by Stephen King
He pushes me away, kind of laughing. “Yah, and sometimes people with malaria can quote Shakespeare,” he says. “You stay here, Scotty, I got a chore to do. It won’t take long.” He walks off down the hall, past the bench I finally jumped off of all those years ago, and into the kitchen. Head down, the deer-gun in one hand. Once he’s out the kitchen door I follow him and l’m looking out the window over the sink when he crosses the backyard, coatless in the sleet, head still down, still holding the .30-06. He puts it on the icy ground only long enough to push the cover off the dry well. He needs both hands to do that because the sleet has bound the cover to the brick. Then he picks the gun up again, looks at it for a second—almost like he’s saying goodbye—and slides it into the gap he’s made. After that he comes back to the house with his head still down and ice-drops darkening the shoulders of his shirt. It’s only then that I notice his feet are bare. I don’t think he ever realizes at all.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me in the kitchen. He takes out the two dollar bills Mr. Halsey gave me, looks at them, then looks at me. “You sure you don’t want these?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not if they were the last two dollar bills on earth.”
I can see he likes that answer. “Good,” he says. “But now let me tell you something, Scott. You know your nana’s china breakfront in the dining room?”
“Sure.”
“If you look in the blue pitcher on the top shelf, you’re going to find a roll of money. My money, not Halsey’s—do you understand the difference?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Yeah, I bet you do. You’re a lot of things, but dumb hasn’t ever been one of them. If I were you, Scotty, I’d take that roll of bills—it’s around seven hundred dollars—and put my act on the road. Stick five in my pocket and the rest in my boot. Ten’s too young to be on the road, even for a little while, and I think the chances are probably ninety-five in a hundred somebody’ll rob you of your roll even before you make it over the bridge into Pittsburgh, but if you stay here, something bad’s going to happen. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes, but I can’t go,” I say.
“There’s a lot of things people think they can’t do and then discover they can when they find themselves tight-wired,” Daddy says. He looks down at his feet, which are all pink and raw-looking. “If you were to make it to the Burg, I believe a boy bright enough to get rid of Mr. Halsey with a story about Lou Gehrig’s Disease and a sister I don’t have might be bright enough to look under the C’s in the telephone book and find Child Welfare. Or you might could knock around a little bit and maybe find an even better situation, if you wasn’t to get separated from that roll of cash. Seven hundred parceled out five or ten bucks at a time will last a kid awhile, if he’s smart enough not to get picked up by the cops and lucky enough not to get robbed of any more of it than what happens to be in his pocket.”
I tell him again: “I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
But I can’t explain. Some of it is having lived almost my whole life in that farmhouse, with almost no one for company but Daddy and Paul. What I know of other places I have gotten mostly from three sources: the television, the radio, and my imagination. Yes, I’ve been to the movies, and I’ve been to the Burg half a dozen times, but always with my father and big brother. The thought of going out into that roaring strangeness alone scares the living Jesus out of me. And, more to the point, I love him. Not in the simple and uncomplicated (until the last few weeks, at least) way I loved Paul, but yes, I love him. He has cut me and hit me and called me smuckhead and nummie and gluefoot mothersmucker, he has terrorized many of my childhood days and sent me to bed on many nights feeling small and stupid and worthless, but those bad times have yielded their own perverse treasures; they have turned each kiss to gold, each of his compliments, even the most offhand, into things to be treasured. And even at ten—because I’m his son, his blood? maybe—I understand that his kisses and compliments are always sincere; they are always true things. He is a monster, but the monster is not incapable of love. That was the horror of my father, little Lisey: he loved his boys.
“I just can’t,” I say.
He thinks about this—about whether or not to press me, I suppose—and then just nods again. “All right. But listen to me, Scott. What I did to your brother I did to save your life. Do you know that?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“But if I were to do something to you, it would be different. It would be so bad I might go to hell for it, even if there was something else inside making me do it.” His eyes shift away from mine then, and I know he’s seeing them again, them, and that pretty soon it won’t be him I’m talking to anymore. Then he looks back at me and I see him clearly for the last time. “You won’t let me go to hell, will you?” he asks me. “You wouldn’t let your Daddy go to hell and burn there forever, mean as I’ve been to you some of the time?”
“No, Daddy,” I say, and I can hardly talk.
“You promise? On your brother’s name?”
“On Paul’s name.”
He looks away, back into the corner. “I’m going to lie down,” he says. “Fix yourself something to eat if you want, but don’t leave this smucking kitchen all beshitted.”
That night I wake up—or something wakes me up—and I hear the sleet coming down on the house harder than ever. I hear a crash out back and know it’s a tree falling over from the weight of ice on it. Maybe it was another tree falling over that woke me up, but I don’t think so. I think I heard him on the stairs, even though he’s trying to be quiet. There’s no time to do anything but slide out of bed and hide underneath it, so that’s what I do even though I know it’s hopeless, under the bed is where kids always hide, and it’ll be the first place he looks.
I see his feet come in the door. They’re still bare. He never says a word, just walks over to the bed and stands beside it. I think he’ll stand beside it like he did before, then maybe sit down on it, but he never. Instead I hear him make a kind of grunting sound, like he does when he’s lifting something heavy, a box or something, and he goes up on the balls of his feet, and there’s a whistling in the air, and then a terrific SPUH-RUNNGGG noise, and the mattress and the box-spring both bow down in the middle, and dust puffs along the floor, and the point of the pickaxe from out in the shed comes shooting through the bottom of my bed. It stops in front of my face, not an inch from my mouth. It seems like I can see every flake of rust on it, and the shiny place where it scraped on one of the bedsprings. It stays still for a second or two, then there’s more grunting and a terrific pig-squealing as he tries to pull it out. He tries hard, but it’s good and stuck. The point wiggles and waggles back and forth in front of my face, and then he leaves off. I see his fingers appear below the edge of the bed then, and know that he’s rested his palms on the balls of his knees. He’s bending down, means to look under the bed and make sure I’m there before working that pickaxe free.
I don’t think. I just close my eyes and go. It’s the first time since I buried Paul and it’s the first time from the second floor. I have just a second to think I’ll fall, but I don’t care, anything’s better than hiding under the bed and seeing the stranger wearing my Daddy’s face look under and see me looking back, cornered; anything’s better than seeing the bad-gunky stranger who owns him now.
And I do fall, but only a little, only a couple of feet, and only, I think, because I believed I would. So much about Boo’ya Moon is about simple belief; there, seeing really is believing, at least some of the time…and as long as you don’t wander too far into the woods and get lost.
It was night there, Lisey, and I remember it well because it was the only time I went there at night on purpose.
15
“Oh, Scott,” Lisey said, wiping at her cheeks. Each time he broke from the present tense and spoke to her directly was like a blow, but sweet. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She checked to see how many pages were left—not many. Eight?
No, ten. She bent to them again, turning each into the growing pile in her lap as she read it.
16
I leave a cold room where a thing wearing my father’s skin is trying to kill me and sit up beside my brother’s grave on a summer night softer than velvet. The moon rides the sky like a tarnished silver dollar, and the laughers are having a party deep in the Fairy Forest. Every now and then something else—something deeper in, I think—lets out a roar. Then the laughers are quiet for awhile, but I guess whatever amuses them is eventually more than they can bear in silence, because up they start all over again—first one, then two, then half a dozen, then the whole damn Institute of Risibility. Something too big to be a hawk or an owl sails voicelessly across the moon, some kind of night-hunting bird special to this place, I guess, special to Boo’ya Moon. I can smell all the perfumes that Paul and I loved so much, but now they smell sour and curdled and somehow bed-pissy; like if you breathed too deep of them they’d sprout claws way up in your nose and dig in there. Down Purple Hill I see drifting jellyfish globes of light. I don’t know what they are, but I don’t like them. I think that if they touch me, they might latch on, or maybe burst and leave a itchy-sore place that would spread like poison ivy if you touched it.
It’s creepy by Paul’s grave. I don’t want to be afraid of him, and I’m not, not really, but I keep thinking of the thing inside him, and wondering if maybe it’s in him still. And if things over here that are nice in daylight turn to poison at night, maybe a sleeping bad thing, even one hibernating way down in dead and rotting flesh, could come back to life. What if it shot Paul’s arms out of the ground? What if it made his dirty dead hands grab me? What if his grinning face came rising up to my own, with dirt running from the corners of his eyes like tears?
I don’t want to cry, ten is too old to cry (especially if you’ve been through the things I have), but I’m starting to blubber, I can’t help it. Then I see one sweetheart tree standing a little bit apart from all the others, with its branches spread out in what looks like a low cloud.
And to me, Lisey, that tree looked…kind. I didn’t know why then, but I think that now, all these years later, I do. Writing this has brought it back. The night-lights, those scary cold balloons drifting just above the ground, wouldn’t go under it. And as I got closer to it, I realized that this one tree, at least, smelled as sweet—or almost as sweet—at night as it did in the daytime. That’s the tree you’re sitting under now, little Lisey, if you’re reading this last story. And I’m very tired. I don’t think I can do the rest of it the justice it deserves, although I know I must try. It’s my last chance to talk to you, after all.
Let us say that there’s a little boy who sits in the shelter of that tree for—well, who knows, really? Not all that long night, but until the moon (which always seems to be full here, have you noticed?) is down and he has dozed in and out of half a dozen strange and sometimes lovely dreams, at least one of which will later become the basis of a novel. Long enough for him to name that wonderful shelter the Story Tree.
And long enough for him to know that something awful—something far worse than the paltry evil which has seized his father—has turned its casual gaze toward him…and marked him for later notice (perhaps)…and then turned its obscene and unknowable mind once more away. That was the first time I sensed the fellow who has lurked behind so much of my life, Lisey, the thing that has been the darkness to your light, and who also feels—as I know you always have—that everything is the same. That is a wonderful concept, but it has its dark side. I wonder if you know? I wonder if you ever will?
17
“I know,” Lisey said. “I do now. God help me, I do.”
She looked at the pages again. Six left. Only six, and that was good. Afternoons in Boo’ya Moon were long, but she thought that this one had finally begun to fade. It was really time to be getting back. Back to her house. Her sisters. Her life.
She had begun to understand how it was to be done.
18
There comes a time when I hear the laughers beginning to draw closer to the edge of the Fairy Forest, and I think their amusement has taken on a sardonic, perhaps stealthy undertone. I peer around the trunk of my sheltering tree and think I see dark shapes slipping from the darker mass of the trees at the edge of the woods. This may only be my overactive imagination, but I don’t think so. I think my imagination, febrile as it is, has been exhausted by the many shocks of the long day and longer night, and that I have been reduced to seeing exactly what is there. As if to confirm this, there comes a slobbering chuckle from the high grass not twenty yards from where I am crouching. Once more I don’t think about what I’m doing; I simply close my eyes and feel the chill of my bedroom fold itself around me once more. A moment later I’m sneezing from the disturbed dust under my bed. I rear up, face contorted in a nearly gruesome effort to sneeze as quietly as possible, and I thump my forehead on the broken box-spring. If the pick had still been sticking through I might have gashed myself badly or even put out one of my eyes, but it’s gone.
I drag myself out from under my bed on my elbows and my knees, conscious that a sickly five o’clock light is soaking in through the window. It’s sleeting harder than ever, by the sound, but I hardly notice. I swivel my head from my floor-level position, peering stupidly around at the shambles that used to be my bedroom. The closet door has been pulled off the top hinge and leans drunkenly into the room from the lower one. My clothes have been scattered and many of them—most of them, it looks like—have been torn apart, as if the thing inside of Daddy has taken out on them what it couldn’t take out on the boy who should have been inside them. Far worse, it has torn my few treasured paperback books—sports biographies and science fiction novels, mostly—to shreds. Their flimsy covers lie in pieces everywhere. My bureau has been overturned, the drawers slung to the corners of the room. The hole where the pickaxe went through my bed looks as big as a moon crater, and I think: That’s where my belly would have been, if I’d been lying there. And there’s a faint sour smell. It reminds me of how Boo’ya Moon smelled at night, but it’s more familiar. I try to put a name on it and can’t. All I can think of is bad fruit, and although that’s not quite right, it turns out to be very close.
I don’t want to leave the room, but I know I can’t stay there because eventually he’ll be back. I find a pair of jeans that aren’t ripped and put them on. My sneakers are gone, I don’t know where, but maybe my boots will still be in the mudroom. And my coat. I’ll put them on and run out into the sleet. Down the driveway, following Mr. Halsey’s half-frozen slushy car-tracks, to the road. Then down the road to Mulie’s Store. I’ll run for my life, into some future I can’t even imagine. Unless, that is, he catches me first and kills me.
I have to climb over the bureau, which is blocking the door, to get into the hall. Once I’m out there I see the thing has knocked down all the pictures and knocked holes in the walls, and I know I’m looking at more of its anger at not being able to get at me.
Out here the sour fruit smell is strong enough to recognize. There was a Christmas party at U.S. Gyppum last year. Daddy went because he said it would “look funny” if he didn’t. The man who drew his name gave him a jug of homemade blackberry wine for a present. Now, Andrew Landon has got a lot of problems (and he’d probably be the first to admit it, if caught in an honest moment), but alcohol isn’t one of them. He poured himself a jelly-glass of that wine before dinner one night—between Christmas and New Year’s, this was, with Paul chained in the cellar—took one sip, grimaced, started to pour it down the sink, then saw me looking and held it out.
You want to try this, Scott? he asked. See what all the shouting’s about? Hey, if you like it, you can have the whole sweetmother gallon.
I’m as curious about booze as any kid, I guess, but that smell was too fruity-rancid. Maybe the stuff makes you happy like I’ve seen on TV, but I could never lick that gone-dead fruit smell. I shook my head.
You’re a wise child,
Scooter ole Scoot, he said, and poured the stuff in the jelly-glass down the sink. But he must have saved the rest of the jug (or just forgot about it) because that’s what I smell now, sure as God made little fishes, and strong. By the time I get to the foot of the stairs it’s a stench, and now I hear something besides the steady rattle of the sleet on the boards and the tinny tick-tock of it on the windows: George Jones. It’s Daddy’s radio, tuned to WWVA like always, playing very soft. And I also hear snoring. The relief is so great that tears go spilling down my cheeks. The thing I’ve been most afraid of is that he’s laid up, waiting for me to show myself. Now, listening to those long, ragged snores, I know that he’s not.
Nevertheless, I’m careful. I detour through the dining room so I can come into the living room from behind the sofa. The dining room is also a shambles. Nana’s breakfront has been overturned, and it looks to me like he made a pretty good effort to turn it into kindling. All the dishes are broken. So’s the blue pitcher, and the money inside it has been torn to pieces. Green shreds have been flung every whichever. Some even hang from the central light fixture like New Year’s Eve confetti. Apparently the thing inside Daddy has no more use for money than it does for books.
In spite of those snores, in spite of being on the couch’s blind side, I peer into the living room like a soldier peering over the lip of a foxhole after an artillery barrage. It’s a needless precaution. His head’s hanging off one end of the couch and his hair, which he hasn’t taken the scissors to since before Paul went bad, is so long it’s almost touching the rug. I could have marched through there crashing a pair of cymbals and he wouldn’t have stirred. Daddy isn’t just asleep in the jumbled wreckage of that room; he is un-smucking-conscious.
A little further in and I see there’s a cut running up one cheek, and his closed eyes have a purplish, exhausted look. His lips have slid back from his teeth, making him look like an old dog that fell asleep trying to snarl. He covers the couch with an old Navajo blanket to keep off grease and spilled food, and he’s wrapped part of it over him. He must have been tired of busting things up by the time he got in here, because he’s poked out the eye of the television and smashed the glass over his dead wife’s studio portrait and called it good. The radio’s in its usual place on the end-table and that gallon jug is on the floor beside it. I look at the jug and can’t hardly believe what I’m seeing: there’s not but an inch or so left. It’s almost impossible for me to believe he’s drunk so much—he who isn’t used to drinking at all—but the stink hanging around him, so thick I can almost see it, is very persuasive.
