog ain’t bad, either.” I bent and patted Milo’s head.
    “Oh . . . okay. Another time. But don’t wait too long, because—”
    Mom interposed hastily. “Can you go to work a little earlier tomorrow, Mr. Jones?”
    “Sure, I guess.”
    “We could have fruit smoothies right here, if the weather’s nice. I make a mean fruit smoothie.”
    I bet she did. And that way, she wouldn’t have to have a strange man in the house.
    “Will you?” Mike asked. “That’d be cool.”
    “I’d love to. I’ll bring a bag of pastries from Betty’s.”
    “Oh, you don’t have to—” she began.
    “My pleasure, ma’am.”
    “Oh!” She looked startled. “I never introduced myself, did I? I’m Ann Ross.” She held out her hand.
    “I’d shake it, Mrs. Ross, but I really am filthy.” I showed her my hands. “It’s probably on the kite, too.”
    “You should have given Jesus a mustache!” Mike shouted, and then laughed himself into another coughing fit.
    “You’re getting a little loose with the twine there, Mike,” I said. “Better reel it in.” And, as he started doing it, I gave Milo a farewell pat and started back down the beach.
    “Mr. Jones,” she called.
    I turned back. She was standing straight, with her chin raised. Sweat had molded the shirt to her, and she had great breasts.
    “It’s Miss Ross. But since I guess we’ve now been properly introduced, why don’t you call me Annie?”
    “I can do that.” I pointed at her shirt. “What’s a match competition? And why is it prone?”
    “That’s when you shoot lying down,” Mike said.
    “Haven’t done it in ages,” she said, in a curt tone that suggested she wanted the subject closed.
    Fine with me. I tipped Mike a wave and he sent one right back. He was grinning. Kid had a great grin.
    Forty or fifty yards down the beach, I turned around for another look. The kite was descending, but for the time being the wind still owned it. They were looking up at it, the woman with her hand on her son’s shoulder.
    Miss, I thought. Miss, not Mrs. And is there a mister with them in the big old Victorian with the seventy bathrooms? Just because I’d never seen one with them didn’t mean there wasn’t one, but I didn’t think so. I thought it was just the two of them. On their own.

I got no clarification from Annie Ross the next morning, but plenty of dish from Mike. I also got one hell of a nice fruit smoothie. She said she made the yogurt herself, and it was layered with fresh strawberries from God knows where. I brought croissants and blueberry muffins from Betty’s Bakery. Mike skipped the pastries, but finished his smoothie and asked for another. From the way his mother’s mouth dropped open, I gathered that this was an astounding development. But not, I guessed, in a bad way.
    “Are you sure you can eat another one?”
    “Maybe just half,” he said. “What’s the deal, Mom? You’re the one who says fresh yogurt helps me move my bowels.”
    “I don’t think we need to discuss your bowels at seven in the morning, Mike.” She got up, then cast a doubtful glance my way.
    “Don’t worry,” Mike said brightly, “if he tries to kiddie-fiddle me, I’ll tell Milo to sic ’im.”
    Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Michael Everett Ross!”
    “Sorry,” he said. He didn’t look sorry. His eyes were sparkling.
    “Don’t apologize to me, apologize to Mr. Jones.”
    “Accepted, accepted.”
    “Will you keep an eye on him, Mr. Jones? I won’t be long.”
    “I will if you’ll call me Devin.”
    “Then I’ll do that.” She hurried up the boardwalk, pausing once to look over her shoulder. I think she had more than half a mind to come back, but in the end, the prospect of stuffing a few more healthy calories into her painfully thin boy was too much for her to resist, and she went on.
    Mike watched her climb the steps to the back patio and sighed. “Now I’ll have to eat it.”
    “Well . . . yeah. You asked for it, right?”
    “Only so I could talk to you without her butting in. I mean, I love her and all, but she’s always butting in. Like what’s wrong with me is this big shameful secret we have to keep.” He shrugged. “I’ve got muscular dystrophy, that’s all. That’s why I’m in the wheelchair. I can walk, you know, but the braces and crutches are a pain in the butt.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “That stinks,