by Stephen King
It came out of the swimming pool just after they finished playing Adie’s Wedding in Rampopo, the baby-house on the side lawn (today Lo-Lo got to play Adie). Sometimes Libbit can make these awful things go away by scribbling on her pad, but now Libbit is sleeping—she has had a great many troubled nights lately.
The big boy leaps off the path and onto the beach, spraying sand all around. Its bulging eyes stare. Its fragile white belly, so full of noisome guts, bulges. Its throat throbs.
The two girls, standing with their hands linked and their feet in the running boil of what Daddy calls the little surf, look at each other. Then they look at the ship, swinging at anchor with its sails furled and shining. It looks even closer, as if it has moved in to rescue them.
Lo-Lo says We have to.
Tessie says But I can’t SWIM!
You can dogpaddle!
The big boy leaps. They can hear its guts slosh when it lands. They sound like wet garbage in a barrel of water. The blue fades from the sky and then the sky bleeds red. Then, slowly, it changes back again. It’s been that kind of day. And haven’t they known this kind of day was coming? Haven’t they seen it in Libbit’s haunted eyes? Nan Melda knows; even Daddy knows, and he’s not here all the time. Today he’s in Tampa, and when they look at the greenish-white horror that’s almost upon them, they know that Tampa might as well be the far side of the moon. They are on their own.
Tessie grips Lo-Lo’s shoulder with cold fingers. What about the rip?
But Lo-Lo shakes her head. The rip is good! The rip will take us to the boat!
There’s no more time to talk. The frog-thing is getting ready to leap again. And they understand that, while it cannot be real, somehow it is. It can kill them. Better to chance the water. They turn, still holding hands, and throw themselves into the caldo. They fix their eyes on the slim white swallow swinging at anchor close to them. Surely they will be hauled aboard, and someone will use the ship-to-shore to call the Roost. “Netted us a pair of mermaids,” they’ll say. “You know anyone who wants em?”
The rip parts their hands. It is ruthless, and Lo-Lo actually drowns first because she fights harder. Tessie hears her cry out twice. First for help. Then, giving up, her sister’s name.
Meanwhile, a vagary of the rip is sweeping Tessie straight for the ship, and holding her up at the same time. For a few magical moments it’s as though she’s on a surfboard, and her weak dogpaddle seems to be propelling her like an outboard motor. Then, just before a colder current reaches up and coils around her ankles, she sees the ship change into—
Here’s a picture I did paint, not once but again and again and again:
The whiteness of the hull doesn’t exactly disappear; it is sucked inward like blood fleeing the cheek of a terrified man. The ropes fray. The brightwork dulls. The glass in the windows of the aft cabin bursts outward. A junkheap clutter appears on the decking, rolling into existence from fore to aft. Except it was there all along. Tessie just didn’t see it. Now she sees.
Now she believes.
A creature comes from belowdecks. It creeps to the railing, where it stares down at the girl. It is a slumped thing in a hooded red robe. Hair that might not be hair at all flutters dankly around a melted face. Yellow hands grip splintered, punky wood. Then, one lifts slowly.
And waves to the girl who will soon be GONE.
It says Come to me, child.
And, drowning, Tessie Eastlake thinks It’s a WOMAN!
She sinks. And does she feel still-warm hands, those of her freshly dead sister, gripping her calves and pulling her down?
Yes, of course. Of course she does.
Believing is also feeling.
Any artist will tell you so.
13—The Show
i
Someday, if your life is long and your thinking machinery stays in gear, you’ll live to remember the last good thing that ever happened to you. That’s not pessimism talking, just logic. I hope I haven’t run out of good things yet—there would be no purpose in living if I believed I had—but it’s been a long time between. I remember the last one clearly. It happened a little over four years ago, on the evening of April fifteenth, at the Scoto Gallery. It was between seven forty-five and eight o’clock, and the shadows on Palm Avenue were beginning to take on the first faint tinges of blue. I know the time, because I kept checking my watch. The Scoto was already packed—to the legal limit and probably a little beyond—but my family hadn’t arrived. I had seen Pam and Illy earlier in the day, and Wireman had assured me that Melinda’s flight was on time, but so far that evening there hadn’t been a sign of them. Or a call.
In the alcove to my left, where both the bar and eight of the Sunset With pictures had drawn a crowd, a trio from the local music conservatory was tinkling through a funereal version of “My Funny Valentine.” Mary Ire (holding a glass of champagne but sober so far) was expatiating on something artistic to an attentive little crowd. To the right was a bigger room, featuring a buffet. On one wall in there was Roses Grow from Shells and a painting called I See the Moon; on another, three views of Duma Road. I’d observed several people taking photographs of these with their camera-phones, although a sign on a tripod just inside the door announced that all photography was verboten.
I mentioned this to Jimmy Yoshida in passing, and he nodded, seeming not angry or even irritated, but rather bemused. “There are a great many people here I either don’t associate with the art scene or don’t recognize at all,” he said. “The size of this crowd is outside of my experience.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“God, no! But after years of fighting to keep our corporate heads above water, it feels strange to be carried along this way.”
The Scoto’s center gallery was large, which was a good thing that night. In spite of the food, drink, and music in the smaller rooms, the center seemed to be where most of the visitors eventually gravitated. The Girl and Ship series had been mounted there on almost invisible cords, directly down the center of the room. Wireman Looks West was on the wall at the far end. That one and Girl and Ship No. 8 were the only paintings in the show which I had stickered NFS, Wireman because the painting was his, No. 8 because I simply couldn’t sell it.
“We keepin you up, boss?” Angel Slobotnik said from my left, as oblivious to his wife’s elbow as ever.
“No,” I said. “I was never more awake in my life, I just—”
A man in a suit that had to’ve cost two grand stuck out his hand. “Henry Vestick, Mr. Freemantle, First Sarasota Bank and Trust. Private Accounts. These are just marvelous. I am stunned. I am amazed.”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking he’d left out YOU MUST NOT STOP. “Very kind.”
A business card appeared between his fingers. It was like watching a street-busker do a magic trick. Or would have been, if street-buskers wore Armani suits. “If there’s anything I can do … I’ve written my phone numbers on the back—home, cell, office.”
“Very kind,” I repeated. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and really, what did Mr. Vestick think I was going to do? Call him at home and thank him again? Ask him for a loan and offer him a painting as collateral?
“May I bring my wife over later and introduce her?” he asked, and I saw a look in his eyes. It wasn’t exactly like the look that had been in Wireman’s when he realized that I’d put the blocks to Candy Brown, but it was close. As if Vestick were a little afraid of me.
“Of course,” I said, and he slipped away.
“You used to build branch banks for guys like that and then have to fight em when they didn’t want to pay the overage,” Angel said. He was in a blue off-the-rack suit and looked on the verge of bursting out of it in nine different directions, like The Incredible Hulk. “Back then he woulda thought you were just some moke tryin to mess up his day. Now he looks at you like you could shit gold belt-buckles.”
“Angel, you stop!” Helen Slobotnik cried, simultaneously throwing another elbow and grabbing fo
r his glass of champagne. He held it serenely out of her reach.
“Tell her it’s the truth, boss!”
“I think it sort of is,” I said.
And it wasn’t only the banker I was getting that look from. The women … jeez. When my eyes met theirs, I caught a softening, a speculation, as if they were wondering how I might hold them with only the one arm. That was probably crazy, but—
I was grabbed from behind, almost yanked off my feet. My own glass of champagne would have spilled, but Angel snatched it deftly. I turned, and there was Kathi Green, smiling at me. She’d left the Rehab Gestapo far behind, at least for tonight; she was wearing a short, shimmery green dress that clung to every well-maintained inch of her, and in her heels she stood almost to my forehead. Standing beside her, towering over her, was Kamen. His enormous eyes swam benevolently behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Jesus, Kathi!” I cried. “What would you’ve done if you’d knocked me over?”
“Made you give me fifty,” she said, smiling more widely than ever. Her eyes were full of tears. “Toldja that on the phone. Look at your tan, you handsome boy.” The tears spilled over and she hugged me.
I hugged back, then shook hands with Kamen. His hand swallowed mine whole.
“Your plane is the way for men my size to fly,” he said, and people turned in his direction. He had one of those deep James Earl Jones voices that can make supermarket circulars sound like the Book of Isaiah. “I enjoyed myself to the max, Edgar.”
“It’s not really mine, but thank you,” I said. “Have either of you—”
“Mr. Freemantle?”
It was a lovely redhead whose generously freckled breasts were in danger of tumbling from the top of a fragile pink dress. She had big green eyes. She looked about my daughter Melinda’s age. Before I could say anything, she reached out and gently grasped my fingers.
“I just wanted to touch the hand that painted those pictures,” she said. “Those wonderful, freaky pictures. God, you’re amazing.” She lifted my hand and kissed it. Then she pressed it to one of her breasts. I could feel the rough pebble of the nipple through a thin gauze of chiffon. Then she was gone into the crowd.
“Does that happen often?” Kamen asked, and at the same moment Kathi asked, “So how’s divorce treating you, Edgar?” They looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.
I understood what they were laughing at—Edgar’s Elvis moment—but to me it just seemed weird. The rooms of the Scoto began to look a little like chambers in an undersea grotto, and I realized I could paint it that way: undersea rooms with paintings on their walls, paintings that were being looked at by schooling peoplefish while Neptune’s Trio burbled “Octopus’s Garden.”
Far too weird. I wanted Wireman and Jack—also not here yet—but even more, I wanted my people. Illy most of all. If I had them, maybe this would start to feel like reality again. I glanced toward the door.
“If you’re looking for Pam and the girls, I expect they’ll be right along,” Kamen said. “Melinda had a problem with her dress and went up to change at the last minute.”
Melinda, I thought. Of course, it would be Mel—
And that was when I saw them, threading their way through the crowd of artistic gawkers, looking very northern and out of place amid the tans. Tom Riley and William Bozeman III—the immortal Bozie—paced behind them in dark suits. They stopped to look at three of the early sketches, which Dario had set up near the door in a triptych. It was Ilse who saw me first. She cried “DADDY!” and then cut through the crowd like a PT boat with her sister just behind her. Lin was tugging a tall young man in her wake. Pam waved, and also started toward me.
I left Kamen, Kathi, and the Slobotniks, Angel still holding my drink. Someone began, “Pardon me, Mr. Freemantle, I wonder if I could ask—” but I paid no attention. In that moment all I could see was Ilse’s glowing face and joyous eyes.
We met in front of the sign reading THE SCOTO GALLERY PRESENTS “THE VIEW FROM DUMA,” PAINTINGS AND SKETCHES BY EDGAR FREEMANTLE. I was aware that she was wearing a powder-blue dress I had never seen before, and that with her hair up and what seemed like a swan’s length of neck showing, she looked startlingly adult. I was aware of an immense, almost overpowering love for her, and gratitude that she felt the same for me—it was in her eyes. Then I was holding her.
A moment later, Melinda was there with her young man standing behind her (and above her—he was one long, tall helicopter). I didn’t have an arm for her and her sister both, but she had one for me; she grabbed me and kissed the side of my face. “Bonsoir, Dad, congratulations!”
Then Pam was in front of me, the woman I had called a quitting birch not so long ago. She was wearing a dark blue pants suit, a light blue silk blouse, and a string of pearls. Sensible earrings. Sensible but good-looking low heels. Full Minnesota if ever I had seen it. She was obviously frightened to death by all the people and the strange environment, but there was a hopeful smile on her face just the same. Pam had been many things in the course of our marriage, but hopeless was never one of them.
“Edgar?” Pam asked in a small voice. “Are we still friends?”
“You better believe it,” I said. I only kissed her briefly, but hugged her as thoroughly as a one-armed man can do it. Ilse was holding onto me on one side; Melinda had the other, squeezing hard enough to hurt my ribs, but I didn’t care. As if from a great distance, I heard the room erupt in spontaneous applause.
“You look good,” Pam whispered in my ear. “No, you look wonderful. I’m not sure I would have known you on the street.”
I stepped back a little, looking at her. “You look pretty fine yourself.”
She laughed, blushing, a stranger with whom I had once spent my nights. “Make-up covers a multitude of sins.”
“Daddy, this is Ric Doussault,” Melinda said.
“Bonsoir and congratulations, Monsieur Freemantle,” Ric said. He was holding a plain white box. He now held it out. “From Linnie and me. Un cadeau. The gift?”
I knew what un cadeau was, of course; the real revelation was the exotic lilt his accent gave to my daughter’s nickname. It made me understand in a way nothing else could that she was now more his than mine.
It seemed to me that the majority of the people in the gallery had gathered around to watch me open my present. Tom Riley had made it almost to Pam’s shoulder. Bozie was next to him. From just behind them, Margaret Bozeman skated me a kiss from the heel of her palm. Next to her was Todd Jamieson, the doctor who had saved my life … two sets of aunts and uncles … Rudy Rudnick, my old secretary … Kamen, of course, he was impossible to miss … and Kathi by his side. They had all come, everyone but Wireman and Jack, and I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to keep them away. But for the moment that seemed secondary. I thought of waking up in my hospital bed, confused and separated from everything by unremitting pain, then I looked around at this and wondered how things could possibly have changed so completely. All these people had come back into my life for one night. I didn’t want to cry, but I was pretty sure I was going to; I could feel myself starting to dissolve like a tissue in a cloudburst.
“Open it, Daddy!” Ilse said. I could smell her perfume, something sweet and fresh.
“Open it! Open it!” Goodnatured voices from the packed circle watching us.
I opened the box. Pulled out some white tissue paper and uncovered what I had expected … although I had expected something jokey, and this was no joke. The beret Melinda and Ric had brought me from France was dark red velvet, and smooth as silk to the touch. It had not come cheap.
“This is too nice,” I said.
“No, Daddy,” Melinda said. “Not nice enough. We only hope it fits.”
I took it out of the box and held it up. The audienced ohh-ed appreciatively. Melinda and Ric looked at each other happily, and Pam—who felt Lin somehow never got her proper share of affection or approval from me (and she was probably right)—gave me a look
that was positively radiant. Then I put the beret on. It was a perfect fit. Melinda reached up, made one tiny adjustment, faced the watching audience, turned her palms outward to me, and said: “Voici mon père, ce magnifique artiste!” They burst into applause and cries of Bravo! Ilse kissed me. She was crying and laughing. I remember the white vulnerability of her neck and the feel of her lips, just above my jaw.
I was the belle of the ball and I had my family around me. There was light and champagne and music. It happened four years ago, on the evening of April fifteenth, between seven forty-five and eight o’clock, while the shadows on Palm Avenue were just beginning to take on the first faint tinges of blue. This is a memory I keep.
ii
I toured them around, with Tom and Bozie and the rest of the Minnesota crowd tagging after. Many of those present might have been first-time gallery attendees, but they were polite enough to give us some space.
Melinda paused for a full minute in front of Sunset with Sophora, then turned to me, almost accusingly. “If you could do this all along, Dad, why in God’s name did you waste thirty years of your life putting up County Extension buildings?”
“Melinda Jean!” Pam said, but absently. She was looking toward the center room, where the Girl and Ship paintings hung suspended.
“Well, it’s true,” Melinda said. “Isn’t it?”
“Honey, I didn’t know.”
“How can you have something this big inside you and not know?” she demanded.
I didn’t have an answer for that, but Alice Aucoin rescued me. “Edgar, Dario wondered if you could step into Jimmy’s office for a few minutes? I’ll be happy to escort your family into the main room and you can join them there.”
“Okay … what do they want?”
“Don’t worry, they’re all smiling,” she said, and smiled herself.
“Go on, Edgar,” Pam said. And, to Alice: “I’m used to him being called away. When we were married, it was a way of life.”
“Dad, what does this red circle on top of the frame mean?” Ilse asked.
“That it’s sold, dear,” Alice said.
