by Стивен Кинг
“How are you at barbecuing meat?” she asked me. “Tell the truth, because these are way too good to mess up.”
“I can hold my own.”
“Okay, you’re hired. John, you’re assisting. Rommie, help me do salads.”
“My pleasure.”
George and Ki had come around to the front of the trailer and were now sitting in lawn-chairs like a couple of old cronies at their London club. George was telling Ki how he had shot it out with Rolfe Nedeau and the Real Bad Gang on Lisbon Street in 1993.
“George, what’s happening to your nose?” John asked. “It’s getting so long.”
“Do you mind?” George asked. “I’m having a conversation here.”
“Mr. Kennedy has caught lots of crooked crinimals,” Kyra said. “He caught the Real Bad Gang and put them in Supermax.”
“Yes,” I said. “Mr. Kennedy also won an Academy Award for acting in a movie called Cool Hand Luke.”
“That’s absolutely correct,” George said. He raised his right hand and crossed the two fingers. “Me and Paul Newman. Just like that.”
“We have his pusgetti sauce,” Ki said gravely, and that got John laughing again. It didn’t hit me the same way, but laughter is catching; just watching John was enough to break me up after a few seconds. We were howling like a couple of fools as we slapped the steaks on the grill. It’s a wonder we didn’t burn our hands off. “Why are they laughing?” Ki asked George. “Because they’re foolish men with little tiny brains,” George said. “Now listen, Ki—I got them all except for the Human Headcase. He jumped into his car and I jumped into mine. The details of that chase are nothing for a little girl to hear—” George regaled her with them anyway while John and I stood grinning at each other across Mattie’s barbecue. “This is great, isn’t it?” John said, and I nodded. Mattie came out with corn wrapped in aluminum foil, followed by Rommie, who had a large salad bowl clasped in his arms and negotiated the steps carefully, trying to peer over the top of the bowl as he made his way down them. We sat at the picnic table, George and Rommie on one side, John and I flanking Mattie on the other. Ki sat at the head, perched on a stack of old magazines in a lawn-chair. Mattie tied a dishtowel around her neck, an indignity Ki submitted to only because (a) she was wearing new clothes, and (b) a dishtowel wasn’t a baby-bib, at least technically speaking. We ate hugely—salad, steak (and John was right, it really was the best I’d ever had), roasted corn on the cob, “strewberry snortcake” for dessert. By the time we’d gotten around to the snortcake, the thunderheads were noticeably closer and there was a hot, jerky breeze blowing around the yard. “Mattie, if I never eat a meal as good as this one again, I won’t be surprised,’’
Rommie said. “Thanks ever so much for having me.”
“Thank you,” she said. There were tears standing in her eyes. She took my hand on one side and John’s on the other. She squeezed both. “Thank you all. If you knew what things were like for Ki and me before this last week. .” She shook her head, gave John and me a final squeeze, and let go. “But that’s over.”
“Look at the baby,” George said, amused.
Ki had slumped back in her lawn-chair and was looking at us with glazing eyes. Most of her hair had come out of the scrunchy and lay in clumps against her cheeks. There was a dab of whipped cream on her nose and a single yellow kernel of corn sitting in the middle of her chin. “I threw the Frisbee six fousan times,” Kyra said. She spoke in a distant, declamatory tone. “I tired.” Mattie started to get up. I put my hand on her arm. “Let me?” She nodded, smiling. “If you want.” I picked Kyra up and carried her around to the steps. Thunder rumbled again, a long, low roll that sounded like the snarl of a huge dog. I looked up at the encroaching clouds, and as I did, movement caught my eye. It was an old blue car heading west on Wasp Hill Road toward the lake. The only reason I noticed it was that it was wearing one of those stupid bumper-stickers from the Village Cafe: HOW, N BROKEN—WATCH FOR FINGER.
I carried Ki up the steps and through the door, turning her so I wouldn’t bump her head. “Take care of me,” she said in her sleep. There was a sadness in her voice that chilled me. It was as if she knew she was asking the impossible. “Take care of me, I’m little, Mama says I’m a little guy.”
“I’ll take care of you,” I said, and kissed that silky place between her eyes again. “Don’t worry, Ki, go to sleep.” I carried her to her room and put her on her bed. By then she was totally conked out. I wiped the cream off her nose and picked the corn-kernel off her chin. I glanced at my watch and saw it was ten ’til two. They would be gathering at Grace Baptist by now. Bill Dean was wearing a gray tie.
Buddy Jellison had a hat on. He was standing behind the church with some other men who were smoking before going inside. I turned. Mattie was in the doorway. “Mike,” she said. “Come here, please.”
I went to her. There was no cloth between her waist and my hands this time. Her skin was warm, and as silky as her daughter’s. She looked up at me, her lips parted. Her hips pressed forward, and when she felt what was hard down there, she pressed harder against it. “Mike,” she said again. I closed my eyes. I felt like someone who has just come to the doorway of a brightly lit room full of people laughing and talking. And dancing. Because sometimes that is all we want to do. I want to come in, I thought. That’s what I want to do, all I want to do. Let me do what I want. Let me-I realized I was saying it aloud, whispering it rapidly into her ear as I held her with my hands going up and down her back, my fingertips ridging her spine, touching her shoulderblades, then coming around in front to cup her small breasts. “Yes,” she said. “What we both want. Yes. That’s fine.” Slowly, she reached up with her thumbs and wiped the wet places from under my eyes. I drew back from her. “The key—” She smiled a little. “You know where it is.”
“I’ll come tonight.”
“Good.”
“I’ve been. .” I had to clear my throat. I looked at Kyra, who was deeply asleep. “I’ve been lonely. I don’t think I knew it, but I have been.”
“Me too. And I knew it for both of us. Kiss, please.” I kissed her. I think our tongues touched, but I’m not sure. What I remember most clearly is the liveness of her. She was like a dreidel lightly spinning in my arms. “Hey!” John called from outside, and we sprang apart. “You guys want to give us a little help? It’s gonna rain!”
“Thanks for finally making up your mind,” she said to me in a tow voice.
She turned and hurried back up the doublewide’s narrow corridor. The next time she spoke to me, I don’t think she knew who she was talking to, or where she was. The next time she spoke to me, she was dying.
“Don’t wake the baby,” I heard her tell John, and his response: “Oh, sorry, sorry.”
I stood where I was a moment longer, getting my breath, then slipped into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I remember seeing a blue plastic whale in the bathtub as I turned to take a towel off the rack. I remember thinking that it probably blew bubbles out of its spout-hole, and I even remember having a momentary glimmer of an idea—a children’s story about a spouting whale. Would you call him Willie? Nah, too obvious. Wilhelm, now that had a fine round ring to it, simultaneously grand and amusing. Wilhelm the Spouting Whale. I remember the bang of thunder from overhead. I remember how happy I was, with the decision finally made and the night to look forward to. I remember the murmur of men’s voices and the murmur of Mattie’s response as she told them where to put the stuff. Then I heard all of them going back out again. I looked down at myself and saw a certain lump was subsiding. I remember thinking there was nothing so absurd-looking as a sexually excited man and knew I’d had this same thought before, perhaps in a dream. I left the bathroom, checked on Kyra again—rolled over on her side, fast asleep—and then went down the hall. I had just reached the living room when gunfire erupted outside. I never confused the sound with thunder. There was a moment when my mind fumbled toward the idea of backfires—some kid’s hotrod
—and then I knew. Part of me had been expecting something to happen. . but it had been expecting ghosts rather than gunfire. A fatal lapse. It was the rapidpah/pah/pah/of an auto-fire weapon—a Glock nine-millimeter, as it turned out. Mattie screamed—a high, drilling scream that froze my blood. I heard John cry out in pain and George Kennedy bellow, “Down, down! For the love of Christ, get her down/” Something hit the trailer like a hard spatter of hail—a rattle of punching sounds running from west to east. Something split the air in front of my eyes—I heard it. There was an almost-musical sproing sound, like a snapping guitar string. On the kitchen table, the salad bowl one of them had just brought in shattered.
I ran for the door and nearly dived down the cement-block steps. I saw the barbecue overturned, with the glowing coals already setting patches of the scant front-yard grass on fire. I saw Rommie Bissonette sitting with his legs outstretched, looking stupidly down at his ankle, which was soaked with blood. Mattie was on her hands and knees by the barbecue with her hair hanging in her face—it was as if she meant to sweep up the hot coals before they could cause some real trouble. John staggered toward me, holding out a hand. The arm above it was soaked with blood.
And I saw the car I’d seen before—the nondescript sedan with the joke sticker on it. It had gone up the road—the men inside making that first pass to check us out—then turned around and come back. The shooter was still leaning out the front passenger window. I could see the stubby smoking weapon in his hands. It had a wire stock. His features were a blue blank broken only by huge gaping eyesockets—a ski-mask. Overhead, thunder gave a long, awakening roar.
George Kennedy was walking toward the car, not hurrying, kicking hot spilled coals out of his way as he went, not bothering about the dark-red stain that was spreading on the right thigh of his pants, reaching behind himself, not hurrying even when the shooter pulled back in and shouted “Go go go!” at the driver, who was also wearing a blue mask, George not hurrying, no, not hurrying a bit, and even before I saw the pistol in his hand, I knew why he had never taken off his absurd Pa Kettle suit jacket, why he had even played Frisbee in it.
The blue car (it turned out to be a 1987 Ford registered to Mrs. Sonia Belliveau of Auburn and reported stolen the day before) had pulled over onto the shoulder and had never really stopped rolling. Now it accelerated, spewing dry brown dust out from under its rear tires, fishtailing, knocking Mattie’s RFD box off its post and sending it flying into the road.
George still didn’t hurry. He brought his hands together, holding his gun with his right and steadying with his left. He squeezed off five deliberate shots. The first two went into the trunk—I saw the holes appear. The third blew in the back window of the departing Ford, and I heard someone shout in pain. The fourth went I don’t know where. The fifth blew the left rear tire. The Ford veered to that side. The driver almost brought it back, then lost it completely. The car ploughed into the ditch thirty yards below Mattie’s trailer and rolled over on its side. There was a whumpfl and the rear end was engulfed in flames. One of George’s shots must have hit the gas-tank. The shooter began struggling to get out through the passenger window.
“Ki… get Ki… away…” A hoarse, whispering voice.
Mattie was crawling toward me. One side of her head—the right side—still looked all right, but the left side was a ruin. One dazed blue eye peered out from between clumps of bloody hair. Skull-fragments littered her tanned shoulder like bits of broken crockery. How I would love to tell you I don’t remember any of this, how I would love to have someone else tell you that Michael Noonan died before he saw that, but I cannot. Alas is the word for it in the crossword puzzles, a four-letter word meaning to express great sorrow.
“Ki… Mike, get Ki…”
I knelt and put my arms around her. She struggled against me. She was young and strong, and even with the gray matter of her brain bulging through the broken wall of her skull she struggled against me, crying for her daughter, wanting to reach her and protect her and get her to safety.
“Mattie, it’s all right,” I said. Down at the Grace Baptist Church, at the far end of the zone I was in, they were singing “Blessed Assurance’’… but most of their eyes were as blank as the eye now peering at me through the tangle of bloody hair. “Mattie, stop, rest, it’s all right.”
“Ki… get Ki… don’t let them…”
“They won’t hurt her, Mattie, I promise.”
She slid against me, slippery as a fish, and screamed her daughter’s name, holding out her bloody hands toward the trailer. The rose-colored shorts and top had gone bright red. Blood spattered the grass as she thrashed and pulled. From down the hill there was a guttural explosion as the Ford’s gas-tank exploded. Black smoke rose toward a black sky.
Thunder roared long and loud, as if the sky were saying You want noise?
I3ah? I’ll give you noise.
“Say Mattie’s all right, Mike!” John cried in a wavering voice. “Oh for God’s sake say she’s—”
He dropped to his knees beside me, his eyes rolling up until nothing showed but the whites. He reached for me, grabbed my shoulder, then tore damned near half my shirt off as he lost his battle to stay conscious and fell on his side next to Mattie. A curd of white goo bubbled from one corner of his mouth. Twelve feet away, near the overturned barbecue, Rommie was trying to get on his feet, his teeth clenched in pain. George was standing in the middle of Wasp Hill Road, reloading his gun from a pouch he’d apparently had in his coat pocket and watching as the shooter worked to get clear of the overturned car before it was engulfed. The entire right leg of George’s pants was red now. He may live but he’ll never wear that suit again, I thought. I held Mattie. I put my face down to hers, put my mouth to the ear that was still there and said: “Kyra’s okay. She’s sleeping. She’s fine, I promise.” Mattie seemed to understand. She stopped straining against me and collapsed to the grass, trembling all over. “Ki… Ki…” This was the last of her talking on earth. One of her hands reached out blindly, groped at a tuft of grass, and yanked it out. “Over here,” I heard George saying. “Get over here, motherfuck, don’t you even think about turning your back on me.”
“How bad is she?” Rommie asked, hobbling over. His face was as white as paper. And before I could reply: “Oh Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Blessed be the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Oh Mary born without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee. Oh no, oh Mike, no.” He began again, this time lapsing into Lewiston street-French, what the old folks call La Parle. “Quit it,” I said, and he did. It was as if he had only been waiting to be told. “Go inside and check on Kyra. Can you?”
“Yes.” He started toward the trailer, holding his leg and lurching along. With each lurch he gave a high yip of pain, but somehow he kept going. I could smell burning tufts of grass. I could smell electric rain on a rising wind. And under my hands I could feel the light spin of the drei-del slowing down as she went. I turned her over, held her in my arms, and rocked her back and forth. At Grace Baptist the minister was now reading Psalm 139 for Royce: If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me, even the night shall be light. The minister was reading and the Martians were listening. I rocked her back and forth in my arms under the black thunderheads. I was supposed to come to her that night, use the key under the pot and come to her. She had danced with the toes of her white sneakers on the red Frisbee, had danced like a wave on the ocean, and now she was dying in my arms while the grass burned in little clumps and the man who had fancied her as much as I had lay unconscious beside her, his right arm painted red from the short sleeve of his WE are THE CHAMPIONS tee-shirt all the way down to his bony, freckled wrist.
“Mattie,” I said. “Mattie, Mattie, Mattie.” I rocked her and smoothed my hand across her forehead, which on the right side was miraculously unsplattered by the blood that had drenched her. Her hair fell over the ruined left side of her face. “Mattie,” I said. “Mattie, Mattie, oh Mattie.” Ligh
tning flashed—the first stroke I had seen. It lit the western sky in a bright blue arc. Mattie trembled strongly in my arms—all the way from neck to toes she trembled. Her lips pressed together. Her brow furrowed, as if in concentration. Her hand came up and seemed to grab for the back of my neck, as a person falling from a cliff may grasp blindly at anything to hold on just a little longer.
Then it fell away and lay limply on the grass, palm up. She trembled once more—the whole delicate weight of her trembled in my arms—and then she was still.
CHAPTER 5
After that I was mostly in the zone. I came out a few times—when that scratched-out scrap of genealogy fell from inside one of my old steno books, for instance—but those interludes were brief. In a way it was like my dream of Mattie, Jo, and Sara; in a way it was like the terrible fever I’d had as a child, when I’d almost died of the measles; mostly it was like nothing but itself. It was just the zone. I was feeling it. I wish to God I hadn’t been. George came over, herding the man in the blue mask ahead of him. George was limping now, and badly. I could smell hot oil and gasoline and burning tires. “Is she dead?” George asked.
“Mattie?”
“Yes.”
“John?”
“Don’t know,” I said, and then John twitched and groaned. He was alive, but there was a lot of blood. “Mike, listen,” George began, but before he could say more, a terrible liquid screaming began from the burning car in the ditch. It was the driver. He was cooking in there. The shooter started to turn that way, and George raised his gun. “Move and I’ll kill you.”
“You can’t let him die like that,” the shooter said from behind his mask. “You couldn’t let a dog die like that.”
“He’s dead already,” George said. “You couldn’t get within ten feet of that car unless you were in an asbestos suit.” He reeled on his feet. His face was as white as the spot of whipped cream I’d wiped off the end of Ki’s nose. The shooter made as if to go for him and George brought the gun up higher.