by Stephen King
“He took care of Pete, too,” she said. Meaning Pete Bostwick, the gardener.
“Nice,” I said, and reached for another cookie. “He was a good guy, wasn’t he?”
“Not so sure about that,” she said. “He was square-dealing, all right, but you didn’t want to be on his bad side. You don’t remember Dusty Bilodeau, do you? No, you wouldn’t. He was before your time.”
“From the Bilodeaus over in the trailer park?”
“Ayuh, that’s right, next to the store, but I ’spect Dusty isn’t among em. He’ll have gone on his merry way long since. He was the gardener before Pete, but wasn’t eight months on the job before Mr. Harrigan caught him stealing and fired his butt. I don’t know how much he got, or how Mr. Harrigan found out, but firing didn’t end it. I know you know some of the stuff Mr. H. gave this little town and all the ways he helped out, but Mooney didn’t tell even half of it, maybe because he didn’t know or maybe because he was on a timer. Charity is good for the soul, but it also gives a man power, and Mr. Harrigan used his on Dusty Bilodeau.”
She shook her head. Partly, I think, in admiration. She had that Yankee hard streak in her.
“I hope he filched at least a few hundred out of Mr. Harrigan’s desk or sock drawer or wherever, because that was the last money he ever got in the town of Harlow, county of Castle, state of Maine. He couldn’t have landed a job shoveling henshit out of old Dorrance Marstellar’s barn after that. Mr. Harrigan saw to it. He was a square-dealing man, but if you weren’t the same, God help you. Have another cookie.”
I took another cookie.
“And drink your tea, boy.”
I drank my tea.
“I guess I’ll do the upstairs next. Prob’ly change the sheets on the beds instead of just strippin em, at least for now. What do you think’s going to happen with this house?”
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. Not a clue. Can’t imagine anyone buying it. Mr. Harrigan was one of a kind, and that goes the same for . . .” She spread her arms wide. “. . . all this.”
I thought about the glass elevator and decided she had a point.
Mrs. G. grabbed another cookie. “What about the houseplants? Any idears about them?”
“I’ll take a couple, if it’s all right,” I said. “The rest, I don’t know.”
“Me, either. And his freezer’s full. I guess we could split that three ways—you, me, and Pete.”
Take, eat, I thought. This do in remembrance of me.
She sighed. “I’m mostly just dithering. Stretching out a few chores like they were many. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself, and that’s the God’s honest. What about you, Craig? What are you going to do?”
“Right now I’m going downstairs to spritz his hen of the woods,” I said. “And if you’re sure it’s okay, I’ll at least take the African violet when I go home.”
“Course I’m sure.” She said it the Yankee way: Coss. “As many as you want.”
She went upstairs and I down to the basement, where Mr. Harrigan kept his mushrooms in a bunch of terrariums. While I spritzed, I thought about the text message I’d gotten from pirateking1 in the middle of the night. Dad was right, it had to be a joke, but wouldn’t a practical joker have sent something at least half-witty, like Save me I’m trapped in a box or the old one that went Don’t bother me while I’m decomposing? Why would a practical joker just send a double a, which when you spoke it sounded kind of like a gurgle, or a death-rattle? And why would a practical joker send my initial? Not once or twice but three times?
* * *
I ended up taking four of Mr. Harrigan’s houseplants—the African violet, the anthurium, the peperomia, and the dieffenbachia. I spotted them around our house, saving the dieffenbachia for my room, because it was my favorite. But I was just marking time, and I knew it. Once the plants were placed, I got a bottle of Snapple out of the fridge, put it in the saddlebag of my bike, and rode out to Elm Cemetery.
It was deserted on that hot summer forenoon, and I went right to Mr. Harrigan’s grave. The stone was in place, nothing fancy, just a granite marker with his name and dates on it. There were plenty of flowers, all still fresh (that wouldn’t last long), most with cards tucked in them. The biggest bunch, perhaps picked from Mr. Harrigan’s own flowerbeds—and out of respect, not parsimony—was from Pete Bostwick’s family.
I got down on my knees, but not to pray. I took my phone out of my pocket and held it in my hand. My heart was beating so hard it made little black dots flash in front of my eyes. I went to my contacts and called him. Then I lowered my phone and put the side of my face down on the newly replaced sod, listening for Tammy Wynette.
I thought I heard her, too, but it must have been my imagination. It would have had to’ve come through his coat, through the lid of his coffin, and up through six feet of ground. But I thought I did. No, check that—I was sure I did. Mr. Harrigan’s phone, singing “Stand By Your Man” down there in his grave.
In my other ear, the one not pressed to the ground, I could hear his voice, very faint but audible in the dozing stillness of that place: “I’m not answering my phone now. I will call you back if it seems appropriate.”
But he wouldn’t, appropriate or not. He was dead.
I went home.
* * *
In September of 2009, I started school at Gates Falls Middle along with my friends Margie, Regina, and Billy. We rode in a little used bus which quickly earned us the jeering nickname of Short Bus Kids from the Gates kids. I eventually got taller (although I stopped two inches short of six feet, which sort of broke my heart), but on that first day of school, I was the shortest kid in the eighth grade. Which made me a perfect target for Kenny Yanko, a hulking troublemaker who had been kept back that year and whose picture should have been in the dictionary next to the word bully.
Our first class wasn’t a class at all, but a school assembly for the new kids from the so-called “tuition towns” of Harlow, Motton, and Shiloh Church. The principal that year (and for many years to come) was a tall, shambling fellow with a bald head so shiny it looked Simonized. This was Mr. Albert Douglas, known to the kids as either Alkie Al or Dipso Doug. None of the kids had ever actually seen him loaded, but it was an article of faith back then that he drank like a fish.
He took the podium, welcomed “this group of fine new students” to Gates Falls Middle, and told us about all the wonderful things that awaited us in the coming academic year. These included band, glee club, debate club, photography club, Future Farmers of America, and all the sports we could handle (as long as they were baseball, track, soccer, or lacrosse—there would be no football option until high school). He explained about Dress-Up Fridays once a month, when boys would be expected to wear ties and sport jackets and girls would be expected to wear dresses (no hems more than two inches above the knee, please). Last of all, he told us there was to be absolutely no initiations of the new out-of-town students. Us, in other words. Apparently the year before, a transfer student from Vermont had wound up in Central Maine General after being forced to chug-a-lug three bottles of Gatorade, and now the tradition had been banned. Then he wished us well and sent us off on what he called “our academic adventure.”
My fears about getting lost in this huge new school turned out to be groundless, because it really wasn’t huge at all. All my classes except for period-seven English were on the second floor, and I liked all my teachers. I had been scared of math class, but it turned out we were picking up pretty much where I’d left off, so that was okay. I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing until the four-minute change of classes between period six and period seven.
I headed down the hall to the stairs, past slamming lockers, gabbing kids, and the smell of Beefaroni from the cafeteria. I had just reached the top of the stairs when a hand grabbed me. “Hey, new boy. Not so fast.”
I turned and saw a six-foot troll with an acne-blasted face. His black hair hung down to his shoulder
s in greasy clumps. Small dark eyes peered out at me from beneath a protruding shelf of forehead. They were filled with bogus merriment. He was wearing stovepipe jeans and scuffed biker boots. In one hand he held a paper bag.
“Take it.”
Clueless, I took it. Kids were hurrying past me and down the stairs, some with quick sideways glances at the kid with the long black hair.
“Look inside.”
I did. There was a rag, a brush, and a can of Kiwi boot polish. I tried to hand the bag back. “I have to get to class.”
“Uh-uh, new boy. Not until you shine my boots.”
Clueless no more. It was an initiation stunt, and although expressly forbidden by the principal just that morning, I thought about doing it. Then I thought about all the kids hurrying downstairs past us. They would see the little country boy from Harlow on his knees with that rag and brush and can of polish. The story would spread fast. Yet I still might have done it, because this kid was much bigger than I was, and I didn’t like the look in his eyes. I would love to beat the shit out of you, that look said. Just give me an excuse, new boy.
Then I thought of what Mr. Harrigan would think if he ever saw me down on my knees, humbly shining this oaf’s shoes.
“No,” I said.
“No’s a mistake you don’t want to make,” the kid said. “You better fucking believe it.”
“Boys? Say, boys? Is there a problem here?”
It was Ms. Hargensen, my earth science teacher. She was young and pretty, couldn’t have been long out of college, but she had an air of confidence about her that said she took no shit.
The big boy shook his head: no problem here.
“All good,” I said, handing the bag back to its owner.
“What’s your name?” Ms. Hargensen asked. She wasn’t looking at me.
“Kenny Yanko.”
“And what’s in your bag, Kenny?”
“Nothing.”
“It wouldn’t be an initiation kit, would it?”
“No,” he said. “I gotta go to class.”
I did, too. The crowd of kids going downstairs was thinning out, and pretty soon the bell was going to ring.
“I’m sure you do, Kenny, but one more second.” She switched her attention to me. “Craig, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s in that bag, Craig? I’m curious.”
I thought of telling her. Not out of any Boy Scout honesty-is-the-best-policy bullshit, but because he had scared me and now I was pissed off. And (might as well admit it) because I had an adult here to run interference. Then I thought, How would Mr. Harrigan handle this? Would he snitch?
“The rest of his lunch,” I said. “Half a sandwich. He asked me if I wanted it.”
If she had taken the bag and looked inside, we both would have been in trouble, but she didn’t . . . although I bet she knew. She just told us to get to class and went clicking away on her medium just-right-for-school heels.
I started down the stairs, and Kenny Yanko grabbed me again. “You should have shined em, new boy.”
That pissed me off more. “I just saved your ass. You should be saying thank you.”
He flushed, which did not complement all those erupting volcanos on his face. “You should have shined em.” He started away, then turned back, still holding his stupid paper bag. “Fuck your thanks, new boy. And fuck you.”
A week later, Kenny Yanko got into it with Mr. Arsenault, the woodshop teacher, and hucked a hand sander at him. Kenny had had no less than three suspensions during his two years at Gates Falls Middle—after my confrontation with him at the top of the stairs, I found out he was sort of a legend—and that was the last straw. He was expelled, and I thought my problems with him were over.
* * *
Like most smalltown schools, Gates Falls Middle was very big on traditions. Dress-Up Fridays was just one of many. There was Carrying the Boot (which meant standing in front of the IGA and asking for contributions to the fire department), and Doing the Mile (running around the gym twenty times in phys ed), and singing the school song at the monthly assemblies.
Another of these traditions was the Autumn Dance, a Sadie Hawkins kind of deal where the girls were supposed to ask the boys. Margie Washburn asked me, and of course I said yes, because I wanted to go on being friends with her even though I didn’t like her, you know, that way. I asked my dad to drive us, which he was more than happy to do. Regina Michaels asked Billy Bogan, so it was a double date. It was especially good because Regina whispered to me in study hall that she’d only asked Billy because he was my friend.
I had a hell of a good time until the first intermission, when I left the gym to offload some of the punch I’d put away. I got as far as the boys’ room door, then someone seized me by the belt with one hand and the back of my neck with the other and propelled me straight down the hall to the side exit that gave on the faculty parking lot. If I hadn’t put out a hand to shove the crash bar, Kenny would have run me into the door face-first.
I have total recall of what followed. I have no idea why the bad memories of childhood and early adolescence are so clear, I only know they are. And this is a very bad memory.
The night air was shockingly cold after the heat of the gym (not to mention the humidity exuded by all those adolescent fruiting bodies). I could see moonlight gleaming on the chrome of the two parked cars belonging to that night’s chaperones, Mr. Taylor and Ms. Hargensen (new teachers got stuck chaperoning because it was, you guessed it, a GFMS tradition). I could hear exhaust banging away through some car’s shot muffler up on Highway 96. And I could feel the hot raw scrape of my palms when Kenny Yanko pushed me down on the parking lot pavement.
“Now get up,” he said. “You got a job to do.”
I got up. I looked at my palms and saw they were bleeding.
There was a bag sitting on one of the parked cars. He took it and held it out. “Shine my boots. Do that and we’ll call it square.”
“Fuck you,” I said, and punched him in the eye.
Total recall, okay? I can remember every time he hit me: five blows in all. I can remember how the last one drove me back against the cinderblock wall of the building and how I told my legs to hold me up and they declined. I just slid slowly down until my butt was on the macadam. I can remember the Black Eyed Peas, faint but audible, doing “Boom Boom Pow.” I can remember Kenny standing over me, breathing hard and saying, “Tell anyone and you’re dead.” But of all the things I can remember, the one I recall best—and treasure—is the sublime and savage satisfaction I felt when my fist connected with his face. It was the only one I got in, but it was a hell of a shot.
Boom boom pow.
* * *
When he was gone, I took my phone out of my pocket. After making sure it wasn’t broken, I called Billy. It was all I could think of to do. He answered on the third ring, shouting to be heard over the chanting of Flo Rida. I told him to come outside and bring Ms. Hargensen. I didn’t want to involve a teacher, but even with my chimes rung pretty good, I knew that was bound to happen eventually, so it seemed best to do it from the jump. I thought it was the way Mr. Harrigan would have handled it.
“Why? What’s up, dude?”
“Some kid beat me up,” I said. “I don’t think I better go back inside. I don’t look so great.”
He came out three minutes later, not only with Ms. Hargensen but Regina and Margie. My friends stared with dismay at my split lip and bloody nose. My clothes were also speckled with blood and my shirt (brand new) was torn.
“Come with me,” Ms. Hargensen said. She didn’t seem upset by the blood, the bruise on my cheek, or the way my mouth was fattening up. “All of you.”
“I don’t want to go in there,” I said, meaning back into the gym annex. “I don’t want to get stared at.”
“Don’t blame you,” she said. “This way.”
She led us to an entrance that said STAFF ONLY, used a key to let us in, and took us to the teachers’ room.
It wasn’t exactly luxurious, I’d seen better furniture out on Harlow lawns when people had yard sales, but there were chairs, and I sat in one. She found a first aid kit and sent Regina into the bathroom to get a cold washcloth to put on my nose, which she said didn’t look broken.
Regina came back looking impressed. “There’s Aveda hand cream in there!”
“It’s mine,” Ms. Hargensen said. “Have some if you want. Put this on your nose, Craig. Hold it. Who brought you kids?”
“Craig’s dad,” Margie said. She was looking around at this undiscovered country with wide eyes. Since it was clear I wasn’t going to die, she was cataloguing everything for later discussion with her gal pals.
“Call him,” Ms. Hargensen said. “Give Margie your phone, Craig.”
Margie called Dad and told him to come pick us up. He said something. Margie listened, then said, “Well, there was a little trouble.” Listened some more. “Um . . . well . . .”
Billy took the phone. “He got beat up, but he’s okay.” Listened and held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Of course he did, and after asking if I was all right, he wanted to know who had done it. I said I didn’t know, but thought it was a high school kid who might’ve been trying to crash the dance. “I’m all right, Dad. Let’s not make a big deal of this, okay?”
He said it was a big deal. I said it wasn’t. He said it was. We went around like that, then he sighed and said he’d be there as fast as he could. I ended the call.
Ms. Hargensen said, “I’m not supposed to dispense anything for pain, only the school nurse can do that, and only then with parental permission, but she’s not here, so . . .” She grabbed her purse, which was hanging on a hook with her coat, and peered inside. “Are any of you kids going to tell on me, and maybe cause me to lose my job?”
