Dolores Claiborne

by Stephen King

  I sat there n picked over those old bones one last time, n then I put em aside and got up from where I'd spent most of the day. I decided that I didn't much care what you or anyone else believed. It's all over, you see--for Joe, for Vera, for Michael Donovan, for Donald n Helga ... and for Dolores Claiborne, too. One way or another, all the bridges between that time n this one have been burned. Time's a reach, too, you know, just like the one that lies between the islands and the mainland, but the only ferry that can cross it is memory, and that's like a ghost-ship--if you want it to disappear, after awhile it will.

  But all that aside, it's still funny how things turned out, ain't it? I remember what went through my mind as I got up n turned back to them rickety stairs--the same thing that went through it when Joe snaked his arm outta the well n almost pulled me in with him: I have digged a pit for mine enemies, and am fallen into it myself. It seemed to me, as I laid hold of that old splintery bannister n got set to climb back up all those stairs (always assumin they'd hold me a second time, accourse), that it'd finally happened, n that I'd always known it would. It just took me awhile longer to fall into mine than it took Joe to fall into his.

  Vera had a pit to fall into, too--and if I've got anything to be grateful for, it's that I haven't had to dream my children back to life like she did ... although sometimes, when I'm talkin to Selena on the phone and hear her slur her words, I wonder if there's any escape for any of us from the pain n the sorrow of our lives. I couldn't fool her, Andy --shame on me.

  Still, I'll take what I can take n grit my teeth so it looks like a grin, just like I always have. I try to keep in mind that two of my three children live still, that they are successful beyond what anyone on Little Tall would've expected when they were babies, and successful beyond what they maybe could've been if their no-good of a father hadn't had himself an accident on the afternoon of July 20th, 1963. Life ain't an either-or proposition, you see, and if I ever forget to be thankful my girl n one of my boys lived while Vera's boy n girl died, I'll have to explain the sin of ingratitude when I get before the throne of the Almighty. I don't want to do that. I got enough on my conscience--and prob'ly on my soul, too--already. But listen to me, all three of you, n hear this if you don't hear nothing else: everything I did, I did for love ... the love a natural mother feels for her children. That's the strongest love there is in the world, and it's the deadliest. There's no bitch on earth like a mother frightened for her kids.

  I thought of my dream as I reached the top of the steps again, n stood on the landin just inside that guard-rope, lookin out to sea--the dream of how Vera kept handin me plates and I kep droppin em. I thought of the sound the rock made when it struck him in the face, and how the two sounds were the same sound.

  But mostly I thought about Vera and me--two bitches livin on a little chunk of rock off the Maine coast, livin together most of the time in the last years. I thought about how them two bitches slep together when the older one was scared, n how they passed the years in that big house, two bitches who ended up spendin most of their time bitchin at each other. I thought of how she'd fool me, n how I'd go'n fool her right back, and how happy each of us was when we won a round. I thought about how she was when the dust bunnies ganged up on her, how she'd scream n how she trembled like an animal that's been backed into a corner by a bigger creature that means to tear it to pieces. I remember how I'd climb into the bed with her, n put my arms around her, n feel her tremblin that way, like a delicate glass that someone's tapped with the handle of a knife. I'd feel her tears on my neck, and I'd brush her thin, dry hair n say, "Shhh, dear ... shhh. Those pesky dust bunnies are all gone. You're safe. Safe with me."

  But if I've found out anything, Andy, it's that they ain't never gone, not really. You think you're shut of em, that you neatened em all away and there ain't a dust bunny anyplace, n then they come back, they look like faces, they always look like faces, and the faces they look like are always the ones you never wanted to see again, awake or in your dreams.

  I thought of her layin there on the stairs, too, and sayin she was tired, she wanted to be done. And as I stood there on that rickety landin in my wet galoshes, I knew well enough why I'd chosen to be on those stairs that are so rotted not even the hellions will play on em after school lets out, or on the days when they play hookey. I was tired, too. I've lived my life as best I could by my own lights. I never shirked a job, nor cried off from the things I had to do, even when those things were terrible. Vera was right when she said that sometimes a woman has to be a bitch to survive; but bein a bitch is hard work, I'll tell the world it is, n I was so tired. I wanted to have done, and it occurred to me that it wasn't too late to go back down those stairs, n that I didn't have to stop at the bottom this time, neither ... not if I didn't want to.

  Then I heard her again--Vera. I heard her like I did that night beside the well, not just in my head but my ear. It was a lot spookier this time, I c'n tell you; back in '63 she'd at least been alive.

  "What can you be thinking about, Dolores?" she ast in that haughty Kiss-My-Back-Cheeks voice of hers. "I paid a higher price than you did; I paid a higher price than anyone will ever know, but I lived with the bargain I made just the same. I did more than that. When the dust bunnies and the dreams of what could have been were all I had left, I took the dreams and made them my own. The dust bunnies? Well, they might have gotten me in the end, but I lived with them for a lot of years before they did. Now you've got a bunch of your own to deal with, but if you've lost the guts you had on the day when you told me that firing the Jolander girl was a boogery thing to do, go on. Go on and jump. Because without your guts, Dolores Claiborne, you're just another stupid old woman."

  I drew back n looked around, but there was only East Head, dark n wet with that spray that travels in the air on windy days. There wasn't a soul in sight. I stood there awhile longer, lookin at the way the clouds ran across the sky--I like to watch em, they're so high n free n silent as they go their courses up there--and then I turned away n started back home. I had to stop n rest two or three times on the way, because that long time sittin in the damp air at the bottom of the steps put an awful misery in my back. But I made it. When I got back to the house I took three asp'rin, got into my car, n drove straight here.

  And that's it.

  Nancy, I see you've piled up purt-near a dozen of those little tiny tapes, n your cunning little recorder must be just about wore out. So'm I, but I come here to have my say, and I've had it--every damn word of it, and every word is true. You do what you need to do to me, Andy; I've done my part, n I feel at peace with myself. That's all that matters, I guess; that, n knowin exactly who you are. I know who I am: Dolores Claiborne, two months shy of my sixty-sixth birthday, registered Democrat, lifelong resident of Little Tall Island.

  I guess I want to say two more things, Nancy, before you hit the STOP button on that rig of yours. In the end, it's the bitches of the world who abide ... and as for the dust bunnies: frig ya!

  Scrapbook

  From the Ellsworth American, November 6, 1992 (p. 1): ISLAND WOMAN CLEARED

  Dolores Claiborne of Little Tall Island, long-time companion of Mrs. Vera Donovan, also of Little Tall, was absolved of any blame in the death of Mrs. Donovan at a special coroner's inquest held in Machias yesterday. The purpose of the inquest was to determine if Mrs. Donovan had suffered "wrongful death," meaning death as the result of neglect or criminal act. Speculation concerning Miss Claiborne's role in the death of her employer was fueled by the fact that Mrs. Donovan, who was reputedly senile at the time of her death, left her companion and housekeeper the bulk of her estate. Some sources estimate the worth of the estate to be in excess of ten million dollars.

  From the Boston Globe, November 20, 1992 (p. 1): A Happy Thanksgiving in Somerville

  ANONYMOUS BENEFACTOR GIVES 30M TO ORPHANAGE

  The stunned directors of The New England Home for Little Wanderers announced at a hastily called press conference late this afternoon that Chri
stmas is coming a little early for the hundred-and-fifty-year-old orphanage this year, thanks to a thirty-million-dollar bequest from an anonymous donor.

  "We received word of this amazing donation from Alan Greenbush, a reputable New York attorney and certified public accountant," said a visibly flustered Brandon Jaegger, head of the N.E.H.L.W.'s board of directors. "It appears to be completely on the level, but the person behind this contribution--the guardian angel behind it, I should perhaps say--is completely serious about his or her anonymity. It almost goes without saying that all of us associated with the Home are overjoyed. "

  If the multi-million-dollar donation proves out, the Little Wanderers' windfall would be the largest single charitable contribution to such a Massachusetts institution since 1938, when ...

  From The Weekly Tide, December 14, 1992 (p. 16)

  Notes from Little Tall By "Nosy Nettie"

  Mrs. Lottie McCandless won the Christmas Cover-All at Friday Night Beano in Jonesport last week--the prize totaled $240, and that's a lot of Christmas presents! Nosy Nettie is soooo jealous! Seriously, congratulations, Lottie!

  John Caron's brother, Philo, came down from Derry to help John caulk his boat, the Deepstar, while it was at drydock. There is nothing like a little "brotherly love" in this blessed season, is there, boys?

  Jolene Aubuchon, who lives with her granddaughter, Patricia, finished a 2000-piece jigsaw puzzle of Mt. St. Helens last Thursday. Jolene says that she's going to celebrate her 90th birthday next year by doing a 5000-piece puzzle of the Sistine Chapel. Hurrah, Jolene! Nosy Nettie and all at the Tide like your style!

  Dolores Claiborne will be shopping for one extra this week! She knew her son Joe--"Mr. Democrat"--was coming home with his family from his toils in Augusta for an "island Christmas," but now she says that her daughter, famous mag-first visit in over twenty years! Dolores says she feels "very blessed." When Nosy asked if they would be discussing Selena's latest "think-piece" in the Atlantic Monthly, Dolores would only smile and say, "We'll find lots to talk about, I'm sure."

  From the Early Recovery Dept., Nosy hears that Vincent Bragg, who broke his arm playing football last October ...

  October 1989-February 1992

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  GERALD'S GAME

  On a warm weekday October, in the lovely summer home of Gerald and Jessie Burlingame, a game is about to begin. It's a game to be played between husband and wife, and a game that has Jessie being innocently handcuffed to the bed-posts. Then, in one horrible, violent act, Gerald is dead and Jessie, well, she's alone and still chained to the bed.

  But Jessie's about to have company: all of her worst nightmares.

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  FOUR PAST MIDNIGHT

  Imagine, if you dare: you are strapped to an airline seat on a flight beyond hell; you are forced into a hunt for the most horrifying secret a small town ever hid; you are trapped in the demonic depths of a writer's worst nightmare; you are focusing in on a beast bent on shredding your sanity.

  Imagine, if you dare: you are in the hands of Stephen King at his mind-blowing best. Imagine no more.

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  THE STAND

  America has been destroyed by a vast killer plague. With the countryside destroyed, great cities decimated, the population desperately, but futilely, seeks safety. But for those few remaining survivors, their greatest challenge still awaits: defeating a far greater evil.

  Here is Stephen King's most terrifying vision, now available in its complete, uncut version.

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  Thad Beaumont would like to say he's innocent. He'd like to say he has nothing to do with the series of monstrous murders that keep coming closer to his home. He'd like to say he has nothing to do with the twisted imagination that produced his bestselling novels. He'd like to say he has nothing to do with the voice on the phone uttering its obscene threats and demanding total surrender.

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  The Gunslinger, a haunting figure, seemingly alone in a world of ominous landscape and macabre menace. Join him on his elusive search for the Dark Tower. Join him as he pursues the Man in Black, encounters the sexually ravenous Alice, and befriends the kid from Earth called Jake.

  Follow the Gunslinger as he begins his incredible journey.

  The Second Volume

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  THE DRAWING OF THE THREE

  The quest for the Dark Tower continues as Roland, the Last Gunslinger, is drawn through a mysterious door that brings him into contemporary America. Here he links forces with Eddie Dean, the defiant one, and Odetta Holmes, the brave one, in a savage struggle against underworld evil and otherworldly enemies.

  THE DRAWING OF THE THREE is sheer storytelling magic.

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  THE WASTE LANDS

  Roland, the Last Gunslinger, with Eddie Dean and Susannah, moves ever closer to the Dark Tower of his dreams and nightmares as he crosses a desert of damnation and enters a macabre world that seems eerily familiar. A world that is a twisted mirror image of our own, a world filled with haunting adventure.

  THE WASTE LANDS is further testament of Stephen King's mastery.