by Stephen King
Brian's eyes had looked up at him from the hospital bed. And through him. They were open and as empty as school classrooms in August.
Feeling more than ever as if he were not moving but being moved, David had walked into the magic circle of the machines. He observed the suction cups on Brian's chest and temples. He observed the wires coming out of the suction cups. He observed the oddly misshapen look of the helmet-sized bandage on the left side of Brian's head, as if the shape beneath it had been radically changed. David supposed it had been. When you hit the side of a brick house, something had to give. There was a tube in Brian's right arm and another coming out of his chest. The tubes went to bags of liquid hanging off poles. There was a plastic doodad in Brian's nose and a band on his wrist.
David thought, These are the machines that are keeping him alive. And when they turn them off, when they pull out the needles--
Disbelief filled him at the idea, buds of wonder which were only grief rolled tight. He and Brian squirted each other at the waterfountain outside their home room at school whenever they thought they could get away with it. They rode their bikes in the fabled Bear Street Woods, pretending they were commandos. They swapped books and comics and baseball cards and sometimes just sat on David's back porch, playing with Brian's Gameboy or reading and drinking David's mom's lemonade. They slapped each other high fives and called each other "bad boy." (Sometimes, when it was just the two of them, they called each other "fuckhead" or "dickweed.") In the second grade they'd pricked their fingers with pins and smooshed them together and sworn themselves blood-brothers. In August of this year they had made, with Mark Ross's help, a bottlecap Parthenon from a picture in a book. It turned out so well that Mark kept it in the downstairs hall and showed it to company. At the first of the year the bottlecap Parthenon was slated to travel the block and a half to the Carver house.
It was the Parthenon that David's mind had fixed upon most firmly as he stood by his comatose friend's bed. They had built it--him, Brian, Brian's dad-out in the Ross garage while the tape player endlessly recycled Rattle and Hum on the shelf behind them. A silly thing because it was just bottlecaps, a cool thing because it looked like what it was supposed to look like, you could tell what it was. Also a cool thing because they had made it with their own hands. And soon Brian's hands would be picked up and scrubbed by an undertaker who would use a special brush and pay particular attention to the fingernails. No one would want to look at a corpse with dirty nails, David supposed. And after Bri's hands were clean and he was in the coffin his folks would pick out for him, the undertaker would lace his fingers together like they were a pair of sneakers. And that was how they'd stay, down in the ground. Neatly folded, the way they had been supposed to fold their hands on their desks back in the second grade. No more bottlecap buildings for those hands. No more waterfountain nozzles for those fingers. Down into the dark with them.
It was not terror this thought had called up in his mind and heart but despair, as if the image of Brian's fingers laced together in his coffin proved that nothing was worth anything, that doing never once in the world stopped dying, that not even kids were exempted from the horror-show that roared on and on behind the peppermint sitcom facade your parents believed in and wanted you to believe in.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ross spoke to him as he stood by the bed, meditating on these things in the shorthand of children. And their silence was all right with David; he liked them just fine, especially Mr. Ross, who had a sort of interesting crazy streak, but he hadn't come here to see them. They weren't the ones with the food-tubes and breathing machinery that were going to be taken away after the grandparents got a chance to say goodbye.
He had come to see Brian.
David had taken his friend's hand. It was astoundingly cool and lax in his own, but still alive. You could feel the life in it, running like a motor. He squeezed it gently and whispered, "How you doin, bad boy?"
No response but the sound of the machine that was doing Brian's breathing for him now that his brain had blown most of its fuses. This machine was at the head of the bed, and it was the biggest. It had a clear plastic tube mounted on one side of it. Inside the tube was something that looked like a white accordion. The sound this machine made was quiet--all the machines were quiet-but the accordion-thing was unsettling, just the same. It made a low, emphatic noise each time it went up. A gasping noise. It was as if part of Brian wasn't down too deep to feel pain, but that part had been taken out of his body and penned up in the plastic tube, where it was now being hurt even worse. Where it was being pressed to death by the white accordion-thing.
And then there were the eyes.
David felt his eyes drawn back to them again and again. Nobody had told him Brian's eyes would be open; until just now he hadn't known your eyes could be open when you were unconscious. Debbie Ross had told him not to be shocked, that Brian didn't look very nice, but she hadn't told him about that stuffed-moose stare. Maybe that was all right, though; maybe you could never be prepared about the really awful things, not at any age.
One of Brian's eyes was bloodshot, with a huge black pupil that ate up all but the thinnest ring of brown. The other was clear and the pupil appeared to be normal, but nothing else was normal because there was no sign of his friend in those eyes, none. The boy who had cracked him up by saying Oh shit, the mummy's after us, let's all walk a little faster wasn't here at all ... unless he was in the plastic tube, at the mercy of the white accordion.
David would look away--at the stitched fishhook cut, at the bandage, at the one waxy ear he could see below the bandage--and then his gaze would wander back to Brian's open, staring eyes with their mismatched pupils. It was the nothing that drew him, the absence, the goneness in those eyes. It was more than wrong. It was ... was...
Evil, a voice deep in his head whispered. It was like no voice he had ever heard in his thoughts before, a total stranger, and when Debbie Ross's hand dropped on his shoulder, he'd had to clamp his lips together against a scream.
"The man who did it was drunk," she said in a husky, tear-clotted voice. Fresh tears were rolling down her cheeks. "He says he doesn't remember any of it, that he was in a blackout, and do you know the horrible thing, Davey? I believe him."
"Deb--" Mr. Ross began, but Brian's mom took no notice of him.
"How could God let that man not remember hitting my son with his car?" Her voice had begun to rise. Ralph Carver had poked his head around the edge of the open door, startled, and a nurse rolling a cart up the hall stopped dead in her tracks. She looked into room 508 with a pair of big blue oh-goodness eyes. "How could God be so merciful to someone who deserves to wake up screaming with memories of the blood coming out of my son's poor hurt head every night for the rest of his life?"
Mr. Ross put his arm around her shoulders. Outside the door, Ralph Carver pulled his head back like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. David saw this and might have hated his dad a little for it. He couldn't remember for sure, one way or the other. What he remembered was looking down at Brian's pale, still face with the misshapen bandage seeming to bear down on it--the waxy ear, the cut with its red lips drawn together in a smooch by the black thread, and the eyes. Most of all what he remembered was the eyes. Brian's mother was right there, crying and screaming, and those eyes didn't change a bit.
But he is in there, David thought suddenly, and that thought, like so much that had happened to him since his mother had told him about Brian's accident, did not feel like something that was coming from him but only something going through him ... as if his mind and body had turned into some sort of pipe.
He is in there, I know he is. Still in there, like someone caught in a landslide ... or a cave-in ...
Debbie Ross's control had given way entirely. She was almost howling, shaking in her husband's grip, trying to pull free. Mr. Ross got her headed back toward the red chairs, but it looked like a job. The nurse hurried in and slipped an arm around her waist. "Mrs. Ross, sit down. You'll feel bett
er if you do."
"What sort of God lets a man forget killing a little boy?" Brian's mom had screamed. "The kind that wants that man to get loaded and do it again, that's who! A God who loves drunks and hates little boys!"
Brian, looking up with his absent eyes. Harking to his mother's sermon with a waxy ear. Not noticing. Not here. But...
Yes, something whispered. Yes, he is. He is. Somewhere.
"Nurse, can you give my wife a shot?" Mr. Ross had asked. By then he was having a hard time keeping her from leaping back across the room and grabbing David, her son, maybe both of them. Something in her head had broken free. It was something that had a lot to say.
"I'll get Dr. Burgoyne, he's just up the hall." She hurried out.
Brian's dad gave David a strained smile. There was sweat trickling down his cheeks and standing out on his forehead in a galaxy of fine dots. His eyes were red, and to David he looked like he had already lost weight. David didn't think such a thing was possible, but that was how he had looked. Mr. Ross now had one arm around his wife's waist and his other hand clamped on her shoulder.
"You have to go now, David," Mr. Ross said. He was trying not to pant, and panting a little anyway. "We're ... we're not doing so good."
But I didn't say goodbye to him, David wanted to say, and then realized it wasn't sweat trickling down Mr. Ross's cheeks but tears. That got him moving. It wasn't until he got to the door and turned back and saw Mr. and Mrs. Ross had blurred into a whole crowd of parents that he realized he was shortly going to be crying himself.
"May I come back, Mr. Ross?" he asked in a cracked, shivery voice he barely recognized. "Tomorrow, maybe?"
Mrs. Ross had stopped struggling now. Mr. Ross's hands had ended up locked together just below her breasts, and her head was bent so her hair hung in her face. The way they looked made David think of the World Federation Wrestling matches he and Bri had also sometimes watched, and how sometimes one guy would hug another guy like that. Oh shit, the mummy's after us, David thought for no good reason at all.
Mr. Ross was shaking his head. "I don't think so, Davey."
"But--"
"No, I don't think so. You see, the doctors say there's no chance at all for Brian to ... t-to-to ..." His face began to change as David had never seen an adult's face change--it seemed to be tearing itself apart from the inside. It was only later, out in the Bear Street Woods, that he got a handle on it ... sort of. He'd been seeing what happened when someone who hadn't cried in a long time--years, maybe--finally couldn't hold back any longer. This was what it was like when the dam burst.
"Oh, my boy!" Mr. Ross screamed. "Oh, my boy!" He let go of his wife and fell back against the wall between the two red vinyl chairs. He stood there for a moment, kind of leaning, then folded at the knees. He slid down the wall until he was sitting, hands held out toward the bed, cheeks wet, snot hanging from his nostrils, hair sticking up in the back, shirttail out, pants pulled up so you could see the tops of his socks. He sat there like that and wailed. His wife knelt by him and took him in her arms as best she could, and that was when the doctor came in with the nurse right behind him, and when David slipped out, crying hard but trying not to sob. They were in a hospital, after all, and some people were trying to get well.
His father was as pale as his mother had been when she told him about Brian, and when he took David's hand, his skin was much colder than Brian's had been.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," his father said as they waited for the world's slowest elevator. David had an idea it was all he could think of to say. On the ride home, Ralph Carver started to speak twice, then stopped. He turned on the radio, found an oldies station, then turned it down to ask David if he wanted an ice-cream soda, or anything. David shook his head, and his father turned the music up again, louder than ever.
When they got home, David told his father he thought he'd shoot some baskets in the driveway. His father said that was fine, then hurried inside. As David stood behind the crack in the hottop that he used as a foul line, he heard his parents in the kitchen, their voices drifting out of the open window over the sink. She wanted to know what had happened, how David had taken it. "Well, there was a scene," his father said, as though Brian's coma and approaching death were part of some play.
David tuned out. That sense of otherness had come on him again, that feeling of being small, a part instead of a whole, someone else's business. He suddenly felt very strongly that he wanted to go down to the Bear Street Woods, down to the little clearing. A path--narrow, but you could ride bikes along it if you went single-file-led into this clearing. It was here, up in the Viet Cong Lookout, that the boys had tried one of Debbie Ross's cigarettes the year before and found it awful, here that they had looked through their first copy of Penthouse (Brian had seen it lying on top of the Dumpster behind the E-Z Stop 24 down the hill from his house), here that they had hung their feet down and had their long conversations and dreamed their dreams ... mostly about how they were going to be the kings of West Wentworth Middle School when they were ninth-graders. It was here, in the clearing you got to by way of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, that the boys had most enjoyed their friendship, and it was here that David suddenly felt he had to go.
He had bounced the ball, with which he and Brian had played about a billion games of Horse, one final time, bent his knees, and shot. Swish-nothing but net. When the ball returned to him, he tossed it into the grass. His folks were still in the kitchen, their voices still droning out the open window, but David didn't even think about poking his head in and telling them where he was going. They might have forbidden him.
Taking his bike never occurred to him. He walked, head down, the bright blue EXCUSED EARLY pass still sticking out of his shirt pocket, although school was over for the day by then. The big yellow buses were rolling their homeward routes; yelling flocks of little kids pounded past, waving their papers and lunchboxes. David took no notice. His mind was elsewhere. Later, Reverend Martin would tell him about "the still, small voice" of God, and David would feel a tug of recognition, but it hadn't seemed like a voice then, or a thought, or even an intuition. The idea his mind kept returning to was how, when you were thirsty, your whole body cried for water, and how you would eventually lie down and drink from a mudpuddle, if that was all you could get.
He came to Bear Street, then to the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He walked slowly down it, his head still lowered, so that he looked like a scholar with his mind on some immense problem. The Ho Chi Minh hadn't been his and Brian's exclusive property, lots of kids ordinarily used it on their way to and from school, but no one had been on it that warm fall afternoon; it seemed to have been cleared especially for him. Halfway to the clearing he spotted a 3 Musketeers candybar wrapper and picked it up. It was the only kind of candybar Brian would eat--he called them 3 Muskies-and David had no doubt that Brian had dropped this one beside the path a day or two before the accident. Not that Brian was ordinarily a litterbug sort of guy; he'd stuff the wrapper in his pocket, under ordinary circumstances. But--
But maybe something made him drop it. Something that knew I'd come along after that car hit him and threw him and broke his head on the bricks, something that knew I'd find it and remember him.
He told himself that was crazy, absolutely nutzoid, but maybe the nuttiest thing of all was that he didn't really think it was. Perhaps it would sound nutty if spoken aloud, but inside his head, it seemed perfectly logical.
With no thought of what he was doing, David stuck the red-and-silver wrapper into his mouth and sucked the little bits of sweet chocolate off the inside. He did this with his eyes closed and fresh tears squeezing out from under the lids. When the chocolate was all gone and there was nothing left but the taste of wet paper, he spat the wrapper out and went on his way.
At the east edge of the clearing was an oak with two thick branches spreading out in a V about twenty feet up. The boys hadn't quite dared to go whole hog and build a treehouse in this beckoning fork--someone might notice and make
them tear it down again--but they had brought boards, hammers, and nails down here one summer day a year ago and made a platform that still remained. David and Brian knew that the high school kids sometimes used it (they had found cigarette butts and beer-cans on the weather-darkened old boards from time to time, and once a pair of pantyhose), but never until after dark, it seemed, and the idea of big kids using something they had made was actually sort of flattering. Also, the first handholds you had to grab in order to make the climb were high enough to discourage the little kids.
David went up, cheeks wet, eyes swollen, still tasting chocolate and wet paper in his mouth, still hearing the gasp of the accordion-thing in his ears. He felt he would find some other sign of Brian on the platform, like the 3 Muskies wrapper on the path, but there was nothing. Just the sign nailed to the tree, the one that said VIET CONG LOOKOUT, which they had put up a couple of weeks after completing the platform. The inspiration for that (and for the name they'd given the path) was some old movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger in it, David didn't remember the name. He kept expecting to come up here someday and find that the big kids had pulled the sign down or spray-painted something like SUCK MY DICK on it, but none ever had. He guessed they must like it, too.
A breeze soughed through the trees, cooling his hot skin. Any other day and Brian would have been sharing that breeze with him. They would have been dangling their feet, talking, laughing. David started to cry again.
Why am I here?
No answer.
Why did I come? Did something make me come?
No answer.
If anyone's there, please answer!
No answer for a long time ... and then one did come, and he didn't think he was just talking to himself inside his own head, then fooling himself about what he was doing in order to gain a little comfort. As when he had stood over Brian, the thought which came seemed in no way his own.
