by Stephen King
"I'm going to go to bed. I'm very, very tired. If you want to talk about this in the morning, okay. Maybe we'll all be able to make some sense then. But for now, I don't have a thing to say."
His father took a step after him, reaching out.
"No, Elmer!" Jake's mother almost screamed.
Chambers ignored her. He grabbed Jake by the back of the blazer. "Don't you just walk away from me--" he began, and then Jake whirled, tearing the blazer out of his hand. The seam under the right arm, already strained, let go with a rough purring sound.
His father saw those blazing eyes and stepped away. The rage on his face was doused by something that looked like terror. That blaze was not metaphorical; Jake's eyes actually seemed to be on fire. His mother gave voice to a strengthless little scream, clapped one hand to her mouth, took two large, stumbling steps backward, and dropped into her rocking chair with a small thud.
"Leave . . . me . . . alone," Jake said.
"What's happened to you?" his father asked, and now his tone was almost plaintive. "What in the hell's happened to you? You bug out of school without a word to anyone on the first day of exams, you come back filthy from head to toe . . . and you act as if you've gone crazy."
Well, there it was--you act as if you've gone crazy. What he'd been afraid of ever since the voices started three weeks ago. The Dread Accusation. Only now that it was out, Jake found it didn't frighten him much at all, perhaps because he had finally put the issue to rest in his own mind. Yes, something had happened to him. Was still happening. But no--he had not gone crazy. At least, not yet.
"We'll talk about it in the morning," he repeated. He walked across the dining room, and this time his father didn't try to stop him. He had almost reached the hall when his mother's voice, worried, stopped him: "Johnny . . . are you all right?"
And what should he answer? Yes? No? Both of the above? Neither of the above? But the voices had stopped, and that was something. That was, in fact, quite a lot.
"Better," he said at last. He went down to his room and closed the door firmly behind him. The sound of the door snicking firmly shut between him and all the rest of the round world filled him with tremendous relief.
20
HE STOOD BY THE door for a little while, listening. His mother's voice was only a murmur, his father's voice a little louder.
His mother said something about blood, and a doctor.
His father said the kid was fine; the only thing wrong with the kid was the junk coming out of his mouth, and he would fix that.
His mother said something about calming down.
His father said he was calm.
His mother said--
He said, she said, blah, blah, blah. Jake still loved them--he was pretty sure he did, anyway--but other stuff had happened now, and these things had made it necessary that still other things must occur.
Why? Because something was wrong with the rose. And maybe because he wanted to run and play . . . and see his eyes again, as blue as the sky above the way station had been.
Jake walked slowly over to his desk, removing his blazer as he went. It was pretty wasted--one sleeve torn almost completely off, the lining hanging like a limp sail. He slung it over the back of his chair, then sat down and put the books on his desk. He had been sleeping very badly over the last week and a half, but he thought tonight he would sleep well. He couldn't remember ever being so tired. When he woke up in the morning, perhaps he would know what to do.
There was a light knock at the door, and Jake turned warily in that direction.
"It's Mrs. Shaw, John. May I come in for a minute?"
He smiled. Mrs. Shaw--of course it was. His parents had drafted her as an intermediary. Or perhaps translator might be a better word.
You go see him, his mother would have said. He'll tell you what's wrong with him. I'm his mother and this man with the bloodshot eyes and the runny nose is his father and you're only the housekeeper, but he'll tell you what he wouldn't tell us. Because you see more of him than either of us, and maybe you speak his language.
She'll have a tray, Jake thought, and when he opened the door he was smiling.
Mrs. Shaw did indeed have a tray. There were two sandwiches on it, a wedge of apple pie, and a glass of chocolate milk. She was looking at Jake with mild anxiety, as if she thought he might lunge forward and try to bite her. Jake looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign of his parents. He imagined them sitting in the living room, listening anxiously.
"I thought you might like something to eat," Mrs. Shaw said.
"Yes, thanks." In fact, he was ravenously hungry; he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He stood aside and Mrs. Shaw came in (giving him another apprehensive look as she passed) and put the tray on the desk.
"Oh, look at this," she said, picking up Charlie the Choo-Choo. "I had this one when I was a little girl. Did you buy this today, Johnny?"
"Yes. Did my parents ask you to find out what I'd been up to?"
She nodded. No acting, no put-on. It was just a chore, like taking out the trash. You can tell me if you want to, her face said, or you can keep still. I like you, Johnny, but it's really nothing to me, one way or the other. I just work here, and it's already an hour past my regular quitting time.
He was not offended by what her face had to say; on the contrary, he was further calmed by it. Mrs. Shaw was another acquaintance who was not quite a friend . . . but he thought she might be a little closer to a friend than any of the kids at school were, and much closer than either his mother or father. Mrs. Shaw was honest, at least. She didn't dance. It all went on the bill at the end of the month, and she always cut the crusts off the sandwiches.
Jake picked up a sandwich and took a large bite. Bologna and cheese, his favorite. That was another thing in Mrs. Shaw's favor--she knew all his favorites. His mother was still under the impression that he liked corn on the cob and hated brussels sprouts.
"Please tell them I'm fine," he said, "and tell my father I'm sorry that I was rude to him."
He wasn't, but all his father really wanted was that apology. Once Mrs. Shaw conveyed it to him, he would relax and begin to tell himself the old lie--he had done his fatherly duty and all was well, all was well, and all manner of things were well.
"I've been studying very hard for my exams," he said, chewing as he talked, "and it all came down on me this morning, I guess. I sort of froze. It seemed like I had to get out or I'd suffocate." He touched the dried crust of blood on his forehead. "As for this, please tell my mother it's really nothing. I didn't get mugged or anything; it was just a stupid accident. There was a UPS guy pushing a hand-truck, and I walked right into it. The cut's no big deal. I'm not having double vision or anything, and even the headache's gone now."
She nodded. "I can see how it must have been--a high-powered school like that and all. You just got a little spooked. No shame in that, Johnny. But you really haven't seemed like yourself this last couple of weeks. "
"I think I'll be okay now. I might have to re-do my Final Essay in English, but--"
"Oh!" Mrs. Shaw said. A startled looked crossed her face. She put Charlie the Choo-Choo back down on Jake's desk. "I almost forgot! Your French teacher left something for you. I'll just get it."
She left the room. Jake hoped he hadn't worried Mr. Bissette, who was a pretty good guy, but he supposed he must have, since Bissette had actually made a personal appearance. Jake had an idea that personal appearances were pretty rare for Piper School teachers. He wondered what Mr. Bissette had left. His best guess was an invitation to talk with Mr. Hotchkiss, the school shrink. That would have scared him this morning, but not tonight.
Tonight only the rose seemed to matter.
He tore into his second sandwich. Mrs. Shaw had left the door open, and he could hear her talking with his parents. They both sounded a little more cooled out now. Jake drank his milk, then grabbed the plate with the apple pie on it. A few moments later Mrs. Shaw came back. She was carrying a very familiar blue fold
er.
Jake found that not all of his dread had left him after all. They would all know by now, of course, students and faculty alike, and it was too late to do anything about it, but that didn't mean he liked all of them knowing he had flipped his lid. That they were talking about him.
A small envelope had been paper-clipped to the front of the folder. Jake pulled it free and looked up at Mrs. Shaw as he opened it. "How are my folks doing now?" he asked.
She allowed herself a brief smile. "Your father wanted me to ask why you didn't just tell him you had Exam Fever. He said he had it himself once or twice when he was a boy."
Jake was struck by this; his father had never been the sort of man to indulge in reminiscences which began, You know, when I was a kid . . . Jake tried to imagine his father as a boy with a bad case of Exam Fever and found he couldn't quite do it--the best he could manage was the unpleasant image of a pugnacious dwarf in a Piper sweatshirt, a dwarf in custom-tooled cowboy boots, a dwarf with short black hair bolting up from his forehead.
The note was from Mr. Bissette.
Dear John,
Bonnie Avery told me that you left early. She's very concerned about you, and so am I, although we have both seen this sort of thing before, especially during Exam Week. Please come and see me first thing tomorrow, okay? Any problems you have can be worked out. If you're feeling pressured by exams--and I want to repeat that it happens all the time--a postponement can be arranged. Our first concern is your welfare. Call me this evening, if you like; you can reach me at 555-7661. I'll be up until midnight.
Remember that we all like you very much, and are on your side.
A votre sante
Jake felt like crying. The concern was stated, and that was wonderful, but there were other things, unstated things, in the note that were even more wonderful--warmth, caring, and an effort (however misconceived) to understand and console.
Mr. Bissette had drawn a small arrow at the bottom of the note. Jake turned it over and read this:
By the way, Bonnie asked me to send this along--congratulations!!
Congratulations? What in the hell did that mean?
He flipped open the folder. A sheet of paper had been clipped to the first page of his Final Essay. It was headed FROM THE DESK OF BONITA AVERY, and Jake read the spiky, fountain-penned lines with growing amazement.
John,
Leonard will undoubtedly voice the concern we all feel--he is awfully good at that--so let me confine myself to your Final Essay, which I read and graded during my free period. It is stunningly original, and superior to any student work I have read in the last few years. Your use of incremental repetition (". . . and that is the truth") is inspired, but of course incremental repetition is really just a trick. The real worth of the composition is in its symbolic quality, first stated by the images of the train and the door on the title page and carried through splendidly within. This reaches its logical conclusion with the picture of the "black tower," which I take as your statement that conventional ambitions are not only false but dangerous.
I do not pretend to understand all the symbolism (e.g., "Lady of Shadows," "gunslinger") but it seems clear that you yourself are "The Prisoner" (of school, society, etc.) and that the educational system is "The Speaking Demon." Is it possible that both "Roland" and "the gunslinger" are the same authority figure--your father, perhaps? I became so intrigued by this possibility that I looked up his name in your records. I note it is Elmer, but I further note that his middle initial is R.
I find this extremely provocative. Or is this name a double symbol, drawn both from your father and from Robert Browning's poem "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"? This is not a question I would ask most students, but of course I know how omnivorously you read!
At any rate, I am extremely impressed. Younger students are often attracted to so-called "stream-of-consciousness" writing, but are rarely able to control it. You have done an outstanding job of merging s-of-c with symbolic language.
Bravo!
Drop by as soon as you're "back at it"--I want to discuss possible publication of this piece in the first issue of next year's student literary magazine.
B. Avery
P.S. If you left school today because you had sudden doubts about my ability to understand a Final Essay of such unexpected richness, I hope I have assuaged them.
Jake pulled the sheet off the clip, revealing the title page of his stunningly original and richly symbolic Final Essay. Written and circled there in the red ink of Ms. Avery's marking pen was the notation A + . Below this she had written EXCELLENT JOB!!!
Jake began to laugh.
The whole day--the long, scary, confusing, exhilarating, terrifying, mysterious day--was condensed in great, roaring sobs of laughter. He slumped in his chair, head thrown back, hands clutching his belly, tears streaming down his face. He laughed himself hoarse. He would almost stop and then some line from Ms. Avery's well-meaning critique would catch his eye and he would be off to the races again. He didn't see his father come to the door, look in at him with puzzled, wary eyes, and then leave again. shaking his head.
At last he did become aware that Mrs. Shaw was still sitting on his bed, looking at him with an expression of friendly detachment tinctured with faint curiosity. He tried to speak, but the laughter pealed out again before he could.
I gotta stop, he thought. I gotta stop or it's gonna kill me. I'll have a stroke or a heart attack, or something.
Then he thought, I wonder what she made of "choo-choo , choo-choo?, " and he began to laugh wildly again.
At last the spasms began to taper off to giggles. He wiped his arm across his streaming eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Shaw--it's just that . . . well . . . I got an A-plus on my Final Essay. It was all very . . . very rich . . . and very sym . . . sym . . ."
But he couldn't finish. He doubled up with laughter again, holding his throbbing belly.
Mrs. Shaw got up, smiling. "That's very nice, John. I'm happy it's all turned out so well, and I'm sure your folks will be, too. I'm awfully late--I think I'll ask the doorman to call me a cab. Goodnight, and sleep well."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Shaw," Jake said, controlling himself with an effort. "And thanks."
As soon as she was gone, he began to laugh again.
21
DURING THE NEXT HALF hour he had separate visits from both parents. They had indeed calmed down, and the A + grade on Jake's Final Essay seemed to calm them further. Jake received them with his French text open on the desk before him, but he hadn't really looked at it, nor did he have any intention of looking at it. He was only waiting for them to be gone so he could study the two books he had bought earlier that day. He had an idea that the real Final Exams were still waiting just over the horizon, and he wanted desperately to pass.
His father poked his head into Jake's room around quarter of ten, about twenty minutes after Jake's mother had concluded her own short, vague visit. Elmer Chambers was holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of Scotch in the other. He seemed not only calmer but almost zonked. Jake wondered briefly and indifferently if he had been hitting his mother's Valium supply.
"Are you okay, kid?"
"Yes." He was once again the small, neat boy who was always completely in control of himself. The eyes he turned to his father were not blazing but opaque.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry about before." His father was not a man who made many apologies, and he did it badly. Jake found himself feeling a little sorry for him.
"It's all right."
"Hard day," his father said. He gestured with the empty glass. "Why don't we just forget it happened?" He spoke as if this great and logical idea had just come to him.
"I already have."
"Good." His father sounded relieved. "Time for you to get some sleep, isn't it? You'll have some explaining to do and some tests to take tomorrow."
"I guess so," Jake said. "Is Mom okay?"
"Fine. Fine. I'm going in the study. Got a lot of paperwork to
night."
"Dad?"
His father looked back at him warily.
"What's your middle name?"
Something in his father's face told Jake that he had looked at the Final Essay grade but hadn't bothered to read either the paper itself or Ms. Avery's critique.
"I don't have one," he said. "Just an initial, like Harry S Truman. Except mine's an R. What brought that on?"
"Just curious," Jake said.
He managed to hold onto his composure until his father was gone . . . but as soon as the door was closed, he ran to his bed and stuffed his face into his pillow to muffle another bout of wild laughter.
22
WHEN HE WAS SURE he was over the current fit (although an occasional snicker still rumbled up his throat like an aftershock) and his father would be safely locked away in his study with his cigarettes, his Scotch, his papers, and his little bottle of white powder, Jake went back to his desk, turned on the study lamp, and opened Charlie the Choo-Choo. He glanced briefly at the copyright page and saw it had originally been published in 1942; his copy was from the fourth printing. He looked at the back, but there was no information at all about Beryl Evans, the book's author.
Jake turned back to the beginning, looked at the picture of a grinning, blonde-haired man sitting in the cab of a steam locomotive, considered the proud grin on the man's face, and then began to read.
Bob Brooks was an engineer for The Mid-World Railway Company, on the St. Louis to Topeka run. Engineer Bob was the best trainman The Mid-World Railway Company ever had, and Charlie was the best train!
Charlie was a 402 Big Boy Steam Locomotive, and Engineer Bob was the only man who had ever been allowed to sit in his peak-seat and pull the whistle. Everyone knew the WHOOO-OOOO of Charlie's whistle, and whenever they heard it echoing across the flat Kansas countryside, they said, "There goes Charlie and Engineer Bob, the fastest team between St. Louis and Topeka!"
Boys and girls ran into their yards to watch Charlie and Engineer Bob go by. Engineer Bob would smile and wave. The children would smile and wave back.
Engineer Bob had a special secret. He was the only one who knew. Charlie the Choo-Choo was really, really alive. One day while they were making the run between Topeka and St. Louis, Engineer Bob heard singing, very soft and low.
