by Stephen King
That man trapped her husband. He set him up. He smeared Thorny’s innocent name and packed him off to jail just to make himself look good. Wanda hopes they never catch the Fisherman, because the Fisherman is exactly what they deserve, those dirty bastards. Play dirty, you are dirty, and people like that can go straight to the deepest bowels of hell—that’s what Wanda Kinderling thinks. The Fisherman is retribution—that’s what Wanda thinks. Let him kill a hundred brats, let him kill a thousand, and after that he can start in on their parents. Thorny could not have killed those sluts down there in Los Angeles. Those were sex murders, and Thorny had no interest in sex, thank the Lord. The rest of him grew up, but his man-part never did; his thingie was about the size of his little finger. It was impossible for him to care about nasty women and sex things. But Jack Sawyer lived in Los Angeles, didn’t he? So why couldn’t he have killed those sluts, those whores, and blamed it all on Thorny?
The newscaster describes former Lieutenant Sawyer’s actions of the previous night, and Wanda Kinderling spits up bile, grabs the glass from her bedside table, and douses the fire in her guts with three inches of vodka.
Gorg, who would seem a natural visitor to the likes of Wanda, pays no attention to the news, for he is far away in Faraway.
In his bed at Maxton’s, Charles Burnside is enjoying dreams not precisely his, for they emanate from another being, from elsewhere, and depict a world he has never seen on his own. Ragged, enslaved children plod on their bleeding foodzies past leaping flames, turning giant wheels that turn yet larger wheels oho aha that power the beyoodiful engynes of destruction mounting mounting to the black-and-red sky. The Big Combination! An acrid stink of molten metal and something truly vile, something like dragon urine, perfumes the air, as does the leaden stench of despair. Lizard demons with thick, flickering tails whip the children along. A din of clattering and banging, of crashing and enormous thuds punishes the ears. These are the dreams of Burny’s dearest friend and loving master, Mr. Munshun, a being of endless and perverse delight.
Down past the end of Daisy wing, across the handsome lobby, and through Rebecca Vilas’s little cubicle, Chipper Maxton is concerned with matters considerably more mundane. The little TV on a shelf over the safe broadcasts the wondrous image of Mad Hungarian Hrabowski clobbering Wendell Green with a nice, clean sweep of his heavy-duty flashlight, but Chipper barely notices the splendid moment. He has to come up with the thirteen thousand dollars he owes his bookie, and he has only about half of that sum. Yesterday, lovely Rebecca drove to Miller to withdraw most of what he had stashed there, and he can use about two thousand dollars from his own account, as long as he replaces it before the end of the month. That leaves about six grand, an amount that will call for some seriously creative bookkeeping. Fortunately, creative bookkeeping is a speciality of Chipper’s, and when he begins to think of his options, he sees his current difficulty as an opportunity.
After all, he went into business in the first place to steal as much money as possible, didn’t he? Apart from being serviced by Ms. Vilas, stealing is about the only activity that makes him truly happy. The amount is almost irrelevant: as we have seen, Chipper derives as much pleasure from conning chump change out of the visiting relatives after the Strawberry Fest as from screwing the government out of ten or fifteen thousand dollars. The thrill lies in getting away with it. So he needs six thousand; why not take ten thousand? That way, he can leave his own account untouched and still have an extra two grand to play with. He has two sets of books on his computer, and he can easily draw the money from the company’s bank account without setting off bells during his next state audit, which is coming up in about a month. Unless the auditors demand the bank records, and even then there are a couple of tricks he can use. It’s too bad about the audit, though—Chipper would like to have a little more time to paper over the cracks. Losing the thirteen thousand wasn’t the problem, he thinks. The problem was that he lost it at the wrong time.
In order to keep everything clear in his head, Chipper pulls his keyboard toward him and tells the computer to print out complete statements of both sets of books for the past month. By the time the auditors show up, baby, those pages will have been fed into the shredder and come out as macaroni.
Let us move from one form of insanity to another. After the owner of the Holiday Trailer Park has extended a trembling index finger to point out the Freneau residence, Jack drives toward it on the dusty path with gathering doubts. Tansy’s Airstream is the last and least maintained of a row of four. Two of the others have flowers in a bright border around them, and the third has been dressed up with striped green awnings that make it look more like a house. The fourth trailer displays no signs of decoration or improvement. Dying flowers and skimpy weeds straggle in the beaten earth surrounding it. The shades are pulled down. An air of misery and waste hangs about it, along with a quality Jack might define, if he stopped to consider it, as slippage. In no obvious way, the trailer looks wrong. Unhappiness has distorted it, as it can distort a person, and when Jack gets out of his truck and walks toward the cinder blocks placed before the entrance, his doubts increase. He can no longer be sure why he has come to this place. It occurs to Jack that he can give Tansy Freneau nothing but his pity, and this thought makes him uneasy.
Then it occurs to him that these doubts mask his real feelings, which have to do with the discomfort the trailer arouses in him. He does not want to enter that thing. Everything else is a rationalization; he has no choice but to keep moving forward. His eyes find the welcome mat, a reassuring touch of the ordinary world he can feel already disappearing around him, and he steps up onto the topmost board and knocks on the door. Nothing happens. Maybe she really is still asleep and would prefer to stay that way. If he were Tansy, he would stay in bed as long as possible. If he were Tansy, he’d stay in bed for weeks. Once more pushing away his reluctance, Jack raps on the door again and says, “Tansy? Are you up?”
A little voice from within says, “Up where?”
Uh-oh, Jack thinks, and says, “Out of bed. I’m Jack Sawyer, Tansy. We met last night. I’m helping the police, and I told you I’d come over today.”
He hears footsteps moving toward the door. “Are you the man who gave me the flowers? He was a nice man.”
“That was me.”
A lock clicks, and the knob revolves. The door cracks open. A sliver of a faintly olive-skinned face and a single eye shine out of the inner darkness. “It is you. Come in, fast. Fast.” She steps back, opening the door just wide enough for him to pass through. As soon as he is inside, she slams it shut and locks it again.
The molten light burning at the edges of the curtains and the window shades deepens the darkness of the long trailer’s interior. One soft lamp burns above the sink, and another, just as low, illuminates a little table otherwise occupied by a bottle of coffee brandy, a smeary glass decorated with a picture of a cartoon character, and a scrapbook. The circle of light cast by the lamp extends to take in half of a low, fabric-covered chair next to the table. Tansy Freneau pushes herself off the door and takes two light, delicate steps toward him. She tilts her head and folds her hands together beneath her chin. The eager, slightly glazed expression in her eyes dismays Jack. By even the widest, most comprehensive definition of sanity, this woman is not sane. He has no idea what to say to her.
“Would you care to . . . sit down?” With a hostessy wave of her hand, she indicates a high-backed wooden chair.
“If it’s all right with you.”
“Why wouldn’t it be all right? I’m going to sit down in my chair, why shouldn’t you sit down in that one?”
“Thank you,” Jack says, and sits down, watching her glide back to the door to check the lock. Satisfied, Tansy gives him a brilliant smile and pads back to her chair, moving almost with the duck-waddle grace of a ballerina. When she lowers herself to the chair, he says, “Are you afraid of someone who might come here, Tansy? Is there someone you want to keep locked out?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, and leans forward, pulling her eyebrows together in an exaggerated display of little-girl seriousness. “But it isn’t a someone, it’s a thing. And I’m never, never going to let him in my house again, not ever. But I’ll let you in, because you’re a very nice man and you gave me those beautiful flowers. And you’re very handsome, too.”
“Is Gorg the thing you want to keep out, Tansy? Are you afraid of Gorg?”
“Yes,” she says, primly. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I’m going to have some. It’s very, very good tea. It tastes sort of like coffee.” She raises her eyebrows and gives him a bright, questioning look. He shakes his head. Without moving from her chair, Tansy pours two fingers of the brandy into her glass and sets the bottle back down on the table. The figure on her glass, Jack sees, is Scooby-Doo. Tansy sips from the glass. “Yummy. Do you have a girlfriend? I could be your girlfriend, you know, especially if you gave me more of those lovely flowers. I put them in a vase.” She pronounces the word like a parody of a Boston matron: vahhhz. “See?”
On the kitchen counter, the lilies of the vale droop in a mason jar half-filled with water. Removed from the Territories, they do not have long to live. This world, Jack supposes, is poisoning them faster than they are able to deal with. Every ounce of goodness they yield to their surroundings subtracts from their essence. Tansy, he realizes, has been kept afloat on the residue of the Territories remaining in the lilies—when they die, her protective little-girl persona will crumble into dust, and her madness may engulf her. That madness came from Gorg; he’d bet his life on it.
“I do have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t count. His name is Lester Moon. Beezer and his friends call him Stinky Cheese, but I don’t know why. Lester isn’t all that stinky, at least not when he’s sober.”
“Tell me about Gorg,” Jack says.
Extending her little finger away from the Scooby-Doo glass, Tansy takes another sip of coffee brandy. She frowns. “Oh, that’s a real icky thing to talk about.”
“I want to know about him, Tansy. If you help me, I can make sure he never bothers you again.”
“Really?”
“And you’d be helping me find the man who killed your daughter.”
“I can’t talk about that now. It’s too upsetting.” Tansy flutters her free hand over her lap as if sweeping off a crumb. Her face contracts, and a new expression moves into her eyes. For a second, the desperate, unprotected Tansy rises to the surface, threatening to explode in a madness of grief and rage.
“Does Gorg look like a person, or like something else?”
Tansy shakes her head from side to side with great slowness. She is composing herself again, reinstating a personality that can ignore her real emotions. “Gorg does not look like a person. Not at all.”
“You said he gave you the feather you were wearing. Does he look like a bird?”
“Gorg doesn’t look like a bird, he is a bird. And do you know what kind?” She leans forward again, and her face takes on the expression of a six-year-old girl about to tell the worst thing she knows. “A raven. That’s what he is, a big, old raven. All black. But not shiny black.” Her eyes widen with the seriousness of what she has to say. “He came from Night’s Plutonian shore. That’s from a poem Mrs. Normandie taught us in the sixth grade. ‘The Raven,’ by Edgar Allan Poe.”
Tansy straightens up, having passed on this nugget of literary history. Jack guesses that Mrs. Normandie probably wore the same satisfied, pedagogic expression that is now on Tansy’s face, but without the bright, unhealthy glaze in Tansy’s eyes.
“Night’s Plutonian shore is not part of this world,” Tansy continues. “Did you know that? It’s alongside this world, and outside it. You need to find a door, if you want to go there.”
This is like talking to Judy Marshall, Jack abruptly realizes, but a Judy without the depth of soul and the unbelievable courage that rescued her from madness. The instant that Judy Marshall comes into his mind, he wants to see her again, so strongly that Judy feels like the one essential key to the puzzle all around him. And if she is the key, she is also the door the key opens. Jack wants to be out of the dark, warped atmosphere of Tansy’s Airstream; he wants to put off the Thunder Five and speed up the highway and over the hill to Arden and the gloomy hospital where radiant Judy Marshall has found freedom in a locked mental ward.
“But I don’t ever want to find that door, because I don’t want to go there,” Tansy says in a singsong voice. “Night’s Plutonian shore is a bad world. Everything’s on fire there.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gorg told me,” she whispers. Tansy’s gaze skitters away from him and fastens on the Scooby-Doo glass. “Gorg likes fire. But not because it makes him warm. Because it burns things up, and that makes him happy. Gorg said . . .” She shakes her head and lifts the glass to her mouth. Instead of drinking from it, she tilts the liquid toward the lip of the glass and laps at it with her tongue. Her eyes slide up to meet his again. “I think my tea is magic.”
I bet you do, Jack thinks, and his heart nearly bursts for delicate lost Tansy.
“You can’t cry in here,” she tells him. “You looked like you wanted to cry, but you can’t. Mrs. Normandie doesn’t allow it. You can kiss me, though. Do you want to kiss me?”
“Of course I do,” he says. “But Mrs. Normandie doesn’t allow kissing, either.”
“Oh, well.” Tansy laps again at her drink. “We can do it later, when she leaves the room. And you can put your arms around me, like Lester Moon. And everything Lester does, you can do. With me.”
“Thank you,” Jack says. “Tansy, can you tell me some of the other things Gorg said?”
She cants her head and pushes her lips in and out. “He said he came here through a burning hole. With folded-back edges. And he said I was a mother, and I had to help my daughter. In the poem, her name is Lenore, but her real name is Irma. And he said . . . he said a mean old man ate her leg, but there were worse things that could have happened to my Irma.”
For a couple of seconds, Tansy seems to recede into herself, to vanish behind her stationary surface. Her mouth remains half open; she does not even blink. When she returns from where she has gone, it is like watching a statue slowly come to life. Her voice is almost too soft to be heard. “I was supposed to fix that old man, fix him but good. Only you gave me my beautiful lilies, and he wasn’t the right man, was he?”
Jack feels like screaming.
“He said there were worse things,” Tansy says in a whisper of disbelief. “But he didn’t say what they were. He showed me, instead. And when I saw, I thought my eyes burned up. Even though I could still see.”
“What did you see?”
“A big, big place all made of fire,” Tansy says. “Going way high up.” She falls silent, and an internal temblor runs through her, beginning in her face and moving down and out through her fingers. “Irma isn’t there. No, she isn’t. She got dead, and a mean old man ate her leg. He sent me a letter, but I never got it. So Gorg read it to me. I don’t want to think about that letter.” She sounds like a little girl describing something she has heard about thirdhand, or has invented. A thick curtain lies between Tansy and what she has seen and heard, and that curtain allows her to function. Jack again wonders what will happen to her when the lilies die.
“And now,” she says, “if you’re not going to kiss me, it’s time you left. I want to be alone for a while.”
Surprised by her decisiveness, Jack stands up and begins to say something polite and meaningless. Tansy waves him toward the door.
Outside, the air seems heavy with bad odors and unseen chemicals. The lilies from the Territories retained more power than Jack had imagined, enough to sweeten and purify Tansy’s air. The ground beneath Jack’s feet has been baked dry, and a parched sourness hangs in the atmosphere. Jack has nearly to force himself to breathe as he walks toward his truck, but the more he breathe
s, the more quickly he will readjust to the ordinary world. His world, though now it feels poisoned. He wants to do one thing only: drive up Highway 93 to Judy Marshall’s lookout point and keep on going, through Arden and into the parking lot, past the hospital doors, past the barriers of Dr. Spiegleman and Warden Jane Bond, until he can find himself once again in the life-giving presence of Judy Marshall herself.
He almost thinks he loves Judy Marshall. Maybe he does love her. He knows he needs her: Judy is his door and his key. His door, his key. Whatever that means, it is the truth. All right, the woman he needs is married to the extremely nice Fred Marshall, but he doesn’t want to marry her; in fact, he doesn’t even want to sleep with her, not exactly—he just wants to stand before her and see what happens. Something will happen, that’s for sure, but when he tries to picture it, all he sees is an explosion of tiny red feathers, hardly the image he was hoping for.
Feeling unsteady, Jack props himself on the cab of his truck with one hand while he grabs the door handle with the other. Both surfaces sear his hands, and he waves them in the air for a little while. When he gets into the cab, the seat is hot, too. He rolls down his window and, with a twinge of loss, notices that the world smells normal to him again. It smells fine. It smells like summer. Where is he going to go? That is an interesting question, he thinks, but after he gets back on the road and travels no more than a hundred feet, the low, gray wooden shape of the Sand Bar appears on his left, and without hesitating he turns into the absurdly extensive parking lot, as if he knew where he was going all along. Looking for a shady spot, Jack cruises around to the back of the building and sees the Bar’s single hint of landscaping, a broad maple tree that rises out of the asphalt at the far end of the lot. He guides the Ram into the maple’s shadow and gets out, leaving the windows cranked down. Waves of heat ripple upward from the only other two cars in the lot.
