CHAPTER FIVE
Once, when I was sixteen, a plane went supersonic directly over my head.
I was walking in the woods when it happened, thinking of some story I was going to write, perhaps, or how great it would be if Doreen Fournier weakened some Friday night and let me take off her panties while we were parked at the end of Cushman Road.
In any case I was travelling far roads in my own mind, and when that boom went off, I was caught totally by surprise. I went flat on the leafy ground with my hands over my head and my heart drumming crazily, sure I’d reached the end of my life (and while I was still a virgin). In my forty years, that was the only thing which equalled the final dream of the ‘Manderley series’ for utter terror.
I lay on the ground, waiting for the hammer to fall, and when thirty seconds or so passed and no hammer did fall, I began to realize it had just been some jet-jockey from the Brunswick Naval Air Station, too eager to wait until he was out over the Atlantic before going to Mach 1. But, holy shit, who ever could have guessed that it would be so loud?
I got slowly to my feet and as I stood there with my heart finally slowing down, I realized I wasn’t the only thing that had been scared witless by that sudden clear-sky boom. For the first time in my memory, the little patch of woods behind our house in Prout’s Neck was entirely silent. I stood there in a dusty bar of sunlight, crumbled leaves all over my tee-shirt and jeans, holding my breath, listening. I had never heard a silence like it. Even on a cold day in January, the woods would have been full of conversation.
At last a finch sang. There were two or three seconds of silence, and then a jay replied. Another two or three seconds went by, and then a crow added his two cents’ worth. A woodpecker began to hammer for grubs. A chipmunk bumbled through some underbrush on my left. A minute after I had stood up, the woods were fully alive with little noises again; it was back to business as usual, and I continued with my own. I never forgot that unexpected boom, though, or the deathly silence which followed it.
I thought of that June day often in the wake of the nightmare, and there was nothing so remarkable in that. Things had changed, somehow, or could change . . . but first comes silence while we assure ourselves that we are still unhurt and that the danger — if there was danger — is gone.
Derry was shut down for most of the following week, anyway. Ice and high winds caused a great deal of damage during the storm, and a sudden twenty-degree plunge in the temperature afterward made the digging out hard and the cleanup slow. Added to that, the atmosphere after a March storm is always dour and pessimistic; we get them up this way every year (and two or three in April for good measure, if we’re not lucky), but we never seem to expect them. Every time we get clouted, we take it personally.
On a day toward the end of that week, the weather finally started to break. I took advantage, going out for a cup of coffee and a mid-morning pastry at the little restaurant three doors down from the Rite Aid where Johanna did her last errand. I was sipping and chewing and working the newspaper crossword when someone asked, ‘Could I share your booth, Mr. Noonan? It’s pretty crowded in here today.’
I looked up and saw an old man that I knew but couldn’t quite place.
‘Ralph Roberts,’ he said. ‘I volunteer down at the Red Cross. Me and my wife, Lois.’
‘Oh, okay, sure,’ I said. I give blood at the Red Cross every six weeks or so. Ralph Roberts was one of the old parties who passed out juice and cookies afterward, telling you not to get up or make any sudden movements if you felt woozy. ‘Please, sit down.’ He looked at my paper, folded open to the crossword and lying in a patch of sun, as he slid into the booth. ‘Don’t you find that doing the crossword in the Derry News is sort of like striking out the pitcher in a baseball game?’ he asked.
I laughed and nodded. ‘I do it for the same reason folks climb Mount Everest, Mr. Roberts . . .
because it’s there. Only with the News crossword, no one ever falls off.’
‘Call me Ralph. Please.’
‘Okay. And I’m Mike.’
‘Good.’ He grinned, revealing teeth that were crooked and a little yellow, but all his own. ‘I like getting to the first names. It’s like being able to take off your tie. Was quite a little cap of wind we had, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it’s warming up nicely now.’ The thermometer had made one of its nimble March leaps, climbing from twenty-five degrees the night before to fifty that morning. Better than the rise in air-temperature, the sun was warm again on your face. It was that warmth that had coaxed me out of the house. ‘Spring’ll get here, I guess. Some years it gets a little lost, but it always seems to find its way back home.’ He sipped his coffee, then set the cup down. ‘Haven’t seen you at the Red Cross lately.’
‘I’m recycling,’ I said, but that was a fib; I’d come eligible to give another pint two weeks ago.
The reminder card was up on the refrigerator. It had just slipped my mind. ‘Next week, for sure.’
‘I only mention it because I know you’re an A, and we can always use that.’
‘Save me a couch.’
‘Count on it. Everything going all right? I only ask because you look tired. If it’s insomnia, I can sympathize, believe me.’
He did have the look of an insomniac, I thought — too wide around the eyes, somehow. But he was also a man in his mid- to late seventies, and I don’t think anyone gets that far without showing it. Stick around a little while, and life maybe only jabs at your cheeks and eyes. Stick around a long while and you end up looking like Jake La Motta after a hard fifteen. I opened my mouth to say what I always do when someone asks me if I’m all right, then wondered why I always felt I had to pull that tiresome Marlboro Man shit, just who I was trying to fool. What did I think would happen if I told the guy who gave me a chocolate-chip cookie down at the Red Cross after the nurse took the needle out of my arm that I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent? Earthquakes? Fire and flood?
Shit. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I really haven’t been feeling so great, Ralph.’
‘Flu? It’s been going around.’
‘Nah. The flu missed me this time, actually. And I’ve been sleeping all right.’ Which was true —
there had been no recurrence of the Sara Laughs dream in either the normal or the high-octane version. ‘I think I’ve just got the blues.’
‘Well, you ought to take a vacation,’ he said, then sipped his coffee. When he looked up at me again, he frowned and set his cup down. ‘What? Is something wrong?’
No, I thought of saying. You were just the first bird to sing into the silence, Ralph, that’s all.
‘No, nothing wrong,’ I said, and then, because I sort of wanted to see how the words tasted coming out of my own mouth, I repeated them. ‘A vacation.’
‘Ayuh,’ he said, smiling. ‘People do it all the time.’
People do it all the time. He was right about that; even people who couldn’t strictly afford to went on vacation. When they got tired. When they got all balled up in their own shit. When the world was too much with them, getting and spending.
I could certainly afford a vacation, and I could certainly take the time off from work — what work, ha-ha? — and yet I’d needed the Red Cross cookie-man to point out what should have been self-evident to a college-educated guy like me: that I hadn’t been on an actual vacation since Jo and I had gone to Bermuda, the winter before she died. My particular grindstone was no longer turning, but I had kept my nose to it all the same.
It wasn’t until that summer, when I read Ralph Roberts’s obituary in the News (he was struck by a car), that I fully realized how much I owed him. That advice was better than any glass of orange juice I ever got after giving blood, let me tell you.
When I left the restaurant, I didn’t go home but tramped over half of the damned town, the section of newspaper with the partly completed crossword puzzle in it clamped under one arm. I walked until I was chilled in spite of the warming temperatures. I didn’t think about anything, and yet I thought about everything. It was a special kind of thinking, the sort I’d always done when I was getting close to writing a book, and although I hadn’t thought that way in years, I fell into it easily and naturally, as if I had never been away.