upholstery against the back of her thighs.
Harold slid in behind the wheel.
“What do you think of my new dress?” Joan asked.
“It’s very becoming,” he said, and started the car.
“Why don’t we skip the movie?”
“But it’s a classic.” He pulled away from the curb.
“I’ve seen it. It can’t hold a candle to the Orson Wells version. The height of its innovation is having some gals parade around bare-assed. Is that why you’re so eager to see it?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Let’s go to the boardwalk.”
He looked at her. He looked aghast.
“Have you ever been there?”
“Once. And I assure you, once was enough.”
“I’d like to go. It’ll be fun.”
“Joan. You patrol the boardwalk. You’re there every day. Have you lost your senses?”
“What do you think I do while I’m on duty, ride the Ferris wheel and carousel? You know what I did today? I checked out the rest rooms about a dozen times and listened to a bunch of lunatics rant about flying saucers and visits from the Virgin Mary.”
“It’s a disgraceful place. And dangerous.”
“‘Danger knows full well that I am more dangerous than she. We are two lions, whelped by the same—’”
“And dirty. That park is filthy, and you’re wearing a brand-new dress—a white dress. You’ll ruin it the minute you sit down on something. It’s madness. Sheer madness.”
“I’ve seen enough artsy-fart films the past three weeks to choke Renoir. So how about it? Come on, let’s go to Funland. Please? I’ll buy you a cotton candy.”
“I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Party pooper. Okay, never mind. Let’s see Macbeth. I’ll go to the boardwalk some night when you’ve got a class. Maybe meet a nice sailor.”
Harold drove to Funland.
Seven
The age guesser said, “Twenty-three.” Joan showed her driver’s license to prove she was twenty-seven, and he gave her a pencil eraser shaped like a dinosaur.
She tried to get Harold to have his age guessed. He said, “That’d be pressing our luck.”
The way his hairline was receding and his somewhat paunchy stomach held the front of his sport coat open, she figured he stood a good chance of winning. The guy would probably suspect he was closer to forty than thirty-four. Harold, self-conscious about his looks, no doubt preferred to avoid the embarrassment.
They wandered up the boardwalk.
Joan hadn’t been here at night since last summer. It seemed so much more festive after dark: the game booths were brightly lighted; the names of rides and attractions blazed with neon; everywhere she looked, she saw strings of multicolored bulbs. The familiar aromas of cotton candy, popcorn, hot dogs, french fries, machine oil, perfumes and after-shave, and the ocean all smelled more fragrant and alluring than during the day. The crowd was larger. She felt an aura of mystery and anticipation.
It’s like this every night, she thought, and I’ve been missing it.
If Harold would just get into the spirit of the thing…
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“I suppose it’s too late for Macbeth.”
“There must be something here that you’d enjoy. How about the Tilt-a-Whirl?” she asked, stopping to watch people climb out of the hooded cars. Girls laughing. Couples holding each other and staggering. “Come on,” she said. “There’s no line. We can get right on.”
“You go ahead. I’ll stay here and watch.”
“Oh, that would be loads of fun.”
“No, do it. I insist. I don’t want to be responsible for spoiling your fun.”
Joan shrugged. “Maybe later. Come on.” She took his arm and led him away. “We’ll find something you like.”
“Approximately in the year that hell freezes over.”
She spotted the hag with the sock puppet. The old crone hadn’t moved all day. Her sock was darting out, “talking” to people unlucky enough to be passing near her. Joan was tempted to steer Harold in her direction.
After all, he was hot to see Macbeth tonight, and this gal was certainly a weird sister.
But that would be cruel.
She remembered how the puppet had gone for Dave’s leg, and laughed.
“What?” Harold asked.
“One of my favorite bums.” She nodded toward the woman.
Harold looked. “I don’t see anything especially amusing about her.”
“Her puppet nibbled Dave’s leg today.”
“Did you read Gloria’s piece on trolling?”
“She laid it on pretty thick.”
“I thought she did an admirable job.”
“She ought to get off her high horse. Accomplices, my ass. Typical bleeding-heart bullshit. We’re all guilty?” She flung an arm up, pointing at the high, down-sweeping tracks of the Hurricane’s steepest drop. “Dave and I, we risked our butts climbing that damn thing to rescue that derelict she was rhapsodizing about. Either of us had slipped, we would’ve