by Стивен Кинг
A little more of that unusual quiet from John. After a few seconds of it he reached out and touched the lump on the back of my head. “Ow!”
“Sorry.” A pause. “Jesus. Then he went back to Warrington’s and pulled the pin. Jesus. Michael, I never would have played that tape if I’d known—”
“It’s all right. But don’t even think of telling Mattie. I’m wearing my hair over my ear like that for a reason.”
“Will you ever tell her, do you think?”
“I might. Some day when he’s been dead long enough so we can laugh about me swimming with my clothes on.”
“That might be awhile,” he said. “Yeah. It might.”
We drove in silence for a bit. I could sense John groping for a way to bring the day back to jubilation, and loved him for it. He leaned forward, turned on the radio, and found something loud and nasty by Guns ’n Roses—welcome to the jungle, baby, we got fun and games. “Party ’til we puke,” he said. “Right?”
I grinned. It wasn’t easy with the sound of the old woman’s voice still clinging to me like light slime, but I managed. “If you insist,” I said.
“I do,” he said. “Most certainly.”
“John, you’re a good guy for a lawyer.”
“And you’re a good one for a writer.”
This time the grin on my face felt more natural and stayed on longer. We passed the marker reading TR-90, and as we did, the sun burned through the haze and flooded the day with light. It seemed like an omen of better times ahead, until I looked into the west. There, black in the bright, I could see the thunderheads building up over the White Mountains.
For men, I think, love is a thing formed of equal parts lust and astonishment. The astonishment part women understand. The lust part they only think they understand. Very few—perhaps one in twenty—have any concept of what it really is or how deep it runs. That’s probably just as well for their sleep and peace of mind. And I’m not talking about the lust of satyrs and rapists and molesters; I’m talking about the lust of shoe-clerks and high-school principals.
Not to mention writers and lawyers.
We turned into Mattie’s dooryard at ten to eleven, and as I parked my Chevy beside her rusted-out Jeep, the trailer door opened and Mat-tie came out on the top step. I sucked in my breath, and beside me I could hear John sucking in his.
She was very likely the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen in my life as she stood there in her rose-colored shorts and matching middy top. The shorts were not short enough to be cheap (my mother’s word) but plenty short enough to be provocative. Her top tied in floppy string bows across the shoulders and showed just enough tan to dream on. Her hair hung to her shoulders. She was smiling and waving. I thought, She’s made it—take her into the country-club dining room now, dressed just as she is, and she shuts everyone else down. “Oh Lordy,” John said. There was a kind of dismayed longing in his voice. “All that and a bag of chips.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Put your eyes back in your head, big boy.” He made cupping motions with his hands as if doing just that.
George, meanwhile, had pulled his Altima in next to us. “Come on,” I said, opening my door. “Time to party.”
“I can’t touch her, Mike,” John said. “I’ll melt.”
“Come on, you goof.” Mattie came down the steps and past the pot with the tomato plant in it. Ki was behind her, dressed in an outfit similar to her mother’s, only in a shade of dark green. She had the shys again, I saw; she kept one steadying hand on Mattie’s leg and one thumb in her mouth. “The guys are here! The guys are here!”
Mattie cried, laughing, and threw herself into my arms. She hugged me tight and kissed the corner of my mouth. I hugged her back and kissed her cheek. Then she moved on to John, read his shirt, patted her hands together in applause, and then hugged him. He hugged back pretty well for a guy who was afraid he might melt, I thought, picking her up off her feet and swinging her around in a circle while she hung onto his neck and laughed. “Rich lady, rich lady, rich lady!” John chanted, then set her down on the cork soles of her white shoes. “Free lady, free lady, free lady!” she chanted back. “The hell with rich!” Before he could reply, she kissed him firmly on the mouth. His arms rose to slip around her, but she stepped back before they could catch hold. She turned to Rommie and George, who were standing side-by-side and looking like fellows who might want to explain all about the Mormon Church. I took a step forward, meaning to do the introductions, but John was taking care of that, and one of his arms managed to accomplish its mission after all—it circled her waist as he led her forward toward the men.
Meanwhile a little hand slipped into mine. I looked down and saw Ki looking up at me. Her face was grave and pale and every bit as beautiful as her mother’s. Her blonde hair, freshly washed and shining, was held back with a velvet scrunchy.
D/k. k… /ldk… /INIZD “Guess the fridgeafator people don’t like me now,” she said. The laughter and insouciance were gone, at least for the moment. She looked on the verge of tears. “My letters all went bye-bye.” I picked her up and set her in the crook of my arm as I had on the day I’d met her walking down the middle of Route 68 in her bathing suit. I kissed her forehead and then the tip of her nose. Her skin was perfect silk. “I know they did,” I said. “I’ll buy you some more.”
“Promise?” Doubtful dark blue eyes fixed on mine. “Promise. And I’ll teach you special words like zygote and bibulous. I know lots of special words.”
“How many?”
“A hundred and eighty.” Thunder rumbled in the west. It didn’t seem louder, but it was more focused, somehow. Ki’s eyes went in that direction, then came back to mine. “I’m scared, Mike.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Ofi don’t know. The lady in Mattie’s dress. The men we saw.” Then she looked over my shoulder. “Here comes Mommy.” I have heard actresses deliver the line Not in front of the children in that exact same tone of voice. Kyra wiggled in the circle of my arms. “Land me.” I landed her. Mattie, John, Rommie, and George came over to join us. Ki ran to Mattie, who picked her up and then eyed us like a general surveying her troops. “Got the beer?” she asked me. “Yessum. A case of Bud and a dozen mixed sodas, as well. Plus lemonade.’’ “Great. Mr. Kennedy—”
“George, ma’am.”
“George, then. And if you call me ma’am again, I’ll punch you in the nose. I’m Mattie. Would you drive down to the Lakeview General”-she pointed to the store on Route 68, about half a mile from us—"and get some ice?”
“You bet.”
“Mr. Bissonette—”
“Rommie.”
“There’s a little garden at the north end of the trailer, Rommie. Can you find a couple of good-looking lettuces?”
“I think I can handle that.”
“John, let’s get the meat into the fridge. As for you, Michael…” She pointed to the barbecue. “The briquets are the self-lighting kind—just drop a match and stand back. Do your duty.”
“Aye, good lady,” I said, and dropped to my knees in front of her. That finally got a giggle out of Ki.
Laughing, Mattie took my hand and pulled me back onto my feet. “Come on, Sir Galahad,” she said. “It’s going to rain. I want to be safe inside and too stuffed to jump when it does.”
In the city, parties begin with greetings at the door, gathered-in coats, and those peculiar little air-kisses (when, exactly, did that social oddity begin?). In the country, they begin with chores. You fetch, you carry, you hunt for stuff like barbecue tongs and oven mitts.
The hostess drafts a couple of men to move the picnic table, then decides it was actually better where it was and asks them to put it back. And at some point you discover that you’re having fun.
I piled briquets until they looked approximately like the pyramid on the bag, then touched a match to them. They blazed up satisfyingly and I stood back, wiping my forearm across my forehead. Cool and clear might be coming, but it surely wasn
’t in hailing distance yet. The sun had burned through and the day had gone from dull to dazzling, yet in the west black-satin thunderheads continued to stack up. It was as if night had burst a blood-vessel in the sky over there.
“Mike?”
I looked around at Kyra. “What, honey?”
“Will you take care of me?”
“Yes,” I said with no hesitation at all.
For a moment something about my response—perhaps only the quickness of it—seemed to trouble her. Then she smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Look, here comes the ice-man!”
George was back from the store. He parked and got out. I walked over with Kyra, she holding my hand and swinging it possessively back and forth. Rommie came with us, juggling three heads of lettuce—I didn’t think he was much of a threat to the guy who had fascinated Ki on the common Saturday night.
George opened the Altima’s back door and brought out two bags of ice.
“The store was closed,” he said. “Sign said WILL RE-OPEN AT 5 P.M. That seemed a little too long to wait, so I took the ice and put the money through the mail-slot.”
They’d closed for Royce Merrill’s funeral, of course. Had given up almost a full day’s custom at the height of the tourist season to see the old fellow into the ground. It was sort of touching. I thought it was also sort of creepy.
“Can I carry some ice?” Kyra asked.
“I guess, but don’t frizzicate yourself,” George said, and carefully put a five-pound bag of ice into Ki’s outstretched arms.
“Frizzicate,” Kyra said, giggling. She began walking toward the trailer, where Mattie was just coming out. John was behind her and regarding her with the eyes of a gutshot beagle. “Mommy, look! I’m frizzicating!”
I took the other bag. “I know the icebox is outside, but don’t they keep a padlock on it?”
“I am friends with most padlocks,” George said.
“Oh. I see.”
“Mike! Catch!” John tossed a red Frisbee. It floated toward me, but high. I jumped for it, snagged it, and suddenly Devore was back in my head: What’s wrong with you, Rogette? You never used to throw like a girl Get him/
I looked down and saw Ki looking up. “Don’t think about sad stuff,” she said.
I smiled at her, then flipped her the Frisbee. “Okay, no sad stuff. Go on, sweetheart. Toss it to your mom. Let’s see if you can.”
She smiled back, turned, and made a quick, accurate flip to her mother—the toss was so hard that Mattie almost flubbed it. Whatever else Kyra Devore might have been, she was a Frisbee champion in the making.
Mattie tossed the Frisbee to George, who turned, the tail of his absurd brown suitcoat flaring, and caught it deftly behind his back. Mattie laughed and applauded, the hem of her top flirting with her navel.
“Showoffl” John called from the steps. “Jealousy is such an ugly emotion,” George said to Rommie Bis-sonette, and flipped him the Frisbee. Rommie floated it back to John, but it went wide and bonked off the side of the trailer. As John hurried down the steps to get it, Mattie turned to me. “My boombox is on the coffee-table in the living room, along with a stack of CDS. Most of them are pretty old, but at least it’s music. Will you bring them out?”
“Sure.” I went inside, where it was hot in spite of three strategically placed fans working overtime.
I looked at the grim, mass-produced furniture, and at Mattie’s rather noble effort to impart some character: the van Gogh print that should not have looked at home in a trailer kitchenette but did, Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks over the sofa, the tie-dyed curtains that would have made Jo laugh. There was a bravery here that made me sad for her and furious at Max Devore all over again. Dead or not, I wanted to kick his ass. I went into the living room and saw the new Mary Higgins Clark on the sofa end-table with a bookmark sticking out of it. Lying beside it in a heap were a couple of little-girl hair ribbons—something about them looked familiar to me, although I couldn’t remember ever having seen Ki wearing them. I stood there a moment longer, frowning, then grabbed the boombox and CDS and went back outside. “Hey, guys,” I said.
“Let’s rock.”
I was okay until she danced. I don’t know if it matters to you, but it does to me. I was okay until she danced. After that I was lost. We took the Frisbee around to the rear of the house, partly so we wouldn’t piss off any funeral-bound townies with our rowdiness and good cheer, mostly because Mattie’s back yard was a good place to play—level ground and low grass. After a couple of missed catches, Mattie kicked off her party-shoes, dashed barefoot into the house, and came back in her sneakers. After that she was a lot better. We threw the Frisbee, yelled insults at each other, drank beer, laughed a lot. Ki wasn’t much on the catching part, but she had a phenomenal arm for a kid of three and played with gusto. Rommie had set the boombox up on the trailer’s back step, and it spun out a haze of late-eighties and early-nineties music: U2, Tears for Fears, the Eurythmics, Crowded House, A Flock of Seagulls, Ah-Hah, the Bangles, Melissa Etheridge, Huey Lewis and the News. It seemed to me that I knew every song, every riff.
We sweated and sprinted in the noon light. We watched Mattie’s long, tanned legs flash and listened to the bright runs of Kyra’s laughter. At one point Rommie Bissonette went head over heels, all the change spilling out of his pockets, and John laughed until he had to sit down.
Tears rolled from his eyes. Ki ran over and plopped on his defenseless lap. John stopped laughing in a hurry. “Ooofl” he cried, looking at me with shining, wounded eyes as his bruised balls no doubt tried to climb back inside his body. “Kyra Devote!” Mattie cried, looking at John apprehensively. “I taggled my own quartermack,” Ki said proudly. John smiled feebly at her and staggered to his feet. “Yes,” he said. “You did. And the ref calls fifteen yards for squashing.”
“Are you okay, man?” George asked. He looked concerned, but his voice was grinning.
“I’m fine,” John said, and spun him the Frisbee. It wobbled feebly across the yard. “Go on, throw. Let’s see whatcha got.” The thunder rumbled louder, but the black clouds were all still west of us; the sky overhead remained a harmless humid blue. Birds still sang and crickets hummed in the grass. There was a heat-shimmer over the barbecue, and it would soon be time to slap on John’s New York steaks. The Frisbee still flew, red against the green of the grass and trees, the blue of the sky.
I was still in lust, but everything was still all right—men are in lust all over the world and damned near all of the time, and the icecaps don’t melt. But she danced, and everything changed. It was an old Don Henley song, one driven by a really nasty guitar riff. “Oh God, I love this one,” Mattie cried. The Frisbee came to her. She caught it, dropped it, stepped on it as if it were a hot red spot falling on a nightclub stage, and began to shake. She put her hands first behind her neck and then on her hips and then behind her back. She danced stand ins with the toes of her sneakers on the Frisbee. She danced without moving. She danced as they say in that song—like a wave on the ocean.
“The government bugged the men’s room in the local disco lounge, And all she wants to do is dance, dance…
keep the boys from selling all the weapons they can scrounge, And all she wants to do, all she wants to do is dance.”
Women are sexy when they dance—incredibly sexy—but that wasn’t what I reacted to, or how I reacted. The lust I was coping with, but this was more than lust, and not copeable. It was something that sucked the wind out of me and left me feeling utterly at her mercy. In that moment she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, not a pretty woman in shorts and a middy top dancing in place on a Frisbee, but Venus revealed. She was everything I had missed during the last four years, when I’d been so badly off I didn’t know I was missing anything. She robbed me of any last defenses I might have had. The age difference didn’t matter. If I looked to people like my tongue was hanging out even when my mouth was shut, then so be it. If I lost my dignity, my pride, my sense of self, then so be it. Four y
ears on my own had taught me there are worse things to lose.
How long did she stand there, dancing? I don’t know. Probably not long, not even a minute, and then she realized we were looking at her, rapt—because to some degree they all saw what I saw and felt what I felt. For that minute or however long it was, I don’t think any of us used much oxygen.
She stepped off the Frisbee, laughing and blushing at the same time, confused but not really uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just…
I love that song.”
“All she wants to do is dance,” Rommie said.
“Yes, sometimes that’s all she wants,” Mattie said, and blushed harder than ever. “Excuse me, I have to use the facility.” She tossed me the Frisbee and then dashed for the trailer.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself back to reality, and saw John doing the same thing. George Kennedy was wearing a mildly stunned expression, as if someone had fed him a light sedative and it was finally taking effect.
Thunder rumbled. This time it did sound closer.
I skimmed the Frisbee to Rommie. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m in love,” he said, and then seemed to give himself a small mental shake—it was a thing you could see in his eyes. “I also think it’s time we got going on those steaks if we’re going to eat outside.
Want to help me?”
“Sure.”
“I will, too,” John said.
We walked back to the trailer, leaving George and Kyra to play toss.
Kyra was asking George if he had ever caught any crinimals. In the kitchen, Mattie was standing beside the open fridge and stacking steaks on a platter. “Thank God you guys came in. I was on the point of giving up and gobbling one of these just the way it is. They’re the most beautiful things I ever saw.”
“You’re the most beautiful thing I ever saw,” John said. He was being totally sincere, but the smile she gave him was distracted and a little bemused. I made a mental note to myself: never compliment a woman on her beauty when she has a couple of raw steaks in her hands. It just doesn’t turn the windmill somehow.
