by Stephen King
Then there was just the sound of the crickets.
I stripped to my shorts, lay down, and tried to sleep. My mind turned to my mother and father. Dad was currently six years old and living in Eau Claire. My mom, only five, was living in an Iowa farmhouse that would burn to the ground three or four years from now. Her family would then move to Wisconsin, and closer to the intersection of lives that would eventually produce . . . me.
I'm crazy, I thought. Crazy and having a terribly involved hallucination in a mental hospital somewhere. Perhaps some doctor will write me up for a psychiatric journal. Instead of The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, I'll be The Man Who Thought He Was in 1958.
But I ran my hand over the nubby fabric of the bedspread, which I had yet to turn back, and knew that it was all true. I thought of Lee Harvey Oswald, but Oswald still belonged to the future and he wasn't what was troubling me in this museum piece of a motel room.
I sat on the edge of the bed, opened the briefcase, and took out my cell phone, a time-traveling gadget that was absolutely worthless here. Nevertheless, I could not resist flipping it open and pushing the power button. NO SERVICE popped up in the window, of course--what had I expected? Five bars? A plaintive voice saying Come home, Jake, before you cause damage you can't undo? Stupid, superstitious idea. If I did damage, I could undo it, because every trip was a reset. You could say that time-travel came with a built-in safety switch.
That was comforting, but having a phone like this in a world where color TV was the biggest technological breakthrough in consumer electronics wasn't comforting at all. I wouldn't be hung as a witch if I was found with it, but I might be arrested by the local cops and held in a jail cell until some of J. Edgar Hoover's boys could arrive from Washington to question me.
I put it on the bed, then pulled all of my change out of my right front pocket. I separated the coins into two piles. Those from 1958 and earlier went back into my pocket. Those from the future went into one of the envelopes I found in the desk drawer (along with a Gideon Bible and a Hi-Hat takeout menu). I got dressed, took my key, and left the room.
The crickets were much louder outside. A broken piece of moon hung in the sky. Away from its glow, the stars had never seemed so bright or close. A truck droned past on 196, and then the road was still. This was the countryside, and the countryside was sleeping. In the distance, a freight train whistled a hole in the night.
There were only two cars in the courtyard, and the units they belonged to were dark. So was the office. Feeling like a criminal, I walked into the field behind the motor court. High grass whickered against the legs of my jeans, which I would swap tomorrow for my new Ban-Lon slacks.
There was a smoothwire fence marking the edge of the Tamarack's property. Beyond it was a small pond, what rural people call a tank. Nearby, half a dozen cows were sleeping in the warm night. One of them looked up at me as I worked my way under the fence and walked to the tank. After that it lost interest and lowered its head again. It didn't raise it when my Nokia cell phone splashed into the pond. I sealed the envelope with my coins inside it and sent it after the phone. Then I went back the way I came, pausing at the rear of the motel to make sure the courtyard was still empty. It was.
I let myself into my room, undressed, and was asleep almost instantly.
CHAPTER 6
1
The same chain-smoking cabbie picked me up the next morning, and when he dropped me off at Titus Chevron, the convertible was there. I had expected this, but it was still a relief. I was wearing a nondescript gray sport coat I'd bought off the rack at Mason's Menswear. My new ostrich wallet was safe in its inner pocket, and lined with five hundred dollars of Al's cash. Titus came over to me while I was admiring the Ford, wiping his hands on what looked like the same rag he'd been using on them yesterday.
"I slept on it, and I want it," I said.
"That's good," he said, then assumed an air of regret. "But I slept on it, too, Mr. Amberson, and I guess I told you a lie when I said there might be some room for dickerin. Do you know what my wife said this morning while we were eatin our pancakes n bacon? She said 'Bill, you'd be a damn fool to let that Sunliner go for less'n three-fifty.' In fact, she said I was a damn fool for pricin it that low to start with."
I nodded as if I'd expected nothing else. "Okay," I said.
He looked surprised.
"Here's what I can do, Mr. Titus. I can write you a check for three hundred and fifty--good check, Hometown Trust, you can call them and see--or I can give you three hundred in cash right out of my wallet. Less paperwork if we do it like that. What do you say?"
He grinned, revealing teeth of startling whiteness. "I say they know how to drive a bargain out there in Wisconsin. If you make it three-twenty, I'll put on a sticker and a fourteen-day plate and off you go."
"Three-ten."
"Aw, don't make me squirm," Titus said, but he wasn't squirming; he was enjoying himself. "Add a fin onto that and we'll call it a deal."
I held out my hand. "Three hundred and fifteen works for me."
"Yowza." This time he shook with me, never minding the grease. Then he pointed to the sales booth. Today the ponytailed cutie was reading Confidential. "You'll want to pay the young lady, who happens to be my daughter. She'll write up the sale. When you're done, come around and I'll put on that sticker. Throw in a tank of gas, too."
Forty minutes later, behind the wheel of a 1954 Ford ragtop that now belonged to me, I was headed north toward Derry. I learned on a standard, so that was no problem, but this was the first car I'd ever driven with the gearshift on the column. It was weird at first, but once I got used to it (I would also have to get used to operating the headlight dimmer switch with my left foot), I liked it. And Bill Titus had been right about second gear; in second, the Sunliner went like a bastid. In Augusta, I stopped long enough to haul the top down. In Waterville, I grabbed a fine meatloaf dinner that cost ninety-five cents, apple pie a la mode included. It made the Fatburger look overpriced. I hummed along with the Skyliners, the Coasters, the Del Vikings, the Elegants. The sun was warm, the breeze ruffled my new short haircut, and the turnpike (nicknamed "The Mile-A-Minute Highway," according to the billboards) was pretty much all mine. I seemed to have left my doubts of the night before sunk in the cow-tank along with my cell phone and futuristic change. I felt good.
Until I saw Derry.
2
There was something wrong with that town, and I think I knew it from the first.
I took Route 7 when The Mile-A-Minute Highway petered down to an asphalt-patched two-lane, and twenty miles or so north of Newport, I came over a rise and saw Derry hulking on the west bank of the Kenduskeag under a cloud of pollution from God knew how many paper and textile mills, all operating full bore. There was an artery of green running through the center of town. From a distance it looked like a scar. The town around that jagged greenbelt seemed to consist solely of sooty grays and blacks under a sky that had been stained urine yellow by the stuff billowing from all those smokestacks.
I drove past several produce stands where the people minding the counters (or just standing side o' the road and gaping as I drove past) looked more like inbred hillbillies from Deliverance than Maine farmers. As I passed the last of them, BOWERS ROADSIDE PRODUCE, a large mongrel raced out from behind several heaped baskets of tomatoes and chased me, drooling and snapping at the Sunliner's rear tires. It looked like a misbegotten bulldog. Before I lost sight of it, I saw a scrawny woman in overalls approach it and begin beating it with a piece of board.
This was the town where Harry Dunning had grown up, and I hated it from the first. No concrete reason; I just did. The downtown shopping area, situated at the bottom of three steep hills, felt pitlike and claustrophobic. My cherry-red Ford seemed like the brightest thing on the street, a distracting (and unwelcome, judging by most of the glances it was attracting) splash of color amid the black Plymouths, brown Chevrolets, and grimy delivery trucks. Running through the center of town
was a canal filled almost to the top of its moss-splotched concrete retaining walls with black water.
I found a parking space on Canal Street. A nickel in the meter bought me an hour's worth of shopping time. I'd forgotten to buy a hat in Lisbon Falls, and two or three storefronts up I saw an outfit called Derry Dress & Everyday, Central Maine's Most Debonair Haberdashery. I doubted there was much competition in that regard.
I had parked in front of the drugstore, and paused to examine the sign in the window. Somehow it sums up my feelings about Derry--the sour mistrust, the sense of barely withheld violence--better than anything else, although I was there for almost two months and (with the possible exception of a few people I happened to meet) disliked everything about it. The sign read:
SHOPLIFTING IS NOT A "KICK" OR A "GROOVE" OR A "GASSER"! SHOPLIFTING IS A CRIME, AND WE WILL PROSECUTE!
NORBERT KEENE
OWNER & MANAGER
And the thin, bespectacled man in the white smock who was looking out at me just about had to be Mr. Keene. His expression did not say Come on in, stranger, poke around and buy something, maybe have an ice cream soda. Those hard eyes and that turned-down mouth said Go away, there's nothing here for the likes of you. Part of me thought I was making that up; most of me knew I wasn't. As an experiment, I raised my hand in a hello gesture.
The man in the white smock did not raise his in return.
I realized that the canal I'd seen must run directly beneath this peculiar sunken downtown, and I was standing on top of it. I could feel hidden water in my feet, thrumming the sidewalk. It was a vaguely unpleasant feeling, as if this little piece of the world had gone soft.
A male mannequin wearing a tuxedo stood in the window of Derry Dress & Everyday. There was a monocle in one eye and a school pennant in one plaster hand. The pennant read DERRY TIGERS WILL SLAUGHTER BANGOR RAMS! Even though I was a fan of school spirit, this struck me as a little over the top. Beat the Bangor Rams, sure--but slaughter them?
Just a figure of speech, I told myself, and went in.
A clerk with a tape measure around his neck approached me. His duds were much nicer than mine, but the dim overhead bulbs made his complexion look yellow. I felt an absurd urge to ask, Can you sell me a nice summer straw hat, or should I just go fuck myself? Then he smiled, asked how he could help me, and everything seemed almost normal. He had the required item, and I took possession of it for a mere three dollars and seventy cents.
"A shame you'll have such a short time to wear it before the weather turns cold," he said.
I put the hat on and adjusted it in the mirror beside the counter. "Maybe we'll get a good stretch of Indian summer."
Gently and rather apologetically, he tilted the hat the other way. It was a matter of two inches or less, but I stopped looking like a clodhopper on a visit to the big city and started to look like . . . well . . . central Maine's most debonair time-traveler. I thanked him.
"Not at all, Mr.--?"
"Amberson," I said, and held out my hand. His grip was short, limp, and powdery with some sort of talcum. I restrained an urge to rub my hand on my sport coat after he released it.
"In Derry on business?"
"Yes. Are you from here yourself?"
"Lifelong resident," he said, and sighed as if this were a burden. Based on my own first impressions, I guessed it might be. "What's your game, Mr. Amberson, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Real estate. But while I'm here, I thought I'd look up an old Army buddy. His name is Dunning. I don't recall his first name, we just used to call him Skip." The Skip part was a fabrication, but it was true that I didn't know the first name of Harry Dunning's father. Harry had named his brothers and sister in his theme, but the man with the hammer had always been "my father" or "my dad."
"I'm afraid I couldn't help you there, sir." Now he sounded distant. Business was done, and although the store was empty of other customers, he wanted me gone.
"Well, maybe you can with something else. What's the best hotel in town?"
"That would be the Derry Town House. Just turn back to Kenduskeag Avenue, take your right, and go up Up-Mile Hill to Main Street. Look for the carriage lamps out front."
"Up-Mile Hill?"
"That's what we call it, yes sir. If there's nothing else, I have several alterations to make out back."
When I left, the light had begun to drain from the sky. One thing I remember vividly about the time I spent in Derry during September and October of 1958 was how evening always seemed to come early.
One storefront down from Derry Dress & Everyday was Machen's Sporting Goods, where THE FALL GUN SALE was under way. Inside, I saw two men sighting hunting rifles while an elderly clerk with a string tie (and a stringy neck to go with it) looked on approvingly. The other side of Canal appeared to be lined with workingmen's bars, the kind where you could get a beer and a shot for fifty cents and all the music on the Rock-Ola would be C & W. There was the Happy Nook, the Wishing Well (which the habitues called the Bucket of Blood, I later learned), Two Brothers, the Golden Spoke, and the Sleepy Silver Dollar.
Standing outside the latter, a quartet of bluecollar gents was taking the afternoon air and staring at my convertible. They were equipped with mugs of beer and cigarettes. Their faces were shaded beneath flat caps of tweed and cotton. Their feet were clad in the big no-color workboots my 2011 students called shitkickers. Three of the four were wearing suspenders. They watched me with no expression on their faces. I thought for a moment of the mongrel that had chased my car, snapping and drooling, then crossed the street.
"Gents," I said. "What's on tap in there?"
For a moment none of them answered. Just when I thought none of them would, the one sans suspenders said, "Bud and Mick, what else? You from away?"
"Wisconsin," I said.
"Bully for you," one of them muttered.
"Late in the year for tourists," another said.
"I'm in town on business, but I thought I might look up an old service buddy while I'm here." No response to this, unless one of the men dropping his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and then putting it out with a snot-loogie the size of a small mussel could be termed an answer. Nevertheless, I pushed on. "Skip Dunning's his name. Do any of you fellows know a Dunning?"
"Should hope to smile n kiss a pig," No Suspenders said.
"I beg pardon?"
He rolled his eyes and turned down the corners of his mouth, the out-of-patience expression a man gives to a stupid person with no hope of ever being smart. "Derry's full of Dunnings. Check the damn phone book." He started inside. His posse followed. No Suspenders opened the door for them, then turned back to me. "What's that Ford got in it?" Gut for got. "V-8?"
"Y-block." Hoping I sounded as if I knew what it meant.
"Pretty good goer?"
"Not bad."
"Then maybe you should climb in and go 'er right on up the hill. They got some nice joints there. These bars are for millies." No Suspenders assessed me in a cold way I came to expect in Derry, but never got used to. "You'd get stared at. P'raps more, when the 'leven-to-seven lets out from Striar's and Boutillier's."
"Thanks. That's very kind of you."
The cold assessment continued. "You don't know much, do you?" he remarked, then went inside.
I walked back to my convertible. On that gray street, with the smell of industrial smokes in the air and the afternoon bleeding away to evening, downtown Derry looked only marginally more charming than a dead hooker in a church pew. I got in, engaged the clutch, started the engine, and felt a strong urge to just drive away. Drive back to Lisbon Falls, climb up through the rabbit-hole, and tell Al Templeton to find another boy. Only he couldn't, could he? He was out of strength and almost out of time. I was, as the New England saying goes, the trapper's last shot.
I drove up to Main Street, saw the carriage lamps (they came on for the night just as I spotted them), and pulled into the turnaround in front of the Derry Town House. Five minutes later, I was checked
in. My time in Derry had begun.
3
By the time I got my new possessions unpacked (some of the remaining cash went into my wallet, the rest into the lining of my new valise) I was good and hungry, but before going down to dinner, I checked the telephone book. What I saw caused my heart to sink. Mr. No Suspenders might not have been very welcoming, but he was right about Dunnings selling cheap in Derry and the four or five surrounding hamlets that were also included in the directory. There was almost a full page of them. It wasn't that surprising, because in small towns certain names seem to sprout like dandelions on a lawn in June. In my last five years teaching English at LHS, I must have had two dozen Starbirds and Lemkes, some of them siblings, most of them first, second, or third cousins. They intermarried and made more.
Before leaving for the past I should have taken time to call Harry Dunning and ask him his father's first name--it would have been so simple. I surely would have, if I hadn't been so utterly and completely gobsmacked by what Al had shown me, and what he was asking me to do. But, I thought, how hard can it be? It shouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to find a family with kids named Troy, Arthur (alias Tugga), Ellen, and Harry.
With this thought to cheer me, I went down to the hotel restaurant and ordered a shore dinner, which came with clams and a lobster roughly the size of an outboard motor. I skipped dessert in favor of a beer in the bar. In the detective novels I read, bartenders were often excellent sources of information. Of course, if the one working the Town House stick was like the other people I'd met so far in this grim little burg, I wouldn't get far.
He wasn't. The man who left off his glass-polishing duties to serve me was young and stocky, with a cheery full moon of a face below his flattop haircut. "What can I get you, friend?"
