by Stephen King
I’ll be damned if the self-righteous SOB didn’t start trying to push his way right in! I pushed him right back, I can tell you. (Almost dropped Dream Floater again in the process, too.) The last thing I wanted was that fat little thief standing in front of the Stalky Little Boy. What I wanted was for them to be out of my house, and quick. Before either their voices or their emotional vibes (and tho he wasn’t crying, Hobart was at least as upset as his kid, maybe more) could wake him up.
“Seth’s not my son, he’s my nephew,” I said, “and he’s taking a nap right now.”
“Very good,” Hobart says, giving a stiff little nod. “We will come back later. Is tonight convenient? If not, I can bring Hugh back tomorrow afternoon. I can ill afford to take off a second afternoon—I work at the-stamping mill in Ten Mile, you know—but God’s business must always take precedence over man’s.”
His voice kept getting louder while he was talking, the way the voices of guys like him always seem to, it’s like they can’t tell you they’ve got to take a shit without turning it into a sermon. I started to feel really scared about Seth waking up. & all this time, I swear it’s true, the kid’s looking around like he wants to see if there’s anything else worth hawking. I’d say the day is going to come when Hughie winds up on some shrinky-dink’s couch, except that people like the Hobarts don’t believe in shrinks, do they?
I herded them out the door & kept them going right down the walk, I mean I was on a roll. the kid, meanwhile, is asking “Do you forgive me? Do you forgive me?” over & over again, like a broken record. By the time I got them down to the sidewalk, I realized I was furious with both of them. Not just because of the hell we’ve been through but because they both acted like I was somehow responsibly for the thieving little fart’s immortal soul. Plus I kept remembering the way his eyes were going everywhere, seeing what we had in our house that he didn’t have in his.
I’m pretty sure—almost positive, actually—that a lot of Seth’s “strange powers” have a very short range, like the radio transmitters they used to have at the drive-ins, the ones that piped the movie sound directly into your car radio. So when I got them down to the street, I felt safe (relatively safe, anyway) to ask how Hugh Hobart had come to lift Seth’s Power Wagon in the first place.
Père and fils exchanged a glance at that. It was a funny, uneasy glance, and I realized neither of them much minded the idea of a spanking or even a visit from the cops, but they didn’t like the idea of talking about the actual theft itself. Not one little bit. No wonder the fundamentalists hate the Catholics so much. The idea of going to confession must make their balls shrivel.
Still, I had ’em in a corner, & finally it came out. William did most of the talking; by then the kid had decided he didn’t like me. His eyes had gotten narrow, and they’d quit leaking, too.
Most of it I could’ve figured out myself. The Hobarts belong to the Zion’s Covenant Baptist Church, and one of the thing they do as good church members is to “spread the Gospel.” This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our milkbox, the one about a million years in hell & not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporary empty, wanting “to spread the word & plant the seed, not engage in debate” (William Hobart’s words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.
They must’ve hit our place right after we left for Milly’s. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street . . . & gave in to the ever-popular TVs (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the P.W. yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school & she was cleaning in his room. Last night they had a “family conference” about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.
Once the story was out, the kid started in on “Do you forgive me” again. The second time through, I said, “Quit saying that.”
He looked like I’d slapped him and his father’s face got all stiff, I didn’t give a crap. I squatted down so I could look directly into Hugh’s piggy little eyes. It wasn’t all that easy to see them, either, because of the dandruff flakes and grease-smears on his glasses.
“Forgiveness is between you and your God,” I said. “As for me, I’m going to keep quiet about what you did, and I’d advise the Hobarts to do the same.” They will, I’m pretty sure. I only had to look at the bruise on Hugh’s cheek, really, to know that. I don’t know about the creep’s mother, but what he did is absolutely killing his father.
Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn’t going the way it was supposed to, & he hated me for it. That’s okay, I hate him a little, too. Not surprising, is it, after the weekend we put in because of his light fingers?
“We’ll leave you now, Mrs. Wyler, if you’re finished.” Hobart said. “Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. in his room. On his knees.”
“But I’m not finished,” I said. “Not quite.” I didn’t look at him. It was the boy I looked at. I think I was trying to look past the hate & shame & self-righteousness, to see if there was a real boy left inside anywhere. And did I see one? I truly don’t know.
“Hugh,” I said, you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don’t you?”
He nodded cautiously . . . like he was testifying in a trial & thought one Of the lawyers was laying a trap.
“So you know that stealing Seth’s toy was wrong.”
He nodded again, more reluctantly than ever. By then he was practically hiding behind his father’s leg, as if he were three instead of eight or nine.
“Mrs. Wyler, I hardly think it’s necessary to browbeat the boy,” his old man said. unbelievable prig! He’s willing to let me turn the kid over my knee & whale on his ass like it was a snare drum, but when I want the kid to say out loud that he did wrong, all at once it’s abuse. There’s a lesson in this, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.
“I’m not browbeating him, but I want you to know that the last few days have keen very difficult around here,” I said, It was the adult I was answering but still the kid I was really talking to. “Seth loves his Power Wagons very much, so here is what I want, Hugh. I want you to tell me that what you did was wrong, and it was bad, and you’re sorry. Then we’ll be done”
Hugh glared at me, & if looks could kill, I wouldn’t be writing in this book now. But was I scared? Please, when, it comes to pissed-off kids, I live with the champ of champs.
“Mrs. Wyler, do you think that’s really necessary?” Hobart asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “More for your son than for me.”
“Dad, do I have to?” he whines. He’s still giving me the Death-Ray look from behind his smeary glasses.
“Go on, and tell her what she what she wants to hear,” Hobart said. “Bitter medicine is best swallowed in a single gulp.” Then he patted the kid on the shoulder, as if to say yes, she’s being mean, a real bitch, but we have to put up with it.
“It-was-wrong-it-was-bad-I’m-sorry,” the kid says, like he’s back on the cue-cards, Glaring at me the whole time—no more tears or snivelling. I looked up & saw the same stare coming from the father. The two of them never looked more alike than they did right then. People are amazing. They came up the street, scared but sort of exalted at the idea of getting crucified, just like their boss did. Instead I made the kid admit what he was, & it hurt, & they both hate me for it.
The important things, though, are these: 1.) D.F. is back, and 2.) the Hobarts won’t talk about it. Sometimes shame is the only gag that works on people. I must think up a yarn to tell Seth, then tell the same one to Herb. The truth just isn’t safe.
&
nbsp; Feet upstairs, going down to the bathroom. He’s up. Please God I hope I’m right about not being able to see into my thoughts.
Later
Big sigh of relief. And maybe a self-administered pat on the back, as well, I think The Dream Floater Crisis is past, with no harm done (except for some broken dishes & my beautiful Waterford glasses, that is). Seth & Herb both sleeping. I intend to go up myself as soon as I’ve written a little in this book (keeping a journal under these circumstances may be dangerous, but God, it can be so soothing), then put it back on top of the kitchen cabinet where I keep it.
Seth getting up when he did, before I had much of a chance to think what I was going to tell him, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. When he came downstairs, still with his eyes mostly puffed shut, I just held D.F. out to him, what happened to his face—the way it opened up in surprise & delight, like a flower in the sun—was almost worth the whole damned horror show. I saw both of them in that glad look, Seth and the SLB. The SLB just glad to have his Power Wagon back. Seth, I think, glad for other reasons. Maybe I’m wrong, giving him too much credit, but I don’t think so. I think Seth was glad because he knows the SLB will let up on us now. For a little while, anyway.
There was a time when I thought, good college girl that I am, that the SLB was just another aspect of Seth’s personality—the amoral part Freudians call the id—but I’m no longer sure, I keep thinking about the trip the Garins took across the country just before Bill & June & the two older kids were killed. Then I think about how our father talked to us when we were teenagers, and going for our driver’s licenses, Bill first, then me. He told us there were three thing we were never supposed to do: drive with our tire-pressure low, drive drunk, or pick up hitchhikers.
Could it be that Bill picked up a hitchhikers in the desert without even knowing it? That it’s still riding around, inside of Seth? Crazy idea, maybe, but I’ve noticed that this is when most of the crazy ideas come, late at night when the house is quiet & the others are asleep. And crazy does not always mean wrong.
Anyhow, with no time to lie fancy, I lied plain. I found it in the cellar, I said, when I went down to see if there were any more vacuum cleaner bags. We’d already poked around down there, of course, but I said it was way back under the stairs. Seth accepted it with no questions (I’m not sure he even cared, he was so happy to have “Dweem Fwoatah” back, but it was really the SLB I was talking to, anyway). Herb only had one question: how did the P.W. get down there in the first place? Seth never goes in the cellar, thinks it’s spooky, and H. knows that. I said I didn’t know, and—miracle of miracles—that seems to have closed the subject.
All night Seth sat in the den in his favorite chair, holding Dream Floater on his lap like a little girl might hold her favorite doll, watching the TV. Herb brought home a movie from The Video Clip. Just some old black-and-white thing from the Bargain Bin, but Seth really likes it. It’s a Western (of course) from the late ’50s. He’s watched it twice already.
Rory Calhoun’s in it. it’s called The Regulators.
June 19,1995
I think we’re in trouble.
William Hobart over this morning, in a rage. Herb had left for work about twenty minutes before he showed up, thank God, and Seth was out back in the yard.
“I want to ask you a question, Mrs. Wyler,” he said. “Did you or your husband have anything to do with what happened to my car last night? A simple yes or no will suffice. If you did, it would be best to say so now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and I must have sounded convincing, because he calmed down a little bit.
He led down the front walk (I was happy to go, the farther away from Seth in the back yard, the better), & pointed down at his house. He drives one of those four-wheel things, an Explorer, maybe, something like that. It was standing on four flat tires, and all the windows had been broken, including the windshield, and the big one in back
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said, I was, too, although maybe not for the reasons he thought.
“I apologize for my accusation,” he says, just as stiff as starch. “I suppose I thought . . . the toy Hugh took . . . if you were still angry . . .” A vehicle for a vehicle, I think he meant, like an eye for an eye.
“I’ve put the whole thing behind me, Mr. Hobart,” I said. “And I’m not what you’d call a vengeance-minded person under any circumstances.”
“Vengeance is mine saith the Lord, I will repay,” he says.
“Right!” I said, I don’t know if it is or not, but by then I only wanted to get rid of him. He’s creepy.
“It must have been vandals,” he said.
“Drunkards. Surely no one on the street would do such a thing.”
I hope it was vandals. I hope it was. And how could it have keen Seth—or the Stalky Little Boy, if you prefer—if I’m right about his powers having a short range? Unless his abilities are growing. His range widening.
I don’t dare tell Herb about this.
June 24, 1995
When I came downstairs this morning to start breakfast I saw the Reeds out on their walk, still in their robes, I went out. It’s been hot, but it rained in the middle of the night—hard—& the air was cooler this morning, with that sweet wet smell it gets after summer rain.
Early Saturday morning, or the whole street would have turned out, I think. There was a police car parked in front of the Hobart house, where there was broken glass everywhere, in the driveway & on the lawn, twinkling in the sun. William and his wife (Irene) were standing on their front stoop in their pj’s, talking to the cops. The little thief was standing on the stoop behind them, sucking his thumb. A little old for that, but it must have been a bad morning at chez Hobart. Every window in the house was out, it looked like, upstairs as well as down.
Cammie said it happened around quarter to six, she was just waking up & heard it. “Not as loud as you would’ve expected, all that glass, but loud enough so you could tell what it was,” she said. “Weird, huh?”
“Very,” I said. My voice sounded normal enough, but I didn’t dare say any more in case it started to get shaky.
Cammie said she looked out almost as soon as she heard the noises, but the people who threw the rocks were gone already (if the police actually find any rocks, I’ll eat them with spaghetti sauce). “Whoever it was, they must have moved very fast.” She threw an elbow at Charlie. “The big lug here slept through the whole thing.”
“First his car, now this,” Charlie said. “Vandals, my butt. Someone’s got it in for Will Hobart.”
“Yes,” I said. “Someone must”
Later
Found Seth’s “wascally wabbit” slippers pushed way back under his bed. Just by accident. Was looking for a stray sock. Slippers wet, pink fur all matted, pieces of grass stuck to the bottoms. He was out in the night, then. Or early this morning. And I know where he went. Don’t I?
Bad . . . but thank God his range isn’t widening as I suspected it might be. That would be even worse.
June 26, 1995
Waited until Herb was at work—I didn’t want him to go, he looked so pale and ill, but he said he had an important report to finish and a big presentation this afternoon—then went out back to talk to Seth.
He was sitting in the sandbox, playing quietly with his MotoKops guys, the HQ Crisis Center, and what Herb jokingly calls” the Ponderosa.” This is a ranch-and-corral set-up that Herb saw at a yard-sale on his way home from work one day in March or April. He made a U-turn to go back & get it. It’s not really the Ponderosa Ranch from Bonanza, of course, but the main house with its log sides does look a little like it. There LS also a bunkhouse (part of the roof broken in but it’s otherwise in good shape) and a number of plastic horses (a couple with only three legs) for the corral. Herb paid two bucks for it, & it’s been one of Seth’s favorite toys ever since. What’s funny (& a little weird) is how quickly & effortlessly he incorporated the ranch into his MotoKops play-fantas
ies. I suppose all kids are that way, arbitrary boundaries don’t interest ’em, especially when they’re playing, but it’s still a dizzy blending of genres to see Cassie or No-Face riding a three-legged plastic nag around the old corral.
Not that I was thinking about any of that this morning, I can tell you. I was scared, heart pounding like a drum in my chest, but when he looked up at me, I felt a little better. It was Seth, not the other one. Every time I see Seth’ s pale, sweet little face, I love him more. It’s crazy, maybe, but it’s true. I want to protect him more, and I hate the other one more.
I asked him what was happening to the Hobarts—no sense kidding myself any longer that he’s in the dark about what happened to Dream Floater—& he didn’t answer. Just sat looking at me. I asked him if he’d snuck out on Saturday morning and gone down there to break their windows. Still no answer. Then I asked him what he wanted, what had to happen before he would stop. I didn’t think he was going to answer that, either. Then he said, very clearly for Seth: “They should move. They should move soon. I can’t hold it back much longer.”
“Hold what back?” I asked him, but he wouldn’t say anything else, just went away to wherever it is he goes. Later on, while he was eating his lunch (the usual, Chef Boyardee & choco milk), I came upstairs & sat on the bed & thought. After my brother and his family were killed, the witnesses talked about a red van that maybe had a radar dish or some other form of telecommunications equipment on the roof. A mystery-van, the paper called it.
Tracker Arrow is red. And it has a dish on the roof.
I told myself I was completely crazy, and then I thought about the Dream Floater Herb & I saw in the back yard. It wasn’t real, of course, but it was full-sized . . . and Seth was asleep when we saw it. Maybe not operating at full power.
Suppose the SLB gets tired of just breaking windows? Suppose he sends Tracker Arrow (or Dream Floater, the Justice Wagon, or Freedom) to do a little drive-by at the Hobarts’?