by Stephen King
I lay down and looked at the slowly revolving blades of the overhead fan. I hadn’t done very well explaining my lack of a fake arm. I wondered if Wireman would’ve had better luck with What’s a lawyer doing as a rich old spinster’s houseman? What kind of other life is that?
Still considering this, I drifted off into a dreamless and very satisfying nap.
v
When I woke up, I took a hot shower, then went into the living room to check my answering machine. I wasn’t as stiff as I had expected, given my two-mile walk. I might get up tomorrow hobbling, but for tonight I thought I was going to be all right.
The message was from Jack. He said his mother had connected him with someone named Dario Nannuzzi, and Nannuzzi would be happy to look at my pictures between four and five PM on Friday afternoon—could I bring no more than ten of those I considered best to the Scoto Gallery? No sketches; Nannuzzi only wanted to see finished work.
I felt a tickle of unease at this—
No, that’s not even close to what I felt.
My stomach cramped and I could have sworn my bowels dropped three inches. Nor was that the worst. That half-itch, half-pain swarmed up my right side and down the arm that was no longer there. I told myself such feelings—which amounted to three-days-in-advance flop-sweat—were stupid. I had once made a ten-million-dollar pitch to the St. Paul City Council, which at that time had included a man who’d gone on to become the Governor of Minnesota. I’d seen two girls through first dance recitals, cheerleading tryouts, driving lessons, and the hell of adolescence. What was showing some of my paintings to an art gallery guy compared to that?
Nevertheless, I made my way up the stairs to Little Pink with leaden heels.
The sun was going down, flooding the big room with gorgeous and improbable tangerine light, but I felt no urge to try and capture it—not this evening. The light called to me, just the same. As the photograph of some long-gone love, happened on by accident while going through an old box of souvenirs, may call to you. And the tide was in. Even upstairs I could hear the grinding voice of the shells. I sat down and began poking at the clutter of items on my junk-table—a feather, a water-smoothed stone, a disposable lighter rinsed to an anonymous gray. Now it wasn’t Emily Dickinson I thought of, but some old folk-song: Don’t the sun look good, Mama, shinin through the trees. No trees out there, of course, but I could put one on the horizon if I wanted to. I could put one out there for the red sunset to shine through. Hello, Dalí.
I wasn’t afraid of being told I had no talent. I was afraid of Signor Nannuzzi telling me I had a leetle talent. Of having him hold his thumb and forefinger maybe a quarter of an inch apart and advising me to reserve a space at the Venice Sidewalk Art Festival, that I would certainly find success there, many tourists would surely be taken by my charming Dalí imitations.
And if he did that, held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart and said leetle, what did I do then? Could some stranger’s verdict take away my new confidence in myself, steal my peculiar new joy?
“Maybe,” I said.
Yes. Because painting pictures wasn’t like putting up shopping malls.
The easiest thing would be just to cancel the appointment … except I’d sort of promised Ilse, and I wasn’t in the habit of breaking the promises I made to my children.
My right arm was still itching, itching almost hard enough to hurt, but I barely noticed. There were eight or nine canvases lined up against the wall to my left. I turned toward them, thinking I’d try to decide which ones were best, but I never so much as looked at them.
Tom Riley was standing at the head of the stairs. He was naked except for a pair of light blue pajama pants, darker at the crotch and down the inside of one leg, where he had wet them. His right eye was gone. There was a matted socket full of red and black gore where it had been. Dried blood streaked back along his right temple like war paint, disappearing into graying hair above his ear. His other eye stared out at the Gulf of Mexico. Carnival sunset swam over his narrow, pallid face.
I shrieked in surprise and terror, recoiled, and fell off my chair. I landed on my bad hip and yelled out again, this time from pain. I jerked and my foot struck the chair I’d been sitting in, knocking it over. When I looked toward the stairs again, Tom was gone.
vi
Ten minutes later I was downstairs, dialing his home number. I had descended the stairs from Little Pink in the sitting position, thumping down one riser at a time on my ass. Not because I’d hurt my hip falling off the chair, but because my legs were trembling so badly I didn’t trust myself on my feet. I was afraid I might take a header, even going down backward so I could clutch the banister with my left hand. Hell, I was afraid I might faint.
I kept remembering the day at Lake Phalen I’d turned to see Tom with that unnatural shine in his eyes, Tom trying not to embarrass me by actual bawling. Boss, I can’t get used to seeing you this way … I’m so sorry.
The telephone began to ring in Tom’s nice Apple Valley home. Tom, who’d been married and divorced twice, Tom who had advised me against moving out of the house in Mendota Heights—It’s like giving up home field advantage in a playoff game, he’d said. Tom who’d gone on to enjoy my home field quite a little bit himself, if Friends with Benefits were to be believed … and I did believe it.
I believed what I’d seen upstairs, too.
One ring … two … three.
“Come on,” I muttered. “Pick the motherfucker up.” I didn’t know what I’d say if he did, and didn’t care. All I wanted right then was to hear his voice.
I did, but on a recording. “Hi, you’ve reached Tom Riley,” he said. “My brother George and I are off with our mother, on our annual cruise—it’s Nassau this year. What do you say, Mother?”
“That I’m a Bahama Mama!” said a cigarette-cracked but undeniably cheerful voice.
“That’s right, she is,” Tom resumed. “We’ll be back February eighth. In the meantime, you can leave a message … when, George?”
“At the zound of the zeep!” cried a male voice.
“Right!” Tom agreed. “Zound of the zeep. Or you can call my office.” He gave the number, and then all three of them said “BON VOYAGE!”
I hung up without saying anything. It hadn’t sounded like the outgoing message of a man contemplating suicide, but of course he had been with his nearest and dearest (the ones who, later on, were most apt to say “He seemed fine”), and—
“Who says it’s going to be suicide?” I asked the empty room … and then looked around fearfully to make sure it was empty. “Who says it might not be an accident? Or even murder? Assuming it hasn’t happened already?”
But if it had already happened, someone would probably have called me. Maybe Bozie, but most likely Pam. Also …
“It’s suicide.” This time telling the room. “It’s suicide and it hasn’t happened yet. That was a warning.”
I got up and crutched into the bedroom. I’d been using the crutch less lately, but I wanted it tonight, indeed I did.
My best girl was propped against the pillows on the side of the bed that would have belonged to a real woman, if I’d still had one. I sat down, picked her up and looked into those big blue peepers, so full of cartoon surprise: Ouuuu, you nasty man! My Reba, who looked like Lucy Ricardo.
“It was like Scrooge getting visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet-To-Come,” I told her. “ ‘These are things that may be.’ “
Reba offered no opinion on this idea.
“But what do I do? That wasn’t like the paintings. That wasn’t like the paintings at all!”
But it was, and I knew it. Both paintings and visions originated in the human brain, and something in my brain had changed. I thought the change had come about as a result of just the right combination of injuries. Or the wrong one. Contracoup. Broca’s area. And Duma Key. The Key was … what?
“Amplifying it,” I told Reba. “Isn’t it?”
She offered no opinion.
“There’s something here, and it’s acting on me. Is it possible it even called me?”
The notion made me break out in gooseflesh. Beneath me, the shells ground together as the waves lifted them and dropped them. It was all too easy to imagine skulls instead of shells, thousands of them, all gnashing their teeth at once when the waves came in.
Was it Jack who had said there was another house somewhere out there in the toolies, falling apart? I thought so. When Ilse and I tried to drive that way, the road had gone bad in a hurry. So had Ilse’s stomach. My own gut had been okay, but the stink of the encroaching flora had been nasty and the itch in my missing arm had been worse. Wireman had looked alarmed when I told him about our attempted exploration. Duma Key Road’s no excursion for a guy in your condition, he’d said. The question was, exactly what was my condition?
Reba went on offering no opinion.
“I don’t want this to be happening,” I said softly.
Reba only stared up at me. I was a nasty man, that was her opinion.
“What good are you?” I asked, and threw her aside. She landed facedown on her pillow with her bottom up and her pink cotton legs spread, looking quite the little slut. Ouuuu you nasty man, indeed.
I dropped my head, looked at the carpet between my knees, and rubbed the nape of my neck. The muscles there were tight and knotted. They felt like iron. I hadn’t had one of my bad headaches in awhile, but if those muscles didn’t loosen soon, I’d be having a whopper tonight. I needed to eat something, that would be a start. Something comforting. One of those calorie-stuffed frozen dinners sounded about right—the kind where you slice the wrapping over the frozen meat and gravy, blast it for seven minutes in the microwave, then chow down like a motherfucker.
But I sat still awhile longer. I had many questions, and most were probably beyond my ability to answer. I recognized that and accepted it. I had learned to accept a lot since the day I’d had my confrontation with the crane. But I thought I had to try for at least one answer before I could bring myself to eat, hungry as I was. The phone on the bedtable had come with the house. It was charmingly old-fashioned, the Princess model with a rotary dial. It sat on a directory that was mostly Yellow Pages. I turned to the skinny white section, thinking I wouldn’t find Elizabeth Eastlake listed, but I did. I dialed the number. It rang twice and then Wireman answered.
“Hello, Eastlake residence.”
There was hardly a trace in that perfectly modulated voice of the man who had laughed hard enough to break his chair, and all at once this seemed like the world’s worst idea, but I saw no other option.
“Wireman? This is Edgar Freemantle. I need help.”
6—The Lady of the House
i
The following afternoon found me once more sitting at the little table at the end of the El Palacio de Asesinos boardwalk. The striped umbrella, although ripped, was still serviceable. A breeze chilly enough to warrant sweatshirts was blowing in off the water. Little scars of light danced across the table-top as I talked. And I talked, all right—for almost an hour, refreshing myself with sips of green tea from a glass Wireman kept filled. At last I stopped and for a little while there was no sound but the mild whisper of the incoming waves, breaking and running up the strand.
Wireman must have heard enough wrong in my voice the night before to concern him, because he’d offered to come in the Palacio golf cart immediately. He said he could stay in touch with Miss Eastlake via walkie-talkie. I told him it could wait a little. It was important, I said, but not urgent. Not in the 911 sense, at least. And it was true. If Tom were to commit suicide on his cruise, there was little I could do to prevent it. But I didn’t think he’d do it as long as his mother and brother were with him.
I had no intention of telling Wireman about my furtive hunt through my daughter’s purse; that was something of which I’d grown more rather than less ashamed. But once I started, beginning with LINK-BELT, I couldn’t stop. I told him almost everything, finishing with Tom Riley standing at the head of the stairs leading up to Little Pink, pale and dead and minus an eye. I think part of what kept me going was the simple realization that Wireman couldn’t commit me to the nearest lunatic asylum—he had no legal authority. Part of it was that, attracted as I was by his kindness and cynical good cheer, he was still a stranger. Sometimes—often, I think—telling stories that are embarrassing or even downright crazy is easier when you’re telling them to a stranger. Mostly, though, I pushed on out of pure relief: I felt like a man expressing snake-venom from a bite.
Wireman poured himself a fresh glass of tea with a hand that was not quite steady. I found that interesting and disquieting. Then he glanced at his watch, which he wore nurse-style, with the face on the inside of his wrist. “In half an hour or so I really have to go up and check her,” he said. “I’m sure she’s fine, but—”
“What if she wasn’t?” I asked. “If she fell, or something?”
He pulled a walkie-talkie from the pocket of his chinos. It was as slim as a cell phone. “I make sure she always carries hers. There are also Rapid Response call-buttons all over the house, but—” He tapped a thumb on his chest. “I’m the real alarm system, okay? The only one I trust.”
He looked out at the water and sighed.
“She’s got Alzheimer’s. It’s not too bad yet, but Dr. Hadlock says it’ll probably move fast now that it’s settled in. A year from now …” He shrugged almost sullenly, then brightened. “We have tea every day at four. Tea and Oprah. Why not come up and meet the lady of the house? I’ll even throw in a slice of key lime pie.”
“Okay,” I said. “It’s a deal. Do you think she’s the one who left that message on my answering machine about Duma Key not being a lucky place for daughters?”
“Sure. Although if you expect an explanation—if you expect her to even remember—good luck. But I can help you a little, maybe. You said something about brothers and sisters yesterday, and I didn’t get a chance to correct you. Fact is, all Elizabeth’s sibs were girls. All daughters. The oldest was born in 1908 or thereabouts. Elizabeth came onstage in 1923. Mrs. Eastlake died about two months after having her. Some kind of infection. Or maybe she threw a clot … who’s to know at this late date? That was here, on Duma Key.”
“Did the father remarry?” I still couldn’t remember his name.
Wireman helped me out. “John? No.”
“You’re not going to tell me he raised six girls out here. That’s just too gothic.”
“He tried, with the help of a nanny. But his eldest ran off with a boy. Miss Eastlake had an accident that almost killed her. And the twins …” He shook his head. “They were two years older than Elizabeth. In 1927 they disappeared. The presumption is they tried to go swimming, got swept away by an undertow, and drowned out there in the caldo grande.”
We looked at the water for a little while—those deceptively mild waves running up the beach like puppies—and said nothing. Then I asked if Elizabeth had told him all of this.
“Some. Not all. And she’s mixed up about what she does remember. I found a passing mention of an incident that had to be the right one on a Web site dedicated to Gulf coast history. Had a little e-mail correspondence with a guy who’s a librarian in Tampa.” Wireman raised his hands and waggled his fingers in a typing mime. “Tessie and Laura Eastlake. The librarian sent me a copy of the Tampa paper from April 19th, 1927. The headline on the front page is very stark, very bleak, very chilling. Three words. THEY ARE GONE.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Six years old. Elizabeth would have been four, old enough to understand what had happened. Maybe old enough to read a newspaper headline as simple as THEY ARE GONE. The twins dead and Adriana, the oldest, eloped off to Atlanta with one of his plant managers … no wonder John had had enough of Duma for awhile. He and the remaining three moved to Miami. Many years later, he moved back here to die, and Miss Eastlake cared for him.” Wireman shrugged. “Pretty much as I’m caring for her. So �
� do you see why an old lady with onset-Alzheimer’s might consider Duma a bad place for daughters?”
“I guess so, but how does an old lady with onset-Alzheimer’s find the phone number of her new tenant?”
Wireman gave me a sly look. “New tenant, old number, autodial function on all the phones back there.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Any other questions?”
I gaped at him. “She has me on autodial?”
“Don’t blame me; I came in late on this movie-show. My guess is that the Realtor who handles things for her programmed the rental properties into the phones. Or maybe Miss Eastlake’s business manager. He pops down from St. Petersburg every six weeks or so to make sure she’s not dead and I’m not stealing the Spode. I’ll ask him the next time he shows up.”
“So she can call any house on the north end of the Key at the touch of a button.”
“Well … yeah. I mean, they are all hers.” He patted my hand. “But you know what, muchacho? I think your button is going to have a little nervous breakdown this evening.”
“No,” I said, not even thinking about it. “Don’t do that.”
“Ah,” Wireman said, exactly as if he understood. And who knows, maybe he did. “Anyway, that explains your mystery caller—although I have to tell you, explanations have a way of thinning out on Duma Key. As your story demonstrates.”
“What do you mean? Have you had … experiences?”
He looked at me squarely, his large tanned face inscrutable. The chilly late January wind gusted, blowing sand around our ankles. It also lifted his hair, once again revealing the coin-shaped scar above his right temple. I wondered if someone had poked him with the neck of a bottle, maybe in a bar fight, and tried to imagine someone getting mad at this man. It was hard to do.
“Yes, I’ve had … experiences,” he said, and hooked the first two fingers of each hand into little quotation marks. “It’s what makes children into … adults. Also what gives English teachers something to bullshit about in first year … lit courses.” Each time with the air-quotes.