But she had better vision than he realized; it was one of the secrets of the marriage. Probably he had a few secrets of his own.
And there were, of course, the ones they kept together.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been here.”
“But you’re sure we’re on the right road.”
“Once you get over the causeway and onto Sanibel Island, there’s only one,” he said. “It goes across to Captiva, and there it ends. But before it does we’ll come to Palm House. That I promise you.”
The arch in his eyebrow began to flatten. The dimple began to fill in. He was returning to what she thought of as the Great Level. She had come to dislike the Great Level, too, but not as much as the eyebrow and the dimple, or his sarcastic way of saying “Excuse me?”
when you said something he considered stupid, or his habit of pooching out his lower lip when he wanted to appear thoughtful and deliberative.
“Bill?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you know anyone named Floyd?”
“There was Floyd Denning. He and I ran the downstairs snack bar at Christ the Redeemer in our senior year. I told you about him, didn’t I? He stole the Coke money one Friday and spent the weekend in New York with his girlfriend. They suspended him and expelled her. What made you think of him?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Easier than telling him that the Floyd with whom Bill had gone to high school wasn’t the Floyd the voice in her head was speaking to. At least, she didn’t think it was.
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Second honeymoon, that’s what you call this, she thought, looking at the palms that lined Highway 867, a white bird that stalked along the shoulder like an angry preacher, and a sign that read SEMINOLE
WILDLIFE PARK, BRING A CARFUL FOR $10. Florida the Sunshine State.
Florida the Hospitality State. Not to mention Florida the Second-Honeymoon State. Florida, where Bill Shelton and Carol Shelton, the former Carol O’Neill, of Lynn, Massachusetts, came on their first honeymoon twenty-five years before. Only that was on the other side, the Atlantic side, at a little cabin colony, and there were cockroaches in the bureau drawers. He couldn’t stop touching me. That was all right, though, in those days I wanted to be touched. Hell, I wanted to be torched like Atlanta in Gone With the Wind , and he torched me, rebuilt me, torched me again. Now it’s silver.
Twenty-five is silver. And sometimes I get that feeling.
They were approaching a curve, and she thought, Three crosses on the right side of the road. Two small ones flanking a bigger one. The small ones are clapped-together wood. The one in the middle is white birch with a picture on it, a tiny photograph of the seventeen-year-old boy who lost control of his car on this curve one drunk night that was his last drunk night, and this is where his girlfriend and her girlfriends marked the spot—
Bill drove around the curve. A pair of black crows, plump and shiny, lifted off from something pasted to the macadam in a splat of blood. The birds had eaten so well that Carol wasn’t sure they were going to get out of the way until they did. There were no crosses, not on the left, not on the right. Just roadkill in the middle, a woodchuck or something, now passing beneath a luxury car that had never been north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Floyd, what’s that over there?
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” She looked at him, bewildered, feeling a little wild.
“You’re sitting bolt-upright. Got a cramp in your back?”
“Just a slight one.” She settled back by degrees. “I had that feeling again. The déjà vu.”
“Is it gone?”
“Yes,” she said, but she was lying. It had retreated a little, but that was all. She’d had this before, but never so continuously. It came up and 349
STEPHEN KING
went down, but it didn’t go away. She’d been aware of it ever since that thing about Floyd started knocking around in her head—and then the little girl in the red pinafore.
But, really, hadn’t she felt something before either of those things?
Hadn’t it actually started when they came down the steps of the Lear 35 into the hammering heat of the Fort Myers sunshine? Or even before? En route from Boston?
They were coming to an intersection. Overhead was a flashing yellow light, and she thought, To the right is a used-car lot and a sign for the Sanibel Community Theater.
Then she thought, No, it’ll be like the crosses that weren’t there. It’s a strong feeling but a false feeling.
Here was the intersection. On the right there was a used-car lot—
Palmdale Motors. Carol felt a real jump at that, a stab of something sharper than disquiet. She told herself to quit being stupid. There had to be car lots all over Florida and if you predicted one at every intersection sooner or later the law of averages made you a prophet. It was a trick mediums had been using for hundreds of years.
Besides, there’s no theater sign.
But there was another sign. It was Mary the Mother of God, the ghost of all her childhood days, holding out her hands the way she did on the medallion Carol’s grandmother had given her for her tenth birthday. Her grandmother had pressed it into her hand and looped the chain around her fingers, saying, “Wear her always as you grow, because all the hard days are coming.” She had worn it, all right. At Our Lady of Angels grammar and middle school she had worn it, then at St. Vincent de Paul high. She wore the medal until breasts grew around it like ordinary miracles, and then someplace, probably on the class trip to Hampton Beach, she had lost it. Coming home on the bus she had tongue-kissed for the first time. Butch Soucy had been the boy, and she had been able to taste the cotton candy he’d eaten.
Mary on that long-gone medallion and Mary on this billboard had exactly the same look, the one that made you feel guilty of thinking impure thoughts even when all you were thinking about was a 350
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
peanut-butter sandwich. Beneath Mary, the sign said MOTHER OF
MERCY CHARITIES HELP THE FLORIDA HOMELESS—WON’T YOU HELP US?
Hey there, Mary, what’s the story—
More than one voice this time; many voices, girls’ voices, chanting ghost voices. These were ordinary miracles; there were also ordinary ghosts. You found these things out as you got older.
“What’s wrong with you?” She knew that voice as well as she did the eyebrow-and-dimple look. Bill’s I’m-only-pretending-to-be-pissed tone of voice, the one that meant he really was pissed, at least a little.
“Nothing.” She gave him the best smile she could manage.
“You really don’t seem like yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have slept on the plane.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, and not just to be agreeable, either. After all, how many women got a second honeymoon on Captiva Island for their twenty-fifth anniversary? Round trip on a chartered Learjet? Ten days at one of those places where your money was no good (at least until MasterCard coughed up the bill at the end of the month) and if you wanted a massage a big Swedish babe would come and pummel you in your six-room beach house?
Things had been different at the start. Bill, whom she’d first met at a crosstown high-school dance and then met again at college three years later (another ordinary miracle), had begun their married life working as a janitor, because there were no openings in the computer industry. It was 1973, and computers were essentially going nowhere and they were living in a grotty place in Revere, not on the beach but close to it, and all night people kept going up the stairs to buy drugs from the two sallow creatures who lived in the apartment above them and listened endlessly to dopey records from the sixties.
Carol used to lie awake waiting for the shouting to start, thinking, We won’t ever get out of here, we’ll grow old and die within earshot of Cream and Blue Cheer and the Dodgem cars down on the beach.
Bill, exhausted at the end of his shift, would sleep through the noise, lying on his side, sometimes with one hand on her hip. And 351
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when it wasn’t there she often put it there, especially if the creatures upstairs were arguing with their customers. Bill was all she had. Her parents had practically disowned her when she married him. He was a Catholic, but the wrong sort of Catholic. Gram had asked why she wanted to go with that boy when anyone could tell he was shanty, how could she fall for all his foolish talk, why did she want to break her father’s heart. And what could she say?