by Stephen King
She pushed the idea away.
"I'm not that kind of mom," she told Little Walter.
He goggled up at her in a way that reminded her of Phil, but in a good way: the expression that only looked like puzzled stupidity on her estranged husband's face was endearingly goofy on her son's. She kissed his nose and he smiled. That was nice, a nice smile, but the Band-Aids on his forehead were turning red. That wasn't so nice.
"Little change of plan," she said, and went back inside. At first she couldn't find the Papoose, but finally spotted it behind what she would from now on think of as the Rape Couch. She finally managed to wriggle Little Walter into it, although lifting him hurt her all over again. The dish-wiper in her underwear was feeling ominously damp, but when she checked the crotch of her sweatpants, there were no spots. That was good.
"Ready for a walk, Little Walter?"
Little Walter only snuggled his cheek into the hollow of her shoulder. Sometimes his paucity of speech bothered her--she had friends whose babies had been babbling whole sentences by sixteen months, and Little Walter only had nine or ten words--but not this morning. This morning she had other things to worry about.
The day felt dismayingly warm for the last full week of October; the sky overhead was its very palest shade of blue and the light was somehow blurry. She felt sweat spring out on her face and neck almost at once, and her crotch was throbbing badly--worse with every step, it seemed, and she had taken only a few. She thought of going back for aspirin, but wasn't it supposed to make bleeding worse? Besides, she wasn't sure she had any.
There was something else, as well, something she hardly dared admit to herself: if she went back into the house, she wasn't sure she'd have the heart to come back out again.
There was a white scrap of paper under the Toyota's left wind-shield wiper. It had Just a Note from SAMMY printed across the top and surrounded by daisies. Torn from her own kitchen pad. The idea caused a certain tired outrage. Scrawled under the daisies was this: Tell anyone and more than your tires will be flat. And below, in another hand: Next time maybe we'll turn you over and play the other side.
"In your dreams, motherfucker," she said in a wan, tired voice.
She crumpled the note up, dropped it by one flat tire--poor old Corolla looked almost as tired and sad as she felt--and made her way out to the end of the driveway, pausing to lean against the mailbox for a few seconds. The metal was warm on her skin, the sun hot on her neck. And hardly a breath of breeze. October was supposed to be cool and invigorating. Maybe it's that global warming stuff, she thought. She was first to have this idea, but not the last, and the word which eventually stuck was not global but local.
Motton Road lay before her, deserted and charmless. Starting a mile or so to her left were the nice new homes of Eastchester, to which The Mill's higher-class workadaddies and workamommies came at the end of their days in the shops and offices and banks of Lewiston-Auburn. To her right lay downtown Chester's Mill. And the Health Center.
"Ready, Little Walter?"
Little Walter didn't say if he was or wasn't. He was snoring in the hollow of her shoulder and drooling on her Donna the Buffalo tee-shirt. Sammy took a deep breath, tried to ignore the throb coming from The Land Down Under, hitched up the Papoose, and started toward town.
When the whistle started up on top of the Town Hall, blowing the short blasts that indicated a fire, she first thought it was in her own head, which was feeling decidedly weird. Then she saw the smoke, but it was far to the west. Nothing to concern her and Little Walter ... unless someone came along who wanted a closer look at the fire, that was. If that happened, they would surely be neighborly enough to drop her off at the Health Center on their way to the excitement.
She began to sing the James McMurtry song that had been popular last summer, got as far "We roll up the sidewalks at quarter of eight, it's a small town, can't sell you no beer," then quit. Her mouth was too dry to sing. She blinked and saw she was on the edge of falling into the ditch, and not even the one she'd been walking next to when she started out. She'd woven all the way across the road, an excellent way to get hit instead of picked up.
She looked over her shoulder, hoping for traffic. There was none. The road to Eastchester was empty, the tar not quite hot enough to shimmer.
She went back to what she thought of as her side, swaying on her feet now, feeling all jelly-legged. Drunken sailor, she thought. What do you do with a drunken sailor, ear-lye in the morning? But it wasn't morning, it was afternoon, she had slept the clock around, and when she looked down she saw that the crotch of her sweats had turned purple, just like the underpants she'd been wearing earlier. That won't come out, and I only have two other pairs of sweats that fit me. Then she remembered one of those had a big old hole in the seat, and began to cry. The tears felt cool on her hot cheeks.
"It's all right, Little Walter," she said. "Dr. Haskell's going to fix us up. Just fine. Fine as paint. Good as n--"
Then a black rose began to bloom in front of her eyes and the last of her strength left her legs. Sammy felt it go, running out of her muscles like water. She went down, holding onto one final thought: On your side, on your side, don't squash the baby!
That much she managed. She lay sprawled on the shoulder of Motton Road, unmoving in the hazy, Julyish sun. Little Walter awoke and began to cry. He tried to struggle out of the Papoose and couldn't; Sammy had snapped him in carefully, and he was pinned. Little Walter began to cry harder. A fly settled on his forehead, sampled the blood oozing through the cartoon images of SpongeBob and Patrick, then flew off. Possibly to report this taste-treat at Fly HQ and summon reinforcements.
Grasshoppers reeee 'd in the grass.
The town whistle honked.
Little Walter, trapped with his unconscious mother, wailed for a while in the heat, then gave up and lay silent, looking around list-lessly as sweat rolled out of his fine hair in large clear drops.
6
Standing beside the Globe Theater's boarded-up box office and under its sagging marquee (the Globe had gone out of business five years before), Barbie had a good view of both the Town Hall and the police station. His good buddy Junior was sitting on the cop-shop steps, massaging his temples as if the rhythmic whoop of the whistle hurt his head.
Al Timmons came out of the Town Hall and jogged down to the street. He was wearing his gray janitor's fatigues, but there was a pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck and an Indian pump on his back--empty of water, from the ease with which he was carrying it. Barbie guessed Al had blown the fire whistle.
Go away, Al, Barbie thought. How about it?
Half a dozen trucks rolled up the street. The first two were pickups, the third a panel job. All three lead vehicles were painted a yellow so bright it almost screamed. The pickups had BURPEE'S DEPARTMENT STORE decaled on the doors. The panel truck's box bore the legendary slogan MEET ME FOR SLURPEES AT BURPEES. Romeo himself was in the lead truck. His hair was its usual Daddy Cool marvel of sweeps and spirals. Brenda Perkins was riding shotgun. In the pickup's bed were shovels, hoses, and a brand-new sump pump still plastered with the manufacturer's stickers.
Romeo stopped beside Al Timmons. "Jump in the back, partner," he said, and Al did. Barbie withdrew as far as he could into the shadow of the deserted theater's marquee. He didn't want to be drafted to help fight the fire out on Little Bitch Road; he had business right here in town.
Junior hadn't moved from the PD steps, but he was still rubbing his temples and holding his head. Barbie waited for the trucks to disappear, then hurried across the street. Junior didn't look up, and a moment later he was hidden from Barbie's view by the ivy-covered bulk of the Town Hall.
Barbie went up the steps and paused to read the sign on the message board: TOWN MEETING THURSDAY 7 PM IF CRISIS IS NOT RESOLVED. He thought of Julia saying Until you've heard Big Jim Rennie's stump speech, don't sell him short. He might get a chance Thursday night; certainly Rennie would make his pitch to stay in control
of the situation.
And for more power, Julia's voice spoke up in his head. He'll want that, too, of course. For the good of the town.
The Town Hall had been built of quarried stone a hundred and sixty years before, and the vestibule was cool and dim. The generator was off; no need to run it with no one here.
Except someone was, in the main meeting hall. Barbie heard voices, two of them, belonging to children. The tall oak doors were standing ajar. He looked in and saw a skinny man with a lot of graying hair sitting up front at the selectmen's table. Opposite him was a pretty little girl of about ten. They had a checkerboard between them; the longhair had his chin propped on one hand, studying his next move. Down below, in the aisle between the benches, a young woman was playing leapfrog with a boy of four or five. The checker players were studious; the young woman and the boy were laughing.
Barbie started to withdraw, but too late. The young woman looked up. "Hi? Hello?" She picked up the boy and came toward him. The checker players looked up, too. So much for stealth.
The young woman was holding out the hand she wasn't using to support the little boy's bottom. "I'm Carolyn Sturges. That gentleman is my friend, Thurston Marshall. The little guy is Aidan Appleton. Say hi, Aidan."
"Hi," Aidan said in a small voice, and then plugged his thumb into his mouth. He looked at Barbie with eyes that were round and blue and mildly curious.
The girl ran up the aisle to stand beside Carolyn Sturges. The longhair followed more slowly. He looked tired and shaken. "I'm Alice Rachel Appleton," she said. "Aidan's big sister. Take your thumb out of your mouth, Aide."
Aide didn't.
"Well, it's nice to meet all of you," Barbie said. He didn't tell them his own name. In fact, he sort of wished he were wearing a fake mustache. But this still might be all right. He was almost positive these people were out-of-towners.
"Are you a town official?" Thurston Marshall asked. "If you're a town official, I wish to lodge a complaint."
"I'm just the janitor," Barbie said, then remembered they had almost certainly seen Al Timmons leave. Hell, probably had a conversation with him. "The other janitor. You must have met Al."
"I want my mother," Aidan Appleton said. "I miss her bad. "
"We met him," Carolyn Sturges said. "He claims the government shot some missiles at whatever is holding us in, and all they did was bounce off and start a fire."
"That's true," Barbie said, and before he could say more, Marshall weighed in again.
"I want to lodge a complaint. In fact, I want to lay a charge. I was assaulted by a so-called police officer. He punched me in the stomach. I had my gall bladder out a few years ago, and I'm afraid I may have internal injuries. Also, Carolyn was verbally abused. She was called a name that degraded her sexually."
Carolyn laid a hand on his arm. "Before we go making any charges, Thurse, you want to remember that we had D-O-P-E."
"Dope!" Alice said at once. "Our mom smokes marijuana sometimes, because it helps when she's having her P-E-R-I-O-D."
"Oh," Carolyn said. "Right." Her smile was wan.
Marshall drew himself up to his full height. "Possession of marijuana is a misdemeanor," he said. "What they did to me was felony assault! And it hurts terribly !"
Carolyn gave him a look in which affection was mingled with exasperation. Barbie suddenly understood how it was between them. Sexy May had met Erudite November, and now they were stuck with each other, refugees in the New England version of No Exit. "Thurse ... I'm not sure that misdemeanor idea would fly in court." She smiled apologetically at Barbie. "We had quite a lot. They took it."
"Maybe they'll smoke up the evidence," Barbie said.
She laughed at this. Her graying boyfriend did not. His bushy brows had drawn together. "All the same, I plan to lodge a complaint."
"I'd wait," Barbie said. "The situation here ... well, let's just say that a punch in the gut isn't going to be considered that big a deal as long as we're still under the Dome."
"I consider it a big deal, my young janitor friend."
The young woman now looked more exasperated than affectionate. "Thurse--"
"The good side of that is nobody is going to make a big deal out of some pot, either," Barbie said. "Maybe it's a push, as the gamblers say. How'd you come by the kiddos?"
"The cops we ran into at Thurston's cabin saw us at the restaurant," Carolyn said. "The woman who runs it said they were closed until supper, but she took pity on us when we said we were from Massachusetts. She gave us sandwiches and coffee."
"She gave us peanut butter and jelly and coffee," Thurston corrected. "There was no choice, not even tuna fish. I told her peanut butter sticks to my upper plate, but she said they were on rationing. Isn't that about the craziest thing you've ever heard?"
Barbie did think it was crazy, but since it had also been his idea, he said nothing.
"When I saw the cops come in, I was ready for more trouble," Carolyn said, "but Aide and Alice seemed to have mellowed them out."
Thurston snorted. "Not so mellow they apologized. Or did I miss that part?"
Carolyn sighed, then turned back to Barbie. "They said maybe the pastor at the Congregational church could find the four of us an empty house to live in until this is over. I guess we're going to be foster parents, at least for awhile."
She stroked the boy's hair. Thurston Marshall looked less than pleased at the prospect of becoming a foster parent, but he put an arm around the girl's shoulders, and Barbie liked him for that.
"One cop was Joooo-nyer, " Alice said. "He's nice. Also a fox. Frankie isn't as good looking, but he was nice, too. He gave us a Milky Way bar. Mom says we're not supposed to take candy from strangers, but--" She shrugged to indicate things had changed, a fact she and Carolyn seemed to understand much more clearly than Thurston.
"They weren't nice before," Thurston said. "They weren't nice when they were punching me in the stomach, Caro."
"You have to take the bitter with the sweet," Alice said philosophically. "That's what my mother says."
Carolyn laughed. Barbie joined in, and after a moment so did Marshall, although he held his stomach while he did it and looked at his young girlfriend with a certain reproach.
"I went up the street and knocked on the church door," Carolyn said. "There was no answer, so I went in--the door was unlocked, but there was nobody there. Do you have any idea when the pastor will be back?"
Barbie shook his head. "I'd take your checkerboard and go on up to the parsonage, if I were you. It's around back. You're looking for a woman named Piper Libby."
"Cherchez la femme," Thurston said.
Barbie shrugged, then nodded. "She's good people, and God knows there are empty houses in The Mill. You could almost have your pick. And you'll probably find supplies in the pantry wherever you go."
This made him think of the fallout shelter again.
Alice, meanwhile, had grabbed the checkers, which she stuffed in her pockets, and the board, which she carried. "Mr. Marshall's beat me every game so far," she told Barbie. "He says it's pay -tronizing to let kids win just because they're kids. But I'm getting better, aren't I, Mr. Marshall?"
She smiled up at him. Thurston Marshall smiled back. Barbie thought this unlikely quartet might be okay.
"Youth must be served, Alice my dear," he said. "But not immediately."
"I want Mommy," Aidan said morosely. "If there was only a way to get in touch with her," Carolyn said. "Alice, you're sure you don't remember her e-mail address?" And to Barbie she said, "Mom left her cell phone at the cabin, so that's no good."
"She's a hotmail," Alice said. "That's all I know. Sometimes she says she used to be a hot female, but Daddy took care of that."
Carolyn was looking at her elderly boyfriend. "Blow this pop-shop?"
"Yes. We may as well repair to the parsonage, and hope the lady comes back soon from whatever errand of mercy she happens to be on."
"Parsonage might be unlocked, too," Barbie said. "If it i
sn't, try under the doormat."
"I wouldn't presume," he said.
"I would," Carolyn said, and giggled. The sound made the little boy smile.
"Pre-zoom !" Alice Appleton cried, and went flying up the center aisle with her arms outstretched and the checkerboard flapping from one hand. "Pre-zoom, pre-zoom, come on, you guys, let's pre-zoom !"
Thurston sighed and started after her. "If you break the checkerboard, Alice, you'll never beat me."
"Yes I will, 'cos youth must be served !" she called back over her shoulder. "Besides, we could tape it together! Come on !"
Aidan wriggled impatiently in Carolyn's arms. She set him down to chase after his sister. Carolyn held out her hand. "Thank you, Mr.--"
"More than welcome," Barbie said, shaking with her. Then he turned to Thurston. The man had the fishbelly grip Barbie associated with guys whose intelligence-to-exercise ratio was out of whack.
They started out after the kids. At the double doors, Thurston Marshall looked back. A shaft of hazy sun from one of the high windows struck across his face, making him look older than he was. Making him look eighty. "I edited the current issue of Ploughshares, " he said. His voice quivered with indignation and sorrow. "That is a very good literary magazine, one of the best in the country. They had no right to punch me in the stomach, or laugh at me."
"No," Barbie said. "Of course not. Take good care of those kids."
"We will," Carolyn said. She took the man's arm and squeezed it. "Come on, Thurse."
Barbie waited until he heard the outer door close, then went in search of the stairs leading to the Town Hall conference room and kitchen. Julia had said the fallout shelter was half a flight down from there.
7
Piper's first thought was that someone had left a bag of garbage beside the road. Then she got a little closer and saw it was a body.
She pulled over and scrambled out the car so fast she went to one knee, scraping it. When she got up she saw it wasn't one body but two: a woman and a toddler. The child, at least, was alive, waving its arms feebly.
She ran to them and turned the woman onto her back. She was young, and vaguely familiar, but not a member of Piper's congregation. Her cheek and brow were badly bruised. Piper freed the child from the carrier, and when she held him against her and stroked his sweaty hair, he began to cry hoarsely.
