The Search for Joyful by Benedict Freedman Page B

store he kept for ignorant females—to the relief of impatient gamblers and a crowd of kibbitzers the lighted wheel could be spun again, the winning number proclaimed, and the long arm of the rake descend to capture three weekends of movies and Sister Egg’s ten dollars.
    It was gone in under thirty seconds, including the conference with the croupier. The gentleman with the malacca cane barely paused to resupply his hoard. I couldn’t do this. Mine was gone. Forever.
    I realized a rather dull evening stretched before me. I should have patronized the slot machines, where I could have drawn out the excitement. I realized I was wrong about Mandy too. She didn’t seem ready to confide anything to me. Perhaps I’d been mistaken, and there was nothing to confide.
    So I amused myself watching as the strobe lights traversed the room, spotlighting one client after another. An elderly woman with a figure like a girl’s, who wore both slacks and jewels, a large bald man, who squinted at the light and waved it angrily away—then the light found Mandy. She was watching Robert a few feet away at the roulette wheel. There was an odd expression on her face. When Robert was picked out, I was struck once more by his relaxed, self-confident manner. Was he too much at home here? That might put Mandy’s expression into context—it was worry. Or was it fear?
    I laughed at myself and inhaled the disgusting smell of brilliantine. With his back to me and shielding himself from the strobes in a row of slot machines was the one called Frankie. He was also watching.
    He was watching Mandy.
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I DROPPED BY to see Sister Egg with the first of my repayments, and she gave me two letters. I tore open Crazy Dancer’s first. A letter from a sister can wait.
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Dear Oh-Be-Joyful’s Daughter,
    I was transferred, they’d only black it out if I said where. But I’m in Canada, at least for now. I found an engine and a couple of carburetors in pretty bad shape here too.
    I’m writing so you won’t forget me. I do not forget you. Let me know if you miss me, and how much. I miss you a lot.
    Sincerely yours,
    Crazy Dancer
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There was a P.S., an army post office number where I could write him. On this he abbrevated his name to just Crazy.
    I glanced away smiling. He hadn’t stood me up. He thought of me, just as I thought of him. He missed me—a lot.
    â€œGood news, Kathy?” Sister Egg regarded me contemplatively.
    â€œOh yes. From someone I didn’t expect to hear from.” I had to look away from her gaze to hide the fact that I was out-of-all-proportion joyful.
    And she was rewarded for being her good egg self with wonderful news. The Reverend Mother had quietly quashed the bingo scheme. But at the last minute when Ruth was about to be separated from the service and dispatched, not to Arizona but to some inferior institution, one of the radiology technicians admitted she had accidentally splashed some drops of hypo on the film. At the time she hadn’t realized what had happened, and only later associated the accident with the diagnosis of lung lesions that had showed up on Ruth’s X ray.
    I don’t think Ruth herself could have been more elated than Sister Egg. “A girl with an appetite like that I knew couldn’t have tuberculosis.”
    I had opened the letters in inverse proportion to their importance. Connie’s was the most thrilling.
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... Have I mentioned Jeff before? We’ve been going out quite a bit. Of course I’ve been going out with other people too. In fact, Mama Kathy made a boyfriend list to tease me. When I saw his name on it, I immediately took it off. I told Mama that he was simply a friend. I think now what I meant was—he was in a different category than the others. You’ve guessed what I’m trying to say, haven’t you?
    We’re engaged, Kathy. Engaged to be married. I can hardly believe it myself. I’m