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Riding the Bullet by STEPHEN KING

IÆve never told anyone this story, and never thought I
wouldùnot because I was afraid of being disbelieved,
exactly, but because I was ashamed . . . and because it
was mine. IÆve always felt that telling it would
cheapen both me and the story itself, make it smaller
and more mundane, no more than a camp counselorÆs
ghost story told before lights-out. I think I was also
afraid that if I told it, heard it with my own ears, I
might start to disbelieve it myself. But since my
mother died I havenÆt been able to sleep very well. I
doze off and then snap back again, wide awake and
shivering. Leaving the bedside lamp on helps, but not
as much as you might think. There are so many more
shadows at night, have you ever noticed that? Even
with a light on there are so many shadows. The long
ones could be the shadows of anything, you think.
Anything at all.
òòò
I was a junior at the University of Maine when Mrs.
McCurdy called about ma. My father died when I was
too young to remember him and I was an only child,
so it was just Alan and Jean Parker against the world.
Mrs. McCurdy, who lived just up the road, called at
the apartment I shared with three other guys. She had
gotten the number off the magnetic minder-board ma
kept on her fridge.
ôÆTwas a stroke,ö she said in that long and drawling
Yankee accent of hers. ôHappened at the restaurant.
But donÆt you go flyin off all half-cocked. Doctor says
it waÆant too bad. SheÆs awake and sheÆs talkin.ö
ôYeah, but is she making sense?ö I asked. I was trying
to sound calm, even amused, but my heart was
beating fast and the living room suddenly felt too
warm. I had the apartment all to myself; it was
Wednesday, and both my roomies had classes all day.
ôOh, ayuh. First thing she said was for me to call
you but not to scare you. ThatÆs pretty sensible,
wouldnÆt you say?ö
ôYeah.ö But of course I was scared. When someone
calls and tells you your motherÆs been taken from
work to the hospital in an ambulance, how else are
you supposed to feel?
ôShe said for you to stay right there and mind your
schoolin until the weekend. She said you could come
then, if you didnÆt have too much studyin tÆdo.ö
Sure, I thought. Fat chance. IÆd just stay here in this
ratty, beer-smelling apartment while my mother lay
in a hospital bed a hundred miles south, maybe dying.
ôSheÆs still a young woman, your ma,ö Mrs.
McCurdy said. ôItÆs just that sheÆs let herself get awful
heavy these last few years, and sheÆs got the hypertension.
Plus the cigarettes. SheÆs goin to have to give up
the smokes.ö
I doubted if she would, though, stroke or no stroke,
and about that I was rightùmy mother loved her
smokes. I thanked Mrs. McCurdy for calling.
ôFirst thing I did when I got home,ö she said. ôSo
when are you coming, Alan? SadÆdy?ö There was a sly
note in her voice that suggested she knew better.
I looked out the window at a perfect afternoon in
October: bright blue New England sky over trees that
were shaking down their yellow leaves onto Mill
Street. Then I glanced at my watch. Twenty past
three. IÆd just been on my way out to my four oÆclock
philosophy seminar when the phone rang.
ôYou kidding?ö I asked. ôIÆll be there tonight.ö
Her laughter was dry and a little cracked around the
edgesùMrs. McCurdy was a great one to talk about
giving up the cigarettes, her and her Winstons. ôGood
boy! YouÆll go straight to the hospital, wonÆt you, then
drive out to the house?ö
ôI guess so, yeah,ö I said. I saw no sense in telling
Mrs. McCurdy that there was something wrong with
the transmission of my old car, and it wasnÆt going
anywhere but the driveway for the foreseeable future.
IÆd hitchhike down to Lewiston, then out to our little
house in Harlow if it wasnÆt too late. If it was, IÆd
snooze in one of the hospital lounges. It wouldnÆt be
the first time IÆd ridden my thumb home from school.
Or slept sitting up with my head leaning against a
Coke machine, for that matter.
ôIÆll make sure the keyÆs under the red wheel-barrow,ö
she said. ôYou know where I mean, donÆt
you?ö
ôSure.ö My mother kept an old red wheelbarrow by
the door to the back shed; in the summer it foamed
with flowers. Thinking of it for some reason brought
Mrs. McCurdyÆs news home to me as a true fact: my
mother was in the hospital, the little house in Harlow
where IÆd grown up was going to be dark tonightù
there was no one there to turn on the lights after the
sun went down. Mrs. McCurdy could say she was
young, but when youÆre just twentyone yourself,
forty-eight seems ancient.
ôBe careful, Alan. DonÆt speed.ö
My speed, of course, would be up to whoever I
hooked a ride with, and I personally hoped that whoever
it was would go like hell. As far as I was concerned,
I couldnÆt get to Central Maine Medical
Center fast enough. Still, there was no sense worrying
Mrs. McCurdy.
ôI wonÆt. Thanks.ö
ôWelcome,ö she said. ôYour maÆs going to be just
fine. And wonÆt she be some happy to see you.ö
I hung up, then scribbled a note saying what had
happened and where I was going. I asked Hector Passmore,
the more responsible of my roommates, to call
my adviser and ask him to tell my instructors what
was up so I wouldnÆt get whacked for cuttingùtwo or
three of my teachers were real bears about that. Then
I stuffed a change of clothes into my backpack, added
my dog-eared copy of Introduction to Philosophy, and
headed out. I dropped the course the following week,
although I had been doing quite well in it. The way I
looked at the world changed that night, changed quite
a lot, and nothing in my philosophy textbook seemed
to fit the changes. I came to understand that there are
things underneath, you seeùunderneathùand no
book can explain what they are. I think that sometimes
itÆs best to just forget those things are there. If
you can, that is.
ItÆs a hundred and twenty miles from the University
of Maine in Orono to Lewiston in Androscoggin
County, and the quickest way to get there is by I-95.
The turnpike isnÆt such a good road to take if youÆre
hitchhiking, though; the state police are apt to boot
anyone they see offùeven if youÆre just standing on
the ramp they give you the bootùand if the same cop
catches you twice, heÆs apt to write you a ticket, as
well. So I took Route 68, which winds southwest
from Bangor. ItÆs a pretty well-traveled road, and if
you donÆt look like an out-and-out psycho, you can
usually do pretty well. The cops leave you alone, too,
for the most part.
My first lift was with a morose insurance man and
took me as far as Newport. I stood at the intersection
of Route 68 and Route 2 for about twenty minutes,
then got a ride with an elderly gentleman who was on
his way to Bowdoinham. He kept grabbing at his
crotch as he drove. It was as if he was trying to catch
something that was running around in there.
ôMy wife allus told me IÆd wind up in the ditch
with a knife in my back if I kept on picking up hitch-hikers,ö
he said, ôbut when I see a young fella standin
tÆside of the rud, I allus remember my own younger
days. Rode my thumb quite a bit, so I did. Rode the
rods, too. And lookit this, her dead four year and me
still a-goin, drivin this same old Dodge. I miss her
somethin turrible.ö He snatched at his crotch.
ôWhere you headed, son?ö
I told him I was going to Lewiston, and why.
ôThatÆs turrible,ö he said. ôYour ma! IÆm so sorry!ö
His sympathy was so strong and spontaneous that it
made the corners of my eyes prickle. I blinked the
tears back. The last thing in the world I wanted was to
burst out crying in this old manÆs old car, which rattled
and wallowed and smelled quite strongly of pee.
ôMrs. McCurdyùthe lady who called meùsaid it
isnÆt that serious. My motherÆs still young, only forty-eight.ö
ôStill! A stroke!ö He was genuinely dismayed. He
snatched at the baggy crotch of his green pants again,
yanking with an old manÆs oversized, clawlike hand.
ôA strokeÆs allus serious! Son, IÆd take you to the
CMMC myselfùdrive you right up to the front
doorùif I hadnÆt promised my brother Ralph IÆd take
him up to the nursin home in Gates. His wifeÆs there,
she has that forgettin disease, I canÆt think what in
the world they call it, AndersonÆs or Alvarez or somethin
like thatùö
ôAlzheimerÆs,ö I said.
ôAyuh, probÆly IÆm gettin it myself. Hell, IÆm
tempted to take you anyway.ö
ôYou donÆt need to do that,ö I said. ôI can get a ride
from Gates easy.ö
ôStill,ö he said. ôYour mother! A stroke! Only forty-eight!ö
He grabbed at the baggy crotch of his pants.
ôFucking truss!ö he cried, then laughedùthe sound
was both desperate and amused. ôFucking rupture! If
you stick around, son, all your works start fallin
apart. God kicks your ass in the end, let me tell you.
But youÆre a good boy to just drop everythin and go to
her like youÆre doin.ö
ôSheÆs a good mom,ö I said, and once again I felt the
tears bite. I never felt very homesick when I went
away to schoolùa little bit the first week, that was
allùbut I felt homesick then. There was just me and
her, no other close relatives. I couldnÆt imagine life
without her. WasnÆt too bad, Mrs. McCurdy had said;
a stroke, but not too bad. Damn old lady better be
telling the truth, I thought, she just better be.
We rode in silence for a little while. It wasnÆt the
fast ride IÆd hoped forùthe old man maintained a
steady forty-five miles an hour and sometimes wandered
over the white line to sample the other laneù
but it was a long ride, and that was really just as
good. Highway 68 unrolled before us, turning its
way through miles of woods and splitting the little
towns that were there and gone in a slow blink, each
one with its bar and its selfservice gas station: New
Sharon, Ophelia, West Ophelia, Ganistan (which
had once been Afghantistan, strange but true),
Mechanic Falls, Castle View, Castle Rock. The
bright blue of the sky dimmed as the day drained
out of it; the old man turned on first his parking
lights and then his headlights. They were the high
beams but he didnÆt seem to notice, not even when
cars coming the other way flashed their own high
beams at him.
ôMy sisterÆn-law donÆt even remember her own
name,ö he said. ôShe donÆt know aye, yes, no, nor
maybe. ThatÆs what that AndersonÆs Disease does to
you, son. ThereÆs a look in her eyes . . . like sheÆs sayin
æLet me out of hereÆ . . . or would say it, if she could
think of the words. Do you know what I mean?ö
ôYes,ö I said. I took a deep breath and wondered if
the pee I smelled was the old manÆs or if he maybe had
a dog that rode with him sometimes. I wondered if heÆd
be offended if I rolled down my window a little. Finally
I did. He didnÆt seem to notice, any more than he
noticed the oncoming cars flashing their highs at him.
Around seven oÆclock we breasted a hill in West
Gates and my chauffeur cried, ôLookit, son! The
moon! AinÆt she a corker?ö
She was indeed a corkerùa huge orange ball hoisting
itself over the horizon. I thought there was nevertheless
something terrible about it. It looked both
pregnant and infected. Looking at the rising moon, a
sudden and awful thought came to me: what if I got to
the hospital and my ma didnÆt recognize me? What if
her memory was gone, completely shot, and she
didnÆt know aye, yes, no, nor maybe? What if the doctor
told me sheÆd need someone to take care of her for
the rest of her life? That someone would have to be
me, of course; there was no one else. Goodbye college.
What about that, friends and neighbors?
ôMake a wish on it, boyo!ö the old man cried. In his
excitement his voice grew sharp and unpleasantùit
was like having shards of glass stuffed into your ear.
He gave his crotch a terrific tug. Something in there
made a snapping sound. I didnÆt see how you could
yank on your crotch like that and not rip your balls
right off at the stem, truss or no truss. ôWish you
make on the haÆvest moon allus comes true, thatÆs
what my father said!ö
So I wished that my mother would know me when I
walked into her room, that her eyes would light up at
once and she would say my name. I made that wish
and immediately wished I could have it back again; I
thought that no wish made in that fevery orange light
could come to any good.
ôAh, son!ö the old man said. ôI wish my wife was
here! IÆd beg forgiveness for every shaÆap and unkind
word I ever said to her!ö
Twenty minutes later, with the last light of the day
still in the air and the moon still hanging low and
bloated in the sky, we arrived in Gates Falls. ThereÆs a
yellow blinker at the intersection of Route 68 and
Pleasant Street. Just before he reached it, the old man
swerved to the side of the road, bumping the DodgeÆs
right front wheel up over the curb and then back
down again. It rattled my teeth. The old man looked
at me with a kind of wild, defiant excitementùeverything
about him was wild, although I hadnÆt seen that
at first; everything about him had that broken-glass
feeling. And everything that came out of his mouth
seemed to be an exclamation.
ôIÆll take you up there! I will, yessir! Never mind
Ralph! Hell with him! You just say the word!ö
I wanted to get to my mother, but the thought of
another twenty miles with the smell of piss in the air
and cars flashing their brights at us wasnÆt very pleasant.
Neither was the image of the old fellow wandering
and weaving across four lanes of Lisbon Street.
Mostly, though, it was him. I couldnÆt stand another
twenty miles of crotch-snatching and that excited
broken-glass voice.
ôHey, no,ö I said, ôthatÆs okay. You go on and take
care of your brother.ö I opened the door and what IÆd
feared happenedùhe reached out and took hold of my
arm with his twisted old manÆs hand. It was the hand
with which he kept tearing at his crotch.
ôYou just say the word!ö he told me. His voice was
hoarse, confidential. His fingers were pressing deep
into the flesh just below my armpit. ôIÆll take you
right to the hospital door! Ayuh! DonÆt matter if I
never saw you before in my life nor you me! DonÆt
matter aye, yes, no, nor maybe! IÆll take you right . . .
there!ö
ôItÆs okay,ö I repeated, and all at once I was fighting
an urge to bolt out of the car, leaving my shirt behind
in his grip if that was what it took to get free. It was as
if he were drowning. I thought that when I moved, his
grip would tighten, that he might even go for the nape
of my neck, but he didnÆt. His fingers loosened, then
slipped away entirely as I put my leg out. And I wondered,
as we always do when an irrational moment of
panic passes, what I had been so afraid of in the first
place. He was just an elderly carbon-based life-form in
an elderly DodgeÆs pee-smelling ecosystem, looking
disappointed that his offer had been refused. Just an
old man who couldnÆt get comfortable in his truss.
What in GodÆs name had I been afraid of?
ôI thank you for the ride and even more for the
offer,ö I said. ôBut I can go out that wayùö I pointed
at Pleasant Street. ôùand IÆll have a ride in no time.ö
He was quiet for a moment, then sighed and nodded.
ôAyuh, thatÆs the best way to go,ö he said. ôStay
right out of town, nobody wants to give a fella ride in
town, no one wants to slow down and get honked at.ö
He was right about that; hitchhiking in town, even
a small one like Gates Falls, was futile. I guess he had
spent some time riding his thumb.
ôBut, son, are you sure? You know what they say
about a bird in the hand.ö
I hesitated again. He was right about a bird in the
hand, too. Pleasant Street became Ridge Road a mile
or so west of the blinker, and Ridge Road ran through
fifteen miles of woods before arriving at Route 196 on
the outskirts of Lewiston. It was almost dark, and itÆs
always harder to get a ride at nightùwhen headlights
pick you out on a country road, you look like an
escapee from Wyndham BoysÆ Correctional even with
your hair combed and your shirt tucked in. But I
didnÆt want to ride with the old man anymore. Even
now, when I was safely out of his car, I thought there
was something creepy about himùmaybe it was just
the way his voice seemed full of exclamation points.
Besides, IÆve always been lucky getting rides.
ôIÆm sure,ö I said. ôAnd thanks again. Really.ö
ôAny time, son. Any time. My wife . . .ö He
stopped, and I saw there were tears leaking from the
corners of his eyes. I thanked him again, then
slammed the door shut before he could say anything
else.
I hurried across the street, my shadow appearing
and disappearing in the light of the blinker. On the far
side I turned and looked back. The Dodge was still
there, parked beside FrankÆs Fountain & Fruits. By the
light of the blinker and the streetlight twenty feet or
so beyond the car, I could see him sitting slumped
over the wheel. The thought came to me that he was
dead, that I had killed him with my refusal to let him
help.
Then a car came around the corner and the driver
flashed his high beams at the Dodge. This time the
old man dipped his own lights, and that was how I
knew he was still alive. A moment later he pulled
back into the street and piloted the Dodge slowly
around the corner. I watched until he was gone, then
looked up at the moon. It was starting to lose its
orange bloat, but there was still something sinister
about it. It occurred to me that I had never heard of
wishing on the moon beforeùthe evening star, yes,
but not the moon. I wished again I could take my own
wish back; as the dark drew down and I stood there at
the crossroads, it was too easy to think of that story
about the monkeyÆs paw.
I walked out Pleasant Street, waving my thumb at
cars that went by without even slowing. At first there
were shops and houses on both sides of the road, then
the sidewalk ended and the trees closed in again,
silently retaking the land. Each time the road flooded
with light, pushing my shadow out ahead of me, IÆd
turn around, stick out my thumb, and put what I
hoped was a reassuring smile on my face. And each
time the oncoming car would swoosh by without
slowing. Once, someone shouted out, ôGet a job,
monkeymeat!ö and there was laughter.
IÆm not afraid of the darkùor wasnÆt thenùbut I
began to be afraid IÆd made a mistake by not taking
the old man up on his offer to drive me straight to the
hospital. I could have made a sign reading need a
ride, mother sick before starting out, but I doubted if
it would have helped. Any psycho can make a sign,
after all.
I walked along, sneakers scuffing the gravelly dirt of
the soft shoulder, listening to the sounds of the gathering
night: a dog, far away; an owl, much closer; the
sigh of a rising wind. The sky was bright with the
moonlight, but I couldnÆt see the moon itself just
nowùthe trees were tall here and had blotted it out
for the time being.
As I left Gates farther behind, fewer cars passed me.
My decision not to take the old man up on his offer
seemed more foolish with each passing minute. I
began to imagine my mother in her hospital bed,
mouth turned down in a frozen sneer, losing her grip
on life but trying to hold on to that increasingly slippery
bark for me, not knowing I wasnÆt going to make
it simply because I hadnÆt liked an old manÆs shrill
voice, or the pissy smell of his car.
I breasted a steep hill and stepped back into moon-light
again at the top. The trees were gone on my
right, replaced by a small country graveyard. The
stones gleamed in the pale light. Something small and
black was crouched beside one of them, watching me.
I took a step closer, curious. The black thing moved
and became a woodchuck. It spared me a single
reproachful red-eyed glance and was gone into the
high grass. All at once I became aware that I was very
tired, in fact close to exhausted. I had been running on
pure adrenaline since Mrs. McCurdy called five hours
before, but now that was gone. That was the bad part.
The good part was that the useless sense of frantic
urgency left me, at least for the time being. I had
made my choice, decided on Ridge Road instead of
Route 68, and there was no sense beating myself up
over itùfun is fun and done is done, my mother
sometimes said. She was full of stuff like that, little
Zen aphorisms that almost made sense. Sense or nonsense,
this one comforted me now. If she was dead
when I got to the hospital, that was that. Probably she
wouldnÆt be. Doctor said it wasnÆt too bad, according
to Mrs. McCurdy; Mrs. McCurdy had also said she
was still a young woman. A bit on the heavy side,
true, and a heavy smoker in the bargain, but still
young.
Meantime, I was out here in the williwags and I was
suddenly tired outùmy feet felt as if they had been
dipped in cement.
There was a stone wall running along the road side
of the cemetery, with a break in it where two ruts ran
through. I sat on the wall with my feet planted in one
of these ruts. From this position I could see a good
length of Ridge Road in both directions. When I saw
headlights coming west, in the direction of Lewiston,
I could walk back to the edge of the road and put my
thumb out. In the meantime, IÆd just sit here with my
backpack in my lap and wait for some strength to
come back into my legs.
A groundmist, fine and glowing, was rising out of
the grass. The trees surrounding the cemetery
on three sides rustled in the rising breeze. From
beyond the graveyard came the sound of running
water and the occasional plunk-plunk of a frog. The
place was beautiful and oddly soothing, like a picture
in a book of romantic poems.
I looked both ways along the road. Nothing coming,
not so much as a glow on the horizon. Putting my
pack down in the wheelrut where IÆd been dangling
my feet, I got up and walked into the cemetery. A lock
of hair had fallen onto my brow; the wind blew it off.
The mist roiled lazily around my shoes. The stones at
the back were old; more than a few had fallen over.
The ones at the front were much newer. I bent, hands
planted on knees, to look at one which was surrounded
by almost-fresh flowers. By moonlight the
name was easy to read: george staub. Below it were
the dates marking the brief span of George StaubÆs
life: january 19, 1977, at one end, october 12, 1998,
at the other. That explained the flowers which had
only begun to wilt; October 12th was two days ago
and 1998 was just two years ago. GeorgeÆs friends and
relatives had stopped by to pay their respects. Below
the name and dates was something else, a brief
inscription. I leaned down farther to read itù
ùand stumbled back, terrified and all too aware
that I was by myself, visiting a graveyard by moonlight.
FUN IS FUN AND DONE IS DONE
was the inscription.
My mother was dead, had died perhaps at that very
minute, and something had sent me a message. Something
with a thoroughly unpleasant sense of humor.
I began to back slowly toward the road, listening to
the wind in the trees, listening to the stream, listening
to the frog, suddenly afraid I might hear another
sound, the sound of rubbing earth and tearing roots as
something not quite dead reached up, groping for one
of my sneakersù
My feet tangled together and I fell down, thumping
my elbow on a gravestone, barely missing another
with the back of my head. I landed with a grassy thud,
looking up at the moon which had just barely cleared
the trees. It was white instead of orange now, and as
bright as a polished bone.
Instead of panicking me further, the fall cleared my
head. I didnÆt know what IÆd seen, but it couldnÆt have
been what I thought IÆd seen; that kind of stuff might
work in John Carpenter and Wes Craven movies, but
it wasnÆt the stuff of real life.
Yes, okay, good, a voice whispered in my head. And
if you just walk out of here now, you can go on
believing that. You can go on believing it for the rest
of your life.
ôFuck that,ö I said, and got up. The seat of my jeans
was wet, and I plucked it away from my skin. It
wasnÆt exactly easy to reapproach the stone marking
George StaubÆs final resting place, but it wasnÆt as
hard as IÆd expected, either. The wind sighed through
the trees, still rising, signaling a change in the weather.
Shadows danced unsteadily around me. Branches
rubbed together, a creaky sound off in the woods. I
bent over the tombstone and read:
george staub
january 19,1977ûoctober 12, 1998
Well Begun, Too Soon Done.
I stood there, leaning down with my hands planted
just above my knees, not aware of how fast my heart
had been beating until it started to slow down. A
nasty little coincidence, that was all, and was it any
wonder that IÆd misread what was beneath the name
and dates? Even without being tired and under stress,
I might have read it wrongùmoonlight was a notorious
misleader. Case closed.
Except I knew what IÆd read: Fun Is Fun and Done Is
Done.
My ma was dead.
ôFuck that,ö I repeated, and turned away. As I did, I
realized the mist curling through the grass and around
my ankles had begun to brighten. I could hear the
mutter of an approaching motor. A car was coming.
I hurried back through the opening in the rock wall,
snagging my pack on the way by. The lights of the
approaching car were halfway up the hill. I stuck out
my thumb just as they struck me, momentarily blinding
me. I knew the guy was going to stop even before
he started slowing down. ItÆs funny how you can just
know sometimes, but anyone whoÆs spent a lot of
time hitchhiking will tell you that it happens.
The car passed me, brake lights flaring, and swerved
onto the soft shoulder near the end of the rock wall
dividing the graveyard from Ridge Road. I ran to it
with my backpack banging against the side of my
knee. The car was a Mustang, one of the cool ones
from the late sixties or early seventies. The motor
rumbled loudly, the fat sound of it coming through a
muffler that maybe wouldnÆt pass inspection the next
time the sticker came due . . . but that wasnÆt my
problem.
I swung the door open and slid inside. As I put my
backpack between my feet, an odor struck me, something
almost familiar and a trifle unpleasant. ôThank
you,ö I said. ôThanks a lot.ö
The guy behind the wheel was wearing faded jeans
and a black tee shirt with the arms cut off. His skin
was tanned, the muscles heavy, and his right bicep
was ringed with a blue barbwire tattoo. He was wearing
a green John Deere cap turned around backwards.
There was a button pinned near the round collar of his
tee shirt, but I couldnÆt read it from my angle. ôNot a
problem,ö he said. ôYou headed up the city?ö
ôYes,ö I said. In this part of the world ôup the cityö
meant Lewiston, the only city of any size north of
Portland. As I closed the door, I saw one of those pine-tree
air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror.
That was what IÆd smelled. It sure wasnÆt my night as
far as odors went; first pee and now artificial pine.
Still, it was a ride. I should have been relieved. And as
the guy accelerated back onto Ridge Road, the big
engine of his vintage Mustang growling, I tried to tell
myself I was relieved.
ôWhatÆs going on for you in the city?ö the driver
asked. I put him at about my age, some townie who
maybe went to vocational-technical school in Auburn
or maybe worked in one of the few remaining textile
mills in the area. HeÆd probably fixed up this Mustang
in his spare time, because that was what townie kids
did: drank beer, smoked a little rope, fixed up their
cars. Or their motorcycles.
ôMy brotherÆs getting married. IÆm going to be his
best man.ö I told this lie with absolutely no premeditation.
I didnÆt want him to know about my mother,
although I didnÆt know why. Something was wrong
here. I didnÆt know what it was or why I should think
such a thing in the first place, but I knew. I was positive.
ôThe rehearsalÆs tomorrow. Plus a stag party
tomorrow night.ö
ôYeah? That right?ö He turned to look at me, wide-set
eyes and handsome face, full lips smiling slightly,
the eyes unbelieving.
ôYeah,ö I said.
I was afraid. Just like that I was afraid again. Something
was wrong, had maybe started being wrong when
the old geezer in the Dodge had invited me to wish
on the infected moon instead of on a star. Or maybe
from the moment IÆd picked up the telephone and listened
to Mrs. McCurdy saying she had some bad news
for me, but ÆtwasnÆt sÆbad as it couldÆve been.
ôWell thatÆs good,ö said the young man in the
turned-around cap. ôA brother getting married, man,
thatÆs good. WhatÆs your name?ö
I wasnÆt just afraid, I was terrified. Everything was
wrong, everything, and I didnÆt know why or how it
could possibly have happened so fast. I did know one
thing, however: I wanted the driver of the Mustang to
know my name no more than I wanted him to know
my business in Lewiston. Not that IÆd be getting to
Lewiston. I was suddenly sure that I would never see
Lewiston again. It was like knowing the car was going
to stop. And there was the smell, I knew something
about that, as well. It wasnÆt the air freshener; it was
something beneath the air freshener.
ôHector,ö I said, giving him my roommateÆs name.
ôHector Passmore, thatÆs me.ö It came out of my dry
mouth smooth and calm, and that was good. Something
inside me insisted that I must not let the driver
of the Mustang know that I sensed something wrong.
It was my only chance.
He turned toward me a little, and I could read his
button: i rode the bullet at thrill village, laconia.
I knew the place; had been there, although not for
a long time.
I could also see a heavy black line which circled his
throat just as the barbwire tattoo circled his upper
arm, only the line around the driverÆs throat wasnÆt a
tattoo. Dozens of black marks crossed it vertically.
They were the stitches put in by whoever had put his
head back on his body.
ôNice to meet you, Hector,ö he said. ôIÆm George
Staub.ö
My hand seemed to float out like a hand in a dream.
I wish that it had been a dream, but it wasnÆt; it had
all the sharp edges of reality. The smell on top was
pine. The smell underneath was some chemical, probably
formaldehyde. I was riding with a dead man.
The Mustang rushed along Ridge Road at sixty miles
an hour, chasing its high beams under the light of a
polished button moon. To either side, the trees crowding
the road danced and writhed in the wind. George
Staub smiled at me with his empty eyes, then let go of
my hand and returned his attention to the road. In
high school IÆd read Dracula, and now a line from it
recurred, clanging in my head like a cracked bell: The
dead drive fast.
CanÆt let him know I know. This also clanged in my
head. It wasnÆt much, but it was all I had. CanÆt let
him know, canÆt let him, canÆt. I wondered where the
old man was now. Safe at his brotherÆs? Or had the old
man been in on it all along? Was he maybe right
behind us, driving along in his old Dodge, hunched
over the wheel and snapping at his truss? Was he
dead, too? Probably not. The dead drive fast, according
to Bram Stoker, but the old man had never gone a
tick over forty-five. I felt demented laughter bubbling
in the back of my throat and held it down. If I laughed
heÆd know. And he mustnÆt know, because that was
my only hope.
ôThereÆs nothing like a wedding,ö he said.
ôYeah,ö I said, ôeveryone should do it at least
twice.ö
My hands had settled on each other and were
squeezing. I could feel the nails digging the backs of
them just above the knuckles, but the sensation was
distant, news from another country. I couldnÆt let him
know, that was the thing. The woods were all around
us, the only light was the heartless bone-glow of the
moon, and I couldnÆt let him know that I knew he was
dead. Because he wasnÆt a ghost, nothing so harmless.
You might see a ghost, but what sort of thing stopped
to give you a ride? What kind of creature was that?
Zombie? Ghoul? Vampire? None of the above?
George Staub laughed. ôDo it twice! Yeah, man,
thatÆs my whole family!ö
ôMine, too,ö I said. My voice sounded calm, just the
voice of a hitchhiker passing the time of dayùnight,
in this caseùmaking agreeable conversation as some
small payment for his ride. ôThereÆs really nothing
like a funeral.ö
ôWedding,ö he said mildly. In the light from the
dashboard, his face was waxy, the face of a corpse
before the makeup went on. That turned-around cap
was particularly horrible. It made you wonder how
much was left beneath it. I had read somewhere that
morticians sawed off the top of the skull and took out
the brains and put in some sort of chemically treated
cotton. To keep the face from falling in, maybe.
ôWedding,ö I said through numb lips, and even
laughed a littleùa light little chuckle. ôWeddingÆs
what I meant to say.ö
ôWe always say what we mean to say, thatÆs what I
think,ö the driver said. He was still smiling.
Yes, Freud had believed that, too. IÆd read it in Psych
101. I doubted if this fellow knew much about Freud,
I didnÆt think many Freudian scholars wore sleeveless
tee shirts and baseball caps turned around backwards,
but he knew enough. Funeral, IÆd said. Dear Christ, IÆd
said funeral. It came to me then that he was playing
me. I didnÆt want to let him know I knew he was dead.
He didnÆt want to let me know that he knew I knew
he was dead. And so I couldnÆt let him know that I
knew that he knew that . . .
The world began to swing in front of me. In a
moment it would begin to spin, then to whirl, and IÆd
lose it. I closed my eyes for a moment. In the darkness,
the afterimage of the moon hung, turning green.
ôYou feeling all right, man?ö he asked. The concern
in his voice was gruesome.
ôYes,ö I said, opening my eyes. Things had steadied
again. The pain in the backs of my hands where my
nails were digging into the skin was strong and real.
And the smell. Not just pine air freshener, not just
chemicals. There was a smell of earth, as well.
ôYou sure?ö he asked.
ôJust a little tired. Been hitchhiking a long time.
And sometimes I get a little carsick.ö Inspiration suddenly
struck. ôYou know what, I think you better let
me out. If I get a little fresh air, my stomach will settle.
Someone else will come along andùö
ôI couldnÆt do that,ö he said. ôLeave you out here?
No way. It could be an hour before someone came
along, and they might not pick you up when they did.
I got to take care of you. WhatÆs that song? Get me to
the church on time, right? No way IÆm letting you
out. Crack your window a little, thatÆll help. I know it
doesnÆt smell exactly great in here. I hung up that air
freshener, but those things donÆt work worth a shit.
Of course, some smells are harder to get rid of than
others.ö
I wanted to reach out for the window crank and
turn it, let in the fresh air, but the muscles in my arm
wouldnÆt seem to tighten. All I could do was sit there
with my hands locked together, nails biting into the
backs of them. One set of muscles wouldnÆt work;
another wouldnÆt stop working. What a joke.
ôItÆs like that story,ö he said. ôThe one about the
kid who buys the almost new Cadillac for seven hundred
and fifty dollars. You know that story, donÆt
you?ö
ôYeah,ö I said through my numb lips. I didnÆt know
the story, but I knew perfectly well that I didnÆt want
to hear it, didnÆt want to hear any story this man
might have to tell. ôThat oneÆs famous.ö Ahead of us
the road leaped forward like a road in an old black-and-
white movie.
ôYeah it is, fucking famous. So the kidÆs looking for
a car and he sees an almost brand-new Cadillac on
this guyÆs lawn.ö
ôI said Iùö
ôYeah, and thereÆs a sign that says for sale by
owner in the window.ö
There was a cigarette parked behind his ear. He
reached for it, and when he did, his shirt pulled up in
the front. I could see another puckered black line
there, more stitches. Then he leaned forward to
punch in the cigarette lighter and his shirt dropped
back into place.
ôKid knows he canÆt afford no Cadillac-car, canÆt get
within a shout of a Caddy, but heÆs curious, you
know? So he goes over to the guy and says, æHow
much does something like that go for?Æ And the guy,
he turns off the hose heÆs gotùcause heÆs washin the
car, you knowùand he says, æKid, this is your lucky
day. Seven hundred and fifty bucks and you drive it
away.Æ ö
The cigarette lighter popped out. Staub pulled it free
and pressed the coil to the end of his cigarette. He
drew in smoke and I saw little tendrils come seeping
out between the stitches holding the incision on his
neck closed.
ôThe kid, he looks in through the driverÆs side window
and sees thereÆs only seventeen thou on the
odometer. He says to the guy, æYeah, sure, thatÆs as
funny as a screen door in a submarine.Æ The guy says,
æNo joke, kid, pony up the cash and itÆs yours. Hell, IÆll
even take a check, you got a honest face.Æ And the kid
says . . .ö
I looked out the window. I had heard the story
before, years ago, probably while I was still in junior
high. In the version IÆd been told the car was a Thunderbird
instead of a Caddy, but otherwise everything
was the same. The kid says I may only be seventeen
but IÆm not an idiot, no one sells a car like this, especially
one with low mileage, for only seven hundred
and fifty bucks. And the guy tells him heÆs doing it
because the car smells, you canÆt get the smell out,
heÆs tried and tried and nothing will take it out. You
see he was on a business trip, a fairly long one, gone
for at least . . .
ô. . . a coupla weeks,ö the driver was saying. He
was smiling the way people do when theyÆre telling a
joke that really slays them. ôAnd when he comes
back, he finds the car in the garage and his wife in
the car, sheÆs been dead practically the whole time
heÆs been gone. I donÆt know if it was suicide or a
heart attack or what, but sheÆs all bloated up and the
car, itÆs full of that smell and all he wants to do is
sell it, you know.ö He laughed. ôThatÆs quite a story,
huh?ö
ôWhy wouldnÆt he call home?ö It was my mouth,
talking all by itself. My brain was frozen. ôHeÆs gone
for two weeks on a business trip and he never calls
home once to see how his wifeÆs doing?ö
ôWell,ö the driver said, ôthatÆs sorta beside the
point, wouldnÆt you say? I mean hey, what a bargainù
thatÆs the point. Who wouldnÆt be tempted? After all,
you could always drive the car with the fuckin windows
open, right? And itÆs basically just a story. Fiction.
I thought of it because of the smell in this car.
Which is fact.ö
Silence. And I thought: HeÆs waiting for me to say
something, waiting for me to end this. And I wanted
to. I did. Except . . . what then? What would he do
then?
He rubbed the ball of his thumb over the button on
his shirt, the one reading i rode the bullet at thrill
village, laconia. I saw there was dirt under his fingernails.
ôThatÆs where I was today,ö he said. ôThrill
Village. I did some work for a guy and he gave me an
all-day pass. My girlfriend was gonna go with me, but
she called and said she was sick, she gets these periods
that really hurt sometimes, they make her sick as
a dog. ItÆs too bad, but I always think, hey, whatÆs the
alternative? No rag at all, right, and then IÆm in trouble,
we both are.ö He yapped, a humorless bark of
sound. ôSo I went by myself. No sense wasting an all-day
pass. You ever been to Thrill Village?ö
ôYes,ö I said. ôOnce. When I was twelve.ö
ôWhoÆd you go with?ö he asked. ôYou didnÆt go
alone, did you? Not if you were only twelve.ö
I hadnÆt told him that part, had I? No. He was playing
with me, that was all, swatting me idly back and
forth. I thought about opening the door and just
rolling out into the night, trying to tuck my head into
my arms before I hit, only I knew heÆd reach over and
pull me back before I could get away. And I couldnÆt
raise my arms, anyway. The best I could do was
clutch my hands together.
ôNo,ö I said. ôI went with my dad. My dad took
me.ö
ôDid you ride the Bullet? I rode that fucker four
times. Man! It goes right upside down!ö He looked at
me and uttered another empty bark of laughter. The
moonlight swam in his eyes, turning them into white
circles, making them into the eyes of a statue. And I
understood he was more than dead; he was crazy.
ôDid you ride that, Alan?ö
I thought of telling him he had the wrong name, my
name was Hector, but what was the use? We were
coming to the end of it now.
ôYeah,ö I whispered. Not a single light out there
except for the moon. The trees rushed by, writhing
like spontaneous dancers at a tent-show revival. The
road rushed under us. I looked at the speedometer and
saw he was up to eighty miles an hour. We were riding
the bullet right now, he and I; the dead drive fast.
ôYeah, the Bullet. I rode it.ö
ôNah,ö he said. He drew on his cigarette, and once
again I watched the little trickles of smoke escape
from the stitched incision on his neck. ôYou never.
Especially not with your father. You got into the line,
all right, but you were with your ma. The line was
long, the line for the Bullet always is, and she didnÆt
want to stand out there in the hot sun. She was fat
even then, and the heat bothered her. But you
pestered her all day, pestered pestered pestered, and
hereÆs the joke of it, manùwhen you finally got to the
head of the line, you chickened. DidnÆt you?ö
I said nothing. My tongue was stuck to the roof of
my mouth.
His hand stole out, the skin yellow in the light of
the MustangÆs dashboard lights, the nails filthy, and
gripped my locked hands. The strength went out of
them when he did and they fell apart like a knot that
magically unties itself at the touch of the magicianÆs
wand. His skin was cold and somehow snaky.
ôDidnÆt you?ö
ôYes,ö I said. I couldnÆt get my voice much above a
whisper. ôWhen we got close and I saw how high it
was . . . how it turned over at the top and how they
screamed inside when it did . . . I chickened out. She
swatted me, and she wouldnÆt talk to me all the way
home. I never rode the Bullet.ö Until now, at least.
ôYou should have, man. ThatÆs the best one. ThatÆs
the one to ride. Nothin else is as good, at least not
there. I stopped on the way home and got some beers
at that store by the state line. I was gonna stop over
my girlfriendÆs house, give her the button as a joke.ö
He tapped the button on his chest, then unrolled his
window and flicked his cigarette out into the windy
night. ôOnly you probably know what happened.ö
Of course I knew. It was every ghost story youÆd
ever heard, wasnÆt it? He crashed his Mustang and
when the cops got there heÆd been sitting dead in the
crumpled remains with his body behind the wheel
and his head in the backseat, his cap turned around
backwards and his dead eyes staring up at the roof,
and ever since you see him on Ridge Road when the
moon is full and the wind is high, wheee-oooo, we
will return after this brief word from our sponsor. I
know something now that I didnÆt beforeùthe worst
stories are the ones youÆve heard your whole life.
Those are the real nightmares.
ôNothing like a funeral,ö he said, and laughed.
ôIsnÆt that what you said? You slipped there, Al. No
doubt about it. Slipped, tripped, and fell.ö
ôLet me out,ö I whispered. ôPlease.ö
ôWell,ö he said, turning toward me, ôwe have to
talk about that, donÆt we? Do you know who I am,
Alan?ö
ôYouÆre a ghost,ö I said.
He gave an impatient little snort, and in the glow of
the speedometer the corners of his mouth turned
down. ôCome on, man, you can do better than that.
Fuckin CasperÆs a ghost. Do I float in the air? Can you
see through me?ö He held up one of his hands, opened
and closed it in front of me. I could hear the dry, unlubricated
sound of his tendons creaking.
I tried to say something. I donÆt know what, and it
doesnÆt really matter, because nothing came out.
ôIÆm a kind of messenger,ö Staub said. ôFuckin
FedEx from beyond the grave, you like that? Guys like
me actually come out pretty often whenever the circumstances
are just right. You know what I think? I
think that whoever runs thingsùGod or whateverù
must like to be entertained. He always wants to see if
youÆll keep what you already got or if he can talk you
into goin for whatÆs behind the curtain. Things have
to be just right, though. Tonight they were. You out
all by yourself . . . mother sick . . . needin a ride . . .ö
ôIf IÆd stayed with the old man, none of this would
have happened,ö I said. ôWould it?ö I could smell
Staub clearly now, the needlesharp smell of the
chemicals and the duller, blunter stink of decaying
meat, and wondered how I ever could have missed it,
or mistaken it for something else.
ôHard to say,ö Staub replied. ôMaybe this old man
youÆre talking about was dead, too.ö
I thought of old manÆs shrill handful-of-glass voice,
the snap of his truss. No, he hadnÆt been dead, and I
had traded the smell of piss in his old Dodge for something
a lot worse.
ôAnyway, man, we donÆt have time to talk about all
that. Five more miles and weÆll start seeing houses
again. Seven more and weÆre at the Lewiston city line.
Which means you have to decide now.ö
ôDecide what?ö Only I thought I knew.
ôWho rides the Bullet and who stays on the ground.
You or your mother.ö He turned and looked at me
with his drowning moonlight eyes. He smiled more
fully and I saw most of his teeth were gone, knocked
out in the crash. He patted the steering wheel. ôIÆm
taking one of you with me, man. And since youÆre
here, you get to choose. What do you say?ö
You canÆt be serious rose to my lips, but what
would be the point of saying that, or anything like it?
Of course he was serious. Dead serious.
I thought of all the years she and I had spent
together, Alan and Jean Parker against the world. A
lot of good times and more than a few really bad ones.
Patches on my pants and casserole suppers. Most of
the other kids took a quarter a week to buy the hot
lunch; I always got a peanut-butter sandwich or a
piece of bologna rolled up in day-old bread, like a kid
in one of those dopey rags-to-riches stories. Her working
in God knew how many different restaurants and
cocktail lounges to support us. The time she took the
day off work to talk to the ADC man, her dressed in
her best pants suit, him sitting in our kitchen rocker
in a suit of his own, one even a nine-year-old kid like
me could tell was a lot better than hers, with a clipboard
in his lap and a fat, shiny pen in his fingers. Her
answering the insulting, embarrassing questions he
asked with a fixed smile on her mouth, even offering
him more coffee, because if he turned in the right
report sheÆd get an extra fifty dollars a month, a lousy
fifty bucks. Lying on her bed after heÆd gone, crying,
and when I came in to sit beside her she had tried to
smile and said ADC didnÆt stand for Aid to Dependent
Children but Awful Damn Crapheads. I had laughed
and then she laughed, too, because you had to laugh,
weÆd found that out. When it was just you and your
fat chain-smoking ma against the world, laughing was
quite often the only way you could get through without
going insane and beating your fists on the walls.
But there was more to it than that, you know. For people
like us, little people who went scurrying through
the world like mice in a cartoon, sometimes laughing
at the assholes was the only revenge you could ever
get. Her working all those jobs and taking the overtime
and taping her ankles when they swelled and
putting her tips away in a jar marked alanÆs college
fundùjust like one of those dopey rags-to-riches
stories, yeah, yeahùand telling me again and again
that I had to work hard, other kids could maybe afford
to play Freddy Fuckaround at school but I couldnÆt
because she could put away her tips until doomsday
cracked and there still wouldnÆt be enough; in the end
it was going to come down to scholarships and loans
if I was going to go to college and I had to go to college
because it was the only way out for me . . . and for her.
So I had worked hard, you want to believe I did,
because I wasnÆt blindùI saw how heavy she was, I
saw how much she smoked (it was her only private
pleasure . . . her only vice, if youÆre one of those who
must take that view), and I knew that some day our
positions would reverse and IÆd be the one taking
care of her. With a college education and a good job,
maybe I could do that. I wanted to do that. I loved her.
She had a fierce temper and an ugly mouth on herù
that day we waited for the Bullet and then I chickened
out wasnÆt the only time she ever yelled at me and
then swatted meùbut I loved her in spite of it. Partly
even because of it. I loved her when she hit me as
much as when she kissed me. Do you understand
that? Me either. And thatÆs all right. I donÆt think you
can sum up lives or explain families, and we were a
family, she and I, the smallest family there is, a tight
little family of two, a shared secret. If you had asked, I
would have said IÆd do anything for her. And now that
was exactly what I was being asked to do. I was being
asked to die for her, to die in her place, even though
she had lived half her life, probably a lot more. I had
hardly begun mine.
ôWhat say, Al?ö George Staub asked. ôTimeÆs wasting.ö
ôI canÆt decide something like that,ö I said hoarsely.
The moon sailed above the road, swift and brilliant.
ôItÆs not fair to ask me.ö
ôI know, and believe me, thatÆs what they all say.ö
Then he lowered his voice. ôBut I gotta tell you somethingù
if you donÆt decide by the time we get back to
the first house lights, IÆll have to take you both.ö He
frowned, then brightened again, as if remembering
there was good news as well as bad. ôYou could ride
together in the backseat if I took you both, talk over
old times, thereÆs that.ö
ôRide to where?ö
He didnÆt reply. Perhaps he didnÆt know.
The trees blurred by like black ink. The headlights
rushed and the road rolled. I was twenty-one. I wasnÆt
a virgin but IÆd only been with a girl once and IÆd been
drunk and couldnÆt remember much of what it had
been like. There were a thousand places I wanted to
goùLos Angeles, Tahiti, maybe Luchenbach, Texasù
and a thousand things I wanted to do. My mother was
forty-eight and that was old, goddammit. Mrs.
McCurdy wouldnÆt say so but Mrs. McCurdy was old
herself. My mother had done right by me, worked all
those long hours and taken care of me, but had I chosen
her life for her? Asked to be born and then
demanded that she live for me? She was forty-eight. I
was twenty-one. I had, as they said, my whole life
before me. But was that the way you judged? How did
you decide a thing like this? How could you decide a
thing like this?
The woods bolting by. The moon looking down like
a bright and deadly eye.
ôBetter hurry up, man,ö George Staub said. ôWeÆre
running out of wilderness.ö
I opened my mouth and tried to speak. Nothing
came out but an arid sigh.
ôHere, got just the thing,ö he said, and reached
behind him. His shirt pulled up again and I got
another look (I could have done without it) at the
stitched black line on his belly. Were there still guts
behind that line or just packing soaked in chemicals?
When he brought his hand back, he had a can of beer
in itùone of those heÆd bought at the state line store
on his last ride, presumably.
ôI know how it is,ö he said. ôStress gets you dry in
the mouth. Here.ö
He handed me the can. I took it, pulled the ringtab,
and drank deeply. The taste of the beer going down
was cold and bitter. IÆve never had a beer since. I just
canÆt drink it. I can barely stand to watch the commercials
on TV.
Ahead of us in the blowing dark, a yellow light
glimmered.
ôHurry up, Alùgot to speed it up. ThatÆs the first
house, right up at the top of this hill. If you got something
to say to me, you better say it now.ö
The light disappeared, then came back again, only
now it was several lights. They were windows.
Behind them were ordinary people doing ordinary
thingsùwatching TV, feeding the cat, maybe beating
off in the bathroom.
I thought of us standing in line at Thrill Village,
Jean and Alan Parker, a big woman with dark patches
of sweat around the armpits of her sundress and her
little boy. She hadnÆt wanted to stand in that line,
Staub was right about that . . . but I had pestered
pestered pestered. He had been right about that, too.
She had swatted me, but she had stood in line with
me, too. She had stood with me in a lot of lines, and I
could go over all of it again, all the arguments pro and
con, but there was no time.
ôTake her,ö I said as the lights of the first house
swept toward the Mustang. My voice was hoarse and
raw and loud. ôTake her, take my ma, donÆt take me.ö
I threw the can of beer down on the floor of the car
and put my hands up to my face. He touched me then,
touched the front of my shirt, his fingers fumbling,
and I thoughtùwith sudden brilliant clarityùthat it
had all been a test. I had failed and now he was going
to rip my beating heart right out of my chest, like an
evil djinn in one of those cruel Arabian fairy tales. I
screamed. Then his fingers let goùit was as if heÆd
changed his mind at the last secondùand he reached
past me. For one moment my nose and lungs were so
full of his deathly smell that I felt positive I was dead
myself. Then there was the click of the door opening
and cold fresh air came streaming in, washing the
death smell away.
ôPleasant dreams, Al,ö he grunted in my ear and
then pushed. I went rolling out into the windy October
darkness with my eyes closed and my hands
raised and my body tensed for the bone-breaking
smashdown. I might have been screaming, I donÆt
remember for sure.
The smashdown didnÆt come and after an endless
moment I realized I was already downùI could feel
the ground under me. I opened my eyes, then
squeezed them shut almost at once. The glare of the
moon was blinding. It sent a bolt of pain through my
head, one that settled not behind my eyes, where you
usually feel pain after staring into an unexpectedly
bright light, but in the back, way down low just above
the nape of my neck. I became aware that my legs and
bottom were cold and wet. I didnÆt care. I was on the
ground, and that was all I cared about.
I pushed up on my elbows and opened my eyes
again, more cautiously this time. I think I already
knew where I was, and one look around was enough
to confirm it: lying on my back in the little graveyard
at the top of the hill on Ridge Road. The moon was
almost directly overhead now, fiercely bright but
much smaller than it had been only a few moments
before. The mist was deeper as well, lying over the
cemetery like a blanket. A few markers poked up
through it like stone islands. I tried getting to my feet
and another bolt of pain went through the back of my
head. I put my hand there and felt a lump. There was
sticky wetness, as well. I looked at my hand. In the
moonlight, the blood streaked across my palm looked
black.
On my second try I succeeded in getting up, and
stood there swaying among the tombstones, knee-deep
in mist. I turned around, saw the break in the
rock wall and Ridge Road beyond it. I couldnÆt see my
pack because the mist had overlaid it, but I knew it
was there. If I walked out to the road in the lefthand
wheelrut of the lane, IÆd find it. Hell, would likely
stumble over it.
So here was my story, all neatly packaged and tied
up with a bow: I had stopped for a rest at the top of
this hill, had gone inside the cemetery to have a little
look around, and while backing away from the grave
of one George Staub had tripped over my own large
and stupid feet. Fell down, banged my head on a
marker. How long had I been unconscious? I wasnÆt
savvy enough to tell time by the changing position of
the moon with to-the-minute accuracy, but it had to
have been at least an hour. Long enough to have a
dream that IÆd gotten a ride with a dead man. What
dead man? George Staub, of course, the name IÆd read
on a grave-marker just before the lights went out. It
was the classic ending, wasnÆt it? Gosh-What-an-Awful-
Dream-I-Had. And when I got to Lewiston and
found my mother had died? Just a little touch of precognition
in the night, put it down to that. It was the
sort of story you might tell years later, near the end of
a party, and people would nod their heads thoughtfully
and look solemn and some dinkleberry with
leather patches on the elbows of his tweed jacket
would say there were more things in heaven and earth
than were dreamed of in our philosophy and thenù
ôThen shit,ö I croaked. The top of the mist was
moving slowly, like mist on a clouded mirror. ôIÆm
never talking about this. Never, not in my whole life,
not even on my deathbed.ö
But it had all happened just the way I remembered
it, of that I was sure. George Staub had come along
and picked me up in his Mustang, Ichabod CraneÆs old
pal with his head stitched on instead of under his arm,
demanding that I choose. And I had chosenùfaced
with the oncoming lights of the first house, I had
bartered away my motherÆs life with hardly a pause. It
might be understandable, but that didnÆt make the
guilt of it any less. No one had to know, however; that
was the good part. Her death would look naturalù
hell, would be naturalùand thatÆs the way I intended
to leave it.
I walked out of the graveyard in the lefthand rut,
and when my foot struck my pack, I picked it up and
slung it back over my shoulders. Lights appeared at
the bottom of the hill as if someone had given them
the cue. I stuck out my thumb, oddly sure it was the
old man in the DodgeùheÆd come back this way looking
for me, of course he had, it gave the story that
final finishing roundness.
Only it wasnÆt the old guy. It was a tobacco-chewing
farmer in a Ford pick-up truck filled with apple baskets,
a perfectly ordinary fellow: not old and not dead.
ôWhere you goin, son?ö he asked, and when I told
him he said, ôThat works for both of us.ö Less than
forty minutes later, at twenty minutes after nine, he
pulled up in front of the Central Maine Medical Center.
ôGood luck. Hope your maÆs on the mend.ö
ôThank you,ö I said, and opened the door.
ôI see you been pretty nervous about it, but sheÆll
most likely be fine. Ought to get some disinfectant on
those, though.ö He pointed at my hands.
I looked down at them and saw the deep, purpling
crescents on the backs. I remembered clutching them
together, digging in with my nails, feeling it but unable
to stop. And I remembered StaubÆs eyes, filled up with
moonlight like radiant water. Did you ride the Bullet?
heÆd asked me. I rode that fucker four times.
ôSon?ö the man driving the pick-up asked. ôYou all
right?ö
ôHuh?ö
ôYou come over all shivery.ö
ôIÆm okay,ö I said. ôThanks again.ö I slammed the
door of the pickup and went up the wide walk past the
line of parked wheelchairs gleaming in the moonlight.
I walked to the information desk, reminding myself
that I had to look surprised when they told me she
was dead, had to look surprised, theyÆd think it was
funny if I didnÆt . . . or maybe theyÆd just think I was in
shock . . . or that we didnÆt get along . . . or . . .
I was so deep in these thoughts that I didnÆt at first
grasp what the woman behind the desk had told me. I
had to ask her to repeat it.
ôI said that sheÆs in room 487, but you canÆt go up
just now. Visiting hours end at nine.ö
ôBut . . .ö I felt suddenly woozy. I gripped the edge of
the desk. The lobby was lit by fluorescents, and in
that bright even glare the cuts on the backs of my
hands stood out boldlyùeight small purple crescents
like grins, just above the knuckles. The man in the
pick-up was right, I ought to get some disinfectant on
those.
The woman behind the desk was looking at me
patiently. The plaque in front of her said she was
yvonne ederle.
ôBut is she all right?ö
She looked at her computer. ôWhat I have here is S.
Stands for satisfactory. And four is a general population
floor. If your mother had taken a turn for the
worse, sheÆd be in ICU. ThatÆs on three. IÆm sure if
you come back tomorrow, youÆll find her just fine.
Visiting hours begin atùö
ôSheÆs my ma,ö I said. ôI hitchhiked all the way
down from the University of Maine to see her. DonÆt
you think I could go up, just for a few minutes?ö
ôExceptions are sometimes made for immediate
family,ö she said, and gave me a smile. ôYou just hang
on a second. Let me see what I can do.ö She picked up
the phone and punched a couple of buttons, no doubt
calling the nurseÆs station on the fourth floor, and I
could see the course of the next two minutes as if I
really did have second sight. Yvonne the Information
Lady would ask if the son of Jean Parker in 487 could
come up for a minute or twoùjust long enough to
give his mother a kiss and an encouraging wordùand
the nurse would say oh God, Mrs. Parker died not fifteen
minutes ago, we just sent her down to the
morgue, we havenÆt had a chance to update the computer,
this is so terrible.
The woman at the desk said, ôMuriel? ItÆs Yvonne. I
have a young man here down here at the desk, his
name isùö She looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I
gave her my name. ôùAlan Parker. His mother is Jean
Parker, in 487? He wonders if he could just . . .ö
She stopped. Listened. On the other end the nurse
on the fourth floor was no doubt telling her that Jean
Parker was dead.
ôAll right,ö Yvonne said. ôYes, I understand.ö She
sat quietly for a moment, looking off into space, then
put the mouthpiece of the telephone against her
shoulder and said, ôSheÆs sending Anne Corrigan
down to peek in on her. It will only be a second.ö
ôIt never ends,ö I said.
Yvonne frowned. ôI beg pardon?ö
ôNothing,ö I said. ôItÆs been a long night andùö
ôùand youÆre worried about your mom. Of course. I
think youÆre a very good son to drop everything the
way you did and come on the run.ö
I suspected Yvonne EderleÆs opinion of me would
have taken a drastic drop if sheÆd heard my conversation
with the young man behind the wheel of the
Mustang, but of course she hadnÆt. That was a little
secret, just between George and me.
It seemed that hours passed as I stood there under
the bright fluorescents, waiting for the nurse on the
fourth floor to come back on the line. Yvonne had
some papers in front of her. She trailed her pen down
one of them, putting neat little check marks beside
some of the names, and it occurred to me that if there
really was an Angel of Death, he or she was probably
just like this woman, a slightly overworked functionary
with a desk, a computer, and too much paperwork.
Yvonne kept the phone pinched between her
ear and one raised shoulder. The loudspeaker said that
Dr. Farquahr was wanted in radiology, Dr. Farquahr.
On the fourth floor a nurse named Anne Corrigan
would now be looking at my mother, lying dead in her
bed with her eyes open, the stroke-induced sneer of
her mouth finally relaxing.
Yvonne straightened as a voice came back on the
line. She listened, then said: ôAll right, yes, I understand.
I will. Of course I will. Thank you, Muriel.ö
She hung up the telephone and looked at me
solemnly. ôMuriel says you can come up, but you can
only visit for five minutes. Your motherÆs had her
evening meds, and sheÆs very soupy.ö
I stood there, gaping at her.
Her smile faded a little bit. ôAre you sure youÆre all
right, Mr. Parker?ö
ôYes,ö I said. ôI guess I just thoughtùö
Her smile came back. It was sympathetic this time.
ôLots of people think that,ö she said. ôItÆs understandable.
You get a call out of the blue, you rush to get
here . . . itÆs understandable to think the worst. But
Muriel wouldnÆt let you up on her floor if your mother
wasnÆt fine. Trust me on that.ö
ôThanks,ö I said. ôThank you so much.ö
As I started to turn away, she said: ôMr. Parker? If
you came from the University of Maine up north,
may I ask why youÆre wearing that button? Thrill Village
is in New Hampshire, isnÆt it?ö
I looked down at the front of my shirt and saw the
button pinned to the breast pocket: i rode the bullet
at thrill village, laconia. I remembered thinking
he intended to rip my heart out. Now I understood: he
had pinned his button on my shirt just before pushing
me into the night. It was his way of marking me, of
making our encounter impossible not to believe. The
cuts on the backs of my hands said so, the button on
my shirt said so, too. He had asked me to choose and I
had chosen.
So how could my mother still be alive?
ôThis?ö I touched it with the ball of my thumb,
even polished it a little. ôItÆs my good luck charm.ö
The lie was so horrible that it had a kind of splendor.
ôI got it when I was there with my mother, a long
time ago. She took me on the Bullet.ö
Yvonne the Information Lady smiled as if this were
the sweetest thing she had ever heard. ôGive her a
nice hug and kiss,ö she said. ôSeeing you will send her
off to sleep better than any of the pills the doctors
have.ö She pointed. ôThe elevators are over there,
around the corner.ö
With visiting hours over, I was the only one waiting
for a car. There was a litter basket off to the left, by
the door to the newsstand, which was closed and
dark. I tore the button off my shirt and threw it in the
basket. Then I rubbed my hand on my pants. I was
still rubbing it when one of the elevator doors opened.
I got in and pushed for four. The car began to rise.
Above the floor buttons was a poster announcing a
blood drive for the following week. As I read it, an
idea came to me . . . except it wasnÆt so much an idea
as a certainty. My mother was dying now, at this very
second, while I rode up to her floor in this slow industrial
elevator. I had made the choice; it therefore fell
to me to find her. It made perfect sense.
The elevator door opened on another poster. This one
showed a cartoon finger pressed to big red cartoon
lips. Beneath it was a line reading our patients
appreciate your quiet! Beyond the elevator lobby
was a corridor going right and left. The odd-numbered
rooms were to the left. I walked down that way, my
sneakers seeming to gain weight with every step. I
slowed in the four-seventies, then stopped entirely
between 481 and 483. I couldnÆt do this. Sweat as cold
and sticky as half-frozen syrup crept out of my hair in
little trickles. My stomach was knotted up like a fist
inside a slick glove. No, I couldnÆt do it. Best to turn
around and skedaddle like the cowardly chickenshit I
was. IÆd hitchhike out to Harlow and call Mrs.
McCurdy in the morning. Things would be easier to
face in the morning.
I started to turn, and then a nurse poked her head
out of the room two doors up . . . my motherÆs room.
ôMr. Parker?ö she asked in a low voice.
For a wild moment I almost denied it. Then I nodded.
ôCome in. Hurry. SheÆs going.ö
They were the words IÆd expected, but they still
sent a cramp of terror through me and buckled my
knees.
The nurse saw this and came hurrying toward me,
her skirt rustling, her face alarmed. The little gold pin
on her breast read anne corrigan. ôNo, no, I just
meant the sedative . . . SheÆs going to sleep. Oh my
God, IÆm so stupid. SheÆs fine, Mr. Parker, I gave her
her Ambien and sheÆs going, to sleep, thatÆs all I
meant. You arenÆt going to faint, are you?ö She took
my arm.
ôNo,ö I said, not knowing if I was going to faint or
not. The world was swooping and there was a buzzing
in my ears. I thought of how the road had leaped
toward the car, a black-and-white movie road in all
that silver moonlight. Did you ride the Bullet? Man, I
rode that fucker four times.
Anne Corrigan lead me into the room and I saw my
mother. She had always been a big woman, and the
hospital bed was small and narrow, but she still
looked almost lost in it. Her hair, now more gray than
black, was spilled across the pillow. Her hands lay on
top of the sheet like a childÆs hands, or even a dollÆs.
There was no frozen stroke-sneer such as the one IÆd
imagined on her face, but her complexion was yellow.
Her eyes were closed, but when the nurse beside me
murmured her name, they opened. They were a deep
and iridescent blue, the youngest part of her, and perfectly
alive. For a moment they looked nowhere, and
then they found me. She smiled and tried to hold out
her arms. One of them came up. The other trembled,
rose a little bit, then fell back. ôAl,ö she whispered.
I went to her, starting to cry. There was a chair by
the wall, but I didnÆt bother with it. I knelt on the
floor and put my arms around her. She smelled warm
and clean. I kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner
of her mouth. She raised her good hand and patted her
fingers under one of my eyes.
ôDonÆt cry,ö she whispered. ôNo need of that.ö
ôI came as soon as I heard,ö I said. ôBetsy McCurdy
called.ö
ôTold her . . . weekend,ö she said. ôSaid the weekend
would be fine.ö
ôYeah, and to hell with that,ö I said, and hugged
her.
ôCar fixed?ö
ôNo,ö I said. ôI hitchhiked.ö
ôOh gorry,ö she said. Each word was clearly an
effort for her, but they werenÆt slurred, and I sensed no
bewilderment or disorientation. She knew who she
was, who I was, where we were, why we were here.
The only sign of anything wrong was her weak left
arm. I felt an enormous sense of relief. It had all been
a cruel practical joke on StaubÆs part . . . or perhaps
there had been no Staub, perhaps it had all been a
dream after all, corny as that might be. Now that I
was here, kneeling by her bed with my arms around
her, smelling a faint remnant of her Lanvin perfume,
the dream idea seemed a lot more plausible.
ôAl? ThereÆs blood on your collar.ö Her eyes rolled
closed, then came slowly open again. I imagined her
lids must feel as heavy to her as my sneakers had to
me, out in the hall.
ôI bumped my head, ma, itÆs nothing.ö
ôGood. Have to . . . take care of yourself.ö The lids
came down again; rose even more slowly.
ôMr. Parker, I think weÆd better let her sleep now,ö
the nurse said from behind me. ôSheÆs had an
extremely difficult day.ö
ôI know.ö I kissed her on the corner of the mouth
again. ôIÆm going, ma, but IÆll be back tomorrow.ö
ôDonÆt . . . hitchhike . . . dangerous.ö
ôI wonÆt. IÆll catch a ride in with Mrs. McCurdy.
You get some sleep.ö
ôSleep . . . all I do,ö she said. ôI was at work, unloading
the dishwasher. I came over all headachey. Fell
down. Woke up . . . here.ö She looked up at me. ôWas
a stroke. Doctor says . . . not too bad.ö
ôYouÆre fine,ö I said. I got up, then took her hand.
The skin was fine, as smooth as watered silk. An old
personÆs hand.
ôI dreamed we were at that amusement park in
New Hampshire,ö she said.
I looked down at her, feeling my skin go cold all
over. ôDid you?ö
ôAyuh. Waiting in line for the one that goes . . . way
up high. Do you remember that one?ö
ôThe Bullet,ö I said. ôI remember it, ma.ö
ôYou were afraid and I shouted. Shouted at you.ö
ôNo, ma, youùö
Her hand squeezed down on mine and the corners
of her mouth deepened into near dimples. It was a
ghost of her old impatient expression.
ôYes,ö she said. ôShouted and swatted you. Back . . .
of the neck, wasnÆt it?ö
ôProbably, yeah,ö I said, giving up. ôThatÆs mostly
where you gave it to me.ö
ôShouldnÆt have,ö she said. ôIt was hot and I was
tired, but still . . . shouldnÆt have. Wanted to tell you I
was sorry.ö
My eyes started leaking again. ôItÆs all right, ma.
That was a long time ago.ö
ôYou never got your ride,ö she whispered.
ôI did, though,ö I said. ôIn the end I did.ö
She smiled up at me. She looked small and weak,
miles from the angry, sweaty, muscular woman who
had yelled at me when we finally got to the head of
the line, yelled and then whacked me across the nape
of the neck. She must have seen something on someoneÆs
faceùone of the other people waiting to ride the
Bulletùbecause I remember her saying What are you
looking at, beautiful? as she lead me away by the
hand, me snivelling under the hot summer sun, rubbing
the back of my neck . . . only it didnÆt really hurt,
she hadnÆt swatted me that hard; mostly what I
remember was being grateful to get away from that
high, twirling construction with the capsules at either
end, that revolving scream machine.
ôMr. Parker, it really is time to go,ö the nurse said.
I raised my motherÆs hand and kissed the knuckles.
ôIÆll see you tomorrow,ö I said. ôI love you, ma.ö
ôLove you, too. Alan . . . sorry for all the times I
swatted you. That was no way to be.ö
But it had been; it had been her way to be. I didnÆt
know how to tell her I knew that, accepted it. It was
part of our family secret, something whispered along
the nerve endings.
ôIÆll see you tomorrow, ma. Okay?ö
She didnÆt answer. Her eyes had rolled shut again,
and this time the lids didnÆt come back up. Her chest
rose and fell slowly and regularly. I backed away from
the bed, never taking my eyes off her.
In the hall I said to the nurse, ôIs she going to be all
right? Really all right?ö
ôNo one can say that for sure, Mr. Parker. SheÆs
Dr. NunnallyÆs patient. HeÆs very good. HeÆll be on
the floor tomorrow afternoon and you can ask
himùö
ôTell me what you think.ö
ôI think sheÆs going to be fine,ö the nurse said, leading
me back down the hall toward the elevator lobby.
ôHer vital signs are strong, and all the residual effects
suggest a very light stroke.ö She frowned a little.
ôSheÆs going to have to make some changes, of course.
In her diet . . . her lifestyle . . .ö
ôHer smoking, you mean.ö
ôOh yes. That has to go.ö She said it as if my
mother quitting her lifetime habit would be no more
difficult than moving a vase from a table in the living
room to one in the hall. I pushed the button for the
elevators, and the door of the car IÆd ridden up in
opened at once. Things clearly slowed down a lot at
CMMC once visiting hours were over.
ôThanks for everything,ö I said.
ôNot at all. IÆm sorry I scared you. What I said was
incredibly stupid.ö
ôNot at all,ö I said, although I agreed with her.
ôDonÆt mention it.ö
I got into the elevator and pushed for the lobby. The
nurse raised her hand and twiddled her fingers. I twiddled
my own in return, and then the door slid
between us. The car started down. I looked at the fingernail
marks on the backs of my hands and thought
that I was an awful creature, the lowest of the low.
Even if it had only been a dream, I was the lowest of
the goddam low. Take her, IÆd said. She was my
mother but I had said it just the same: Take my ma,
donÆt take me. She had raised me, worked overtime
for me, waited in line with me under the hot summer
sun in a dusty little New Hampshire amusement
park, and in the end I had hardly hesitated. Take her,
donÆt take me. Chickenshit, chickenshit, you fucking
chickenshit.
When the elevator door opened I stepped out, took
the lid off the litter basket, and there it was, lying in
someoneÆs almost-empty paper coffee cup: i rode the
bullet at thrill village, laconia.
I bent, plucked the button out of the cold puddle of
coffee it was lying in, wiped it on my jeans, put it in
my pocket. Throwing it away had been the wrong
idea. It was my button nowùgood luck charm or bad
luck charm, it was mine. I left the hospital, giving
Yvonne a little wave on my way by. Outside, the
moon rode the roof of the sky, flooding the world with
its strange and perfectly dreamy light. I had never felt
so tired or so dispirited in my whole life. I wished I
had the choice to make again. I would have made a
different one. Which was funnyùif IÆd found her dead,
as IÆd expected to, I think I could have lived with it.
After all, wasnÆt that the way stories like this one
were supposed to end?
Nobody wants to give a fella a ride in town, the old
man with the truss had said, and how true that was. I
walked all the way across Lewistonùthree dozen
blocks of Lisbon Street and nine blocks of Canal
Street, past all the bottle clubs with the jukeboxes
playing old songs by Foreigner and Led Zeppelin and
AC/DC in Frenchùwithout putting my thumb out a
single time. It would have done no good. It was well
past eleven before I reached the DeMuth Bridge. Once
I was on the Harlow side, the first car I raised my
thumb to stopped. Forty minutes later I was fishing
the key out from under the red wheelbarrow by the
door to the back shed, and ten minutes after that I was
in bed. It occurred to me as I dropped off that it was
the first time in my life IÆd slept in that house all by
myself.
òòò
It was the phone that woke me up at quarter past
noon. I thought it would be the hospital, someone
from the hospital saying my mother had taken a sudden
turn for the worse and had passed away only a few
minutes ago, so sorry. But it was only Mrs. McCurdy,
wanting to be sure IÆd gotten home all right, wanting
to know all the details of my visit the night before
(she took me through it three times, and by the end of
the third recitation I had begun to feel like a criminal
being interrogated on a murder charge), also wanting
to know if IÆd like to ride up to the hospital with her
that afternoon. I told her that would be great.
When I hung up, I crossed the room to the bedroom
door. Here was a full-length mirror. In it was a tall,
unshaven young man with a small potbelly, dressed
only in baggy undershorts. ôYou have to get it together,
big boy,ö I told my reflection. ôCanÆt go through the
rest of your life thinking that every time the phone
rings itÆs someone calling to tell you your motherÆs
dead.ö
Not that I would. Time would dull the memory,
time always did . . . but it was amazing how real and
immediate the night before still seemed. Every edge
and corner was sharp and clear. I could still see
StaubÆs good-looking young face beneath his turnedaround
cap, and the cigarette behind his ear, and the
way the smoke had seeped out of the incision on his
neck when he inhaled. I could still hear him telling
the story of the Cadillac that was selling cheap. Time
would blunt the edges and round the corners, but not
for awhile. After all, I had the button, it was on the
dresser by the bathroom door. The button was my
souvenir. DidnÆt the hero of every ghost story come
away with a souvenir, something that proved it had
all really happened?
There was an ancient stereo system in the corner of
the room, and I shuffled through my old tapes, hunting
for something to listen to while I shaved. I found
one marked folk mix and put it in the tape player. IÆd
made it in high school and could barely remember
what was on it. Bob Dylan sang about the lonesome
death of Hattie Carroll, Tom Paxton sang about his
old ramblinÆ pal, and then Dave Van Ronk started to
sing about the cocaine blues. Halfway through the
third verse I paused with my razor by my cheek. Got a
headful of whiskey and a bellyful of gin, Dave sang in
his rasping voice. Doctor say it kill me but he donÆt
say when. And that was the answer, of course. A
guilty conscience had lead me to assume that my
mother would die immediately, and Staub had never
corrected that assumptionùhow could he, when I had
never even asked?ùbut it clearly wasnÆt true.
Doctor say it kill me but he donÆt say when.
What in GodÆs name was I beating myself up about?
DidnÆt my choice amount to no more than the natural
order of things? DidnÆt children usually outlive
their parents? The son of a bitch had tried to scare
meùto guilt-trip meùbut I didnÆt have to buy what
he was selling, did I? DidnÆt we all ride the Bullet in
the end?
YouÆre just trying to let yourself off. Trying to find a
way to make it okay. Maybe what youÆre thinking is
true . . . but when he asked you to choose, you chose
her. ThereÆs no way to think your way around that,
buddyùyou chose her.
I opened my eyes and looked at my face in the mirror.
ôI did what I had to,ö I said. I didnÆt quite believe
it, but in time I supposed I would.
Mrs. McCurdy and I went up to see my mother and
my mother was a little better. I asked her if she
remembered her dream about Thrill Village, in Laconia.
She shook her head. ôI barely remember you coming
in last night, she said. ôI was awful sleepy. Does it
matter?ö
ôNope,ö I said, and kissed her temple. ôNot a bit.ö
My ma got out of the hospital five days later. She
walked with a limp for a little while, but that went
away and a month later she was back at work againù
only half shifts at first but then full time, just as if
nothing had happened. I returned to school and got a
job at PatÆs Pizza in downtown Orono. The money
wasnÆt great, but it was enough to get my car fixed.
That was good; IÆd lost what little taste for hitchhiking
IÆd ever had.
My mother tried to quit smoking and for a little
while she did. Then I came back from school for April
vacation a day early, and the kitchen was just as
smoky as it had ever been. She looked at me with eyes
that were both ashamed and defiant. ôI canÆt,ö she
said. ôIÆm sorry, AlùI know you want me to and I
know I should, but thereÆs such a hole in my life without
it. Nothin fills it. The best I can do is wish IÆd
never started in the first place.ö
Two weeks after I graduated from college, my ma had
another strokeùjust a little one. She tried to quit
smoking again when the doctor scolded her, then put
on fifty pounds and went back to the tobacco. ôAs a
dog returneth to its vomit,ö the Bible says; IÆve always
liked that one. I got a pretty good job in Portland on
my first tryùlucky, I guess, and started the work of
convincing her to quit her own job. It was a tough sled
at first.
I might have given up in disgust, but I had a certain
memory that kept me digging away at her Yankee
defenses.
ôYou ought to be saving for your own life, not taking
care of me,ö she said. ôYouÆll want to get married
someday, Al, and what you spend on me you wonÆt
have for that. For your real life.ö
ôYouÆre my real life,ö I said, and kissed her. ôYou
can like it or lump it, but thatÆs just the way it is.ö
And finally she threw in the towel.
We had some pretty good years after thatùseven of
them in all. I didnÆt live with her, but I visited her
almost every day. We played a lot of gin rummy and
watched a lot of movies on the video recorder I bought
her. Had a bucketload of laughs, as she liked to say. I
donÆt know if I owe those years to George Staub or
not, but they were good years. And my memory of the
night I met Staub never faded and grew dreamlike, as
I always expected it would; every incident, from the
old man telling me to wish on the harvest moon to
the fingers fumbling at my shirt as Staub passed his
button on to me remained perfectly clear. And there
came a day when I could no longer find that button. I
knew IÆd had it when I moved into my little apartment
in FalmouthùI kept it in the top drawer of my
bedside table, along with a couple of combs, my two
sets of cuff links, and an old political button that said
bill clinton, the safe sax presidentùbut then it
came up missing. And when the telephone rang a day
or two later, I knew why Mrs. McCurdy was crying. It
was the bad news IÆd never quite stopped expecting;
fun is fun and done is done.
When the funeral was over, and the wake, and the
seemingly endless line of mourners had finally come
to its end, I went back to the little house in Harlow
where my mother had spent her final few years,
smoking and eating powdered doughnuts. It had been
Jean and Alan Parker against the world; now it was
just me.
I went through her personal effects, putting aside
the few papers that would have to be dealt with later,
boxing up the things IÆd want to keep on one side of
the room and the things IÆd want to give away to the
Goodwill on the other. Near the end of the job I got
down on my knees and looked under her bed and
there it was, what IÆd been looking for all along without
quite admitting it to myself: a dusty button reading
i rode the bullet at thrill village, laconia. I
curled my fist tight around it. The pin dug into my
flesh and I squeezed my hand even tighter, taking a
bitter pleasure in the pain. When I rolled my fingers
open again, my eyes had filled with tears and the
words on the button had doubled, overlaying each
other in a shimmer. It was like looking at a 3-D movie
without the glasses.
ôAre you satisfied?ö I asked the silent room. ôIs it
enough?ö There was no answer, of course. ôWhy did
you even bother? What was the goddamn point?ö
Still no answer, and why would there be? You wait
in line, thatÆs all. You wait in line beneath the moon
and make your wishes by its infected light. You wait
in line and listen to them screamingùthey pay to be
terrified, and on the Bullet they always get their
moneyÆs worth. Maybe when itÆs your turn you ride;
maybe you run. Either way it comes to the same, I
think. There ought to be more to it, but thereÆs really
notùfun is fun and done is done.
Take your button and get out of here.
Stephen King is the author of more than thirty
books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. Among his
most recent are Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who
Loved Tom Gordon, The Green Mile, and the audio-only
release, Blood and Smoke. In August, Pocket
Books will release the paperback edition of Hearts in
Atlantis, followed by the October publication from
Scribner of On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.
Information about Stephen King and his writing can
be found at the official King website:
http://www.StephenKing.com