The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(9)

So it was a surprise to realize that Joan Whalen, faced with a crisis in her personal life, had sought me out as someone who could solve it. I’d always assumed the kids from that classroom only remembered me as a mediocre teacher, plus the adult who had failed them on the worst day of their lives. But somehow Joan remembered me differently. And I wondered why.





Chapter 4





Joan


After dinner on Monday night—some sort of chicken thing with ham and cheese—Joan wandered the resort, hoping to find Richard, while at the same time hoping to avoid his cousin Duane. She’d seen them both in the dining room, at a far table, but had purposefully made sure to not make eye contact with either of them.

Ever since Saturday night, when he’d attacked her on the beach, she’d been obsessing about getting even with Duane. All through dinner—her parents and her sister planning tomorrow’s scenic drive—she’d plotted her revenge, acutely aware of the throbbing bruises he’d left on the inside of her arm when he’d grabbed her. If he ever spoke to her again she’d tell him that he looked like an ape and she found him physically repulsive. She imagined kicking him in the balls as hard as she could, and she even allowed herself images of doing worse things to him, like gouging out one of his eyes with a butter knife. Having that thought was a strange mix of pleasure and disgust. Joan was always happiest when she had an enemy.

She’d looked for Richard, his nerdy cousin, on the front porch of the resort, and in the bar area, where kids were allowed to hang out and drink soft drinks. There was a game room near the dining hall, a long narrow room with a foosball table, two pinball machines, and a couple of old arcade games. No one was in there but two little boys with their father. One of the boys was standing on a stool, whacking at a pinball machine even though it wasn’t on.

Joan went back to the lobby, scanning for empty chairs. But some old folk singer had set up in the corner of the lobby, singing a song about margaritas, and the lobby was full. She went over to the small gift shop area and spun the rack that contained paperbacks, then remembered her sister saying that there was a library somewhere in the resort. She thought maybe Richard, if he was anywhere, might be there. She asked the girl at the front desk, who wasn’t a whole lot older than her, where the library was. The girl looked confused, then said, “Oh, the free library. It’s all the way up on the third floor.”

“Is it open?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, as far as I know it’s always open.”

Joan climbed the stairs to the third floor of the resort, where the reek of mold and dust was particularly strong. She found the library, its lights on. It was just a room, really, an old handwritten sign calling it uncle murray’s book nook, and inside the room were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, plus several freestanding shelves in the middle of the space. In the two corners of the room that she could see were worn leather chairs for reading. She thought she heard a noise, the dry sound of a page being turned maybe, and she said, “Hello,” into the room, her voice sounding frail in her own head.

“Uh, hello,” came a voice back, and she moved around the center shelves, and there was Richard, sitting in one of the leather chairs, holding a book.

“Oh, hey,” she said, trying to act as though she hadn’t been looking for him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Is this your hangout?” she said.

“What, this library? Yeah, I guess so.”

She walked over to a wall of books, touched one of the spines with a finger. “What are you reading?”

He held up a hardcover with a black cover. “The Bachman Books,” Joan read. “By Stephen King. My mom reads him, I think.”

“I actually have this book back at home, but I didn’t bring it with me, and now I’m rereading it.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s four books that he wrote under a different name. Richard Bachman.”

“Do you like them because he called himself Richard?”

Richard looked confused, then glanced at the cover himself. “Oh, it never occurred to me that we have the same name.”

“Really? I always notice when someone’s called Joan because no one is called Joan anymore. It’s an old person’s name.”

“I guess it kind of is,” Richard said.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Old names are good names. Would you rather be called Madison or something?”

“I’m going to tell Madison you said that,” Joan said.

Richard shrugged. Joan could tell that he kind of wanted to get back to reading his book.

“So remember last night when you asked me if your cousin Duane attacked me?” she said.

He shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”

“I think he would have done it, if he’d had the chance. I had to run away from him and everything.” She thought about showing him the bruises, but they were high up on her inner arm and she’d have to take off her sweatshirt.

Richard put the book down on his lap. “You’re lucky he didn’t catch you. Like I told you, he’s one of the worst human beings I’ve ever met. I’m sure he’s a rapist, too. He talks like one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like he always points out girls and says really disgusting things, like what he wants to do with their ass and stuff.”