by Stephen King
The crust is thick but not that thick, he thought. If I weighed as much as I look like I weigh, I’d break through and stop. But I don’t. I’m going into the street, and if a car’s coming along, it probably won’t be able to stop in time. Then I won’t have to worry about Zero Day.
He didn’t go that far. He struck the post on which his mailbox was mounted, and hard enough to knock the wind out of him. When he recovered, he tried to stand up. He did a split on the slippery crust and went down again. He braced his feet against the post and pushed. That didn’t work, either. He went four or five feet, his momentum died, and he slid back into the post. Next he tried pulling himself along, but his clutching fingers only slid on the crust. He had forgotten his gloves, and his hands were going numb.
I need help, he thought, and the name that immediately jumped to mind was Deirdre’s. He reached into the pocket of his parka, but for once he had forgotten his phone. It was sitting back on his study desk. He supposed he could push himself into the street anyway, work his way over to the side, and wave down an oncoming car. Someone would stop and help him, but that someone would ask questions Scott didn’t want to answer. His driveway was even more hopeless; it looked like a skating rink.
So here I am, he thought, like a turtle on its back. Hands going numb, feet soon to follow.
He craned to look up at the bare trees, their branches swaying mildly against the cloudless blue sky. He looked at the mailbox, and saw what might be a solution to his serio-comic problem. He sat up with his crotch braced against the post and grabbed the metal flag on the side of the box. It was loose, and two hard pulls was enough to snap it off. He used the ragged metal end to dig two holes in the crust. He put his knee in one, then his foot in the other. He stood up, holding the post with his free hand for balance. He made his way up the lawn to the steps in this fashion, bending to chop through the crust, stepping forward, then breaking through the crust again.
A couple of cars went by, and someone honked. Scott raised a hand and waved without turning around. By the time he got back to the steps, his hands had lost all feeling, and one was bleeding in two places. His back hurt like a motherfucker. He started up to the door, slipped, and barely managed to grab the ice-coated iron railing before he could go sliding back down to the mailbox again. He wasn’t sure he would have had it in him to climb back up, even with holes to step in. He was exhausted, stinking with sweat inside his parka. He lay down in the hall. Bill came to look at him—but not too close—and miaowed his concern.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get fed.”
Yes, I’m okay, he thought. Just a little impromptu sledding on the crust. But this is where the really weird shit begins.
He supposed if there was a consolation, it was that the really weird shit wouldn’t last long.
But I need to put up those clamps and put down that ramp ASAP. Not much time now.
* * *
On a Monday evening in mid-month, the members of the “Dr. Ellis party” had their last meal together. Scott hadn’t seen any of them for a week, citing the need to hole up and finish his current department store project. Which had actually been done, at least in first draft, before Christmas. He guessed someone else would be applying the finishing touches.
He said it would have to be a potluck, with them bringing the food, because cooking had become difficult for him. In truth, everything had become difficult. Going upstairs was easy enough; three large, effortless leaps did the job. Going down was harder. He was afraid he might tumble and break a leg, so he held the railing and eased down step by step, like an old man with gout and bad hips. He had also developed a tendency to run into walls, because momentum had become hard to judge and even harder to control.
Myra asked him about the ramp now covering the steps to the stoop. Doctor Bob and Missy were more concerned about the wheelchair sitting in the corner of the living room, and the chest harness—made for people with little or no ability to sit upright—draped over its back. Deirdre asked no questions, only looked at him with wise, unhappy eyes.
They ate a tasty vegetarian casserole (Missy), au gratin potatoes with a cheesy sauce (Myra), and topped the meal off with a lumpy but tasty angel food cake that was only slightly burned on the bottom (Doctor Bob). The wine was good, but the talk and the laughter were better.
When they were finished, he said: “Time to fess up. I’ve been lying to you. This has been going quite a bit faster than I said it was.”
“Scott, no!” Missy cried.
Doctor Bob nodded, seeming unsurprised. “How much faster?”
“Three pounds a day, not one or two.”
“And how much do you weigh now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding the scale. Let’s find out.”
Scott tried to stand. His thighs connected with the table and he flew forward, knocking over two wineglasses when he put out his hands to stop himself. Deirdre quickly picked up the tablecloth and threw it over the spill.
“Sorry, sorry,” Scott said. “Don’t know my own strength these days.”
He turned as gingerly as a man on roller skates, and started toward the back half of the house. No matter how carefully he tried to walk, his steps became leaps. His remaining weight wanted him on the earth; his muscles insisted he rise above it. He overbalanced and had to grab one of the newly installed clamps to keep from going headlong into the hallway.
“Oh God,” Deirdre said. “It must be like learning to walk all over again.”
You should have seen the last time I tried to get the mail, Scott thought. That was a real learning experience.
At least none of them were revisiting the clinic idea. Not that their failure to do that surprised him. A single look at his locomotion, at once awkward, ridiculous, and weirdly graceful, was enough to dispel the idea that a clinic might do him any good. This was a private matter now. They understood that. He was glad.
They all crowded into the bathroom and watched him stand on the Ozeri scale. “Jesus,” Missy said quietly. “Oh, Scott.”
The readout was 30.2 pounds.
* * *
He made his way back to the dining room with them following along behind. He went as carefully as a man using stones to cross a creek, and still ended up running into the table again. Missy instinctively reached out to steady him, but he waved her off before she could touch him.
When they were seated, he said, “I’m all right with this. Fine, in fact. Really.”
Myra was very pale. “How can you be?”
“I don’t know. I just am. But this is our farewell dinner. I won’t see you guys again. Except for Deirdre. I need someone to help me at the end. Will you do it?”
“Yes, of course.” She didn’t hesitate, only put an arm around her wife, who had begun to cry.
“I just want to say . . .” Scott stopped, cleared his throat. “I want to say that I wish we had more time. You’ve been good friends to me.”
“There’s no compliment more sincere than that,” Doctor Bob said. He was wiping his eyes with a napkin.
“It’s not fair!” Missy burst out. “It’s not goddam fair!”
“Well, no,” Scott agreed, “it isn’t. But I’m not leaving any kids behind, my ex is happy where she is, there’s that, and it’s fairer than cancer, or Alzheimer’s, or being a burn victim in a hospital ward. I guess I’d go down in history, if anyone talked about it.”
“Which we won’t,” Doctor Bob said.
“No,” Deirdre agreed. “We won’t. Can you tell me what it is you need me to do, Scott?”
He could and did, mentioning everything except what was tucked away in a paper bag in the hall closet. They listened in silence, and no one spoke a word of disagreement.
When he finished, Myra asked, very timidly, “What does it feel like, Scott? What do you feel like?”
Scott thought of how he’d felt running down Hunter’s Hill, when he’d gotten his second wind and the whole world had stood revealed
in the usually hidden glory of ordinary things—the leaden, lowering sky, the bunting flapping from the downtown buildings, every precious pebble and cigarette butt and beer can discarded by the side of the road. His own body for once working at top capacity, every cell loaded with oxygen.
“Elevated,” he said at last.
He looked at Deirdre McComb, saw her shining eyes fixed on his face, and knew she understood why he had chosen her.
* * *
Myra coaxed Bill into his cat carrier. Doctor Bob took it down to his 4Runner and stowed it in the back. Then the four of them stood on the porch, their breath pluming in the cold night air. Scott remained in the entry, holding tight to one of the clamps.
“May I say something before we go?” Myra asked.
“Of course,” Scott said, but wished she wouldn’t. He wished they would just leave. He thought he had discovered one of life’s great truths (and one he could have done without): the only thing harder than saying goodbye to yourself, a pound at a time, was saying goodbye to your friends.
“I was very foolish. I’m sorry about what’s happening to you, Scott, but I’m glad about what’s happened to me. If it hadn’t, I would have stayed blind to some very good things, and some very good people. I would have stayed a foolish old woman. I can’t hug you, so this will have to do.”
She opened her arms, drew Deirdre and Missy to her, and embraced them. They hugged her back.
Doctor Bob said, “If you need me, I’ll come at a sprint.” He laughed. “Well, no, my sprinting days are actually behind me, but you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Scott said. “Thank you.”
“So long, old man. Take care where you step. And how.”
Scott watched them walk to Doctor Bob’s car. He watched them get in. He waved, being careful to hold onto the clamp as he did it. Then he closed the door and made his half-walking, half-leaping way to the kitchen, feeling like a cartoon character. Which was, at bottom, the reason it felt so important to keep this a secret. He was sure he looked absurd, and it was absurd . . . but only if you were on the outside.
He sat down at the kitchen counter and looked at the empty corner where Bill’s food and water dish had been for the last seven years. He looked at it for a long time. Then he went up to bed.
* * *
The following day, he got an email from Missy Donaldson.
I told DeeDee I wanted to go with her, and be there at the end. We had quite an argument about it. I didn’t give in until she reminded me about my foot, and how I felt about it when I was a young girl. I can run now—I love to run—but I was never a competition runner like DeeDee, because I’m only good for short distances, even after all these years. I was born with talipes equinovarus, you see, which is more commonly known as clubfoot. I had surgery to correct it when I was seven years old, but until then I walked with a cane, and it took me years afterward to learn to walk normally.
When I was four—I remember this very clearly—I showed my foot to my friend Felicity. She laughed and said it was a gross-ugly stupid foot. After that I didn’t let anyone look at it except for my mother and the doctors. I didn’t want people to laugh. DeeDee says that’s how you feel about what’s happening to you. She said, “He wants you to remember him the way he was when he was normal, not bouncing around in his house and looking like a bad special effect from a 1950s sci-fi movie.”
Then I got it, but that doesn’t mean I like it, or that you deserve it.
Scott, what you did the day of the race made it possible for us to stay in Castle Rock, not just because we have a business here but because now we can be a part of the town’s greater life. DeeDee thinks she is going to be invited to join the Jaycees. She laughs and says it’s silly, but I know that inside she doesn’t think it’s silly at all. It’s a trophy, the same as the ones she got in the races she won. Oh, not everyone will accept us, I’m not so silly (or naive) as to believe that, some will never come around, but most will. Many already have. Without you that never would have happened, and without you, part of my beloved would always have remained closed off to the world. She won’t tell you this, but I will: you knocked the chip off her shoulder. It was a big chip, and now she can walk straight again. She’s always been a prickly pear, and I don’t expect that to change, but she’s open now. She sees more, hears more, can be more. You made that possible. You picked her up when she fell.
She says there’s a bond between you, a shared feeling, and that’s why she has to be the one to help you at the end. Am I jealous? A little, but I think I understand. It was when you said you felt elevated. She is that way when she runs. It’s why she runs.
Please be brave, Scott, and please know I am thinking of you. God bless.
All my love,
Missy
PS: When we go to the bookstore, we’ll always pet Bill.
Scott thought about calling her and thanking her for saying such kind things, then decided that was a bad idea. It might get them both going. He printed out her note instead, and put it in one of the pockets of the harness.
He would take it with him when he went.
* * *
The following Sunday morning, Scott went along the hall to the downstairs bathroom in a series of steps that weren’t steps at all. Each one was a long float that took him up to the ceiling, where he would push his tented fingers to bring himself back down. The furnace kicked on, and the soft whoosh of air from the vent actually blew him sideways a little. He twisted and grabbed a clamp to pull himself past the draft.
In the bathroom, he hovered over the scale and finally settled. At first he thought it wasn’t going to report any weight at all. Then, at last, it coughed up a number: 2.1. It was about what he had expected.
That evening he called Deirdre’s cell. He kept it simple. “I need you. Can you come?”
“Yes.” It was all she said, and all he needed.
* * *
The door of the house was shut but unlocked. Deirdre slipped in, not opening the door all the way because of the draft. She turned on the hall lights to dispel the shadows, then went into the living room. Scott was in the wheelchair. He had managed to get partway into the harness, which had been buckled to the back of the chair, but his body floated upward from the chair’s seat and one arm hung in the air. His face was bright with sweat, the front of his shirt dark with it.
“I almost waited too long,” he said. He sounded breathless. “I had to swim down to the chair. Breaststroke, if you can believe it.”
Deirdre could. She went to him and stood in front of the wheelchair, looking at him with wonder. “How long have you been here like this?”
“Awhile. Wanted to wait until dark. Is it dark?”
“Almost.” She dropped to her knees. “Oh, Scott. This is so bad.”
He shook his head back and forth in slow motion, like a man shaking his head underwater. “You know better.”
She thought she did. Hoped she did.
He struggled with his floating arm and finally managed to shoot it into the vest’s armhole. “Can you try to buckle the straps across my chest and waist without touching me?”
“I think so,” she said, but twice her knuckles brushed him as she knelt in front of the chair—once his side, once his shoulder—and both times she felt her body rise and then settle back. Her stomach did a flip with each contact, what she remembered her father calling a whoops-my-dear when their car went over a big bump. Or, yes—Missy had been right—like when a rollercoaster crested the first hill, hesitated, then plunged.
At last it was done. “Now what?”
“Soon we sample the night air. But first go into the closet, the one in the entry where I keep my boots. There’s a paper bag, and a coil of rope. I think you can push the wheelchair, but if you can’t, you’ll have to tie the rope around the headrest and pull it.”
“And you’re sure about this?”
He nodded, smiling. “Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life tied into this thing? Or ha
ving someone climb a stepladder to feed me?”
“Well, that would make a dandy YouTube video.”
“One no one would believe.”
She found the rope and the brown paper bag and took them back to the living room. Scott held out his hands. “Come on, big girl, let’s see your skills. Toss me the bag from there.”
She did, and it was a good throw. The bag arced through the air toward his outreached hands . . . stopped less than an inch above his palms . . . then settled slowly into them. There the bag seemed to gain weight, and Deirdre had to remind herself of what he’d said when he first explained what was happening: things were heavy to him. Was that a paradox? It made her head hurt, whatever it was, and there was no time to think about it now, anyway. He stripped off the paper bag and held a square object wrapped in thick paper decorated with starbursts. Protruding from the bottom was a flat red tongue about six inches long.
“It’s called a SkyLight. A hundred and fifty dollars from Fireworks Factory in Oxford. I bought it online. Hope it’s worth it.”
“How will you light it? How can you, when . . . when you’re . . .”
“Don’t know if I can, but confidence is high. It’s got a scratch fuse.”
“Scott, do I have to do this?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You want to go.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s time.”
“It’s cold outside, and you’re covered with sweat.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
But it did to her. She went upstairs to his bedroom and pulled the comforter off a bed that had been slept in—at some point, anyway—but bore no impression of his body on the mattress or his head on the pillow.
“Comforter,” she snorted. It seemed a very stupid word under the circumstances. She took it downstairs and tossed it to him as she had tossed the paper bag, watching with the same fascination as it paused . . . bloomed . . . and then settled over his chest and lap.
