by Stephen King
"Well . . ."
Billy raised a hand. "Say nummore. As long as you're okay, that is. And as long as it isn't somethin bad about me. Because I'd want to know if it was. I don't s'pose that's true of everyone, but it is with me."
"Nothing about you." Dan stood up and was pleased to discover his legs held him just fine. "But I'm going to take a raincheck on that coffee, if you don't mind."
"Not a bit. You need to go back to your place and lie down. You're still pale. Whatever it was, it hit you hard." Billy glanced at the Riv. "Glad it didn't happen while you were up there in the peak-seat, rolling along at forty."
"Tell me about it," Dan said.
3
He crossed Cranmore Avenue to the Rivington House side, meaning to take Billy's advice and lie down, but instead of turning in at the gate giving on the big old Victorian's flower-bordered walk, he decided to stroll a little while. He was getting his wind back now--getting himself back--and the night air was sweet. Besides, he needed to consider what had just happened, and very carefully.
Whatever it was, it hit you hard.
That made him think again of Dick Hallorann, and of all the things he had never told Casey Kingsley. Nor would he. The harm he had done to Deenie--and to her son, he supposed, simply by doing nothing--was lodged deep inside, like an impacted wisdom tooth, and there it would stay. But at five, Danny Torrance had been the one harmed--along with his mother, of course--and his father had not been the only culprit. About that Dick had done something. If not, Dan and his mother would have died in the Overlook. Those old things were still painful to think about, still bright with the childish primary colors of fear and horror. He would have preferred never to think of them again, but now he had to. Because . . . well . . .
Because everything that goes around comes around. Maybe it's luck or maybe it's fate, but either way, it comes back around. What was it Dick said that day he gave me the lockbox? When the pupil is ready, the teacher will appear. Not that I'm equipped to teach anyone anything, except maybe that if you don't take a drink, you won't get drunk.
He'd reached the end of the block; now he turned around and headed back. He had the sidewalk entirely to himself. It was eerie how fast Frazier emptied out once the summer was over, and that made him think of the way the Overlook had emptied out. How quickly the little Torrance family had had the place entirely to themselves.
Except for the ghosts, of course. They never left.
4
Hallorann had told Danny he was headed to Denver, and from there he'd fly south to Florida. He had asked if Danny would like to help him down to the Overlook's parking lot with his bags, and Danny had carried one to the cook's rental car. Just a little thing, hardly more than a briefcase, but he'd needed to use both hands to tote it. When the bags were safely stowed in the trunk and they were sitting in the car, Hallorann had put a name to the thing in Danny Torrance's head, the thing his parents only half believed in.
You got a knack. Me, I've always called it the shining. That's what my grandmother called it, too. Get you kinda lonely, thinkin you were the only one?
Yes, he had been lonely, and yes, he had believed he was the only one. Hallorann had disabused him of that notion. In the years since, Dan had run across a lot of people who had, in the cook's words, "a little bit of shine to them." Billy, for one.
But never anyone like the girl who had screamed into his head tonight. It had felt like that cry might tear him apart.
Had he been that strong? He thought he had been, or almost. On closing day at the Overlook, Hallorann had told the troubled little boy sitting beside him to . . . what had he said?
He said to give him a blast.
Dan had arrived back at Rivington House and was standing outside the gate. The first leaves had begun to fall, and an evening breeze whisked them around his feet.
And when I asked him what I should think about, he told me anything. "Just think it hard," he said. So I did, but at the last second I softened it, at least a little. If I hadn't, I think I might have killed him. He jerked back--no, he slammed back--and bit his lip. I remember the blood. He called me a pistol. And later, he asked about Tony. My invisible friend. So I told him.
Tony was back, it seemed, but he was no longer Dan's friend. Now he was the friend of a little girl named Abra. She was in trouble just as Dan had been, but grown men who sought out little girls attracted attention and suspicion. He had a good life here in Frazier, and he felt it was one he deserved after all the lost years.
But . . .
But when he needed Dick--at the Overlook, and later, in Florida, when Mrs. Massey had come back--Dick had come. In AA, people called that kind of thing a Twelfth Step call. Because when the pupil was ready, the teacher would appear.
On several occasions, Dan had gone with Casey Kingsley and some other guys in the Program to pay Twelfth Step calls on men who were over their heads in drugs or booze. Sometimes it was friends or bosses who asked for this service; more often it was relatives who had exhausted every other resource and were at their wits' end. They'd had a few successes over the years, but most visits ended with slammed doors or an invitation for Casey and his friends to stick their sanctimonious, quasireligious bullshit up their asses. One fellow, a meth-addled veteran of George Bush's splendid Iraq adventure, had actually waved a pistol at them. Heading back from the Chocorua hole-in-the-wall shack where the vet was denned up with his terrified wife, Dan had said, "That was a waste of time."
"It would be if we did it for them," Casey said, "but we don't. We do it for us. You like the life you're living, Danny-boy?" It wasn't the first time he had asked this question, and it wouldn't be the last.
"Yes." No hesitation on that score. Maybe he wasn't the president of General Motors or doing nude love scenes with Kate Winslet, but in Dan's mind, he had it all.
"Think you earned it?"
"No," Dan said, smiling. "Not really. Can't earn this."
"So what was it that got you back to a place where you like getting up in the morning? Was it luck or grace?"
He'd believed that Casey wanted him to say it was grace, but during the sober years he had learned the sometimes uncomfortable habit of honesty. "I don't know."
"That's okay, because when your back's against the wall, there's no difference."
5
"Abra, Abra, Abra," he said as he walked up the path to Rivington House. "What have you gotten yourself into, girl? And what are you getting me into?"
He was thinking he'd have to try to get in touch with her by using the shining, which was never completely reliable, but when he stepped into his turret room, he saw that wouldn't be necessary. Written neatly on his blackboard was this:
[email protected]
He puzzled over her screen name for a few seconds, then got it and laughed. "Good one, kid, good one."
He powered up his laptop. A moment later, he was looking at a blank email form. He typed in her address and then sat watching the blinking cursor. How old was she? As far as he could calculate by their few previous communications, somewhere between a wise twelve and a slightly naive sixteen. Probably closer to the former. And here he was, a man old enough to have salt speckles in his stubble if he skipped shaving. Here he was, getting ready to start compu-chatting with her. To Catch a Predator, anyone?
Maybe it's nothing. It could be; she's just a kid, after all.
Yes, but one who was damn scared. Plus, he was curious about her. Had been for some time. The same way, he supposed, that Hallorann had been curious about him.
I could use a little bit of grace right now. And a whole lot of luck.
In the SUBJECT box at the top of the email form, Dan wrote Hello Abra. He dropped the cursor, took a deep breath, and typed four words: Tell me what's wrong.
6
On the following Saturday afternoon, Dan was sitting in bright sunshine on one of the benches outside the ivy-covered stone building that housed the Anniston Public Library. He had a copy of the Union Leader open
in front of him, and there were words on the page, but he had no idea what they said. He was too nervous.
Promptly at two o'clock, a girl in jeans rode up on her bike and lodged it in the rack at the foot of the lawn. She gave him a wave and a big smile.
So. Abra. As in Cadabra.
She was tall for her age, most of that height in her legs. Masses of curly blond hair were held back in a thick ponytail that looked ready to rebel and spray everywhere. The day was a bit chilly, and she was wearing a light jacket with ANNISTON CYCLONES screen-printed on the back. She grabbed a couple of books that were bungee-corded to the rear bumper of her bike, then ran up to him, still with that open smile. Pretty but not beautiful. Except for her wide-set blue eyes. They were beautiful.
"Uncle Dan! Gee, it's good to see you!" And she gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. That hadn't been in the script. Her confidence in his basic okayness was terrifying.
"Good to see you, too, Abra. Sit down."
He had told her they would have to be careful, and Abra--a child of her culture--understood at once. They had agreed that the best thing would be to meet in the open, and there were few places in Anniston more open than the front lawn of the library, which was situated near the middle of the small downtown district.
She was looking at him with frank interest, perhaps even hunger. He could feel something like tiny fingers patting lightly at the inside of his head.
(where's Tony?)
Dan touched a finger to his temple.
Abra smiled, and that completed her beauty, turned her into a girl who would break hearts in another four or five years.
(HI TONY!)
That was loud enough to make him wince, and he thought again of how Dick Hallorann had recoiled behind the wheel of his rental car, his eyes going momentarily blank.
(we need to talk out loud )
(okay yes)
"I'm your father's cousin, okay? Not really an uncle, but that's what you call me."
"Right, right, you're Uncle Dan. We'll be fine as long as my mother's best friend doesn't come along. Her name's Gretchen Silverlake. I think she knows our whole family tree, and there isn't very much of it."
Oh, great, Dan thought. The nosy best friend.
"It's okay," Abra said. "Her older son's on the football team, and she never misses a Cyclones game. Almost everyone goes to the game, so stop worrying that someone will think you're--"
She finished the sentence with a mental picture--a cartoon, really. It blossomed in an instant, crude but clear. A little girl in a dark alley was being menaced by a hulking man in a trenchcoat. The little girl's knees were knocking together, and just before the picture faded, Dan saw a word balloon form over her head: Eeek, a freak!
"Actually not that funny."
He made his own picture and sent it back to her: Dan Torrance in jail-stripes, being led away by two big policemen. He had never tried anything like this, and it wasn't as good as hers, but he was delighted to find he could do it at all. Then, almost before he knew what was happening, she appropriated his picture and made it her own. Dan pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it at one of the cops, and pulled the trigger. A handkerchief with the word POW! on it shot from the barrel of the gun.
Dan stared at her, mouth open.
Abra put fisted hands to her mouth and giggled. "Sorry. Couldn't resist. We could do this all afternoon, couldn't we? And it would be fun."
He guessed it would also be a relief. She had spent years with a splendid ball but no one to play catch with. And of course it was the same with him. For the first time since childhood--since Hallorann--he was sending as well as receiving.
"You're right, it would be, but now's not the time. You need to run through this whole thing again. The email you sent only hit the high spots."
"Where should I start?"
"How about with your last name? Since I'm your honorary uncle, I probably should know."
That made her laugh. Dan tried to keep a straight face and couldn't. God help him, he liked her already.
"I'm Abra Rafaella Stone," she said. Suddenly the laughter was gone. "I just hope the lady in the hat never finds that out."
7
They sat together on the bench outside the library for forty-five minutes, with the autumn sun warm on their faces. For the first time in her life Abra felt unconditional pleasure--joy, even--in the talent that had always puzzled and sometimes terrified her. Thanks to this man, she even had a name for it: the shining. It was a good name, a comforting name, because she had always thought of it as a dark thing.
There was plenty to talk about--volumes of notes to compare--and they had hardly gotten started when a stout fiftyish woman in a tweed skirt came over to say hello. She looked at Dan with curiosity, but not untoward curiosity.
"Hi, Mrs. Gerard. This is my uncle Dan. I had Mrs. Gerard for Language Arts last year."
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Dan Torrance."
Mrs. Gerard took his offered hand and gave it a single no-nonsense pump. Abra could feel Dan--Uncle Dan--relaxing. That was good.
"Are you in the area, Mr. Torrance?"
"Just down the road, in Frazier. I work in the hospice there. Helen Rivington House?"
"Ah. That's good work you do. Abra, have you read The Fixer yet? The Malamud novel I recommended?"
Abra looked glum. "It's on my Nook--I got a gift card for my birthday--but I haven't started it yet. It looks hard."
"You're ready for hard things," Mrs. Gerard said. "More than ready. High school will be here sooner than you think, and then college. I suggest you get started today. Nice to have met you, Mr. Torrance. You have an extremely smart niece. But Abra--with brains comes responsibility." She tapped Abra's temple to emphasize this point, then mounted the library steps and went inside.
She turned to Dan. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"So far, so good," Dan agreed. "Of course, if she talks to your parents . . ."
"She won't. Mom's in Boston, helping with my momo. She's got cancer."
"I'm very sorry to hear it. Is Momo your"
( grandmother)
( great-grandmother)
"Besides," Abra said, "we're not really lying about you being my uncle. In science last year, Mr. Staley told us that all humans share the same genetic plan. He said that the things that make us different are very small things. Did you know that we share something like ninety-nine percent of our genetic makeup with dogs?"
"No," Dan said, "but it explains why Alpo has always looked so good to me."
She laughed. "So you could be my uncle or cousin or whatever. All I'm saying."
"That's Abra's theory of relativity, is it?"
"I guess so. And do we need the same color eyes or hairline to be related? We've got something else in common that hardly anyone has. That makes us a special kind of relatives. Do you think it's a gene, like the one for blue eyes or red hair? And by the way, did you know that Scotland has the highest ratio of people with red hair?"
"I didn't," Dan said. "You're a font of information."
Her smile faded a little. "Is that a put-down?"
"Not at all. I guess the shining might be a gene, but I really don't think so. I think it's unquantifiable."
"Does that mean you can't figure it out? Like God and heaven and stuff like that?"
"Yes." He found himself thinking of Charlie Hayes, and all those before and after Charlie whom he'd seen out of this world in his Doctor Sleep persona. Some people called the moment of death passing on. Dan liked that, because it seemed just about right. When you saw men and women pass on before your eyes--leaving the Teenytown people called reality for some Cloud Gap of an afterlife--it changed your way of thinking. For those in mortal extremis, it was the world that was passing on. In those gateway moments, Dan had always felt in the presence of some not-quite-seen enormity. They slept, they woke, they went somewhere. They went on. He'd had reason to believe that, even as a child.
"What are you thinking?" Abra asked. "I
can see it, but I don't understand it. And I want to."
"I don't know how to explain it," he said.
"It was partly about the ghostie people, wasn't it? I saw them once, on the little train in Frazier. It was a dream but I think it was real."
His eyes widened. "Did you really?"
"Yes. I don't think they wanted to hurt me--they just looked at me--but they were kind of scary. I think maybe they were people who rode the train in olden days. Have you seen ghostie people? You have, haven't you?"
"Yes, but not for a very long time." And some that were a lot more than ghosts. Ghosts didn't leave residue on toilet seats and shower curtains. "Abra, how much do your parents know about your shine?"
"My dad thinks it's gone except for a few things--like me calling from camp because I knew Momo was sick--and he's glad. My mom knows it's still there, because sometimes she'll ask me to help her find something she's lost--last month it was her car keys, she left them on Dad's worktable in the garage--but she doesn't know how much is still there. They don't talk about it anymore." She paused. "Momo knows. She's not scared of it like Mom and Dad, but she told me I have to be careful. Because if people found out--" She made a comic face, rolling her eyes and poking her tongue out the corner of her mouth. "Eeek, a freak. You know?"
(yes)
She smiled gratefully. "Sure you do."
"Nobody else?"
"Well . . . Momo said I should talk to Dr. John, because he already knew about some of the stuff. He, um, saw something I did with spoons when I was just a little kid. I kind of hung them on the ceiling."
"This wouldn't by chance be John Dalton, would it?"
Her face lit up. "You know him?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. I found something once for him. Something he lost."
(a watch!)
(that's right)
"I don't tell him everything," Abra said. She looked uneasy. "I sure didn't tell him about the baseball boy, and I'd never tell him about the woman in the hat. Because he'd tell my folks, and they've got a lot on their minds already. Besides, what could they do?"
