by Стивен Кинг
I thought about these things on my way home, and I thought about cables that were felt rather than seen. . but mostly I found myself thinking about Lindy Briggs—the way she had smiled at me, the way, a little later on, she had not smiled at her bright young librarian with the high-school certification. That worried me.
Then I got back to the house, and all I worried about was my story and the people in it—bags of bones which were putting on flesh daily.
Michael Noonan, Max Devore, and Rogette Whitmore played out their horrible little comedy scene Friday evening. Two other things which bear narrating happened before that.
The first was a call from John Storrow on Thursday night. I was sitting in front of the TV with a baseball game running soundlessly in front of me (the MUTE button with which most remote controls come equipped may be the twentieth century’s finest invention). I was thinking about Sara Tidwell and Son Tidwell and Son Tidwell’s little boy. I was thinking about Storyville, a name any writer just had to love. And in the back of my mind I was thinking about my wife, who had died pregnant.
“Hello?” I said.
“Mike, I have some wonderful news,” John said. He sounded near to bursting. “Romeo Bissonette may be a weird name, but there’s nothing weird about the detective-guy he found for me. His name is George Kennedy, like the actor. He’s good, and he’s fast. This guy could work in New York.”
“If that’s the highest compliment you can think of, you need to get out of the city more.”
He went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Kennedy’s real job is with a security firm—the other stuff is strictly in the moonlight. Which is a great loss, believe me. He got most of this on the phone. I can’t believe it.”
“What specifically can’t you believe?”
“Jackpot, baby.” Again he spoke in that tone of greedy satisfaction which I found both troubling and reassuring. “Elmer Durgin has done the following things since late May: paid off his car; paid off his camp in Rangely Lakes; caught up on about ninety years of child support—”
“Nobody pays child support for ninety years,” I said, but I was just running my mouth to hear it go… to let off some of my own building excitement, in truth. “"T’ain’t possible, Mcgee.”
“It is if you have seven kids,” John said, and began howling with laughter.
I thought of the pudgy self-satisfied face, the cupid-bow mouth, the nails that looked polished and prissy. “He don’t,” I said.
“He do,” John said, still laughing. He sounded like a complete lunatic—manic, hold the depressive. “He really do! Ranging in ages from f-fourteen to th-th-three! What a b-busy p-p-potent little prick he must have!” More helpless howls. And by now I was howling right along with him—I’d caught it like the mumps. “Kennedy is going to f-f-fax me p-pictures of the whole. . fam’. . damily!” We broke up completely, laughing together long-distance. I could picture John Stor-row sitting alone in his Park Avenue office, bellowing like a lunatic and scaring the cleaning ladies.
“That doesn’t matter, though,” he said when he could talk coherently again. “You see what matters, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “How could he be so stupid?” Meaning Durgin, but also meaning Devore. John understood, I think, that we were talking about both he’s at the same time.
“Elmer Durgin’s a little lawyer from a little township tucked away in the big woods of western Maine, that’s all. How could he know that some guardian angel would come along with the resources to smoke him out? He also bought a boat, by the way. Two weeks ago. It’s a twin outboard. A big ’un. It’s over, Mike. The home team scores nine runs in the bottom of the ninth and the fucking pennant is ours.”
“If you say so.” But my hand went off on its own expedition, made a loose fist, and knocked on the good solid wood of the coffee-table.
“And hey, the softball game wasn’t a total loss.” John was still talking between little giggling outbursts like helium balloons.
“No?”
“I’m taken with her.”
“Her?”
“Mattie,” he said patiently. “Mattie Devore.” A pause, then: “Mike? Are you there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Phone slipped. Sorry.” The phone hadn’t slipped as much as an inch, but it came out sounding natural enough, I thought. And if it hadn’t, so what? When it came to Mattie, I would be—in John’s mind, at least—below suspicion. Like the country-house staff in an Agatha Christie. He was twenty-eight, maybe thirty. The idea that a man twelve years older might be sexually attracted to Mattie had probably never crossed his mind… or maybe just for a second or two there on the common, before he dismissed it as ludicrous. The way Mattie herself had dismissed the idea of Jo and the man in the brown sportcoat.
“I can’t do my courtship dance while I’m representing her,” he said, “wouldn’t be ethical. Wouldn’t be safe, either. Later, though… you can never tell.”
“No,” I said, hearing my voice as you sometimes do in moments when you are caught completely fiat-footed, hearing it as though it were coming from someone else. Someone on the radio or the record-player, maybe. Are these the voices of our dead friends, or just the gramophone? I thought of his hands, the fingers long and slender and without a ring on any of them. Like Sara’s hands in that old photo. “No, you can never tell.” We said goodbye, and I sat watching the muted baseball game. I thought about getting up to get a beer, but it seemed too far to the refrigerator—a safari, in fact. What I felt was a kind of dull hurt, followed by a better emotion: rueful relief, I guess you’d call it. Was he too old for her? No, I didn’t think so. Just about right. Prince Charming No. 2, this time in a three-piece suit. Mattie’s luck with men might finally be changing, and if so I should be glad. I would be glad. And relieved. Because I had a book to write, and never mind the look of white sneakers flashing below a red sundress in the deepening gloom, or the ember of her cigarette dancing in the dark.
Still, I felt really lonely for the first time since I saw Kyra marching up the white line of Route 68 in her bathing suit and flip-flops. “You funny little man, said Strickland,” I told the empty room. It came out before I knew I was going to say anything, and when it did, the channel on the TV changed. It went from baseball to a rerun of All in the Family and then to Ren 0 Stimpy. I glanced down at the remote control. It was still on the coffee-table where I’d left it. The TV channel changed again, and this time I was looking at Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. There was an airplane in the background, and I didn’t need to pick up the remote and turn on the sound to know that Humphrey was telling Ingrid that she was getting on that plane. My wife’s all-time favorite movie. She bawled at the end without fail. “Jo?” I asked. “Are you here?” Bunter’s bell rang once. Very faintly. There had been several presences in the house, I was sure of it… but tonight, for the first time, I was positive it was Jo who was with me. “Who was he, hon?” I asked. “The guy at the softball field, who was he?” Bunter’s bell hung still and quiet. She was in the room, though. I sensed her, something like a held breath. I remembered the ugly, gibing little message on the refrigerator after my dinner with Mattie and Ki: blue rose liar ha ha.
“Who was he?” My voice was unsteady, sounding on the verge of tears.
“What were you doing down here with some guy? Were you…” But I couldn’t bring myself to ask if she had been lying to me, cheating on me. I couldn’t ask even though the presence I felt might be, let’s face it, only in my own head. The TV switched away from Casablanca and here was everybody’s favorite lawyer, Perry Mason, on Nick at Nite. Perry’s nemesis, Hamilton Burger, was questioning a distraught-looking woman, and all at once the sound blared on, making me jump. “I am not a liar!”
some long-ago TV actress cried. For a moment she looked right out at me, and I was stunned breathless to see Jo’s eyes in that black-and-white fifties face. “I never lied, Mr. Burger, never!”
“I submit that you did!” Burger responded. He moved in on her, leering l
ike a vampire. “I submit that you—” The TV suddenly went off. Bunter’s bell gave a single brisk shake, and then whatever had been here was gone. But I felt better. I am not a liar… I never lied, never. I could believe that if I chose to. If I chose. I went to bed, and there were no dreams.
I had taken to starting work early, before the heat could really get a hold on the study. I’d drink some juice, gobble some toast, then sit behind the IBM until almost noon, watching the Courier ball dance and twirl as the pages floated through the machine and came out with writing on them.
That old magic, so strange and wonderful. It never really felt like work to me, although I called it that; it felt like some weird kind of mental trampoline I bounced on. Those were springs that took away all the weight of the world for awhile. At noon I’d break, drive down to Buddy Jellison’s greaseatorium for something nasty, then return and work for another hour or so. After that I would swim and take a long dreamless nap in the north bedroom. I had barely poked my head into the master bedroom at the south end of the house, and if Mrs. M. thought this was odd, she kept it to herself. On Friday the seventeenth, I stopped at the Lakeview General on my way back to the house to gas up my Chevrolet.
There are pumps at the All-Purpose Garage, and the go-juice was a penny or two cheaper, but I didn’t like the vibe. Today, as I stood in front of the store with the pump on automatic feed, looking off toward the mountains, Bill Dean’s Dodge Ram pulled in on the other side of the island. He climbed down and gave me a smile. “How’s it going, Mike?”
“Pretty fair.”
“Brenda says you’re writin up a storm.”
“I am,” I said, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask for an update on the broken second-floor air conditioner. The tip of my tongue was where it stayed.
I was still too nervous about my rediscovered ability to want to change anything about the environment in which I was doing it. Stupid, maybe, but sometimes things work just because you think they work. It’s as good a definition of faith as any. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.” I thought he was sincere enough, but he somehow didn’t sound like Bill.
Not the one who had greeted me back, anyway. “I’ve been looking up some old stuff about my side of the lake,” I said. “Sara and the Red-Tops?
You always were sort ofint’rested in them, I remember.”
“Them, yes, but not just them. Lots of history. I was talking to Mrs. M… and she told me about Normal Auster. Kenny’s father.” Bill’s smile stayed on, and he only paused a moment in the act of unscrewing the cap on his gas tank, but I still had a sense, quite clear, that he had frozen inside. “You wouldn’t write about a thing like that, would you, Mike? Because there’s a lot of people around here that’d feel it bad and take it wrong. I told Jo the same thing.”
“Jo?” I felt an urge to step between the two pumps and over the island so I could grab him by the arm. “What’s Jo got to do with this?” He looked at me cautiously and long. “She didn’t tell you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“She thought she might write something about Sara and the Red-Tops for one of the local papers.” Bill was picking his words very slowly. I have a clear memory of that, and of how hot the sun was, beating down on my neck, and the sharpness of our shadows on the asphalt. He began to pump his gas, and the sound of the pump’s motor was also very sharp. “I think she even mentioned Yankee magazine. I c’d be wrong about that, but I don’t think I am.” I was speechless. Why would she have kept quiet about the idea to try her hand at a little local history? Becahse she might have thought she was poaching on my territory? That was ridiculous. She had known me better than that… hadn’t she? “When did you have this conversation, Bill? Do you remember?”
“Coss I do,” he said. “Same day she come down to take delivery of those plastic owls. Only I raised the subject, because folks had told me she was asking around.”
“Prying?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said stiffly, “you did.” True, but I thought prying was what he meant.
“Go on.”
“Nothing to go on about. I told her there were sore toes here and there on the TR, same as there are anyplace, and asr her not to tread on any corns if she could help it. She said she understood. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. All I know is she kep’ on asking questions.
Listenin to stories from old fools with more time than sense.”
“When was this?”
“Fall of ’93, winter and spring of ’94. Went all around town, she did even over to Motton and Harlow—with her notebook and little tape-recorder. Anyway, that’s all I know.”
I realized a stunning thing: Bill was lying. If you’d asked me before that day, I’d have laughed and told you Bill Dean didn’t have a lie in him. And he must not have had many, because he did it badly.
I thought of calling him on it, but to what end? I needed to think, and I couldn’t do it here—my mind was roaring. Given time, that roar might subside and I’d see it was really nothing, no big deal, but I needed that time. When you start finding out unexpected things about a loved one who’s been dead awhile, it rocks you. Take it from me, it does.
Bill’s eyes had shifted away from mine, but now they shifted back. He looked both earnest and—I could have sworn it—a little scared.
“She ast about little Kerry Auster, and that’s a good example of what I mean about steppin on sore toes. That’s not the stuff for a newspaper story or a magazine article. Normal just snapped. No one knows why. It was a terrible tragedy, senseless, and there’s still people who could be hurt by it. In little towns things are kind of connected under the surface—”
Yes, like cables you couldn’t quite see.
“—and the past dies slower. Sara and those others, that’s a little different. They were just. . just wanderers. . from away. Jo could have stuck to those folks and it would’ve been all right. And say—for all I know, she did. Because I never saw a single word she ever wrote.
If she did write.”
About that he was telling the truth, I felt. But I knew something else, knew it as surely as I’d known Mattie had been wearing white shorts when she called me on her day off. Sara and those others were just wanderers from away, Bill had said, but he hesitated in the middle of his thought, substituting wanderers for the word which had come naturally to mind.
Niggers was the word he hadn’t said. Sara and those others were just niggers Jgom away.
All at once I found myself thinking of an old story by Ray Bradbury, “Mars Is Heaven.” The first space travellers to Mars discover it’s Green Town, Illinois, and all their well-loved friends and relatives are there. Only the friends and relatives are really alien monsters, and in the night, while the space travellers think they are sleeping in the beds of their long-dead kinfolk in a place that must be heaven, they are slaughtered to the last man.
“Bill, you’re sure she was up here a few times in the off-season?”
“Ayuh. “T’wasn’t just a few times, either. Might have been a dozen times or more. Day-trips, don’t you know.”
“Did you ever see a fellow with her? Burly guy, black hair?”
He thought about it. I tried not to hold my breath. At last he shook his head. “Few times I saw her, she was alone. But I didn’t see her every time she came. Sometimes I only heard she’d been on the TR after she ’us gone again. Saw her in June of ’94, headed up toward Halo Bay in that little car a hers. She waved, I waved back. Went down to the house later that evenin to see if she needed anythin, but she’d gone. I didn’t see her again. When she died later on that summer, me and “Vette were so shocked.”
Whatever she was looking sr, she must never have written any of it down.
I would have J3und the manuscript, Was that true, though? She had made many trips down here with no apparent attempts at concealment, on one of them she had even been accompanied by a strange man, and I had only found out about these visits by accident.
“This is hard to talk about,” Bill said, “but since we’ve gotten started hard, we might as well go the rest of the way. Livin on the TR is like the way we used to sleep four or even five in a bed when it was January and true cold. If everyone rests easy, you do all right. But if one person gets restless, gets tossing and turning, no one can sleep. Right now you’re the restless one. That’s how people see it.”
He waited to see what I’d say. When almost twenty seconds passed without a word from me (Harold Oblowski would have been proud), he shuffled his feet and went on.
“There are people in town uneasy about the interest you’ve taken in Mattie Devore, for instance. Now I’m not sayin there’s anythin going on between the two of you—although there’s folks who do say it—but if you want to stay on the TR you’re makin it tough on yourself.”
“Why?”
“Comes back to what I said a week and a half ago. She’s trouble.”
“As I recall, Bill, you said she was in trouble. And she is. I’m trying to help her out of it. There’s nothing going on between us but that.”
“I seem to recall telling you that Max Devore is nuts,” he said. “If you make him mad, we all pay the price.” The pump clicked off and he racked it up. Then he sighed, raised his hands, dropped them. “You think this is easy for me to say?”
“You think it’s easy for me to listen to?”
“All right, ayuh, we’re in the same skiff. But Mattie Devore isn’t the only person on the TR livin hand-to-mouth, you know. There’s others got their woes, as well. Can’t you understand that?”
Maybe he saw that I understood too much and too well, because his shoulders slumped.