Funland (27 page)
“Anyway,” Debbie said, “I’d better get out of here or I’ll be late. So long. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
“Haw haw.”
Debbie raised a hand in farewell, then stepped out of the doorway.
Joan sat on the floor and did some stretching exercises until she heard the car drive away. Then she went to her bedroom. Her stomach fluttered as she sat on the edge of her bed and lifted the telephone onto her lap.
Silly to be jumpy about calling Dave, she told herself.
She gazed at the phone.
Christ, I’m not a damn teenager.
She took a deep breath, lifted the handset, and dialed.
His telephone rang eight times before she hung up.
Okay. So he’s not home. Big deal.
That doesn’t mean he’s still at Gloria’s. And even if he is, so what? Afraid they’ll make up?
No chance.
What makes you so sure? Hell, they were going together hot and heavy till a few days ago. And he obviously still cares about her, or he wouldn’t have been so upset when I told him about the bitch playing dress-up.
He was upset for the same reason as me—because he felt responsible.
Joan wished they’d skipped lunch and rushed right over to find her. But Dave hadn’t wanted to. “The hell if I’m going to ruin my meal chasing after her. She wants to pull a dumb stunt like that, it’s her problem.”
Lunch was ruined anyway. Joan had been too upset about Gloria to enjoy the gyro, and she suspected that Dave’s appetite had also suffered a trouncing. Worry and anger had a way of turning food tasteless.
When they finished eating, they headed for the Funland entrance. Joan waited by the ticket booth while Dave went down the steps. But he came back in about a minute and explained that Gloria was no longer there. They resumed their patrol, expecting to run into her along the boardwalk. During the afternoon they spotted eight or ten derelicts. No Gloria, though.
At the end of their tour, Dave had said he would drop by Gloria’s house and try to warn her off. He hadn’t seemed eager about it, but they’d both known it was something that needed to be done.
She’d been jilted and gone off the deep end.
It was their fault.
It would be their fault if her stupid “undercover work” got her pounded or raped or worse.
Somebody had to talk some sense into her, and Dave was it.
Joan gazed at the phone, wondering if she should try calling again. Maybe Dave had been in the shower.
Maybe
I’ll
take a shower, and try him when I’m done.
She wished she’d gone along with him. But Dave hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t offered. The less Gloria saw of her, the better.
That was obvious.
She lifted the telephone onto the nightstand, stood up, and went down the hallway to the bathroom. She shut the door and locked it.
Big tough cop locking the door, she thought.
She
always
locked it before taking a shower or bath. Always, when she was alone in the house.
Something creepy about it. Something to do with being cut off from the rest of the house and water running so you couldn’t hear what might be going on out there. Something to do with a movie called
Psycho.
The air felt humid from Debbie’s bath. And the aroma of her cologne was almost overpowering. What had she done, spilled the stuff?
Joan slid the window open a few inches. She pulled off her shoes and socks, hung her sweatsuit on the knob, and stepped to the tub. The bathmat still showed Debbie’s footprints. It felt soggy where the girl had stood.
Leaning over the edge of the tub, Joan reached for the hot-water faucet and flinched when the doorbell rang. Gooseflesh swarmed up her body.
The bell rang again, a faint chiming sound.
She grimaced and straightened up.
Great timing, she thought. Here I am, bare-assed.
She rushed to the bathroom door, leapt into her sweatpants (which were just as moist and clammy as she’d feared), hooked her sweatshirt off the knob, and pulled it down over her head as she hurried to the front door.
She peered through the peephole.
Harold.
Shit!
She opened the door and twisted her face into a smile.
He glanced at her face for an instant before lowering his eyes in typical Harold fashion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. Huh-uh. I’d just finished my workout. Come on in.” She stepped aside.
He entered and shut the door. “I suppose I should’ve phoned first, but…” He shrugged.
“That’s okay. Could I get you a drink or something?”
“Some white wine would be nice, if you have any.”
“Sure. Come on.” She headed for the kitchen, Harold following. Her heart was beating fast. She felt a little tight and sick inside.
He wasn’t supposed to show up.
Didn’t he understand? Hadn’t she made it clear enough the other night?
Obviously not.
She’d been about as clear as possible without coming right out and saying she didn’t want to go out with him anymore.
Squatting down, she took a bottle of chablis from the cupboard. “I’m afraid it isn’t chilled,” she said. “You want ice cubes?”
“Just one. Don’t want to water it down too much,” he added, and gave out a tiny coughlike chuckle that sounded miserably nervous.
Oh, he got the message, all right.
But he’s here anyway.
Joan gave the bottle to him. He went to the drawer where she kept the corkscrew. He’d been here for dinner three times, so he knew right where to find it.
Good old Debbie. Sharp kid. After the
first
dinner, she’d said, “Harold’s a dingus. Why are you wasting your time with him? Dump him and find a
guy.
You’re a cop, you must know
guys.”
Joan set a pair of wineglasses onto the counter. She dropped an ice cube into one, and left the other empty. Harold was having trouble with the cork. Bending over, he clamped the bottle between his legs, gripped its neck, and tugged the handle of the corkscrew.
As Joan watched, she remembered popping open the champagne at Dave’s house yesterday.
If only I were there right now, she thought.
He isn’t there.
He’s dealing with Gloria, and I’ve got to deal with Harold. We each have our own messes keeping us apart.
Harold popped the cork. He filled the glasses and handed the one without ice to Joan.
“I hope you don’t mind me dropping by like this,” he said as they walked into the living room.
“No, that’s fine. I’m kind of a mess, is all.”
“You look terrific. As always.”
“Thanks,” she muttered.
Harold sat on the sofa. Joan sat down beside him.
“I was planning to call you,” she said.
Harold nodded. He took a sip of wine, then gazed at his glass. “I understand that. And I can well imagine what you would’ve had to say. I wasn’t especially eager to hear it. Each time the phone rang, I thought it was you and…This is not at all easy for me, Joan. To come here like this. I’ve felt…physically ill…all day.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He held up one hand as if to ward off her apology. “It’s not your fault. It’s me.” He looked at her, smiled bleakly, and returned his gaze to the glass. “I was actually twenty-five before I had my first sexual encounter. And that was a case of the girl seducing me. I had no interest in her. She was…not attractive. In fact, she was distinctly unappealing. As was every female I’ve ever dared to approach.”
“Thanks a heap,” Joan said, hoping to cheer him up.
“If you remember correctly, you approached me.”
“I did, yes.”
“And I was…instantly smitten. I could hardly believe that I was in the company of a woman who was not only exceedingly attractive but also intelligent and well-read and witty. That sort of thing had never happened to me before. I found it incomprehensible that you would even speak to me, much less…”
“I like you, Harold. I really do. I’ve enjoyed our times together.”
“Enjoy.” He made a small huff through his nose. “Such a pallid word. To me, the times we spent together were…like glimpses of paradise. Which is why I never dared to risk it all, why I never…” He shook his head.
“Put moves on me?”
“I wanted to,” he admitted, frowning at his wineglass. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to kiss you, embrace you. I’ve dreamed of—”
The jangle of the telephone stopped his voice.
Joan’s heart lurched.
Dave? It had to be Dave.
The phone rang again, again.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Harold asked.
“No,” she said, and rested a hand gently on his knee. The phone rang seven more times.
The silence when it stopped felt heavy and dark.
Harold began to weep. He reached out and set the wineglass on the table, then turned his face away from Joan. She rubbed his back. She could feel it hitching under her hand as he struggled to stifle his sobs.
“I know it’s over,” he said in a choked voice. “You were looking for a…a Rhett Butler, and I’m…not even an Ashley. A Prufrock, that’s what I am, nothing but a Prufrock.”
“Hey, come on. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“We’ll still see each other, Harold. We’ll still be friends. And really, it was never more than that. Maybe we both wanted it to be more, but it never was. So we’ll leave it that way and stop trying to make it something else.”
He sniffed. He shook his head. He wiped his eyes.
“We’ll go to the movies next week.”
“No. I couldn’t. God, I don’t want your pity.”
“Well, then, the hell with you.”
His head jerked around. His eyes were wet and red. His cheeks were shiny with tears. He looked at her eyes. He looked at her smirk. And a laugh sputtered out of him.
“Take my pity or take a leap, Gonzo.”
He laughed again.
The telephone began to ring. “This time, I’m going to get it. Take the opportunity to pull yourself together.”
He stayed on the sofa. Joan rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the telephone. “Hello?”
“Hi there. It’s me.”
“Hiya, Me,” she said, and felt a warmth come into her. “How’d it go?”
“It didn’t. I went over to her place and she wasn’t home. In fact, I went over twice. Once before supper, once after.”
“You think she’s still out playing games?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. I’m going to drive down to the boardwalk and search around, but that’ll take a while. I just wanted to talk to you first, let you know what’s going on.”
“I was starting to get worried. Hey, how about letting me go with you?”
“I think it’d just make matters worse if we’re together, and…”
“I know. I know that. Shit.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. It’s just that I miss you.”
“You miss me?”
“No, I’m sick of your face. Of course I miss you. I thought we might see each other tonight. I called you a while ago.”
“I called you too.”
“Yeah, I thought it was you. I couldn’t answer it. If you really think Gloria will freak out or something if we’re together…”
“Aah, let her. I’ll come by and get you. How about ten minutes?”
“How about half an hour? I need to take a shower.”
“Can’t it wait till I get there?”
“Haw haw. In your ear, Davy boy.”
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“See you later.” She hung up and went back to the living room. She stopped at the edge of the table. Harold was sitting up straight. He was no longer crying. “You all right?” she asked.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“You’ll pick me up for the film next week?”
He made a limp smile. “Ah, my cue to evacuate the premises.”
“Afraid so. I have to get cleaned up and leave. That was Dave. We’ve got a little bit of an emergency we need to take care of.”
Nodding, Harold drank the last of his wine.
He stood up. Joan took hold of his hand, and they walked toward the door. “The film?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s give it a try and see how it goes. Unless, of course, you dump me between now and then for someone even more beautiful and charming than
moi.”
“The dumping, my dear, has already been done. Not by me, of course.”
The words wrenched her. She’d thought she had healed his wound. All she’d done, she realized, was slap a bandage across it. The gash was too big for such a flimsy patch. She could almost see the tide of blood.
Harold opened the door.
Joan clutched his arm to stop him from leaving. She turned him to face her. He didn’t look tormented now. He looked resigned, defeated, a little dazed and hollow in the eyes.
“I wish I could make it all right,” she said.
“You get an E for effort.” He eased his arm out of her grip and walked out into the dusk.
Joan closed the door and leaned back against it. She let out a deep sigh.
She felt awful. She was glad that he was gone. She was glad that it was over.
It
was
over. He’d lost, and he wasn’t about to accept the consolation prize of friendship.
And she was
glad.
And it was not too different from kicking Woodrow Abernathy in the chin. A feeling of relief and joy because she’d taken care of business, finished the matter, brought a bad situation to a quick end. But guilt was like gray rain in her soul.
“It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Wayne.”
“Well, it was nice to meet you too, Shiner.”
“I have to be home before midnight, so I’ll get Jeremy back here around eleven-thirty. Is that all right?”
“Fine, fine. Have a good time, kids.”
Jeremy opened the door for Shiner. As she walked out, he smiled at his mother. She made a face at him—eyebrows rising, eyes rolling upward, lips pursing—a face that said, “I can’t believe it. How did you possibly manage to latch on to a girl like
this?”
Once the door was shut, he took hold of Shiner’s hand. “You wowed her!”
“But of course.”
“She was all set to hate your guts.”
“She’s nice. I like her.”