Happyland

by J. Robert Lennon

  He was handsome, she supposed, like an actor in a movie—not a contemporary movie, an old movie, the kind where the leading lady’s closeups always looked kind of fuzzy. All he needed was the little mustache and he’d be a dead ringer for…somebody, Janet didn’t know any of their names. It was a pleasure to be with a handsome man—people seemed to know who he was, they called him Mister Masters and always seemed to show up at the very moment he or Janet wanted something. When he winked at the desk clerk—and he did so with exaggerated familiarity—her sober mien collapsed and she buried a childish grin in her hands. What power he had!—it made Janet feel glamorous, it made her feel beautiful. And when, at last, he offered to walk her up to her room, it only seemed natural, given the frankly delightful camaraderie they had enjoyed all day long; and in the elevator they slumped in opposite corners and made funny drunken faces, and when Janet opened the door to her room it was not just she who stumbled into it; James came too.

  Of course she knew, didn’t she, where this was all headed? Had there ever been any doubt that the day would end this way? Tomorrow, on the plane, she would admit to herself that, yes, she knew, that yes, the entire day had been colored by knowing—that a large part of her excitement, of her pleasure, had been the impending danger, the transgression that was going to take place that night. She supposed she knew it the day they met, on the porch of the house in Equinox, the moment he looked back from his car and met her gaze. Why, exactly, she agreed to it all in the first place, she didn’t know—but she had, and she was in it now, and there was no undoing what had been done. And she also knew that, if he wanted, she would keep doing it. She felt like a plaything, and was shocked to discover how little the feeling disgusted her.

  They came in. He closed the door behind them.

  “Uh…” she said, and he took her into his arms and kissed her.

  Roughly? She wouldn’t say roughly. But neither would she say that he employed the light touch he had wielded so skillfully all afternoon, the touch that made people do what he wanted them to do, her included. He was…ardent. His body was large and hot and stiff, and he smelled of alcohol and wood shavings and food. His tongue was in her mouth. She drew back and said, “Jim—James. I don’t…”

  But there was a firmness in his eyes that would brook no complaint, and she stopped speaking, and they stared frankly at one another for a moment, making various calculations.

  On Janet’s part, they went something like this: I am not repulsed by him. He is powerful. He is married to Happy. He wants to fuck me—much as he fucks Happy. Thus, I will be like Happy—and perhaps, for now, for him, preferable to Happy. And objecting would be disastrous, wouldn’t it—a man like this, kind as he was all day, could be ruthless, too. Just like Happy. And so, give in. Give in. But make the rules.

  She said, “Call me Happy.”

  He said, “What?”

  “Whatever you do to me, call me Happy.”

  He loosened his grip on her, and his head pulled back. He said, “Why?”

  Her only response was a glare. He let go of her.

  “Got it?” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied. And so, she stepped back two steps and pulled her dress up over her head.

  21. The screams of local preservationists

  Happy spent that same weekend absorbed in her collection, which by now was largely unpacked and scattered about the house. The wide corners of the main room were occupied now by high walnut shelves, fronted by glass and illuminated by recessed lights, which contained the history of dollcraft in miniature: the primitive wooden English lady, clutching her needle and thread; a round-faced German boy, whittled from a peg, his painted face fissured, his little nose ground away by generations of hands. American pioneer dolls made from corncobs or hickory nuts, Indians chipped from sticks, wax voodoo effigies black from candle smoke and disfigured by displaced rage. Poseable rock maple people and stiff little bundles of rags shared space with masterpieces in china, their clothes as elaborate as any queen’s. A geisha with interchangeable wigs met the jealous stares of an entire graduating class of trim young papier-mâché ladies, posed as if for a photo. And on the mantel a row of muttonchopped ninepins leaned scowling upon their painted swords, defending themselves against a bevy of bisque bathing beauties in peekaboo suits.

  It was upstairs, however, that the real treasures lay, for here, in a former guest room, she had arranged her prototypes, the handmade originals of each Happy Girl. Here stood the proto-Padma, her cheeks fuller, her expression more doubtful, than that of her mass-produced counterpart; there, the first Nannette, the Lieutenant’s Girl, bent over her sewing, her face knitted in an unreproduceable scowl of concentration. The familiar Sally, with her disarming smile and café-au-lait complexion, would be intimidated by her more serious older sister, her skin ebony, her face thin, her mouth turned down in suffering—and plump, friendly Lily would recoil at the exhaustion and shame in the ancient eyes of her sallow original. These girls were Happy’s own history, the story of her transfiguration, and they would serve as a centerpiece in the museum that would someday bear her name.

  The Klams, those delightful freaks, showed up on Sunday afternoon and toured the newly dollified house, emitting the exaggerated gasps of appreciation that kept them so high in Happy’s esteem. In addition they brought her a wonderful early birthday gift: a shiny yellow hard hat.

  “De rigueur on site visits, my dear,” Silas said, as Happy rapped her knuckles against the plastic.

  “It’s adjustable,” Sheila added.

  “A good thing, too, for that monster of a noggin you’ve got there.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Happy said, honestly touched—it was the nicest thing anyone had given her in a long time.

  “Say nothing, darling,” Silas said with a wink. “Just show us our creation!”

  And so they set out to see the town. The foundation of the Happyland Inn had been dug, and the concrete poured; Happy’s crew and the men they had hired swarmed over the whole, framing out the walls, shouting across the site to one another in jolly voices. They’d better be jolly, she thought, considering what she was paying them. The hotel was going to be huge. Snowflakes fell in picturesque patterns, melting in the puddles at the bottom of the pit, gently inscribing concentric circles on the surface.

  “Down there,” Silas quipped, “we’ll put the torture chamber.”

  “Won’t the screams of local preservationists keep our guests awake?” Happy asked.

  “Soundproofing…” Sheila said dreamily.

  They walked on. Two more houses had been bought, and were in the process of renovation; there was a nice little cottage here on Main Street and a former church on Farmer’s Walk, up on the hill. Hundreds of people were on the waiting list to occupy them. Happy insisted upon ten-year leases: it had narrowed the list to only the most dedicated Happy Girlers, and left them vulnerable to rent hikes. All this was being handled by Annabel Boone, the once-skeptical real estate maven whom Happy had bought out, and who, in the face of the sudden boom, had undergone a conversion experience. She waved now through the newly cleaned Happy Realty office window: working on a Saturday. Good girl. Here was the Happy Girls Outlet Store and Gift Shop, being readied for its grand opening on Happy’s birthday; inside, the imported manager and staff were busy unboxing dolls and books, backpacks and note pads, clothes and period-appropriate wooden toys. Everyone was delighted to see her. She shook hands, smiled, adjusted her shiny new hat. Passersby, the newcomers who had moved here on her account, beamed as she approached, said hello all-too-enthusiastically, and took one last peek at her over their shoulders. Happy said, “Going to need a country cottage, come spring. For fan avoidance.”

  “I’ll get going on designing one,” Sheila said.

  “No,” Happy told her, touching her arm. “We’ll find something that’s already there, and buy it by proxy. I don’t want anyone to know.”

  “Check.”

  They reached the end of downtown
and crossed the street. There stood one of the two new signs. It read:

  EQUINOX, NEW YORK

  POP. 414

  FUTURE HOME OF

  Happyland

  And not a peep out of Archie Olds. Pushover! There had been whispers, not unanticipated, about this “Happyland”: what it was, where it would be built. Happy herself, of course, was keeping mum.

  And here was the hardware store, its student clerk visible through the window wearing a striped apron and a buzz cut. Happy stopped. “Wait here a moment,” she said. “I need to do something.” She went up the steps, opened the door, and went to the counter.

  It took a moment for the girl to recognize her—one reason Happy had enlisted the college to hire her part-timers was so that she didn’t have to interview them herself. She watched carefully as the girl’s face registered recognition. If a shadow passed over it, then she was tainted, and would be no good for this mission. But the eyes went straight from absence to awe.

  “Hey! Happy Masters!” She pumped Happy’s hand. “I’m Susan,” she said, “thanks for the awesome job!”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Happy crooned, pleased to be in the familiar territory of sycophant-coddling.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  Happy leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “Are you going,” she mumbled, “to this Sally Streit thing next month?”

  The girl pinked all the way down into her tee shirt. “Ohhh…I don’t know…”

  “To tell you the truth,” Happy went on, “I think it’s kind of, um, hot?”

  Up went the eyebrows. “Do you really?”

  “Yeah—but I can’t go. I mean, I could go, but I can’t really be seen there, you know?”

  “Oh, sure,” Susan said, propping her elbows on the counter and her face in her hands.

  “So I’m wondering if you could do me a favor. If you go, I mean.”

  A questioning look. Happy manufactured an embarrassed smile and reached into her satchel. From it she pulled a tiny video recorder. She set it down on the counter. “You think you could tape it for me? Just the good stuff, you know?”

  Susan’s plump hand flew to her giggling mouth. “Oh…my…God,” she said behind it. “Are you serious?”

  Happy, too, managed to force out a giggle. “Yes!” she squeaked.

  “Oh my God! That is so bad!”

  “I know, I know—but can you do it?”

  The girl picked up the camera. “I guess, but…is it, you know, legal?”

  Happy rolled her eyes. “Like anyone’s going to notice.”

  “Yeah,” the girl said, “sure.”

  “And I’ll tell you what,” Happy said, and she pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of the satchel, “here’s some money for your trouble, and you can keep the camera too. All I want is the tape.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m serious!”

  She turned the camera over in her hands. The c-note disappeared into her apron pocket. “Wow, yeah—I can sneak it in for sure.”

  “Now, look,” Happy said. “You can’t tell anybody, all right? You know you’ll be in big trouble with me if you do.”

  She straightened, shaking her head. “Oh no, of course not…”

  “Okay, great,” Happy said. “God. Sally Streit. I can’t believe it…”

  “Oh, I know…”

  And with that, she winked, and left the store.

  “What was that all about?” Sheila wanted to know, as they walked back toward Lake-Edge, and lunch.

  “I’ll tell you all about it,” Happy replied, “if and when it works.”

  * * *

  Halloween was always anticipated with particular enthusiasm in Equinox, perhaps in acknowledgment of its morbid past, perhaps because there wasn’t much else to do. Starting around five, as smoke appeared over chimneys and the sky went as orange as the trees, the sidewalks began to fill up with the usual witches, ghouls, and demons; Equinox students prepared to get themselves good and drunk at Happy’s Bistro. Nevertheless Dave Dryer had a modest surge in business, from which his mouth pain, even numbed by medication, drained every last drop of pleasure. Ruth wore vampire teeth at the circulation desk—though no one else was at the library to notice—and Reeve Tennyson left town. Jennifer Treisman dressed her sons up as NASCAR drivers, and reluctantly guided them through the leaf-strewn streets, complaining about the cold all the way. Archie forced kids to extract their candy—not apples, he wasn’t that old-fashioned—from a glowing cauldron in the orchard, while Kevin lurked in the shed, occasionally leaping out to scare the crap out of them.

  Kevin later appeared, still in costume, at the Goodbye Goose, where he and Dave got drunk and talked over old times.

  “Gina Schofield?”

  “Fuck yeah. But—Alyssa Farnsworth.”

  “Holy mother-a-god!”

  “What about Sandy?”

  “Sandy who.”

  “Devore.”

  Kevin woofed like a dog, the paste-white corners of his mustache bouncing up and down. His tricorn hat was askew and dust rose up off him.

  “Aww, she was cute,” Dave said. His words slurred, out of pain and intoxication, and the commingling, in his bloodstream, of prescription drugs and alcohol.

  “Fuck no.”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  But many minds were already on the future—the following weekend, to be specific, because everyone in town had been invited to the grand opening of the Equinox Happy Girls Outlet Store and Gift Shop. Cream-colored gilt-lined ragstock envelopes had arrived in Equinox mailboxes that day; the invitations inside were stamped, in movable type, onto heavy card, and read:

  YOU’RE INVITED!

  TO THE GRAND OPENING CELEBRATION

  OF THE WORLD’S ONLY

  HAPPY GIRLS OUTLET STORE

  421 MAIN STREET

  RIGHT HERE IN EQUINOX!

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5

  ALL DAY LONG

  WINE AND FOOD WILL BE SERVED

  FREE TO ALL CITIZENS

  USE THE ENCLOSED $10 TOWARD ANY PURCHASE!

  The coupon, embossed in gold, was good for opening day only.

  As it happened, there were a lot of people in Equinox for whom being invited somewhere by a rich celebrity and being given free alcohol and food was, if not the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, then at least an event of sufficient momentousness to guarantee that they’d be talking about it, often to complete strangers, for years to come. These were the people who gathered in front of the store on Friday night. They wouldn’t have been out of place outside, say, a football stadium or concert venue, waiting for tickets: this was their camp-out-all-night moment, their Woodstock, their Super Bowl.

  They were townies, newcomers, visitors from the outlying counties who had somehow heard the news. They gathered in small groups, holding flashlights and travel mugs full of coffee or cocoa, upgraded perhaps by a splash of spirits; they chattered and guffawed and speculated about the retail extravaganza to come. What would they buy? For whom would they buy it? There were technical questions: did you need to have the invitation with you? (Those who had them, brought them.) Was there a limit to the amount you could buy? (They sure hoped not.) They discussed, in stage whispers, the value of their real estate holdings, the size of their Happy Girls collections, their personal encounters with the genuine article.

  “Seen her at the Bistro. She went in there for lunch.”

  “What’d she eat?”

  “Some kinda salad, spinach or something.”

  “I got her autograph out in front of Huber’s. Shook her hand and everything.”

  “What’d she sign?”

  “All’s I had was my blood test…”

  And there, a group of men clustered around a landscaping stone, on which their booted and sneakered feet were propped:

  “Ellen got McKensie one of them Lilys for Christmas last year, and wouldn’t you know she wanted to play with the thing?”

  “Christ, what’
d you do?”

  “Well, there was some tears, but she got the message. Kid knows what an investment is now. She’s got the blue book and all. This year we’re getting her a display cabinet.”

  Though the weather had been unseasonably warm that day, and the weekend’s snow had melted, it was still autumn, and when darkness fell, the night was cold. And so, with a swip and vroop of synthetic fabric, the campers-out unpacked tents, sleeping bags, heavy clothing—things bought for the occasion from Eddie Bauer, or Orvis, or Cabela’s, or Wal-Mart. Propane camp stoves were lit, and space heaters, and oil lamps, and cans of Sterno. A few signal flares, left over perhaps from the abortive lynching only two months before (nobody talked about that—it seemed to be a source of some embarrassment), burned for no apparent reason, and hissed themselves out. Someone had brought a generator and used it to power a small color television, which became the gathering’s center of gravity; the periodic sounds of vicarious revelry, commonly associated with the watching, in a large group, of a sporting event, could be heard. There was even a protest, staged across the street in front of the campus health clinic: April Cort, Jennifer Treisman, and a few other crackpots held up signs (SLAP HAPPY!, and MASTER CRIMINAL! they read) and walked in a circle. But nobody paid any attention, and they got cold, and eventually they broke up and went home.

  But even if all had been silent and calm, nobody might have noticed the masked figure, stealthy as an adder, who emerged from the woods down by the lake and slipped into the outlet store’s backyard. Over the dinner hour, clouds had crept across the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. Anyone paying attention might have heard the sound of a window being jimmied open (splintering pine, rattling glass); and someone might have smelled, had there been no campfires or propane stoves, kerosene being splattered all over the interior of the store—over the ten-dollar books, and hundred-dollar dolls, and cute little wooden toys and pinwheels and frilly girls’ clothes, and the many, many cases of wine that had been delivered yesterday, save for one, which the arsonist set aside for his own personal use. But, unfortunately, these events went undetected, and at about four in the morning the place went up in flames.