Everything's Eventual

by Stephen King

  The market’s called Corson’s and there’s a little girl out front, Carol thought. She’s wearing a red pinafore. She’s got a doll, a dirty old yellowhaired thing, that she’s left on the store steps so she can look at a dog in the back of a station wagon.

  The name of the market turned out to be Carson’s, not Corson’s, but everything else was the same. As the white Crown Vic passed, the little girl in the red dress turned her solemn face in Carol’s direction, a country girl’s face, although what a girl from the toolies could be doing here in rich folks’ tourist country, her and her dirty yellowheaded doll, Carol didn’t know.

  Here’s where I ask Bill how much farther, only I won’t do it. Because I have to break out of this cycle, this groove. I have to.

  “How much farther?” she asked him. He says there’s only one road, we can’t get lost. He says he promises me we’ll get to the Palm House with no problem. And, by the way, who’s Floyd?

  Bill’s eyebrow went up. The dimple beside his mouth appeared. “Once you get over the causeway and onto Sanibel Island, there’s only one road,” he said. Carol barely heard him. He was still talking about the road, her husband who had spent a dirty weekend in bed with his secretary two years ago, risking all they had done and all they had made, Bill doing that with his other face on, being the Bill Carol’s mother had warned would break her heart. And later Bill trying to tell her he hadn’t been able to help himself, her wanting to scream, I once murdered a child for you, the potential of a child, anyway. How high is that price? And is this what I get in return? To reach my fifties and find out that my husband had to get into some Clairol girl’s pants?

  Tell him! she shrieked. Make him pull over and stop, make him do anything that will break you free—change one thing, change everything! You can do it—if you could put your feet up in those stirrups, you can do anything!

  But she could do nothing, and it all began to tick by faster. The two overfed crows lifted off from their splatter of lunch. Her husband asked why she was sitting that way, was it a cramp, her saying, Yes, yes, a cramp in her back but it was easing. Her mouth quacked on about déjà vu just as if she weren’t drowning in it, and the Crown Vic moved forward like one of those sadistic Dodgem cars at Revere Beach. Here came Palmdale Motors on the right. And on the left? Some kind of sign for the local community theater, a production of Naughty Marietta.

  No, it’s Mary, not Marietta. Mary, mother of Jesus, Mary, mother of God, she’s got her hands out …

  Carol bent all her will toward telling her husband what was happening, because the right Bill was behind the wheel, the right Bill could still hear her. Being heard was what married love was all about.

  Nothing came out. In her mind Gram said, “All the hard days are coming.” In her mind a voice asked Floyd what was over there, then said, “Oh shit,” then screamed “Oh shit!”

  She looked at the speedometer and saw it was calibrated not in miles an hour but thousands of feet: they were at twenty-eight thousand and descending. Bill was telling her that she shouldn’t have slept on the plane and she was agreeing.

  There was a pink house coming up, little more than a bungalow, fringed with palm trees that looked like the ones you saw in the Second World War movies, fronds framing incoming Learjets with their machine guns blazing—

  Blazing. Burning hot. All at once the magazine he’s holding turns into a torch. Holy Mary, mother of God, hey there, Mary, what’s the story—

  They passed the house. The old man sat on the porch and watched them go by. The lenses of his rimless glasses glinted in the sun. Bill’s hand established a beachhead on her hip. He said something about how they might pause to refresh themselves between the doffing of her dress and the donning of her shorts and she agreed, although they were never going to get to Palm House. They were going to go down this road and down this road, they were for the white Crown Vic and the white Crown Vic was for them, forever and ever amen.

  The next billboard would say PALM HOUSE 2 MI. Beyond it was the one saying that Mother of Mercy Charities helped the Florida sick. Would they help her?

  Now that it was too late she was beginning to understand. Beginning to see the light the way she could see the subtropical sun sparkling off the water on their left. Wondering how many wrongs she had done in her life, how many sins if you liked that word, God knew her parents and her Gram certainly had, sin this and sin that and wear the medallion between those growing things the boys look at. And years later she had lain in bed with her new husband on hot summer nights, knowing a decision had to be made, knowing the clock was ticking, the cigarette butt was smoldering, and she remembered making the decision, not telling him out loud because about some things you could be silent.

  Her head itched. She scratched it. Black flecks came swirling down past her face. On the Crown Vic’s instrument panel the speedometer froze at sixteen thousand feet and then blew out, but Bill appeared not to notice.

  Here came a mailbox with a Grateful Dead sticker pasted on the front; here came a little black dog with its head down, trotting busily, and God how her head itched, black flakes drifting in the air like fallout and Mother Teresa’s face looking out of one of them.

  MOTHER OF MERCY CHARITIES HELP THE FLORIDA HUNGRY—WON’T YOU HELP US?

  Floyd. What’s that over there? Oh shit.

  She has time to see something big. And to read the word DELTA.

  “Bill? Bill?”

  His reply, clear enough but nevertheless coming from around the rim of the universe: “Christ, honey, what’s in your hair?”

  She plucked the charred remnant of Mother Teresa’s face from her lap and held it out to him, the older version of the man she had married, the secretary-fucking man she had married, the man who had nonetheless rescued her from people who thought that you could live forever in paradise if you only lit enough candles and wore the blue blazer and stuck to the approved skipping rhymes. Lying there with this man one hot summer night while the drug deals went on upstairs and Iron Butterfly sang “In-A-GaddaDa-Vida” for the nine billionth time, she had asked what he thought you got, you know, after. When your part in the show was over. He had taken her in his arms and held her, down the beach she had heard the jangle-jingle of the midway and the bang of the Dodgem cars and Bill—

  Bill’s glasses were melted to his face. One eye bulged out of its socket. His mouth was a bloodhole. In the trees a bird was crying, a bird was screaming, and Carol began to scream with it, holding out the charred fragment of paper with Mother Teresa’s picture on it, screaming, watching as his cheeks turned black and his forehead swarmed and his neck split open like a poisoned goiter, screaming, she was screaming, somewhere Iron Butterfly was singing “In-A-GaddaDa-Vida” and she was screaming.

  *

  “Carol?”

  It was Bill’s voice, from a thousand miles away. His hand was on her, but it was concern in his touch rather than lust.

  She opened her eyes and looked around the sun-brilliant cabin of the Lear 35, and for a moment she understood everything—in the way one understands the tremendous import of a dream upon the first moment of waking. She remembered asking him what he believed you got, you know, after, and he had said you probably got what you’d always thought you would get, that if Jerry Lee Lewis thought he was going to Hell for playing boogie-woogie, that’s exactly where he’d go. Heaven, Hell, or Grand Rapids, it was your choice—or the choice of those who had taught you what to believe. It was the human mind’s final great parlor-trick: the perception of eternity in the place where you’d always expected to spend it.

  “Carol? You okay, babe?” In one hand was the magazine he’d been reading, a Newsweek with Mother Teresa on the cover. SAINTHOOD NOW? it said in white.

  Looking around wildly at the cabin, she was thinking, It happens at sixteen thousand feet. I have to tell them, I have to warn them.

  But it was fading, all of it, the way those feelings always did. They went like dreams, or cotton candy turning into a sweet mist
just above your tongue.

  “Landing? Already?” She felt wide-awake, but her voice sounded thick and muzzy.

  “It’s fast, huh?” he said, sounding pleased, as if he’d flown it himself instead of paying for it. “Floyd says we’ll be on the ground in—”

  “Who?” she asked. The cabin of the little plane was warm but her fingers were cold. “Who?”

  “Floyd. You know, the pilot.” He pointed his thumb toward the cockpit’s lefthand seat. They were descending into a scrim of clouds. The plane began to shake. “He says we’ll be on the ground in Fort Myers in twenty minutes. You took a hell of a jump, girl. And before that you were moaning.”

  Carol opened her mouth to say it was that feeling, the one you could only say what it was in French, something vu or vous, but it was fading and all she said was “I had a nightmare.”

  There was a beep as Floyd the pilot switched the seat-belt light on. Carol turned her head. Somewhere below, waiting for them now and forever, was a white car from Hertz, a gangster car, the kind the characters in a Martin Scorsese movie would probably call a Crown Vic. She looked at the cover of the news magazine, at the face of Mother Teresa, and all at once she remembered skipping rope behind Our Lady of Angels, skipping to one of the forbidden rhymes, skipping to the one that went Hey there, Mary, what’s the story, save my ass from Purgatory.

  All the hard days are coming, her Gram had said. She had pressed the medal into Carol’s palm, wrapped the chain around her fingers. The hard days are coming.

  ——

  I think this story is about Hell. A version of it where you are condemned to do the same thing over and over again. Existentialism, baby, what a concept; paging Albert Camus. There’s an idea that Hell is other people. My idea is that it might be repetition.

  1408

  As well as the ever-popular premature burial, every writer of shock/suspense tales should write at least one story about the Ghostly Room At The Inn. This is my version of that story. The only unusual thing about it is that I never intended to finish it. I wrote the first three or four pages as part of an appendix for my On Writing book, wanting to show readers how a story evolves from first draft to second. Most of all, I wanted to provide concrete examples of the principles I’d been blathering about in the text. But something nice happened: the story seduced me, and I ended up writing all of it. I think that what scares us varies widely from one individual to the next (I’ve never been able to understand why Peruvian boomslangs give some people the creeps, for example), but this story scared me while I was working on it. It originally appeared as part of an audio compilation called Blood and Smoke, and the audio scared me even more. Scared the hell out of me. But hotel rooms are just naturally creepy places, don’t you think? I mean, how many people have slept in that bed before you? How many of them were sick? How many were losing their minds? How many were perhaps thinking about reading a few final verses from the Bible in the drawer of the nightstand beside them and then hanging themselves in the closet beside the TV? Brrrr. In any case, let’s check in, shall we? Here’s your key … and you might take time to notice what those four innocent numbers add up to. It’s just down the hall.

  ——

  I

  Mike Enslin was still in the revolving door when he saw Olin, the manager of the Hotel Dolphin, sitting in one of the overstuffed lobby chairs. Mike’s heart sank. Maybe I should have brought the lawyer along again, after all, he thought. Well, too late now. And even if Olin had decided to throw up another roadblock or two between Mike and room 1408, that wasn’t all bad; there were compensations.

  Olin was crossing the room with one pudgy hand held out as Mike left the revolving door. The Dolphin was on Sixty-first Street, around the corner from Fifth Avenue, small but smart. A man and a woman dressed in evening clothes passed Mike as he reached for Olin’s hand, switching his small overnight case to his left hand in order to do it. The woman was blond, dressed in black, of course, and the light, flowery smell of her perfume seemed to summarize New York. On the mezzanine level, someone was playing “Night and Day” in the bar, as if to underline the summary.

  “Mr. Enslin. Good evening.”

  “Mr. Olin. Is there a problem?”

  Olin looked pained. For a moment he glanced around the small, smart lobby, as if for help. At the concierge’s stand, a man was discussing theater tickets with his wife while the concierge himself watched them with a small, patient smile. At the front desk, a man with the rumpled look one only got after long hours in Business Class was discussing his reservation with a woman in a smart black suit that could itself have doubled for evening wear. It was business as usual at the Hotel Dolphin. There was help for everyone except poor Mr. Olin, who had fallen into the writer’s clutches.

  “Mr. Olin?” Mike repeated.

  “Mr. Enslin … could I speak to you for a moment in my office?”

  Well, and why not? It would help the section on room 1408, add to the ominous tone the readers of his books seemed to crave, and that wasn’t all. Mike Enslin hadn’t been sure until now, in spite of all the backing and filling; now he was. Olin was really afraid of room 1408, and of what might happen to Mike there tonight.

  “Of course, Mr. Olin.”

  Olin, the good host, reached for Mike’s bag. “Allow me.”

  “I’m fine with it,” Mike said. “Nothing but a change of clothes and a toothbrush.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “I’m already wearing my lucky Hawaiian shirt.” He smiled. “It’s the one with the ghost repellent.”

  Olin didn’t smile back. He sighed instead, a little round man in a dark cutaway coat and a neatly knotted tie. “Very good, Mr. Enslin. Follow me.”

  The hotel manager had seemed tentative in the lobby, almost beaten. In his oak-paneled office, with the pictures of the hotel on the walls (the Dolphin had opened in 1910—Mike might publish without the benefit of reviews in the journals or the big-city papers, but he did his research), Olin seemed to gain assurance again. There was a Persian carpet on the floor. Two standing lamps cast a mild yellow light. A desk-lamp with a green lozenge-shaped shade stood on the desk, next to a humidor. And next to the humidor were Mike Enslin’s last three books. Paperback editions, of course; there had been no hardbacks. Mine host has been doing a little research of his own, Mike thought.

  Mike sat down in front of the desk. He expected Olin to sit behind the desk, but Olin surprised him. He took the chair beside Mike’s, crossed his legs, then leaned forward over his tidy little belly to touch the humidor.

  “Cigar, Mr. Enslin?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  Olin’s eyes shifted to the cigarette behind Mike’s right ear— parked on a jaunty jut the way an old-time wisecracking reporter might have parked his next smoke just below the PRESS tag stuck in the band of his fedora. The cigarette had become so much a part of him that for a moment Mike honestly didn’t know what Olin was looking at. Then he laughed, took it down, looked at it himself, and looked back at Olin.

  “Haven’t had a one in nine years,” he said. “Had an older brother who died of lung cancer. I quit after he died. The cigarette behind the ear …” He shrugged. “Part affectation, part superstition, I guess. Like the Hawaiian shirt. Or the cigarettes you sometimes see on people’s desks or walls, mounted in a little box with a sign saying BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. Is 1408 a smoking room, Mr. Olin? Just in case nuclear war breaks out?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  “Well,” Mike said heartily, “that’s one less worry in the watches of the night.”

  Mr. Olin sighed again, but this sigh didn’t have the disconsolate quality of his lobby-sigh. Yes, it was the office, Mike reckoned. Olin’s office, his special place. Even this afternoon, when Mike had come accompanied by Robertson, the lawyer, Olin had seemed less flustered once they were in here. And why not? Where else could you feel in charge, if not in your special place? Olin’s office was a roo
m with good pictures on the walls, a good rug on the floor, and good cigars in the humidor. A lot of managers had no doubt conducted a lot of business in here since 1910; in its own way it was as New York as the blond in her black off-the-shoulder dress, her smell of perfume, and her unarticulated promise of sleek New York sex in the small hours of the morning.

  “You still don’t think I can talk you out of this idea of yours, do you?” Olin asked.

  “I know you can’t,” Mike said, replacing the cigarette behind his ear. He didn’t slick his hair back with Vitalis or Wildroot Cream Oil, as those colorful fedora-wearing scribblers of yore had, but he still changed the cigarette every day, just as he changed his underwear. You sweat back there behind your ears; if he examined the cigarette at the end of the day before throwing its unsmoked deadly length into the toilet, Mike could see the faint yelloworange residue of that sweat on the thin white paper. It did not increase the temptation to light up. How he had smoked for almost twenty years—thirty butts a day, sometimes forty—was now beyond him. Why he had done it was an even better question.

  Olin picked up the little stack of paperbacks from the blotter. “I sincerely hope you’re wrong.”

  Mike ran open the zipper on the side pocket of his overnight bag. He brought out a Sony minicorder. “Would you mind if I taped our conversation, Mr. Olin?”

  Olin waved a hand. Mike pushed RECORD and the little red light came on. The reels began to turn.

  Olin, meanwhile, was shuffling slowly through the stack of books, reading the titles. As always when he saw his books in someone else’s hands, Mike Enslin felt the oddest mix of emotions: pride, unease, amusement, defiance, and shame. He had no business feeling ashamed of them, they had kept him nicely over these last five years, and he didn’t have to share any of the profits with a packager (“bookwhores” was what his agent called them, perhaps partly in envy), because he had come up with the concept himself. Although after the first book had sold so well, only a moron could have missed the concept. What was there to do after Frankenstein but Bride of Frankenstein?