by Stephen King
At the far end of the rectangle, she comes to a table covered exclusively with coins. She spots a Morgan silver dollar in the center of the last row. She takes this as a good sign. The man behind the table is bald and old, how old she’s not entirely sure, but at least old enough to be a grandfather. He smiles at Gwendy and doesn’t glance at her legs, which is a good start. He taps the nametag attached to his shirt. “Name’s Jon Leonard, like it says, but I go by Lenny to my friends. You look friendly, so is there anything special I can help you with today? Got a Lincoln penny book you want to finish filling out? Maybe looking for a buffalo nickel or a few commemorative state quarters? I got a Utah, very good condition and scarce.”
“I actually have something I’d like to sell. Maybe.”
“Uh-huh, okay, lemme take a look and I can tell you if we might do some business.”
Gwendy takes the coins—each in its own little plastic envelope—out of her pocket and hands them to him. Lenny’s fingers are thick and gnarled, but he slips the coins out with practiced ease, holding them by their thickness, not touching the heads and tails sides. Gwendy notices his eyes flash wider. He whistles. “Mind if I ask where you got these?”
Gwendy tells him what she told the coin dealer in Portland. “My grandfather passed away recently and left them to me.”
The man looks genuinely pained. “I’m really sorry to hear that, honey.”
“Thank you,” she says, and puts her hand out. “I’m Gwendy Peterson.”
The man gives it a firm shake. “Gwendy. I like that.”
“Me too,” Gwendy says and smiles. “Good thing, since I’m stuck with it.”
The man turns on a small desk light and uses a magnifying glass to examine the silver dollars. “Never seen one in mint condition before, and here you got two of em.” He looks up at her. “How old are you, Miss Gwendy, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Sixteen.”
The man snaps his fingers and points at her. “Looking to buy a car, I bet.”
She shakes her head. “One day, but I’m thinking of selling these to make some money for college. I want to go to an Ivy League school after I graduate.”
The man nods his head with approval. “Good for you.” He studies the coins again with the magnifying glass. “Be honest with me now, Miss Gwendy, your folks know you’re selling these?”
“Yes, sir, they do. They’re okay with it because it’s for a good cause.”
His gaze turns shrewd. “But they’re not with you, I notice.”
Gwendy might not have been ready for this at fourteen, but she’s older now, and can hit the occasional adult curveball. “They both said I have to start fending for myself sometime, and this might be a good place to start. Also, I read the magazine you’ve got there.” She points. “COINage?”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Lenny puts down the magnifying glass and gives her his full attention. “Well, Miss Gwendy Peterson, a Morgan silver dollar of this vintage and in Near Mint condition can sell for anywhere from seven hundred and twenty-five dollars to eight hundred. A Morgan in this condition…” He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
Gwendy didn’t practice this part—how could she?—but she really likes the old man, so she wings it. “My mom works at a car dealership, and they have a saying about some of the cars: ‘Priced to sell.’ So…could you pay eight hundred each? Would that be priced to sell?”
“Yes, ma’am, it would,” he says with no hesitation. “Only are you sure? One of the bigger shops might be able to—”
“I’m sure. If you can pay eight hundred apiece, we have a deal.”
The old man chuckles and sticks his hand out. “Then, Miss Gwendy Peterson, we have ourselves a deal.” They shake on it. “I’ll write you up a receipt and get you paid.”
“Um…I’m sure you’re trustworthy, Lenny, but I really wouldn’t feel comfortable with a check.”
“With me up in Toronto or down in D.C. tomorrow, who’d blame you?” He drops her a wink. “Besides, I got a saying of my own: Cash don’t tattle. And what Uncle Sammy don’t know about our business won’t hurt him.”
Lenny slips the coins into their transparent envelopes and disappears them somewhere beneath the table. Once he’s counted out sixteen crisp one hundred dollar bills—Gwendy still can’t believe this is happening—he writes a receipt, tears out a copy, and lays it atop the cash. “I put my phone number on there too in case your folks have any questions. How far is home?”
“About a mile. I rode my bike.”
He considers that. “Lotta money for a young girl, Gwendy. Think maybe you should call your parents for a ride?”
“No need,” she says, smiling. “I can take care of myself.”
The old man’s eyebrows dance as he laughs. “I bet you can.”
He stuffs the money and the receipt into an envelope. He folds the envelope in half and uses about a yard of scotch tape to seal it tight. “See if that’ll fit nice and snug in your shorts pocket,” he says, handing over the envelope.
Gwendy stuffs it into her pocket and pats the outside. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“I like you, girl, I do. Got style and got sand. A combination that can’t be beat.” Lenny turns to the dealer on his left. “Hank, you mind watching my table for a minute?”
“Only if you bring me back a soda,” Hank says.
“Done.” Lenny slips out from behind his table and escorts Gwendy to the door. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Positive. Thanks again, Mr. Lenny,” she says, feeling the weight of the money inside her pocket. “I really appreciate it.”
“The appreciation is all mine, Miss Gwendy.” He holds the door open for her. “Good luck with the Ivy League.”
17
Gwendy squints in the May sunlight as she unlocks her bike from a nearby tree. It never occurred to her this morning that the VFW wouldn’t have a bike rack—then again, how many vets did you see cruising around Castle Rock on bicycles?
She pats her pocket to make sure the envelope is still nice and snug, then straddles her bike and pushes off. Halfway across the parking lot, she spots Frankie Stone and Jimmy Sines, checking car doors and peering into windows. Some unlucky person was going to walk out of the Coin & Stamp Show today and find their car ransacked.
Gwendy pedals faster, hoping to slip away unnoticed, but she’s not that lucky.
“Hey, sugar tits!” Frankie yells from behind her, and then he’s sprinting ahead and cutting her off, blocking her exit from the parking lot. He waves his arms at her. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Gwendy skids to a stop in front him. “Leave me alone, Frankie.”
It takes him a moment to catch his breath. “I just wanted to ask you a question, that’s all.”
“Then ask it and get out of my way.” She glances around for an escape route.
Jimmy Sines emerges from behind a parked car. Stands on the other side of her with his arms crossed. He looks at Frankie. “Sugar tits, huh?”
Frankie grins. “This is the one I was telling you about.” He walks closer to Gwendy, trails a finger up her leg. She swats it away.
“Ask your question and move.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he says. “I was just wondering how your ass is. You always had such a tight one. Must make it hard to take a shit.” He’s touching her leg again. Not just a finger; his whole hand.
“These boys bothering you, Miss Gwendy?”
All three of them turn and look. Lenny is standing there.
“Get lost, old man,” Frankie says, taking a step toward him.
“I don’t think so. You okay, Gwendy?”
“I’m okay now.” She pushes off and starts pedaling. “Gotta get going or I’m gonna be late for lunch. Thanks!”
They watch her go, and then Frankie and Jimmy turn back to Lenny. “It’s two on one. I like those odds, old-timer.”
Lenny reaches into his pants pocket and comes out with a flick knife. Engraved on i
ts silver side are the only two words of Latin these boys understand: Semper Fi. His gnarled hand does a limber trick and presto, there’s a six-inch blade glittering in the sunlight. “Now it’s two on two.”
Frankie takes off across the parking lot, Jimmy right behind him.
18
“Imagine that, Gwendy wins again,” Sallie says, rolling her eyes and tossing her cards onto the carpet in front of her.
There are four of them sitting in a circle on the Peterson’s den floor: Gwendy, Sallie Ackerman, Brigette Desjardin, and Josie Wainwright. The other three girls are seniors at Castle Rock High and frequent visitors to the Peterson home this school year.
“You ever notice that?” Josie says, scrunching up her face. “Gwendy never loses. At pretty much anything.”
Sallie rolls with it: “Best grades in school. Best athlete in school. Prettiest girl in school. And a card shark to boot.”
“Oh, shut up,” Gwendy says, gathering the cards. It’s her turn to shuffle and deal. “That’s not true.”
But Gwendy knows it is true, and although Josie is just teasing in her usual goofy way (who else would aspire to be lead singer in a group called the Pussycats?), she also knows that Sallie isn’t teasing at all. Sallie is getting sick of it. Sallie is getting jealous.
Gwendy first realized it was becoming an issue a few months earlier. Yes, she’s a fast runner, maybe the fastest varsity runner in the county. Maybe in the entire state. Really? Yes, really. And then there are her grades. She always earned good ones in school, but in younger years she had to study hard for those grades, and even then, there were usually a handful of B’s, along with all those A’s on her report cards. Now she barely hits the books at all, and her grades are the highest in the whole junior class. She even finds herself writing down the wrong answers from time to time, just to avoid, ho-hum, another perfect test score. Or forcing herself to lose at cards and arcade games just to keep her friends from becoming suspicious. Regardless of her efforts, they know something is weird anyway.
Buttons aside, coins aside, little chocolate treats aside, the box has given her…well…powers.
Really? Yes, really.
She never gets hurt anymore. No strained muscles from track. No bumps or bruises from soccer. No nicks or scratches from being clumsy. Not even a stubbed toe or broken fingernail. She can’t remember the last time she’s needed a Band-Aid. Even her period is easy. No more cramps, a few drops on a sanitary pad, and done. These days Gwendy’s blood stays where it belongs.
These realizations are both fascinating and terrifying to Gwendy. She knows it’s the box somehow doing this—or perhaps the chocolate treats—but they really are one and the same. Sometimes, she wishes she could talk to someone about it. Sometimes, she wishes she were still friends with Olive. She might be the only person in the world who would listen and believe her.
Gwendy places the deck of cards on the floor and gets to her feet. “Who wants popcorn and lemonade?”
Three hands go up. Gwendy disappears into the kitchen.
19
There are big changes in Gwendy’s life during the fall and winter of 1978, most of them good ones.
She finally gets her driver’s license in late September, and a month later on her seventeenth birthday, her parents surprise her with a gently used Ford Fiesta from the dealership where her mom works. The car is bright orange and the radio only works when it wants to, but none of that matters to Gwendy. She loves this car and plasters its meager back deck with big daisy decals and a NO NUKES bumper sticker left over from the sixties.
She also gets her first real job (she’s earned money in the past babysitting and raking leaves, but she doesn’t count those), working at the drive-in snack bar three nights a week. It surprises no one that she proves especially adept at her duties and earns a promotion by her third month of employment.
She is also named captain of the varsity outdoor track team.
Gwendy still wonders about Mr. Farris and she still worries about the button box, but not nearly with the same nervous intensity as she once did. She also still locks her bedroom door and slides the box out from inside her closet and pulls the lever for a chocolate treat, but not as often as she once did. Maybe twice a week now, tops.
In fact, she’s finally relaxed to the point where she actually finds herself wondering one afternoon: Do you think you might eventually just forget about it?
But then she stumbles upon a newspaper article about the accidental release of anthrax spores at a Soviet bioweapons facility that killed hundreds of people and threatened the countryside, and she knows that she will never forget about the box and its red button and the responsibility she has taken on. Exactly what responsibility is that? She’s not sure, but thinks it might be to just keep things from, well, getting out of hand. It sounds crazy, but feels just about right.
Near the end of her junior year, in March 1979, Gwendy watches television coverage of the nuclear meltdown at Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania. She becomes obsessed, combing over all the coverage she can find, mainly to determine how much of a danger the accident poses to surrounding communities and cities and states. The idea worries her.
She tells herself she will press the red button again if she has to and make Three Mile go away. Only Jonestown weighs heavy on her mind. Was that crazy religious fuck going to do it anyway, or did she somehow push him into it? Were the nurses going to poison those babies anyway, or did Gwendy Peterson somehow give them the extra crazy they needed to do it? What if the button box is like the monkey’s paw in that story? What if it makes things worse instead of better? What if she makes things worse?
With Jonestown, I didn’t understand. Now I do. And isn’t that why Mr. Farris trusted me with the box in the first place? To do the right thing when the time came?
When the situation at Three Mile Island is finally contained and subsequent studies prove there is no further danger, Gwendy is overjoyed—and relieved. She feels like she’s dodged a bullet.
20
The first thing Gwendy notices when she strolls into Castle Rock High on the last Thursday morning of the school year are the somber expressions on the faces of several teachers and a cluster of girls gathered by the cafeteria doors, many of them crying.
“What’s going on?” she asks Josie Wainwright at the locker they share.
“What do you mean?”
“Kids are crying in the lobby. Everyone looks upset.”
“Oh, that,” Josie says, with no more gravity than if she were talking about what she’d eaten for breakfast that morning. “Some girl killed herself last night. Jumped off the Suicide Stairs.”
Gwendy’s entire body goes cold.
“What girl?” Barely a whisper, because she’s afraid she already knows the answer. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she does.
“Olive…uhh…”
“Kepnes. Her name is Olive Kepnes.”
“Was Olive Kepnes,” Josie says, and starts humming “The Dead March.”
Gwendy wants to smack her, right in her pretty freckled face, but she can’t lift her arms. Her entire body is numb. After a moment, she wills her legs to move and walks out of the school and to her car. She drives directly home and locks herself inside her bedroom.
21
It’s my fault, Gwendy thinks for the hundredth time, as she pulls her car into the Castle View Recreational Park parking lot. It’s almost midnight and the gravel lot is empty. If I’d stayed her friend…
She’s told her parents that she’s sleeping over at Maggie Bean’s house with a bunch of girlfriends from school—all of them telling stories and reminiscing about Olive and supporting each other in their grief—and her parents believe her. They don’t understand that Gwendy stopped running with Olive’s crowd a long time ago. Most of the girls Gwendy hangs out with now wouldn’t recognize Olive if she were standing in front of them. Other than a quick “Hey” in the hallways at school or the occasional encounter at the supermarket, Gwendy has
n’t spoken to Olive in probably six or seven months. They eventually made up their fight in Gwendy’s bedroom, but nothing had been the same after that day. And the truth of the matter is that had been okay with Gwendy. Olive was getting to be too damn sensitive, too high maintenance, just…too Olive.
“It’s my fault,” Gwendy mutters as she gets out of the car. She’d like to believe that’s just adolescent angst—what her father calls Teenage It’s All About Me Complex—but she can’t quite get there. Can’t help realizing that if she and Olive had stayed tight, the girl would still be alive.
There’s no moon in the sky tonight and she forgot to bring along a flashlight, but that doesn’t matter to Gwendy. She strikes off in the dark at a brisk pace and heads for the Suicide Stairs, unsure of what she’s going to do once she gets there.
She’s halfway across the park before she realizes she doesn’t want to go to the Suicide Stairs at all. In fact, she never wants to see them again. Because—this is crazy, but in the dark it has the force of truth—what if she met Olive halfway up? Olive with her head half bashed in and one eye dangling on her cheek? What if Olive pushed her? Or talked her into jumping?
Gwendy turns around, climbs back into her cute little Fiesta, and drives home. It occurs to her that she can make damn sure no one jumps from those stairs again.
22
The Castle Rock Call
Saturday edition — May 26, 1979
Sometime between the hours of one a.m. and six a.m. on the morning of Friday, May 25, a portion of the Northeastern corner of the Castle View Recreational Park was destroyed. The historic stairway and viewing platform, as well as nearly one-half acre of state-owned property, collapsed, leaving a bewildering pile of iron, steel, earth, and rubble below.
Numerous authorities are still on site investigating the scene to determine if the collapse was a result of natural or man-made causes.