by Stephen King
At the end they had all taken turns changing his oxygen tanks, and one night Mom found him dead on the floor, as if he’d been trying to get up and had died of it. She screamed for Alden, who came, looked, listened to the old man’s chest, then turned off the oxy. Shelley Dinsmore began to cry. Since then, the room had mostly been closed.
Sorry was what the note on the door said. Go to town Ollie. The Morgans or Dentons or Rev Libby will take you in.
Ollie looked at the note for a long time, then turned the knob with a hand that didn’t seem to be his own, hoping it wouldn’t be messy.
It wasn’t. His father lay on Grampy’s bed with his hands laced together on his chest. His hair was combed the way he combed it when he was going to town. He was holding the wedding picture. One of Grampy’s old green oxygen tanks still stood in the corner; Alden had hung his Red Sox cap, the one that said WORLD SERIES CHAMPS, over the valve.
Ollie shook his father’s shoulder. He could smell booze, and for a few seconds hope (always stubborn, sometimes hateful) lived in his heart again. Maybe he was only drunk.
“Dad? Daddy? Wake up!”
Ollie could feel no breath against his cheek, and now saw that his father’s eyes weren’t completely closed; little crescents of white peeped out between the upper and lower lids. There was a smell of what his mother called eau de pee.
His father had combed his hair, but as he lay dying he had, like his late wife, pissed his pants. Ollie wondered if knowing that might happen would have stopped him.
He backed slowly away from the bed. Now that he wanted to feel like he was having a bad dream, he didn’t. He was having a bad reality, and that was something from which you could not wake. His stomach clenched and a column of vile liquid rose up his throat. He ran for the bathroom, where he was confronted by a glare-eyed intruder. He almost screamed before recognizing himself in the mirror over the sink.
He knelt at the toilet, grasping what he and Rory had called Grampy’s crip-rails, and vomited. When it was out of him, he flushed (thanks to the gennie and a good deep well, he could flush), lowered the lid, and sat on it, trembling all over. Beside him, in the sink, were two of Grampy Tom’s pill bottles and a bottle of Jack Daniels. All the bottles were empty. Ollie picked up one of the pill bottles. PERCOCET, the label said. He didn’t bother with the other one.
“I’m alone now,” he said.
The Morgans or Dentons or Rev Libby will take you in.
But he didn’t want to be taken in—it sounded like what his mom would have done to a piece of clothing in her sewing room. He had sometimes hated this farm, but he had always loved it more. The farm had him. The farm and the cows and the woodpile. They were his and he was theirs. He knew that just as he knew that Rory would have gone away to have a bright and successful career, first at college and then in some city far from here where he would go to plays and art galleries and things. His kid brother had been smart enough to make something of himself in the big world; Ollie himself might have been smart enough to stay ahead of the bank loans and credit cards, but not much more.
He decided to go out and feed the cows. He would treat them to double mash, if they would eat it. There might even be a bossy or two who’d want to be milked. If so, he might have a little straight from the teat, as he had when he was a kid.
After that, he would go as far down the big field as he could, and throw rocks at the Dome until the people started showing up to visit with their relatives. Big doins, his father would have said. But there was no one Ollie wanted to see, except maybe Private Ames from South Cah’lina. He knew that Aunt Lois and Uncle Scooter might come—they lived just over in New Gloucester—but what would he say if they did? Hey Unc, they’re all dead but me, thanks for coming?
No, once the people from outside the Dome started to arrive, he reckoned he’d go up to where Mom was buried and dig a new hole nearby. That would keep him busy, and maybe by the time he went to bed, he’d be able to sleep.
Grampy Tom’s oxygen mask was dangling from the hook on the bathroom door. His mother had carefully washed it clean and hung it there; who knew why. Looking at it, the truth finally crashed down on him, and it was like a piano hitting a marble floor. Ollie clapped his hands over his face and began to rock back and forth on the toilet seat, wailing.
18
Linda Everett packed up two cloth grocery sacks’ worth of canned stuff, almost put them by the kitchen door, then decided to leave them in the pantry until she and Thurse and the kids were ready to go. When she saw the Thibodeau kid coming up the driveway, she was glad she’d done so. That young man scared the hell out of her, but she would have had much more to fear if he’d seen two bags filled with soup and beans and tuna fish.
Going somewhere, Mrs. Everett? Let’s talk about that.
The trouble was, of all the new cops Randolph had taken on, Thibodeau was the only one who was smart.
Why couldn’t Rennie have sent Searles?
Because Melvin Searles was dumb. Elementary, my dear Watson.
She glanced out the kitchen window into the backyard and saw Thurston pushing Jannie and Alice on the swings. Audrey lay nearby, with her snout on one paw. Judy and Aidan were in the sandbox. Judy had her arm around Aidan and appeared to be comforting him. Linda loved her for that. She hoped she could get Mr. Carter Thibodeau satisfied and on his way before the five people in the backyard even knew he’d been there. She hadn’t acted since playing Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire back in junior college, but she was going onstage again this morning. The only good review she wanted was her continued freedom and that of the people out back.
She hurried through the living room, fixing what she hoped was a suitably anxious look on her face before opening the door. Carter was standing on the WELCOME mat with his fist raised to knock. She had to look up at him; she was five-nine, but he was over half a foot taller.
“Well, look at you,” he said, smiling. “All brighteyed and bushy-tailed, and it’s not even seven thirty.”
He did not feel that much like smiling; it hadn’t been a productive morning. The preacher lady was gone, the newspaper bitch was gone, her two pet reporters seemed to have disappeared, and so had Rose Twitchell. The restaurant was open and the Wheeler kid was minding the store, but said he had no clue as to where Rose might be. Carter believed him. Anse Wheeler looked like a dog who’s forgotten where he buried his favorite bone. Judging by the horrible smells coming from the kitchen, he had no clue when it came to cooking, either. Carter had gone around back, checking for the Sweetbriar van. It was gone. He wasn’t surprised.
After the restaurant he’d checked the department store, hammering first in front, then in back, where some careless clerk had left a bunch of roofing material rolls out for any Light-Finger Harry to steal. Except when you thought about it, who’d bother with roofing material in a town where it no longer rained?
Carter had thought Everett’s house would also be a dry hole, only went there so he could say he’d followed the boss’s instructions to the letter, but he had heard kids in the backyard as he walked up the driveway. Also, her van was there. No doubt it was hers; one of those stick-on bubble-lights was sitting on the dash. The boss had said moderate questioning, but since Linda Everett was the only one he could find, Carter thought he might go on the hard side of moderate. Like it or not—and she wouldn’t—Everett would have to answer for the ones he hadn’t been able to find as well as herself. But before he could open his mouth, she was talking. Not only talking, but taking him by the hand, actually pulling him inside.
“Have you found him? Please, Carter, is Rusty okay? If he’s not …” She let go of his hand. “If he’s not, keep your voice down, the kids are out back and I don’t want them any more upset than they are already.”
Carter walked past her into the kitchen and peered out through the window over the sink. “What’s the hippie doctor doing here?”
“He brought the kids he’s taking care of. Caro brought them to the meeting last ni
ght, and … you know what happened to her.”
This speed-rap babble was the last thing Carter had expected. Maybe she didn’t know anything. The fact that she’d been at the meeting last night and was still here this morning certainly argued in favor of the idea. Or maybe she was just trying to keep him off-balance. Making a what-did-you-call-it, preemptive strike. It was possible; she was smart. You only had to look at her to see that. Also sort of pretty, for an older babe.
“Have you found him? Did Barbara …” She found it easy to put a catch in her voice. “Did Barbara hurt him? Hurt him and leave him somewhere? You can tell me the truth.”
He turned to her, smiling easily in the diluted light coming in through the window. “You go first.”
“What?”
“You go first, I said. You tell me the truth.”
“All I know is he’s gone.” She let her shoulders slump. “And you don’t know where. I can see you don’t. What if Barbara kills him? What if he’s killed him alre—”
Carter grabbed her, spun her around as he would have spun a partner at a country dance, and hoisted her arm behind her back until her shoulder creaked. It was done with such eerie, liquid speed that she had no idea he meant to do it until it was done.
He knows! He knows and he’s going to hurt me! Hurt me until I tell—His breath was hot in her ear. She could feel his beard-stubble tickling her cheek as he spoke, and it made her break out in shivers.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Mom.” It was little more than a whisper. “You and Wettington have always been tight—hip to hip and tit to tit. You want to tell me you didn’t know she was going to break your husband out? That what you’re saying?”
He jerked her arm higher and Linda had to bite her lip to stifle a scream. The kids were right out there, Jannie calling over her shoulder for Thurse to push her higher. If they heard a scream from the house—
“If she’d told me, I would have told Randolph,” she panted. “Do you think I’d risk Rusty getting hurt when he didn’t do anything?”
“He did plenty. Threatened to withhold medicine from the boss unless he stepped down. Fucking blackmail. I heard it.” He jerked her arm again. A little moan escaped her. “Got anything to say about that? Mom? ”
“Maybe he did. I haven’t seen him or talked to him, so how would I know? But he’s still the closest thing this town has to a doctor. Rennie never would have executed him. Barbara, maybe, but not Rusty. I knew it, and you must know it, too. Now let me go.”
For a moment he almost did. It all hung together. Then he had a better idea, and marched her to the sink. “Bend over, Mom.”
“No!”
He jerked her arm up again. It felt like the ball of her shoulder was going to tear right out of its socket. “Bend over. Like you’re going to wash that pretty blond hair.”
“Linda?” Thurston called. “How are you doing?”
Jesus, don’t let him ask about the groceries. Please, Jesus.
And then another thought struck her: Where were the kids’ suitcases? Each of the girls had packed a little traveling case. What if they were sitting in the living room?
“Tell him you’re fine,” Carter said. “We don’t want to bring the hippie into this. Or the kids. Do we?”
God, no. But where were their suitcases?
“Fine!” she called.
“Almost finished?” he called.
Oh, Thurse, shut up!
“I need five minutes!”
Thurston stood there looking like he might say something else, but then went back to pushing the girls.
“Good job.” He was pressing against her now, and he had a hardon. She could feel it against the seat of her jeans. It felt as big as a monkey wrench. Then he pulled away. “Almost finished with what?”
She almost said making breakfast, but the used bowls were in the sink. For a moment her mind was a roaring blank and she almost wished he’d put his damn boner on her again, because when men were occupied with their little heads, their big ones switched to a test pattern.
But he jerked her arm up again. “Talk to me, Mom. Make Dad happy.”
“Cookies!” she gasped. “I said I’d make cookies. The kids asked!”
“Cookies with no power,” he mused. “Best trick of the week.”
“They’re the no-bake kind! Look in the pantry, you son of a bitch!” If he looked, he would indeed find no-bake oatmeal cookie mix on the shelf. But of course if he looked down, he would also see the supplies she had packed. And he might well do that, if he registered how many of the pantry shelves were now half or wholly empty.
“You don’t know where he is.” The erection was back against her. With the throbbing pain in her shoulder, she hardly registered it. “You’re sure about that.”
“Yes. I thought you knew. I thought you came to tell me he was hurt or d-d—”
“I think you’re lying your pretty round ass off.” Her arm jerked up higher, and now the pain was excruciating, the need to cry out unbearable. But somehow she did bear it. “I think you know plenty, Mom. And if you don’t tell me, I’m going to rip your arm right out of its socket. Last chance. Where is he?”
Linda resigned herself to having her arm or shoulder broken. Maybe both. The question was whether or not she could keep from screaming, which would bring the Js and Thurston on the run. Head down, hair dangling in the sink, she said: “Up my ass. Why don’t you kiss it, motherfucker? Maybe he’ll pop out and say hi.”
Instead of breaking her arm, Carter laughed. That was a good one, actually. And he believed her. She would never dare to talk to him like that unless she was telling the truth. He only wished she wasn’t wearing Levi’s. Fucking her probably still would have been out of the question, but he certainly could have gotten a good deal closer to it if she’d been in a skirt. Still, a dry hump wasn’t the worst way to start Visitors Day, even if it was against a pair of jeans instead of some nice soft panties.
“Hold still and keep your mouth shut,” he said. “If you can do that, you may get out of this in one piece.”
She heard the jingle of his belt-buckle and the rasp of his zipper. Then what had been rubbing against her was rubbing again, only now with a lot less cloth between them. Some faint part of her was glad that at least she’d put on a fairly new pair of jeans; she could hope he’d give himself a nasty rug rash.
Just as long as the Js don’t come in and see me like this.
Suddenly he pressed tighter and harder. The hand not holding her arm groped her breast. “Hey, Mom,” he murmured. “Hey-hey, my-my.” She felt him spasm, although not the wetness that followed such spasms as day follows night; the jeans were too thick for that, thank God. A moment later the upward pressure on her arm finally loosened. She could have cried with relief but didn’t. Wouldn’t. She turned around. He was buckling his belt again.
“Might want to change those jeans before you go making any cookies. At least, I would if I were you.” He shrugged. “But who knows—maybe you like it. Different strokes for different folks.”
“Is this how you keep the law around here now? Is this how your boss wants the law kept?”
“He’s more of a big-picture man.” Carter turned to the pantry, and her racing heart seemed to stop. Then he glanced at his watch and yanked up his zipper. “You call Mr. Rennie or me if your husband gets in touch. It’s the best thing to do, believe me. If you don’t, and I find out, the next load I shoot is going straight up the old wazoo. Whether the kids are watching or not. I don’t mind an audience.”
“Get out of here before they come in.”
“Say please, Mom.”
Her throat worked, but she knew Thurston would soon be checking on her, and she got it out. “Please.”
He headed for the door, then looked into the living room and stopped. He had seen the little suitcases. She was sure of it.
But something else was on his mind.
“And turn in the bubble light I saw in your van. In case you forgot, you’re
fired.”
19
She was upstairs when Thurston and the kids came in three minutes later. The first thing she did was look in the kids’ room. The traveling cases were on their beds. Judy’s teddy was sticking out of one.
“Hey, kids!” she called down gaily. Toujours gai, that was her. “Look at some picture-books, and I’ll be down in a few!”
Thurston came to the foot of the stairs. “We really ought to—”
He saw her face and stopped. She beckoned him.
“Mom?” Janelle called. “Can we have the last Pepsi if I share it out?”
Although she ordinarily would have vetoed the idea of soda this early, she said: “Go ahead, but don’t spill!”
Thurse came halfway up the stairs. “What happened?”
“Keep your voice down. There was a cop. Carter Thibodeau.”
“The big tall one with the broad shoulders?”
“That’s him. He came to question me—”
Thurse paled, and Linda knew he was replaying what he’d called to her when he thought she was alone.
“I think we’re okay,” she said, “but I need you to make sure he’s really gone. He was walking. Check the street and over the back fence into the Edmundses’ yard. I have to change my pants.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Nothing!” she hissed. “Just check to make sure he’s gone, and if he is, we are getting the holy hell out of here.”
20
Piper Libby let go of the box and sat back, looking at the town with tears welling in her eyes. She was thinking of all those late-night prayers to The Not-There. Now she knew that had been nothing but a silly, sophomoric joke, and the joke, it turned out, was on her. There was a There there. It just wasn’t God.