She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I…I wanted to let you know how bad I felt about the police being called on you that time you came to the house. It wasn’t Dick or me who did that. We weren’t even there.” She glanced at Joan, then back at me. “I just wanted you to know that.”
Both women waited for me to say something. I felt as though I were balancing on a high post. I needed to stay very still. A breeze rolled over us, causing the lanterns above to creak and sway.
“That’s fine,” I said.
Pearl waited a moment. “I guess we should be getting back,” she said. “We’re on in a little while.”
“Good luck up there,” said Joan.
“Thanks,” she said, and then turned to me. “It was good to see you.” She smiled, but there was something very sad tucked into the corners of her mouth.
Hold on for a few more seconds, I thought. Both of them will be gone. Just be cool.
“It was nice meeting you,” Pearl finally said to Joan.
“Nice meeting you too,” said Joan. “And you,” she said to Dick, whose hand suddenly shot out in front of Joan. The fingers were bulky and callused, with dark hair growing around the knuckles.
Dick’s hand hung there between all of us, trembling.
“He wants to shake hands with you,” said Pearl. “This is wonderful. He’s hardly ever this aware offstage.”
“I’m flattered,” said Joan. She reached for his hand.
“No, no,” said Pearl. “Please. Let him come to you. It’s good for him.”
Joan held her hand above Dick’s.
All three of us stood there watching as Dick’s twitching hand slowly rose, the thick fingers straining toward Joan’s open palm. The hand seemed to take forever to ascend a few inches. When the fingers finally arrived, Joan gave them a gentle shake.
“Proud of you,” said Pearl, rubbing Dick’s arm.
After Joan broke from him, he let his hand fall back to his side. Then he took a few angling baby steps that left him pointed in my direction. I steeled myself.
“Do you want to shake hands with him, too, Dick? Is that what you want to do?” said Pearl.
She turned to me, excited. “Would that be okay? This is more than I’ve seen him try at once in I don’t even know how long.”
I studied Dick’s eyes, searching for any glimmer of mischief. Nothing at all. Still, I decided that if this was a joke in any way, I’d strangle Dick to death.
I put out my hand.
Dick’s hand began to rise again. The fingers shook violently, like the effort to lift them was too much for him. I kept my hand where it was, waiting. My heart was thudding in my chest.
“You can do it,” said Pearl. “Shake his hand!”
Dick’s hand hovered just beneath mine. I could feel the warmth from his fingers radiating up into my palm. I kept my eyes fixed on his, which, as always, peered out at nothing. It would be so easy to test him, to see if he was faking. All I’d have to do was take the hand in mine and squeeze.
“Come on, Dick,” said Joan.
His spastic hand floated there, suspended. Our fingers were practically touching.
“You can, you can!” said Pearl.
“Do it, Dick,” I said. “Go on.”
Finally, the hand fell back to Dick’s side.
Pearl sighed. “Ugh. I’m sorry. He was having such a good day.”
“He did great, right?” Joan said to me.
“He did just fine,” I said.
“Thanks. He’s trying hard. It’s a long road,” Pearl said, slipping her arm around Dick’s waist. “Well, take care. Both of you.” Then she turned him around, and the two of them walked away.
I watched her go, the bells on her skirt faintly jangling.
“That was a nice surprise,” said Joan.
I was suddenly aware of being alone on the dance floor with her. The stagehands were already setting up for the next band. I looked around to see if anyone was watching us.
“Hey, buster,” Joan said. “I’m proud of you. You handled that very well. I thought we were going to have a problem, but you acted like a true gentleman.”
I was still breathing hard. “I told you I’d be okay.”
“Let’s go home, Mr. Miller,” said Joan, leading me off the dance floor.
“We can stay,” I said, suddenly quite proud of myself. “We can dance to Dick’s singing, if you want. It’d be nice to hear him.”
“I think I’ve had enough of the fair for one night,” she said.
As we made our way through the crowd to the parking lot, I felt better than I had in a long time; I felt as though a fog were lifting, a fog of rage and jealousy in which I’d been lost for weeks, maybe months. By the time we reached the Silver Coach I couldn’t keep my hands off Joan. I was overwhelmed by a wild and joyous horniness.
“Down,” Joan said, laughing as she unlocked the door.
But as soon as we were inside she was kissing me back, pulling my shirt off. I made for her belt, but she stopped.
“Wait. Let’s not until we get home,” she said.
I kissed her belly, unzipping the top of her jeans.
“There’s too many people around,” she said, but she was already unbuttoning her blouse. I looked out the windshield and saw no one close enough to worry about.
The coils were loud that night, groaning and crying beneath us. I held Joan’s hips as we moved. She pressed back into me, her skin hot and soft against my own. I grabbed at her, wanting to envelop her, to be touching every part at once.
“That feels so good,” she said, moving faster now.
I closed my eyes. I could feel the shuttle rocking on its wheels. The sounds the Coach made were exciting, the creaking and huffing, and yet beneath the racket I thought I heard something else, some other, deeper strain of noise. The sound was faint, but persistent. I listened harder, until I realized what I was hearing. The noise was a voice: Dick Doyle’s voice.
I opened my eyes and saw something so shocking, I nearly froze: standing on the dashboard just behind the steering wheel, guitar in hand, was a miniature Dick Doyle. He couldn’t have been more than six inches tall, a tiny doppelganger, wearing a little red suit, a minuscule cowboy hat on his head. And he was singing to me; I could hear his voice beneath the squeaking of the seat, that high, whiny crooning of his.
But then I realized that, of course, this wasn’t a miniature Dick Doyle at all; the figure was just a reflection. Joan had left the mirror she’d won on top of her bag, and it reflected the fair’s stage. The gold stars around its border twinkled in the light. They hovered all around Dick, shimmering.
I turned away from the mirror and concentrated on Joan. I watched the shiny groove of her back, the bounce of her. I tried to listen to the sounds she made, to the rocking Coach. But beneath the noise, I could still hear Dick’s nasal, grating voice. I craned my neck to get a look at the actual stage, but the Coach’s windshield was angled toward the thoroughfare. All I could see of Dick Doyle was his reflection.
Hee-hee, went the springs beneath the seat. Hee-hee-hee. I thought back to how close Dick had let his hand get to mine a moment before, so close that I’d actually believed he was going to shake with me. I recalled that trick kids play on each other, putting a hand out, then yanking it back. Fooled you, shithead! Hee-hee-hee-hee. And there was little Dick, singing from the dashboard. The sequined playing cards flashed from his lapels.
I took off my watch and flung it at the mirror, but it missed and hit the windshield.
“What was that?” Joan said over her shoulder.
“Nothing,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
“You threw something. I saw you. What’s the matter?”
“Come on. Don’t do this,” I said, trying to get back into things.
