Joyland

Victorian at eight-thirty on Tuesday morning, Annie and Mike were ready to go. So was Milo.
    “Are you sure nobody will mind us bringing him?” Mike had asked on Monday. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”
    “Service dogs are allowed in Joyland,” I said, “and Milo’s going to be a service dog. Aren’t you, Milo?”
    Milo had cocked his head, apparently unfamiliar with the service dog concept.
    Today Mike was wearing his huge, clanky braces. I moved to help him into the van, but he waved me off and did it himself. It took a lot of effort and I expected a coughing fit, but none came. He was practically bouncing with excitement. Annie, looking impossibly long-legged in Lee Riders, handed me the van keys. “You drive.” And lowering her voice so Mike wouldn’t hear: “I’m too goddam nervous to do it.”
    I was nervous, too. I’d bulldozed her into this, after all. I’d had help from Mike, true, but I was the adult. If it went wrong, it would be on me. I wasn’t much for prayer, but as I loaded Mike’s crutches and wheelchair into the back of the van, I sent one up that nothing would go wrong. Then I backed out of the driveway, turned onto Beach Drive, and drove past the billboard reading BRING YOUR KIDS TO JOYLAND FOR THE TIME OF THEIR LIVES!
    Annie was in the passenger seat, and I thought she had never looked more beautiful than she did that October morning, in her faded jeans and a light sweater, her hair tied back with a hank of blue yarn.
    “Thank you for this, Dev,” she said. “I just hope we’re doing the right thing.”
    “We are,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Because, now that it was a done deal, I had my doubts.

    The Joyland sign was lit up—that was the first tiling I noticed. The second was that the summertime get-happy music was playing through the loudspeakers: a sonic parade of late sixties and early seventies hits. I had intended to park in one of the Lot A handicapped spaces—they were only fifty feet or so from the park entrance—but before I could do so, Fred Dean stepped through the open gate and beckoned us forward. Today he wasn’t wearing just any suit but the three-piecer he saved for the occasional celebrity who rated a VIP tour. The suit I had seen, but never the black silk top hat, which looked like the kind you saw diplomats wearing in old newsreel footage.
    “Is this usual?” Annie asked.
    “Sure,” I said, a trifle giddily. None of it was usual.
    I drove through the gate and onto Joyland Avenue, pulling up next to the park bench outside the Wiggle-Waggle Village where I had once sat with Mr. Easterbrook after my first turn as Howie.
    Mike wanted to get out of the van the way he’d gotten in: by himself. I stood by, ready to catch him if he lost his balance, while Annie hoisted the wheelchair out of the back. Milo sat at my feet, tail thumping, ears cocked, eyes bright.
    As Annie rolled the wheelchair up, Fred approached in a cloud of aftershave. He was . . . resplendent. There’s really no other word for it. He took off his hat, bowed to Annie, then held out a hand. “You must be Mike’s mother.” You have to remember that Ms. wasn’t common usage back then, and, nervous as I was, I took a moment to appreciate how deftly he had avoided the Miss/Mrs. dichotomy.
    “I am,” she said. I don’t know if she was flustered by his courtliness or by the difference in the way they were dressed—she amusement-park casual, he state-visit formal—but flustered she was. She shook his hand, though. “And this young man—”
    “—is Michael.” He offered his hand to the wide-eyed boy standing there in his steel supports. “Thank you for coming today.”
    “You’re welcome . . . I mean, thank you. Thank you for having us.” He shook Fred’s hand. “This place is huge.”
    It wasn’t, of course; Disney World is huge. But to a ten-year-old who had never been to an amusement park, it had to look that way. For a moment I could see it through his eyes, see it new, and my doubts about bringing him began to melt away.
    Fred bent down to examine the third member of the Ross family, hands on his knees. “And you’re Milo!”
    Milo barked.
    “Yes,” Fred said, “and I am equally pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, waiting for Milo to raise his paw. When he did, Fred shook it.
    “How do you know our dog’s name?” Annie asked. “Did Dev tell you?”
    He straightened, smiling. “He did not. I know because this is a