Joyland

steal the damaged heart she loved so well. It was a kind of atavistic belief—a mother’s belief—that if they never started doing certain last things, life would go on as it had: morning smoothies at the end of the boardwalk, evenings with the kite at the end of the boardwalk, all of it in a kind of endless summer. Only it was October now and the beach was deserted. The happy screams of teenagers on the Thunderball and little kids shooting down the Splash & Crash water slide had ceased, there was a nip in the air as the days drew down. No summer is endless.
    She put her hands over her face and sat down on the passenger seat of the van. It was too high for her, and she almost slid off. I caught her and steadied her. I don’t think she noticed.
    “Go on, take him,” she said. “I don’t give a fuck. Take him parachute-jumping, if you want. Just don’t expect me to be a part of your . . . your boys’ adventure.”
    Mike said, “I can’t go without you.”
    That got her to drop her hands and look at him. “Michael, you’re all I’ve got. Do you understand that?”
    “Yes,” he said. He took one of her hands in both of his. “And you’re all I’ve got.”
    I could see by her face that the idea had never crossed her mind, not really.
    “Help me get in,” Mike said. “Both of you, please.”
    When he was settled (I don’t remember fastening his seatbelt, so maybe this was before they were a big deal), I closed the door and walked around the nose of the van with her.
    “His chair,” she said distractedly. “I have to get his chair.”
    “I’ll put it in. You sit behind the wheel and get yourself ready to drive. Take a few deep breaths.”
    She let me help her in. I had her above the elbow, and I could close my whole hand around her upper arm. I thought of telling her she couldn’t live on arduous novels alone, and thought better of it. She had been told enough this afternoon.
    I folded the wheelchair and stowed it in the cargo compartment, taking longer with the job than I needed to, giving her time to compose herself. When I went back to the driver’s side, I half-expected to find the window rolled up, but it was still down. She had wiped her eyes and nose, and pushed her hair into some semblance of order.
    I said, “He can’t go without you, and neither can I.”
    She spoke to me as if Mike weren’t there and listening. “I’m so afraid for him, all the time. He sees so much, and so much of it hurts him. That’s what the nightmares are about, I know it. He’s such a great kid. Why can’t he just get well? Why this? Why this?”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    She turned to kiss Mike’s cheek. Then she turned back to me. Drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out. “So when do we go?” she asked.

The Return of the King was surely not as arduous as The Dissertation, but that night I couldn’t have read The Cat in the Hat. After eating some canned spaghetti for supper (and largely ignoring Mrs. Shoplaw’s pointed observations about how some young people seem determined to mistreat their bodies), I went up to my room and sat by the window, staring out at the dark and listening to the steady beat-and-retreat of the surf.
    I was on the verge of dozing when Mrs. S. knocked lightly on my door and said, “You’ve got a call, Dev. It’s a little boy.”
    I went down to the parlor in a hurry, because I could think of only one little boy who might call me.
    “Mike?”
    He spoke in a low voice. “My mom is sleeping. She said she was tired.”
    “I bet she was,” I said, thinking of how we’d ganged up on her.
    “I know we did,” Mike said, as if I had spoken the thought aloud. “We had to.”
    “Mike . . . can you read minds? Are you reading mine?”
    “I don’t really know,” he said. “Sometimes I see things and hear things, that’s all. And sometimes I get ideas. It was my idea to come to Grampa’s house. Mom said he’d never let us, but I knew he would. Whatever I have, the special thing, I think it came from him. He heals people, you know. I mean, sometimes he fakes it, but sometimes he really does.”
    “Why did you call, Mike?”
    He grew animated. “About Joyland! Can we really ride the merry-go-round and the Ferris wheel?”
    “I’m pretty sure.”
    “Shoot in the shooting gallery?”
    “Maybe. If your mother says so. All this stuff is contingent on your mother’s approval. That means—”
    “I know what it means.” Sounding impatient. Then the