Joyland

smiled—it was an effort, I won’t kid you about that—and said, “Message received. As far as I’m concerned, our little research project is over.” So relax, Thomas. You can stop thinking about what happened in Horror House. About what you saw there.
    “Good. We’re still friends, right?”
    I reached across the table. “Friends to the end,” I said.
    We shook on it.

    The Wiggle-Waggle Village’s Story Stage had three backdrops: Prince Charming’s Castle, Jack’s Magic Beanstalk, and a starry night sky featuring the Carolina Spin outlined in red neon. All three had sun-faded over the course of the summer. I was in the Wiggle-Waggle’s small backstage area on Monday morning, touching them up (and hoping not to fuck them up—I was no Van Gogh) when one of the part-time gazoonies arrived with a message from Fred Dean. I was wanted in his office.
    I went with some unease, wondering if I was going to get a reaming for bringing Erin into the park on Saturday. I was surprised to find Fred dressed not in one of his suits or his amusing golf outfit, but in faded jeans and an equally faded Joyland tee-shirt, the short sleeves rolled to show some real muscle. There was a paisley sweatband cinched around his brow. He didn’t look like an accountant or the park’s chief employment officer; he looked like a ride-jock.
    He registered my surprise and smiled. “Like the outfit? I must admit I do. It’s the way I dressed when I caught on with the Blitz Brothers show in the Midwest, back in the fifties. My mother was okay with the Blitzies, but my dad was horrified. And he was carny.”
    “I know,” I said.
    He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Word gets around, doesn’t it? Anyway, there’s a lot to do this afternoon.”
    “Just give me a list. I’m almost done painting the backdrops in the—”
    “Not at all, Jonesy. You’re signing out at noon today, and I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning at nine, when you turn up with your guests. Don’t worry about your paycheck, either. I’ll see you’re not docked for the hours you miss.”
    “What’s this about, Fred?”
    He gave me a smile I couldn’t interpret. “It’s a surprise.”

    That Monday was warm and sunny, and Annie and Mike were having lunch at the end of the boardwalk when I walked back to Heaven’s Bay. Milo saw me coming and raced to meet me.
    “Dev!” Mike called. “Come and have a sandwich! We’ve got plenty!”
    “No, I really shouldn’t—”
    “We insist,” Annie said. Then her brow furrowed. “Unless you’re sick, or something. I don’t want Mike to catch a bug.”
    “I’m fine, just got sent home early. Mr. Dean—he’s my boss—wouldn’t tell me why. He said it was a surprise. It’s got something to do with tomorrow, I guess.” I looked at her with some anxiety. “We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”
    “Yes,” she said. “When I surrender, I surrender. Just . . . we’re not going to tire him out. Are we, Dev?”
    “ Mom ,” Mike said.
    She paid him no mind. “Are we?”
    “No, ma’am.” Although seeing Fred Dean dressed up like a carny road dog, with all those unsuspected muscles showing, had made me uneasy. Had I made it clear to him how fragile Mike’s health was? I thought so, but—
    “Then come on up here and have a sandwich,” she said. “I hope you like egg salad.”

    I didn’t sleep well on Monday night, half-convinced that the tropical storm Fred had mentioned would arrive early and wash out Mike’s trip to the park, but Tuesday dawned cloudless. I crept down to the parlor and turned on the TV in time to get the six forty-five weathercast on WECT. The storm was still coming, but the only people who were going to feel it today were the ones living in coastal Florida and Georgia. I hoped Mr. Easterbrook had packed his galoshes.
    “You’re up early,” Mrs. Shoplaw said, poking her head in from the kitchen. “I was just making scrambled eggs and bacon. Come have some.”
    “I’m not that hungry, Mrs. S.”
    “Nonsense. You’re still a growing boy, Devin, and you need to eat. Erin told me what you’ve got going on today, and I think you’re doing a wonderful thing. It will be fine.”
    “I hope you’re right,” I said, but I kept thinking of Fred Dean in his work-clothes. Fred, who’d sent me home early. Fred, who had a surprise planned.

    We had made our arrangements at lunch the day before, and when I turned my old car into the driveway of the big green