I could tell you what it felt like to collaborate on Gwendy’s Button Box, and how when a reporter asked me if working on the book with Stephen King was a dream come true, my answer was honest and direct: “I’ve been a dreamer my entire life, but I never dreamed this big.”
I could even talk about how a surprise business relationship grew into a surprise friendship as the years passed. Thousands of emails and texts exchanged. The occasional baseball game or movie premiere. Rarely talking about writing, business even less. My favorite conversations centering on our families, our dogs, the people and books and movies we most admire. How I often find myself asking for advice and guidance, not just professionally, but as a father of two boys of my own. And how Steve listens with a generous and patient ear, and usually knows the words I most need to hear.
Finally, I could tell you about the endless kindnesses that Steve has blessed my family and me with. Laughter shared with Billy and Noah across a dinner table. A voice cameo in a Billy-directed student film. Countless opportunities for all of us to chase our dreams. And much more.
The most important things are the hardest
to say…because words diminish them.
—The Body
There is a brief scene near the end of the movie, Tombstone, which I think about often. It’s my favorite moment in the film, and I can’t think of any other scene in any other movie that better encompasses my own personal view of friendship and loyalty.
Turkey Creek Johnson: Why you doin’ this, Doc?
Doc Holliday: Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.
Turkey Creek Johnson: Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc Holliday: I don’t.
I’ll tell you a secret: I don’t either.
I’m the kind of guy who surrounds himself with a very small group of trusted friends, most of them I’ve known since the long ago days of childhood. A ka-tet, if you will.
I’m blessed and grateful beyond words that Steve King is one of those friends. People often ask me what he is like in “real life” (their words, not mine). I usually respond briefly and protectively. I simply say that he’s smart and kind and funny as hell. And that’s all true.
But he’s more than that.
He’s the most talented and generous man I know.
Happy 70th, Steve.
May there be many more.
I love you, brother.
THE ASSOCIATION
Harold Peterson stood at the top of his driveway, hands on his hips, staring into the open garage. He frowned. Dozens of cardboard boxes, stacked three and four high, filled every available inch of it. Several in the front row were marked: LIVING ROOM, BEDROOM #1, KITCHEN.
“Trying to figure out a good excuse so you can get out of unpacking?”
Harold turned to find his wife, Lily, standing behind him. He smiled and glanced up at the summer sky. “It is an awfully nice day. Think maybe I’ll play a round of golf first and get to work on this mess later.”
Lily walked close and wrapped her arms around her husband, snuggling her face against his shoulder. “Think again, mister.”
Harold laughed and hugged her back.
“Besides, you don’t even play golf,” she said.
“Can’t think of a better day to start.”
Lily giggled and swatted him on the butt.
They stood there in each other’s arms, not talking for a moment, just staring at their new home.
Finally, Lily broke the silence. “I can’t believe it’s ours.”
“I can’t believe how much crap we had crammed into a two-bedroom condo.”
Lily shrugged. “We lived there for eight years. What did you expect?”
Harold leaned down and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I expect us to live here happily ever after.”
****
They carried and unpacked boxes the rest of the morning. Harold focused on the upstairs bedrooms and basement. Every time he came upon a box marked BOOKS, he whined like a teenager. Lily worked on the living room, bathrooms, and kitchen. The only time she complained was when she stubbed her toe against one of the front stairs.
By noon, they were both drenched in sweat and starving. Harold called for lunch delivery from a local pizza shop that the realtor had recommended and they ate on the front porch.
“I think we’re making good progress,” Lily said in between bites of her chicken pita.
“I do, too,” Harold answered, showing her a mouthful of cheesesteak sub, a gob of melted cheese dripping onto his t-shirt.
“Oh my God, stop it,” Lily scolded, wiping at his shirt. “What will the neighbors think?”
They had always been this way: Lily, the earnest one, the nurturer. Harold, the mischievous joker, rarely serious, seldom acting his age, always putting a smile on everyone’s face.
They’d met at a party during their senior year at the University of Virginia. Lily had been an English major with designs on teaching and maybe one day writing a novel or two. Harold had followed in his father’s footsteps and earned a degree in finance. A job at his family’s brokerage firm was awaiting him after graduation.
Despite their parents’ protests and offers to help, they’d lived in an apartment the first eighteen months after their spring wedding and saved every cent they earned. They’d used the money to buy a two-bedroom condominium in the city and lived there for almost eight years before feeling secure enough to start house hunting in the suburbs.
Two months ago, they’d found their dream house here on Brooks Road in the exclusive community of Broadview. Three days ago, they’d moved in.
They were content and happy, excited about the future, and in the early stages of talking about starting a family.
They were sure this was the house where they would grow old together.
****
“Ugh, my entire body feels like a punching bag.” Lily turned off the light in the bathroom and walked stiffly into the bedroom.
Harold patted the empty half of the bed beside him. “Climb in and I’ll give you a massage.”
Lily eased herself in with a groan. Harold scooted over and started rubbing her neck and shoulders.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. “That feels so good.”
For the next twenty minutes, Harold worked his fingers over every inch of her body, right down to the bottoms of her feet. When he was finished, Lily was rag-doll limp and nearly asleep. “Thank you,” she mumbled. A minute later, she was snoring.
Harold watched the rise and fall of her chest for a moment, thinking how lucky he was. How lucky they both were to have found each other. Then he reached over to the nightstand for the remote control to turn off the television. It wasn’t there.
He looked around the room and spotted the remote sitting next to his wallet on top of the dresser. Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed and quietly walked across the room. He grabbed the remote and was about to return to bed when something outside the window caught his attention. He leaned closer, careful to remain hidden behind the curtains.
Someone was standing in the middle of the street, staring up at the house.
Between the darkness and a tangle of overhanging tree branches, Harold couldn’t make out whether it was a man or woman. All he could see was the still figure of someone standing there, watching. He was about to go downstairs and investigate further when the shadowy figure turned and started slowly walking away.
Harold watched the person disappear down the street and then climbed back into bed. He clicked the remote to turn off the television and lay there in the darkness, thinking about what he’d just seen. He wondered how long the person had been out there watching the house before he’d walked by the window and noticed him. Harold felt unnerved and was certain that sleep would be a long time coming, but within minutes of turning off the television, he was snoring even louder
than his wife.
****
Despite the uneasiness he’d felt the night before, Harold was too busy the next morning to even think about the mysterious figure he’d seen standing in front of the house.
It had been Lily’s idea to paint the third upstairs bedroom before hauling in the contents of what would become their joint office. Harold had gone along with it—mostly because she’d been so excited and he didn’t have the heart to tell her no—but now he regretted it. He was exhausted and covered in baby blue paint.
Lily giggled and used a wet-wipe to rub at the splotches of paint streaking his cheeks and nose. “You look cute, honey.”
“I look like a goddamn Smurf,” he grumbled.
“Hold still and stop being such a baby.”
“I’m not a baby, you’re a baby.”
Lily used the corner of the wet-wipe to dab away a spot of paint from Harold’s chin and tossed it into a nearby waste-basket. “There, you big baby, I’m all finished.”
Harold gave her a pouty look and glanced out the upstairs window. Outside, a red-and-white mail Jeep was just pulling away from the curb in front of the house. “I have an idea,” he said, looking back at her.
“Oh, boy, here we go.”
“No, I’m serious. We’re almost done up here. Why don’t you finish painting and I’ll go downstairs and whip us up some lunch? How does BLTs and iced tea sound?”
Lily started to protest, but stopped herself. “Okay, it’s a deal.”
Harold didn’t hesitate. He yanked off his paint-spattered t-shirt and headed out of the room. Before he reached the hallway, he heard from behind him, “You big baby.” Harold grinned and started downstairs.
But instead of going to the kitchen, he hit the bottom of the stairs and headed out the front door and down the driveway. A couple of shirtless kids cruised past laughing on skateboards. A man across the street was mowing his lawn. He saw Harold and flipped him a friendly wave. Harold returned the gesture just as he reached the mailbox. He opened it and pulled out a stack of what looked like junk-mail and closed it again. He was halfway up the driveway when he noticed a thin piece of pink paper—a pink-slip—with the words FIRST WARNING printed boldly across the top.
Harold stopped walking. He stood there in the driveway and read the notice from top to bottom, then he read it again.
It was a form letter from the Broadview Homeowners’ Association explaining that they were in breach of contract. In a blank space near the top of the form, someone had filled in their address and near the bottom of the form, that same person had handwritten: FAILURE TO PROPERLY STORE TRASH AND REFUSE. SEE CLAUSE 14B FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
Harold looked up at the big pile of empty cardboard boxes sitting at the top of the driveway. Were they serious?
****
“I didn’t even know we had a neighborhood association,” Harold said, shoveling in another bite of lasagna.
Lily pushed her salad plate aside. “I did. We had to pay our first year’s dues at closing. Weren’t you even listening to the realtor?”
He shrugged. “Only about where to sign all those damn papers.”
Harold had shown Lily the warning notice during lunch that afternoon. Surprisingly, her mood had immediately darkened and she’d stewed about it the rest of the day while they’d unpacked and arranged books on the built-in shelves in the living room. It wasn’t like her to act this way. She had a temper, but she was always the reasonable one.
“Where do they get off telling us what to do?” she asked.
“I’m right there with you, baby, but isn’t that what homeowners’ associations do? They make up a bunch of dumb rules for people to follow?”
“But to give us a warning our first week here? And for a bunch of stupid cardboard boxes?”
Harold shrugged. “I guess they’re pretty strict.”
She put down her fork and picked up the pink-slip. “Not strict, ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous,” he agreed, nodding.
“Clause 14B,” she said. She’d found the homeowners’ association rules online earlier in the afternoon and looked it up. “So we should have broken down the boxes and stored them alongside the house until trash day. Big flippin’ deal. They weren’t even out there for twenty-four hours. Who in the world would have complained about that?”
Harold thought about the dark figure standing in the street the night before and decided not to say anything to Lily. She was upset enough. He leaned over and refilled her wine glass. “It really is okay, baby. We just have to forget about it. We’ll probably never hear from the stupid homeowners’ association again.”
****
But he was wrong.
Two weeks later, another pink-slip showed up in the mailbox. Lily found it when she returned home from her afternoon run, and she was livid.
“Look at this,” she said, waving the notice in Harold’s face when he walked in the door that evening from work. “Another warning!”
“What did we do wrong this time?” Harold took the pink-slip from her and read it standing in the foyer. “Second and final warning. Improper lawn ornament/decoration? What in the hell are they talking about?”
Lily snatched the notice away. “They’re talking about our bird bath, Harold.”
“Our … You’re kidding me?”
“I wish I was. Evidently, all plastic lawn ornaments are forbidden. Only concrete, sandstone, marble and copper are acceptable. Do you know what that means?”
“No pink flamingoes for the front yard?”
Lily flashed him a stern look. “It means someone was snooping in our back yard.”
Harold thought about it and nodded. “You’re right. With the tree-line, you can’t see the bird bath from the street and you definitely can’t see it from either of our neighbors’ yards.”
“Even if someone had spotted it from a distance, no way they could tell it was made of plastic. Someone had to have snuck into the back yard and checked it out from up close.”
“All right, now this whole thing’s getting creepy.”
“Tell me about it.” Harold walked into the living room and dropped his briefcase on the floor next to his reading chair. “Tell you what, I’m gonna make some phone calls tonight after dinner and look into this.”
****
Lily heard footsteps in the hallway and looked up from her book. “So what did you find out?”
Harold walked into the bedroom, rubbing his temple. He looked tired and perplexed.
“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “First, I tried calling the number printed on the homeowners’ association notice. An answering machine picked up and said to leave a message after the beep. Only there wasn’t any beep. I called back three more times and got the same thing.”
“That’s strange.”
“Then, I called Nancy Williams, the agent who sold us the house. She was…pretty vague. She said she didn’t know much about the homeowners’ association but had never heard any complaints. She went on and on about how exclusive Broadview was—the best schools, low crime, very little turnover—and then she suggested we ask some of the neighbors about the association.”
“Duh. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Probably because we don’t really know anyone around here yet.” Harold started to say something else, but hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Lily asked, scooting closer.
Harold looked up at her. “I think she was lying.”
“Who? Nancy?”
He nodded. “I’m sure of it, actually. She sounded nervous and, near the end of the call, she just about jumped out of her skin trying to change the subject.”
“That doesn’t sound like Nancy.”
“That’s what I’m saying. As soon as I mentioned the homeowners’ association, it wa
s like a switch had been thrown. Even before I told her about our problems with them.”
Lily thought about it for a moment. “Then I guess we have to talk to the neighbors.”
“I guess we do.”
****
They carefully planned it out in advance. Lily would talk to Mrs. Cavanaugh next door and Harold would talk to Chuck Noonan across the street. Mrs. Cavanaugh was a widow in her late sixties, a friendly woman who was often seen outside tending the rose garden in her front yard. Chuck Noonan was barrel-chested and tattooed, and married to the skinniest woman Lily and Harold had ever seen. At least once a week, he would slip on a colorful tank-top and big, clunky headphones, and hop on a noisy riding mower to cut his lawn.
The plan was simple: they would wait until they spotted Mrs. Cavanaugh or Chuck Noonan working outside, and then they would swoop in for a stealthy interrogation. “Make it quick,” Harold quipped. “Get in and get out.”
As luck would have it, that next Saturday afternoon, both Lily and Harold got the opportunity at the exact same time. As they turned left onto Brooks Road and approached their house on the way home from the grocery store, they saw both Mrs. Cavanaugh and Chuck Noonan outside in their respective yards.
Lily and Harold quickly unloaded the bags of groceries into the kitchen. Before heading off, they fist-bumped in the foyer and kissed each other for luck.
****
“I hope you don’t mind the interruption,” Lily said, keeping her voice low so as to not startle the older woman. “I just had to walk over and tell you how lovely your roses are.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh looked up from the thorny branch she was pruning and smiled. “That’s so very kind of you to say.” She dropped the shears into the pocket of her vest and slipped off her gardening gloves. “Do you garden, dear?”
Lily shook her head. “I never have, but I would like to learn one day. Maybe once we get settled in next door you can give me some tips on how to get started.”
The Long Way Home Page 24
