Joyland by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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, Mike.”

“I guess, but I can’t remember not having it, so what the hell. Only it’s a special kind of MD. Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy, it’s called. Most kids who have it croak in their teens or early twenties.”

So, you tell me—what do you say to a ten-year-old kid who’s just told you he’s living under a death sentence?

“But.” He raised a teacherly finger. “Remember her talking about how I was sick last year?”

“Mike, you don’t have to tell me all this if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, except I do.” He was looking at me with clear intensity. Maybe even urgency. “Because you want to know. Maybe you even need to know.”

I was thinking of Fortuna again. Two children, she had told me, a girl in a red hat and a boy with a dog. She said one of them had the sight, but she didn’t know which. I thought that now I did.

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