by Stephen King
Her hair, as a rule braided or put up in complicated swoops arranged to showcase her collection of vintage hair clips, stood out around her head in an unkempt Einstein cloud. She wore no makeup, and even in her distress, Lucy was shocked by how old Concetta looked. Well, of course she was old, eighty-five was very old, but until this morning she had looked like a woman in her late sixties at most. "I would have been here an hour earlier if I'd found someone to come in and take care of Betty." Betty was her elderly, ailing boxer.
Chetta caught David's reproachful glance.
"Bets is dying, David. And based on what you could tell me over the phone, I wasn't all that concerned about Abra."
"Are you concerned now?" David asked.
Lucy flashed him a warning glance, but Chetta seemed willing to accept the implied rebuke. "Yes." She held out her hands. "Give her to me, Lucy. Let's see if she'll quiet for Momo."
But Abra would not quiet for Momo, no matter how she was rocked. Nor did a soft and surprisingly tuneful lullabye (for all David knew, it was "The Wheels on the Bus" in Italian) do the job. They all tried the walking cure again, first squiring her around the small exam room, then down the hall, then back to the exam room. The screaming went on and on. At some point there was a commotion outside--someone with actual visible injuries being wheeled in, David assumed--but those in exam room 4 took little notice.
At five to nine, the exam room door opened and the Stones' pediatrician walked in. Dr. John Dalton was a fellow Dan Torrance would have recognized, although not by last name. To Dan he was just Doctor John, who made the coffee at the Thursday night Big Book meeting in North Conway.
"Thank God!" Lucy said, thrusting her howling child into the pediatrician's arms. "We've been left on our own for hours!"
"I was on my way when I got the message." Dalton hoisted Abra onto his shoulder. "Rounds here, then over in Castle Rock. You've heard about what's happened, haven't you?"
"Heard what?" David asked. With the door open, he was for the first time consciously aware of a moderate uproar outside. People were talking in loud voices. Some were crying. The nurse who had admitted them walked by, her face red and blotchy, her cheeks wet. She didn't even glance at the screaming infant.
"A passenger jet hit the World Trade Center," Dalton said. "And no one thinks it was an accident."
That was American Airlines Flight 11. United Airlines Flight 175 struck the Trade Center's South Tower seventeen minutes later, at 9:03 a.m. At 9:03, Abra Stone abruptly stopped crying. By 9:04, she was sound asleep.
On their ride back to Anniston, David and Lucy listened to the radio while Abra slept peacefully in her car seat behind them. The news was unbearable, but turning it off was unthinkable . . . at least until a newscaster announced the names of the airlines and the flight numbers of the aircraft: two in New York, one near Washington, one cratered in rural Pennsylvania. Then David finally reached over and silenced the flood of disaster.
"Lucy, I have to tell you something. I dreamed--"
"I know." She spoke in the flat tone of one who has just suffered a shock. "So did I."
By the time they crossed back into New Hampshire, David had begun to believe there might be something to that caul business, after all.
10
In a New Jersey town, on the west bank of the Hudson River, there's a park named for the town's most famous resident. On a clear day, it offers a perfect view of Lower Manhattan. The True Knot arrived in Hoboken on September eighth, parking in a private lot which they had four-walled for ten days. Crow Daddy did the deal. Handsome and gregarious, looking about forty, Crow's favorite t-shirt read I'M A PEOPLE PERSON! Not that he ever wore a tee when negotiating for the True Knot; then it was strictly suit and tie. It was what the rubes expected. His straight name was Henry Rothman. He was a Harvard-educated lawyer (class of '38), and he always carried cash. The True had over a billion dollars in various accounts across the world--some in gold, some in diamonds, some in rare books, stamps, and paintings--but never paid by check or credit card. Everyone, even Pea and Pod, who looked like kids, carried a roll of ten and twenties.
As Jimmy Numbers had once said, "We're a cash-and-carry outfit. We pay cash and the rubes carry us." Jimmy was the True's accountant. In his rube days he had once ridden with an outfit that became known (long after their war was over) as Quantrill's Raiders. Back then he had been a wild kid who wore a buffalo coat and carried a Sharps, but in the years since, he had mellowed. These days he had a framed, autographed picture of Ronald Reagan in his RV.
On the morning of September eleventh, the True watched the attacks on the Twin Towers from the parking lot, passing around four pairs of binoculars. They would have had a better view from Sinatra Park, but Rose didn't need to tell them that gathering early might attract suspicion . . . and in the months and years ahead, America was going to be a very suspicious nation: if you see something, say something.
Around ten that morning--when crowds had gathered all along the riverbank and it was safe--they made their way to the park. The Little twins, Pea and Pod, pushed Grampa Flick in his wheelchair. Grampa wore his cap stating I AM A VET. His long, baby-fine white hair floated around the cap's edges like milkweed. There had been a time when he'd told folks he was a veteran of the Spanish-American War. Then it was World War I. Nowadays it was World War II. In another twenty years or so, he expected to switch his story to Vietnam. Verisimilitude had never been a problem; Grampa was a military history buff.
Sinatra Park was jammed. Most folks were silent, but some wept. Apron Annie and Black-Eyed Sue helped in this respect; both were able to cry on demand. The others put on suitable expressions of sorrow, solemnity, and amazement.
Basically, the True Knot fit right in. It was how they rolled.
Spectators came and went, but the True stayed for most of the day, which was cloudless and beautiful (except for the thick billows of dreck rising in Lower Manhattan, that is). They stood at the iron rail, not talking among themselves, just watching. And taking long slow deep breaths, like tourists from the Midwest standing for the first time on Pemaquid Point or Quoddy Head in Maine, breathing deep of the fresh sea air. As a sign of respect, Rose took off her tophat and held it by her side.
At four o'clock they trooped back to their encampment in the parking lot, invigorated. They would return the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. They would return until the good steam was exhausted, and then they would move on again.
By then, Grampa Flick's white hair would have become iron gray, and he would no longer need the wheelchair.
CHAPTER THREE
SPOONS
1
It was a twenty-mile drive from Frazier to North Conway, but Dan Torrance made it every Thursday night, partly because he could. He was now working at Helen Rivington House, making a decent salary, and he had his driver's license back. The car he'd bought to go with it wasn't much, just a three-year-old Caprice with blackwall tires and an iffy radio, but the engine was good and every time he started it up, he felt like the luckiest man in New Hampshire. He thought if he never had to ride another bus, he could die happy. It was January of 2004. Except for a few random thoughts and images--plus the extra work he sometimes did at the hospice, of course--the shining had been quiet. He would have done that volunteer work in any case, but after his time in AA, he also saw it as making amends, which recovering people considered almost as important as staying away from the first drink. If he could manage to keep the plug in the jug another three months, he would be able to celebrate three years sober.
Driving again figured large in the daily gratitude meditations upon which Casey K. insisted (because, he said--and with all the dour certainty of the Program long-timer--a grateful alcoholic doesn't get drunk), but mostly Dan went on Thursday nights because the Big Book gathering was soothing. Intimate, really. Some of the open discussion meetings in the area were uncomfortably large, but that was never true on Thursday nights in North Conway. There was an old AA saying
that went, If you want to hide something from an alcoholic, stick it in the Big Book, and attendance at the North Conway Thursday night meeting suggested that there was some truth in it. Even during the weeks between the Fourth of July and Labor Day--the height of the tourist season--it was rare to have more than a dozen people in the Amvets hall when the gavel fell. As a result, Dan had heard things he suspected would never have been spoken aloud in the meetings that drew fifty or even seventy recovering alkies and druggies. In those, speakers had a tendency to take refuge in the platitudes (of which there were hundreds) and avoid the personal. You'd hear Serenity pays dividends and You can take my inventory if you're willing to make my amends, but never I fucked my brother's wife one night when we were both drunk.
At the Thursday night We Study Sobriety meetings, the little enclave read Bill Wilson's big blue how-to manual from cover to cover, each new meeting picking up where the last meeting had left off. When they got to the end of the book, they went back to "The Doctor's Statement" and started all over again. Most meetings covered ten pages or so. That took about half an hour. In the remaining half hour, the group was supposed to talk about the material just read. Sometimes they actually did. Quite often, however, the discussion veered off in other directions, like an unruly planchette scurrying around a Ouija board beneath the fingers of neurotic teenagers.
Dan remembered a Thursday night meeting he'd attended when he was about eight months sober. The chapter under discussion, "To Wives," was full of antique assumptions that almost always provoked a hot response from the younger women in the Program. They wanted to know why, in the sixty-five years or so since the Big Book's original publication, no one had ever added a chapter called "To Husbands."
When Gemma T.--a thirtysomething whose only two emotional settings seemed to be Angry and Profoundly Pissed Off--raised her hand on that particular night, Dan had expected a fem-lib tirade. Instead she said, much more quietly than usual, "I need to share something. I've been holding onto it ever since I was seventeen, and unless I let go, I'll never be able to stay away from coke and wine."
The group waited.
"I hit a man with my car when I was coming home drunk from a party," Gemma said. "This was back in Somerville. I left him lying by the side of the road. I didn't know if he was dead or alive. I still don't. I waited for the cops to come and arrest me, but they never did. I got away with it."
She had laughed at this the way people do when the joke's an especially good one, then put her head down on the table and burst into sobs so deep that they shook her rail-thin body. It had been Dan's first experience with how terrifying "honesty in all our affairs" could be when it was actually put into practice. He thought, as he still did every so often, of how he had stripped Deenie's wallet of cash, and how the little boy had reached for the cocaine on the coffee table. He was a little in awe of Gemma, but that much raw honesty wasn't in him. If it came down to a choice between telling that story and taking a drink . . .
I'd take the drink. No question.
2
Tonight the reading was "Gutter Bravado," one of the stories from the section of the Big Book cheerily titled "They Lost Nearly All." The tale followed a pattern with which Dan had become familiar: good family, church on Sundays, first drink, first binge, business success spoiled by booze, escalating lies, first arrest, broken promises to reform, institutionalization, and the final happy ending. All the stories in the Big Book had happy endings. That was part of its charm.
It was a cold night but overwarm inside, and Dan was edging into a doze when Doctor John raised his hand and said, "I've been lying to my wife about something, and I don't know how to stop."
That woke Dan up. He liked DJ a lot.
It turned out that John's wife had given him a watch for Christmas, quite an expensive one, and when she had asked him a couple of nights ago why he wasn't wearing it, John said he'd left it at the office.
"Only it's not there. I looked everywhere, and it's just not. I do a lot of hospital rounds, and if I have to change into scrubs, I use one of the lockers in the doctors' lounge. There are combo locks, but I hardly ever use them, because I don't carry much cash and I don't have anything else worth stealing. Except for the watch, I guess. I can't remember taking it off and leaving it in a locker--not at CNH or over in Bridgton--but I think I must have. It's not the expense. It just brings back a lot of the old stuff from the days when I was drinking myself stupid every night and chipping speed the next morning to get going."
There were nodding heads at this, followed by similar stories of guilt-driven deceit. No one gave advice; that was called "crosstalk," and frowned on. They simply told their tales. John listened with his head down and his hands clasped between his knees. After the basket was passed ("We are self-supporting through our own contributions"), he thanked everyone for their input. From the look of him, Dan didn't think said input had helped a whole hell of a lot.
After the Lord's Prayer, Dan put away the leftover cookies and stacked the group's tattered Big Books in the cabinet marked FOR AA USE. A few people were still hanging around the butt-can outside--the so-called meeting after the meeting--but he and John had the kitchen to themselves. Dan hadn't spoken during the discussion; he was too busy having an interior debate with himself.
The shining had been quiet, but that didn't mean it was absent. He knew from his volunteer work that it was actually stronger than it had been since childhood, though now he seemed to have a greater degree of control over it. That made it less frightening and more useful. His co-workers at Rivington House knew he had something, but most of them called it empathy and let it go at that. The last thing he wanted, now that his life had begun to settle down, was to get a reputation as some sort of parlor psychic. Best to keep the freaky shit to himself.
Doctor John was a good guy, though. And he was hurting.
DJ placed the coffee urn upside down in the dish drainer, used a length of towel hanging from the stove handle to dry his hands, then turned to Dan, offering a smile that looked as real as the Coffee-mate Dan had stored away next to the cookies and the sugar bowl. "Well, I'm off. See you next week, I guess."
In the end, the decision made itself; Dan simply could not let the guy go looking like that. He held his arms out. "Give it up."
The fabled AA manhug. Dan had seen many but never given a single one. John looked dubious for a moment, then stepped forward. Dan drew him in, thinking There'll probably be nothing.
But there was. It came as quickly as it had when, as a child, he had sometimes helped his mother and father find lost things.
"Listen to me, Doc," he said, letting John go. "You were worried about the kid with Goocher's."
John stepped back. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm not saying it right, I know that. Goocher's? Glutcher's? It's some sort of bone thing."
John's mouth dropped open. "Are you talking about Norman Lloyd?"
"You tell me."
"Normie's got Gaucher's disease. It's a lipid disorder. Hereditary and very rare. Causes an enlarged spleen, neurologic disorders, and usually an early, unpleasant death. Poor kid's basically got a glass skeleton, and he'll probably die before he's ten. But how do you know that? From his parents? The Lloyds live way the hell down in Nashua."
"You were worried about talking to him--the terminal ones drive you crazy. That's why you stopped in the Tigger bathroom to wash your hands even though your hands didn't need washing. You took off your watch and put it up on the shelf where they keep that dark red disinfectant shit that comes in the plastic squeeze bottles. I don't know the name."
John D. was staring at him as though he had gone mad.
"Which hospital is this kid in?" Dan asked.
"Elliot. The time-frame's about right, and I did stop in the bathroom near the Pedes nursing station to wash my hands." He paused, frowning. "And yeah, I guess there are Milne characters on the walls in that one. But if I'd taken off my watch, I'd remem . . ." He trailed off.
&n
bsp; "You do remember," Dan said, and smiled. "Now you do. Don't you?"
John said, "I checked the Elliot lost and found. Bridgton and CNH, too, for that matter. Nothing."
"Okay, so maybe somebody came along, saw it, and stole it. If so, you're shit out of luck . . . but at least you can tell your wife what happened. And why it happened. You were thinking about the kid, worrying about the kid, and you forgot to put your watch back on before you left the can. Simple as that. And hey, maybe it's still there. That's a high shelf, and hardly anybody uses what's in those plastic bottles, because there's a soap dispenser right beside the sink."
"It's Betadine on that shelf," John said, "and up high so the kids can't reach it. I never noticed. But . . . Dan, have you ever been in Elliot?"
This wasn't a question he wanted to answer. "Just check the shelf, Doc. Maybe you'll get lucky."
3
Dan arrived early at the following Thursday's We Study Sobriety meeting. If Doctor John had decided to trash his marriage and possibly his career over a missing seven-hundred-dollar watch (alkies routinely trashed marriages and careers over far less), someone would have to make the coffee. But John was there. So was the watch.
This time it was John who initiated the manhug. An extremely hearty one. Dan almost expected to receive a pair of Gallic kisses on the cheeks before DJ let him go.
"It was right where you said it would be. Ten days, and still there. It's like a miracle."
"Nah," Dan said. "Most people rarely look above their own eyeline. It's a proven fact."