Free The Land of Laughs by Jonathan Carroll Page A

new pal in tow.
    Looking sheepish and naughty at the same time, he’d boom out, “Look who’s in for dinner, Meg, Johnny Fox! You remember Johnny, don’t you?”
    Johnny would tiptoe forward and shake her hand as if she were an electric eel about to strike. They were all petrified of her and sensed, despite her invariable politeness, that she couldn’t stand having them in her house, much less at her table. But the meals went well. There’d be talk about the movies they were working on, gossip, tidbits from their world. Then, when we were done, Johnny (or whoever) would beat as hasty a retreat as possible out the door, thanking Mother obsequiously for the delicious meal. Once a cameraman named Whitey, who’d brained his wife with a toaster and got thirty days for it, fell back over the rubber welcome mat and sprained his ankle trying to get out.
    When they’d gone, the folks would move into the living room, where Father would light up a Montecristo cigar and she would go to her place by the window, where, with her back to him, she’d begin the battle.
    Matter-of-factly she’d say, “Isn’t he the one who beats his wife ((robbed a diner, raised killer dogs, ran Mexicans over the border))?”
    He’d whoosh out a long gray fan of smoke and look at the cigar, a happy man. “Yes, that’s right. He just got out of the pokey two weeks ago. Bryson was afraid we’d have to get someone else to play the mayor. It’s lucky his wife decided not to press charges.”
    “Yes, isn’t it?” She tried to shoot out a cynical flame, but her tongue or heart wasn’t in it, and as a result her words came out sounding like she was really glad for Johnny.
    “An interesting guy. An interesting guy. I worked with him about five years ago on a picture. He spent the whole time either drunk or trying to put the make on this ugly script girl we had.”
    “Delightful. You pick up all the sweetie pies, Stephen.”
    This would go on for the time it took him to smoke his cigar. Then he’d either move up behind her and put his hands on her waist or walk out of the room. Whenever he did that, she’d turn around and stare at the doorway a long time.
     
    “Ribs or a burger?”
    “Excuse me? Oh, ribs! Yes, ribs will be fine.”
    Dan scooped up some red sizzlers and put them onto an oversized yellow plate along with two dinner rolls. The grease from the ribs ran across the plate and started soaking into the rolls.
    “That’ll be two-fifty, and no charge for the entertainment.”
    I got two Cokes and went back to the table. A gray old woman with lined, sunken cheeks and a brown-black tooth in the front of her mouth was sitting next to Saxony and talking low and fast. I thought that was sort of odd, but Saxony listened intently to whatever the other was saying, and when I put the food down in front of her she didn’t move. A little miffed, I picked up one of the ribs. It was burning hot and I dropped it on the table. I didn’t think that I’d made that much noise, but when I looked up everyone was staring at me again. God, how I hate that. I’m the kind of person who’ll order a steak and when the waiter brings fish instead, I’ll take it just to avoid making a scene. I hate arguments in public, birthday cakes brought to you in restaurants, tripping or farting or anything out in the open that makes people stop and stare at you for the longest seconds in existence.
    I gave the people around me my “Ain’t I a dummy?” smile, but it didn’t do any good. They looked and looked and looked. .
    “Thomas?” Good old Saxony to the rescue.
    “Yes!” I think I answered loud enough to curdle cream. She picked up the rib and put it back on my plate.
    “This is Mrs. Fletcher. Mrs. Fletcher, Thomas Abbey.”
    The old woman stuck her hand out over the table and gave me a strong, pumping shake. She looked about sixty-eight or -nine. I saw her running the town post office or popcorn and candy concession at the movie theater. She didn’t have