Nightmares and Dreamscapes

by Stephen King

  He looked up into the rear-view mirror and saw something else: the back doors of the van were standing open, and there was only a vague, man-shaped red outline on the gray carpet where the kid had been. Mr. Bryan Adams, from Nowhere, U.S.A., was gone.

  So were the Chattery Teeth.

  *

  Hogan got out of the van slowly, like an old man afflicted with a terrible case of arthritis. He found that if he held his head perfectly level, it wasn't too bad . . . but if he forgot and moved it in any direction, a series of exploding bolts went off in his neck, shoulders, and upper back. Even the thought of allowing his head to roll backward was unbearable.

  He walked slowly to the rear of the van, running his hand lightly over the dented, paint-peeled surface, hearing and feeling the glass as it crunched under his feet. He stood at the far end of the driver's side for a long time. He was afraid to turn the corner. He was afraid that, when he did, he would see the kid squatting on his hunkers, holding the knife in his left hand and grinning that empty grin. But he couldn't just stand here, holding his head on top of his strained neck like a big bottle of nitroglycerine, while it got dark around him, so at last Hogan went around.

  Nobody. The kid was really gone. Or so it seemed at first.

  The wind gusted, blowing Hogan's hair around his bruised face, then dropped away completely. When it did, he heard a harsh scraping noise coming from about twenty yards beyond the van. He looked in that direction and saw the soles of the kid's sneakers just disappearing over the top of a dry-wash. The sneakers were spread in a limp V. They stopped moving for a moment, as if whatever was hauling the kid's body needed a few moments' rest to recoup its strength, and then they began to move again in little jerks.

  A picture of terrible, unendurable clarity suddenly rose in Hogan's mind. He saw the Jumbo Chattery Teeth standing on their funny orange feet just over the edge of that wash, standing there in spats so cool they made the coolest of the California Raisins look like hicks from Fargo, North Dakota, standing there in the electric purple light which had overspread these empty lands west of Las Vegas. They were clamped shut on a thick wad of the kid's long blonde hair.

  The Chattery Teeth were backing up.

  The Chattery Teeth were dragging Mr. Bryan Adams away to Nowhere, U.S.A.

  Hogan turned in the other direction and walked slowly toward the road, holding his nitro head straight and steady on top of his neck. It took him five minutes to negotiate the ditch and another fifteen to flag a ride, but he eventually managed both things. And during that time, he never looked back once.

  *

  Nine months later, on a clear hot summer day in June, Bill Hogan happened by Scooter's Grocery & Roadside Zoo again. . . except the place had been renamed. MYRA'S PLACE, the sign now said. GAS COLD BEER VIDEO'S. Below the words was a picture of a wolf--or maybe just a Woof--snarling at the moon. Wolf himself, the Amazing Minnesota Coydog, was lying in a cage in the shade of the porch overhang. His back legs were sprawled extravagantly, and his muzzle was on his paws. He did not get up when Hogan got out of his car to fill the tank. Of the rattlesnakes and the tarantula there was no sign.

  "Hi, Woof," he said as he went up the steps. The cage's inmate rolled over onto his back and allowed his long red tongue to dangle enticingly from the side of his mouth as he stared up at Hogan.

  The store looked bigger and cleaner inside. Hogan guessed this was partly because the day outside was not so threatening, but that wasn't all; the windows had been washed, for one thing, and that made a big difference. The board walls had been replaced with pine-panelling that still smelled fresh and sappy. A snackbar with five stools had been added at the back. The novelty case was still there, but the cigarette loads, the joy-buzzers, and Dr. Wacky's Sneezing Powder were gone. The case was filled with videotape boxes. A hand-lettered sign read X-RATED IN BACK ROOM * "B 18 OR B GONE."

  The woman at the cash register was standing in profile to Hogan, looking down at a calculator and running numbers on it. For a moment Hogan was sure this was Mr. and Mrs. Scooter's daughter--the female complement to those three boys Scooter had talked about raising. Then she lifted her head and Hogan saw it was Mrs. Scooter herself. It was hard to believe this could be the woman whose mammoth bosom had almost burst the seams of her NEVADA IS GOD'S COUNTRY tee-shirt, but it was. Mrs. Scooter had lost at least fifty pounds and dyed her hair a sleek and shiny walnut-brown. Only the sun-wrinkles around the eyes and mouth were the same.

  "Getcha gas?" she asked.

  "Yep. Fifteen dollars' worth." He handed her a twenty and she rang it up. "Place looks a lot different from the last time I was in."

  "Been a lot of changes since Scooter died, all right," she agreed, and pulled a five out of the register. She started to hand it over, really looked at him for the first time, and hesitated. "Say. . . ain't you the guy who almost got killed the day we had that storm last year?"

  He nodded and stuck out his hand. "Bill Hogan."

  She didn't hesitate; simply reached over the counter and gave his hand a single strong pump. The death of her husband seemed to have improved her disposition . . . or maybe it was just that her change of life was finally over.

  "I'm sorry about your husband. He seemed like a good sort."

  "Scoot? Yeah, he was a fine fella before he took ill," she agreed. "And what about you? You all recovered?"

  Hogan nodded. "I wore a neck-brace for about six weeks--not for the first time, either--but I'm okay."

  She was looking at the scar which twisted down his right cheek. "He do that? That kid?"

  "Yeah."

  "Stuck you pretty bad."

  "Yeah."

  "I heard he got busted up in the crash, then crawled into the desert to die." She was looking at Hogan shrewdly. "That about right?"

  Hogan smiled a little. "Near enough, I guess."

  "J.T.--he's the State Bear around these parts--said the animals worked him over pretty good. Desert rats are awful impolite that way."

  "I don't know anything about that part."

  "J.T. said the kid's own mother wouldn't have reckanized him." She put a hand on her reduced bosom and looked at him earnestly. "If I'm lyin, I'm dyin."

  Hogan laughed out loud. In the weeks and months since the day of the storm, this was something he found himself doing more often. He had come, it sometimes seemed to him, to a slightly different arrangement with life since that day.

  "Lucky he didn't kill you," Mrs. Scooter said. "You had a helluva narrow excape. God musta been with you."

  "That's right," Hogan agreed. He looked down at the video case. "I see you took out the novelties."

  "Them nasty old things? You bet! That was the first thing I did after--" Her eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, say! Jeepers! I got sumpin belongs to you! If I was to forget, I reckon Scooter'd come back and haunt me!"

  Hogan frowned, puzzled, but the woman was already going behind the counter. She stood on tiptoe and brought something down from a high shelf above the rack of cigarettes. It was, Hogan saw with absolutely no surprise at all, the Jumbo Chattery Teeth. The woman set them down beside the cash register.

  Hogan stared at that frozen, insouciant grin with a deep sense of deja vu. There they were, the world's biggest set of Chattery Teeth, standing on their funny orange shoes beside the Slim Jim display, cool as a mountain breeze, grinning up at him as if to say, Hello, there! Did you forget me? I didn't forget YOU, my friend. Not at all.

  "I found em on the porch the next day, after the storm blew itself out," Mrs. Scooter said. She laughed. "Just like old Scoot to give you somethin for free, then stick it in a bag with a hole in the bottom. I was gonna throw em out, but he said he give em to you, and I should stick em on a shelf someplace. He said a travelling man who came in once'd most likely come in again. . . and here you are."

  "Yes," Hogan agreed. "Here I am."

  He picked up the teeth and slipped his finger between the slightly gaping jaws. He ran the pad of the finger along the molars at the back, and
in his mind he heard the kid, Mr. Bryan Adams from Nowhere, U.S.A., chanting Bite me! Bite me! Biiiiite me!

  Were the back teeth still streaked with the dull rust of the boy's blood? Hogan thought he could see something way back in there, but perhaps it was only a shadow.

  "I saved it because Scooter said you had a boy."

  Hogan nodded. "I do." And, he thought, the boy still has a father. I'm holding the reason why. The question is, did they walk all the way back here on their little orange feet because this was home . . . or because they somehow knew what Scooter knew? That sooner or later, a travelling man always comes back to where he's been, the way a murderer is supposed to revisit the scene of his crime?

  "Well, if you still want em, they're still yours," she said. For a moment she looked solemn . . . and then she laughed. "Shit, I probably would have throwed em out anyway, except I forgot about em. Course, they're still broken."

  Hogan turned the key jutting out of the gum. It went around twice, making little wind-up clicks, then simply turned uselessly in its socket. Broken. Of course they were. And would be until they decided they didn't want to be broken for awhile. And the question wasn't how they had gotten back here, and the question wasn't even why.

  The question was this: What did they want?

  He poked his finger into the white steel grin again and whispered, "Bite me--do you want to?"

  The teeth only stood there on their supercool orange feet and grinned.

  "They ain't talking, seems like," Mrs. Scooter said.

  "No," Hogan said, and suddenly he found himself thinking of the kid. Mr. Bryan Adams, from Nowhere, U.S.A. A lot of kids like him now. A lot of grownups, too, blowing along the highways like tumbleweed, always ready to take your wallet, say Fuck you, sugar, and run. You could stop picking up hitchhikers (he had), and you could put a burglar-alarm system in your home (he'd done that, too), but it was still a hard world where planes sometimes fell out of the sky and the crazies were apt to turn up anyplace and there was always room for a little more insurance. He had a wife, after all.

  And a son.

  It might be nice if Jack had a set of Jumbo Chattery Teeth sitting on his desk. Just in case something happened.

  Just in case.

  "Thank you for saving them," he said, picking the Chattery Teeth up carefully by the feet. "I think my kid will get a kick out of them even if they are broken."

  "Thank Scoot, not me. You want a bag?" She grinned. "I got a plastic one--no holes, guaranteed."

  Hogan shook his head and slipped the Chattery Teeth into his sportcoat pocket. "I'll carry them this way," he said, and grinned right back at her. "Keep them handy."

  "Suit yourself." As he started for the door, she called after him: "Stop back again! I make a damn good chicken salad sandwich!"

  "I'll bet you do, and I will," Hogan said. He went out, down the steps, and stood for a moment in the hot desert sunshine, smiling. He felt good--he felt good a lot these days. He had come to think that was just the way to be.

  To his left, Woof the Amazing Minnesota Coydog got to his feet, poked his snout through the crisscross of wire on the side of his cage, and barked. In Hogan's pocket, the Chattery Teeth clicked together once. The sound was soft, but Hogan heard it . . . and felt them move. He patted his pocket. "Easy, big fella," he said softly.

  He walked briskly across the yard, climbed behind the wheel of his new Chevrolet van, and drove away toward Los Angeles. He had promised Lita and Jack he would be home by seven, eight at the latest, and he was a man who liked to keep his promises.

  Dedication

  Around the corner from the doormen, the limos, the taxis, and the revolving doors at the entrance to Le Palais, one of New York's oldest and grandest hotels, there is another door, this one small, unmarked, and--for the most part--unremarked.

  Martha Rosewall approached it one morning at a quarter of seven, her plain blue canvas tote-bag in one hand and a smile on her face. The tote was usual, the smile much more rarely seen. She was not unhappy in her work--being the Chief Housekeeper of floors ten through twelve of Le Palais might not seem an important or rewarding job to some, but to a woman who had worn dresses made out of rice-and flour-sacks as a girl growing up in Babylon, Alabama, it seemed very important indeed, and very rewarding as well. Yet no matter what the job, mechanic or movie-star, on ordinary mornings a person arrives at work with an ordinary expression on his or her face; a look that says Most of me is still in bed and not much more. For Martha Rosewall, however, this was no ordinary morning.

  Things had begun being not ordinary for her when she arrived home from work the previous afternoon and found the package her son had sent from Ohio. The long-expected and long-awaited had finally come. She had slept only in snatches last night--she had to keep getting up and checking to make sure the thing he had sent was real, and that it was still there. Finally she had slept with it under her pillow, like a bridesmaid with a piece of wedding cake.

  Now she used her key to open the small door around the corner from the hotel's main entrance and went down three steps to a long hallway painted flat green and lined with Dandux laundry carts. They were piled high with freshly washed and ironed bed-linen. The hallway was filled with its clean smell, a smell that Martha always associated, in some vague way, with the smell of freshly baked bread. The faint sound of Muzak drifted down from the lobby, but these days Martha heard it no more than she heard the hum of the service elevators or the rattle of china in the kitchen.

  Halfway down the hall was a door marked CHIEFS OF HOUSEKEEPING. She went in, hung up her coat, and passed through the big room where the Chiefs--there were eleven in all--took their coffee-breaks, worked out problems of supply and demand, and tried to keep up with the endless paperwork. Beyond this room with its huge desk, wall-length bulletin board, and perpetually overflowing ashtrays was a dressing room. Its walls were plain green cinderblock. There were benches, lockers, and two long steel rods festooned with the kind of coathangers you can't steal.

  At the far end of the dressing room was the door leading into the shower and bathroom area. This door now opened and Darcy Sagamore appeared, wrapped in a fluffy Le Palais bathrobe and a plume of warm steam. She took one look at Martha's bright face and came to her with her arms out, laughing. "It came, didn't it?" she cried. "You got it! It's written all over your face! Yes sir and yes ma'am!"

  Martha didn't know she was going to weep until the tears came. She hugged Darcy and put her face against Darcy's damp black hair.

  "That's all right, honey," Darcy said. "You go on and let it all out."

  "It's just that I'm so proud of him, Darcy--so damn proud."

  "Of course you are. That's why you're crying, and that's fine. . . but I want to see it as soon as you stop." She grinned then. "You can hold it, though. If I dripped on that baby, I gotta believe you might poke my eye out."

  So, with the reverence reserved for an object of great holiness (which, to Martha Rosewall, it was), she removed her son's first novel from the blue canvas tote. She had wrapped it carefully in tissue paper and put it under her brown nylon uniform. She now carefully removed the tissue so that Darcy could view the treasure.

  Darcy looked carefully at the cover, which showed three Marines, one with a bandage wrapped around his head, charging up a hill with their guns firing. Blaze of Glory, printed in fiery red-orange letters, was the title. And below the picture was this: A Novel by Peter Rosewall.

  "All right, that's good, wonderful, but now show me the other!" Darcy spoke in the tones of a woman who wants to dispense with the merely interesting and go directly to the heart of the matter.

  Martha nodded and turned unhesitatingly to the dedication page, where Darcy read: "This book is dedicated to my mother, MARTHA ROSEWALL. Mom, I couldn't have done it without you." Below the printed dedication this was added in a thin, sloping, and somehow old-fashioned script: "And that's no lie. Love you, Mom! Pete."

  "Why, isn't that just the sweetest thing?" Darcy asked,
and swiped at her dark eyes with the heel of her hand.

  "It's more than sweet," Martha said. She re-wrapped the book in the tissue paper. "It's true." She smiled, and in that smile her old friend Darcy Sagamore saw something more than love. She saw triumph.

  *

  After punching out at three o'clock, Martha and Darcy frequently stopped in at La Patisserie, the hotel's coffee shop. On rare occasions they went into Le Cinq, the little pocket bar just off the lobby, for something a little stronger, and this day was a Le Cinq occasion if there had ever been one. Darcy got her friend comfortably situated in one of the booths, and left her there with a bowl of Goldfish crackers while she spoke briefly to Ray, who was tending bar that afternoon. Martha saw him grin at Darcy, nod, and make a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Darcy came back to the booth with a look of satisfaction on her face. Martha regarded her with some suspicion.

  "What was that about?"

  "You'll see."

  Five minutes later Ray came over with a silver ice-bucket on a stand and placed it beside them. In it was a bottle of Perrier-Jouet champagne and two chilled glasses.

  "Here, now!" Martha said in a voice that was half-alarmed, half-laughing. She looked at Darcy, startled.

  "Hush," Darcy said, and to her credit, Martha did.

  Ray uncorked the bottle, placed the cork beside Darcy, and poured a little into her glass. Darcy waved at it and winked at Ray.

  "Enjoy, ladies," Ray said, and then blew a little kiss at Martha. "And congratulate your boy for me, sweetie." He walked away before Martha, who was still stunned, could say anything.

  Darcy poured both glasses full and raised hers. After a moment Martha did the same. The glasses clinked gently. "Here's to the start of your son's career," Darcy said, and they drank. Darcy tipped the rim of her glass against Martha's a second time. "And to the boy himself," she said. They drank again, and Darcy touched their glasses together yet a third time before Martha could set hers down. "And to a mother's love."