'Table for one?' The woman in charge of The Saddle of Lamb during the day had materialized beside him, and was already plucking a menu off a stack beside the reservation book.
'Changed my mind, sorry.' Jack escaped.
The Alhambra's coffee shop, The Beachcomber Lounge, lay all the way across the lobby and down a long bleak corridor lined with empty display cases. His hunger died at the thought of sitting by himself at the counter and watching the bored cook slap down strips of bacon on the crusty grill. He would wait until his mother got up: or, better yet, he would go out and see if he could get a doughnut and a little carton of milk at one of the shops up the street on the way into town.
He pushed open the tall heavy front door of the hotel and went out into the sunlight. For a moment the sudden brightness stung his eyes - the world was a flat glaring dazzle. Jack squinted, wishing he had remembered to bring his sunglasses downstairs. He went across the apron of red brick and down the four curving steps to the main pathway through the gardens at the front of the hotel.
What happened if she died?
What happened to him - where would he go, who would take care of him, if the worst thing in the world actually took place and she died, for good and all died, up in that hotel room?
He shook his head, trying to send the terrible thought away before a lurking panic could rush up out of the Alhambra's well-ordered gardens and blast him apart. He would not cry, he would not let that happen to him - and he would not let himself think about the Tarrytoons and the weight she had lost, the feeling that he sometimes had that she was too helpless and without direction. He was walking very quickly now, and he shoved his hands into his pockets as he jumped down off the curving path through the gardens onto the hotel's drive. She on the run, son, and you on the run with her. On the run, but from whom? And to where? Here - just to here, this deserted resort?
He reached the wide street that travelled up the shoreline toward the town, and now all of the empty landscape before him was a whirlpool that could suck him down into itself and spit him out into a black place where peace and safety had never existed. A gull sailed out over the empty road, wheeled around in a wide curve, and dipped back toward the beach. Jack watched it go, shrinking in the air to a smudge of white above the erratic line of the roller-coaster track.
Lester Speedy Parker, a black man with crinkly gray hair and heavy lines cutting down through his cheeks, was down there somewhere inside Funworld and it was Speedy he had to see. That was as clear to Jack as his sudden insight about his friend Richard's father.
A gull screeched, a wave bounced hard gold light toward him, and Jack saw Uncle Morgan and his new friend Speedy as figures almost allegorically opposed, as if they were statues of NIGHT and DAY, stuck up on plinths, MOON and SUN - the dark and the light. What Jack had understood as soon as he had known that his father would have liked Speedy Parker was that the ex-bluesman had no harm in him. Uncle Morgan, now . . . he was another kind of being altogether. Uncle Morgan lived for business, for deal-making and hustling; and he was so ambitious that he challenged every even faintly dubious call in a tennis match, so ambitious in fact that he cheated in the penny-ante card games his son had now and then coaxed him into joining. At least, Jack thought that Uncle Morgan had been cheating in a couple of their games . . . not a man who thought that defeat demanded graciousness.
NIGHT and DAY, MOON and SUN; DARK and LIGHT, and the black man was the light in these polarities. And when Jack's mind had pushed him this far, all that panic he had fought off in the hotel's tidy gardens swarmed toward him again. He lifted his feet and ran.
2
When the boy saw Speedy kneeling down outside the gray and peeling arcade building - wrapping electrician's tape around a thick cord, his steel-wool head bent almost to the pier and his skinny bu**ocks poking out the worn green seat of his work-pants, the dusty soles of his boots toed down like a pair of upended surfboards - he realized that he had no idea of what he had been planning to say to the custodian, or even if he intended to say anything at all. Speedy gave the roll of black tape another twist around the cord, nodded, took a battered Palmer knife from the flap pocket of his workshirt and sliced the tape off the roll with a flat surgical neatness. Jack would have escaped from here, too, if he could - he was intruding on the man's work, and anyhow, it was crazy to think that Speedy could really help him in any way. What kind of help could he give, an old janitor in an empty amusement park?
Then Speedy turned his head and registered the boy's presence with an expression of total and warming welcome - not so much a smile as a deepening of all those heavy lines in his face - and Jack knew that he was at least no intrusion.
'Travellin Jack,' Speedy said. 'I was beginnin to get afraid you decided to stay away from me. Just when we got to be friends, too. Good to see you again, son.'