Lisey's Story

  "Yes, Lisey," Amanda muttered. Then, looking down at her cut hands and starting to cry again: "But what if they make me go back to that room? What if they lock me in and make me take sponge-baths and drink bug-juice?"

  "They won't. They can't. Your committal was purely voluntary--Darla and I did the volunteering, since you were hors-de-batty."

  Amanda snickered dolefully. "Scott used to say that. And sometimes, when he thought someone was stuck-up, he'd say they were hors-de-snotty."

  "Yes," Lisey said, not without a pang. "I remember. Anyway, you're okay now. That's the point." She took one of Amanda's hands, reminding herself to be gentle. "You're going to go in there tomorrow and charm the socks off that doc."

  "I'll try," Amanda said. "But not because I owe you."

  "No?"

  "Because I love you," Amanda said with simple dignity. Then, in a very small voice: "You'll come with, won't you?"

  "You bet I will."

  "Maybe . . . maybe your boyfriend will get us and I won't have to worry about Greenlawn at all."

  "Told you not to call him my boyfriend."

  Amanda smiled wanly. "I think I can manage to remember that, if you can drop the Manda-Bunny shit."

  Lisey burst out laughing.

  "Why don't you get going, Lisey? The rain's letting up. And please turn on the heater. It's getting cold in here."

  Lisey flicked it on, backed the BMW out of its parking space, and turned toward the road. "We'll go to your house," she said. "Dooley's probably not watching it if it's raining as hard there as it has been here--at least I hope not. And even if he is, what's he going to see? We go to your house, then we go to my house. Two middle-aged women. Is he going to worry about two middle-aged women?"

  "Unlikely," Amanda said. "But I'm glad we sent Canty and Miss Buggy Bumpers off on a long trip, aren't you?"

  Lisey was, even though she knew that, like Lucy Ricardo, she was going to have some 'splainin to do down the line. She pulled out onto the highway, which was now deserted. She hoped she wouldn't encounter a tree lying across the road and knew it was very possible that she would. Thunder growled overhead, sounding ill-tempered.

  "I can get some clothes that actually fit me," Amanda was saying. "Also, I have two pounds of nice ground chuck in my freezer. It'll thaw nicely in the microwave, and I'm very hungry."

  "My microwave," Lisey said, not taking her eyes off the road. The rain had stopped entirely for the time being, but there were more dark clouds up ahead. Black as a stage villain's hat, Scott would have said, and she was struck by the old sick wanting of him, that empty place that could now never be filled. That needing-place.

  "Did you hear me, little Lisey?" Amanda asked, and Lisey realized that her sister had been talking. Saying something about something. Twenty-four hours ago she had been afraid Manda would never speak again, and here she was, already ignoring her. But wasn't that the way the world turned?

  "No," Lisey admitted. "Guess not. Sorry."

  "That's you, always was. Off in your own . . ." Amanda's voice trailed away, and she made a business of looking out the window.

  "Always off in my own little world?" Lisey asked, smiling.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be." They came around a curve and Lisey swerved to avoid a large fir branch lying in the road. She considered stopping and tossing it onto the shoulder, and decided to leave it for the next person to come along. The next person to come along would probably not have a psychopath to deal with. "If it's Boo'ya Moon you're thinking of, it's not really my world, anyway. It seems to me that everyone who goes there has his or her own version. What were you saying?"

  "Just that I have something else you might want. Unless you're already strapped, that is."

  Lisey was startled. She took her eyes off the road for a moment to look at her sister. "What? What did you say?"

  "Just a figure of speech," Amanda said. "I mean I have a gun."

  11

  There was a long white envelope propped on the sill of Amanda's screen door, well under the porch overhang and thus safe from the rain. Lisey's first alarmed thought on seeing it was Dooley's been here already. But the envelope Lisey had found after discovering the dead cat in her mailbox had been blank on both sides. This one had Amanda's name printed on the front. She handed it over. Amanda looked at the printing, turned the card over to read the embossing on the back--Hallmark--and then spoke a single disdainful word: "Charles."

  For a moment the name meant nothing to Lisey. Then she remembered that once upon a time, before this current craziness had begun, Amanda had had a boyfriend.

  Shootin' Beans, she thought, and made a strangled noise in her throat.

  "Lisey?" Amanda asked. Her eyebrows went up.

  "Just thinking about Canty and Miss Buggy, charging up to Derry," Lisey said. "I know it's not funny, but--"

  "Oh, it has its humorous elements," Amanda said. "Probably this does, too." She opened the envelope and removed the card. Scanned it. "Oh. My. God. Look. What just fell out of. The dog's ass."

  "Can I see?"

  Amanda passed it over. On the front was a gap-toothed little boy, Hallmark's idea of tough but endearing (too-big sweater, patched jeans), holding out a single droopy flower. Gee, I'm Sorry! read the message below the scamp's battered sneakers. Lisey flipped it open and read this:

  I know I hurt your feelin's, and I guess you're feelin' bad,

  This is just a note to say you ain't the only one who's sad!

  I thought I'd send a card an' apologize to you,

  'Cuz to think of you down in the dumps has made me feel so blue!

  So get out an' smell the roses! Be happy for a while!

  Get that spring back in your step! Put on that cheery smile!

  Today I guess I made you feel a tiny bit o' sorrow,

  But I hope we'll still be friends when the sun comes out tomorrow!

  It was signed Yours in friendship (4-Ever! Remember the Good Times!!) Charles "Charlie" Corriveau.

  Lisey tried mightily to keep a solemn face, but couldn't. She burst out laughing. And Amanda joined her. They stood on the porch together, laughing. When it began to wind down a little, Amanda stood up straight and declaimed to her rain-soaked front yard, with the card held out before her like a choir-book.

  "My darling Charles, I cannot let another moment pass, without asking you to come over here and kiss my fuckin ass."

  Lisey fell against the side of the house hard enough to rattle the nearest window, screaming with laughter, her hands against her chest. Amanda gave her a haughty smile and marched down the porch stairs. She squelched two or three steps into the yard, upended the little lawn-pixie that stood guard over the rose bushes, and fished out the spare latchkey she kept stashed beneath. But while she was bent over, she took the opportunity to rub Charlie Corriveau's card briskly over her green-clad fanny.

  No longer caring if Jim Dooley might be watching from the woods, no longer thinking of Jim Dooley at all, Lisey collapsed to a sitting position on the porch, now wheezing with laughter because she had almost no breath left. She might have laughed so hard once or twice with Scott, but maybe not. Maybe not even then.

  12

  There was a single message on Amanda's answering machine, and it was from Darla, not Dooley. "Lisey!" she said exuberantly. "I don't know what you did, but wow! We're on our way to Derry! Lisey, I love you! You're a champ!"

  She heard Scott saying Lisey, you're a champ at this! and her laughter began to dry up.

  Amanda's gun turned out to be a Pathfinder .22 revolver, and when Amanda passed it over, it felt absolutely correct in Lisey's hand, as if it had been manufactured with her in mind. Amanda had been keeping it in a shoebox on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. With only minimal fiddling, Lisey was able to swing out the cylinder.

  "Jesus-please-us, Manda, this thing is loaded!"

  As if Someone Up There was displeased with Lisey's profanity, the skies opened and more rain poured down. A moment later, the w
indows and gutters were rattling and pinging with hail.

  "What's a woman on her own supposed to do if a raper comes in?" Amanda asked. "Point an unloaded gun at him and shout bang? Lisey, hook this for me, would you?" Amanda had put on a pair of jeans. Now she presented her bony back and the hooks of her bra. "Every time I try, my hands just about kill me. You should have taken me down for a little dip in that pool of yours."

  "I was having enough trouble getting you away from it without baptizing you in it, please and thank you," Lisey said, doing the hooks. "Wear the red shirt with the yellow flowers, would you? I love that one on you."

  "It shows my gut."

  "Amanda, you don't have a gut."

  "I do s--Why in the name of Jesus, Mary, and JoJo the Carpenter are you taking the bullets out?"

  "So I don't shoot my own kneecap off." Lisey put the bullets in the pocket of her jeans. "I'll re-load it later." Although whether she could point it at Jim Dooley and actually pull the trigger . . . she just didn't know. Maybe. If she summoned up the memory of her can opener.

  But you do mean to get rid of him. Don't you?

  She certainly did. He had hurt her. That was strike one. He was dangerous. That was strike two. She could trust no one else to do it, strike three and you're out. Still, she continued to look at the Pathfinder with fascination. Scott had researched gunshot wounds for one of his novels--Relics, she was quite sure--and she'd made the mistake of looking into a folder filled with very ugly photographs. Until then she hadn't realized how lucky Scott himself had been that day in Nashville. If Cole's bullet had hit a rib and splintered--

  "Why not take it in the shoebox?" Amanda asked, pulling on a rude tee-shirt (KISS ME WHERE IT STINKS--MEET ME IN MOTTON) instead of the button-up one Lisey liked. "There are some extra shells in it, too. You can tape it shut while I'm getting the meat out of the freezer."

  "Where did you get it, Manda?"

  "Charles gave it to me," Amanda said. She turned away, seized a brush from her not-so-vain vanity, peered into the mirror, and went at her hair furiously. "Last year."

  Lisey put the gun, so much like the one Gerd Allen Cole had used on her husband, back in the shoebox and watched Amanda in the mirror.

  "I slept with him two and sometimes three times a week for four years," Amanda said. "Which is intimate. Wouldn't you agree that's intimate?"

  "Yes."

  "I also washed his undershorts for four years, and scraped the scaly stuff off his scalp once a week so it wouldn't fall on the shoulders of his dark suits and embarrass him, and I think those things are a hell of a lot more intimate than fucking. What do you think?"

  "I think you've got a point."

  "Yeah," Amanda said. "Four years of that and I get a Hallmark card as severance pay. That woman he found up there in the Sin-Jin is welcome to him."

  Lisey felt like cheering. No, she didn't think Manda needed a dip in the pool.

  "Let's get the meat out of the freezer and go to your house," Amanda said. "I'm starving."

  13

  The sun came out as they approached Patel's Market, putting a rainbow like a fairy-gate over the road ahead. "You know what I'd like for supper?" Amanda asked.

  "No, what?"

  "A big, nasty mess of Hamburger Helper. I don't suppose you've got anything like that at your house, do you?"

  "I did," Lisey said, smiling guiltily, "but I ate it."

  "Pull in to Patel's," Amanda said. "I'll spring for a box."

  Lisey pulled in. Amanda had insisted on bringing her house-money from the blue pitcher where she kept it stashed in the kitchen, and she now extracted a crumpled five-spot. "What kind do you want, Little?"

  "Anything but Cheeseburger Pie," Lisey said.

  XIV. Lisey and Scott (Babyluv)

  1

  At seven-fifteen that evening, Lisey had a premonition. It wasn't the first of her life; she'd had at least two others. One in Bowling Green, shortly after entering the hospital where her husband had been taken after collapsing at an English Department reception. And certainly she'd had one on the morning of their flight to Nashville, the morning of the shattered toothglass. The third one came as the thunderstorms were clearing out and a gorgeous gold light began to shine through the breaking clouds. She and Amanda were in Scott's study over the barn. Lisey was going through the papers in Scott's main desk, aka Dumbo's Big Jumbo. So far the most interesting thing she'd found was a packet of mildly risque French postcards with a sticky-note on top, reading, in Scott's scrawl, Who sent me THESE THINGS??? Sitting beside the blank-eyed computer was the shoebox with the revolver inside. The lid was still on, but Lisey had slit the tape with her fingernail. Amanda was across the way, in the alcove that held Scott's TV and component sound-system. Every now and then Amanda heard her grumbling about the haphazard way things had been shelved. Once Lisey heard her wonder aloud how Scott had ever found anything.

  That was when the premonition came. Lisey shut the drawer she had been investigating and sat down in the high-backed office chair. She closed her eyes and just waited, as something rolled toward her. It turned out to be a song. A mental jukebox lit up and the nasal but undeniably jolly voice of Hank Williams began to sing. "Goodbye Joe, we gotta go, me-oh-my-oh; we gotta go, pole the pirogue down the bayou . . ."

  "Lisey!" Amanda called from the alcove where Scott used to sit and listen to his music or watch movies on his VCR. When he wasn't watching them in the guest room in the middle of the night, that was. And Lisey heard the voice of the professor from the Pratt College English Department--in Bowling Green, this was, only sixty miles from Nashville. Not much more'n a long spit, Missus.

  I think it would be wise if you got here as soon as possible, Professor Meade had told her over the phone. Your husband has been taken ill. Very ill indeed, I'm afraid.

  "My Yvonne, sweetest one, me-oh-my-oh . . ."

  "Lisey!" Amanda sounded just as bright as a new-minted penny. Would anyone believe she'd been totally zonked only eight hours ago? Nay, madam. Nay, good sir.

  The spirits have done it all in one night, Lisey thought. Yay, spirits.

  Dr. Jantzen feels that surgery is warranted. Something called a thoracotomy.

  And Lisey thought, The boys came back from Mexico. They came back to Anarene. Because Anarene was home.

  Which boys, pray tell? The black-and-white boys. Jeff Bridges and Timothy Bottoms. The boys from The Last Picture Show.

  In that movie it's always now and they are always young, she thought. They are always young and Sam the Lion is always dead.

  "Lisey?"

  She opened her eyes and there was big sissa standing in the alcove doorway, her eyes as bright as her voice, and of course in her hand she was holding the VCR box containing The Last Picture Show and the feeling was . . . well, coming home. The feeling was coming home, me-oh-my-oh.

  And why would that be? Because drinking from the pool had its little perks and privileges? Because you sometimes brought back to this world what you picked up in that world? Picked up or swallowed? Yes, yes, and yes.

  "Lisey, honey, are you all right?"

  Such warm concern, such smucking motherliness, was so foreign to Amanda's usual nature that it made Lisey feel unreal. "Fine," she said. "I was just resting my eyes."

  "Would it be all right if I watched some of this? I found it with the rest of Scott's tapes. Most of them look pretty junky, but I always meant to see this one and never got around to it. Maybe it'll take my mind off things."

  "Fine by me," Lisey said, "but I should warn you, I'm pretty sure there's a blank spot in the middle of it. It's an old tape."

  Amanda was studying the back of the box. "Jeff Bridges looks like such a kid."

  "He does, doesn't he?" Lisey said wanly.

  "And Ben Johnson's dead, of course . . ." She stopped. "Maybe I better not. We might not hear your boyf . . . we might not hear Dooley, if he comes."

  Lisey pushed the top off the shoebox, took out the Pathfinder, and pointed it at the stairs lea
ding down to the barn. "I locked the door to the outside stairs," she said, "so that's the only way up here. And I'm watching it."

  "He could start a fire down there in the barn," Amanda said nervously.

  "He doesn't want me cooked--what fun would that be?" Also, Lisey thought, there's a place I can go. As long as my mouth tastes as sweet as it does right now, there's a place I can go, and I don't think I'd have any trouble taking you with me, Manda. Not even two helpings of Hamburger Helper and two glasses of cherry Kool-Aid had taken away that lovely sweet taste in her mouth.

  "Well, if you're sure it won't be bothering you . . ."

  "Do I look like I'm studying for finals? Go ahead."

  Amanda went back into the alcove. "Sure hope this VCR still works." She sounded like a woman who has discovered a wind-up gramophone and a stack of ancient acetate records.

  Lisey looked at the many drawers of Dumbo's Big Jumbo, but going through them seemed like make-work now . . . and probably was. She had an idea that there was very little of actual interest up here. Not in the drawers, not in the filing cabinets, not hiding on the computer hard drives. Oh, maybe a little treasure for the more rabid Incunks, the collectors and the academics who maintained their positions in large part by examining the literary equivalent of navel-lint in each other's abstruse journals; ambitious, overeducated goofs who had lost touch with what books and reading were actually about and could be content to go on spinning straw into footnoted fool's gold for decades on end. But all the real horses were out of the barn. The Scott Landon stuff that had pleased regular readers--people stuck on airplanes between L.A. and Sydney, people stuck in hospital waiting rooms, people idling their way through long, rainy summer vacation days, taking turns between the novel of the week and the jigsaw puzzle out on the sunporch--all that stuff had been published. The Secret Pearl, published a month after his death, had been the last.